Highest Stakes (27 page)

  "Knowing the stallion is too distinctive in appearance to be anything but Eastern bred, Mr. Coke makes inquiries of his friends at Versailles. He is amazed to learn that this pathetic creature was once the pride of the desert, one of the great blood stallions of the Bey of Tunis, given as a gift to the King of France, but was deemed by the equerries as too difficult to manage. This was how he came to the carter.

  "Excited by this knowledge, Mr. Coke arranges to transport the new members of his family back to England but finds the stallion gentle only toward his loyal groom and his pet cat, Grimalkin. He is far too volatile for Mr. Coke to ride, so the gentleman gives him to a friend. This friend, failing also to manage the stallion, passes him along to another, and another, until his ultimate fate: this magnificent son of the desert, who once had a harem of the choicest mares of the purest, most ancient blood, was destined to become a lowly and despised teazer stallion for the racing stud of Lord Godolphin."

  "Do you even know what that is, my dearest?" Robert interrupted.

  "What
what
is?"

  "A teazer stallion."

  Charlotte blushed. "Yes. Jeffries was kind enough to explain to me that valuable stallions are not wasted with the preliminaries of mating; that a lesser stallion is often utilized to… to… to…"

  "Prepare the mare for mating?" Robert offered.

  "Yes. Precisely so," Charlotte added hastily. Robert's laugh rumbled deep in his chest.

  "Are you quite ready to attend now?" she asked peevishly. He nodded with a smirk, and Charlotte continued her tale. "The pride and joy of Lord Godolphin was Hobgoblin."

  "Another fine stallion of the Darley line," Robert volunteered.

  "Indeed. And one he intended to breed to his most prized racing mare, the lovely Roxana."

  "Do you know of this mare?"

  "Only that Jeffries described her as unparalleled."

  "In more ways than one. A flightier mare never was. She was of such an excessively nervous temperament that she had to be led to the starting post with a blindfold that was only removed at the word 'go'!"

  "I would just call her a female of great sensibility and discriminating taste, Robert," Charlotte defended. "After all, she would have none of Hobgoblin. Though the tale is told that he refused
her
, I am not the least inclined to believe it. She instinctively knew him as the inferior male and had eyes only for El Sham, with whom she demonstrated all willingness. When he was removed from her and Hobgoblin led out to leap her, she repelled him most violently, calling instead to her love, El Sham. That stallion responded to her entreaty by breaking loose from his handler and attacking his rival for her affections.

  "The stallions reared and pawed and rained blows upon one another. It appeared, at the start, that Hobgoblin, the larger of the two, would prevail, but El Sham sunk his great teeth into the other stallion's crest and wrestled Hobgoblin to the ground, where he lay stunned. Conceding defeat, Hobgoblin turned tail and ran away."

  "And to the winner went the spoils?" Robert added with a grin. "And one year later, Lath arrived, one of the greatest racers of our day. The next year came Cade, and now we see the excitement surrounding Regulus, the third son of Godolphin to make his name on the turf in as many years."

  "What was the word you used, pre…"

  "Prepotent. Yes, the Godolphin has most definitely made his mark as a champion sire."

  "Now you see what a lovely story that was?"

  "Not near as lovely as the lips that told it." Robert gently traced her lips with his forefinger. Unconsciously, Charlotte parted them. Robert did not need a second invitation. Their lips met. He moved over hers gently at first, touching, tasting, softly probing. Charlotte responded tentatively to his exploration. He then pulled her closer, molding her to him, and she replied with a sigh and moved instinctively against him.

  Such ready compliance was more than Robert had expected. His pulse quickened; his heart pounded painfully against his chest. He desperately yearned to hold her warm, supple, naked body in his arms. To lie with her, kissing, caressing, and breathing in her very essence.

  Suddenly with a groan, he put her away and was on his feet, pacing to tamp down his raging fever.

  Charlotte regarded him once again in bewilderment. "Please, Robert." She patted the blanket beside her, entreating so softly, so innocently tempting. "There's room for us both, and it will surely grow cold before the night is out."

  Was she luring him in this guileless way? Or was she completely unaware of his struggle?

  He responded with a scowl, knowing too well the inherent danger of lying together, even if she did not. They were completely alone and had the whole night ahead of them.

  "Perhaps you should not be so trusting," he snapped more sharply than intended. "I am not impervious to temptation.
I am but a man."

  "But I trust you," she said earnestly.

  "Perhaps you should not," he replied, resolving right then to protect her honor by upholding his own. Ignoring her wounded look, Robert then gestured for her to bed down while he made ready to sleep against the wall opposite.

  "As you will, then, my noble captain," Charlotte whispered and then closed her eyes and fell swiftly into deep slumber. Robert remained as he sat, keeping his silent vigil.

Lady Felicia intercepted Beatrix and Major Drake returning from their interlude in the garden, from whence Beatrix emerged with a telling flush. Determined to encourage what she perceived as a burgeoning attraction between the two, Lady Felicia placed a possessive hand on Philip's sleeve.

  "My dear major, do you find our company so lackluster that you would take your leave of us?"

  "Indeed not, madam! But I have already greatly imposed. I have no wish to overstay my welcome."

  "Pshaw! You will do no such thing. We are country folk here and do not abide by such stringent rules of society. On the contrary, we should not wish to be so soon deprived of your company. I insist you sup with us."

  "Indeed, Mama," Beatrix readily agreed.

  Philip received the invitation with unabashed delight. He would take full advantage to ingratiate himself to this family. Although Beatrix had thought to have him eating out of her hand, she had played right into his. Now he had an entire evening to dedicate to single-minded pursuit of his heiress and her twenty thousand pounds.

