Four

To Evan’s pleasant surprise, Sir William Chandler was unfazed to encounter an unknown guest at breakfast the following morning.

The first two to arrive for the meal, they had a chance to become acquainted. The baronet shook Evan’s hand with a courteous “A friend of Kate’s husband is always welcome here.”

“Thank you, Sir William. I am relieved not to be booted from your doorstep. Although—I was first a friend of Kate’s late husband, but it was not long before I befriended Lady Whelan as well.”

Not that such details mattered to the baronet, but they mattered very much to Evan. He would have given all the silver plate on the sideboard—if it were his—not always to be spoken of in the same breath with Con.

From a wheelchair of great bulk, directed on satin-smooth wooden wheels, Sir William looked up. “Late.” He repeated the word with a shortened e at its heart. Steely brows lifted with curiosity. “Is that a Welsh accent I hear, Mr. Rhys?”

“It is, yes. I thought I’d pounded it out flat during my years of schooling. But I was born not far from Holyhead, on the Isle of Anglesey.”

“About as Welsh as Welsh gets, then.”

“So think the people of Holyhead. Though in their opinion, I’d be more Welsh if I spoke the language with greater fluency.” The elite of Wales—of which Evan’s parents were decidedly members—preferred to ape the English rather than their own neighbors. Not until Evan began an excavation near the Rhys tenants’ cottages did he pick up more than a stray word of the old language.

Sir William’s expression went soft. “The Cambrian tongue, all l’s and w’s. It’s pleasant to the ear. I once knew a woman who spoke it.” The baronet lifted the cover of a dish. “Kippers. Salty as the devil’s tongue. I’m not fond of them, but they’ll fuel you for a good morning’s work.”

“How can I resist a recommendation like that?” Evan served one of the small fish onto his own plate.

Clearing his throat, the baronet added, “I wonder if you know the woman of whom I speak. Anne Jones? Oh—what are the chances? I realize not all Welsh people know each other.”

“You might be surprised.” Evan regarded the kippers dubiously, decided against taking another, and then replaced the lid over them. “As a matter of fact, I know no fewer than three people named Anne Jones. What age is the lady of your acquaintance?”

“Forty or forty-five years old. Very pretty. A criminal genius.”

At the matter-of-fact tone of these last words, Evan set down his plate with a clack. “Is she? My felicitations, Sir William. As a member of the Jockey Club, you meet the most interesting people.”

“I met her some years ago. In Spain. Not, ah, in my capacity as a member of the Jockey Club. Perhaps you’ve heard of Tranc? Sometimes she adopts that name instead.”

The Welsh word for death. “How melodramatic. No, I can’t say I know her. The Anne Joneses of my acquaintance are a matron of some thirty years and half as many children, an innkeeper’s wife of near your own age”—which Evan guessed at near sixty—“and the baby daughter of one of my parents’ tenants.”

“It is a good name,” Sir William decided. “Which is why it’s used so often. Someday I’ll find the right Anne Jones again.”

“You called her a criminal genius. Did she steal something of yours?”

“A daughter, I think.” The baronet returned his attention to the sideboard. “Not one of the ones you know. I might well have another daughter, but all I know of her is that she was born in December 1805 and is presently in London. Under the protection of Anne Jones.”

That would make the unknown girl much younger than the grown Chandler offspring. Nearly the same age as Kate’s daughter Nora.

Somehow, Evan suspected Kate knew nothing of her father’s preoccupation. Men must be allowed their vices, she’d said. Yet one never thought of one’s parents as sharing the vices of the younger generation.

Evan retrieved his plate. “You have material enough to write a novel, Sir William, if you should ever turn your attention away from the turf.”

“You have no idea,” the baronet replied drily. “A life such as mine could fill many volumes.”

And that was the end of those intriguing subjects: criminal genius, hidden potential children. With a pragmatic turn of attention that had Evan feeling a step behind, the baronet served himself from the row of dishes in deliberate amounts. A footman standing to one side of the large room took the plate after Sir William had served his meal, carrying it to the head of the table.

If Evan made his guess, breakfast was taken in the same room used for dining: a great echoing chamber of simple, smooth lines. Chandler Hall was startlingly new, built—as Kate had told Evan—within the past decade to display its owner’s wealth as well as accommodate the baronet’s wheelchair. Despite a soaring rotunda, the chambers of Chandler Hall spread out on a single story, with floors of glossy polished stone and doorways cut on generous lines.

Evan took his place at the long table. When Kate appeared for breakfast a minute later, he greeted her.

She was dressed in a morning gown of riding-habit green, which made her hair and eyes bright by contrast. “Jonah will be here in a minute, Papa,” she said as she took a seat across from Evan. “He checked on the new horse, then wanted to tidy up.”

