CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I hate my brother, Jules. I hate him, and I mean that. He’s a bad brother, and I am tired of being his sister.”
I produced my handkerchief. “I’m plenty vexed with Healy myself.”
Hyperia took my linen and dabbed at her nose, then turned her face against my shoulder and indulged in some protracted lachrymosity.
I’d been vexed with Healy before. I was ready to thrash him to kingdom come before Hyperia had gained her composure. By that point, we were sitting hip to hip on the bench.
“He t-told me I should set my cap for Wickley.” Hyperia’s voice was low from crying and bitterness. “Wickley would forgive even debts of honor from a brother-by-marriage. Healy tried to make a joke of it—I reminded him that I am engaged to you—but, Julian, I am tempted to allow you to meet him. My brother is incorrigible, and now my funds are gone, and all Healy can think is that I should marry to ease his debts.”
Her funds could be replaced. Her willingness to repose her confidences in me was a more delicate matter. I squeezed her shoulder—she was in my close embrace and making no move to leave—and took a gamble.
“When I first stumbled down the mountains into France, I was out of my mind. I had a knife and cloak. I could hunt, I could build fires, I could fashion a shelter, and I was safe enough, but I was raving mad. The first time I encountered another person, just some fellow pausing by a stream, I was terrified. I lit off up the slope like the hounds of hell were pursuing me. Got about twenty yards and collapsed in a quivering heap.”
“You were in a bad way.”
“I was deranged with fear. I was afraid of sounds, light, shadows, movement… I was the personification of dread. That you are suffering something similar, something that makes you want to withdraw from all life and joy and even from me, is intolerable.”
My disclosure was met with silence and then, softly, “Oh.”
The nature of that single syllable was encouraging. Hyperia had uttered an oh that portended insight, that bore a hint of understanding. My hope had been to establish common ground with her, to put us on the same footing. I knew what it was to feel destroyed, and she was devastated by her brother’s betrayal.
His most recent betrayal.
“Jules, I don’t know what to do. I want to marry you, of course, but Healy has stolen all I had.”
“He hasn’t stolen me. One challenge from my perspective is how to restore your settlements, but the more pressing problem is how to restore your trust in us . I consider myself bound to you, Hyperia, whether we are wed or not, whether we ever wed. Healy’s perfidy doesn’t change my loyalties.”
She relaxed against me. “I do love you.”
I hugged her lest I insist we have the banns cried.
“And I’m sorry, Jules. I did not mean to hurt you, but if we are to cry off, if I am to cry off, then a cooling in our relations would lend credibility to the decision. Especially if the cooling was clearly one-sided. I am ashamed of Healy, ashamed I could not better manage him. You are right about that too. I want to hide away and take long naps and not wake up until… until Healy isn’t a problem.”
“He is not your fault, Perry. He’s simply a natural-born dunderhead. I often felt the same way about Harry, and he frequently told me I was the bane of his earthly sojourn.”
This earned me a careful perusal. “Did he mean it?”
“At the time, I’m sure he did. I would be angrier with Healy, too, except that today I saw George run. The beast’s speed is breathtaking.”
“But fleeting, as it were.”
We sat upon the bench, my arm around her shoulders, her arm about my waist. My heart was lighter, my mood sweeter. We had not solved the problems facing us, but I hoped we’d made progress on the problems that had lain between us.
“Jules, are the match races always held in the afternoon?”
Hyperia had leaped to one of those obvious-in-hindsight shifts in perspective. “Match races are agreed upon by the owners involved. The length of the course, terrain covered, weights, jumps, and so forth are all a matter of agreement. Healy cannot insist on a match first thing in the day. Pierpont at least knows of George’s morning-glory tendencies.”
“So does Wickley, but I gather Tenneby did not, and he’s fairly well informed about the horses. Healy cannot move the races to the morning, but could I? Could I plead the heat and a lady’s delicate constitution?”
