Cavendish likely couldn’t tell, but Susan recognized the almost imperceptible tick that betrayed Gabriel’s amusement. “Well…er…in his heyday, Eclipse fetched stud fees of fifty guineas for every…er…mare…he…er…covered. So, I’d say Orion’s worth at least two hundred guineas.”
Susan’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Obviously, debt had stolen the fellow’s wits. However, it seemed her presence was perhaps of benefit to the negotiations. Discussing the mechanics of horse breeding in front of a female had clearly thrown the master of Heaton Hall off balance.
“However,” Gabriel countered, “initially, before his progeny proved themselves, his services were sold for much less, around ten guineas, I believe.”
Susan could have laughed at the confusion on their guest’s face. Evidently, Gabriel had gleaned the valuable information from the all-knowing Oscar.
She was sure Emma’s husband had also noted the frayed edges of Cavendish’s sleeves and the shabby condition of his clothing in general. The man was down on his uppers.
“In addition,” Gabriel pointed out. “Your horse has bad feet.”
Cavendish’s face reddened to an alarming degree. “But he doesn’t need his feet to…er…that is to say…”
“Forty guineas,” Gabriel said.
Cavendish shook his head. “Tattersalls has guaranteed me more.”
“An establishment which, I believe, is in London, many miles to the south.”
The horse’s owner scowled. “I’ve gone to the expense of building a special van to haul him there.”
“If you include the van, I’ll offer you fifty guineas, provided it’s built sturdily enough to transport the horse to the Farnworth estate today.”
“It is,” Cavendish replied, squirming in his seat.
Susan feared for the survival of the bowler in the grip of his twitching fingers.
Gabriel held out his hand. “Are we in agreement?”
Susan held her breath, elated when Cavendish accepted the gesture and declared the deal done.
*
At Withins Hallthe next morning, Griff managed to take care of his owntoilette,unavoidable since there’d been no offer of a valet. Tying a decent cravat proved to be a torment, so he gave up and went downstairs. It wasn’t as if he had anyone to impress in this household.
A footman directed him to the morning room. To his dismay, Springer was seated at the table, a curly-haired child squirming on his lap. “Good morning,” he offered, startled when a gravelly voice responded, “Morning.”
The infant gaped at her father as if it were the first time she too had heard his voice.
Griff helped himself to ham and coddled eggs from the sideboard. A footman poured his coffee. “No one else about?” he asked.
Springer shook his head. “My wife was up for hours with the baby.”
“I not a baby,” the pouting child insisted, banging the table with a spoon.
Springer ignored the racket his daughter was making. “Lady Whiteside doesn’t usually rise until after ten o’clock and the baron is probably sleeping off last night’s bender.”
Griff paused his fork halfway to his mouth, tempted to grab the spoon from the infant’s grasp. The fellow hadn’t spoken a word last night; now, apparently, he had the courage to disparage his in-laws. “I didn’t think he’d had much to drink.”
“You weren’t to know the topic of Arthur is a touchy one. Bertrand drowned his sorrows after you left. Pining for her son is the reason Lady Whiteside can’t get herself out of bed. Say, you’ll have to teach me how to blow those smoke rings.”
His appetite having fled, Griff fumed. He hadn’t been the one to bring up Arthur per se. True, he’d inquired about Tillie, but how was he to know where that would lead? He got the feeling the baron needed an understanding ear to listen to his heartbreak. It was doubtful anyone in this house understood his pain, apart from his wife who apparently wasn’t dealing well with her own grief. Besides which, Griff would like to teach Springer a thing or two about keeping family business private. Noble families didn’t air their dirty laundry in front of complete strangers. “Did you ever meet Arthur?”
“Briefly. He’s a bad one. If Bertrand hadn’t shipped him off to Jamaica, he’d have dangled from a noose. Kidnapping’s a capital offense.”
“Jam, jam, want jam,” his daughter demanded, banging the table with increased fervor.
“No, my love. Jamaica. Anyway, no skin off my nose,” Springer shouted over the din. “Arthur can’t set foot in England, so my sons will inherit.”