Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The afternoon wasn’t a lark.
It was a mistake.
Putting Miss Hart in trousers, that was.
Quite simply, Archie hadn’t anticipated how fetching his muse would be in the attire of a stable lad.
How could he have?
Though she’d worn trousers last night, he hadn’t gotten a proper view of her in them—or more precisely, a specific view of her in them.
From behind.
How could he have predicted how fetching a female bottom would be in a pair of trousers?
Miss Hart’s female bottom.
He was giving himself a cockstand just thinking about it.
Which was why he had her trailing him like a good servant as they strolled Tattersall’s subscription rooms and courtyard to see if Nestor was there.
Every twenty or so steps, he stopped and greeted a friend or acquaintance, and Miss Hart stood discreetly away, hands clasped before her, eyes turned to the ground, as they’d agreed.
She wasn’t to make eye contact with anyone.
She was entirely too pretty, and their ruse would be immediately discovered.
Not that Archie would suffer many consequences. In fact, the ton would expect such a jape from Lord Archer.
So, they’d agreed that when she spotted Nestor, she would give two quick tugs on his overcoat.
As they left the last subscription room, Archie knew he’d been wasting their time. There was but one place Nestor would be—the stables.
Miss Hart drew abreast with him. “I have a question for you,” she said, low, for his ears only.
“Ask away,” he said, nodding at a family acquaintance. Of course, ninety percent of the occupants of Tattersall’s were acquaintances of the family or friend variety.
“Does someone in your household play the piano?”
If a question could command his full attention, that was the one. “All of us Windermeres took lessons as children,” he said neutrally.
She shook her head. “Someone who could play in any music hall in England.”
Though he walked, he felt a still concentration take hold of him. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard music before I came down to the morning room. Beautiful music,” she added.
It was all he could do to maintain an air of indifference. “Perhaps a neighbor across the back garden was playing and the music drifted in with the breeze.”
“Perhaps.” That perhaps entirely lacked the ring of belief.
Though he tried to tamp it down, gratification soared through Archie. Miss Hart thought the music beautiful… She thought his music beautiful.
He was just about to press for her thoughts on the music—it was a fact that artists were a needy bunch—when her gaze shifted and widened. Then he felt it. Two sharp tugs on his overcoat. He knew before he followed the direction of her eyes.
Nestor.
There he stood, at the end of the row of horse stalls.
Further, the fact that Miss Hart had tugged on his coat at the sight of the man meant something. Lord Nestor was, indeed, the very lord who had swindled her father and countless others out of their savings.
The game was on.
“Follow my lead,” said Archie.
Blithe smile on his face, he slowed his step to a leisurely amble down the row, giving each stallion, thoroughbred, and pony careful consideration, keeping Nestor in the periphery of his vision.
He stopped a good ten feet from the man, close enough for Nestor to hear him, but far enough to acknowledge they weren’t exactly on greeting terms.
There wasn’t precisely a history between him and Nestor beyond the fact that Archie had simply never liked him, not at Eton or later at Cambridge or as adults in London. It was simply that Nestor had the presence of an oily shadow and navigated the world as such.
Archie cleared his throat. “What poor quality the horseflesh is today,” he said loudly. “Nothing like what’s arrived from Italy.”
Nestor turned an assessing eye onto him. “What’s this, Archer?” The man tried to sound disinterested—and failed.
Archie shifted on his feet. Who said Delilah was the only actor in the family? “I shouldn’t be talking about it.”
Nestor sidled closer. “What’s a small confidence between old school chums?”
That was a stretch, and they both knew it, but civility demanded that Archie leave it be. That, and the fact that Archie was trying to outswindle the man.
He allowed a few beats of time to tick past, then he gave Nestor a conspiratorial half smile. “You know my sister, Lady Delilah, correct?”
“I believe she continues to labor under the impression that my name is Lord Fester.”
Good old Delilah. Archie only just didn’t snort. Miss Hart, however, wasn’t as successful as she launched into a coughing fit, which had Nestor lifting an unimpressed eyebrow, implying Archie needed a firmer hand with his servant.
“Well, she made a friend in Italy,” continued Archie, wishing Miss Hart would get a hold of herself. “A contessa, as it happens. You know the story—young beauty married to a titled, aging roué.”
“A version of it, as it happens.” Nestor didn’t speak the words lightly, as a joke, but bitterly and with a sour twist to his mouth.
All the ton knew the story of how the elder Lord Nestor had gambled away the family’s fortune before running off to the Continent with his mistress, where he’d perished within three years of the pox.
