Page 19 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)

A GENTLEMAN OF QUESTIONABLE JUDGMENT—EXCERPT

Chapter One

“In spring,” Clarence Tenneby said, “a young man’s thoughts turn to horse racing. You know how it is, my lord. The grass is greener, the breeze freshens, and one longs to feel the very earth shake with the pounding hooves of a dozen eager steeds galloping for the finish line. The crowds roar their enthusiasm for favorites and forlorn hopes alike, and everybody has a fine time.”

Tenneby beamed at an elegant bay filly as if she were the belle of ball, not the belle of Caldicott Hall’s horse barn. He fished a quarter apple from a pocket and fed the beast a treat without asking my permission. Matilda was rising four, and she’d started her training in harness the previous summer, then moved on to working under saddle. She was a favorite with the grooms and a hopeless flirt when it came to apples.

“Do say you’ll join us, Lord Julian,” Tenneby went on, ambling down the barn aisle. “From what I heard last year, you could do with some fresh air and sunshine.”

A year ago, I’d still been very much recovering from an ill-advised outing to Waterloo. I’d had no business struggling back into uniform to join that battle, but one did not ignore the commands of duty and conscience.

One longed to ignore Clarence Tenneby, with his cherubic, beamish features, guileless blue eyes, and red locks styled a la Brutus. Based on what little I knew of him, Tenneby had been the boy last picked to join the schoolyard teams and the first to be pranked. He’d borne it all good-naturedly, according to the reports from those in his form. Through the vagaries of inheritance and fate, he was now in line for an earldom.

More than one younger son was likely regretting his treatment of Tenneby all those years ago.

“I appreciate the invitation, Tenneby, truly I do, but spring is a busy time on any country estate and Caldicott Hall is no exception. With His Grace traveling on the Continent, I am expected to keep a hand in here myself.” More to the point, after recently enduring more than a fortnight in Hampshire, I looked forward to spending the next weeks and months at home . London was in the midst of its annual social whirl, while I thrived on the peace and quiet of the countryside.

“One must keep a hand in, of course,” Tenneby said, pausing outside the stall of my personal mount, Atlas, “but ploughing is nearly complete and it’s too soon for haying. Do say you’ll nip along to Berkshire and join us.”

The only place I wanted to nip along to was the Hall’s spacious, peaceful library, where I could pen my next epistle to my darling Hyperia.

“I must regretfully decline,” I said, as Atlas hung his dark head over the half door of his stall. “Hello, Chief Resident Layabout.” I held out a hand, which he delicately sniffed before turning a curious eye on Tenneby.

“The famous Atlas, I take it. Dalhousie was much taken with him. Elegance and power in equal generous measures, according to the marquess. A shame the beast was gelded.”

My sojourn to Hampshire had been at the request of the Marquess of Dalhousie. At some point in my visit to Dalhousie Manor, his lordship had mentioned Tenneby. The recollection roused in me a sense of vague unease but then, my experiences in uniform had left me suspicious by nature.

“This is indeed Atlas.” I scratched a hairy ear. “Bought him on the Peninsula. Iberian sire, draft dam. Sweet natured, exquisitely trained. Unbelievable stamina, and will beggar his dignity for a carrot.” My horse was dear to me, and if that added to my reputation as an eccentric, so be it. I wore blue tinted spectacles when out of doors to protect my weak eyes from bright sunshine, and my past included a dubious period of captivity in French hands.

The unkindest of the gossips labeled me a traitor, which I was not, but those who’d called me half-unhinged by my ordeal were sadly close to the mark. With time, the support of my familiars, and concerted effort on my part, I now estimated myself to be between one quarter and one-eighth unhinged.

On good days, I presented as absolutely sound, and I had been having a notably good day before Tenneby’s phaeton had come tooling up to the Hall’s front door.

“Dalhousie said you let him ride Atlas.” Tenneby produced another apple quarter, and Atlas turned a limpid gaze on the new object of all his affections. “I was and am most envious. We don’t import enough Iberian bloodstock, in my opinion. That quality of hidden fire is under-appreciated hereabouts. Back when Good King Hal married Catherine of Aragon, we brought in Iberian horses by the boatload, didn’t we? Now we must have our Thoroughbreds, and I am foremost among the breed’s admirers. Why hide the fire when you can send it blazing around a race course, eh?”

Lest Tenneby start regaling me with bloodlines and turf tales, I led my guest to the next stall. That we were wandering the stable aisle as opposed to gracing the formal parlor was only to be expected. Tenneby was horse mad, and more specifically a member of the turf fraternity—the subset of the horse mad throng devoted passionately to racing. When any other guest would have asked for a tour of the portrait gallery, Tenneby had begged to see the stables.

