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She looked over at her father for help, but by the amused expression on his face, he would not be offering any.
‘What other news has Mrs Colter sent? I am certain that entire letter isn’t all about her son.’
Dear God, let it not be all about her son.
‘Any news of our neighbours?’
‘Mrs Stevens has had her second child and Mrs Anderson her fifth. Both had girls.’ She arched her brow at Sarah.
Sarah drank more chocolate.
‘And Susan Philpott and Jonathan Van Houten are wed.’ This time both brows went up.
‘Has anyone suffered an injury? Is anyone ill?’
‘Sarah!’
‘I am simply asking because that does happen to people, too.’
Her father laughed and turned to accept a letter from Bayles, their butler. Sarah’s attention was immediately drawn to it and she let out a breath when she spotted the official government seal on the paper.
‘Mr Harney passed,’ her mother said, drawing Sarah’s attention away from her father’s concerned expression as he began reading the letter.
The shadows of grief were back in her mother’s eyes. Sarah didn’t believe they would ever go away. Each time they got word that someone had died, the announcement would scratch at the scabs covering the fresh wounds of grief over Alexander’s death.
‘How sad. He was a nice man.’
‘He was. Mrs Colter says she stitched a memorial for Mrs Harney since the widow’s eyes are failing. Mrs Harney is very fortunate her son lives within a few miles of her. He has taken her into his home.’ She picked up her stack of letters and stood. ‘I’m going to write to her now to express our condolences. Then I’ll pen a letter to Mrs Colter letting her know I plan to invite Robert down to London shortly after he arrives in England.’
As her mother walked out the door, Sarah poured herself more chocolate from the Wedgwood pot. Morning chocolate was the answer to everything—or it had been at one time.
Her father put down his letter. ‘I’m sure this goes without saying, but your mother and I would never force you to marry someone you do not love. She is only trying to be helpful.’
‘By finding every American man in England to place in my path?’
‘If that’s what it takes to find you a husband, I suppose so.’
‘Please convince her not to invite Mr Colter here in hopes of a match. We are unsuitable for one another and both know it. He is much too dull for my taste and I believe my exuberance frightens him.’ She tilted her head and tried to see what her father was reading. ‘Is it bad news?’
‘It’s a letter from Washington. The banking problems at home have not improved. More people are being refused lines of credit and we must decide how we will respond to our countrymen over here.’
‘Should we be worried by this?’
He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘We are fine and our stables at home are unaffected. Men will always need horses, although I will write to Perkins informing him to be cautious in extending credit.’
She adjusted her cup in its saucer. ‘It would be easier if you were home to oversee this.’ If they left Britain, perhaps her parents would never learn about what Alexander did.
‘Perkins is very competent. I trust him.’
‘I hope President Monroe appreciates you.’
‘This is not about President Monroe. I want to give back to the nation that has allowed me to live the life I lead.’
The turn in the conversation made her uncomfortable. If Alexander’s treasonous act was revealed, her father might be relieved of his position. ‘Have you decided what you will do when this is over?’
He shrugged. ‘We will return to New York. Perhaps I’ll run for office or seek a position in Washington.’ Sitting back comfortably in his chair, he took a sip of coffee. ‘Have I ever told you how my father fought as a colonel alongside President Washington and was instrumental in the success of the Battle of Long Island?’
‘You know you have...many times,’ she replied with a grin.
‘Then you understand patriotism is strong in our family. My father was a patriot, I am and your brother proved to be more of a patriot than either of us.’ Talking about his love for his country brought life to her father like nothing else since her brother’s death.
Four days ago she had inadvertently opened a letter addressed to her father that was mistakenly placed with her mail. She read about how this person was in possession of a letter her brother had written to an English general revealing details about Fort McHenry. This person wanted to exchange that treasonous letter for a large yellow diamond that could be located using Lady Everill’s bracelet.
If her father had opened that letter, there was no telling if his heart would have survived the news. They had almost lost him from the grief he suffered over Alexander’s death. The only thing she found that helped him accept her brother’s death was that Alexander had supposedly died a hero protecting the people of Baltimore that night five years ago. What would happen to her parents if they found out he died a traitor?
She needed that bracelet and that diamond to spare her parents further pain. It sounded easy. But it wasn’t. However, nothing was going to stop her from finding that bracelet and the diamond and protecting her beloved parents.
