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If Miss Montrose took immediate possession of Devil’s Run so that the horse would not be available to Bramley for the East Anglia Cup, it would suit Rufus very well. He didn’t mind winning but he was not a cheat.
He also couldn’t deny he’d enjoy spending a little more time with the enigmatic Miss Montrose if he had to delay his time beneath the same roof. Too bad she was marrying Mr Bramley, was his last thought before drifting into a marvellously dreamless stupor thanks to the healing cordial beside his bed.
It was perhaps fortunate Rufus wasn’t around when Bramley returned from his visit to a horse dealer in Kentish Town to discover that not only had his bride-to-be left the estate, but so had his favourite horse. Well, his most needed horse.
Furiously, he confronted his uncle to demand why, loathing the fact that his uncle’s wife happened to put her head into the room just as George raised his voice to demand the meaning for giving Devil’s Run to Miss Montrose without consulting him.
Quamby, who was propped up with lots of cushions in front of the fire, wearing his favourite gold and purple silk dressing gown with matching tasselled fez, and nursing a gouty foot upon an ottoman, shot him a look of displeasure as he put down his teacup.
“Devil’s Run is not your horse, I might remind you.”
“But I have care of all the horses. You can’t just give one away. Not like that.”
Antoinette sidled over and put her hands on her husband’s shoulders. The gesture was supposed to look protective, he was sure, though he knew it was just so she could gloat. He glared at her, waiting for her to say her piece, which she naturally did in the most innocent of tones.
“You won’t have time to miss Devil’s Run, Cousin George, not that I ever saw you ride him after he threw you last year. In fact, I was quite convinced you were terrified of him. You certainly said at the time you’d never climb on his back again. But that aside, Devil’s Run will be back in your tender, loving care in less than two weeks upon the happy event of your marriage.” She reached over her husband’s shoulder to pat George’s arm as if she truly felt sympathy.
With an effort, George tried not to show he was needled, as this was clearly the intention of the trumped-up little baggage. God, she was beautiful though, he thought, trying not to let his gaze stray to the dimples in her peaches and cream cheeks; which instantly reminded him of the dimples of her shapely buttocks. This then led to thoughts of the most astonishingly debauched, and insanely satisfying, lust-filled five days he’d enjoyed with this woman, who then presented George’s Uncle Quamby with the result as his legal wife nine months later. And it wasn’t as if it were a secret. Quamby knew Young George was the son of George Bramley. And if George didn’t know better, he’d say his uncle even gloated over the fact that the squalling infant had cut George out of his inheritance.
Ignoring Antoinette, he went to pains to make it clear to his uncle that he was not pleased for very valid and important reasons, not just pique. “I’m afraid I need Devil’s Run long before two weeks is up. I need him in ten days, in fact. This is just not acceptable.”
“And what plans do you have for Devil’s Run that you have thought not important
enough to mention to me when in fact the horse is mine?” Two spots of colour appeared on his uncle’s cheeks, and George recognised the signs that he was sailing close to the wind. It wasn’t often Quamby let off steam, but there were occasions when he’d made his nephew feel the sting of more than just his irritation.
He heard Lady Quamby’s gasp, and caught a glimpse of her excited smile as if she were hoping to witness an altercation between them.
George tried to breathe evenly as he chose his words with care. “He is to race, Uncle, that’s why.”
“Then race one of my other horses. Devil’s Run was mine to give away, and since Miss Montrose through her bravery has ensured my heir still lives, I thought gifting her a horse she took a fancy to was the least I could do.”
George wasn’t about to say that this was doubly galling. “Devil’s Run is the only horse up for the course. Ten miles over the dales. He’s fast, and he has stamina. I’m set to win a fortune.”
“Using my horse,” his uncle reminded him. He leaned back in his chair and patted his wife’s hand which still rested on his shoulder, casting George a dismissive look as if the topic bored him. “Well, perhaps you can persuade your bride-to-be to bring back the wretched horse and earn herself some of your good favour before she condemns herself to becoming yours forevermore.” The petulant tone suggested George would be wise to keep his response measured.
Lady Quamby piped up, “Aren’t you supposed to be going north for some more horse business tomorrow, Cousin George? I don’t see how you can manage the time to do that and see Miss Montrose to beg her to return Devil’s Run to you. Perhaps I should pay her a visit and let her know how matters lie.”
George glared. Oh, he knew exactly what she’d say. She’d tell the girl lies, dress up the whole business in a cloak of skulduggery, and he would never see his horse again. Lady Quamby would encourage Miss Montrose to sell the beast while she still could, before the marriage that would immediately see all her assets become his.
George felt like weeping. How could he manage to do all he had to do up north, which was to effectively set up this whole damned horse race, as well as visit Miss Montrose at her aunt’s cottage so he could persuade her to part with Devil’s Run?
The silence was deafening as he pondered his next words, before his uncle let out a peevish sigh. “Give Mr Patmore a letter to hand to your young lady when he departs the day after tomorrow, all being well with his ankle,” Lord Quamby said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If it means that much to you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t entrust it to Mr Patmore,” Lady Quamby said. “I’ll do it. It’ll be a nice excuse to get away for a few days.”
This decided George. “You will not,” he muttered. “I’ll do as my uncle says—give it to Mr Patmore to despatch.” Yes, he thought. That would do nicely. After all, Mr Patmore would be as motivated as he was to ensure that Devil’s Run ran the race once he knew how matters were to be organised.
Rufus was astonished when George Bramley entered his patient’s room that evening, sat on a chair and said without preamble, “I’m going to north to see about a horse, and you’re going to get Devil’s Run back from Miss Montrose. He’s running a race in ten days, and I have everything invested in it.”
Rufus wriggled up straighter in bed and stared. “But my ankle…” He wanted to go, of course, but he didn’t want to appear too eager. “Besides, I thought you were going to run the horse you bought last month. Lucifer is just as fleet of foot. No need for you to send me halfway round the country. You made no mention of running Devil’s Run before.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Bramley fiddled with his waistcoat button and glowered. “I don’t have time to chase after a wretched horse which my uncle had no right to gift to someone else.”
“The horse will be yours before too long.” Rufus was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt saying those words. He didn’t like the idea of Miss Montrose becoming this thug’s property. Especially after what the Brightwell sisters had told him. Still, there was nothing Rufus could do about it. “I thought Devil’s Run belonged to the Earl of Quamby, and that he had every right to gift him to Miss Montrose.”
“I am in charge of his stables. I make the decisions regarding the horses. What do you want for your trouble?”
“Oh, it’ll be no trouble trying to persuade the lovely Miss Montrose.” Rufus grinned. “You don’t seem to appreciate the rare gem you’re about to wed.”