On a pretty spring day, I was willing to oblige him, and yet his impromptu call also struck me as odd. I’d been two years ahead of him at school, he’d not served in uniform. We were hardly loyal correspondents. He, along with half the peerage, had condoled me by post on the death of the previous Duke of Waltham, my late father.

And now, years later, here was Tenneby, unannounced and offering invitations to a private race meeting in Berkshire. Most odd. I was not on many guest lists and much preferred it that way.

“Surely you can spare me a few days, my lord? All the best people will be there. Berkshire is a quick hop out from Town, much easier to get to than Newmarket, you’ll agree.”

The distance was about the same in either direction. Newmarket lay to the east of London, in the direction of Suffolk, while Tenneby’s destination lay to the west, a day’s journey of 65 miles or so by coach, if weather and roads cooperated.

“Tenneby, I am flattered, truly, but what you call all the best people are in general parties I would rather avoid. As far as many of them are concerned, I am responsible for Lord Harry’s death, if not for Napoleon’s entire occupation of Spain. I keep myself to myself as best I can, and we’re all much happier that way.”

Mention of my late brother was a bit unsporting, even ruthless, as Harry himself had occasionally been ruthless.

A glint of mulishness flashed in Tenneby’s eyes. “I suspected you’d be reluctant, but how will you ever live down the gossip if you simply hide in the country? That just makes you look more guilty. His lordship died while loyally serving his country, and no more need be said on the matter.”

Apparently only blunt speech would do. “I don’t have anything to prove to those people, Tenneby, and I hope you don’t either.”

He studied the grey gelding lipping at his hay in the loose box before us. “So you would think, what with me being Uncle Temmie’s heir and all, but that has only made the whispers worse.”

I knew I would regret asking. Knew it, knew it, and knew it again. “What whispers?”

“Nice quarters on that one. Perfect shoulder angle. He was likely a grand jumper in his day. Dalhousie didn’t tell you?”

The grey had indeed been a grand jumper, one of Harry’s winnings at the card table. I hadn’t much use for the gelding myself, but my brother Arthur, the current duke wouldn’t part with him.

“Dalhousie had much on his mind when I visited him in Hampshire.” The marquess had been pre-occupied by feuding family and multiple murder attempts, to hear him tell it.

“He didn’t mention that I was robbed of victory at Epsom several years past?”

That inkling of suspicion I’d been ignoring flared into a frisson of foreboding. “Dalhousie referred in passing to race results that weren’t what you’d hoped for.” Tenneby had refused to pay a marker for 1000 pounds owed to Dalhousie as a result of Tenneby’s horse losing. Perhaps it was 1000 guineas. The turf set bought and sold horses in guineas rather than pounds, for reason unknown to saner mortals.

“A rigged race, my lord. My colt, Excalibur, should have romped away with the purse, but he barely staggered past the finish line. Poor lad should have won the day, and the shame of it nearly killed him.”

Horses did not die of shame—wise creatures—but I nearly had. Shame, sorrow, melancholia, and exhaustion of the spirit. That experience stopped me from dismissing Tenneby’s indignation out of hand, because surely the horse’s owner had felt profoundly humiliated.

“Dalhousie offered no particulars.” I did recall that Tenneby refused to pay the wagered amount, because he was that convinced the race had been thrown.

“Decent of him,” Tenneby said. “The truth is, I made fool of myself, demanding a re-match, accusing grooms, jockeys, and stewards of every imaginable offense. They all made allowances—up to a point—but nobody took me seriously. People don’t. Take me seriously. Even when I’m the earl, they won’t. They wouldn’t if I were made king. I’m turf mad, a bumbler, though I do run an occasional winner. Blind hogs and acorns. You’ve doubtless heard the talk.”

The grey sent us a sidewise look and took another bite of his hay.

I needed to stop Tenneby before he leaped the next figurative fence. “I do not hear the talk. I mind my own patch, and ignore those who seek only to gossip. I suggest you do the same. We can return to the Hall by way of the yearling pasture if you’d like to see our younger stock.”

He gave me another half-glower. The self-declared bumbler well knew he was being cozened. “Tentative Tenneby, they used to call me, because I was always so deferential and unprepossessing. You try being chubby, not too bright, and a plain mister sent along to public school with baby dukes and princes. It’s not my fault Papa was rich, and he was right in the end to see me properly educated. I’m the earl’s heir now, and those baby dukes will have to take notice of me in the Lords.”

To speak of inheriting a title was ill-mannered. I made allowances because I too had inhabited the margins at public school. Arthur as the future duke and a naturally conscientious scholar, had seen smooth sailing in his academic ventures. Harry, the heir and a born charmer, had fared easily while earning mediocre marks.