* * *
Gravel crunched under his boots as Hart walked towards the viewing stand at Tattersall’s with Julian Carlisle, the Duke of Lyonsdale, by his side. The familiar smell of hay mixed with a tinge of manure carried in the breeze as they passed crowds of gentlemen who were there to view the fine stock of horses up for auction. Approaching a spot near the auction block, Hart gave a friendly nod to Mr Tattersall and scanned the area in anticipation of seeing the beautiful thoroughbred that would make a fine addition to his stable of racehorses.
Julian peered past his shoulder. ‘Do you see it?’
Hart shook his head, still looking for the shiny black coat of the four-year-old colt.
‘Are you planning on breaking your bank for this one?’
‘I will not be on your doorstep any time soon because I cannot afford to keep my set at Albany if that’s what you fear.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Julian said with a smirk. ‘As it is, you’re beginning to consume more than your body weight in food at my home.’
‘Can I help it if Katrina is gracious enough to invite me to dine with you as frequently as she does?’
‘It might have something to do with the matter of you arriving close to dinnertime most nights.’
They had dined together at White’s most nights before his friend got married. It was what they did. They had taken most of their evening meals together since they were at Cambridge. Now Julian wanted to stay home for dinner. Hart had given the newlyweds a month to themselves before he assumed they would grow bored of each other. He never felt as if he was imposing. Was he wrong? ‘Are you saying I am not welcome in your home?’ His tone was teasing, but he discovered waiting for the answer was making him uncomfortable.
‘You are always welcome, as you are quite aware. I’m simply remarking that should you bid more than a reasonable amount today, I might be forced to adopt you as my son.’
‘You could have said as a brother. We are both lacking those.’ The moment the words left his lips he regretted saying them, knowing Julian still felt the loss of his brother who had died years before. ‘Forgive me.’
Julian dug his hands into the pockets of his navy blue coat and shook his head. ‘No need to apologise. I’m finally at peace with Edward’s loss.’
‘I’m glad, but what has changed?’
‘Katrina once told me everyone has a purpose in life. When that purpose is achieved, they move on. I suppose Edward fulfilled his purpose. The notion has helped me accept his loss.’
Hart didn’t believe that. People died and the people they left behind were never the same. How did that fulfil a purpose? He knew of this first-hand. Everyone who had ever meant anything to him, save Julian, was dead. ‘I’m glad you have made peace with his passing.’ Not certain what else to say, he relied on his diversionary tactics. ‘So, I suppose if I remain at your house long enough this evening, I’ll be invited to dine.’ He offered up his friend a teasing grin and raised his brows, expectantly.
Julian let out a low laugh. ‘You are always welcome. Just be prudent with your money. Do you need another racehorse?’
What an absurd question. ‘No, I don’t need another racehorse, but I want this one. He has Derby potential.’
‘Do you have a number in mind?’
‘I think eight hundred guineas is fair.’
Julian shook his head.
‘I do not have a wife to support,’ Hart continued. ‘I do not have as many servants as you. If he meets his potential, this horse will bring me much more than that in winnings and I can make even more money when I put him out to stud.’
As he turned his head away from Julian’s chastising glare, he finally spotted the colt being led down the sawdust path. His black coat, shiny in the afternoon light, was a sharp contrast to the pale stone walls of Tattersall’s. His handler paused with him at the auction block before he was paraded past the attendees. This beast was exceptional. Hart had to have him.
Mr Tattersall gave Hart a slight nod of his head, acknowledging that this was indeed the horse Hart had inspected the day before.
‘Gentlemen, here I present to you a fine, well-bred, four-year-old colt by the name of Corinthian.’
‘You are going to bid on a horse named Corinthian?’ Julian said through a low laugh.
‘That has nothing to do with why I want him.’
‘Well, whatever you do, do not change his name. It’s much too appropriate.’
As Mr Tattersall ran through the horse’s pedigree, the animal stood perfectly still, its muscles outlined in its smooth coat, as if waiting for the men to acknowledge how magnificent he was.
Finally, Mr Tattersall rapped his gavel. ‘What shall I say for this horse? Five hundred?’
Hart nodded slightly and Mr Tattersall acknowledged him. ‘Thank you, my lord. Five hundred guineas are offered for this splendid animal.’
