CHAPTER FIVE
“Today is in the nature of an exhibition run,” Tenneby said, passing me a list of names. “A chance for the horses to stretch their legs over a new course. Nobody will be pushing for a big victory. It’s a stakes race but with a very modest pot.”
Stakes, meaning one paid to run, and the fees made up a majority of the winnings.
Mine host had found me in the stable yard after my frustratingly pleasant hack with Hyperia. She and I had discussed the unseasonably dry weather—comfortable but worrisome. Then we’d moved on to the latest letters from Arthur—His Grace was a gifted travel writer, of all things. We’d also covered Atticus’s aptitude for reading, though he was, we agreed, very bright generally. Mundane, innocuous topics, and normally, I would have delighted in airing even those with my intended.
Except that she was keeping items of significance from me, which was perhaps divine justice. I’d kept my own counsel on many occasions, and I could not count the number of times Hyperia had been forced to ask me, What are you thinking, Jules? Or, What has put that look on your face? Or, What are you pondering?
I’d thus small-talked and cantered along the edge of today’s racecourse with her and then watched her swan off to change for breakfast.
Leaving me with Tenneby and his list. “Why is almost every name on your list followed by an X?” I asked. A good dozen names in the first group—those who’d been present at Epsom three years ago—with a second group mostly unmarked.
“Coincidence. One doesn’t take an interest in racing and then walk away from it in the ordinary course. One buys a horse, a colt usually, then another—a filly for a lark. Then one sells the colt only to see it mature into a blazingly fast ’chaser, or worse, see its progeny win every flat race they enter. One buys the full brother to the first horse and breeds the filly to him, just as she’s rising five and developing the ability to jump the moon.
“So it goes,” he went on, “and for every time you vow to quit, you vow once more to run a champion one way or another. We are a fraternity, and our membership varies little. The same fellows who were at Epsom three years ago are well represented at my informal gathering.”
Pure coincidence, of course. Could Tenneby be setting a trap?
I considered the names. For every plain mister on the list, there was a courtesy lord or peer. Who among them was so desperate for a champion that he’d cheat?
“Are you a feuding fraternity, Tenneby? You describe a lot of hail-fellows-well-met, but you were fleeced, and nobody has assisted you to hold the responsible party or parties accountable.”
“An aberration, and because I have no proof, my accusations were politely ignored. For the most part, we commiserate with each other, we encourage each other. We wish one another best of luck with all sincerity. Maybe it’s a bit like military life. You’re all in it together, and if somebody isn’t in it, they will never understand. Makes for camaraderie.”
Military training was also designed to leave a soldier feeling privileged to serve and above the civilian in God’s eyes. Harry had noted that God’s comment on the matter was to regularly see soldiers of all stripes cut down in their thousands on the battlefields. Not his idea of any sort of privilege at all.
“I take your meaning,” I said. “It’s a club. You either belong, or you don’t.” I did not and hoped to spend the rest of my days in that happy state. “Every single one of these fellows at the top had runners at Epsom three years ago?”
“Not all. Twickford scratched—horse came up lame on the morning of the race—though his gelding came back the next year to distinguish himself over shorter distances. Danner hadn’t any entries, but he was involved in the betting. The fellows with the X’s were present at Epsom, you understand? Underfoot. Capable of tampering with a horse or bribing a jockey, though I have no reason to suspect any of them.”
“Thus you suspect all of them. What actually happened at Epsom, Tenneby?” I should have asked this question sooner, but my orders did not extend to righting the injustices of the past.
“Damnedest thing,” Tenneby said, gesturing me onto the path that led to the house. “My colt, Excalibur, four years old at the time, was the fastest creature on four legs that year, bar none. His bloodlines go back to the Godolphin Arabian on the dam side and the Darley Arabian on the sire’s. Sound familiar?”
“No.”
“ Eclipse , man. How can you not know the breeding of the greatest horse of all time?”
“My education has been sadly lacking, apparently. What of your colt?”
