One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(32)

“So you’re letting him tell you what to do, instead of the other way around?”

Tsking softly, Spencer circled the horse. His dark bay coat was in dire need of a brisk raking with a currycomb. Gray hairs mingled with the ebony, giving a hoarfrost look to his forelock, a sign of the stallion’s advancing age. He’d worn a bald patch on his right flank, likely from chafing against the stable wall. Despite the deplorable state of his grooming, however, Osiris remained an impressive example of horseflesh. His high, taut haunches and long, arched neck displayed his Arabian ancestry.

Spencer circled to the front again, standing slightly to the horse’s side, allowing the animal plenty of space to see him, and several snorting breaths to investigate his scent. The look he saw in the stallion’s large, dark-fringed eye pleased him, as did the haughty head toss that yanked the groom off-balance. There was spirit there, and fierce arrogance. That look said, I’m better than this.

“Most certainly,” Spencer agreed. The horse was spoiled as the devil and would need a great deal of retraining with an expert handler, but at least his spirit hadn’t been broken.

He removed his gloves and tucked them beneath one arm, murmuring gently as he approached. After extending his hand palm-down for the stallion to nose and inspect, he laid it against the horse’s withers.

“Far better than this,” he said, giving the horse a brisk rub. The horse turned and nosed his palm, displaying the narrow blaze of white that ran the length of his nose, with the look of a lightning bolt.

Spencer was tempted to saddle the beast and ride him straight out of the mews. But as it was, he already stood accused of murder. It would seem unwise to add horse theft, another hanging offense, to Julian Bellamy’s list of suspicions.

“Holy Christ.”

Spencer’s gaze jerked to the entrance.

Ashworth strode into the barn, chasing the fog of his breath with a low whistle of admiration. “That is one magnificent animal.”

Spencer’s opinion of the man took a small leap in favorability. No matter their history as youths, there was something to be said for a man who recognized quality horseflesh when he saw it. Or, for that matter, a man who recognized a baseless accusation when he heard one.

“That he is,” Spencer said, pride enriching his voice. “His grandsire was Eclipse; his dam’s line goes back to the Godolphin Arabian, with several champions in between. No finer pedigree to be found in English horseflesh.” He took the stallion’s halter himself, dismissing the groom with a glance.

Ashworth tilted his head to examine the horse further. “Had a gelding once from the Darley line. Red chestnut, white markings. Fast as a demon, with a temperament to match. I must have pushed that horse over every moor in Devonshire. Perfect mount for an angry, overgrown youth.”

Spencer wouldn’t have said it aloud, but he too had spent more hours of his youth in the saddle than in the schoolroom. “What’s happened to him now?”

“Dead.”

“In battle?”

“No.”

Ashworth paced idly toward the rear of the yard, and Spencer sensed that he didn’t want to speak of the matter. Strange, that the man would so easily discuss the deaths of his fellow soldiers, only to fall silent when the deceased was a red chestnut gelding.

Or not so strange, perhaps.

“So why are we here?” Ashworth said.

“I’m wondering that myself.” Julian Bellamy swaggered into the yard, turned out in a suit of rumpled cobalt velvet that looked like he’d slept in it. Or not slept in it. His hair always appeared slept-upon; that much was no surprise. Why a man would go to such meticulous effort to cultivate a slapdash appearance, Spencer couldn’t imagine. But then, neither could he fathom why anyone would stable a priceless racehorse in this place.

“We’re here to discuss the investigation of Harcliffe’s murder,” Spencer said. “But first, these boarding conditions are unacceptable.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

He ticked off the list on his fingers. “Fetid water. Rotting hay. Inexpert grooms. Poor ventilation. Cramped stalls. And I haven’t even started in on the lack of proper exerci—”

“Enough already.” Bellamy flashed an open palm. “To my eye, looks no different from the stabling of most Mayfair gents’ cattle.”

“This isn’t a carriage horse, nor a gelding for the occasional prance down Rotten Row. Osiris is a former racehorse, from the most noble of bloodlines.” Spencer gave him a cutting look. “I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand.”

Julian Bellamy’s cheeks blazed a very satisfying shade of red. And the red contrasted most pleasingly with the purpling bruise on his left jaw. The man was simply too easy to provoke, once one discovered that raw, tender gash of bitter jealousy.

“I see,” Bellamy said hotly. “Only the purebred nobleman can truly understand the purebred horse, is that it?”

Spencer shrugged. His own breeding had nothing to do with it, but he definitely knew what was best for this horse. “Proper handling of a horse like this is no simple matter. He was trained to race, from birth. Not only to race, but to be the best. Once a champion, he was spoiled with attention and permissive handling. Add to that, he’s an ungelded male, with a strong natural mating drive. It all adds up to a horse with a mile-wide streak of arrogance, bloody bored out of his mind. Without proper exercise and opportunities to mate, all that aggressive energy festers. He becomes moody, intractable, withdrawn, destructive.”