Highest Stakes (2 page)

  "Indeed, it is an amazing irony! But in all truth, this stallion's value was little realized at the first. When he left our poor departed Coke's hands for Lord Godolphin's stud, he was intended as a teasing stallion, used to prepare the mares for the services of his lordship's stallion, Hobgoblin. Apparently, he fought Hobgoblin for Roxana's honors, and the unintended byproduct, Lath, was a most formidable opponent on the turf. The fleetest since Flying Childers, some say, and now this former teasing stallion is making a greater name as a sire than Hobgoblin.

  "Indeed, it may be of further interest that a son of his, called by Cade, is to run today. He is full brother to Lath and already proving as remarkable a runner. His first year at Newmarket, he won both heats of the King's Plate. His next year, he ran second only to Sedbury, a great-grandson of Colonel Byerley's Turk, another long-proven champion sire. I daresay we might yet see a match race betwixt the pair, but I should be in a veritable quandary where to lay my money on that one!"

  "How I should like to see such a race!" remarked Monsieur Le Grand.

  "If one offers a large enough purse, most anything might be arranged for the entertainment of
Le Grand Ecuyer de France
."

  The trumpet called the first race, prompting the gentlemen to return to the viewing pavilion, the elegantly appointed structure erected in Monsieur Le Grand's honor. Built to Lord Gower's specifications, the covered and partially enclosed platform, which had employed a score of laborers for nearly two full for'nights, afforded a near bird's-eye view of the field, sheltered from sun, wind, and rain. Most importantly, however, the structure provided the requisite privacy for all of his particular guests, who now congregated in anticipation of the first race.

  "As the races are set to commence," Lord Gower said, addressing his guests, "I suggest, Your Graces, lords, and gentlemen, that we take our places." He indicated the comte should be first to proceed. The French envoy was followed by nine of the most prominent and influential Tories in the British kingdom.

  Though most were well known to one another through their positions in Parliament, there was little speech outside the mundane, until the liveried footmen, garbed also to honor the French dignitary, served platters of delicacies, poured the imported French wine, and were dismissed by Lord Gower. The host took no chances in protecting the security of this meeting.

  Noting the white cockades adorning each guest's lapel or tricorn, said host raised his glass to the company. "As each of us today has both literally and figuratively committed a horse to the race"—his eyes scanned those of the group for reaction to this fitting analogy—"I solemnly propose a toast to the king across the water."

The day, which earlier promised to be sunny and brisk, had warmed with the noontime sun. The lumbering traveling coach, after battling miles of the wheel-sucking mire that barely functioned as a serviceable ingress in the best of times, finally drew near to Whittington Heath. This generously proportioned vehicle had conveyed a family of five ninety-some miles from South Yorkshire for the express purpose of the races.

  Sir Garfield Wallace, master of the household, was a most avid turf follower, but with limited success to his credit. With his son riding in the first event of the day, he would have been one of the most fervent of spectators, but his damnable equipage was once again entrenched in the blasted muck!

  The occupants of the coach fortunate to be nearest the windows espied the hundred acres punctuated with vendor booths hawking their wares of everything from mutton leg to bonnet ribbons. These were complemented by a half-dozen elegant pavilions serving as provisional banquet and concert halls.

  Farther downfield, countless grooms and jockeys frantically hustled about to ready their mounts.

  Growing edgier with each passing minute, Sir Garfield rapped impatiently on the roof, but his signal went unheeded by the coachman, who had already alighted—for the third time this day—to assess the extent of their plight.

  With increasing agitation and with much greater power than intended, Sir Garfield forced open the coach door. Leaning out to bark his orders, he lurched forward, nearly toppling into the mire, saving himself only at the last by grasping onto the top of the coach door. Although he had narrowly escaped a disastrous tumble into the muck, this unfortunate gentleman found himself suspended, one leg in the carriage and the other dangling in midair outside, with his heft balanced precariously in between.

  Charles Wallace, seated on the side opposite, moved with dispatch to aid his father, but his way was blocked by his sister, cousin, and mother, who wailed ineffectually and clutched at the elder gentleman's coat skirts.

  Charles, now half-lying over the women, called out to his father as he reached, "If you will just let loose one hand…"

  "Not another bloody word, Charles!" Sir Garfield blustered.

  Rescue for the gent appeared from an unlikely quarter, as a young officer of the King's Horse stopped to observe the spectacle. "A true predicament, upon my word!" he exclaimed with a chuckle. He deftly dismounted in reckless disregard of the six inches of mud and then tethered his horse to the coach.

  "Captain Philip Drake, at your service," he said, concealing his mirth with a flourishing bow. "Need I ask, sir, whether you desire to be inside or outside of the coach?"

  "I bloody well shan't attend the races looking like a pig come from the sty!" the portly gent retorted.

  Fighting to suppress an outright guffaw at the mental picture, the officer mastered himself enough to reply, "Then, sir, I shall do my humble best to lend my aid."

  By this time, the bemired coachman had returned from beneath the rear of the vehicle, and betwixt them, he and the officer shouldered the gentleman's significant bulk, closing the door sufficiently for his son to pull him back into the coach.

