Highest Stakes (21 page)

"Then rode up Billy the bold Who ne'er was tried before

And shewd he came out of the mould
That could fight as well as were
For he bravely faced the foe
And fought by his father's side

When his leg with a ball was pierced through Smart money my boys he cry'd."

  All having played out as Robert hoped, he waited for the conversation to turn to Sir Garfield's passion: his horses.

  "They'll be soon getting ready for the spring season in Doncaster," Charles prompted, as they had earlier rehearsed.

  "Will they indeed? Who will you be running this year, Sir Garfield?"

  The baronet lit up at the chance to boast of the new addition to his stables. "I've Rascallion in training. He's half brother to the mare Rosie, who won herself a life of leisure in King Louis's stables."

  "I well recall the mare. You believe the colt is as promising?"

  "Indeed. Shows great potential, though Jeffries is loath to run him yet. Says he's not ready. But at four years old, I say he should be tried."

  "You intend to run him at Doncaster, then?"

  "Got my eye on Newmarket wi' this one! He'll be a contender for the King's Plate, mark my words. Grisewood's Bolton Starling son, a four-year-old called by Teazer, is in training at Doncaster. He was first in the King's Plate at Ipswich, and I hear he's to run at Newmarket come the spring season. I've a mind to see my Rascallion put Grisewood in his place. The colt just needs a trial to prepare him."

  "As it so happens," Robert segued, "I've a mind to have a go at it."

  "You plan to race? But you have no horse!"

  "No? I refer to the gray charger. I believe he has the fire in his veins."

  Sir Garfield sputtered at the notion. "A daft notion if I ever heard one, a war charger on the track!"

  "I beg to differ. Mars is a stallion in his prime, and there's not a beast with more heart. He'll run or he'll die in the doing. I'd bet my all on it."

  "Betting now, are you?"

  "Are they running Saturday on the moor?" Robert inquired with studied nonchalance.

  "Aye, weather permitting."

  "Then I shall take Mars out for an airing, and we'll match anyone who shows."

  "Ye'd best pray that none show, then!" Sir Garfield chortled. "Ye'll surely lose your shirt, and seeing that it belongs to His Majesty…"

  Robert ignored the cut and replied with deliberate
sang froid
, "Then perhaps you would care to make a gentleman's wager? I challenge you, Sir Garfield, to a match race. My Mars against
any
of your prized bloodstock."

  "What? A wager against your charger? A ridiculous vagary!"

  "Is it so? Only a moment ago you said Rascallion was in need of a trial, and here I present the perfect opportunity."

  "You think to challenge me?" Sir Garfield retorted. "For years I've bred the finest, and you think to best my horse? Presumptuous pup!" He snorted in contempt.

  "Indeed I do, sir. If you're so confident of your horses, you have nothing to lose."

  "Lose? I should not lose! Just what would
you
propose to wager, Devington?" he asked snidely.

  "I should like to propose a breeding to your Darley mare Amoret. I've a mind to try Mars in the breeding shed, if he proves himself a runner, and I've always favored that mare. If my horse wins, I should like a foal out of her."

  "And when you receive your sound thrashing, instead?" Sir Garfield challenged.

  "I should propose the same; however, the resulting offspring would, of course, be yours. 'Tis a free breeding for you. You confessed admiration for the stallion. 'Twould be a fair wager."

  "Ah," Sir Garfield said, ruminating, "but delayed gratification, you see; and what would I care for a horse of unknown blood?" He paused. "You may not be aware that Parliament has now prohibited any racing wager of less than fifty pounds. If you are so hell-bent to race, Devington, I'll accept your breeding wager, supplemented by fifty guineas." He regarded Devington shrewdly, anticipating a refusal.

  "Then I accept your wager, sir." Devington's words were confidently if rashly spoken.

  Sir Garfield sat back in his chair, considering the proposition further. "Charles will run Rascallion." Though he knew Charles to be no match to Devington in the saddle, he believed his colt so vastly superior that he would win regardless of the rider.

  "But Jeffries says he's not ready," Charles protested, prompting Robert to raise a curious brow.

  "Jeffries be hung!" Sir Garfield retorted. "'Twill be a good trial for both of you, before you ride him in the King's Plate in spring. I'll not suffer humiliation again as we did last May in Malton when you insisted on riding Old Screw. He was no match for the company. Routh's Frolic took the first race, Witty's gelding, Raffler, the second, and the Duke of Perth's Chance stole the third. You will ride Rascallion, Charles."

  "If we are agreed," Robert prompted, "we shall meet at Doncaster Heath, Saturday next at ten o'clock."

  "You may look forward to a lesson in humility, Devington." Sir Garfield's eyes gleamed at the prospect. "Think I'll retire on that note." Sir Garfield hefted his ample girth from the chair. "Charles will see you out." He nodded to the captain.

  While they lingered over their drinks, Charles voiced his qualms about opposing Jeffries and running Rascallion. Knowing Sir Garfield's actions would prove to his advantage, Robert refrained from comment and diverted Charles back to talk of the war.

  "I so envy you, Robert. If only I could join up," Charles said wistfully. "I've been tempted many times to go against the old man, but then I remind myself of my duty as the only son to conform to his wishes."

  "'Tis not the adventure and romance you imagine, Charles. I would gladly trade shoes with you."

  "But you at least had the freedom to choose for yourself, while my entire life is plotted out for me. Sometimes I wonder if I can bear it."

  "I fully understand your yen to choose your own destiny. Is it not every man's God-given right to do so?" With this parting thought, Robert called for his horse and bade his old friend good night.