“New horse,” Sir William grumbled. “As though one needs to buy a carriage horse during a Thoroughbred race meeting.”

“It was a good bargain for precisely that reason.” The gravelly voice of Kate’s twin accompanied his weighty footfalls. “Besides which, I had to buy Bassoon. Kate left with the carriage and stranded me in Cambridge.”

She twisted in her seat. “Slander! You told me to take it. After, I might note, you’d removed extra tack from it. Before we set out, you were preparing to ride home.”

Jonah grunted, but a faint smile softened his features. “I didn’t think you’d spotted the extra tack.”

“I have two children. I notice everything. For example, you said you would tidy up after visiting the stable, but there’s still straw dust on your boots.”

Jonah cursed.

“And Papa asked for coffee instead of tea, which means he plans a long day at the racetrack.”

Sir William cursed.

“Though that’s not much of a guess,” she added, “the day before a race meet begins. As for Evan, he—”

“No, no. Don’t you turn your gimlet eye in my direction.” Evan pointed his fork at Kate. “I never denied your infallibility. By the way, you look lovely this morning. Did I mention that?”

“—is far too polite to tell you that what he likes for breakfast is a nice Irish porridge with treacle.” She waved at his plate. “Toast? A kipper? Pitiful English fare. See, he’s hardly had a bite.”

“That is because I only just sat down.” He eyed Kate, then decided to admit the truth. “As much as you like Irish whisky? That’s how much I like porridge.”

“Whisky for breakfast? Tut, tut. Our little drunkard,” Jonah murmured, sitting at his sister’s side—not far away enough to dodge her thrown elbow.

“I didn’t realize.” Her head tilted, a considering posture. “All those mornings at Whelan House…”

“Had much in common with the evenings?” If you could keep us company with a tumbler of whisky, I could certainly choke down porridge for a chance to sit at your table.

“Yes.” A faint color rose in her cheeks as she turned her attention to her plate.

It was no more than a hint of pink, but it was enough to banish any grayness that had clustered about Evan that morning.

* * *

On so many mornings, Kate had played the perfect hostess with tolerable skill. She had never guessed her favorite guest—practically part of the family—hated every bite of breakfast he took.

Was that the price one paid not to be alone? Sipping whisky that burned one’s throat? Slurping porridge that lay in one’s belly like a swallowed blanket?

Surely not. Surely it didn’t have to be that way—especially not going forward, when Kate ran Whelan House as she wished.

With advice and lamentations aplenty from the elder dowager. Good Old Gwyn.

Kate spooned up some of her porridge, cooked by the kitchen staff at Chandler Hall for “the Irish countess.” Boiled over a fierce coal fire, it didn’t taste like the oaty breakfast she enjoyed in Ireland. That porridge was simmered slowly over peat, thickening until it clung to a lifted spoon.

She ate her breakfast anyway. Take that, Evan.

Before she could speak again, the door to the room opened. “Good morning, all! No, thank you, James,” said a quick-spoken female voice to the footman. “I’ve already eaten, and so has the baby.”

The newest arrival was Kate’s sister Hannah, youngest of the four Chandler siblings at twenty-six years of age. “Lady Crosby,” Kate greeted her with feigned formality.

Hannah had married the previous year, the scion of the dreadful Crosby family that lived nearby. What exactly was so dreadful about them, Kate didn’t know. Their dreadfulness was simply imparted to her as an essential bit of her upbringing, along with letters and math.

Since arriving in Newmarket a few days earlier, therefore, Kate had taken every opportunity to tease her sister.

Hannah groaned. “Stop calling me that, Biggie. Even though I’m a Crosby now, I’m still Chandler enough that the name sits ill in my ears.”

“Crosby, Crosby, Crosby. Congratulations all the same.” Kate rose from the table and enfolded her sister in an embrace—mindful of the infant supported across his mother’s chest in a cunning sort of sling.

Hannah was a sunned and stretched version of Kate herself, with golden-brown hair and freckles and the lithe build of a natural horsewoman. For years, she had served as Sir William’s secretary. Of the four Chandler siblings, she resembled Sir William most closely in his determined pursuit of excellence on the turf. To them, victory was everything.

Kate gave her sister one more hug. “May I hold baby John?”

“Please, yes. Take him.” Hannah extracted her plump little son, handed him to Kate, then freed herself from the sling. “There, it’s good to be out of that harness. A bit like a horse myself, am I not?”

“I’ve always thought so,” said Jonah.

“And that’s why the baby’s name is not Jonah.” Hannah put out her tongue. “I did think the sling was clever. It keeps the baby steady and allows me both hands to drive over.”

