CHAPTER SEVEN
“The wine is chilled,” Hyperia said, on her knees before a wicker basket. “I could use a glass.”
We shared a blanket spread along the ridge of the racecourse hill. The viewing folly was to our backs, as was the sun, and we had a good view of the start and finish as well as the lower curves of the oval.
At lunch, Hyperia had signaled that she’d remain in the company of Wickley and several others of his ilk—young men fiercely dedicated to the pursuit of handsome, witty idleness and the collective enrichment of their tailors and bootmakers. Their table had echoed with merriment and exchanges of knowing looks.
Not long ago, I might have been one of them, or longed to be. While the spectacle they made was on one level annoying—they were just loud enough to be un-ignorable—on another, I wished them the joy of their posturing. For many of them, posturing was what they did best.
“Allow me,” I said, taking the bottle from Hyperia and making manly use of a corkscrew. I poured two glasses and took a cross-legged seat beside my darling. “To honest races.”
She gestured with her glass toward the starting line. “To honest races and to the safety of the jockeys. The race card Tenneby put together lists only horses and owners, but it’s the jockeys who are most likely to suffer a serious injury.”
I realized I had seldom seen a race card that did name the jockeys. “And it’s the jockeys, usually, who are serving as the grooms and thus doing the hard work of training gallops, mucking, feeding, poulticing, and so forth. I wish I could keep a closer eye on them, but for that, I’m relying on Atticus and St. Just’s man, Piggott. What do you think of Wickley?”
Hyperia sipped her champagne and made a fetching picture on a fine spring day. The ground was hard, true, and that would affect the horses, but amid Berkshire’s greenery, in this happy and handsome crowd, she was of a piece with the scene. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, a muslin dress printed all over with roses, and a bright red sash to match the red ribbons of her bonnet.
I wished we were merely spectators, indifferent to the races and the crowd, and intent on enjoying each other’s company.
“Lord Wickley is new to his honors,” she said, “and like Clary Tenneby, he never expected to inherit.”
“Then he’s making a hash of it, falling in with a bunch of wastrels in expensive plumage and trying to out-peacock them all. Understandable, I suppose.” Younger sons and nephews were generally safe in assuming they would not inherit. Heirs, by contrast, were permitted to trade on their expectations, and thus life should go on.
Fate occasionally made other plans—witness, my own status as heir.
Hyperia glanced across the brow of the hill to where Wickley and chums, along with a smattering of adoring belles, were again indulging in audible merriment.
“I believe you are right, Jules. Wickley is trying to live up to somebody’s ill-informed idea of how a young, bachelor earl behaves, and that path could lead to ridicule and foolishness.”
If not bankruptcy. “What of duels?” I could mention such a vulgar undertaking with Hyperia. Her brother had been known to engage in stupidities on the field of foolishness, but then, so had His Grace of Wellington.
“None yet, I gather. He’s not exactly bright, but he has enough sense to grasp that nobody respects a peer trading openly on his consequence. He may trade subtly, he may wield political power directly, but he doesn’t take seriously the deference shown him as a result of his inherited honors, especially among this crowd.”
“Not your typical Mayfair drawing room, is it?”
Further along the hilltop, a pair of banker’s sons lounged in the company of a pair of admiral’s daughters. Wickley was one of two earls at the gathering, and beside St. Just—a duke’s by-blow—sat a lady who was rumored to be the result of one of the Regent’s youthful indiscretions. Wealthy gentry was represented in abundance, while the stewards were from among the many racing enthusiasts with whom the Acres shared property lines.
“I have enjoyed the meet thus far,” Hyperia said. “If I can turn the conversation away from racing, the viewpoints are more varied than I’d find in Town and the humor just as clever but not as spiteful. What of you?”
The champagne was cool and lovely, fruity with just a touch of sweetness. Hyperia was lovely and sweet, too, but our discussion followed a narrower path than I preferred. Not quite small talk, not quite a substantive inquiry relevant to the job at hand.
“I am aware that Harry was a better fit for this gathering than I will ever be,” I said, “but I can see why he enjoyed it.”
“Do you ever forget Harry, Jules? Is he ever not on your mind, a source of comparison, guilt, and grief?” Her questions held a touch of exasperation.
