Page 38 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“Lord Lyndon ain’t going to be best pleased with young Sam Leonard if he don’t throw the race,” observed Sidney, sidling up to him.

For once, Tommy was glad not to be alone.

“I wouldn’t want to be in the lad’s shoes,” Sidney prattled on, “if he goes and wins the damned thing. He’ll be looking over his shoulder for weeks.

Not to mention having to dodge the crap Lord Lyndon will fling the way of the duke’s stables.

I wouldn’t put it past him to get someone in there with a bit of poison.

” He nodded to himself. “I reckon your duke’s high in the instep brother knows a few men in low places, don’t you? ”

“I suspect so,” agreed Tommy. “If Sam Leonard goes on and wins this wretched thing, there will be hell to pay. A point I made to the duke several times whilst visiting his lodge.”

Sidney grunted. “Need to work on yer pillow talk, Tommy. No wonder you only stayed the one night.”

Tommy’s vulgar response was cut off by Sidney’s low appreciative whistle.

“His Grace looks good in that black clobber though, don’t he?” Sidney said.

“He’s not wear— What the devil is he doing?”

A minor commotion was underway in the centre of the parade ring.

Having inspected Ganymede with utmost care, stroked his hand down the beast’s withers, even checked his hooves, the fourteenth Duke of Ashington was in the process of donning a black velvet huntsman’s cap.

With a flourish, he removed his greatcoat, carelessly handing it to a grinning Sam Leonard.

Tommy gasped sharply. “He’s…no, he can’t be.”

“What the…?” Even Sidney’s mouth hung open. “He bloody is, you know.”

“Come on,” urged Tommy. “Quick! Let’s get closer.”

He barged his way to the front rail, Sidney limping after him. Ignoring the curses in his wake, Tommy arrived just in time to hear Benedict’s rich baritone, ringing out across the assembled owners.

“Ganymede is in perfect form for today’s flat race, Sam,” he declared.

One finger at a time, he pulled off his fine kidskin gloves and tossed them into Sam Leonard’s waiting hands, exchanging them for a thicker pair of riding gloves.

“I’ve examined the turf—the going is quite excellent,” he added.

Surveying the track beyond the parade ring, he shielded his eyes with his left hand.

His right was occupied with unfastening the buttons of his emerald-green topcoat.

“So good, in fact, I am of a mind to ride him today myself.”

Every eye at the racetrack was fixed on the impromptu striptease.

“Bloody hell,” swore Tommy as a collective inhale gusted around him. Then he swore again. “The bloody, bloody…rakehell!”

As if doing nothing more than taking a stroll through his walled garden, the duke wandered over to Ganymede, and, in one fluid motion, mounted him. His mouth closed in on the horse’s ear, his lips moving as he spoke to the creature, words inaudible to the watching crowds.

“You’re my treasured turtle dove,” murmured Tommy, and a thrill ran through him.

“And you’re my prettiest stewed dumpling.” A wheezing Sidney drew alongside. “Never knew you cared so much, Tommy.” Still cackling, Sidney tugged on his arm. “When you’ve put your peepers back in yer head, take a gander over there.” He gave Tommy a nudge. “Someone ain’t too happy.”

If looks could kill, Lord Lyndon would be arrested and hung from a gibbet outside Newgate, and the fourteenth duke’s body trampled to mincemeat under seventeen hands of prime racehorse.

As it was, with his black silk shirt billowing like a sail in the breeze, Benedict and Ganymede were making their way to the start line.

His face pale as death, Lord Lyndon brandished his cane, defending his position on the front row as if his life depended on it.

His ability to afford his own breakfast tomorrow morning certainly did, if his heavy bets were any indicator.

“I’ve seen the duke race, once,” offered Sidney as they waited for the riders to assemble. “He was riding Nimbus then, his horse that won the St Leger umpteen times. Never seen anything like it. Like the wind, the pair of them. Don’t think he raced him again after that.”

“He didn’t,” said Tommy. “He retired from racing after their sixth win to give the others a fair chance.”

“Decent of him.”

Tommy wouldn’t have expected anything less from his humble lover.

“Of course, I didn’t realise back then that the bloke was your duke,” Sidney rambled on.

Tommy didn’t wish him ever to stop. It was possibly the only thing keeping him from undignified tears.

“He was the marquess of something-or-other fancy then. And I was so far back in the cheap seats, he could have had three eyes and a nose covered in festering warts for all I’d have recognised him. ”

Tommy and Sidney left the parade ring at a brisk march and moved to the finishing straight, once more elbowing racegoers aside. Sidney’s massive shoulders came in useful. As they took up position, only a narrow stretch of turf separated them from Benedict’s twin.

“Flew like a whole wild night was in pursuit of him,” continued Sidney, oblivious to Tommy’s internal chaos. Dry-mouthed, he gripped the rail, his heart no doubt beating at a similar tempo to Lord Lyndon’s, though for entirely different reasons.

Sidney rested his meaty forearms next to Tommy’s. “Or half the town’s runners, at any rate. Never seen the like before nor since.”

Lord Lyndon, now on the opposite side of the track, was still alone. Watching intently. One gloved fist covered his mouth as if trapping a scream.