“What of your illustrious husband?” Sir William said through teeth that were almost not clenched.

“Preparing for tomorrow’s races. I believe he’d like to live at the racecourse this month. Golden Barb is running well, and—”

“Not that damned horse again.” The baronet stabbed at a kipper with his fork.

“Yes, that damned horse. Stab all you like. He’s going to win, see if he doesn’t.”

Fortunately for Kate’s comprehension, Hannah had recounted the story by letter. For Evan’s benefit, Kate explained, “Last year, an unscrupulous groom switched one of my father’s horses for one of Sir Bartlett Crosby’s. For a time, Golden Barb had—how many people wanting to own him?”

“Everyone wants to own him, because he’s a champion,” said Hannah.

Evan’s brows lifted. “Sir William, I think your life could fill an entire library.”

“Oh, we have a visitor!” Hannah rounded on Evan. “Good morning, sir. Are you a friend of Jonah’s?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Jonah said. “Too much trouble.”

“You haven’t changed at all, my dear twin.” Kate shifted the drowsy baby to one hip. “Hannah, this is Evan Rhys, a friend from Ireland. Or should I say Wales?”

“I am a man with no country,” sighed Evan. “Or maybe I possess all of them. I haven’t decided which would be preferable.”

“You are Con’s friend!” Hannah exclaimed. “The scoundrel. I mean, the charming scoundrel.”

“Charming scoundrel?” Evan set down his fork, as though tasting these words. “Yes, that’ll do. I can live happily with that description.”

Con’s friend. Why wouldn’t he say he was Kate’s friend?

But then, she hadn’t exactly said it either, had she?

“Now that everyone knows everyone else,” said Sir William, “I’d like to visit the stables. Kate, you ought to come along and meet all the horses. You’ll be leaving after this week’s meet, won’t you? Got to get back for the Thurles steeplechase.”

In October, Newmarket played host to two horse-racing meets, each a week long, and only a week apart. This was the highlight of Sir William’s autumn. He could hardly fathom that one would miss a race—unless it was to attend a different race.

“No, Papa,” she said. “I’m not basing my travel plans around the steeplechase, but the behavior of the Irish Sea.”

“Even the sea wants to bring Irish people home for the steeplechase,” decided the baronet. “Now, imagine how well you could run it with one of my horses. With Pale Marauder? Thoroughbred speed, solid bone—you’d lead the pack.”

“Is that the same horse who false started eleven times at the Derby last year?” She tickled the baby’s belly, and he rewarded her with a gummy yawn.

“Only ten false starts,” Sir William replied. “But he’s much calmer this year. Sometimes.”

“Pale Marauder’s legs would snap off the first time he tried a jump,” Jonah said. “Thoroughbreds aren’t built for pounding races.”

“That is disgusting,” said Hannah. “And so is…whatever you’re eating, Jonah.”

“That’s not my plate. That’s Kate’s breakfast.”

“I knew I couldn’t be the only one who disliked porridge,” muttered Evan—though Kate wasn’t sure whether anyone heard him except herself.

And the baby, who yawned again. He smelled sweet and clean, a well-washed new little being. Plump pale skin and the slow-blinking eyes of one who hadn’t quite brought the world into focus. She kissed him on his fuzzy little head—only to be rewarded with a spot of drool on her bodice. With a smile, she drew out her chair again and sat, arms full of infant nephew.

Around the table, the others were still debating the steeplechase. “Thoroughbreds want to win,” said Hannah. “Which carries them over any obstacle. Even if their legs snap off, which they won’t.”

“Not off, but they could break,” said Jonah.

“You could break,” Hannah huffed. “What do you think, Mr. Rhys?”

“I think I don’t want you to tell me I could break.” Evan put a hand to his heart. “Such an insult would positively…unhorse me.”

“That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” said Kate. “If you can call it a joke.”

“Kate,” said Sir William. “We look to you to defend the honor of Irish horses.”

“Must I?” She tucked the baby’s head beneath her chin, letting him settle against her front. “What if I like your horses best?”

“You might as well be honest. The title will fall to Jonah, but I have willed each of my offspring the same amount of money.”

“Thus dies primogeniture,” said Jonah. “How will I keep the others under my thumb?”

“Did you think we would allow that? Not a chance.” Kate laughed. “Besides, you are far too benevolent to serve as dictator.”

“Should I put forward Welsh horses as the best?” Evan said. “Not for a share in your will, Sir William. Merely to muddy the waters.”

He had taken to the quick, cheeky pace of the conversation with an ease that pleased Kate. How did he do it? She had required days in Newmarket to settle in, to feel herself not an interloper with people who had known her all their lives.