Whatever else was true of the owners gathered for the meeting, they regarded themselves as gentlemen. “The cooler morning air would benefit the horses too. What if you enlisted Miss Tenneby’s aid as hostess of this event, speaking for all the ladies? She could ask for the match races to be held in the morning.”
“She’d do it. This could work, Jules.”
Or not. George was allowed to run flat out in his morning gallops, nothing saved back for race days. Perhaps he was better conditioned as a result, but perhaps he’d be completely knackered by week’s end too.
But one had to try, even for a serial bungler like Healy. “I saw Evelyn leading a group of ladies into the house following some after-breakfast battledore. They’re likely in the conservatory or library. Would you like an escort?”
Hyperia sat up, smoothed a hand over her hair, and reached for her hat. “Yes, please. I am all at sixes and sevens.”
“Battle nerves. The artillery has ceased its pounding, but the enemy is out there, and the infantry must yet deal with him. Patience, Hyperia, and steady on.”
I could have waxed symbolic about forming an infantry square of two, but the image failed to inspire. I gathered up Hyperia’s book and parasol instead and offered her my hand.
“What will you do with the rest of the morning?” she asked as we emerged from the trees along the river.
“I’m returning to the stable. The horses are fed, groomed, and housed there. The jockeys, grooms, and owners congregate there. The stable must be where the tampering occurs, and if I observe closely enough for long enough, the answer will come to me.”
“Julian, you aren’t welcome in the stable.”
A towering understatement, and, in truth, I’d have less than a full day for my reconnaissance. “I will be careful.”
We walked across the park, the grass dry beneath our boots. “You’ll disguise yourself?”
“Atticus himself won’t know I’m on hand.”
“He’s enjoying this meeting, isn’t he?”
“Very much. Too much, I fear. Fancies becoming a jockey.”
“Julian…”
“I know. Broken bones, never a decent meal, out in all weather. I’m trying to let the likes of Denton, Woglemuth, and Hercules make the argument for me.”
We approached the garden, and on the terrace, footmen were setting out some sort of pavilion along with the ubiquitous punchbowls.
“The conservatory must be too warm,” Hyperia said, taking the book and parasol from me. “The heat really is oppressive.”
I bowed. “Rain is on the way.”
Hyperia hugged me, and I all but danced up to my room. That hug, beneath any number of windows and in plain sight of gawking footmen, restored all hope and vigor to my heart. I had only to catch a cheat, expose his methods, and heavily back George on his morning contests, and all would come right.
Or so I hoped.
* * *
The art of the disguise had become necessary to my work in Spain, and the old skills were in fine working order. With the help of some cosmetics borrowed from Hyperia’s vanity and rice powder pinched from the old earl’s stores, along with clothing provided by the Welsh footman and ashes from my own hearth, I became a grumbling geriatric gardener whose accent suggested Yorkshire origins.
Not that I said much beyond, G’day to thee , or Must spuddle t’ thistles afore they take hold .
The last of the morning gallops were over, the sun baked the cobbles, and any groom stirring about did so slowly.
Pushing a wooden barrow appropriated from the kitchen gardens, I moved from one barrel of tulips to the next, inspecting as I went. My spectacles had been sacrificed for the sake of effective deception. The queue of hair trailing from my battered hat was gray. My attire was worn, patched, and quite loose, though my boots were sturdy.
“Poor mites,” I muttered, examining one of the pots of tulips faring the worst. The soil was so much caked dust, the foliage a wilted memory on a pale stalk. Long past due for lifting.
I inspected and grumbled and inspected, pausing between every few barrels to consult the sun, wipe my brow, and—twice—to remove a boot and dump imaginary pebbles from inside. This went on until I could credibly repair to the shade for a protracted one-eyed nap, and then I resumed when the noon hour had passed.
“Hey, old man.” Atticus had emerged from the shadows of the barn. “You’ll miss nuncheon in the hall. Hadn’t you best grab a bite before Cook puts the food away?”
“Thankee, lad. Thankee, but I’ll bide awhile yet. Posies is done for, poor things.” I hefted my barrow and moved to the next barrel.
