was simply she who had him all churned up inside for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She definitely stirred his blood.
‘I rather thought the two of you would be good friends. She knows horses as well as you do,’ Peyton was saying. ‘That black of yours looks exotic. She’ll be interested to hear about him. For that matter, I’d be interested to hear about him too.’
Peyton fixed him with a friendly stare and Crispin knew what was coming next. Inquiries about the ‘exotic’ nature of the stallion were Peyton’s prelude to the bigger question. Whatever else changed about Peyton, this one thing would not: Peyton would always be his older brother.
‘So, Cris, before we rejoin the others, why don’t you tell me what you and my government have been doing for the last three years? The short version, of course.’
Crispin grinned and drew a deep breath. It was good to be able to talk with someone who appreciated the depth and importance of his work. This was something Peyton understood with extreme clarity. ‘Let me start with the Eastern Question…’ he began, his passion for his work evident in his recitation of events and astute analysis of the many evolving situations on the Continent.
At last, Crispin leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its two hind legs, and drew his report to a close. ‘And that, dear brother, is the short version. I haven’t even begun to tell you about British interests in America. There’s another powder keg just waiting to ignite.’
Peyton nodded noncommittally at the implied reference to a future posting. ‘Well, you’ve done your duty for Britain. Perhaps it’s someone else’s turn this time.’
‘Perhaps,’ Crispin replied vaguely, knowing the direction of his brother’s thoughts. Tonight was not the time to discuss his next assignment. When the posting came, Crispin was almost certain it would be an assignment to the American South, a place he was itching to explore on a personal as well as political level. Such a posting would make the sale of Woodbrook imperative. He’d be in America a very long while, more of a relocation than a temporary assignment. Crispin reached for the decanter. There’d be time to quarrel with Peyton over that later. Tonight he simply wanted to enjoy the peace of being home.
‘The long and short of it is, I am running out of time.’ Gregory Windham leaned forwards across the cherrywood desk in his estate office, pushing a small leather pouch of coins across the desk’s highly polished surface to the man on the other side. The blacksmith, Mackey, had been the one villager he’d been able to actively recruit to his side. The others remained quietly neutral with regards to Aurora Calhoun. Damn them.
His laissez-faire strategy had not worked. He’d patiently waited for Aurora Calhoun’s own unique situation to work against her. He’d originally thought the local gentry and the villagers wouldn’t tolerate such a ‘modern’ woman; a woman who ran her own business and sauntered around in men’s clothing. But Aurora had proved wily in that regard, keeping her trousers and lifestyle heavily obscured from the local populace. It had not helped matters that everyone knew she was an especial friend to Dursley’s countess and Dursley’s ward.
Aurora had lived out of sight and out of mind and the villagers had been happy enough with that. Such contentment needed to change. The villagers had to be rattled out of their complacency. He needed to force Dursley to make a stand. Dursley might quietly countenance such a friendship for his wife if no one complained about it. But the earl was also a traditionalist at heart. Windham thought it would be rather interesting to see what Dursley would do if there was a fuss over Aurora Calhoun.
It was time for a more direct approach if he meant to succeed in launching himself as a respectable horseman and sending Aurora Calhoun down the road of ruin. He tapped his long fingers on the desk.
‘The St Albans steeplechase is a month away. That race is mine to win. I won’t have her and that hunter of hers interfering.’ He possessed a stake in the wellfavoured horse, The Flyer. The stake had been an expensive purchase, but money was no object. The Flyer might not be the favourite in the race, but the horse was poised to be a contender if not a winner in the prestigious steeplechase.
‘What do you propose we do?’ The big man across the desk hefted the coin pouch in a meaty hand. ‘I could make items disappear around the stable, or plant a burr in a saddle…?’
Gregory Windham dismissed those suggestions with a wave of his long hand. ‘Those are the second-rate tactics of an amateur.’
He pointed to the bag of coins. ‘Take the money and buy drinks tomorrow night at the tavern. Tell everyone what really goes on at the riding school of hers.’ It was time to reveal his daughter Eleanor’s confession and lift the veil of obscurity Aurora kept around her lifestyle at the stables.
The big man thought for a moment. ‘I’m scheduled to go shoe her horses this week. Won’t it look odd if I’m spreading those rumours and still doing business out there?’
‘You won’t be doing business there any longer.’ Gregory Windham drew out another pouch and slid it across the desk. ‘This should more than suffice to cover your losses in that regard.’ He held the blacksmith’s hard eyes with a cold gaze of his own. ‘There’s more money for you when she leaves town and even more when the horse I’ve invested in wins St Albans.’
The blacksmith grinned. ‘I’ll be a rich man by the month’s end.’
And Aurora Calhoun will be ruined, Gregory Windham thought silently as his henchman departed. It was no less than she deserved. The woman was a threat to all he’d spent years accomplishing. He’d used his money to buy his daughter a titled match with a baron and to establish a small but prime stable a nobleman would respect.
He was hovering on the brink of acceptance into the ranks of the peerage. His future grandson would have a title. Even now, Eleanor rode at Aurora Calhoun’s academy solely because the earl’s ward rode there. Originally, it had been a good social-climbing opportunity. Now, such an association endangered his dreams. Eleanor had become obstinate over the match, spouting too many philosophies she hadn’t learned at home. Windham knew exactly where she’d learned them. They were the same philosophies Aurora Calhoun had spouted when she’d rejected his attentions the one time he’d thought to recruit her to his side. He’d offered her the position of his mistress. She had all but bodily thrown him out of her stables.
Gregory Windham shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Just recalling how that hellcat had railed at him, spitting furiously at his offer, brought his arousal to life. His cheek had borne a bruise from the flat of her hand for days. She’d been magnificent in her anger, her eyes like emerald flames, her dark hair loose about her, an exquisite flowing curtain.
It would bring him great pleasure to subdue the wildness she exuded. Wild things were meant to be tamed. Aurora Calhoun, that tease of a siren, was going to pay. Women had a place in this world. He would make sure Aurora Calhoun knew hers.
Chapter Three
Crispin blew in his cupped hands and rubbed them together vigorously as he entered the relatively warmer interior of the Calhoun stables. Mornings were colder in England than he remembered and certainly colder than the ones he’d most recently experienced in the south of Europe. Crispin strode towards Sheikh’s stall, anxious to see how his horse had fared during his first night in his new home.
Horses whickered as he passed and a few poked their long faces out into the aisle. Even though it was early,