“Welsh horses are the kindest,” Kate said. “They are imps, full of good-natured mischief.”

“My countrymen—er, beasts—thank you.”

She lifted a staying hand. “But they’d never win a race. They aren’t terribly quick to act.”

Evan narrowed his eyes. “You underestimate them, Irish lady. Given the right motivation, they might surprise you.”

“The baby prefers Arabians,” piped up Hannah. “Who will speak for them?”

Everyone ignored this. “Biggie. What do you think of the horses of Ireland?” Sir William looked to Kate—really looked—as though he wanted her answer.

He was not talking only of horses, she knew.

She could never resist an entreaty coupled with the old family nickname Biggie. Taking another whiff of the drowsing, powder-sweet baby, she considered. “Irish horses are best for what they’re bred to do: throw their hearts over every obstacle. They’re less costly and far hardier than Thoroughbreds. There, do you like that?”

Sir William rubbed at his chin. “Go on.”

“Ah…that’s all I have to say. Why?”

“I’m glad you’re proud of Ireland. You’ve lived there a great while, yet I never knew if it felt like home to you.”

Oh. So many curious eyes on her now, from footman to friend and every relative imaginable. “It…can feel that way. Yes. I’m proud of our horses. But I wouldn’t love them so if I hadn’t been raised among horses here.”

“Chandler blood will tell,” said Hannah.

Sir William counted his remaining bites of breakfast, then folded his serviette and rolled back from the table. Kate recalled this ritual from her last visit: he calculated and balanced his own nourishment as carefully as he did that of his racehorses.

“I’m off to the stables.” He directed his wheelchair toward the doorway with easy, practiced movements. “Daughters, care to accompany me? You too, Rhys, if you want to see what a real champion looks like.”

“The kippers have made you mischievous, sir,” Evan said.

“He’s that way no matter what he eats,” Jonah replied. “I’ll be after you in a few minutes, Father. To see whether Bassoon is still faring well.”

“I should not come with you,” said Hannah. “That would be treachery. I’d spy on you and tell Bart all your secrets.”

Sir William regarded her over his shoulder. “And you’d tell me all of his in return?”

“You know I would. Fair is fair.”

“As if Crosby knows anything I don’t,” he shot back before exiting the dining room.

It was today or not at all. Kate had to speak with her father. She’d been hesitating, waiting for both of them to grow comfortable with each other again before she inflicted her request for a fortune to save her family’s lands. Acting proper. Smiling. Helping.

But what had propriety got her? A husband who strayed. A lifetime of debt. An empty bed. A friend to whom she could not write. Propriety was nothing but a burden.

Damn propriety, then. She should have damned it long ago, seizing every opportunity that came her way.

When she looked at Evan, something knowing in his gaze made her feel warm—almost as though her whole body were blushing. Whether he realized it or not, he had caught her in a secret decision, and that made him a part of it.

She kissed baby John on his head, letting him drool all over her gown. Then she stood, handing him back to her sister. “I need to speak with our father, Hannah. Be good to our guest. Not that I am any less of a guest here than he is.”

“You could be.” Hannah settled the baby into her arms. “You could come as often as you liked, Biggie. Any time.”

To this place? Kate had never lived in Chandler Hall, built years after her marriage on the wide, smooth lines needed for Sir William’s wheelchair. Here, cheer and money seemed inexhaustible.

She thought of Whelan House, short on both, and the memory was a pinch between her brows.

Maybe she’d have returned to Newmarket more often if the family home had been like this when Kate was seventeen. If her father were here instead of traveling the world and piling up a fortune, and her sister were happy.

If that had been the case, maybe Kate wouldn’t have wed so young.

Maybe Jonah wouldn’t have married a woman who promised the moon and stars, only to vanish after their wedding night.

Maybe Nathaniel wouldn’t have been rootless, and Hannah wouldn’t have been left alone.

If. Maybe.

These were fruitless words. The only phrase she should allow herself was…what now? She could damn propriety, but there was nothing to put in its place.

Yet.

Yet was a word with far more possibility to it. An idea would come. And maybe it would involve Evan Rhys, who knew with uncomfortable, familiar, delightful accuracy her every worry.

“I’ll see you later,” she told Hannah and Evan.

Knowing this was true was a pleasure, sweet and sincere. But that knowing look Evan had cast her…that damn propriety that seemed written all over her skin…there was something more than friendship in the nature of that exchange.

What it had been instead, there was no time to consider right now. She sped in the direction of the stables, where she intended to beg her way out of debt.

After all, she was an Irish horse now. When an obstacle arose in her path, she would batter at it until she had achieved victory.