first bite. To delay would be an insult to Betsy’s skill.
“Good, hearty food and lots of it—that’ll do the trick,” she said as she refilled his coffee cup.
“Excellent! Ah, the times out of mind we slept on a soggy field, dreaming of waking to a meal like this!”
She smiled with gratification. “Thank’ee, Master Tony. Meadows said to tell you your horse be ready whenever you are.”
Half an hour later, Tony guided Pax into Hyde Park and gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of a hard gallop.
Good fresh English air did do wonders to clear themind, and with a full belly, he could almost believe he was capable of anything. By now it was blindingly clear that at least Hunsdon’s London retainers were looking to the heir, rather than the head of the family, to halt the downward slide of the family fortunes.
But by the time he guided the spent gelding to a walk, his initial euphoria began to fade.
He was near to thirty, with a face most women called handsome and a tall figure that, in the days before a limp disfigured it, had been deemed striking. He still rode well, played—despite his sire’s disparagement—an excellent hand of cards or dice, could drink nearly any man under the table, and was accounted a witty conversationalist. But he had no profession, little knowledge of estate management, none of handling investments and, most likely, next to no blunt to start with.
How was he to rescue the fortunes of his family—and safeguard the retainers in his care?
Well, he might be a farce of a “hero,” who’d puked his stomach dry before every engagement and barely been able to hold the reins, his hands shook so badly before the charge, but somehow he’d managed to get through years of war with most of his troopers alive. Even better, England held no adversaries wishful of putting a bullet through him.
Except perhaps, he thought with a grin, Jenna Fairchild.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, suddenly he saw in the distance a lady whose graceful carriage on horseback proclaimed her identity as loudly as a herald’s trumpet. Signaling Pax to slow, he gave himself up to admiring her.
A little voice whispered that Lady Fairchild’s fortune would go a long way to restoring his shattered finances. But attractive as the idea might be of wedding—and bedding—the delectable Jenna Montague, he couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter in London who’d have less chance than he of getting his grubby fists on the Montague wealth.
Though he might—depending on just how dire was the news soon to be imparted to him by the family solicitor—be able to stomach cozening up to some Cit’s daughter more interested in his title than his person, Jenna Montague’s kindness, valor and integrity demanded more in a partner than a half-crippled man with a sordid past. She would want another Garrett, a man of substance, courage and impeccable reputation—none of which virtues Tony had any pretense of possessing.
Best to think of her as his battlefield angel and leave it at that. As he’d learned long ago, depending too much on one’s paragons was a mistake.
A memory suddenly flooded back, bringing a slight smile to his lips. He hadn’t thought of Miss Sweet, his much-older sister’s governess, in years. Probably because the young man he’d become after leaving childhood had not been looking to angels for his model.
She’d been the only friend he could remember from his lonely childhood, scolding when he tormented his timid tutor, challenging him to prove he could learn Latin and Greek, praising his efforts, laughing with him.
Listening to him.
And then one winter night, Miss Sweet had suddenly left Hunsdon Park without a word of goodbye.
Gathering his courage, he’d inquired about her, prompting his father to a diatribe on the perfidy of females in general and Miss Sweet in particular. Giving almost no notice, the ungrateful jade had abandoned them, his father said, to accept a better-paying
“Good, hearty food and lots of it—that’ll do the trick,” she said as she refilled his coffee cup.
“Excellent! Ah, the times out of mind we slept on a soggy field, dreaming of waking to a meal like this!”
She smiled with gratification. “Thank’ee, Master Tony. Meadows said to tell you your horse be ready whenever you are.”
Half an hour later, Tony guided Pax into Hyde Park and gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of a hard gallop.
Good fresh English air did do wonders to clear themind, and with a full belly, he could almost believe he was capable of anything. By now it was blindingly clear that at least Hunsdon’s London retainers were looking to the heir, rather than the head of the family, to halt the downward slide of the family fortunes.
But by the time he guided the spent gelding to a walk, his initial euphoria began to fade.
He was near to thirty, with a face most women called handsome and a tall figure that, in the days before a limp disfigured it, had been deemed striking. He still rode well, played—despite his sire’s disparagement—an excellent hand of cards or dice, could drink nearly any man under the table, and was accounted a witty conversationalist. But he had no profession, little knowledge of estate management, none of handling investments and, most likely, next to no blunt to start with.
How was he to rescue the fortunes of his family—and safeguard the retainers in his care?
Well, he might be a farce of a “hero,” who’d puked his stomach dry before every engagement and barely been able to hold the reins, his hands shook so badly before the charge, but somehow he’d managed to get through years of war with most of his troopers alive. Even better, England held no adversaries wishful of putting a bullet through him.
Except perhaps, he thought with a grin, Jenna Fairchild.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, suddenly he saw in the distance a lady whose graceful carriage on horseback proclaimed her identity as loudly as a herald’s trumpet. Signaling Pax to slow, he gave himself up to admiring her.
A little voice whispered that Lady Fairchild’s fortune would go a long way to restoring his shattered finances. But attractive as the idea might be of wedding—and bedding—the delectable Jenna Montague, he couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter in London who’d have less chance than he of getting his grubby fists on the Montague wealth.
Though he might—depending on just how dire was the news soon to be imparted to him by the family solicitor—be able to stomach cozening up to some Cit’s daughter more interested in his title than his person, Jenna Montague’s kindness, valor and integrity demanded more in a partner than a half-crippled man with a sordid past. She would want another Garrett, a man of substance, courage and impeccable reputation—none of which virtues Tony had any pretense of possessing.
Best to think of her as his battlefield angel and leave it at that. As he’d learned long ago, depending too much on one’s paragons was a mistake.
A memory suddenly flooded back, bringing a slight smile to his lips. He hadn’t thought of Miss Sweet, his much-older sister’s governess, in years. Probably because the young man he’d become after leaving childhood had not been looking to angels for his model.
She’d been the only friend he could remember from his lonely childhood, scolding when he tormented his timid tutor, challenging him to prove he could learn Latin and Greek, praising his efforts, laughing with him.
Listening to him.
And then one winter night, Miss Sweet had suddenly left Hunsdon Park without a word of goodbye.
Gathering his courage, he’d inquired about her, prompting his father to a diatribe on the perfidy of females in general and Miss Sweet in particular. Giving almost no notice, the ungrateful jade had abandoned them, his father said, to accept a better-paying
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