CHAPTER THREE
“Says W8.” Paddy Denton handed me a piece of paper and pointed past my shoulder. “That’s the west side of the yard, unless the sun has taken a notion to travel backward in the sky, and I can count to eight without even taking off me boots.” His chin jutted in a manner reminiscent of a righteous Atticus.
The stalls were numbered, a number plate affixed to the bottom half of each of the double doors. The indicated stall already had an occupant, a sleek gray who watched the proceedings with calm interest.
“He were trying to switch the horses, sir,” the head lad countered in all his English certainty. “Denton’s filly is a dapple gray, same as Maybelle there. Both rising four, both standing about sixteen hands. Easiest thing in the world to trade ’em out while the rest of us is busy setting fair for the night.”
Denton spread his stance. “I’ll have you know, Josiah Woglemuth, that the stall was assigned by Mr. Tenneby himself. Furthermore, you great, beef-witted ignoramus, I’ve no wish to steal your wretched skinny nag when our filly will leave yours swishing flies at the starting line.”
“That filly,” Woglemuth said, pointing to the gray in the stall, “will be a flat streak on the horizon while your spavined, speckled mule is still passing its first fart of the day.”
Atticus had wiggled to the front of the crowd, and when he should have been worried, he was clearly enjoying the insults.
“That will do,” I said. “Nobody was trying to exchange the horses. Denton, your horse can be stabled in stall 8 M —M for mares, I presume. Woglemuth, if you’d get your lads back to work, we can all put this confusion behind us.” I passed Woglemuth the slip of paper.
He turned it upside down then right side up, then upside down again. “Blimey. Who’d a thought?”
Denton snatched back the note. “Your filly is still as slow as black treacle on an icicle, but she has a pretty head.”
Woglemuth nodded. “Your Cleo has a nice arse, which our Maybelle will never have a chance to admire on course. Back to work, lads.”
Denton collected his filly, who did have a fine set of quarters, and led her over to the open door of another stall labeled with an 8, but on the northern side of the stable yard.
“They coulda killed each other,” Atticus said, sidling up to me. “Coulda come to blows in the next second. Who would have ridden Cleopatra if Denton had got his head busted?”
Not you, young man. “That’s Patrick Denton, formerly Sergeant Patrick Denton?”
“Dunno about formerly anything, but he’s groom and jockey for Cleopatra and a couple colts. Lord Wickley owns all three. He’s an earl. You could tell him I’m to ride morning gallops, couldn’t you, guv?”
“Oh, possibly, except I’ve never met his lordship, and you are not to think about riding a morning gallop until you have my permission to take on a specific mount. Furthermore, I will be present on such occasions until further notice.”
“But you’ll meet everybody at supper tonight, and you could ask Lord Wickley then. Denton might not want to ride all three.”
“If Denton is the groom for all three, he’s very likely riding them daily, in succession, and perhaps several others as well. He is also mucking, feeding, rugging up, turning out, watering, keeping their gear in good repair, and race riding. He’s a very busy man.”
“He does that for all three of ’em?”
“On the Sabbath, he’ll be excused from riding. Every other day, he’ll be up at the crack of doom, in all sorts of weather, riding for miles on end.”
If I’d hoped to daunt Atticus’s ambitions, I’d failed. He’d clearly decided that a jockey’s life was to be coveted above all other callings. So much for my efforts to give him a gentleman’s education.
“I can watch, though, can’t I? I can watch the gallops.”
“Don’t make a pest of yourself, but yes, you can watch if you keep your eyes and ears open. Denton might give his string tomorrow off if they’re just arriving today.” Likely not, though. They’d get an easy ride, but not a day off, and the decision would be Lord Wickley’s rather than Denton’s.
“Did you tell Miss West I’ve been workin’ on me letters?”
“I did, and she is looking forward to confirming my report firsthand. Where has our Atlas been stabled?”
Atlas was my Atlas and always would be, but in recent weeks, Atticus had graduated to hacking out on my gelding on the days when I was not available to ride. On the one hand, I knew the boy’s equitation would get a tremendous boost riding such a highly trained and generous-spirted animal.
On the other, I resented the duty to share Atlas with anybody, ever. He’d been a comrade in arms in Spain and the Low Countries, as nobody else had been, and I was pathetically jealous of his loyalty.
