Читать книгу Regency Betrayal: The Rake to Ruin Her / The Rake to Redeem Her - Julia Justiss - Страница 16

In the late afternoon a month later, Caroline Denby turned the last gelding over to the stable boy and walked out of the barn. After returning from the disaster at Barton Abbey, she’d thrown herself into working with the horses, readying them for the upcoming autumn sale. But as she’d suspected, though she’d left the scandal behind, its repercussions continued to follow her.

In the last two weeks, several gentlemen who’d not previously purchased mounts from the stud had journeyed into Kent, claiming they wished to view and evaluate the stock. Since the gentlemen had spent more time gawking at her than at the horses, she suspected their real interest had been to inspect for themselves the subject of Lady Melross’s most titillating gossip—the hoyden who’d been discovered half-naked with Max Ransleigh.

If they’d been expecting some seductive siren, she’d doubtless sent them away disappointed, Caro thought with a sigh.

At least there was no question of her returning to London for another Season, and after a week of fruitless attempts, Lady Denby had given up trying to convince her to marry Max Ransleigh as well. Though Eugenia still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for the débâcle which had put such an unpleasant end to the house party, when Caro had explained during the drive home what had really happened, her stepsister had been first shocked, then indignant, then had wept at the outrage she had suffered.

So it now appeared, Caro thought with satisfaction as she paced up the steps into the manor and tossed her gloves and crop to the butler, that she’d gained what she’d wanted all along: to be left in peace to run her farm.

She was hopeful that Eugenia would also get what she wanted, the successful Season she’d dreamed of for so long. While Caro worked with her horses, Lady Denby had been busy with correspondence, consulting with Lady Gilford and Mrs Ransleigh and writing to her many friends to ensure enough support for Eugenia’s début that her prospects would not suffer because of Caro’s scandal.

Grateful for that, Caroline refused to regret what had happened. And if she sometimes woke in the night, her soul awash with yearning as she recalled being cradled against a broad chest, while a strong finger gently caressed her cheek and a deep masculine voice murmured soothingly against her hair, she would, in time, get over it.

Garbed in her usual working attire of breeches and boots, she intended to tiptoe quietly up to her chamber and change into more conventional clothing before dinner. But as she crept past the parlour, Lady Denby called out, ‘Caroline, is that you? I must speak to you at once!’

Wondering what she could have done now to distress Lady Denby, she changed course and proceeded into the room. ‘Yes, Stepmama?’

In her agitation, Lady Denby didn’t so much as frown at Caro’s breeches. ‘Oh, my dear, I fear I may have inadvertently done you a grave disservice!’

Foreboding slammed like a fist into her chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

Lady Denby gave her a guilty look. ‘Well, you see, after the events at Barton Abbey, I wrote to the trustees of your father’s estate, informing them you were to be married and asking that the solicitors begin working on marriage settlements.’ Before Caroline could protest, she rushed on, ‘I was so very sure you would, in the end, be convinced to marry! Then last week, after finally conceding there would be no wedding, I wrote back to them, telling them you had refused Mr Ransleigh’s offer. In today’s post, I received a reply from Lord Woodbury.’

‘Woodbury?’ Caro gave a contemptuous snort. ‘I can only imagine what he had to say about it. How I wish Papa had not made him head of the trustees!’

‘Well, dear, he was one of your papa’s closest friends and his estate at Mendinhall is very prosperous, so it’s not unreasonable that Papa thought Woodbury would take equal care of yours.’

‘I won’t deny that he’s a good steward,’ Caro replied, ‘but Woodbury never approved of my working the stud. The last time they met, he told Papa he thought it well past time for me to put on proper dress and start behaving like a woman of my rank, instead of racketing about the stables, hobnobbing with grooms and coachmen.’

When Lady Denby remained tactfully silent—probably more in agreement with Lord Woodbury’s views than with her own—Caroline said, ‘What did Lord Woodbury write, then?’

Her stepmother sighed. ‘You’re not going to like it. Apparently he heard about the events at Barton Abbey. He claims the shock of it must have unbalanced your mind for, he wrote, no young lady of breeding in her right senses, caught in such a dire situation, would ever turn down a respectable offer of marriage. He’s convinced your, um, “unnatural preoccupation” with running the stud has made you unable to realise how badly the scandal reflects upon you and the entire family. So, to protect you and the Denby name, he’s convinced the other trustees to agree to something he’s long been urging: the sale of the stud.’

Shock froze her in place, while her heart stood still and blood seemed to drain from her head and limbs. Dizzy, she grabbed the back of a wing chair to steady herself. ‘The sale of the stud?’ she repeated, stunned. ‘He wants to sell my horses?’

‘Y-yes, my dear.’

It was impossible. It was outrageous. Aside from Lady Denby’s generous widow’s portion, the rest of the estate, including Denby Lodge, the Denby Stud and the income to operate it, had been willed to her. Papa had always promised the farm and the land would remain hers, for her use and then as part of her dowry.

She shook her head to clear the faintness. ‘Can they do that?’ she demanded, her voice trembling.

‘I don’t know. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! I know how much the stud means to you.’

‘How much … Why, it means everything,’ Caro said, feeling returning to her limbs in a rush of fury. ‘Everything I’ve worked for these last ten years! Has it been done yet? May I see the note?’

Silently, her stepmother held it out. Caroline snatched and read it through rapidly.

‘It does not appear the sale has gone through yet,’ she said, when she had finished it. ‘There must be some way to stop it. The stud belongs to me!’