“Sometimes, yes, I do, but his absence casts a long shadow, just as I’m sure both of your parents are frequently in your thoughts. Whatever else is true, Hyperia, I am glad to be here with you on this gorgeous day. I’m not in Spain, or France, or the shires while you bide in Town, and I am free to enjoy your company by the hour. My cup runneth over.”
She blinked at her glass of champagne. “Jules, when you intend to turn up all heartfelt and romantic, you should give a lady some warning.”
“Then you must dwell in a perpetual state of readiness, my dear, because we are courting, and I esteem you beyond words.” I meant what I said, but a passing bit of sincere sentiment ought not to turn Hyperia up lachrymose. When I would have inquired as to the real inspiration for her tears, a trumpet fanfare heralded the arrival of the fillies.
“They’re ever so pretty,” Hyperia said, setting her glass down and taking up a pair of field glasses. “Wickley’s colors are the purple and green. Pierpont is red and white.”
“The fellow in red, white, and yellow is riding Tenneby’s mare Maybelle. I was told not to bet on her by Tenneby’s sister.”
“I’m backing Cleopatra at Wickley’s insistence.”
“Who took your bet?” I was slightly shocked that the ladies were betting more or less openly, but that was another aspect of horse racing’s egalitarian appeal. Most gambling in Merry Olde was technically illegal, but the ladies and lords, rich and poor, old and young were all equally welcome to risk their coin on the sport of kings. No expensive membership in a fancy club required, no invitation to some noted hostess’s “charity” card party.
“St. Just took my bet, and he won’t breathe a word, don’t worry. I would tattle to his sisters if he so much as hinted that I’d been wagering with him, and his sisters would give him no peace. What else did Miss Tenneby have to say?”
The fillies—a field of seven—were reacting to the crowd on the hill and to one another’s nervousness. As girths were checked and stewards inspected equipment, one entry began propping as if to rear, while another cantered in impossibly small circles.
“Miss Tenneby bears some resentment toward Lord Pierpont,” I said. “He pretended to court her several years ago, when he was in truth just pumping her for information regarding Tenneby’s runners. The stewards need to get this race started before somebody is hurt.”
The spectators seemed to regard the confusion prior to the start as so much entertainment, but the horses—young, green, hot-blooded—were not enjoying themselves at all. By autumn, they might well be seasoned at the game, but on this spring afternoon, they were distressed and nervous.
“They’re off!” Hyperia said, putting the field glasses to her eyes. “I’ve seen faster gallops.”
So had I, suggesting that Miss Tenneby’s strategy—watch and wait, hang back, live to gallop faster another day—was popular. The field ascended the first hill at a brisk but hardly punishing pace, though they did pick up some speed on the descent that completed the first circuit. The pace increased on the second circuit, with the field spreading out across several horse lengths the second time up the hill.
The curve to the left saw the gaps close up some, and the downhill rush to the post saw the third runner back making a good try to overtake the leaders, but leaving it a few yards too late.
“Cleopatra by half a length,” I said, joining in the polite applause and occasional whoop. “Precisely as Miss Tenneby predicted.”
I’d seen no odd flashes of light from the trees to suggest a spectator where one ought not to be. The horses had all run well and consistently, no sign they’d been tampered with. The jockeys had eschewed the dirtier tricks—using one’s crop accidently on the face of an opponent or on the face of an opponent’s mount, bumping one mount into another, shoving and kicking…
The sport was truly dangerous for the anonymous men in those featherlight saddles, and yet, this first outing had been conducted as if the Code Duello for Horses had been adhered to down to the last detail.
“That went well,” Hyperia said, “particularly for Cleo’s backers.”
“Did you win a packet?”
She smirked. “Sixpence. Will you come with me to collect my winnings? The next race isn’t for an hour.”
“I will escort you to the loser and condole him on his ruin. Were you tempted to bet more?”
“No, not at all. Wickley hounded me to make what he called a truly sporting bet, but one harebrained fool in the family is enough. I do wonder when Healy will arrive.”
I would have been quite content had Healy never joined the gathering. I happened to glance over at Pierpont, who hadn’t had a runner in the field. He was looking distinctly unmerry, perhaps because his rival’s horse had won.
“Jules, please can’t you just enjoy the day?” Hyperia asked, following my gaze. “The race was honest, nobody’s horse fell, no jockey had to be carried away on a litter. It might well be as Tenneby hoped—your presence is deterring bad behavior.”
