The Valentine Legacy Read Free Page A

WAS A full moon. The late-March weather was mild, only a slight night breeze rustling the early spring leaves on the immensely old oak trees that lined the drive to the Warfield farm.
    James whistled an English ditty the Duchess had written the year before as he cantered astride Sober John, a horse as gray as the exquisite pewter bowl that sat in the middle of his dining-room table, and just as durable. The Duchess, who was actually the Countess of Chase and an English Wyndham, never seemed to run out of ideas, which was understandable, he supposed, what with the idiocy of George IV and all the politicians to provide her with such outrageous fodder. It was a catchy tune. He smiled to think how Marcus Wyndham, the Earl of Chase and the Duchess’s husband, would sing her ditties at the top of his lungs in his bathtub, sending maids flurrying off in fits of giggles outside the huge master bedchamber at Chase Park.
    James lightly patted Sober John’s neck. The stallion was twenty years old now and the mainstay of James’s breeding farm. Sober John’s get were racing long four-mile stretchesfrom Massachusetts to Kentucky. Sober John was a thoroughbred, a stayer, whose endurance had been renowned on the racecourses. He was now becoming renowned as a stud, thank the good Lord.
    The bright moonlight glinted off the white wooden fence that, along with the oaks, lined the drive from the main road to the big house itself. The Warfield Stud and Racing Stable was huge, profitable, and well run. James admired it and prayed Marathon would one day be as successful. He particularly liked all that white fence that went on and on until it disappeared beyond a stand of oak trees into the darkness. He could only imagine what it would cost to keep that damned fence painted white.
    When James pulled Sober John up in front of the stables, a young black slave dashed forward to take his reins. “Rub him down good, Jemmy,” James said, and tossed the boy a coin.
    â€œSell me Sober John.”
    â€œForget it, Oliver.” He stretched out his hand and shook the older man’s. His hair was redder than the brat’s, though unlike hers it was threaded with gray and was as grizzled as James’s hairbrush. His eyes were a faded blue, unlike the brat’s which were a wet-looking green, the color of the damp moss beside a pool of dirty water in the middle of a swamp. “You had four winners in the races today, all of them Friar Tuck’s get. That two-year-old filly—Miss Louise—she’s going to keep you winning for years, barring accidents. You don’t need Sober John.”
    â€œIf I had Sober John I’d put you right out of business, boy.”
    â€œI hope the thought keeps you awake at night.”
    Oliver sighed deeply. “I’m getting old. Aches and pains keep me up enough at night. Oh hell, if I were your age again, I’d steal Sober John, challenge you to a duel, and puta bullet through your gullet. Now I’m too old to do anything but whine and bark like an old dog.”
    â€œAn old dog that likes claret.”
    Oliver Warfield grinned, showing a darkened tooth in the front of his mouth that would have to be pulled soon. “You had three winners—not bad for a young fellow with a dash of skill. You would have had more if your jockey, Redcoat, hadn’t broken his leg.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have broken it if that lout from the Richmond Rye stable hadn’t tried to slash him apart with his riding crop, sending him into a tree.”
    â€œSo give your jockeys pistols, James—some owners do, you know. Come inside, my boy. I want my claret. I want to gloat. Jessie told me to do it up right since you tried to do her in today.”
    â€œI don’t think it’s possible.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDoing in Jessie. I think she puts glue on the seat of her pants. I’d have to pry off her saddle, too.”
    James followed Oliver Warfield