“You speak as if Olivia’s lack of success—however one might definesuccessin Society—is entirely her own fault,” Eleanor continued. “But there’s nothing in Olivia to fault.”
Except one thing.
Evidently unwilling to point out her one fatal flaw, Olivia’s brother did not respond. The silence stretched, punctuated by the ticking of the drawing room clock while the specter of Olivia’s birth remained suspended, like a ball having been tossed into the air waiting for someone to catch it.
Like it or not, Society valued birth above all. The sister of a duke might command respect and adoration of the sycophants who paraded about the ballrooms of London and exchanged gossip at Almack’s, but only if she were a legitimate sister. Lady Olivia Whitcombe would have been the toast of Society. Plain Miss Whitcombe, however, carried the indelible stain of her birth, which pretty gowns, diamond necklaces, and a large dowry did nothing to diminish.
“We ought to consider our options,” Montague said, “such as—”
“My love, did I overhear your speaking to Jenkins about buying a horse?” Eleanor interrupted, and Olivia shot her a look of gratitude.
“Yes, but…”
“Surely it’s not the season for it,” Eleanor continued, “and it would be unfair on the horse to keep him here in livery in London, isolated from your other horses.”
“A horse doesn’t require the company of friends, Eleanor,” Montague said. “But I won’t keep him in London. He’s too fine a hunter for that.”
“Did you purchase him through Tattersall’s?”
“No, a private sale. Cost me five hundred guineas.”
Olivia stared at her brother. “Fivehundred? That’s a lot for a horse.”
“It’s a bargain, given his pedigree. Italian, you know. An entire horse, so I might use him for stud. Beautiful animal. Devereaux clearly didn’t want to part with him.”
“Who?” Olivia asked.
“Earl Devereaux,” Montague said. “He’s recently returned from Italy and brought his horse with him.”
“From Italy?” Olivia said. “How did he transport a horse from Italy?”
“With difficulty, I presume,” Eleanor said, smiling. “But why not sell the animal in Italy and save himself the cost of passage?”
“I get the feeling he wasn’t expecting to have to sell the animal at all,” Montague said. “His estate’s deep in debt, so Stockton tells me.”
“I thought lawyers weren’t supposed to engage in gossip,” Eleanor said. “I’m surprised at Mr. Stockton. He’s usually a man of integrity.”
“I believe it’s due to that integrity that he encouraged Devereaux’s man to contact me to broker the sale,” Montague said. “Devereaux was only willing to sell his horse to the right sort of man.”
“You mean one with a title and pedigree as pure as the horse?” Olivia said, wincing at the bitterness in her voice.
“Surely you’re not comparing your birth to the bloodline of a horse.”
“Montague!” Eleanor cried. “Must you distress your poor sister further?”
He raised his hands in supplication. “I meant no injury to you, Olivia,” he said. “In answer to your question, no—Devereaux seemed to care only for one thing, that his horse be treated well. When he visited Rosecombe, I managed to convince him that I would.”
“He visited us?” Olivia asked. “When?”
“During our house party.”
“I don’t recall a Lord Devereaux being at the party,” Olivia said.
“He refused to stay,” Montague replied. “He arrived just after dinner and left the moment we shook hands on the sale. But I doubt either of you would value an acquaintance with him.”
“Why not?” Eleanor asked. “Is he a dishonorable man?”
“On the contrary—he seemed overly honorable, but he’s somewhat ill-tempered.”