Hercules Smith emerged and stood beside Atlas, hands on hips. “What are you about, old man?”
“He’s tending to the flowers,” Atticus said. “Such as they is.”
“The flowers are past tendin’,” Hercules retorted. “Get you back to the gardener’s shed, old man, take a nap, and call it a day.”
He would say that. “Stable boy does not tell gardener what to do. That lot,”—I used my elbow to point to the colts’ side of the yard—“are faring well enough. This lot,”—I nodded to the fillies’ side—“mostly want lifting.”
“Then tend to your work and be gone with you. I don’t want you underfoot when the evening work begins.” He squinted balefully at the westering sun and stalked back into the barn.
“Best do as he says,” Atticus added. “The grooms are short-tempered of late.”
The tulips on the different sides of the yard were indeed faring differently. I had noticed before that some pots were holding their own against the heat, while others—fewer in number and mostly on the fillies’ side—were past salvation.
The earl’s comments about the sire line being problematic for the Tennebys came back to me, as did Hercules’s ill will. The fillies’ side… the dam line. The colts’ side… the sire line.
A cool sensation washed over me, part insight, part surprise. “I know how they’re doing it.”
Atticus stepped closer. “ Guv ?”
“I know how he’s rigging the races, and I know why. We’ve got him.”
“Got who?”
“Our culprit. Can you get me a copy of the watering schedule?”
Atticus dug around in his pockets and produced a much-folded, grimy piece of paper. “Hercules set it up. Saves a lot of work.”
“I’m sure it does. Is Corrie about?”
“Napping out back. Hard to sleep in the carriage house, with the nights so hot.”
“Please tell him Caleb Bean would like a word with him at the smithy, and, Atticus?”
“Guv?”
“Mind your back. Things could soon grow lively.” I collected my barrow and mentally thanked the flowers for their assistance. I would see the spent bulbs lifted and the survivors regularly watered if I had to lug the buckets from the kitchen garden myself.
* * *
By the time Corrie presented himself at the forge, I was again wearing my blue spectacles and gentlemanly attire. I’d brushed the powder and ash from my hair and taken out the braid, my boots were freshly shined, and I was keen to interview my witness.
“You.” Corrie frowned, but he was too polite to simply turn and leave. “What does milord want with me now?”
“I want answers, and they had best be honest. Dasher won by a nose when that race was supposed to be his by lengths. Explain his morning routine on race day to me. What was different?”
Corrie glanced about, but the smithy and its yard were deserted—by design.
“I did the same as I allus do. No galloping. Half a ration of oats, a good grooming, then I took him out for some hand-grazing. The only decent grass is down by the river, and even that’s getting sparse.”
“His water bucket was empty?”
“Most of ’em are, come morning. Nights aren’t coolin’ off like they should.”
And that misery had been very convenient for the cheater. “You let Dasher have a good long drink from the river, didn’t you?”
Corrie looked like he was about to bolt.
“You did,” I went on, “and that isn’t part of the routine for this meeting, and you are worried that such a nice, long drink is why he was nearly defeated.”
“How do you know that? Nobody saw me, and I kept trying to tug his head up, but he were desperate for that water. A thirsty horse can colic, and I know racin’ with a bellyful of water is stupid, but the races were hours off, and… I didn’t mean to slow him down.”
“Joseph Corrie, listen to me: A thirsty horse can die . He can stumble on course and break a leg. He can fall and get his jockey injured or killed. Watering your horse probably saved his life, because for a certainty, he would have lost the race otherwise. He drank like a sailor arriving in his home port because the poor beast was absolutely parched.”
Corrie studied me, honest blue eyes searching my face. “The buckets are almost always empty in the morning. You tellin’ me somebody is dumpin’ ’em? That’s vile, that is.”
The situation was worse even than that. “The flowers on the colts’ side are thriving. Whoever is dumping the buckets is pouring the water into the flowers rather than risking wetting down the cobbles. The fillies are faring better because those races don’t bring as much money, and it’s the colts our cheater is after.”
