Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (2 page)

In truth, his father’s death from a riding accident the previous June had shaken Courtenay more than he wanted to admit. He had needed to get away from Wales. And he had done so.

Thinking himself recovered at last and prepared to confidently take up his mantle as the future viscount in his father’s stead, he found his homecoming—forced upon him sooner than he had planned—plagued by uncertainty. After spending what money he had, he was confronted with the painful realization that he was not exactly certain how the finances were supposed to work during this awkward interim before the Westbrooke estate became legally his. He was in possession of his own bank account, of course, and had been since the age of sixteen. But where the money came from that appeared in it each month, he didn’t know. He had had some vague idea that his father was responsible. He knew furthermore that his father and mother sometimes argued about money. He knew no details other than that his mother was rich and his father was less so. He had never given the matter much thought. The mechanics of finances in marital relationships lay miles outside his ken. As long as he was well provided for, that was all he cared about.

But his resources had dwindled during his sojourn on the continent, an eventuality he had neither anticipated nor made much effort to forestall. Finally the sobering reality began to hit him that his account was running dry and was not being replenished in its customary fashion. This unpleasant fact ultimately left him no alternative but to return home, irritably disposed toward the world in general for this inconvenience to himself. He assumed the matter due to a procedural glitch or legal delay in the affairs of the estate occasioned by his father’s death and whatever stipulations superintended the months between now and his twenty-fifth birthday. Gnawing suspicions were at work, however, that made him uneasy.

His first order of business was to see the family lawyer and get his account beefed up. He planned to ride to Porthmadog this afternoon for that very purpose. After that, whether he would return to the continent for another month or two or perhaps spend the winter season in London, always a diverting prospect, he hadn’t yet made up his mind.

After lunch, Courtenay wandered outside. He shivered and glanced about. Though not overly fond of riding as a means to interact with nature and the animal kingdom, he was enamored of it as sport. His father’s dream of racing the black stallion Demon, possibly with Courtenay himself in the saddle, had remained with him, and even gone to his head. He was at least three stone too heavy to jockey a winning horse even at a backwater racetrack for the most miserly of purses. But he fancied himself an accomplished rider. In fact, his self-assessment was not far wrong. He was probably the fastest rider in Gwynedd. That Demon had been responsible for his father’s death caused him little concern. Courtenay attributed the accident as much to his father’s recklessness and his Scottish cousin’s presence on that fateful day as he did to the uncontrollable stallion.

But though Courtenay Westbrooke was aware that he must wait until his twenty-fifth birthday to inherit his father’s title, he knew nothing of the trusteeship his father had set in motion on his deathbed giving his wife, Katherine, control of the estate for the next eighteen months. Neither was he aware of the retirement of his father’s factor, Tilman Heygate, or that in his absence his mother had hired a replacement.

Ever since losing the majority of what remained of his assets two weeks before in a horse race in France, Courtenay had been revolving in his mind how he might put his father’s plan into action and quickly raise some badly needed cash for himself in the event the legalities took time to sort out. He would enter Demon in a few races, possibly at Chester. He intended to begin immediately. With a few wins under his belt, and with his father’s funds eventually transferred to his account, he would be able to afford to enter larger races and compete for more sizeable purses in some of the major handicap events in England.

He wandered into the old stables, seeing evidence neither of his father’s groom, Hollin Radnor, nor of the black stallion whom he fancied to ride into Porthmadog. The place was virtually empty except for the old nags his mother and sister rode. He continued through to the back of the darkened building and toward the new stables where he assumed the powerful black thoroughbred now made its home.

On the grassy flat between the two stables, he saw the young man about his own age leading a graceful, almost elegant beast of white and light gray in a slow, wide circle. He stopped and watched a minute as the trainer now removed a lump of sugar from his pocket and held it toward the horse’s big fleshy lips.