Utter nonsense on my part, of course.
“Atlas is in a saddle horse row,” Atticus said, striding across the stable yard. “Their stalls look out the back. The racehorses are all on the inside rows so the grooms can keep a better eye on ’em. Colts to one side, mares to the north, geldings sprinkled about as may be. Coach horses have another barn closer to the carriage house. Forge is to the south, downwind of everything else because of the off-chance of a spark.”
“You’ve done some reconnoitering, young man.”
We passed into the dim and aromatic confines of the barn. “Isn’t that why you brung me?”
Well, yes, and also because the boy would have been miserable at the Hall, toiling away in the schoolroom with neither myself nor Atlas on hand to add interest to his days. My nephew, Leander, was younger than Atticus, and the two did not seem to have formed an alliance.
“I brought you because I cannot trust you to bide where I tell you to.”
The stalls were mostly full, the horses at their afternoon hay. Some would be turned out overnight, though the time of year meant caution had to be exercised. Spring grass was notoriously rich, just as autumn grass might be deep and beautiful, but lacked much in the way of nutrition. Most horses were allowed only a few hours at grass this early in the season, with longer and longer periods of turnout as the weather moderated.
Though in the absence of rain, Tenneby’s pastures were far from lush.
“He looks happy,” Atticus said as we reached Atlas’s stall, and indeed, the horse was contentedly munching a fragrant pile of hay. A mound of fresh droppings graced a corner of his abode—Atlas was a tidy soul—and the consistency of the manure assured me that all was well with his digestion.
“Can you get him out for a hand-walk and some hand-grazing at sunset?” I asked.
“Why not turn him out for the night?”
“Because for the past four days, he’s had little grass, and Tenneby’s pastures have come in, despite apparently dry weather. Atlas will gorge himself at the same time we’re asking him to drink water that’s not quite what he’s used to at home. That’s two steps in the direction of an avoidable colic. I’ll hack him out in the morning and then ask that he be given a couple hours at grass, preferably by himself or with two or three pasture mates. By the time you’re done observing the gallops, Atlas should be ready to come in.”
Atticus watched as the gelding sniffed the water in his bucket but disdained to drink. “Do you always think like this, guv? Fourteen what-ifs and what-abouts all piled on top of each other?”
“One tries to consider all the available evidence before choosing a course of action.”
Atticus pushed away from the door. “Izat how you’re courting Miss Hyperia? Considering evidence and courses of action?”
Well… yes. “How do you advise me to proceed?”
Atticus gave me a pitying look, which from a boy young enough to be my son was lowering indeed. “You court her however she wants you to.”
He scampered off on some errand known only to him, and I was still watching Atlas in hopes he’d drink some water when a voice to my right caused Atlas to cease eating his hay and once again have a look out his half door.
“I’m told it was you who deprived Denton of his little pre-race bout of fisticuffs. Proper little Papist that he is, he rides better when he’s in a temper. I would have preferred to see my jockey good and riled. I trust you’ll let matters run their course if you should come across a similar disagreement among the peasantry again?”
“Lord Wickley?” I asked, surveying a fair-haired dandy turned out in the first stare of equestrian fashion. His cravat was pristine, his boots spotless, and his spurs gleaming. He was perhaps two inches shorter than my six foot two and perfectly proportioned for the lesser height. I’d put his age at about six-and-twenty.
Too old to be forgiven the airs and attitudes of an arrogant sprout.
“And you’d be Lord Julian.” He looked me up and down with the same expression he likely turned on foundered ponies. “You doubtless believed yourself to be keeping peace among the heathen, but meddling is meddling, I’m sure you’ll agree. No apology necessary—this time. Until supper.”
He did not so much as touch a finger to his hat brim, but rather, strode away as if he was expected urgently at a royal levee.
“A right charmer that one,” Josiah Woglemuth muttered from across the barn aisle. He ceased raking the dirt floor and checked the latch on the nearest stall. “I shouldn’t speak ill of my betters, but Mr. Tenneby warned me about the earl. Paddy Denton rides for him, and whatever else might be true, his lordship ought not to speak ill of his own jockey.”
“Agreed. You’ll keep an eye on my Atlas?”