But even as she made the bold declaration, doubt and dread rose up to check her like a ten-foot gate before a novice jumper.

Did she have control of the stud? Numb, shocked and trying to cope with the immensity of her father’s sudden death, she’d sat silent and vacant-headed during the reading of his will. Thinking back, she knew the assets of the estate had been turned over to trustees to manage for her, but no details about how the trust was to be administered, or the extent of the powers granted the trustees, had penetrated her pall of grief and pain.

‘What will you do?’ Lady Denby asked.

‘I shall leave for London tomorrow at first light and consult Papa’s solicitor. Mr Henderson will know if anything can be done.’

Lady Denby shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Caroline. I would never have written if I’d had any suspicion Lord Woodbury would do such a thing.’

Absently Caroline patted her hand. ‘It’s not your fault. According to the note, Woodbury has been trying to convince the other trustees to sell the stud for some time.’

Anguish twisted in her gut as the scene played out in her head: some stranger arriving to lead away Sultan, whom she’d eased from his mother’s body the night he was born. She’d put on him his first halter, his first saddle. Turning over Sultan, or Sheik’s Ransom or Arabian Lady or Cleveland’s Hope or any of the horses she’d worked with from foal to weaning to training, would be like having someone confiscate her brothers and sisters.

‘Thank you for telling me at once,’ she said, brisk purpose submerging her anxiety—at least for the moment. ‘Now, you will please excuse me. I must confer with Newman in the stables, so he may continue the training while I’m gone.’ She dismissed the flare of panic in her belly at the thought that when she came back, she might no longer be giving the orders. ‘Would you ring Dulcie for me and ask her to pack some things?’

‘While you’re at the stables, be sure to tell John Coachman to ready the travelling barouche.’

Already pacing towards the door, Caro shook her head impatiently. ‘No, I’ll go by mail coach; it will be faster.’

‘By mail coach!’ Lady Denby gasped. ‘But … that will not be at all proper! If you don’t wish to take the barouche, at least hire a carriage.’

‘My dear Stepmama, I don’t wish to make the journey in the easy stages required if I’m forced to hire horses along the way! I’ll take Dulcie to lend me some countenance,’ she added. Despite her agitation, she had to grin at the dismay the maid would doubtless feel upon being informed she would be rattling around in a public vehicle, probably stuffed full of other travellers, that broke its journey at the inns along the route only for the few minutes required to change the horses.

‘Where will you stay in London?’ Lady Denby cried, following her out into the passage.

‘With Cousin Elizabeth. Or at a hotel, if she’s not in town. If necessary, Mr Henderson will find me something suitable. Now I must go. I have a hundred things to do before the Royal Mail leaves tomorrow.’

Giving her stepmother’s hand a quick squeeze, Caro strode through the entry, trotted down the steps and, once out of her stepmother’s sight, set off at a run for the stables.

It was long past dark by the time she’d concluded her rounds of the stalls with Newman, her head trainer, reviewing with him the regimen she wished him to follow with each horse.

‘Don’t you worry, Miss Caroline,’ he told her when they’d finished. ‘Your late father, God rest ‘im, trained me and every groom at Denby Stables. We’ll do whatever’s needful to carry on. You go up to London and do what you must. And, miss …’ he added gruffly, giving her arm an awkward pat, ‘best of luck to you.’

With a wisp of a smile, Caro watched him go. Even after so many years of living in a large household, it never ceased to amaze her how quickly news travelled through invisible servants’ networks. Although she’d told Newman nothing beyond the fact that urgent business called her away to London, somehow he must have discovered the true reason behind her journey.

Her final stop before returning to the house was Sultan’s box. ‘No, my handsome boy, I’ll not take you with me this time,’ she told him as she stroked the velvet nose. ‘You’re too fine a horse to risk having you turn an ankle in some pothole, racing through the dark to London. Though you would fly to take me there, if I asked you.’

The gelding nosed her hand and nickered his agreement.

The darkness seemed to close around her, magnifying the fear and anxiety she’d been struggling to hold at bay. Sensing her distress, Sultan nosed her again and rubbed his neck against her hand. Trying to give her comfort, it seemed.

What comfort would she have, if she lost him, lost them all? She had no siblings, no close neighbours other than Harry, and he was off in India. All her life, her horses had been her friends and playmates. She’d poured out her problems and told them her secrets, while they listened, nickering encouragement and sympathy.

Denby Lodge was a vast holding, its wealth derived from farms, cattle and fields planted in corn and other crops. Like her father, she’d been content to let the estate manager—and then the trustees in London—concern themselves with the other businesses, as she let the housekeeper manage the manor itself and its servants, while she focused solely on managing the stud.

She’d not been dissembling when she told Henshaw she possessed no feminine talents. She didn’t sew or embroider, paint, sing, or play an instrument.

What was she to do with herself without her horses to birth, raise and train?

It was all she knew. All she had ever done. All she had ever wanted to do. What could she find to replace the long hours spent in these immaculately kept barns with their rows of box stalls, where every breath brought the familiar scents of hay and bran and horse, saddle leather and polished brass? What could replace the thrill of feeling a thousand pounds of stallion thundering under her as he galloped across a meadow, responding to signals she’d ingrained in him after hours and hours of patient, careful training?

After all she had done to keep the stud, it was intolerable that some self-important peer, who wished to dictate to her what a woman’s place should be, might have the power to strip it all from her.

What was to become of her if Woodbury succeeded?

Weary, anxious, desperate, she wrapped her arms around Sultan’s neck and wept.