“I hadn’t raced him all that often. The odds tend to come down if your horse is a sure thing, and my boy was a very sure thing. The jockeys always rode to win, but we never let Excalibur win by much. Three lengths was the rule, no more. In any case, he came up against a respectable field at Epsom, and the odds given for him were ten to one. Before the field had topped the hill, he had his three lengths. Around the turn they galloped, and my boy was still going away from the pack, romping along, until halfway down the final straight, he simply… ran out of puff. The field passed him as if he were standing still, and he was so demoralized by that performance I haven’t raced him since.”
The best racehorses had a will to win, a compulsion to gallop to the front of the field and stay there, come fire, flood, or falling stars. One didn’t have to be turf mad to admire and respect that will.
“Horses tire, Tenneby. It sounds as if the distance was simply too much for him.” The house came into view, and I realized I was both hungry and thirsty. I would not have to change before breakfast, but I did want to tidy up.
“The course is a mile and a half, Caldicott. That’s nothing to a horse like Excalibur. He was in a four-years-and-up race and used to doing three- and four-mile courses. I’d started him over fences to preserve him from boredom, and the jockeys claimed that simply made him faster and stronger. He should have won.”
I wanted to argue that horses had off days. They played too hard in the pasture, they took a bad step that didn’t quite lame them, or pulled a muscle that wouldn’t have bothered a hack, but tormented a Thoroughbred on race day. Except that Harry had dragged me to a meet at Epsom, and I knew the lay of the course, which was an enormous up-and-down horseshoe.
None of my excuses explained why Excalibur had led off uphill at a blazing pace, run even stronger out of the turn, and faltered only on the downhill portion of the track, with the finish in sight.
“What did the jockey say about this defeat?”
“He was in tears. Worried Excalibur was colicking and might have to be put down before ever having stood at stud. He had no explanation, and he knew that horse well. I watched the race, and I am confident my jockey was riding honestly. He even used his stick twice, to no avail. I can only conclude somebody tampered with my horse, but I know not how or when.”
We’d reached the back terrace, a sunny flagstone expanse that looked out over a rolling park. “You’ve taken measures to safeguard your runners?”
“Of course, every owner does, but I took measures at Epsom. The feed was kept under lock and key, the bedding inspected before being spread. Only my grooms were permitted to handle the horse and his gear, or even to muck his stall. I am not the brightest fellow, Caldicott, I know that, but within the confines of horse racing, I am careful and well informed. I look after my runners.”
Tenneby struck me as at least as perspicacious as Wickley or Pierpont, though that was admittedly not saying much.
“I’ll keep a sharp lookout, Tenneby, and my tiger is doing the same in the stable. He’s quite young and easily ignored, which works to his advantage. Miss West is my eyes and ears among the ladies, who often know more than we give them credit for.”
Tenneby smiled. “My sister says the same. She quite likes you, by the way.”
Famous. “You might warn her that both Pierpont and Wickley have taken a fancy to her, or so they’d have me think.”
“Neither one is fit to glance at her hems, despite owning some fine horseflesh. In this life, there is no justice. I’m off to review today’s race card and meet with my stewards. Good day to you, my lord.”
He bowed smartly and marched off with as much spring in his step as a matchmaker who had spotted an undefended ducal bachelor among the potted palms at Almack’s.
* * *
I folded Tenneby’s list into an inside pocket of my riding jacket and would have made straight for my rooms but for an odd figure in a Bath chair parked at a corner of the terrace. He sat facing the park, unmoving, a wizened little fellow of venerable mien. His attire was at least twenty years out of fashion—brocade coat, lavishly embroidered waistcoat, pale silk hose. His white hair was queued back, and the hat on the balustrade before him was a black tricorn.
The voice in my head warned me that the elderly could be punctilious about etiquette, but this was an informal race meet. High sticklers need not apply.
“Lord Temmington.” I bowed before the old fellow. “Lord Julian Caldicott, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He peered up at me with that twisting angle of the neck common to chickens and the aged. “Waltham’s youngest boy, ain’t ye? The old duke, that is. You’re supposed to be a sensible sort. Survived the war, didn’t ye? What the hell are ye doing at Clary’s little horse party? Damnedest nonsense you ever did see, though some of the fillies are quite fetching.”
I did not know if he referred to horses or women, but presumed to take the seat beside his. Children and the elderly were both acutely observant, of necessity. I assumed horses and dogs were, too, but I hadn’t the luxury of interviewing them.