At length he approached, prepared to assert the rights of his position, especially over one whom he took for nothing more than a clodhopping herdsman of a ragamuffin flock of sheep. The two young men had grown up in close proximity to one another, and the scion of the region’s aristocratic family looked down upon the other as contemptibly beneath him in every way. “You’ll spoil that stallion, Muir,” he said in a tone of command.

Steven Muir turned, though gently. The sound had startled the horse, and he sought by his demeanor to keep him calm at the intrusion of a stranger. “Master Courtenay!” he said with a wide smile. “I did not know you were back. Welcome home!”

“I arrived last night. I must admit I am surprised to find you still here.”

“Your mother has been very kind.”

“Yes, well … now that I have returned there will be a few changes. What are you trying to do with that horse?”

“He has never been ridden, Master Courtenay. I am preparing him for the saddle. I hope to ride him in another two weeks.”

“Then it’s the whip and spur he’ll need, Muir, not sugar.”

“That is not my preferred method.”

“We shall see about that. In the future, you may address me as
my lord
, or
Mr. Westbrooke
. The
Lord Snowdon
will have to wait a year.” “Yes, sir … my lord,” nodded Steven. “Where is Radnor?” asked Courtenay. “I could not say, my lord.”

“I take it you are still helping him out around the place?” “When I can, yes.”

“Well then, you can help out now by saddling the black stallion for me. I take it he is being kept in the new stables?” “Not exactly, my lord.”

“Never mind, then. Wherever he is, saddle him. I will be taking him out.”

“I fear that will not be possible, my lord.” “What the devil are you talking about?” “I assume you were referring to the stallion Demon?” “Of course that’s who I’m talking about! Either tell me where he is or why you refuse to saddle him for me.”

“Demon is no longer with us, my lord. Your mother instructed me to give him to Padrig Gwlwlwyd … or to get rid—” “You let that fool sell him! Why you?”

“Lady Snowdon trusted my judgment. She left the matter in my hands.”

“I can’t imagine what she was thinking!”

“You will have to take that up with her, my lord.”

“So you took the horse to Gwlwlwyd?”

Steven nodded.

“I hope you got a good price.”

“Your mother did not want a good price.”

“That’s absurd. Why not?”

“She considered the animal dangerous. After what happened to your father, she simply wanted rid of him. She was fearful of endangering a new owner.”

Courtenay burst out in a derisive laugh. “That’s hardly sound policy in horse selling. ‘Let the buyer beware’ is the foundation of that business.”

“Your mother did not want the breaking of the sixth commandment on her head.”

“Good enough policy in the church but heresy in the horse market. A man buys a horse as he takes a wife—for better or worse.”

“That is not the way a Christian ought to look at it.”

“And what would be?” asked Courtenay sarcastically.

“If one knows the dangers of a horse, failing to reveal them to a new owner would also break the ninth commandment. We are told not to bear false witness against our neighbor.”

A snort sounded from Courtenay’s mouth. “There is one commandment you seem to find especially difficult, Muir, and that is to mind your own business. So what did you do?”

“Your mother instructed me, if he felt he could reform him, to give Demon to Mr. Gwlwlwyd at no charge.”

“That is ridiculous! The horse was worth five hundred pounds!”

“Those were your mother’s instructions.”

“What did the man say?”

“He declined to take the animal. He said there was the curse of death on him.”

“So what did you do?”

“I put him down, my lord.”

Courtenay stared back as if he had not heard him correctly. “You what?”

“I put him down,” answered Steven calmly.

Stunned into speechless fury, Courtenay turned on his heels and stormed angrily back toward the house.

T
WO

Mother and Son

C
ourtenay found his mother still in the luncheon room with a book. Katherine Westbrooke glanced up. The thundercloud on Courtenay’s brow was impossible to mistake.

He approached and glowered down at her. “I have just learned from that lout Stevie Muir that you instructed him to put Demon down!” he said angrily.

“That is true,” replied Katherine calmly. “You had no right.”

“It seemed the best course of action under the circumstances.” “But you had no right.”

“Why would I not? I am the one who bought him.”