“Aye, and the boy. Lad’s mad keen for horses. You can see that straight off.”
“He’s not to be race riding, Woglemuth. Atticus is still new to the saddle, and I don’t want his broken neck on my conscience.”
“Nor mine. No call to use jockeys that young, and Mr. Tenneby wouldn’t stand for it neither.”
Mr. Tenneby had been playing least in sight since my arrival. I doubted he knew if children were being put in the saddle on the practice gallops.
“Do you really think Denton would try to switch fillies on you?”
Woglemuth studied the regular swirling pattern he’d raked into the aisle’s dirt floor. “I saw what I saw. He was leading our Maybelle out of her stall, and his Cleo was tied up to the nearest hitching ring. Would have been the work of a moment, and those two horses could be twins.”
“You’ve marked a hoof?” A horse’s hoof was made of the same substance as hair or fingernails. A sharp object scratched along the outer hoof wall or even on the tough sole would leave a mark but cause no sensation. Some cavalry units branded their horses on the hooves rather than on the hide.
He nodded. “I have my little system of marks. Mind, Paddy Denton has a reputation for riding a clean race, but Mr. Tenneby has reasons for distrusting some of the other owners. You’d best ask him about that if you want the details.”
“I will do exactly that.” I left the stable aware of a gnawing hunger, despite the snack I’d stolen with Hyperia. I also battled a sense of foreboding. The simplest explanation for this bout of slanging in the stable yard was that Wickley had set his groom up for confusion, knowing that fisticuffs would likely result.
But would Denton truly ride a better race for having been beaten to flinders by a man twice his size? Or had Denton been determined to distract all and sundry from his failed attempt to switch the fillies? Was Wickley in such a bad humor because I’d meddled—his word—or because the exchange of horses had been foiled?
I’d lay the situation at the feet of my host and see what Tenneby made of the business—assuming I could find my host.
* * *
“Lord Julian, where have you been hiding?” Clarence Tenneby bustled to my side as soon as I joined the predinner crowd. Folding doors had been drawn back to turn the music room and the first informal parlor into one space, and still the assemblage was crowded.
“I’ve been getting my bearings,” I said, returning his smile, though heaven defend me if I were ever seen to beam in public as Tenneby was beaming now. “Tenneby Acres is lovely.”
“Ain’t it, though? A proper jewel. Come admire the view from the terrace. Not quite a balmy evening, but a breath of fresh air will do us good.”
Tenneby’s effusive greeting was doubtless partly for show. Ladies who’d ignored me before gave me a second appraisal. Gentlemen regarded me over their glasses of champagne with veiled calculation. Was I in the market for a horse? Looking to win an easy fortune wagering?
Or was I once again poking my lordly beak into polite society’s less savory corners?
The brisk evening air was a welcome change from the stuffy parlors.
“Let’s admire the stars from the garden,” Tenneby said. He moved like a chubby toddler, watching where he put his feet on the steps, a slight hunch to his posture. “Beautiful night, ain’t it?”
Overhead and to the east, stars were appearing against a darkening firmament. To the west, the last streaks of indigo and gray were fading to black. The scent on the breeze was grassy with a hint of turned earth. A peaceful combination, one any military picket on night watch learned to appreciate.
“The weather is certainly pleasant,” I said, though we need not have come outside to exchange that small talk. “I’ll need a guest list, Tenneby, and some time to review it with you. I’ve already made Lord Wickley’s acquaintance.”
“That one… He all but demanded to be included. Informed me that he’d be happy to grace my ‘little gathering’ with his presence because Newmarket had grown so tedious. His horses break down on the harder turf over in Suffolk is the problem. This year’s dry spring is proving too much for them, so here he is, his equine darlings pampered like kings and queens at my expense. And if Wickley is underfoot, I could hardly refuse hospitality to his archrival Lord Pierpont, could I?”
“A vexing contretemps, I’m sure.” About which I could condole Tenneby all evening and still not quiet his laments. “I will also need to know who on your guest list was present at Epsom three years ago.”
A gust of laughter wafted from the house.
“You think somebody will try the same scheme?”
“You are apparently concerned that they will. Assuming you were cheated, the method was effective. You haven’t discovered the means responsible for your bad luck, and somebody else was significantly enriched.”