“My lord considers this race meeting nonsense, and yet, it’s your larders providing the feasts, your stables housing the runners. Why agree to host such an expensive gathering when your nephew assures me that the earldom might soon be in want of coin?”
The earl said nothing for a moment, then turned stiffly in his seat and gestured to a footman lurking in the shade of a balcony.
“The lad and I will have a tray out here, Jones, and see that the food arrives hot.”
“Very good, my lord.” The footman bowed and departed.
“If they’re Welsh, they’re Jones,” the earl said. “Scots are all MacDonalds—my first countess was a MacDonald—and the English ones are Millers. Same goes for the maids. My niece says I’m daft, but the staff answers when summoned.”
“Just as all coachmen are John Coachman?”
“Precisely, and Evvie wouldn’t dare tell Society that’s a daft practice, would she? How is your mother? Quite a looker, if I recall. Too young for me, but nobody’s fool. Always an attractive quality in a lady.”
“Her Grace is thriving. She has a grandson to dote on now.” I took a risk disclosing that much.
“Lord Harry’s get,” the old man said, nodding. “You’re doing the right thing by the lad and by his father’s memory. A throwback, was Lord Harry. He would have had an easier time of it in my day. We didn’t set as much store by decorum and consequence. A fellow could get on if he was smart and hardworking, and his children could do better than he did. Nowadays, we pretend money stinks if it was got by trade, and heaven help our Evvie. Neither title nor fortune—yet—and she’s no great beauty.”
“No fortune at all?”
“I’ve done what I could for her, but it’s less than I’d wish. Her papa’s funds were running out as Evelyn came of age. Clary will look after her portion conscientiously, but…” He trailed off as the footman reappeared and set a heaping tray on the balustrade.
“Shall I pour out, my lord?” he asked.
“Go back to napping in the shade. All these guests doubtless have you lot run off your feet.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The morning was sunny and mild rather than hot. Another lovely spring day, and perfect weather for running a race. The park before us glowed with the vibrant green unique to early spring, which raised the question of how many more such mornings the earl would see.
His clothing, while clean and exquisitely fashioned, hung loosely on his gaunt frame, and his cheeks were sunken. I could yet see a resemblance to Tenneby in the eyes and chin and hear an echo of Tenneby’s speech in the earl’s words.
“Make yourself useful, boy.”
I surveyed the tray. “Tea or chocolate?”
“Damned Jones. He thinks to fatten me up with the chocolate and rum buns. I’d best have the chocolate, or he’ll give me wounded looks that would shame an angel. The porridge is for me.”
I passed over a bowl and spoon, the porridge having been fortified with melted butter, honey, sugar, and grated apple, the whole topped with a dollop of whipped cream, a sprinkling of crushed walnuts, and a dash of cinnamon.
The cook at least, abetted by the footman, was determined to take excellent care of the old boy. “Tell me about the race meet, my lord. I’ve never been to a private gathering of this nature.”
“It’s like Mayfair with a mane and a tail. The talk is all of breeding, conformation, earnings, and progeny, but the subject is horses rather than heiresses, honorables, or heirs. Damned lot of nonsense, but it’s diverting if you approach it in the right spirit.”
“Does Tenneby approach it in the right spirit?” I set the earl’s chocolate on the balustrade. “Best take a few bites of that porridge before it gets cold, sir. The Welsh guard has us under surveillance.”
“Huh.” The earl spooned up some breakfast. “Needs more honey. You ask about Clary and his approach to racing. He has the right spirit—horses and staff first, everything else comes after—but he’s the odd man out. Never thought to hold a title, expected to inherit a thriving business, but peace has been awful for business, so they tell me. The title’s bankrupt. Was when I inherited it, and selling off tenancies only goes so far.”
“We’re at the forlorn hope stage?”
I sipped my tea when what I wanted was a cool tankard of cider or lemonade. The very air was dry, but because it wasn’t also hot, the low humidity was comfortable.
“Forlorn hope indeed. Clary suggested this race-meet notion, and at first I was appalled. You never saw such a crowd for emptying a man’s cellars as the racing enthusiasts. Sailors are teetotalers by comparison, and that’s nothing compared to what it costs to host the horseflesh.”
