Page 95 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “A conservative estimate is five thousand pounds, but it might be as high as a hundred thousand.”

“A hundred thousand pounds! For a horse!”

“Not for the horse; for the stud fees and for any colts. He’s a young stallion and has already produced two Ascot winners, and he has years ahead of him.”

Stacia was flabbergasted by the astronomical sum and had to force herself to return to her point. “And you don’t think the promise of even ten thousand pounds would tempt plenty of unscrupulous men with titles and little else other than debts to their name?”

“Perhaps.”

“Instead of leaving her future happiness to chance, you, a war hero”—Stacia held up her hand when he shook his head and opened his mouth, likely to demur. “No, do not try and gainsay that. You are a war hero and you made yourself an object of contempt to decent people all to help a woman you barely knew.”

He laughed. “An object of contempt. You should be a novelist, Miss Martin. You have a way with words.”

“Do you deny that you’ve been treated badly in Society?”

“Oh, sometimes by the highest of sticklers.” He gave a dismissive wave, as if the calumny of his peers was nothing. “But it did not bother me. Besides, helping Sarah was not my only—or even strongest—motivation.” The amusement bled from his face.

“Dare I ask what that was?”

His jaw flexed. “I did it because I knew it would infuriate Chatham.”

Stacia had no response to that. What did it even mean?

He pushed to his feet and turned to the fire, jabbing at it with the poker.

Stacia stared at his broad back and the tense set of his shoulders. She wanted to know more—who wouldn’t—but she had already pushed enough on this subject. And he was right: it had not been his secret to share and yet Lady Kathryn and Stacia had essentially forced his confession. Or at least he’d believed that he needed to tell her the truth as they would soon be married.

She wanted to tell him that her reputation among the ton was not important enough to merit a sacrifice on his part like marriage. But that was a lie. As a woman who worked for a living, her reputation was of paramount importance.

However, as difficult as such a scandal would make her life, she still had no intention of marrying him.

He would press her on the subject—she had grown up with aristocratic men and knew their code of honor—but she would resist him.

Sure you will.

Stacia chose to ignore the taunt. Instead, she changed the subject. “How long do you think we will be here?” Once she’d given life to the words another thought struck her, one that should have been her first question. “And why are we here? It must be an accident.”

He hung up the poker and slowly turned to her. “An accident?” he repeated, clearly befuddled.

Stacia felt like an idiot. “I don’t mean that all this”—she gestured to the food and blankets—“is an accident, I just wonder if somebody else was setting up a—a—”

“Seduction?” he suggested, looking amused by her sputtering.

“Yes. What if we just bumbled up here and then somebody saw the open door and closed it without thinking?”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A servant?”

He cocked his head at her.

“I know, I know—that sounds thin.”

“Very thin. Transparent, in fact.” He finished his ale and then lifted the jug in her direction.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.

He poured another glass, took a drink, and said, “It was Lady Kathryn.”