A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (4 page)

• • •

A light touch of the spurs and Ellie had the gelding headed at a gallop across the moors toward Exeter. Jimmy James would insist on walking Manifesto so he wouldn’t be in a lather by the time they got him to the fair. With luck, she could beat Lank to town, sell the jewels, and get to the auction before the bidding started.

At the next gate, Ellie didn’t bother to dismount and open it; she aimed the gelding straight for the center and felt his muscles bunch and release as he soared over the fence. Exaltation rose in her heart with him. A girl could do wondrous things as a boy.

Trotting down Exeter’s cobblestone streets, Ellie pulled the gelding to a stop a few doors down from a jewelry shop.

She wanted to double secure her hair under the floppy hat before entering the store, but a plump wench swept the walk nearby. Ellie waited for the girl to go inside, but each time she looked the chit stared at her and smiled.

Oh, be gone with you,
Ellie
thought, growing impatient. But the lass followed Ellie’s every move. Time ticked on.

Finally, Ellie dismounted on the far side of the gelding and peeked over his withers. The girl’s broom now swept so slowly the dust stopped rising. She fluttered her lashes at Ellie and blushed. A handkerchief fluttered to the ground. “Oh dear me,” she said, bashfully tucking her chin to her chest.

By God, she’s flirting with me!
Ellie’s face burned. Keeping the gelding between them, Ellie stuffed stray hairs under the hat, then, head down, raced into the jewelers.

“I’ve come for my mistress to sell a bit of her fancy wares,” she told a skeletal man.

He elevated a monocle to the socket of one eye “Well then, let’s see them, lad.”

Ellie dug in her pocket and produced the necklace. The shopkeeper let out a long, slow whistle. “Lord have mercy, son, that
is
a piece of finery. Do you know what your mistress is asking for them?”

“She wants a solid ten thousand pounds.”

“My, my, my. Well, those pearls are certainly worth that. When would she require payment?”

“She’ll be needing it right away.”

“We can accommodate that. The end of next week I’ll bring it to her myself.”

“Oh no, governor, that won’t do. She needs the cash today.”

The shopkeeper looked startled. “No one has ten-thousand pounds at a moment’s notice,” he said. “I doubt even the bank has that much.” He leaned close and examined her through the thick lens of the monocle. “Who did you say your mistress was?”

“I didn’t, sir. She don’t want to reveal her identity.”

“Then how am I to know you didn’t steal these pearls from her?”

“I wouldn’t steal them, sir!”

“You expect me to believe your mistress would trust a scrawny little thing like you?”

“All’s I know is she asked me to sell them … ”

“And you were going to carry all that money, how? Stuffed in your grimy pocket?”

“Ay, sir, and why not?”

“You little thief, I’ll have the runners after you!” The shopkeeper lunged to grab the pearls off the counter, but Ellie was too quick for him. She snatched them away, and darted out the door in a flash, nearly knocking the wench over.

Without bothering to put her foot in the stirrup, Ellie leaped onto the gelding. The jeweler dashed into the street screaming, “Thief, thief! Get him! Don’t let him get away!”

“Don’t harm him!” cried the wench, hurling herself in front of the jeweler.

Other shopkeepers darted into the street. They raced to catch the gelding’s bridle. Some flapped their aprons to scare the horse.

“Run, my love. Run,” the wench bellowed, hurling herself at a baker who blocked the lane. Ellie took advantage of the opening. Putting spurs to her mount, she thundered past the crowd, leaving nothing but a rain of sparks from the horse’s steel-clad hooves and the wide-eyed wench blowing kisses at the wind.

• • •

A cloud of dust mixed with the roar of men, carriage wheels, and neighing horses led Ellie to the fairgrounds. She handed off the gelding to one of the fair’s stable boys, and then plunged into the crush of hooves and rumps and sweating farmers.

In the outer rim of the auction ring, small boys held the heads of horses as men circled the beasts studying them for flaws. Vendors of sweet meats tempted the boys, calling out the names of their wares — bargaining with the ruffians for the few ha’ pennies they possessed.

Closer to the ring, the crowd tightened into a wall of humanity. Ellie squeezed between the packed tailcoats and coveralls to a spot against the rope surrounding the auction block.

A gigantic draft horse stood in the ring, its handler feeding out lead as the horse tossed its enormous head. “Thirteen. Do I hear fourteen?” barked the auctioneer. “We have fourteen. I’d like to hear fifteen. How ’bout fifteen, anyone? All right, going once, going twice, sold to the chap in the blue cap for fifteen pounds.”