Archie gave a commiserative smile. “Well, the old count won an Arabian off a sultan in a card game. Then several months—and several hundred card games later—he lost a whole stable of horses, save one. Then he died, leaving behind a young, impoverished widow. Well, la contessa is in London.” He waggled an eyebrow. “With the Arabian.”
Nestor snorted. “Man or horse?” he asked drily.
“Horse.”
“To breed or race?” asked Nestor. Archie sensed he was losing the man’s interest.
“To sell,” said Archie.
If Nestor had been a dog, his ears would have perked up. Archie could practically see the wheels turning inside the man’s head. He glanced down at Miss Hart. Eyes fast on her feet, a subtle cant to her head, she was following every nuance of the conversation.
“Are you going to buy the horse?” asked Nestor.
Archie shrugged. “Considering it.”
“Why wouldn’t you? Everyone knows the Windermeres have the blunt.” There it was again—the bitterness Nestor had carried with him all his life.
“In truth, I’m seeking a partner,” said Archie, offhand. “I’ve recently come into monetary fluidity, erm, issues, and the contessa wants payment in solid guineas. And who has that sort of money readily available?”
“It so happens—” began Nestor.
Archie cut him off with a tip of his hat. “Nestor, I won’t take up any more of your afternoon. Good day.”
He pivoted on his heel and started walking. A flurry of rapid footsteps had Miss Hart beside him, shooting daggers at the side of his face. He met her panicked eyes with calm and began counting down. If he wasn’t too far off the mark, Lord Nestor would be calling out in five…four…three…
“Archer!”
Archie pivoted and waited while the man caught up. Miss Hart looked mildly winded, unaccustomed to bluffing an opponent. “Yes?” he asked, the question dripping with utter indifference.
Nestor cleared his throat in the manner of one who wanted something very much, but didn’t wish to appear so.
And that was when Archie knew he had him.
“It so happens I have a cache of blunt set aside,” said Nestor, casual. Archie wondered if his palms were sweaty. Miss Hart’s surely were. “Have you seen the horse?”
“In Italy.”
“How old is it?”
“Two years.”
“It can run?”
“Next year at Ascot, it will leave the field in its dust.”
Nestor glanced about and lowered his voice. “Have you discussed the Arabian with anyone else?” he asked in a near whisper.
“Actually, I was just on my way to see Rakesley.” The Duke of Rakesley was a known breeder of thoroughbreds. Four years running, a horse from his stable placed at Ascot, Doncaster, and Epsom. One would only approach Rakesley about serious horseflesh that could contend.
Nestor paled, looking utterly stricken. Then his fists clenched at his sides, and determination hardened about his mouth. “You’ve found your man.”
“Pardon?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Let’s not be hasty. I feel quite confident that Rakesley would appreciate the opportunity to invest. He does have one of the finest stables in the land.”
Nestor shook his head, adamant. Archie understood this was serious business, that the future of several families hung in the balance, but, oh, this was fun.
“We could have one of the best stables in the land, Archer.” If a whisper could be a shout, Nestor’s was. “No other investors. I quite insist upon it.”
Archie shrugged. “If you insist.”
This was going easier than he’d dreamed possible.
Too easy.
He didn’t trust anything that was too easy.
Anything worth having offered up a bit of resistance. It must be striven for.
“Of course,” he found himself saying, “you’ll have to meet the contessa.”
Just behind him came a muffled feminine squeak.
This was, indeed, fun.
Valentina couldn’t believe her ears.
Had Lord Archer truly said what she thought he’d said? Yes. But…
Why?
Why was she to meet Lord Nestor?
In a world of bad ideas, it was the worst.
But the sound in Lord Archer’s voice said it all.
While she might be on the point of apoplexy, he was enjoying himself.
“Meet the contessa?” asked Lord Nestor. “Why would I need to do that?”
See? She wasn’t the only one who thought the idea terrible.
“She’s quite mystical about it, really,” said Lord Archer, grave.
Mystical? Truly, the man was astounding.
“She says she’ll know when she has met the Arabian’s true soul owner.”
What nonsense was this?
Valentina risked a glance toward Lord Nestor. The man looked utterly flummoxed. “Soul owner?” He snorted. “Women.”
Lord Archer lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “She’s already met Kilmuir. I think she quite liked him.”
“Kilmuir?” burst from Lord Nestor’s mouth. “That Scottish brute? What does he have to do with this?”
Lord Archer shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “Says he might be interested.”