“Half the turf was enriched at my expense. Uncle will cut me off without a farthing if I can’t produce better results this time, though we haven’t actually that many farthings left.”
Uncle would be Lord Temmington. “He fancies racehorses?”
“No, he does not, not any more, though he used to. He doesn’t fancy his oldest nephew much either, I’ll have you know. When it comes to my uncle, I’m torn between humoring an old campaigner who’s set in his ways and having a pointed discussion with a full-grown colt who needs reminding about his manners.”
“Might I share with you some advice my older brother imparted to me?” I ought to keep my mouth shut, but Harry had—on some occasions—been right.
“Please. My sister says I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this meeting, but she’s gloomy by nature. Calls it practical, but practicality isn’t the same as perpetually predicting my ruin.”
“Sisters can be a challenge, but we do love them. With regard to your uncle, approach him as you would a green horse. Your posture will tell him as much about you as your tone of voice, and only when both have his attention will he focus on your actual words.”
The hum of conversation from the house was gradually growing louder.
“Head up, look him in the eye, look where you’re going, go where you’re looking, that sort of thing?”
“Exactly, no sudden moves and plenty of patience, but no doubt about your objective.” Not much difference from commanding new recruits, truth be known. “Comport yourself at all times with bodily confidence, as if you know what you’re about.”
“Even when I don’t.” Tenneby’s teeth gleamed in the shadows. “Simple enough with a horse. Second nature, in fact. One wants to be deferential with an elder, though, particularly the earl. Uncle Temmie can be difficult, though few would believe that.”
“Respect him, of course, but let him know that you respect yourself as well. Saves a lot of discussion.”
“One can but try. I’d best be getting back to my other guests. I’ll have the lists for you in the morning.”
“Before you go, did you hear of the squabble in the stable yard this afternoon?”
Tenneby nodded. “Paddy Denton has a temper, though he doesn’t take it out on horses. He and Woglemuth came to reasonable, albeit mistaken, conclusions, and I understand no blows were exchanged.”
“This time. Wickley as much as told me he’d engineered the confusion in hopes that Denton would start a brawl. He claimed his jockey rides a better race when holding a bit of a grudge.”
“Or his jockey rides a better race when he’s mounted on my Maybelle rather than Wickley’s plodding Cleo. Woglemuth would have sorted the matter out before anybody was at the starting line, but I see your point.”
Woglemuth might have sorted the matter out, though racing days were prodigiously busy, with horses moving everywhere, crowds on hand, and last-minute substitutions for jockeys being necessitated by injuries.
“Woglemuth seems an estimable sort,” I said.
“Nobody’s fool, and a horseman to his bones. Come in with me, and I’ll introduce you around.”
Tenneby was so spontaneously gracious, so innocent . “Best not. Bruit it about that I’m here because Miss West is here, and you tolerate my presence only because you don’t want to offend the lady.”
“Tolerate your presence…? Oh, I see. Muddy the waters, lay a false scent. Very clever. Miss West is lovely.”
“We are engaged to be married, though we have made no formal announcement.” Why not? Not all engagements were made public in the newspapers—very few, in fact—but I was a ducal heir, and as dubious as my reputation was in some circles, the matchmakers would appreciate official notice that I’d made my choice.
“My sister likes your Miss West. Says she’s quite sensible. When the lady asked for an invitation, Evvie was only too pleased to accommodate her.”
Hyperia had asked to be invited? Without letting me know? “What of Healy West—is he expected as well?”
“He is indeed. He’s bought his first colt and claims beginner’s luck is with him. Says that horse will leave everything in the dust. St. George by name. Doesn’t want to overface the colt with a first outing at Newmarket, so I suggested St. George test the waters in a smaller, friendlier crowd.”
Bad news, but also a relief. Doubtless, Hyperia was on hand to limit the damage her brother’s newfound venture caused—though, why not tell me that?
“Keep an eye on West, will you? He is prone to believing his every whim is divinely inspired, and his next scheme will be the one that wins him a nabob’s fortune.”
Tenneby started for the steps, then stopped, squared his shoulders, and lifted his gaze from the ground to the glittering windows of the manor house.