A slender bay trembled as she entered the ring. “Gents, we’ve got a nice little mare here, bred from some fine stock at the Croyden stables. She’s Lillyfair out of King Solomon. We’re going to start the bidding at twenty. Twenty, do I hear twenty-five … ”

A familiar whinny rang imperiously over the auctioneer’s patter. Manifesto was up next. Jimmy James struggled to calm the horse, who circled the groom, muscles taught beneath his dappled coat. God, how she loved that horse. From his intelligent black eyes to the ovals decorating his rump, no other animal was half as beautiful. Her chest ached with pride.

The bay left the ring and Manifesto pranced in, each step loaded with such power and grace he seemed to float on air.

“Gentlemen, we have a very special animal here today: Manifesto, from the late Sebastian Albright’s stables. He’s a direct descendant of Eclipse. His dam is Epsom Oaks winner Annette and his sire was Saltram, winner of the Epsom Derby. He’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve yet to auction.”

Men surged to the ring shoving Ellie hard against the ropes. On the other side of the auction block she saw Hugh Davenport. The determined look of him made her blood boil.

“We’re going to start the bidding at five hundred pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear five hundred for this magnificent animal?”

Clasping her hands and praying, Ellie wished for something to stop the sale. A whirlwind, a cyclone, anything, but within minutes a cadre of men had the bidding up to four thousand pounds. The crowd murmured with excitement. No one had heard of a horse selling for so much.

“Do I hear four thousand fifty?” the auctioneer asked. Hugh raised his hand.

“How about four thousand one hundred?” continued the auctioneer.

Silence. No one moved. Ellie thought she’d explode. Her limbs went numb.

A smile lit Hugh’s face as the last competitor shook his head and walked away.

“We have four thousand one hundred pounds!” the auctioneer shouted triumphantly. “Going once. Going twice … ” Then Lank bullied a path through the crowd, followed by a small, pale man in immaculate dress. Waving a white gloved hand, the man raised a gold-tipped cane, bidding four thousand and two.

“Who’s that bloke?” Ellie asked a tweedy looking fellow standing next to her.

“He’s that wealthy gent what just got the fifty-thousand acres down here from the Prince Regent. Wadsworth is the name. Baron Wadsworth.”

A sheath of ice encased her heart. Lank was working for the baron, and now the worst and the worst of all were bidding against each other for her horse.

“Can I hear four thousand three?” sang the auctioneer. There were a few indignant cries. The assembly wanted local boy Hugh Davenport to win the steed.

Hugh raised his hand.

“Four thousand three, gentlemen!” the auctioneer cried. “Will you give me four thousand four?” Wadworth’s hand went up again.

A rumble of displeasure passed through the men. All eyes fixed on Hugh. Even across the ring, Ellie saw sweat bead on his brow. His hand went up. “I bid four thousand four fifty,” he said.

“If we can make it four thousand five, it will be the highest price ever paid for a horse in England,” the auctioneer urged.

As if it were a trifle, Baron Wadsworth lifted his gloved fingers. “I’ve always enjoyed breaking records.” He smiled at the crowd. No one smiled back.

Hugh closed his eyes and lifted his hand as the auctioneer sang, “Do I hear four thousand six?”

Ellie shivered.
Give me a miracle
, she prayed.
Don’t let Davenport or Wadsworth get my Manifesto, please.

But the tips of Baron Wadsworth’s fingers waggled, and with a delighted cry the auctioneer registered the bid at four thousand six hundred pounds. The crowd grumbled — a sound laced with menace.

“How about four thousand seven? Lord Davenport, are you willing to go to four thousand seven?”

Use the Fitzcarry pearls and bid!
Before Ellie knew what she was doing, her hand waved in the air.

“Eh, auctioneer!” the tweedy man yelled. “The wee lad wants to buy the horse!” A shout of laughter erupted from the crowd. Her neighbor gave Ellie a kick on the rump that sent her sprawling into the ring. She grabbed her hat just in time, but got a mouthful of dust for her trouble. Humiliated and angry, she dove back into the crowd. Men cuffed her ears, and called her “the forty-seven-hundred-pound lad.” She fought to keep her place ringside, but they pushed her back. “Go on, out with ye,” they said. “This is serious business.”

On the outskirts of the gathering, Ellie heard Hugh shout, “I bid four thousand seven!” The assembly forgot the forty-seven-hundred-pound lad and applauded like wild things.