“What about Juliet?”
“I have a few theories regarding Juliet, but you’ve confirmed that the cheating is being done by withholding water from the favorites. I must confer with Mr. Tenneby, since this is his race meeting, and ask you to say nothing. I expect the matter will be resolved before tomorrow’s races.”
“Dumpin’ the buckets. That’s the work of a right varmint.”
“A clever, determined cheat, in any case. Give no hint that you’re on to him, but do see that Dasher, Juliet, and Blinken are amply supplied with water. Take them out hand-grazing by the river at the odd hour, but be casual about the whole business.”
“I can do that.” He paced off, then turned back. “Dasher won anyway, dint he? Won when he were parched. My old lad ran his heart out, and he won.”
“He ran his heart out, he has the world’s most devoted groom, and he did win against stacked odds.”
To my discerning eye, the boy’s walk had acquired a hint of confidence as he departed from the stable yard. He’d hold his tongue, for now, but nobody would stop him from singing Dasher’s deserved praises when the race meeting was over.
That assumed, of course, that Tenneby listened to me when I explained to him who had been sabotaging the meeting, how, and why.
* * *
“If you insist, I will provide you a demonstration tomorrow before noon, when the Downs are deserted. I will use my own horse, my own jockey, and prove that I know how the races are being rigged.”
Atlas might forgive me for that rash offer. Atticus never would.
Tenneby stared hard past my right shoulder at the neatly copied racing cards stacked on his desk. “But if you’re the fellow running the rig, of course you’d know that.”
“Tenneby, I am not the fellow running the rig. This rig cannot be run without the cooperation of the grooms, most of whom already hold me in considerable suspicion. Pierpont’s grooms are in the best position to deny the horses their water.”
“Right. I’d forgotten that part. Not a detail. This is all quite awful, my lord. You’re sure Lord Pierpont Chandler is our villain?”
“I would bet what remains of my reputation on it.”
Pierpont was charming, competitive, at ease among the fraternity, and even admired for his determination to win. He’d been clever and ruthless, first sabotaging poor Blinken, then putting his grooms up to galloping the best colts to exhaustion. His next scheme—denying water to the favorites during a hot spell—was truly diabolical.
When I’d examined Wickley’s horse for signs of drugging, it hadn’t occurred to me to do the simple tests that indicated serious dehydration. When a horse has been adequately watered, a finger pressed against his gums then released should result in a patch of skin gone momentarily white, then quickly restored to pink. The pink would come back much more slowly if the horse was seriously thirsty.
Even simpler would have been to take a fold of the beast’s skin, pinch it together and watch how quickly the skin resumed its previous contour when released. A parched horse’s skin would return to a smooth contour only slowly.
Simple tests, and neither I nor anybody else had thought to try them on the defeated favorites. If I did not stop Pierpont now, he’d just keep cheating the honest owners and mistreating the four-footed competitors.
The topic was grim. Tenneby’s sitting room, by contrast, was lovely, in a horse-saturated way. The scheme was green, brown, and white, the furniture comfortably upholstered, the windows open to admit a humid breeze. Periodicals concerned with racing adorned the low table and the couch cushions, and a portrait of Excalibur held pride of place over the mantel.
Framed sketches had been arranged on the opposite walls, every one featuring an equine subject, and a pair of worn riding boots sat airing by the open balcony door. A leather crop lay on the mantel, and a pair of braided reins had been curled on the sideboard.
“One hardly knows what to do,” Tenneby said. “For years, I’ve told myself I was fleeced at Epsom. Made a laughingstock before the whole fraternity. Now you explain the how of it—so simple, really—and one can hardly… I should call the blighter out.”
“To graze his lordly arse with a bullet would offer considerable satisfaction, I’m sure, but he’s a cheater, Tenneby. He has been running these schemes for years, probably even before you lost all that money at Epsom. He’s good at it, though my guess is, your private meeting has seen him raise his dark art to new heights.”