  Philip Ian Drake was a born charmer and
raconteur nonpareil.
Although his quick wit and glib tongue had led to more than one caning at Harrow, the same talents had made him exceedingly popular with his classmates, and later, with his fellow cavalry officers. Philip could transform the most mundane event into a comic farce. No one was untouched by his sardonic wit when he chose to yield it.

  His repertoire of military tales, political anecdotes, and sordid court gossip entertained and scandalized the Wallace family throughout the evening. He amused Charles with his boyhood pranks and followed with accounts of the Horse Guard, including his hazing of Troopers Devington and Prescott, a tale particularly well received by the chortling baronet.

  Philip provided Lady Felicia with several juicy morsels of court gossip.

  "Is it true that on Queen Caroline's deathbed she begged our king to remarry?" she asked the major.

  "Indeed so. His reply was, 'No, I shall have mistresses!'"

  Lady Felicia was aghast. "Surely he said no such thing!"

  "There were several witnesses to the exchange. I fail to understand why his response should have surprised anyone at Court."

  "Has the King so very many mistresses?" she inquired eagerly.

  "Several former ladies of the queen's bedchamber, and even the governess to the Royal princesses. His Majesty is a vain little man who believes that keeping several women confirms his virility."

  "Disgraceful! Absolutely disgraceful! But what of that Wallmolden woman?"

  "Ah! You refer of course to the Countess of Yarmouth. Seemingly, Hanoverian mistresses surpass English ones in the King's eyes," he remarked sardonically. "Barely a year beyond the queen's passing, His Majesty imported her from Hanover, along with the bastard son he reputedly fathered. Mistress and bastard are both now naturalized and patented with lifetime peerages. She's the King's favorite, the
maitress en titre
, if you will.

  "Our poor Queen Caroline, what she endured. God rest her soul."

  "Every man has his weakness," Sir Garfield remarked with indifference. "But what of our new foreign secretary, Lord Carteret? I hear he has an uncommon fondness for drink. Surely this is much exaggerated."

  "I assure you not, sir. I have it from Ligonier's own lips that our secretary spent the entire German campaign half-soused, though I daresay one with Ligonier's turpitude durst not cast the first stone."

  "Indeed, you say?" Sir Garfield's interest was piqued.

  "Consummate dissipation might be credited by many as far less egregious than debauching young girls."

  Lady Felicia gasped.

  "I beg your pardon, madam, for having spoken of it," Philip hastily apologized.

  "Debauchery?" she repeated with diminished outrage at the salacious tidbit. "Beatrix," she commanded her daughter, "you must cover your ears."

  Beatrix gaped and then protested, "I am not a child, Mama!"

  "You heard me, Trixie," she repeated. "Cover your ears!"

  Beatrix complied with a petulant pout.

  "Now, Major, what is this about debauchery?" Lady Felicia said in a loud whisper and leaned forward eagerly.

  Amused by such blatant hypocrisy, Philip obliged. "Sir John Ligonier has only a slightly lesser penchant for drink than our esteemed secretary, but a far greater proclivity for young girls. Though past sixty years, he reputedly keeps four separate mistresses. Although this alone is remarkable for such an ancient, the
pièce de résistance is that th
e
combined
ages of said mistresses do not exceed eight-and-fifty years."

  Performing the mathematical computation, the lady gasped in coalesced shock and delight. "Surely you hoax, Major!"

  "Indeed not, madam. The man states that a woman over fifteen is past her prime and not worth his trouble. All evidence corroborates his belief."

  "The dirty lecher!" she exclaimed in outward outrage but was secretly titillated. Now remembering her daughter, she tapped Beatrix on the arm, giving her leave to uncover her ears.

  "Drake," Sir Garfield mused Philip's surname aloud. "Your family name's vaguely familiar. From whence do you hail?"

  "East Sussex, if you please. The family seat is within an hour of London, though the earl, until recent years, spent a great deal more time in the capital than rusticating in the country."

  "East Sussex, eh?" Sir Garfield paused. "I'm surprised you didn't seek your commission in the Royal Navy."

  "Truth be told, I'm much more at ease in the saddle than on the deck of a ship," Philip replied.

  "Never cared for the sea myself," Sir Garfield agreed. "Much prefer my feet on solid ground."

  "What of your mother, dear boy? Does the countess reside in Sussex?" Lady Felicia inquired.

  "The dear lady passed away of consumption nearly a decade ago."

  "So sorry, my dear," she offered sympathetically. "Have you siblings?"

  "One brother, Edmund, Lord Uxeter. He was born to the earl's first wife, who died of fever following childbirth. He's eleven years my senior, hence we've never been close. Staid and humorless type, exceedingly sober and excruciatingly dull. He has aspirations in politics and holds a seat in the House of Commons, though he recently sits as proxy for Lord Hastings in the upper house."

  "So, your family has seats in both houses, you say." Sir Garfield digested this tidbit for future rumination. "What is your family's political affiliation? Whig or Tory?"

  "The Earl of Hastings descends from a long line of Tories. Although the family claims remote blood connection to William the Conqueror, the patent of earldom was a reward by James the First to my great-grandfather for some long-forgotten favor. The family supported all of the Stuarts until it was no longer politically expedient to do so," he added dryly.

  "The Earls of Hastings, past and present, hold very
accommodating
political views, thus my heritage has proven nothing if not resilient. This
tractability
, shall we say, has allowed the family title to survive one regicide, two civil wars, an abdication, a restoration, and several Jacobite uprisings."