I made myself a sandwich of cheese omelet and ham on toast. “You know a lot about this.”
“Clary comes by the horse madness honestly. The Tennebys have always been great equestrians. I took an interest in horse racing back in the day.”
“Your grandson was cavalry,” I said, then wished the words back. His grandson was cavalry no more.
“Wellington never learned how to deploy his mounted forces. He blamed them for not following orders, but when a whole column doesn’t follow the same orders, perhaps the orders are at fault. I hope Waterloo at least taught His Grace that much. Young Cranston is buried in the family plot. My countesses and his parents keep him company there. I will, too, soon.” Said with great complaisance between bites of porridge.
A lot of loss, for both Tenneby and his uncle. “My condolences, sir. Why sink a fortune into hosting this meet if funds are limited?”
The earl gazed out upon the rolling beauty of his park, set aside his porridge, and sighed. “This is what Clary can do, you see? He cannot resurrect his family’s mercantile interests, not with the title dangling two inches above his head. He’s too honest to offer for a lady simply because she has a fortune and he’s to be an earl. Too softhearted, some might say, but what sort of marriage would that be for him or the lady? He has only this estate and a few tenancies left to work with and his keen knowledge of horse racing. He’s doing what he can, and I felt honor-bound to let him try.”
“But he’s been fleeced out of a sure thing before,” I said. “Are you not setting him up to be made a fool of all over again? A bigger fool than ever?”
“Clary takes after his papa. Lutrell was the proverbial choirboy, all smiles, enjoyed his tucker, and liked by all, but Lutrell never forgot a face, could do sums in his head like a walking abacus, and could turn gossip at the club into sound business with more discernment than any man I’ve known. He warned us all that peace would be the ruin of the City. My second countess called Lutrell a pleasant plodder, and he was that, but he was also hardworking, careful, and thorough. Clary could pull off some upsets, my lord. He knows the pedigrees. He knows the horses. Give him a fair race, and he and his runners are the equal of any of these peacocks.”
“And if he loses? What of all the Joneses, MacDonalds, and Millers? What of Miss Evelyn and yourself? Visiting with your countesses will be a more complicated undertaking when some cit has rented this place for the next twenty years, especially when his payments don’t cover the mortgage.”
My questions were rude, given that Temmington was my elder and my host of record.
He sent me a sidewise glance. “Clary told you the family finances were in poor health. I made sure he would, and he keeps his promises. That isn’t your fault, young man. You keep the racing aboveboard, and the rest will sort itself out.”
“I am only one person, my lord, and you have forgotten more about horse racing than I will ever know. A dozen contenders have brought runners to this meet, and half of them will resent me on sight. What exactly do you expect me to do when they know how to cheat, and Tenneby himself, an expert in the field who took every precaution, could not catch them at it?”
The earl took up his porridge, though it had to be cold by now. “I expect you to try , sir. You know what it is to be treated unfairly, to be cast out. What you lack in subject-matter knowledge you will make up for in diligence. Your presence alone should put the miscreants on alert, if any miscreants there are.”
I finished my tea when I wanted to stomp off in high dudgeon. I should not have come to this gathering. Tenneby’s finances were not dodgy, they were approaching disastrous. An entire household would be thrown into dun territory if the races were rigged. Tenneby’s children—assuming anybody would marry a bankrupt earl—would be laughed at behind their backs, and it would all be my fault.
I was in over my head and sinking fast. I was about to start making excuses for my inevitable failure when a tall, dark-haired man came up the terrace steps, something about his gait catching my eye.
I knew him, and before my mind could sort out from where, or who he was, my heart was telling me that I was glad to see him.
“Excuse me, my lord,” I said, rising. “I must greet that fellow. Breakfast is much appreciated.” I hurried across the terrace in time to confront the new arrival. “Devlin St. Just, you are a sight for literally sore eyes. As usual, the cavalry has left it to the last minute. Greet your host and then take a walk with me.”
* * *
Colonel Devlin St. Just was no longer the laughing, robust dispatch rider who’d galloped through hell repeatedly and relished the challenge.
