Sport of Baronets by Theresa Romain Page A

answers,” he said more quietly, “but I need the rest. I think you have them.”
    Today her dressing gown was of red satin. She tugged at its collar and gave Bart one of her half-smiles. “Your waistcoat. We match, Bartlett.”
    â€œWe don’t match.” He waited again. He would wait until he got the truth, no matter how long it took.
    â€œNo one hurt Bridget’s Brown.” She picked at her collar, looking toward the open window against which gray raindrops pattered. “He developed a crack in one hoof. Such things happen sometimes.” The slur in her words was thicker than usual, and Bart struggled to make out these quiet words.
    â€œWhen he did, Sir William Chandler approached me about buying Golden Barb. He had lost his best hope of winning the Two Thousand Guineas, so he wanted to take mine. He said he would forgive the rest of my debts in exchange. I said no.”
    â€œIt is too much, probably, to hope that you said no because you recalled that Golden Barb was mine.” Bart stood, pacing away to fix his gaze on a portrait on the wall. The Crosby children: Bart and his three older sisters, painted two decades earlier. They had married years ago and had moved to different parts of England, never to return. Not even when Lady Crosby suffered her seizure. Not even when Bart discovered there was almost nothing left of the family legacy.
    Hannah wasn’t the only one who felt trapped sometimes.
    â€œI said no because he wanted me to say yes.” The voice was as quiet as the raindrops. “And then, when I thought of a way to hurt him…”
    â€œThen you said yes after all, accepting ready cash in place of forgiveness of a much larger debt. You did not think he would become suspicious?” Bart’s painted sisters—three look-alike brunettes of varying age—regarded him with pity. He turned away, back to the dowager in red satin. She wore much the same expression.
    â€œNo, he wouldn’t,” Bart muttered. Lady Crosby would give up a large future gain for ready money in the present. Gambling was an illness with her. He knew that, and evidently Sir William knew that too and was willing to profit from it.
    Bart wanted to wash his hands of them both. “So you hired Northrup to carry out your plan. What was it? To hide my horse in Sir William’s stable in disguise as Bridget’s Brown? Sir William would not race a horse he thought was injured.”
    A crooked shrug. “He’s dotty about injured horses. Didn’t give up on Bridget’s Brown. Hid the news about his hoof and kept Sothern caring for the colt all the time.”
    The pieces fit together with diabolical sense. “When Northrup substituted Golden Barb in disguise, he also injured Sothern, which kept the groom away from the Chandler stables. So the other stable hands carried on with their work, exercising a horse they thought to be healthy.”
    â€œAnd Sir William thought his fine care had worked.”
    â€œThen what? You were going to cry fraud and reclaim Golden Barb at the last moment before the race? After betting a great deal on him at long odds, I suppose.”
    â€œI thought you would cry fraud,” she said. “I overestimated you.”
    â€œUnderestimated me, rather. I’ve no taste for your gambling. For these bitter tricks.” One last glance up at the boy in the painting. He was dark like his sisters; unlike them, he bore a friendly smile on his young features. The fool, to be so trusting. “Why was it so important to hurt him? Why dispense with family loyalty just to triumph over Sir William when you could ignore him and still win?”
    Her head sank back against the pillows, and she stared up at the ceiling. Facing her good side in profile, Bart could almost forget she had been stricken and ill. “I could never hurt him enough. Hurting him is family loyalty.”
    The anger in her voice was bewildering. Bart had