Fortunate Wager (5 page)

It gave him a morbid satisfaction when Mrs Fortune’s At Home proved exactly as he had prophesied. The room itself was not quite in the newest fashion, overly gilded, and chilly to boot. Giles, naturally, charmed his way into the circle of ladies by the fire. Alex, after nodding glacially and giving his hostess no encouragement when she presented him to Caroline’s
empty-headed
younger sister – who wasn’t even out for goodness sake! – decided with no enthusiasm whatsoever that his duty lay in the direction of Fortune Senior and his cronies. The man was a gentleman trainer, after all. Alex would never have a better opportunity to get into conversation with him. And then to steer that conversation towards the race course.

Hoping her hospitality to Papa’s colleagues’ daughters would prevent Mama from finding yet another elderly widower for her to make herself agreeable to, Caroline watched Lord Rothwell out of the corner of her eye as she kept up a flow of inconsequential chatter. He was doing it again! Why did he come to these gatherings, only to be bored? That he was bored she knew full well, even though he was listening to her father with every appearance of interest. He had a tiny little trick of twitching his shoulders inside his coat as if he were longing to be off, but was constrained by politeness to stay. It was a puzzle.
Nothing Caroline had seen of Lord Alexander Rothwell before the assembly inclined her to the belief that he put manners before his own comfort. And yet it was a full forty minutes before he eased himself away. By that time, Caroline had been twice round the circle of young ladies and chaperons, had detached her agreeably flustered sister Selina from Giles d’Arblay and had managed, under the guise of offering him tea and cake, to fit in a very informative chat with the manager of the bank where the racing account resided. Now she crossed to Lord Rothwell as he sought to make his escape. It was ill done in her, no doubt, but he piqued her curiosity considerably.

‘Would you care for tea, my lord? Or coffee? I can fetch it over so you do not need to run the gamut of the tray.’

‘No,’ he said, with more force than politeness. ‘I can think of nothing I would like less than tea at this moment.’

Goodness, he really had been bored. How intriguing. ‘I am sure that’s not true,’ said Caroline.

‘I do not wish for tea,’ he repeated through set lips.

‘That I comprehended. I only meant there must be many things you would like less than tea. Worms, for instance. I used to have
such
a penchant for worms when I was younger, but whenever I was summoned to Mama’s sitting room and brought a handful to show her and her guests, they were not at all appreciative. Eventually she stopped sending for me. Honoria was far more tractable.’

The corner of his mouth relaxed. ‘Miss Caro, you are a hoyden.’

The pit of her stomach did a tumbler’s flip. ‘Did I give you permission to address me thus?’ she asked, feeling her face heat.

Horror flashed across his face as he realized his unguarded familiarity. ‘I beg your pardon. I cannot imagine how I came to … I fear I must have been conversing too freely with your brother.’

Caroline pushed down the unwelcome flutterings in her breast. ‘It is of no import. As a penance, if you are determined to go, may I request you take your friend with you? His
conversation is a little too polished for us country-reared girls.’

A tiny frown. ‘You do not like Giles?’

‘I am sure he is all the crack. It is simply that we are, on the whole, not used to London manners.’

Her companion glanced across at the very moment Selina raised her eyes to Mr d’Arblay’s laughing profile. Her heightened colour filled in what Caroline had left unsaid. ‘It seems I must apologize again,’ he said. He crossed the room and within a very few minutes he and his friend had left.

‘My dear,’ said her mother in a voice full of meaning, ‘here is Mr Anstruther wanting tea. Would you fetch him a cup and keep him company a while?’

Caroline turned. Mr Anstruther was florid, barely literate and fifty-five if he was a day. ‘Certainly,’ she said, and when they were settled on the bench, confided, ‘I am reading Mr Pope’s
The Dunciad
at the moment. Now do give me your opinion of the verses. I long for a nice deep discussion about them….’

‘A most amusing afternoon. Did you learn anything?’ asked Giles as they strolled away from Fortune House in the direction of the High Street. He tipped his hat to a comely nursemaid shepherding a line of children. The nursemaid blushed and giggled.

Alex was still smarting from Caroline Fortune’s reproof. ‘I learnt that you are not safe outside the confines of your own circle.’