I mustered my best Venetian breakfast smile and assisted Hyperia to her feet, holding her hand a moment too long.
“I am relieved that all went well and hope you’re right that my imposing presence is sufficient to keep order in the schoolroom. You must be gracious toward St. Just. He’s probably not used to losing.”
“Wickley seems very comfortable with winning,” Hyperia said, studying the crowd around his lordship. The men were slapping his back, the women were patting his arm, and he was beaming like a schoolboy who’d taken top honors on Speech Day.
“He’s off on a good foot and probably relieved.”
“I feel sorry for him,” Hyperia said. “He mentioned something about Pierpont making his life difficult when it became apparent that the earldom would befall him. Wickley insinuated that he’d been sweet on some young lady in her first Season, but Pierpont turned her head and soured her attitude toward all other suitors. I am not missing London, Jules, I can assure you of that.”
“Did he name the young lady?”
Hyperia frowned at me. “You think it might have been Miss Tenneby? How awkward.”
Awkward, yes, and enough to inspire a competition that could reach a very dangerous finish line for both of the strutting dunderheads.
“We can hope they’ve put that behind them, at least for the nonce,” I said. “Let’s find St. Just. You are entitled to do some gloating.”
Hyperia was all pretty condescension, St. Just flirted shamelessly, and a fine time was had by all, except me.
I was certain that today’s foot-perfect horse race was intended to create a false sense of calm, a false trust in proceedings that at some point would turn up dishonorable and dangerous. I simply did not yet know the when, how, or who of the matter.
Pierpont was unhappy with the result, and both Miss Tenneby and Lord Wickley had arrived to the meet already unhappy with Pierpont, so I’d make my next moves in the courtesy twit’s direction.
* * *
“I placed a bet on Tootle Along,” Pierpont said, waiting in line for the punchbowl with me. “Not much, but a tidy sum. She traveled only a short distance to get here and had plenty of time to rest. She has Herod on both the sire and the dam sides, and she was an early foal.”
“Early?”
“May third, if you can believe it. According to Newmarket rules, all racing Thoroughbreds are born May first, though few actually are. Tootle’s breeder tries very hard to see foals dropped on the happy side of that date, and in her case, he succeeded.”
The line wasn’t moving, in part because some young lady was trying to persuade the footman serving the libation to ladle the ladies’ portion from the men’s punchbowl, while her escort—an older brother, possibly—tried to jolly her past this hoydenish behavior.
“Who bred Tootle Along?” I asked, because racing people seemed to expect such questions.
“My brother-in-law, and she’s damned fast, my lord. The jockey just waited too late to fire her up. I prefer to run mares because they are easier to keep focused on the job, and they have value in the breeding shed after their racing career is over. Colts can be fractious—I never buy them, I never run them—while the fillies grasp the essentials fairly quickly. Tootle’s jockey didn’t sort his job adequately in this case.”
That had been my initial assessment as well, but given my suspicious turn of mind, I now wondered if Tootle’s rider had been compensated to leave the final burst of speed a few strides too late.
“You expected her to win?”
“Why else would I have bet on her? Tenneby and Wickley should have both been saving their fillies for the races with bigger purses, and Toot’s owner—Sir Albertus Reardon—hasn’t schooled her much over the longer distances yet. She’s a front-runner by nature, so this shorter distance was Tootle’s chance to shine.”
The line crawled forward.
“Who has your backing for the next race?” I asked.
“I’ll keep my money in my pocket. I know my flat racing, especially the fillies, but over fences, on the longer distances, I am less certain of the runners. The jumpers will have a more difficult time with this hard footing. If I had to guess, I’d do whatever St. Just does. That man knows horses like the hostesses at Almack’s know their bachelor peers.”
Among whom Lord Pierpont did not number. “Do I detect a bit of envy directed at those peers, Pierpont?”
His air of genial bonhomie faded. “More than a bit, truth be told. My oldest brother is a prig and a fool. My own father despairs of the day when the title falls into Lord Vandyne’s hands. We mustn’t ever call him Freddie, you know. From the age of seven, he’s had the heir’s courtesy title. I can hardly stand the sight of him. Fortunately, he’s afraid of horses, so if I must cross his path, I try to do so in the company of an equine.”