He shared with me the sorrow of having lost a brother in time of war, and while he’d never been imprisoned by the French, he was serving out a sentence similar to mine in nightmares and regrets. After years of exemplary service, St. Just had taken a bad turn in the wake of the fighting at Waterloo. Details were scarce, and one did not pry.
I’d sent for him before leaving Caldicott Hall, but I’d had no idea whether he would be free to join me, off shopping in Paris, or requisitioned by his ducal father for duty in the ballrooms of Mayfair.
“What the merry hell inspired you to come here?” he asked, extending a hand.
St. Just was travel-worn, suggesting a long ride despite the early hour. His hat, his cravat, and his jacket were all creased with fine dust, and his boots were coated with it. He was nevertheless a heartwarming sight.
We shook, his grip firm without being crushing. “Damned if I know,” I replied, “but greet the earl, and…” The old fellow was no longer at his perch along the balustrade. The Welsh guard must have returned him to the garrison. The tray and its contents had already disappeared as well.
“Come for a stroll,” I said, gesturing down the steps St. Just had just climbed. “Hyperia will be very glad to see you.”
“And I will be glad to see Miss West, once I get some of the dirt of the road off my person. Her Grace tells me congratulations are in order.”
The Duchess of Moreland was not St. Just’s mother, but she was married to his ducal papa. These things truly did happen in the best of families. St. Just had a sister similarly situated, though any mention of their irregular circumstances was always quickly followed by an observation that His Grace had not yet been married or in line for the title when his wild oats had sprouted into by-blows.
The duchess had raised both children with her own brood of eight, and from everything I’d observed, the two oldest were as dear to the ducal couple as were the rest of the mob. St. Just was perhaps a little dearer, for having gone to war and come home the worse for his gallantry.
“Tenneby’s cousin was a friend,” St. Just said. “Major Cranston will long be remembered for his high spirits and low cunning. You asked me to drop by and…”
He sent a haunted look to the east.
“And any excuse to avoid Mayfair in spring deserves consideration,” I said. “Moved, seconded, and passed. Tenneby is concerned about race-fixing.”
St. Just’s dark brows rose. “You’re here in the capacity of steward? That’s occasionally been my role. I would volunteer to fill it here, except that I’m only available for the first week.”
Perhaps I could talk him into staying longer. “I am to engage in what has been called snoopery and I prefer to describe as preventive reconnaissance.”
We ambled along a crushed-shell walk, the intersections and borders of the garden adorned with pots of red, yellow, and white tulips. Tenneby’s racing colors were a cheerful combination.
“Are the stalls padlocked?” St. Just asked. “I disprove of the practice generally. It’s a recipe for tragedy if there’s a fire.”
“Not padlocked, but the runners are housed on the inner side of the stable yard, the better to be kept under observation. Each groom is looking after his string to the best of his ability, but I might have already witnessed one attempt to swap out a pair of fillies.”
I explained the imbroglio with Denton and the grays, while St. Just and I strolled the perimeter path. I was still thirsty and getting thirstier, but this impromptu conference with an expert horseman was the answer to a prayer.
“Bad business,” St. Just said, “when suspicions are aired so openly. Tenneby made a similar fuss at Epsom several years ago. Cranston was appalled, but he also said if Clary Tenneby claimed he’d been cheated, then Clary Tenneby honestly believed himself to be the victim of wrongdoing. Tenneby isn’t known for needless drama.”
“Horse racing generally is nothing but drama, or do I mistake the matter?”
St. Just and I rounded the sculpture most distant from the house, a winged Nike preparing to soar out over the park.
“Horse racing is supposed to be exciting,” St. Just said. “Honestly exciting, a fair contest, with just the right mix of predictable and unpredictable factors. Have you walked the course?”
“Rode it just this morning. Puts me in mind of Epsom and Newmarket, but it’s an oval rather than a horseshoe to allow for longer distances. Uphill out of the start, the first turn sweeps left, then downhill to the finish if the distance is less than a mile and a half, or around another circuit for the longer contests.”
“We’ll walk it,” St. Just said. “We need rain, badly, but a muddy track is nobody’s idea of ideal footing. The turf at Newmarket is as hard as weathered oak this year.”