  "Such a chivalrous officer! Don't you think, Mama?" gushed a sweet and breathy voice, which immediately piqued the trooper's interest. He stepped closer to peer at the other occupants within the vehicle. To his pleasure, an angelic face did indeed complement the voice.

  Red-faced and disconcerted in his struggle for composure, the portly gentleman offered gruffly: "My gratitude for your timely intervention, Captain Drake."

  "If your desire is to attend the races, sir—"

  "Wallace. Sir Garfield Wallace," the gentleman interjected.

  "Might I suggest, Sir Garfield, that with your carriage thus entrenched, the labor of dislodging it from the mire might be greatly lessened by the removal of its occupants."

  "Indeed, sir," piped up the coachman. "'Twould be a good deal easier empty if'n we must push it out again."

  "And just how do you propose to proceed, Captain?" Sir Garfield glowered at the mud below.

  "The coachman and I might, by crossing our arms, form a chair of sorts to convey you beyond the danger, from whence you might safely proceed to the nearest pavilion. Otherwise, I fear the races may be well underway before the coach is extracted."

  "The races underway!" Sir Garfield exclaimed.

  "Is the hour as far advanced as that?" Charles Wallace inquired anxiously. "I am to ride the first race, and on a filly sure to win, you know!"

  As he glanced up at the noonday sun, the officer considered the question. "I fear they may have already commenced."

  "Hell and damnation! We must proceed to the grounds at once!"

  Charles had already alighted out of the door opposite, landing in ankle-deep mud. He remorsefully inspected his new riding boots before dashing off in the general direction of the paddocks in a desperate search of his groom and mount.

  "Curse it all!" Sir Garfield swore again. "Four years and onehundred-guineas entry fee to put my horse in this blasted race, only to miss it!"

  "Then might I suggest we conduct your remaining party thither without further delay," said Captain Drake.

  Forming the human chair, the two men strained to carry Sir Garfield the ten paces to the grassy heath. They followed with Lady Felicia, another sizeable burden, then returned for the two final and much lighter occupants.

  Reaching the coach first, Drake hoisted the seraphic beauty into his arms. Well disposed to this notion, she wrapped her own arms tightly about his neck as he carried her.

  "So very gallant, Captain Drake," she cooed while gazing dreamily into his eyes.

  "Mayhap we shall become better acquainted these two days, my lady?" he suggested.

  "One may always hope," she replied
à la coquette
. Their arrival on solid ground ended any further private discourse.

  The coachman arrived, carrying the last occupant, Charlotte Wallace, and Sir Garfield offered another thanks but, having witnessed his daughter in the officer's arms, with less enthusiasm.

  The party now safely assembled on the far side of the road, Drake bowed his departure, crossed the mucky path for the final time, and remounted. Without a backward glance, he waved down a fellow officer in the near distance and spurred his horse toward the racing paddocks.

  His every motion was followed by Beatrix's intent gaze. Robert Devington found he could barely squeeze into Charles's racing silks. He was now more than a bit worried about making the ten-stone weight for this class. Since attaining the age of twenty, his form had matured, and his added muscle had limited his rides to those assigning weight by inches or by the age of the horse. He didn't know if he would make the cutoff, reckoning now that he must outweigh the younger and slighter Charles Wallace by a good half stone.

  His second worry, if he made the weight, was that this race was sanctioned only for gentlemen jockeys. Although Robert had jockeyed in races for nearly eight years, these events had allowed grooms and hired riders. This was not such a race. He approached the weighing station with pounding heart.

  "Name?" inquired the clerk of the scales.

  "Wall…," he began but hesitated. Charles might very well be known to these gents. Much better to take his chances with the truth.

  "Name," the clerk repeated.

  "Devington. Robert Devington. The horse is White Rose. Owner, Sir Garfield Wallace."

  "I don't show a Devington on White Rose. Charles Wallace is to be up."

  "Charles Wallace was unpredictably detained. I ride in his stead. Devington, Robert Devington," he repeated.

  "This is a sanctioned race, Mr. Devington." The clerk spoke accusingly. "No grooms allowed. Gentleman jockeys only. Unless you are a kinsman, the race is forfeit."

  "I am not in Sir Garfield's employ," Devington said, dissembling, and nonchalantly sat upon the scales. "I am betrothed to the gentleman's niece and therefore a kinsman."

  The scales swung in the balance.

  "Nine stone, twelve and one-half pounds," the attendant announced with raised brows.

  Having made the weight by the skin of his teeth, Robert slowly exhaled. He was uncertain if he was relieved or not. Had he not made weight, he would have had a valid excuse not to go through with an act he would surely live to regret.

  "Sign the register, then proceed with your mount." The clerk's voice was a no-nonsense monotone. "Next rider."

  As he signed, Devington scanned the book for the other entries in his race. Nine had been slated to run, but strangely, six were now struck from the register: Merry Andrew, Traveler, Miss Romp, Cupid, Phantom, and Othello. All good horses. Curious why they should have withdrawn, Devington continued down the list.