“West will fit right in with the turf crowd, my lord. One has to be a bit of a fool to thrive in our world, a bit of a dreamer. The trick is to be able to afford the dream. Haven’t quite figured that part out yet, but I have high hopes.”
No doubt, twenty-eight thousand sorely missed pounds would have helped a great deal. “You go in first. I’ll follow in a few minutes. Please do not introduce me around. Continue to treat me as something of an avoidable nuisance, but do get me those lists.”
He saluted with two fingers and strode up to the house as if he were being introduced to a young equine sale prospect for the first time. Confident, steady steps, his shoulders back, and only a slight stumble as he crossed the threshold into his home.
* * *
“Healy has bought a racehorse,” I said, taking a seat next to Hyperia. “Is that why you’ve joined the gathering?” We occupied a padded bench in the music room, an impromptu glee having been organized to entertain guests after the buffet supper.
Hyperia had arrived late to the predinner gathering, been all but accosted by Lord Pierpont, and enjoyed his obnoxiously handsome company for the duration of the meal. Wickley had escorted her to the music room, and had not Evelyn Tenneby been glued to the earl’s other arm, I’d likely still be admiring my intended from afar.
“You heard about St. George?” Hyperia muttered. “I fear for my brother’s sanity, Julian. Truly, I do.”
“Have you seen the colt run?”
A footman came around with a tray of cheddar and sliced oranges. I filled a small plate and passed it to Hyperia.
“I have seen the colt,” Hyperia said quietly. “I haven’t seen him run. He’s all knees and ribs, Julian, and he cost a fortune.”
Bad news. Healy West had no fortune to spend. “If St. George is fast, nothing else matters, provided he’s sound. He might well be a good investment.”
She considered a pale slice of cheese. “Are you defending my blockheaded brother?”
“Looking on the bright side. Then too, if Healy’s latest project means I get to spend the next two weeks with you, perhaps I owe him my thanks.”
Hyperia put the cheese back on the plate, uneaten. “When I say the horse cost a fortune, Julian, I am not exaggerating. Healy knew better, he ignored my advice, and I suspect he’ll be made a laughingstock before the race meeting ends. A bankrupt laughingstock.”
“Gambling debts are not enforceable by the courts, my dear. They are strictly debts of honor, payable on no particular schedule other than as soon as possible. Do I take it your brother no longer aspires to become the next Richard Sheridan, playwright extraordinaire?”
Hyperia fiddled with her bracelet, a circlet of plain gold links. “The one play he’s written is quite good. I suspect the second effort suffers by comparison, and thus he hasn’t finished it. I’m speculating. He won’t tell me what’s amiss, and if I ask more than once how the writing is coming, he scolds me for nagging.”
Her words held a small revelation for me: Hyperia had recently castigated me for keeping from her certain elements of my past that I found upsetting.
Memories accosted me seemingly without provocation or on the merest hint of inspiration. A bird hopping about near a fountain would bring back the horrors of Ciudad Rodrigo. Gunfire set my belly roiling. Thunder was a different sort of torment. Hot chocolate served with a pinch of cinnamon sent me back to frigid Spanish winters in dimly lit cantinas.
All of these burdens and many more, I tried to carry in silence, in hopes they would abate, or at least not escalate. Hyperia insisted that hoarding my misery perpetuated the pain, and thus I had begun to make an effort to share with her recollections of my worst moments.
I still had nightmares. I still dreaded certain dates on the calendar. I still hated storms and found talking about the whole business exceedingly tedious, but I had tried to comply with Hyperia’s request.
“Is Healy your legal guardian?” I asked.
“No, but he’s in authority over my funds. If I am unmarried at age thirty, the funds come to me more or less directly, or the trust does.”
“And the man in authority over your funds refuses to keep you apprised of his activities. He won’t answer your questions, he won’t explain himself to you, and yet, he will profess to anybody listening that he loves and esteems you.” Hyperia had nearly shown me the door for lesser offenses. “How have you not planted him a facer?”
She blinked at the plate of fruit and cheese. “I want to kick him, Jules. I want to take all his funds away and dole them out only as I see fit. I want to refuse him a key to our own front door.”
“You had a key made, I hope?”
She nodded. “Healy has become secretive again. I don’t think he’s being blackmailed, but he’s… making questionable decisions.”
