Page 23 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“Oh Lord,” Francis eventually uttered. And again a few seconds later, more quietly, “Oh Lord.” And then, compounding the issue and demonstrating that his mind wasn’t half as nonthreatening as he led everyone to believe, he cried, “How the blazes did Mr L’Esquire find out?”

“I…I’d rather not say.” Benedict blew out a long breath. “But he demonstrated last night that he has no interest in sharing his knowledge.”

Francis made a begrudging noise. “We should count our small blessings, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes.”

Strangely, the shocking news didn’t diminish Francis’s appetite. Cogitating on it, he polished off another sausage, then mopped up the juice with two fried eggs. Benedict’s stomach performed a few more miserable somersaults.

“Personally speaking, Benedict,” Francis finally pronounced through an eggy mouthful.

“I cannot possibly imagine anything remotely beguiling about ferreting about with another gentleman’s block and tackle.

Especially when, as a bloody duke, you have literally 99 percent of England’s fairer sex at your disposal. ”

He gave a slight shudder. “Be that as it may, what I suppose I’m trying to say is that whatever you choose to do in the privacy of your own bedchamber with other likeminded gentlemen is not the business of blasted Lyndon.

Nor of the lawmakers, Lord Ludham, or anyone else in the ton , for that matter. ”

A prickly heat stung at the back of Benedict’s eyes. He blinked a few times. “Thank you,” he managed.

“Don’t worry about thanking me. I haven’t done anything.

Yet .” Francis poured himself another coffee and stirred in a generous helping of sugar.

“What we really need to be focusing on is this. Now our dear Lyndon is determined to spite you and, more importantly as far as I’m concerned, create yet another bloody spurious reason as to why Lord Ludham refuses to let me marry Isabella, what are we going to do about it? ”

We . Twice, in the space of a day and a night. Maybe Benedict wasn’t as isolated as he’d always believed.

Francis pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and then refolded his arms with a defiant look.

A tiny weight lifted from the duke’s shoulders at the same time as Benedict’s love for his kind, generous brother overflowed, sufficient to fill a ballroom.

And, if he hadn’t inexplicably burst into tears, he might have told him so.

*

BENEDICT GREETED TOMMY in the library. Francis insisted on tagging along, and they entered together to find their visitor standing at the tall shelves with a book open, leafing through the pages.

In a light grey tailcoat paired with a cornflower silk cravat, Tommy was one of the most welcome and prettiest sights Benedict could recall.

Devastatingly at ease, one would never have guessed he hadn’t been born into the gentrified classes.

And if he was surprised or disappointed to see Francis bounding in after Benedict, he was careful not to show it.

“What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon, Mr L’Esquire,” said Benedict, feeling as lumpish and socially inadequate as ever. “Johnson is bringing tea.”

“I’m sure we’d all prefer a much stiffer drink,” added Francis disarmingly. “Except boring Benedict here insists on keeping a clear head.”

“It’s barely past breakfast!”

“Yes, but the most extraordinary one of my life!”

Benedict attempted to glare at him, challenging when less than an hour earlier the man had lent him his pocket square to dab at his eyes. He turned back to Tommy instead.

“Lord Francis is aware of Lyndon’s underhand dealings,” he explained, not seeing much point in dragging it out. It wasn’t as if things could become any more humiliating. “And the…ah…information he is holding over me.”

“Like a veritable sword of Damocles,” Francis supplemented. “And he’s dangling it by a single hair!”

Regarding Francis properly, Tommy seemed bemused. “ All of the information, Your Grace?” he enquired in a pleasant tone.

“He is abreast of my uh…proclivities, yes.” Benedict felt himself turning the colour of a beetroot; he was relieved the library was devoid of a mirror.

“I say!” chortled Francis. “Abreast is a rather interesting choice of words, don’t you think, Benedict? Seeing as, you know, us fellas don’t exactly have—”

“Ah, good. Here’s the tea tray,” butted in Benedict as Johnson reappeared. “Do take a seat, Mr L’Esquire. And Francis, don’t feel obliged to stay.” This last bit he added with a pointed expression, which Francis overlooked.

“You are probably wondering, Your Grace, why I’m here so soon after last night’s contretemps.” Tommy made himself comfortable on the chaise before helping himself to the milk jug. “It’s with more unpleasant news, I’m afraid.”

Oh God. “I’m not sure I can stomach any more.”

A fresh surge of ice-cold fear coursed through Benedict, only tempered by a prickling disappointment on registering that Tommy hadn’t come calling for something else.

“It seems Lord Lyndon is planning a two-pronged attack,” Tommy continued. “You may recall when we spoke at Epsom that we touched upon your stable’s recent poor form at Newmarket? The blacklegs registered unexpected heavy losses, which my man Sidney brought to my attention.”

“He has many talents,” observed Francis, not entirely without malice.

“He does indeed,” agreed Tommy coolly. “One would do well not to cross him.” He took a sip of tea. “Fortunately, he is on our side.”