Ellie pressed her temples, worry pounding her brain. Circling the crush of men, her mind thrummed with one question:
What can I do? What can I do?
She dove back into the throng and prayed no one would notice her.

All eyes were on Wadsworth now. Men coiled close around him. Wadsworth stumbled forward. Someone must have shoved him from behind. The baron whirled, brandishing the gold-tipped cane. He shook with a series of twitches. “How dare you!”

A threatening chuckle answered from a few farmers standing nearby. “‘E’s all spastic,” one of them said.

Lank rushed the crowd with his whip. Dangerous and resentful, the farmers stepped back.

“Going to Lord Davenport for four thousand seven hundred pounds — once, twice … ”

“Not today, Davenport,” shouted Wadsworth. “I raise my bid to four thousand eight.”

Several men near Wadsworth and Lank cursed. Lank whipped them back. “Shut it, knaves,” he snarled.

On the other side of the ring the crowd began to chant, “Keep our Devon horse! Keep our Devon horse!” Soon, everyone at the fair bellowed the chant.

“Going once! Going twice … ” Hugh’s hand shot up. The crowd gasped. Ellie shoved her way back to the ringside rope.

“I raise my bid to four thousand nine,” Hugh yelled. A tremendous roar went up. Men whooped, hollered, and tossed handkerchiefs in the air. Manifesto reared and danced at the end of his lead.

“I’ll bid four thousand nine fifty!” Wadsworth countered.

The crowd started to yell. “Leave the horse alone, rotter!” “Coming in and takin’ our Devon horse. Get out of town!”

“Five thousand pounds,” Hugh roared above the din. As word spread of the bid, the crowd hooted, laughed, and stomped their feet in joy.

A miracle,
Ellie prayed.
Please, please don’t let that rogue take Manifesto
.

“Going once, going twice … one last chance, Baron Wadsworth … ” Ellie saw Lank speaking furiously to Wadsworth. Then a farmer snatched Lank’s whip from him while others closed in. “Speakin’ on behalf of ol’ Wadsworth here,” an enormous fellow said, “he don’t want to bid no higher.”

“Sold to Lord Hugh Davenport!” the auctioneer shouted.

The crowd went crazy. Men danced the jig. They slapped each other’s backs. They hugged. Hats flew, and handkerchiefs tossed, the dust swirled and rose, thickening the air to a dirty film.

Manifesto stood trembling in the center of the ring, his eyes white-ringed with terror. He let out a heartbreaking whinny. Then Ellie felt her body move forward, duck between the ropes, and run to her horse. She snatched the lead from Jimmy James and threw herself onto Manifesto’s bare back. Digging her heels into the stallion’s sides, she pointed him straight at the ring rope. He lunged forward, and the crowd broke and parted in panic. In two strides Manifesto flew over the flimsy barrier and out onto the fairgrounds.

• • •

No one reacted at first. Ellie gripped Manifesto’s sides with her knees and tried to steer the horse toward the fairground’s gate. Normally, he would respond to shifts in her weight and a touch of the rope, but he was frightened. He shied and bolted, giving two boys time to slam shut the wrought iron barrier. A man shouted, “Grab the horse!” Another, “Drag the boy off.” The mob closed in, and then Manifesto turned his powerful haunches, kicking sharp and deadly, driving them back. He pranced through a corridor of bodies, ears back, jaws snapping. Ellie clung to his mane and prayed to stay on.

Hugh stepped from the throng and flapped his hat in Manifesto’s face, and the stallion backed toward the canvas wall of a tent. “Hup horse,” he said. “Get on.” Others took their belts and hats, herding horse and rider.

“Get back!” Ellie shouted. She struggled to force her mount toward the crowd but with only the single lead in her hand, the stallion couldn’t be managed. “Leave the horse be,” she cried, but the mass circled closer.

A man leaped at them, snatching for the halter. Manifesto reared and struck at him, then cut through the humanity, cantering flush against the tent wall. A groomsman, swinging a rope, forced the stallion through the tent entrance, and a roar of triumph rose from every throat. In the next second, a wall of men blocked all exits.

Ears flat back, Manifesto trotted between tables stacked with harness, miracle grains, and grooming supplies. More and more men pressed inside the tent, cursing and shouting directions at one another.

Hugh stepped to the fore. “Slow down now, lad. You don’t want to be accused of stealing the most expensive horse in England, do you?” He moved toward them slowly, trying not to frighten Manifesto. “Come on big horse, calm down.”