“It is foreign,” Ursula said. “Perhaps even nasty.”
“Oh,” Nelda said suddenly, waving, “There’re Alice and Allen Belmonde. Over here, Alice!”
James stiffened. He looked at Giff, who winked at him, saying, “Good day, Alice. You’re looking lovely. Belmonde,” he added, nodding to the man who had married Alice for her money and was now trying to spend as much of it as Alice’s father would release, which, thankfully, wasn’t all that much a year. He wanted to make money racing, something, James knew, that was just about as tough as marrying a rich girl, which he had managed to do. He’d had one horse race today. The thoroughbred had come in sixth out of a field of ten. He looked up when Allen Belmonde said to him, “I want Sober John to cover one of my mares, Sweet Susie. Your price is stiff, Wyndham, but perhaps it’s worth it.”
“Up to you,” James said easily, then said to Alice, “I like your bonnet. Pink becomes you.”
She flushed, something that she managed to do as if on command. It quite amazed him. But he wanted to tell her it wasn’t all that effective, at least on him. But he liked Alice, had known her since she was born. So he just smiled when she said, “You’re so nice to me, James, and I’m sorry you lost, but I’m glad Jessie won. Isn’t she wonderful? I was just telling Nelda how very much I admire Jessie. She does exactly what she wants without being bound down by all the endless rules.”
“Rules are to keep ladies protected,” Allen Belmonde said as he patted his wife’s shoulder. It wasn’t all that gentle a pat, James saw when Alice winced. “Ladies shouldn’t complain about rules.”
“Yes, well, Jessie will do as she pleases,” Ursula said. “Come along, James, we really must be leaving now. Nelda, our regards to your husband. Alice, you and Allen enjoy the rest of the day. We will see you in church tomorrow.”
James grinned down at Nelda, who’d taken a step closer to him. “I smell like a horse, so you’d best keep your distance. If you see your father, tell him I’ll be at his stables tonight with a bottle of his favorite claret, though I’m sure he’s already counting on it. He can gloat all he wants.”
“You and my father still drink together?”
“Whenever I beat him, he rides to Marathon, bringing me champagne.”
“Why then,” Alice said, “you should bring the claret to Jessie. She’s the one who beat you, not her father.”
“It’s his stable,” James said, wishing the brat were here so he could count her freckles again. That got her mouth shut quickly enough.
“I’ll tell my mother,” Nelda said. “I don’t often see Father anymore. As for Jessie, well, why would I want to see her? She’s so very odd, you know. I do disagree with Alice, but she doesn’t mind that I do. Ladies need rules. It makes civilization, well, more civilized. We do need you charming gentlemen to protect us, to guide us, to tell us how to go on, to—”
“That’s really enough of a list,” Ursula said, squeezing her husband’s arm in impatience.
James, who thought Jessie the most unnatural of females, said quickly, “She’s not at all odd, Nelda. And she’s your sister.” He turned to Giff. “I’ll see both of you tomorrow.”
“You’ll see Mother, too,” Ursula said, her voice as grave as a nun’s, her eyes as wicked as a sinner’s.
“There is that,” James said, gave them all a cocky smile, and strode off through the dwindling crowd.
“Well,” Nelda Carlysle said all bright as the afternoon sun overhead, “I’ll be off then. Ursula, I do hope to see you again soon now that we’re both married ladies. Perhaps I can visit you in town? I’ve finally convinced Mr. Carlysle that a nice town house on George Street would be ever so convenient. That’s quite near to you, isn’t it?”
“Quite near,” Ursula said, and thought, I’ll move to Fells Point if you come to town, Nelda. You could also be a bit more delicate about your overtures to my poor brother. Oh dear, that would certainly cause a tangle if Nelda managed to get her hooks into James. No, my brother would never poach on a husband’s preserves.
Ursula and Giff watched Nelda lean down to speak to Alice, who was just a little bit of a thing, her hand on her sleeve, then give her a brief nod. She smiled up at Allen Belmonde, nodding pleasantly, though to Ursula’s knowledge, Nelda couldn’t stand him.
“What are you thinking, Urs?”
“What? Oh, just that Fells Point is a lovely spot.”
“Have you been there lately?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter, just believe me.”
2
If Lord Derby hadn’t won the coin toss in 1780, it’s possible that we’d call it the Kentucky Bunbury.
—HISTORICAL OBSERVATION
THERE WAS A full moon. The late-March weather was mild, only a slight night breeze rustling the early spring leaves on the immensely old oak trees that lined the drive to the Warfield farm.
James whistled an English ditty the Duchess had written the year before as he cantered astride Sober John, a horse as gray as the exquisite pewter bowl that sat in the middle of his dining-room table, and just as durable. The Duchess, who was actually the Countess of Chase and an English Wyndham, never seemed to run out of ideas, which was understandable, he supposed, what with the idiocy of George IV and all the politicians to provide her with such outrageous fodder. It was a catchy tune. He smiled to think how Marcus Wyndham, the Earl of Chase and the Duchess’s husband, would sing her ditties at the top of his lungs in his bathtub, sending maids flurrying off in fits of giggles outside the huge master bedchamber at Chase Park.
James lightly patted Sober John’s neck. The stallion was twenty years old now and the mainstay of James’s breeding farm. Sober John’s get were racing long four-mile stretches from Massachusetts to Kentucky. Sober John was a thoroughbred, a stayer, whose endurance had been renowned on the racecourses. He was now becoming renowned as a stud, thank the good Lord.