“What has my stable’s poor form got to do with Lyndon?” This time, Benedict did manage to glare at Francis. “He has never shown the slightest interest in horseflesh.”

“He does, however, have an interest in blunt, if I’m not mistaken?” Tommy smiled gently, his expression soft.

With a smile like that, if he’d informed Benedict that Lyndon had blown his beloved stable sky-high with gunpowder, he’d have accepted the news with equanimity.

“And Lord Lyndon is short of it,” Tommy added.

“Not as short as he should be,” commented Francis. “We were only discussing this recently, weren’t we, Benedict? He seems to have a limitless supply of ready funds he’s drawing from somewhere. Though…oh…”

He screwed his nose up again in that way he had. Isabella must have once informed him it was endearing. “Goodness, he’s…he’s nobbling our horses, isn’t he?”

“He was ,” Tommy corrected in a careful manner, affording Francis even more attention than previously, and no wonder.

Francis had jumped to the meat of the matter much quicker than Benedict.

Perhaps because Francis was focusing his entire attention on the words spilling from Tommy’s mouth and not the mouth itself.

“You have a new stable boy, Your Grace,” Tommy continued after another sip, “who is perfectly competent, except also a bit of a rogue. He was employed by Lord Gartside, until Gartside’s hasty departure from the ton , and picked up a few bad habits.

One of which is accepting coin from people with vested interests in wishing a particular horse to run poorly. To ensure it happens.”

Benedict groaned with despair. “You’re going to inform me that Lyndon has been paying him for his talent.”

“Yes.” Tommy inclined his head. “I’m afraid so.

With hindsight, it makes perfect sense. Your brother has enjoyed a surprisingly good run of wins at my blackleg stands recently—he’s been betting heavily on the second favourite in every race in which a horse running in Ashington colours was the losing favourite. ”

“That’s why he’s so flush in the pocket,” exclaimed Francis. “Bravo for working it out, sir!” He paused, worrying his lip before regarding Tommy suspiciously. “How on earth did you?”

Tommy gave an elegant shrug. “It was all Sidney’s work. Gartside had pulled that trick on more than one occasion, and Sidney put two and two together when he strolled down to your stables to speak to Joe Jonas and spotted the lad.”

Francis raised a sceptical eyebrow. “What, and the boy kindly sketched a diagram while explaining his underhand methods over a pot of tea?”

“Sidney’s approach yields results, my lord.” A note of warning crept into Tommy’s voice. “I suggest you don’t pry too carefully.”

“It matters not how he came upon it,” stated Benedict, coming to Tommy’s defence. “That stable hand shall have his marching orders within the hour.”

“More like hobbling orders now Sidney’s had at him, I’d wager,” muttered Francis.

“Quite,” agreed Tommy.

Benedict had seen the boy a few times, a chubby lad, expertly rubbing down Cleopatra. He reminded himself to ensure Jonas spread the word to other stable masters in the ton that he was not to be trusted. “Is he poisoning them? Will my stock have lasting damage?”

“No, thankfully. He was adding a shovelful of dirty sand to their feed. Enough to upset them for a day or so but insufficient to cause any lengthy, detectable harm. He had a feeling Jonas was watching him and becoming suspicious, so he stopped.”

“If he’s stopped, then why did Pericles pull up short in the four o’clock at Ascot yesterday?” demanded Francis. “Tuffy Bannister lost five pounds! He bent my ear about it for over an hour last night after all the hoo-ha died down.”

Tommy smiled again, and despite the fresh horror of his revelations, a small corner of Benedict’s mind thrilled with the devastating effect it had on him. “Your charming brother has changed tack of late by cutting out the go-between. Now, he’s simply paying your jockeys direct to throw the race.”

“Then we must jolly well call him out!” Francis leaped up as if about to lead the charge. “Race fixing is criminal behaviour!”

Benedict’s skin heated as he and Tommy exchanged a look.

Tommy cleared his throat. “It’s a delicate situation, my lord. You see, Lord Lyndon could make similar accusations about His Grace’s…non-horse-race-related activities.”

“Ah, yes.” Francis’s skin turned a similar shade to Benedict’s. “That’s a good point and very well made, sir. So, we are at an impasse.”

He pursed his lips as a thought struck him. “Why are you being so damned helpful, Mr L’Esquire? And not once, but twice in the space of twenty-four hours? Not that His Grace and I don’t appreciate it. But what’s in it for you, apart from ensuring your blacklegs aren’t robbed?”

“Can’t a man be a helpful citizen, Francis?” asked Benedict lightly. “Without attracting suspicion?”

“Not according to Beatrice Hazard, no.” Francis fixed his narrowed gaze on Tommy. And then swung it back to Benedict, who was examining the carpet. And then back to Tommy, who was examining a cushion.

“Ah,” he said after an eternity.

Bravely, Benedict met his eye, looking as guilty as if he’d just strangled a litter of kittens.

“Um…right, ho.” Francis gave an awkward cough. “So, the jockeys. And Lyndon. What’s to be done?”