Blinded by Grace: Book Five of the Cotillion Ball series (Crimson Romance) (26 page)

“Well, of course, George, I’d love to join you. But tell me about this viscount. Is he married?”

“Quit matchmaking, Charlotte. I don’t know much about him, but he did mention a wife who died in childbirth.”

Jasmine’s curiosity got the better of her, despite the fact this was banking business. If the man’s wife had died in childbirth, he might be still young, and not a man of middle age, like her father. He might be worth meeting, and before the season began. Her interest was piqued. “Do you have to call him ‘my lord’ or something? Ooh, how delicious.”

Jasmine noted her father’s raised eyebrow as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m fairly certain he’s coming to the States to escape the bounds of conventional England, so I do believe calling him Mr. Wickersham would be most appropriate.”

Jasmine turned to her mother, and caught the same gleam of anticipation in her eyes that she was feeling. A man with a title! Viscount Alistair Wickersham! She was certain that wasn’t the proper way to address him, but it would do for starters. Once they got to know each other, she would find all kinds of special ways to refer to him. Her twin sister, Heather, may have married last year, but Jasmine would be married to a titled member of English royalty by the time summer was out. She didn’t really give a fig about his appearance, but she wouldn’t be sorry if he turned out to be young and handsome. There was no way she could be lumped in with the poor unfortunates if she was engaged to a viscount by the time the season began. What did one call the wife of a viscount, anyway? Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Well, no matter. She’d be Lady whatever it was by August.

• • •

Parr O’Shaughnessy thought his partner was crazy. Or brilliant. He couldn’t decide. Either way, working with him meant a free trip to the United States with his special horse in tow. So he wasn’t going to point a finger at his lordship’s eccentricities until he reached the shores of his newly adopted country, and left the aching poverty of Ireland behind. Parr wasn’t delusional enough to think his skill in training horses got him this far. He was aware it was his horse, the Grey Ghost, that punched his ticket to the States.

The horse was the only possession Parr had left, and he had been pitting the graceful stallion against all comers when it caught the eye of Alistair Wickersham, the Viscount of Foxborough. The viscount had tried to buy the horse outright, but Parr loved his horse more than he loved food in his belly. So Alistair Wickersham instead offered to make him part of his scheme of establishing a horse breeding farm and racetrack in the colonies rather than have Parr continue to be a competitor. And that brass ring was something Parr latched onto.

So, here he was. One day off the boat, both he and Grey, and settled into the stable at Alistair’s new farm in the Bronx. Life was good. Parr stretched and rolled his shoulders as he curried Grey. He had his own somewhat modest quarters within the stable and it was warm and dry. Both were things he did not have in Ireland. The smells of the barn — hay, leather, horses — were with him morning, noon, and night, enticing in their aroma. And he already loved the scent of America, the land of opportunity. Parr, Grey, and Alistair were about to set the racing world on its collective ear. Starting this afternoon, when Alistair entertained a wealthy New York businessman, who would help legitimize their business for the other upper-crust members of New York society.

Parr was jolted from his dream-like musings when he caught wind of the familiar quick, sharp steps of his partner coming into the stable. He ran a hand over Grey’s flank one final time and put the currycomb away. He took a bite of a tangy green apple before feeding the remainder of it to his horse.

“Hello, milord.” Parr dipped his head at the man.

“Is everything ready for our guests, Parr?”

“Yes, ’tis. All the horses are groomed and the stable is clean.”

Alistair quickly viewed all corners of the barn. He shook his head. “I do wish you’d reconsider, and move into the house with me. We’re equal partners in this venture.”

“Aye, and worlds apart in social status. Besides, ’tis best for the horses if someone’s here to watch over them.”

“All right then, look lively. I see the carriage coming up the driveway. You’ll have to entertain the women while George Fitzpatrick and I speak of business.”

“Is he bringing his wife, then?”

“Not only his wife, but a daughter as well. I do wish he’d come alone. I hoped to have a respite from matrons trying to foist their daughters on me, for at least a little while.”

Parr grinned. “’Tis a terrible fate, milord, having women thrown at you left and right.”

“Please cease with the ‘my lord’ designation, Parr. I’ve told you, we’re in America now, and our ancient, obscure English titles don’t mean anything here. It wasn’t all that long ago that they booted the lot of us out of this country. We’re still referred to as ‘Redcoats’ in some parts of this land.”

“Well, then, what shall I call you? Foxborough?”

Alistair shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be known by where I’m from, so you can drop the use of the name Foxborough, too. I’m Alistair here. It’s why I came to this country, where I’m not just a son waiting for my father to die so I can become a duke. I wanted the challenge of doing something constructive with my life. And you’re a big part of that.”

“Well, this racetrack and the breeding stable will give us a great reputation in New York, that much is certain.”

“And the first thing we need in order to procure our place in America is the backing from someone such as George Fitzpatrick. I’ll bring them through the stable to begin with, and then take George off to show him where I want to build the track.”

“All right.” Parr joined Alistair at the door to the stable as the carriage pulled up. The driver alighted and opened the door. A gentleman got out first and turned to assist his traveling companions. Parr caught sight of a woman with blonde curls as she emerged from the carriage next. From her age, it was apparent she was Mr. Fitzpatrick’s wife. The next person to appear was a petite, dark-haired, lovely young woman. As she cleared the carriage, her eyes moved up to take in the men standing at the stable door. Parr’s breath caught in his throat as he studied her expression. Her eyes moved over Alistair’s face and then landed on his. Entirely inappropriately, he locked eyes with hers for a long moment, then he smiled and winked at her. Even from the distance of twenty feet, her gasp of indignation filled the air. His smile grew wider. He was going to enjoy America.

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Also check out these books by Becky Lower:

Banking on Temperance

The Abolitionist’s Secret

The Reluctant Debutante