Meaning the horses’ legs and feet would take a beating at speed. “How does one rig a horse race, St. Just?”
“Let’s sit.” He chose a bench in the shade, one that looked out over the park. “The simplest way to rig a race is to swap horses. Put a five-year-old in a contest for three-year-olds attempting an ambitious distance. The game works best if the original three-year-old was a mundane performer, and his mediocre talent is reflected in the betting odds.”
“So… three-year-old Caldicott’s Folly is given odds of ten to one. If I bet one pound, I get ten back if he wins, but it’s not Caldicott’s Folly who is put under saddle.”
“Right. It’s his bigger, faster older brother—who looks just like him—Caldicott’s Meteor. Put a hundred pounds on Meteor, and he is very likely to earn you a thousand. Be very careful to make sure any brands, hoof markings, and scars align on the two horses, and for at least one or two meetings, you have a near certain moneymaker. Never bet too much with any one party, but bet consistently, and you are likely to see a fabulous return.”
If the substitution game had been done at Epsom previously, perhaps that was the least likely scheme to be attempted again.
“What else should I look out for?”
“The reverse strategy. Be the one generous, optimistic soul who will take bets on the favorite at odds the bettors will appreciate. Everybody else offers, say, a ten percent return, because he’s the favorite and bound to win. You claim upsets happen frequently, which they do, but you also know the groom had the poor horse out galloping half the night away. The favorite loses, and you keep all the stakes from his loyal supporters.”
“Diabolical. Why aren’t the temperance leagues trying to have racing banned?”
St. Just smiled. “They will doubtless try, but who doesn’t love a hard-fought match between noble champions?” Being Devlin St. Just, he referred to the horses, rather than their riders, of course. “Wellington spent two years with a cavalry regiment early in his career. I’m sure he saw plenty of horse races during that time, with all the mischief attendant thereto. You ask where he learned the knack for tactics, and I’ll tell you—from a lot of Irish cavalrymen in the 12 th Light Dragoons.”
St. Just’s mother had been Irish. He’d translated for Gaelic-speaking infantry more than once that I recalled.
“I will keep a close eye on the betting,” I said, though I had no idea how to go about that. “What else should I be watching?”
“Fodder is always a question.” He stretched out long legs and crossed dusty boots at the ankle. “You will recall that when cavalry mounts arrived from England, we had to ship English fodder with them, because turning them out in local pastures on the Peninsula or starting them on the local feed stores made so many of them sick. We had to blend rations, start them on grass gradually, if any grass was to be had.”
Enlisted men had often complained that the army’s equine stock had been better cared for than the average foot soldier. Cavalry regiments always had dedicated veterinary surgeons, farriers, and a plethora of serjeant specialists to look after feed, saddles, weapons, and recruits. The enlisted men, in other words, had sometimes had a point.
“Then I could switch up the feed so Caldicott’s Folly got the wrong rations the night before the race?”
“Night before and morning of. Most horses will run better for having something in their bellies, though not a full meal. You could withhold feed altogether, though that’s not necessarily enough to guarantee the desired outcome. Withhold supper, though, and offer moldy feed or drugged feed in the morning, and you are likely to achieve your goal.”
God protect horses from human mischief. “Somnifera?”
“Somnifera is often used to deaden the pain of gelding a horse, but the farriers and veterinary surgeons have a whole herbal of concoctions for calming horses or agitating them.”
“Could you kill a horse with such measures?”
“Possibly, though I wouldn’t say probably. A fall can kill a horse too. Is there to be jump racing?”
A chilling thought landed in my mind: A fall could kill a rider , and somebody who’d steal twenty-eight thousand pounds and laugh at the victim wouldn’t necessarily hesitate to put human lives at risk.
“Jump racing figures more prominently on the program for next week.”
St. Just turned his face up to the sun. A handsome countenance in the black Irish tradition, with fine lines at the corners of his blue eyes and a smile that could be buccaneering or self-mocking. St. Just wasn’t smiling nearly as much as he’d smiled before Waterloo.