Afraid of horses. Oh dear. “What of your other brothers? Are they denizens of the turf, or do their interests lie elsewhere?”
“They’re busily getting their wives with child in hopes that Vandyne’s nursery will remain empty. I’m the lone bachelor, though I have three nephews and two nieces, all of whom adore me. I’m quite fond of them too. I do envy my brothers their nurseries.”
We came another two steps closer to the punchbowls.
“I was wondering if Miss Tenneby had caught your eye. I seem to recall some old gossip to that effect.”
“Did she tell you that, or did Wickley?”
“Neither. I enjoy a full complement of sisters, Pierpont, all married, and my mother still keeps up with the Society pages. You are, after all, somewhat in the public eye by virtue of your family’s consequence.”
That bit of flattery should have earned me a rolled eye, but Pierpont merely looked annoyed. “I am a practiced flirt of necessity, but I entertain no plans at this point to take a wife. I’m sure Miss Tenneby is a lovely young lady, and we are acquainted—have been for some time—but merely acquainted. I know her brother through our racing connections far better than I know her. Ah, a serving of the good stuff for me.”
The footman obliged and turned a questioning eye on me.
“A lady’s serving, please.”
Pierpont would have ambled away, drink in hand, except that I remained at his elbow. Because I socially outranked him—by a whisker—he apparently decided he could not ignore me.
“I’m sure Miss West will want her drink,” he said. “The day isn’t exactly hot, but my God, we need rain.”
“We’re doing better to the south,” I said. “Berkshire is having a very dry spring.”
Pierpont sipped his drink and surveyed the efforts of the grooms and groundsmen to situate a flight of brush jumps on the downhill portion of the course.
“Tenneby says the well in the stable yard is going dry,” his lordship observed. “We’re not to use it for the next week, to give it a chance to recharge. That will be tedious in the extreme. The stable lads are already grumbling about having to carry buckets from the kitchen garden well.”
A well going dry was bad news indeed, the sort of thing old men recalled fifty years on and vicars mentioned in weekly prayers.
“Is Tenneby alarmed?”
Pierpont waved to a pretty young lady in a straw skimmer topped with pink silk roses. “He says that well has been unreliable for years, and they’ve been meaning to deepen it, but the opportunity to do so—this week, for example—never seems to arise when it’s convenient. That’s a lot of claptrap, if you ask me. Tenneby’s in dun territory, his uncle has been for ages, and they cannot afford to keep the place up.”
This bit of plain speaking was offered with a sidewise glance, suggesting a test of some sort. Would I fall in with bashing my host and his prospects or chide Pierpont for his rudeness? I was to choose a side, which struck me as puerile and a little sad.
I took a leaf from Harry’s book: When in doubt, stick to platitudes. “Many old and respected families are dealing with a reversal of fortune now that the Corsican is buttoned up, and Britain herself is barely paying her debts in the ordinary course. That horse racing can thrive in such precarious times is a testament to the loyalty of its supporters. I see St. Just is in need of reinforcements. If you’ll excuse me?”
I sauntered off, somewhat puzzled by the discussion. What had I learned? Pierpont had expected Tootle Along to win, and she hadn’t. His lordship denied any previous friendship with Miss Tenneby, for want of a better word. He was a bitter young man and overly focused on finances—his, his family’s, Tenneby’s. He’d bet on a favorite, but he did not bet at all unless he knew the field well.
He was shrewd—the gambit about Tenneby’s finances might well have been to distract me from Miss Tenneby’s claims—and I neither liked nor trusted him. The discussion had been an exercise in confirming a first impression rather than gaining fresh insights.
Not that productive, in other words. I collected St. Just, and we took Hyperia her drink. For her part, she had attached herself to Clarence Tenneby and all but waved me on my way.
My intended was nearly avoiding me, and I did not care for that behavior at all.
“Tenneby’s stable well is going dry,” St. Just said, watching Hyperia wrap her hand around Tenneby’s arm. “Bad timing and bad luck, that. He let the other owners know what their grooms doubtless noticed last night. Horses will be bathed at the river if it’s necessary to bathe them at all. I understand the river is at an alarmingly low level too.”
“You’re worried,” I said, though nothing in St. Just’s expression conveyed anxiety. His gaze had gone watchful, though, and I could tell he was itching to assist the jump crews with the brute labor required to set the course.
