One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

Bellamy gave a low whistle through his teeth. “You are a violent one, aren’t you?”


“For God’s sake, it wasn’t a threat,” Spencer said impatiently. “All issues of breeding and training aside, this horse requires superior accommodations by sheer virtue of his value. Personally, I wouldn’t stable a draft horse here, let alone a priceless racehorse. The risk is too great.”

“He’s kept in the most secure stall,” Bellamy said. “The grooms watch in shifts, and the gate is chained and locked at all times.”

“The locks are part of the problem. Look at the condition of this barn.” Spencer swept a gesture toward the cobwebbed rafters. “Dust everywhere, loft crammed with dry hay. It’s a firetrap. One spark would turn this whole structure into an inferno, and all your chains and locks would simply seal the horse’s fate.”

“On that point he’s right,” Ashworth said, all hint of humor gone from his voice. “Stable fires are a nasty business.” He looked to Spencer. “If the two of you want to move him, I’ll take no issue with it.”

“Would you be interested in selling out your share?” Spencer asked. “I’d be generous.”

Ashworth fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the offer. Excellent. If he’d been forced to sell out his commission to pay his estate’s creditors, the man had to be short on funds.

“He can’t sell out his share,” Bellamy protested. “The tokens can only be won or lost in a game of chance.”

“Something of that nature could be arranged,” Spencer said. “Fancy a game of cards, Ashworth?”

Ashworth began to respond, but Bellamy interrupted with a forceful, “No!”

The stallion’s head jerked, and Spencer adjusted his grip on the halter, muttering a litany of soft, soothing imprecations that Bellamy was all too welcome to overhear.

“I won’t allow it,” Bellamy said. “Leo devised this club. He laid down the rules of membership and the code of conduct. Now the man’s dead. The least you can do to honor his memory is to respect the spirit of fraternity this club represents.”

“Some spirit of fraternity,” Spencer said. “Interrupting a man’s wedding with unfounded accusations of murder? Listen, the both of you. I’ll forfeit all interest in the remaining tokens, on one condition. That Osiris be stabled at my estate in Cambridgeshire.”

Bellamy shook his head vigorously.

“Just hear me out,” Spencer said. “The rules remain the same. Any member of the Club may send mares to be mated—”

“All the way to Cambridgeshire?” Bellamy snorted.

“My stables are the finest in the country, and I include the Royal Mews in that assessment. Large stalls, enclosed pasture. My stable master and grooms are the most capable to be had, anywhere. I also keep an expert veterinarian on my staff. At Braxton Hall, this stallion will be among his equals in lineage and ability. Fed properly. Exercised properly. Bred properly.” He reached up to smooth Osiris’s jet-black mane. “This horse belongs with me.”

“You mean the horse belongs to you.” Barely bothering to turn his head, Bellamy spat in the straw. “You believe you’re entitled to this beast, just as you believe you’re entitled to everything. What makes you so much better than the two of us? Your title? The remarkable accomplishment of being born to a noblewoman instead of your father’s favorite chambermaid?”

Oh, now Spencer was thoroughly angered. Whatever clashes they’d had in Spencer’s adolescence, his father had been a decent, honorable man. “Just because you know nothing of your own father,” he warned, “do not pretend to know something of mine.”

Hatred burned in Bellamy’s eyes. “It’s naught but luck. Simple, dumb, blue-blooded luck is all that separates a man like you from a man like me. Leo understood it. He never thought himself the better of anyone. That’s why he created this Club, made its membership contingent on the kind of good fortune that comes after one’s birth, not before it.” His glare alternated between Spencer and Ashworth. “I’ll be damned if I’ll allow the two of you to destroy that. I’ll fight you to my last breath if you try to take this horse from London.”

“You’ll lose.” Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Mark my words, those tokens will be mine, in time. This horse will be mine, in time. And if you think all that separates the two of us is simple, dumb luck …” He shook his head in contempt. “One wonders why you spend such time and effort courting the favor of people you claim to despise.”

Before Bellamy could recover, Spencer changed the subject. “What do we know about Leo’s death?”

“Seems like I should be asking you that question.”

Spencer shrugged off the implicit accusation. “Has the prostitute been found yet? The driver of the hack?”