“He was my horse!”

“I believe he was your father’s horse.”

“Yes, and with Father dead, he was mine. How dare you presume—” “You were gone,” rejoined Katherine in a slightly peremptory tone. “I thought it best,” she repeated. “On what basis, if I may ask?”

“The beast was a murderer. He had already taken one life. I had no intention of his endangering another.”

“That is ridiculous. He was only dangerous to one who did not know how to handle him. I had plans for that animal. I will never forgive you for interfering in my plans.”

The words hit Katherine as if they had been shot from a gun. She tried not to allow the pain to show. She knew what he perceived as her emotional weakness would only anger her son the more. “I am sorry, Courtenay,” she said softly. “As I said, I thought it best. Perhaps I was wrong. Your father’s death weighed heavily upon me. But while you were away, I bought another stallion, an Anglo-Arabian. I thought you might like—”

“Yes, I saw it,” snapped Courtenay. “He’s nothing like what I had with Demon, what I would have been able to do with him! And what is that simpleton Muir still doing around here? He says he is training the thing. He knows nothing about horses.”

“Actually, he knows horses very well. He has a compelling way with them.”

“I want to know what he is doing here.” “I decided to keep him. He is a big help.”

“He is an idiot. I don’t like him. I want him gone before the day is out.”

Katherine drew in a deep breath, struggling between tears and rising indignation of her own. “And if I choose to keep him?” she said. Her tone contained a slight edge such as Courtenay had never heard from her before. It was the hint of a challenge.

“Then he will be working for you not me,” he replied curtly. “Just tell him to keep out of my way. Make sure he knows that his duties here will not last one minute past the day I am in charge. I can’t stand the sight of the ridiculous fellow. What is that solicitor’s name … Father’s man in Porthmadog?”

“Mr. Murray … Hamilton Murray,” replied Katherine.

Courtenay turned to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” asked his mother behind him.

“To see Murray and get some money in the bank and get the problem with my account sorted out.”

“Courtenay,” said Katherine after him as he again moved toward the door, “before you see him, you ought to know—”

“All I need to know is where to find him. What’s done with Demon is done. Now that I am here and prepared to take up my position, Mother, I will thank you not to interfere further in my affairs. I would not want things to become unpleasant for you. I will not be home for dinner.”

T
HREE

Rude Awakening

D
uring the long afternoon ride up the coast and around the Traeth Bach inlet, Courtenay’s mood alternated between anger and a growing disquiet. His mother was different. It had unnerved him. She was more self-assured, confident, her manner calm but uncomfortably firm. She seemed altogether unruffled by what he said. He wasn’t sure he liked the change.

All along he had assumed, though the estate was in legal limbo until he came of age, that he was de facto in charge. He tried to convince himself that all it would take was a visit to his father’s solicitor to straighten out the confusion. He certainly had no intention of letting his mother throw her weight around.

Though concerned, Courtenay was still not yet cognizant of the painful reality of his position. As an indulgent father, the viscount had given him whatever he wanted and kept him well supplied with cash. Courtenay had not anticipated the least straitening of his financial security after his father’s death. If anything, he assumed, notwithstanding the twenty-fifth birthday stipulation of the inheritance, that financially he would have the full benefit of his father’s resources immediately at his command. Though confident the matter would quickly be resolved, an undefined angst whispered in his ear that his mother was up to something that did not bode well. In actual fact, he was about to reap the fruit of his father’s financial status more speedily than he might have wished. He had no idea that without his wife’s generosity, his father would have been what nearly amounted to a landed and titled pauper.

Three hours after setting out, the Gelderlander, his favorite mount before Demon, in a hot lather at the livery, Courtenay Westbrooke sat in a chair opposite the desk of Hamilton Murray in the solicitor’s offices of Murray, Sidcup, and Murray. The jaw of the would-be heir hung open at what he had just heard. “A
trusteeship
…” he repeated in disbelief. “And it makes no mention whatever of
my
role as the future viscount?”