  Robert had been perfectly satisfied that his plan had played out to perfection, until Sir Garfield had raised the stakes. Fifty guineas was still a paltry bet by racing standards, but Sir Garfield had done it only to put him in his place. He would have known it was a hefty wager for a captain. The sum represented more than a quarter's wage, and that was
before
the army deducted his allowances for food, lodging, and forage for his horse.

  Robert had barely two farthings to rub together, let alone fifty guineas in hand. The combined value of his possessions would barely cover the bet, and a loss would mean selling his horse to cover it.

  But, finally having a plan, nothing would now deter Robert from his purpose. He was resolved to see it through to the bitter end.

  "We'd best be victorious, old man," he said to Mars, "or our partnership shall be very short-lived."

T he next morning, Robert and Philip rode twenty miles to
Doncaster. While Robert hoped to secure less shabby accommodations whilst preparing Mars for his run, Philip hoped the change of venue might provide opportunity to survey the field for his prospective heiress.

  Arriving at the Black Lion in Firbeck, they found a large, welllit taproom with two roaring fireplaces filled with the aromas of hearty Christmas fare. They feasted on goose, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, game pie, several bottles of Portuguese wine, and various puddings and sweetmeats.

  Having satisfied his appetite for food, Philip surveyed the room in his quest to gratify his near-consuming craving for sport. Philip pushed back from the table and sprawled in his chair. His keen eyes perused their surroundings, much as a predator stalking prey, but discovered little potential in the occupants of the taproom: a pair of elderly spinsters, an ancient who appeared deaf, and a genteel middle-aged couple.

  Philip eyed the last gentleman and speculatively rolled a pair of dice between his long fingers, considering if he might offer a game of cards or dice. He promptly discarded the notion when he witnessed the gent meekly receiving an earful from his shrewish wife.

  "Sir Horace," the woman sharply addressed the man, who dumbly studied the fire, "Did you even attend to one word I said?"

  "N-no, my dearest. Ah… I mean, yes, my love."

  She glared at him. "Here we are stuck at a horrid little tavern in the middle of nowhere on Christmas all because of your negligence! And if that odious public coach hadn't come along, we might well have frozen to death! Here I am once again obliged to make the most out of pitiful circumstances."

  Sir Horace mumbled agreement about making the best of it, and redirected his morose stare to the hearth.

  "But I expect it will all be soon forgotten. It is Christmas, after all. The time of giving." Her formerly acid tone was suddenly cloying. She regarded her husband expectantly.

  "Uhm… er… ah… as to that my dear," he said visibly flustered, "with such an untoward event, and the numerous baggage we transferred…"

"Do you mean to say you have nothing for me?"

  "No, my dearest. Of course not, my sweet, but I might have left it in the carriage, you see. One small parcel was all too easy to lose track of."

  "One tiny parcel? When I have given the best years of my life attending your every need? And you lost it!" she exclaimed in indignation.

  Listening to this exchange, Philip could no longer contain himself. "Good God, woman! You carry on like a common fishwife! What more do you want? You're warm and housed, safe from harm. You are undeniably well fed," he added, sizing her up. "You will retire to a clean and comfortable bed, and your equipage will be repaired. What more can you expect of a man?" The harridan's jaw dropped, shocked to the core at such unspeakable effrontery.

  "And you, sir!" He addressed the gentleman with even greater vehemence. "Where the bloody hell are your ballocks? What the devil kind of example are you, behaving like an accursed sheep and allowing this… harpy (being the mildest word that came to mind) to emasculate the lot of us! Damme, if 'tis not enough to strike terror into any soul contemplating matrimony!"

  His point made, Philip threw down his napkin in disgust, grabbed a bottle of wine, and quit the taproom for the peace and solitude of his chamber.

  Robert made a hasty apology for his friend's erratic behavior and quickly beat his own retreat before the woman recovered enough to shriek her indignation. He forthwith joined Philip and kicked off his boots to slump into the second chair by the hearth.

  "Dare I ask what
that
was about?" he asked his brooding companion.

  "Mayhap I overstepped a notch, but damme if I could witness that spectacle any longer! To think I was actually contemplating the connubial state. God only knows what I was thinking. A king's ransom in dowry could never compensate for
that
!"

  "What you witnessed, dear fellow, was obviously a loveless union. And 'tis likely what you will have if you seek marriage solely to increase your wealth. In my lowly world, people mostly marry for love and live quite happily. Some in poverty, but happily, nonetheless. You might consider it, Drake."

  "Lovely sentiments, but what point is there in leg-shackling if not for gain? There is verily no advantage for me to face the same woman, day after day, year after year. Like this wine," he mused, inspecting the bottle, "'tis adequate for this occasion, but would I chose to imbibe the same every meal? I think not when there are so many other vintages to sample."

  "Can you not even imagine a woman to whom you could be devoted?" The question, earnestly posed, received a scoffing reply.

  "I hold no such illusions. Monogamy? Monotony? Daresay I confuse the two. Aphrodite herself could not entice me to the altar without a large dowry."

  "Then you have my pity. In all your experience of women, you have yet to know love."

  Philip's lips suddenly formed a grim, hard line. "What do you know of my life? I have indeed known what
you call
love, but my experience is far removed from your chimera, Devington."

  Scowling into the fire, Drake continued. "I was barely twenty when I met a young widow of my father's acquaintance. She was nearly ten years my senior and bent on making up for a decade of lost youth while married to a doddering old man.