“Drought is always worrisome,” St. Just said, “but having to lug five-gallon buckets of water from the carriage house or the laundry or the kitchen gardens will be a sore imposition on tempers in the stable yard. Tenneby’s little race meeting would run more smoothly with happy grooms and softer footing.”
I strongly suspected that somebody wanted the race meeting to run anything but smoothly. “Should Cleopatra have won the first race, St. Just?”
He moved off a few paces from the sea of blankets and picnic baskets. “I don’t know. Sir Albertus’s filly was the grooms’ favorite, and she had plenty left for the finish. I wouldn’t think anything of it, but I saw Pierpont and Sir Albertus conferring at luncheon with the jockey.”
“Isn’t the owner supposed to confer with the jockey prior to the race?”
“Of course, but why include Pierpont in that conversation? The fillies don’t race again until Saturday, and you might keep an eye on Pierpont between now and then.”
In my ample spare time. “I’m also planning on having a gander at the stable yard by moonlight.” If somebody wanted to ensure a horse lost, the dodgy well had handed them a perfect opportunity to ensure that outcome. A horse taken for an outing ostensibly to enjoy a late-night drink of cool, fresh river water could easily be taken instead for a clandestine gallop with nobody the wiser.
Several excursions of that nature, and even a fit Thoroughbred would lose his edge. “I foresee a lot of naps in my immediate future.” And long nights on sentry duty in the stable yard.
“You always were a lazy sod.” St. Just winked, passed me his drink, and strode off toward the crew wrestling another brush jump into place.
* * *
“Darling sister!” Healy West made a great show of taking Hyperia’s hands, drawing her near, and kissing her on both cheeks. Never in my decades-long association with the West family had I seen such an effusive greeting for Hyperia from her brother, nor had I been so thoroughly ignored by him.
“Healy.” Hyperia smiled graciously as she disentangled her hands from his. “Wonderful to see you. I trust the journey was uneventful?”
“Slow journeys usually are. Gives one time to review the competitions’ form. Let’s find me a drink, shall we? I seem to have missed the opening contest. Such a pity.”
“The punchbowls are this way,” I said, gesturing up the hill. “You can tell us all about your runner while we find a spot to watch the next race.”
Healy was a handsome fellow with wavy brown hair, some height, and a muscular pair of shoulders. When he sneered, though, he looked about eleven years old and spoiled rotten.
“Imagine my surprise,” he said as we scaled the hill, “to find not only my sister among the guests at the Acres, but you too, Lord Julian. Do I gather that your joint attendance is on my behalf?”
I waited for Hyperia to step in, but she remained silent.
“You do not. Tenneby invited me, and of course I asked that my intended be included. Hyperia and Miss Tenneby have a prior acquaintance. When I accepted the invitation, I had no idea you’d be among the competitors.”
“Imagine my surprise,” Hyperia said softly, “when I learned that my brother the playwright had gone not to some house party where he couldn’t avoid the matchmakers, but to the Newmarket sales. Imagine my further consternation when I learned my brother is now competing in a sport in which our family has never taken an interest. Perhaps ‘amazement’ is a more accurate term.”
“You haven’t seen my colt run,” Healy retorted a tad peevishly. “He’s a wonder on four hooves.”
We collected fresh servings of punch—Healy from the men’s bowl, Hyperia and I from the ladies’—and located our blanket and basket.
“Tell us about your colt,” Hyperia said, sinking onto the blanket. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in a sandwich or two?”
I was, but I said nothing while the last two sandwiches were surrendered into Healy’s undeserving hands.
“George is bottomless,” Healy said. “He’ll run forever and jump anything. Dead sound, no vices. Will jump the moon. I’d trust you to ride him, Hyperia.”
For present purposes, the horse was expected to be all of the above. More significantly, he had to be fast.
“You named your horse after the king?” Hyperia asked, arranging her skirts. “A bit naughty of you.”
“He was named after St. George, and he’ll slay the competition. These sandwiches are dry.” Healy finished them nonetheless. “So why are you here, Julian? Harry liked the occasional race meet, but I can’t recall you indulging in such frivolity.”
“The better question,” I said, “is why you are here. For St. George’s first outing, why travel halfway across southern England for a private meet? The only races with stated purses for colts are next week, and your fellow could have joined in any number of informal meetings closer to Newmarket.”