“Pay particular attention to the last obstacle on the course,” St. Just said. “The horses and riders are tired by the time they reach it, but the field has also been whittled down to those determined to win. In their haste to be first past the post, both jockeys and mounts can make poor decisions about whether to throw in an extra stride or take the long spot. Falls are almost expected at the last jump, and mistakes are easier to make.”
More bad news. “Tenneby claims he’s keeping fodder under lock and key. His head lad tells me the horses have been marked on the underside of the hoof with unique identifying designs. The grooms are on high alert, and if I have to sleep beside the final jump to avoid somebody tampering with it, I will. What else should I be watching?”
“You’ll want to keep an eye on the no-hopers and unknown quantities. If the meet is crooked, at least one of those will pull off a spectacular upset.”
“And in that case, anybody who backed the favorite will also lose.” Was there no end to the ways a simple horse race could be turned into a confidence trick? “I am very sorry I agreed to attend this meet, St. Just, but appreciative of your tutorial.”
“Pleased to oblige.” He rose a bit stiffly. He’d probably ridden horseback all the way out from Town, if not from the Moreland estate in Kent.
“You’re not too late for breakfast,” I said, joining him on the path that took us back to the terrace. “You should also know the winter parlor is used as an all-day buffet to save the staff having to run around the shire all day with tea trays. The first match is this afternoon. A two-mile flat race for the fillies. The purse is modest, the aim to have a gallop around the course. Tenneby is meeting with his official stewards now.”
“Ladies first, of course. Thank the benevolent powers I’m not a steward. The job is thankless at best. Let’s see what’s on offer in the winter parlor rather than subjecting the other guests to me in all my dirt.”
As we made our way through the house, I wanted to ask St. Just how he was faring. Were the nightmares abating? Were the good days outnumbering the bad? But one didn’t intrude.
“Go sparingly with the men’s punchbowl,” I said as we reached the sunny little parlor with its plethora of sporting art. “I suspect Tenneby’s distinguished guests are taking turns emptying their flasks into the concoction, with the result that it will knock you arse over tea cups before you can pour a refill.”
“My sisters perfected the art,” St. Just said, ladling himself a generous serving from the smaller punchbowl. “If the brothers protested that the brew was too strong, we were unmanly. If we failed to protest, we allowed the ladies to think they’d scored victory over us in a sneak attack.”
“What’s a brother to do?”
“Only the potted palms know the answer to that conundrum, and they haven’t survived to tell the tale. God, I’m hungry.”
I filled my own glass at the smaller punchbowl, downed the contents at one go, and poured a second helping half full. I topped up the glass with water and drank most of the contents again.
“St. Just, could somebody tamper with a horse’s water to ill effect?”
He paused in the creation of a third sandwich. “Horses are particular about their water. Unless they’re moving from place to place regularly—as coach horses or cavalry mounts do—they often won’t drink from an unfamiliar well.”
I’d known that, but hadn’t considered the consequences in a racing context. “Nobody shipped English water for English remounts to drink in Spain.”
“Of course not. Before the remounts shipped, the grooms would start dosing the water with a bit of stout, just enough to give the water a hint of that beery, malty flavor. Send along cases of the same stout with the horses, and the different water sources were adequately disguised even from the discerning palate of the equine.”
“Stout? Dark ale?”
“I’m told the idea originated in Ireland, but it makes sense. Enough stout to barely flavor the water won’t hurt the horse, and we both knew artillery sergeants who shared their ale with the mules.”
Indeed, we had. “Then I’m to watch the fodder, the fences, the water, the gear, the individual grooms, the betting, and each runner in every contest? What are the stewards doing?”
He considered his sandwich. “The same, I’m sure. But don’t make the mistake of assuming the stewards are honest. Have you spies in the stable?”
I added crooked stewards to my list of responsibilities. “One pair of eyes—my tiger. He’s good at not being noticed while noticing everything. I trust Tenneby’s man Woglemuth.”
“You can trust my groom, Piggott, but for the most part, trust only your instincts and the horses.”
I knew exactly what St. Just meant. Horses were honest. They could not fake a bellyache, nervousness, or lethargy. They would not look over the odds and decide whether to win or lose based on their purses.
As for my instincts… They were telling me to develop a pressing need to quit the premises before the first race had been run. How I wish I had listened to those instincts much sooner than I did.