Along I came, Lord Julian, nicknamed Extra in reference to being an extra spare. I was by turns engrossed by languages and indifferent to philosophy, keen on natural history, and disdainful of oratory. Headmaster had despaired of my wasted potential, I’d despaired of sunny matutinal eternities endured in musty classrooms.

“Tenneby, we are no longer schoolboys. Let the past go.” I headed out of the barn into the bright mid-day air. I got a stab of agony in the eyeballs for my haste, and quickly donned my blue spectacles.

“You wear those because of the war,” Tenneby said. “You never minded bright light before.”

“I watched a powder wagon explode from too close a vantage point. I nearly went blind for a time.” A terrifying and humbling experience. “Now about your race meeting. I wish you every success, but I fail to see how my attendance will in any way aid your cause. Would you like some luncheon, or prefer to be on your way?”

He wasn’t in the least offended by that transparent attempt to send him packing. “Those same boys, the baby dukes and lordlings, all love the turf. One of them cheated me out of 28,000 pounds three years ago, and I want you on hand to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Say you’ll come, and I will make it worth your while.”

More desperation. Any fellow with pretensions to status did not discuss money or its near equivalents. “Tenneby, you are overset. If I were to attend the race meeting, I’d do so purely for enjoyment, not to antagonize half the peerage and their turf-obsessed heirs.”

“The best stallion England has ever seen is running in my colors, and if the ruddy earldom isn’t to be bankrupted by Christmas, that horse had better win. You disdain to help me because you don’t want to offend a lot of peacocks and high born wastrels. Your timidity will allow a scoundrel to triumph over honest sportsmen once more.”

Every officer in the British army was exhorted to ensure that his underlings felt as if the outcome of the entire war turned on their steadfast loyalty, their marksmanship, their stamina on yet another forced march. The argument was compelling and effective, but I’d ceased to be swayed by it five minutes into my first battle.

And I was not timid. “Wagering is no way to raise funds, Tenneby. Whatever else might have been said about you, you were always sensible.” Unlike me. “Antagonizing one’s social superiors is never well advised.” Though sometimes necessary, as I’d found in my various investigations.

Tenneby tromped along beside me as I made for the yearling pasture. “I am being sensible now by recruiting you to attend this meeting, my lord. With you on hand as my guest, nobody will try any underhanded business. All I ask is that Excalibur run a fair race. Given your reputation for untangling mischief, he’ll get the chance to win that he deserves.”

An appeal to vanity should have been the worst insult of all, and yet, I was tempted. The job Tenneby described was not an investigation per se—no mysteries to untangle—but rather, the prevention of mischief. I could have a look around, perhaps walk the race course of a morning or two… but no.

One former reconnaissance officer against the collective capacity of the turf crowd for getting up to tricks was bad odds indeed. Highly qualified and experience race stewards were hard put to achieve that end, and I was nobody to take on the job at a private meeting.

“Tenneby, I appreciate that you believe yourself to have been the victim of a crime for which nobody was held accountable. I grasp how that predisposes one to extra caution and to distrust of one’s fellows. You concerns are valid, but I am not the party best situated to address them I know nothing about horse racing, and care even less for the sport. Now, shall you stay to lunch, or will you take advantage of this fine weather to continue to your next destination?”

He turned and made a visual inspection of the Hall’s lovely stables, a gray granite facility in the shape of a horseshoe two stories high. I’d all but grown up in the stable yard, and when I’d first mustered out, I’d spent hours in the barn simply grooming Atlas.

I loved the Hall, and the jewel in the Caldicott domestic crown was, to me, the stable.

“You won’t come then?” Tenneby said, tapping his hat more firmly onto his head.

“I can’t see how my attendance would address the need for security that you describe.”

“So be it. I will be on my way, then, and thank you for hearing me out. Miss West will doubtless be disappointed that you declined my invitation, but she’ll rub along well enough without your escort, I’m sure. My sister knows everybody and is never at a loss for a gallant or two.”

Hyperia was attending the race meeting? My own dear Perry? Ladies did attend the public race meetings, though they were carefully kept away from the blacklegs and bookies, and from the women on hand to ply a very old trade indeed.

Tenneby caught the eye of a groom and waved an arm in a gesture that requested that his phaeton be brought around. “A pleasure to have taken the tour, my lord. That grey is going to waste, though. He’s pining for a good steeplechase, and on this, I do account myself something of an expert.”

Bother the grey. Hyperia hadn’t said a word to me about attending any race meeting. “Tenneby, when, precisely, is this race meeting and where will it be held?”