This question had apparently occurred to Hyperia, who took up her field glasses and studied the starting line. I knew that particular angle of her chin, and slight edge to the quiet economy of her movements. She’d wanted to interrogate her brother but hadn’t dared.
Why not?
“Wickley put me onto this meeting,” Healy said. “He claimed the field was a manageable size—no vast stampedes, as so many popular races are. Good company, comfortable accommodations, a well-kept course, some decent purses.”
No penny press, no hostesses, and—Healy’s priorities had become all too easy to discern—no worried sister and her nosy fiancé to muck up any dodgy schemes or intemperate wagers.
“With such a glowing recommendation,” I said, stifling the urge to rummage in the hamper, “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive in time to compete in today’s races. Hurdles are becoming more popular, from what I understand—they are just the thing for young jumpers.”
“The welfare of the horse comes first.” Healy brushed crumbs from his fingers. “George needed the extra day lest he be taxed by the journey. St. Just is here.” Said with more dismay than surprise. “I do hope his sisters haven’t joined him.”
Hyperia opened the hamper lid and produced a tin of petits fours. She took two before passing the tin to her brother, who helped himself to three and set the tin at his side on the blanket.
“You are a plain mister, Healy,” Hyperia observed. “The daughter of a duke is unlikely to begin her search for a husband with a bachelor of your humble origins, as delightful as your company can be. That black horse is in want of manners.”
Down at the starting line, a black horse was propping and dancing around, which upset the other runners trying to form up for the start. A chestnut began squealing and kicking out behind, nearly catching another competitor in the chest with a shod hoof.
Owners and grooms milled about despite the steward’s waving them away, and Tenneby, smiling as ever, wandered amid the throng.
“Not my favorite part of a day at the races,” Hyperia said, sliding the petits fours away from her brother’s side and passing them to me.
“Nor mine.” I ate two, a vanilla and a raspberry, and Hyperia replaced the sweets in the hamper without her brother apparently having noticed our maneuvers.
“Hyperia, lend me those field glasses, won’t you?” Healy made an impatient beckoning gesture that would have cost him his finger had he tried it with my sisters.
Hyperia passed over the glasses as the stewards managed to line up the field. I counted fifteen runners, meaning some of the contestants were local talent joining the affray from their home stables. The course was narrow enough that they couldn’t all run abreast over most of it, and by the first fence, the black was two lengths in the lead.
“That’s not galloping,” I muttered. “The blighter is bolting.” The horse was in a flat panic, bucking, running, and kicking out at a blazing pace while his jockey tried in vain to pull him up. The difficulty—the danger—arose as the field approached the second fence.
“God help them,” Hyperia murmured.
“That black should never have been allowed… Rubbishing hell.”
The black had caught sight of the second fence in time to make an effort to clear the obstacle, but he only half finished the job. His front legs were over, his back legs... were not over. The rest of the field was obliged to swerve wide of the thrashing horse, which resulted in some swerving into others. Two simply chested the fence, and two others fell upon landing.
The black’s jockey, still gamely aboard, extricated his horse from the hedge and then got tossed after a prolonged spate of bucking. The horse took off—still bucking—in the direction of the finish line, which set a herd of grooms chasing after it.
“Typical,” Healy said, field glasses still glued to his nose. “The jump races are ever so much more exciting.”
“The jockey is up,” Hyperia said as that good fellow scurried to the side of the course.
I rose. “I feel a pressing need for more libation.” Also a pressing need to avert my eyes from the mayhem on the course. “My dear, can I get you more to drink?”
“I’m parched,” Healy said. “Damn, that little chestnut can jump.”
Hyperia waved me away, and I took myself to the foot of the hill and into the brick building referred to as the rubbing-down house. Within five minutes, the black horse, head hanging, sides heaving, was led into view by a slender lad who seemed to be talking to the horse as a governess would scold a naughty child.
“Told ye to get hold of yerself. Told ye them others h’ain’t got a patch on ye. Did ye listen? They’ll be sending ye to the knacker’s yard and yerself just a wee lad an’ all.”
The groom stopped at the doorway to the rubbing-down house. “If you bet on him, I’m sorry, mister, but he’s not always so high-strung. Shouldn’t have run him in such a big field.”