Giles smoothed down the sleeves of his coat. ‘Nonsense. I tell every lady I meet that my home is a ruined castle with insufficient income to make it habitable. If they still insist on throwing themselves at me, it is their own lookout.’

‘The average very young lady imagines ruined castles are romantic, and that all you need to live on is love. It is unkind of you to trifle with their emotions, Giles.’

‘Ho! I don’t notice you worrying overmuch about breaking would-be amours’ hearts when you dish out your famous
set-downs
.’

‘
Their
affections are brought on by a perusal of Debrett’s Peerage: I do not believe I have ever raised a lady’s expectations myself.’

‘Then how do you claim to know so much about their sensibilities?’

Alex halted incredulously. ‘Good God, Giles, is it possible you have forgotten my sister’s appalling escapade last autumn?’

Giles looked back, puzzled. Then his face cleared. ‘Oh, that. But it came off all right. Lizzy’s safely married to Marshall and t’other fellow vanished from society overnight.’

‘And scandal only averted due to Sally Jersey happening on Lizzy in the George at Stamford and claiming she was with her the whole time!’ He resumed his progress towards the White Hart. ‘Which is why I am kicking my heels here. Do you suppose if I penned her a description of a race-meeting, she would give up expecting me to pinpoint anything shady? Quite apart from the crowds and the jostle around the betting posts, it is rank impossible to keep tabs on which rider is talking to which ruffian.’

‘Exactly what I have been saying! And you’re missing all the fun by doing so. Easier by far to reckon up who’s collecting winnings next day.’

Alex eyed his friend’s ingenuous expression. ‘Which would be Harry Fortune, I take it?’ he said drily.

‘Did I say so?’

‘As it happens, I
could
bear to know more about one of his riders and where else he works. I thought I had him this morning but he gave me the slip.’

‘Is that why you were so ill-tempered at breakfast? I thought it was the dreadful supper last night. Nothing simpler. Get one of the grooms to tail him.’

‘As I said before, I have no wish for anyone else to know our business. One loose word in the wrong ears and it will all be for naught.’

Giles shrugged. ‘Your obligation, your decision. I prefer to make life easy.’

‘This
is
easy. I shall simply get to Penfold Lodge earlier still tomorrow. See which direction he arrives from and work backwards from there if I lose him again.’

Giles looked frankly astonished. ‘Good Lord, Alex, I had no notion that life with a conscience entailed such sacrifices. I shall think of you on your vigil whilst I am cosily tucked up in bed.’

Friday. Caroline came awake in the near-darkness and listened to the patter of rain on her window. She had to shin very carefully indeed down the wet ivy, and then skirt around the paddocks so as not to leave betraying tracks in the grass. It was as well she was being circumspect. As she approached the back of the Penfold Lodge stable-block, her eyes took in an
out-of-place
shadow. There seemed to be something mounded against the wall. How peculiar. What could it be? As she crept forward warily, the mound stirred, making her heart race with alarm. The shadow took on form and shape: it was a man, slumped and doubled over, his clothes when she touched him gingerly soaked completely through with rain. It must be one of the hands, she supposed, passed out with too much liquor. Flood would have something to say about that! Yet, still she hesitated. Something was not quite right. The sodden jacket had felt as if it was made from superfine, not working-man’s cloth. And though Caroline was in no doubt that Harry had had his share of sleeping off excessive libations in ditches and other out-of-the-way places, there was enough definition in the shadows to see that this man had straight, dark hair, not close-curled red.

Then who was he? Caroline crouched and took a firmer grip to lift him clear of the rough stone wall. As she twisted him to peer at his face, her fingers met a thick stickiness. Blood! She recoiled instinctively. The man groaned. Caroline dropped him in panic and ran for Flood. She heard his head meet the cobbles as she skidded across the slippery yard.

Flood’s opinion when told of the injured man in a barely coherent stammer was that if the fellow didn’t have concussion before, he certainly would have now and all to the good if so. ‘If
he’s not one of ours, it’ll serve to keep him quiet until we get him to the roadside,’ he said. ‘Rogues falling out, I don’t doubt – and we don’t want that sort found on our land.’

Caroline heartily concurred. She grasped the shoulders of the man’s jacket ready to drag him towards the archway. The sudden motion, however, caused him to heave; she only just managed to turn his head away from her clothing before he cast up his accounts. ‘Devil take me for a lummox,’ he slurred. Caroline gave a small cry, her heart careering wildly, and dropped him again.

