Griff
Tattersalls, London, England, 1817
“I’d prefer tostay in the carriage,” Edwina whined, a perfumed kerchief pressed to her pink nose. “Horses are so pungent.”
Griffith Halliwell, third Earl of Pendlebury, patted his mistress’ cold hand. “Of course, my dear,” he replied, beating a hasty retreat out of the door held open by his footman. “Take Mrs. Waxenby home,” he shouted to his driver.
“Sir,” Bateson replied.
“Oh, but Griffith, my darling,” Edwina sighed at the window. “I’m willing to wait until you come out of that dreadful place.”
Griff forced a smile. “I’ll be hours. It’s best you return home.”
“When will I see you next?”
Never.
“I’ll call on you in a day or two,” he lied. “Off with you, Bateson. I’ll find my own way back to the townhouse.”
The shiny, black coach and four bearing the Halliwell crest pulled away. Heads turned to admire the lacquered vehicle and the magnificent beasts in the traces. It was the usual reaction of passersby, but Griff’s pride swelled and he never tired of it. He felt no obligation to acknowledge the lacy kerchief fluttering out the window. Cologne water wasn’t unpleasant but did Edwina have to drench every article of her clothing in it?
How had he ever become involved with a woman who couldn’t stand the smell of horses? Too blinded by the copious globes. Thank goodness he’d only bedded her the once, or maybe it was twice. No great loss. London was full of willing widows, though he’d be wise to exercise more care in his choice of a future mistress. Horses were his passion, so a paramour would have to love them, as well as possess a glorious pair of breasts—and hips a man could get a good grip on while she rode him.
He chuckled as he entered the subscription room of Tattersalls. Perhaps he’d stumbled upon the reason his Welsh-born mother had wanted him to bear a name that meantstrong grip.
Continuing his musings as he savored the heady smells of leather and manure, horseflesh and money, he decided to addlustyto his list of criteria. And, of course, a beautiful face. Blonde hair, naturally, and lots of it. And absolutely no bluestockings. A woman’s place was in his bed, not a library.
“Griff, old man.”
Recognizing the voice, he turned and immediately extended a hand to the friend who’d hailed him. “Richard, how goes today’s bidding?”
Tattersall accepted the gesture with his usual firm grip. “The fillies are fetching a good price, but you’re not interested in those.”
“Indeed. Any news on the Arabian? You’re certain he’s a descendant of the original Godolphin?”
“Yes, he’s clearly listed in the General Stud Book as a grandson of the great Eclipse, but the seller is still making arrangements for transport. I want to make sure you understand this horse’s racing days are over.”
“Yes, yes, a problem with the coffin bones. I know. I want him for stud.”
“No worries, then. Once he arrives, he’s yours.”
“If I meet your price,” Griff said.
Grinning, Richard slapped him on the back. “Of course. Business is business, after all.”
Griff pumped his shrewd friend’s hand again. “While I’m here, I’ll take a walk around, perhaps pick out a mare or two.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Richard assured him before striding off.
Griff held Richard Tattersall in high esteem. The jovial fellow had inherited a prosperous and renowned horse auction business built up by his father and grandfather. However, Richard had something his sires lacked—a certain ease with nobility and common man alike. This ability had enabled him to become the intimate of the best sporting men of the era. Griff counted himself fortunate to have Richard as a friend. The friendship had certainly helped build the reputation of Griff’s Pendlebury Stables as a premier stud farm.
Scanning the excited throng of men clustered around the bidding arena, Griff fished in his frock coat pocket for his pewter hip flask and took a few swallows of French brandy. Thus fortified, he headed for a gap in the noisy crowd. He didn’t need more mares, and should save the blunt for the Arabian. The stallion was going to cost a pretty penny but owners would pay handsomely for the chance to breed a winner with a thoroughbred stud. Pendlebury Stables might even attract the Prince Regent—horse racing fanatic that he was, as well as a close friend of Richard Tattersall.
After several more swigs of brandy, Griff placed a winning bid on a mediocre filly, ignoring the incredulous sneers of other patrons. If a man made the effort to come to Tattersalls, he had to bid on something. He could always consign the nag to a glue factory if she proved useless.
When he exited a short time later, it was a relief to find Bateson had, as usual, disobeyed his directive. A light drizzle had begun. Despite the crush of carriages, his own was parked within spitting distance of the auction house. Frederick had the step down and the door open. “It’s amazing you always manage to find a spot close by,” he shouted to Bateson, truly thankful for his driver’s uncanny ability as he climbed aboard with some difficulty.
Three more sips of brandy did nothing to ward off a worsening headache. A brief visit to one of his clubs might help remedy a sudden melancholia. “Head for White’s,” he shouted to Bateson.