“What’s his name?”
“Blinken. Blink ’n’ you miss him, like, because he’s so fast. He’s a good boy, but today he just…”
“Became overly excited. Let’s walk him a bit.”
I was not in St. Just’s league as an equestrian, but I liked horses as a species. If I had to choose between guaranteeing Atlas’s happy old age and my own, the horse would win the wager. Blinken looked to me, if anything, to be ashamed. He knew he’d not performed to standards, not done what was expected.
Horses had an ingenious gift for spotting patterns. If a lamp was lit in the carriage house window a quarter hour before the grooms mustered out in the morning, then every horse would be on high alert for breakfast before a single groom had put a boot upon a step. The grooms would call it uncanny, but the horses were simply aware of the pattern—a lamp is lit, breakfast to follow, day after day.
Blinken, green though he might be, knew that a starting line was no place for tantrums.
“Who saddled him up?” I asked.
“I did, same as I always do. I’m Corrie, by the way. Joe Corrie.” The groom led his charge along the farm lane, two dusty tracks between an undulating line of brown grass. “Is Chalmers unhurt?”
“He was walking and probably cursing last I saw him. How old is Blinken?”
“Rising five. He likes to jump, especially the brush fences. Sir Albertus had high hopes for him too.”
“You’ve loosened the girth?”
“Of course. Who might ye be, sir, if I might ask?”
“Lord Julian Caldicott. I’m a guest. I own no runners and hope to die in that blessed state. My personal mount is a dark gelding named Atlas, and his groom is a lad named Atticus.”
“Seen ’em both. Handsome gelding. The lad dotes on him.” The groom circled the horse so we wandered back toward the rubbing-down house. A whoop went up from the direction of the course, and if anything, Blinken’s head hung lower.
“Let’s take his saddle off here,” I said. “The whole field will be invading the rubbing-down house.”
“I’ll never hear the end of this. Sir Albertus might sack me for it.”
“Then he’s an idiot. Were you at the starting line?”
“Nah. The stewards and their assistants do up the girths and such. Grooms and owners are to keep clear, though the owners seldom do.” He halted the horse and stroked its sweaty neck. “You just got yerself into a temper, old lad.”
I undid the overgirth and girth and slid the tiny racing saddle from the horse’s back. The saddle cloth came next.
“Look at that,” I said, pointing to brown spots on the dark blue cotton. The whole cloth was damp with sweat, but those two spots stood out to me like a full moon on a clear night.
“Wot?”
“Look closely.” I turned the cloth over and revealed two small metal devices clinging to the fabric. They resembled miniature caltrops or tacks with four prongs. “Your boy was provoked.”
“They wasn’t there when I put his saddle on.”
“I believe you. Blinken looked to be a perfect gentleman as you led him up from the stable. The mischief started when the girth was snugged up and the jockey leaped aboard.”
Corrie looked ready to weep. “Sir Albertus will sack me for sure. I suppose that’s what I deserve, lettin’ me best boy get treated like that.”
Ye gods, he was an innocent. “The sabotage might have occurred during that melee at the starting line. All it took was a hand slipped between the saddle cloth and the horse’s withers before the girth was tightened. You could not have prevented that.”
“Sir Albertus might still sack me. Damn. I like me job, and I like me horses. Blinken’s a good ’un, and I know me jumpers. He’ll get better as he grows up too.”
Blinken’s breathing had slowed, and he was looking less subdued.
“Take him down to the river, let him roll and play in the water, find him some grass to crop, and I’ll have a word with Sir Albertus.”
“Ye’ll tell him about those spikes?”
“No, and don’t you say a word either. Somebody is up to no good, and I intend to figure out who. I’ll tell Sir Albertus that I fancy a horse with some gumption, and Blinken showed himself to be fast, nimble, and fit. Sir Albertus won’t send anybody to the knacker’s yard if he thinks I’m game to buy a half-mad jumper.”
Groom and horse looked at me with equally bewildered gazes. “If you say so, milord. We’re for the river.”
I pocketed the little instruments of torture and handed over the saddle, girths, and cloth. “Say nothing, Corrie, but do keep a sharp eye out. I suspect more trouble is on the way.”
Corrie saluted with two fingers. “Mum’s the word, milord. C’mon, Blinkie. Time for yer bath.”