‘Ten,’ came a voice from Hart’s left.
‘Thank you, sir. Five hundred and ten guineas.’
‘Ten,’ Hart said loud enough to reach the auctioneer.
‘Very good. Thank you, my lord. Five hundred and twenty guineas are bid.’
‘Ten,’ said the man again to Hart’s left.
This could take some time. Hart was about to raise the bidding by fifty guineas when a familiar strong voice from over to his right called out, ‘One hundred.’
Mr Tattersall nodded his acceptance before quickly glancing at Hart. ‘Thank you, my lord. Six hundred and twenty guineas are bid. Will any gentleman advance that sum?’
Julian leaned closer to him. ‘Were you aware your father would be here?’
‘Eighty,’ Hart shouted out before he could control the volume of his voice.
‘Thank you, my lord. We have seven hundred guineas bid on this horse.’
Hart turned his attention momentarily to Julian. ‘Of course I wasn’t aware he would be here. It’s not as if I’ve suddenly decided to speak with him,’ he bit out, unable to remain calm and rational where his father was concerned.
‘One hundred,’ that familiar voice called out. This time the bid was met with murmurs in the crowd. His father was never subtle.
‘Thank you, my lord. We have eight hundred guineas offered. Would any gentleman like to advance?’
Hart’s offer came out before his brain registered he had said anything. ‘One hundred.’
‘Thank you, my lord. We have—’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Two hundred fifty,’ Hart countered before Mr Tattersall could reply.
‘Three hundred.’
Dammit! His father was such a stubborn old fool! Hart leaned over to Julian’s ear. ‘I’ve lost count.’
‘Sixteen fifty. Far more than that animal is worth,’ Julian gritted out through his teeth. ‘Do not let him goad you. He has done it before. End this. You are better than he is.’
The problem was, Hart really did want that horse and he knew his father revelled in taking away anything he wanted. They had played this game before. And he was certain they would play it again. His brain told him to walk away, but he wouldn’t give in. If he let the man win, he’d hate himself.
Mr Tattersall’s voice broke his concentration. ‘For the last time, gentlemen, the price is sixteen hundred and fifty guineas.’
Men around them began to lay bets as to who would win the horse—the Marquess of Blackwood or his son. Hart stuck his hand into his pocket and rubbed his lucky guinea.
Julian leaned over. ‘Do not do it.’
‘Fifty,’ a voice that sounded very much like his own came out of Hart’s mouth. He closed his eyes and cursed his impetuous nature.
Julian let out an audible groan as voices around them grew louder. Hart was able to block out what they were saying. It was probably due to the fact he was calling his father every curse he knew in his head.
He looked at Mr Tattersall, who was trying to appear unaffected by the numbers being bid for this horse that was worth approximately half as much.
‘Thank you, my lord. Seventeen hundred guineas are offered. Will anyone advance?’ There was a pause. He looked at Hart’s father for an indication to counter.
Nausea and a sense of stupidity assailed him. He refused to look at the man whose blood he shared—a man upon whom he had wished death many a time. It was an absolute certainty he wore a smug smile. Had he finished toying with his son? Did he even realise the potential of the colt? Hart closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the smell of manure. He laughed to himself at the appropriateness of being around so much shit.
‘Seventeen hundred guineas are offered for this outstanding animal. Are there any other offers, gentlemen?’
It was the longest pause in Hart’s life. He stopped himself from squeezing his eyes shut. It was best to feign a look of quiet amusement.
The hammer fell.
What he wanted to do was let out the world’s longest breath. What he actually did was tip his hat to his father and smile. Let the man think Hart had enjoyed the game. He wasn’t about to show him how much it upset him. Families were worthless.
Within moments his father and Lord Palmer had disappeared into the crowd. If only that would be the last time he laid eyes on the man. Unfortunately, Hart knew he wasn’t that lucky. Why couldn’t his father have died instead of his mother? What further torture did that man have to inflict on him to fulfil his purpose in life? No, Katrina was wrong. Death just proved there was no sense in caring for anyone but yourself.
The gentlemen around them offered their congratulations. Did they honestly believe he was happy to spend a small fortune for that horse? The worst part was, no matter the outcome, his father would have bested him either way.