The competitors formed a higgeldy, restless line, the horses pawing and whinnying in anticipation.

Benedict sat high atop Ganymede, a foot or two back, keeping clear of the melee.

His lips moved again as his hand fondled the beast’s silky ears, no doubt whispering more of the same sweet nonsense he whispered to Tommy.

As the race starter stepped up, the excited chattering crowd fell silent.

Tommy held his breath as, like a declaration of war, the starter’s pistol shot ripped through the air.

And it was, for the few that knew. Two jittery horses reared at the blast; one dug its heels in and refused to budge. The rest cantered away.

Ganymede might as well have been stone deaf for all the effect the harsh firing crack had on his nerves, and for a few moments, Tommy lost sight of both the horse and Benedict, swallowed up in the thick of the race.

“Two miles, three furlongs,” commented Sidney, squinting into the sunlight. “Mostly flat, bit of a climb in one section.”

Eighteen horses stretched away from them, galloping up a slight incline towards the first bend.

In the whirl of mud and clattering hooves, picking out Benedict’s black silks was nigh on impossible, though Tommy spotted Tuppence Tilly, the piebald mare, haring up the inside, a length ahead of the rest. He gripped the rail harder.

“Don’t fret. His Grace’ll be pacing himself. Young Tilly will weary over the last quarter. Just watch. Yer fella will come good in the last third. That Ganymede is the best stayer in the field.”

Tommy’s heart was in his mouth. He wished he had an ounce of Sidney’s confidence.

Benedict hadn’t raced in years. What if he took a tumble?

A rider had been trampled to death at Newmarket last year, his neck snapped under the weight of fifteen thoroughbreds stamping on it.

As the riders disappeared behind a copse over the far side of the track, Tommy blew out a long breath, searching the sea of faces for Lord Lyndon.

The duke’s brother remained rooted to the same spot as if cast from stone. This close, Tommy could almost smell the venom. He prayed Benedict knew what he was doing.

A rallying cheer went up as the race came back into view. Cursing he wasn’t taller, Tommy craned around the shoulders and broad chest of the man to his left.

“Can you see him?” He pawed at Sidney’s arm as if trying to scale him.

“Yes, they’re neck and neck! Come on, lad!” Sidney’s fists clenched as tightly as Tommy’s. “Yer fella and the mare, out front by a couple of lengths. The field’s thinned out. Two riderless horses. A couple of fallers, too, by the looks of things.”

But not Benedict. Thank the Lord. As the racers pelted along the back straight, the air filled with the galalop galalop of hooves.

They bore down towards the finish line, drumming louder still, the ground reverberating as if the very pit of the earth were rising.

Benedict, black as night, sat up out of the saddle, his taut, muscular frame hunched over Ganymede’s flowing mane.

Like a poised black comma, his mouth whispered in the horse’s ear, pressing them forwards, urging him on.

Tommy clutched Sidney’s arm, and his friend’s low chuckle was lost in the clamour of a thousand voices hollering. A whistle shrieked. A child screamed. Gloves, fans, pocket squares, and scarves waved madly. Feet stomped.

And Ganymede’s nose inched ahead. The piebald mare was tiring, her jockey standing out of his seat, too, the whip in his spur hand a dark, ugly blur of motion.

“Go on, my lad, go on,” bellowed Sidney. “Sock it to ’em!” And as Ganymede’s neck pulled clear, “Go onnn !”

Tommy could hardly bring himself to watch.

He certainly forgot to breathe. A whole body length separated the two front runners—daylight flashed between them as Ganymede, with the scent of victory within his grasp, pulled away, unstoppable.

The cheering crowd knew it, too, pushing Benedict onwards to the finish line.

And then, as soon as it had begun, it was all over.

The fourteenth duke crossed the line, modest as ever.

Not even raising a triumphant fist, simply easing up and cantering past the winning post like he was riding through another daisy-freckled pasture.

Like he and Ganymede were out for a hack, racing through the countryside for the sheer thrill of being alive.

Sidney mopped sweat from his brow with a filthy, chequered pocket square. “Bloody brilliant,” he declared, then beamed his big, gaping grin. “I told yer he’d do it, Tommy, and he bloody did!”

Tommy hugged him. It was that or collapse in a dead faint. They’d taken it in turns to hold each other up over the years, and today was Tommy’s. “Yes! He bloody did, Sid, he bloody did!”

With his earthy bulk and strong arms, Sidney hugged him back before gently depositing him back on the ground. “I warn you now, Tommy.” He chuckled then dropped his voice. “If His Grace loves you as much as he loves that there horse, your bum’s in for a right pummelling tonight.”

Tommy barely managed an obscene gesture, never mind a witty riposte. He still felt as if he’d run the race himself on two wobbly legs. His heart shot through with pride as he searched the crowd for Lord Lyndon. Then searched again.

“He’s buggered off,” Sidney remarked. “If he’s bet as heavily with the other blacklegs as he’s bet on ours, he’ll be five hundred quid out of pocket by the end of the afternoon. He’ll be singing for his supper.”

He’d be singing something, that was for sure. There would be no stopping him now. Singing it loud and clear and making sure the whole ton heard his voice.