“Denying a horse water in this weather is heinous,” Tenneby said. “I should at least plant him a facer.”
I could not tell Tenneby what to do, though his situation was analogous to Hyperia’s frustration with Healy. She wanted her settlements returned, down to the penny, and Tenneby needed coin far more than he needed to risk his life teaching Pierpont a lesson.
“If you could choose,” I said, “between having the swindled funds restored to you or winging Pierpont in a duel, which would you choose?”
Tenneby paced to the balcony door, picked up a boot, and sniffed the interior. “I am supposed to say I’d rather put a bullet in him, rather see honor satisfied over pistols at dawn. An earl would say that. Wickley would say that and sound dashing.” He put the boot down beside its mate.
“You would rather have the money. That speaks well of you.”
“Does it?” He peered at me. “How? Isn’t money supposed to be beneath me?”
“Your household is on the brink of ruin that has been coming closer for generations. Your sister is yet unwed. The old earl will soon go to his reward knowing he has failed his family. You getting your lights blown out under scandalous conditions makes life considerably more difficult for all who depend on you.”
“Good point. Mustn’t shirk. The trades must be paid. Uncle Temmie did the best he could and backed me for the win, as it were, when I am the long shot. Evelyn deserves to set up her nursery, if that’s her desire.”
He brightened, and then the slow-top, certifiably plodding, not-very-bright-about-anything-other-than-horses fellow said something kind, wise, and nearly shrewd.
“I know what to do. We’ll ask Evvie for her views. She’s overdue to get back a bit of her own from Pierpont, and she owns the family’s whole complement of cleverness. Evelyn Tenneby will sort the whole business out, and Pierpont will rue the day.”
His demeanor had become that of the scholar who’d come up with the obscure, difficult, right answer, and, in fact, he had. Seek help, rely on loved ones. Pull together.
“What of the earl?” I asked. “Do we tell him? The meeting is on his property, and the guests are swilling his brandy.”
Tenneby’s smile dimmed. “You think I ought to? I’ve brought scandal to the house when I meant to win us some time with the creditors.”
I thought of Hyperia, trying to carry the whole burden of Healy’s betrayal on her own. Of me, stumbling around on frigid mountain slopes, unable to tolerate even a greeting from another human being.
“Temmington is your family, Tenneby. Yours and Evelyn’s. He wants to see you succeed, and he’s nobody’s fool when it comes to horse races. He is your backer. Trust him to take your part as you trust Evelyn.”
“He is a dear old thing…” Tenneby’s gaze fell on the painting of Excalibur, a magnificent creature who had already been the butt of an expensive, avaricious swindle, thanks to Pierpont. “We will tell his lordship and Evelyn, then. Pierpont has behaved very badly. You will explain matters to the others for me?”
In the interests of time saved, I would, but also because Tenneby was on the battlefield with only a very small square of supporters around him. He was right about this, too—one mustn’t shirk. I had agreed to take up his fight, and I wanted to see him achieve the victory he deserved.
“Might Miss West join us? I believe she has a few matters to discuss with Miss Tenneby that relate to the races yet to be run.”
“Miss West is clever. Evelyn likes her. I like her too. Bring her along, then, and we’ll see what the ladies have to say.”
He marched off, head up, shoulders back, ready for a council of war and looking every inch the heir to an old and respected title. He also looked like a man who’d been given hope for the first time in years.
I silently saluted him as he retreated.
Perhaps the valiant nightingale had been singing for Tenneby too.
* * *
“A dehydrated horse can’t run,” the old earl said. “We forget that. We’re always worried that they mustn’t be waterlogged at the starting line. Mustn’t be allowed to guzzle the whole bucket when cooling out. We forget that withholding water can be just as bad. A putrid, unsporting trick.”
“A lucrative , putrid, unsporting trick,” Evelyn murmured from the sofa she shared with Hyperia.