‘That’s it,’ approved Flood as the unfortunate chap’s head once more found the cobbles. ‘Keep the skulking varmint under.’

‘He isn’t a skulking varmint,’ hissed Caroline in alarm, all her nerves jumping from this new discovery. ‘It is Lord Rothwell! I recognized his voice. We cannot leave
him
in the gutter.’ No wonder the cloth of his jacket had been so fine. But what was he doing here?

Flood whistled, his face troubled in the shadows. ‘Happen you’re right, lass. Robbery, I suppose. Best put him in an empty stall. I’ll go for the doctor and you just keep tapping his head against the ground until I get back.’

‘Flood!’

But the felled man was heaving again and it was as much as they could do to haul him inside once he had finished. The effort certainly exhausted his lordship. He lay sprawled and comatose on the ground, only the rasp of his breath indicating that he still lived.

‘I suppose it is at least dry in here,’ muttered Caroline worriedly as Flood left. She gnawed her lip and sank to the floor of the stable to wait. She was horribly nervous, her pulse rate far higher than normal, but the familiar, musky scent in here comforted her as it had done her whole life. Flood had doused the lamp and she heard the horses moving in the darkness. She settled a little, wishing with all her heart that she was on one of them, riding towards the heath rather than waiting here next to an unconscious, badly injured gentleman.

Whatever had Lord Rothwell been doing in their yard? That he had been assaulted – presumably for gain – seemed clear, but why would a common assailant have been here in the first place? Or had he followed his victim and dragged him up from the road after coshing him? What would be the point? It was nonsensical. Caroline’s brain, usually sharp and analytical, was in danger of overheating with so many questions. Lord Rothwell stirred, his head shifting restlessly on the hard-packed ground.

Instantly the timbre of Caroline’s fears took on a new direction. Dirt in the wound could be fatal. She knew that from Bertrand. Where was Flood? Why weren’t any of the
stable-hands
awake yet? Taking a deep breath, she inched sideways and eased Lord Rothwell’s head into her lap, the better to steady it. His skin was clammy and his clothes were wet through. She ought to at least ease his soaking shirt away from his skin and slide her own muffler around his neck and down next to his chest if she could. As she essayed this tricky task, she wondered anew why he had not been wearing a greatcoat against the rain. Had he perhaps run mad? He had seemed sane enough the previous day. She could just make out an ugly area of deeper shadow on his temple. If she had only thought for two seconds, she could have sent Flood for water first so she could clean the gash. Except, of course, she wouldn’t have been able to see.

Then Lord Rothwell spoke, and Caroline – remembering with a start that she was dressed in male clothing – was glad it was dark. ‘Nanny?’ he said querulously.

‘Hush,’ said Caroline. ‘Hush and wait for the doctor.’

‘It was no one’s fault,’ he said. ‘The bridge just broke. It was no one’s fault.’

Caroline’s heart skittered harder than ever. Dear heaven, he was reverting to childhood! What ever damage had she done dropping him so many times? ‘Yes, it was an accident,’ she said hastily. ‘Do lie still, my lord.’

She saw his eyes fly open in alarm. ‘My lord? Is Papa here?’

‘No, no, he’s gone,’ she said, even more hastily. ‘Lie still, Alexander. Go to sleep. Wait for the doctor.’

‘Nice Nanny,’ he said, and pushed himself further against her belly and her thigh.

A strange sensation surged through Caroline’s body. She could hear her heart pounding and had to force herself to breathe deeply and calmly. ‘Nice Alexander,’ she replied.

Incongruously, he giggled. ‘You always say that.’ Then he sighed and she knew he’d fallen asleep.

Caroline continued to take long breaths. How had she known what to say? Had she pulled the right response from his thoughts, the same way she often knew what was troubling a horse? She stifled a near-hysterical laugh, thinking Lord Rothwell in his right mind would be highly offended at being compared to a horse. And then she wondered at herself again. Because tucking her scarf around his neck and cradling him like this in the darkness, it was already quite difficult to think of him as Lord Rothwell. He was Alexander who had loved his nurse and who’d got into childhood scrapes and who had never let anyone else take the blame. An honourable child.