“Do you want my assistance, Hyperia?” I asked the question as casually as I could, but every part of me was wondering why in blazes she hadn’t simply summoned me, laid the problem at my feet, and directed me to get to the bottom of it. This was the woman who’d insisted that my burdens were also hers to carry, for pity’s sake.
“I haven’t the right to trouble you with more of Healy’s mischief.”
“Now that surprises me, because I have it on the best authority—unassailable, expert authority—that when two people plight their troth, they take on the honor, duty, and privilege of sharing their troubles. I’ll sort him out, Hyperia, just say the word.”
I was making a promise rather than boasting.
“I do love you,” she said very softly. “Let’s see if Healy and his St. George even show up. For all I know, he’s hared off to Newmarket, where he’s hard at work digging himself into a hole of scandal so deep, I will have to cry off our engagement.”
“I love you too, Hyperia West. Depend upon that as you depend upon the sun to rise in the east. We’ll have no talk of crying off, unless you find the prospect of marriage to me untenable.”
“Never,” she said, with more seriousness than the moment warranted. “Tell me how Atticus is faring with Tom Jones .”
“He’s finished the whole book and pronounced it ridiculous, which it is.” On one level. On another, polite society had never been so savagely lampooned. “What shall I give him next?”
We chatted pleasantly between offerings from a quartet, octet, and then quintet of male voices, all very charming and lighthearted. When the gathering broke up, I claimed the right to light Hyperia up to her quarters before either Wickley or Pierpont could elbow their way to her side.
I waited until we were halfway up the white staircase before I posed a question that had been nagging at me. “Perry, is there a reason why we haven’t announced our engagement publicly?”
“No reason,” she said, “except that an announcement leads to questions about a date, and I don’t suppose we’ll set a date until His Grace is back from his travels.”
She could set any date in the next five years, and I’d agree to it regardless of Arthur’s whereabouts. “His Grace will want to be present, I’m sure.”
“Why do you ask, Jules?”
“Tenneby requested my presence at this gathering because he is certain that three years ago, at Epsom, he was fleeced of a fortune. My presence is supposed to deter troublemakers, or so Tenneby hopes. I refused to involve myself until he told me you’d be present.” How had he known to dangle that lure, when he was no great social lion, nor in the confidence of the hostesses?
“I do know Evelyn from school, though she was years behind me. She might have heard from Lady Ophelia or one of her cronies that I’m engaged to you. My rooms are down this corridor.”
We turned right, the same direction in which my quarters lay. “I will be keeping an eye on the horse racing in any case, Hyperia. I’d appreciate it if you’d do likewise.” I avoided the words assist me , because increasingly, Hyperia’s contributions to my investigations were not assistance so much as they were the critical insights that solved the whole puzzle.
I should tell her that, but not in a corridor frequented by other guests and punctuated by shadowed alcoves.
“Wickley and Pierpont own rival stables, don’t they?” Hyperia said. “I did wonder why they paid me any notice. This gathering needs more unattached females.”
Who would in all likelihood be ignored in favor of four-footed company. “You’re still up for a morning hack tomorrow?”
“I am, let’s say an hour after daybreak. I’ve warned the stable I’ll need a guest horse.”
“Atticus will be overjoyed to see you, though his delight is nothing compared to mine.” I dared to press a kiss to her cheek and parted from her outside her door.
Airing her brother’s folly had relieved some of the tension between us, but not all. I had avoided asking how Hyperia had journeyed here or who was acting as her chaperone. If she’d traveled unaccompanied and was present without an older female to see to the proprieties, then something more serious than Healy’s latest folly was in play.
Hyperia and I had known each other since childhood, and I’d taken our compatibility for granted. When I’d gone off to war, I’d adhered to the required protocol and specifically instructed her to neither wait for my return nor wear the willow for me in case of my demise. She’d waited anyway and in every way had exerted herself to aid my various recoveries.
She brought a woman’s perspective to the business of investigating and was able to make intuitive leaps while I collected facts and observations like some butterfly enthusiast patrolling an unfamiliar meadow.
I loved Hyperia, and I wanted to share the rest of my life with her, but now found myself in the miserable position of knowing she was right: If we could not confide in each other, if we could not trust each other, our marriage—if we ever wed—would be a disappointing arrangement all around.