We were assembled in the earl’s sitting room, an airy space still adorned in the elegant, graceful style of the previous century. The carpet was faded Axminster, the walls sported faded blue silk, and the slightly worn upholstery matched the walls. Time had stolen the glory from the appointments, and yet, not a speck of dust or cobweb was to be found in the whole chamber.
Gilt frames and gleaming vases caught the light, though the sole bouquet was a dozen tulips on the sideboard in the red, yellow, and white theme of the stable.
A jarring note—also cheerful.
Tenneby propped an elbow against the mantel. “Won’t do to call Pierpont out. He’s a cheater, and I am not yet ready to take up my harp and wings.”
“No duels.” The ladies had spoken in very firm unison.
“No duels,” I said, “but honor demands that Pierpont be held accountable. He stole victory from Sir Albertus and Wickley at least, and he was likely behind the mischief at Epsom three years ago. He was prepared to turn this race meeting into the scandal that hastened Tenneby’s ruin. For that, Pierpont deserves a severe comeuppance. The question is, by what means?”
We conferred, drinking a gallon of meadow tea between us. We sorted and tested and theorized and pondered. In the end, the ladies fashioned a plan whereby Pierpont would rethink and regret his great scheme to cheat his way to victory in the sport of kings.
“What of the bets already placed?” Hyperia asked. “Pierpont won a packet by defeating Juliet, but not a fortune.”
“Less said the better,” the earl observed. “Racing is a chancy sport. The risks aren’t supposed to include cheating, but the unusual weather, hard terrain, and unfamiliar location all weigh against certainty. Sir Albertus recovered his losses with Dasher’s victory. Excalibur held his own despite the tampering. Let the wagers stand.”
I could not blame the old earl for his reticence. Temmington had an eye on the family reputation, and if Pierpont’s mischief became widely known, the Acres would be recalled as the scene of a horrendous racing scandal. Hardly a legacy to bequeath to one’s heirs.
“I agree,” Evelyn added. “The results have been credible thus far and most of the wagers modest. But we put an end to Pierpont’s cheating here and now, once and for all.”
I was dispatched to fetch his lordship, whom I found lounging in the library, reading some publication out of Newmarket that reported racing results.
“Lord Julian, good day. You know a meeting has gone on too long when you’re reduced to reading week-old results. Newmarket needs rain, too, apparently.”
“My lord.” I offered a quick bow. “The Earl of Temmington would appreciate the courtesy of a call. If you can tear yourself away from the results, he’s receiving now.”
Pierpont rose languidly. “Suppose I should observe the courtesies. Poor old boy doubtless wants for company. He’s kept the house up fairly well, but one wonders how much longer Tenneby will be able to do likewise.”
Tenneby would manage splendidly. “The family will contrive, I’m sure.”
We made our way up to the earl’s suite in silence, though a fresher breeze was whipping through the house, and the quality of the natural light suggested clouds might be moving in.
“I don’t suppose you’ve considered placing any bets on these last few races?” Pierpont asked as we reached Temmington’s door. “One can make a tidy sum in a very short time if one knows which horse to back.”
“And you’d be willing to advise me?”
He smiled. “With pleasure, though you might be surprised at some of my choices. I have an eye for the unappreciated gem, you know.”
Charlatan. Varlet. Swindler. Cad… “I will continue to keep my coin in my pocket, thank you just the same.”
We were shown into the sitting room. The earl in his Bath chair sat near the empty hearth, the ladies were on their couch, and Tenneby stood by the sideboard. The footman hovered near the door by arrangement.
“A gathering, I see.” Pierpont bowed to the ladies. “How pleasant. I sense we’re in for a change of the weather. That will be pleasant, too, I daresay.”
Evelyn gestured to a wing chair opposite the earl’s perch. “Please have a seat, my lord, and before you begin to work your way around to offering for Excalibur, you should know that we’re on to your scheme, and I swear on the bones of Eclipse, you will be made to pay for your trickery.”
Pierpont eyed the door.
I smiled at him and gestured to the indicated chair. The race was on, and Lord Pierpont was no longer the favorite.