Highest Stakes (3 page)

  The first name that had not forfeited was Lord Gower's own Slug, whom Devington knew to be a respectable runner but certainly not one to scare off the competition. Lastly appeared Hastings's Hawke, Lord Edmund Drake, Viscount Uxeter up.

  The horse, Hawke, was said to be unbeatable in his class, and Viscount Uxeter was a man preceded by a foul reputation. He was a villainous rider with a passion for high-spirited but ill-tempered horses, and would bloody his mount's flanks before suffering defeat. He had proven as much last spring with Spanking Roger, son of the famed Flying Childers, and a superlative runner. The horse had lived up to expectations by running four seasons undefeated in all but one race—the one in which he had viciously tossed his rider. Spanking Roger's name thereafter became synonymous with malevolence, and Lord Uxeter had relished the challenge of owning and racing him. In the end, however, the fiery steed proved unequal to his rider, who pushed him to his very death in a match race.

  The combination of names answered the riddle, and a chill of foreboding accompanied Robert to the starting post.

  Robert's own mount, a mare affectionately called Rosie, was the first out of Sir Garfield's racing stud to show any real running potential. She was a scrawny foal and Charlotte's pet from the start. Truth be told, though none would ever confess it, Charlotte had trained the mare to run. Although Rosie came to this event green, Robert knew Charlotte had made her as fit as any horse on the Whittington Heath. But how game was she?

  The young mare carried champion blood. She was by a Darley son, out of a Darley granddaughter, Amoret. With the noted stallion twice her grandsire, she had the blood of a runner, but did she have the heart to go with it? This was the remaining question to which he would soon have an answer.

  Now less than five minutes to start, the bugler sounded the final call. Robert mounted the frisky mare and proceeded at a brisk trot to the starting post, where Slug's rider waited patiently astride the gelding, and Viscount Uxeter spurred his horse, Hawke, into a dancing frenzy.

  The starter gave the command for the trio to line up and waited for all to settle before raising the flag, but Hawke, worked up to a nervous lather, broke forward in a false start. Lord Uxeter, realizing the error, jerked his horse to a hard halt and wrenched him back around to the starting post. Their horses now jigging in heightened anticipation, Devington and Gower had to circle for some minutes to resettle their excited mounts.

  For the second time, the starter raised the flag. As it descended, the trio broke forth in a flurry of legs, lunging forward for a fourand-a-half-mile test of endurance, by a three-time circumnavigation of the track.

  Devington knew his mare was up to the distance. Her daily routine for the past six months had included a spirited five-mile gallop on similar turf, but the day prior had been soggy, saturating the ground. The spongy turf pulled at her feet with every stride, but the going was as good as it was going to get.

  Devington consoled himself that they at least had the advantage of the first race, before the track became completely pockmarked with hoofprints. The last riders would suffer the most disadvantage, as the now green surface became degraded by day's end to pure muck. With each lap of the track, the running would get slower and harder and try to suck the horses in.

  It paid the rider to understand how turf conditions affect performance and how to manage even those things beyond a jockey's normal control. It was even more vital to understand how best to manage both the strengths and limitations of one's mount, even under adverse conditions.

  The most superior jockeys were not always on the most superior horses, but were always the ones who knew how to ride smart rather than just hard. Devington was such a rider. He had acquired years of such equine wisdom under two of the best tutors: first his father and later Jeffries, the stable master at Heathstead Hall. In his relatively short career, Devington had ridden a hundred horses if he had ridden one, and he knew how to read them.

  Keeping his mare well in hand, he studied the pair with whom he shared the field. Slug, he mused, was aptly named. He was the lazy sort. The type of horse with talent, but with a stubborn lethargy, having the inherent speed within him, but requiring the incessant driving of his rider to bring it out. This kind of horse required constant attention.

  Devington knew this would serve him later. They would hang back just a notch and await the precise moment when Slug's rider would be too worried about driving acceleration to be aware of his competition. This is when they would grab the inside.

  That Hawke was another case altogether from Slug was evident from the very outset, the moment he broke for a false start. He was a tightly strung stallion with a fine-tuned flight impulse, needing no encouragement from his rider to run. A horse of his kind ran with a frantic fear, as if his very life depended upon it, burning up excess energy that he could ill afford to lose on a field with worthy competition. Pushing a horse like Hawke with injudicious whip and spur would prove counterproductive, serving only to increase his stress and rarely inciting any willing or renewed effort to the fore.

  The third type of runner, well represented by Rosie, the sprightly mare on whom Devington was mounted, was the willing partner. This kind was eager to please and attuned at every moment to its rider, anticipating and responding to the slightest cue of hand, voice, or leg. This was an honest runner, one rarely needing encouragement to perform, a horse to be trusted to run its own race to the best of its ability, simply guided by the intelligent rider.

  Devington relaxed almost imperceptibly, trusting Rosie to pace herself for a while. As long as she didn't drop back or lag more than a length or two, he wouldn't drive her. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the competition, reading every sign, developing his plan, seeking his advantage, riding this race to the peak of his horse's ability.

  Either of the other two horses could be managed and run successfully, but success would depend completely on the skill and management of the rider, and Devington could clearly ascertain by the end of the second lap that Slug was decidedly undermanaged by his indolent jockey, and the high-strung Hawke was incontrovertibly terrorized by his.

  By the start of the third lap, Devington was crouched low over the mare, well pleased and encouraged that Rosie was up in the bridle, holding her own, and keeping good pace with the two taller, longer-legged horses. Lord Uxeter was already plying the spur into the first bend, but Rosie, keenly aware of her rider, required little urging, voluntarily lengthening her stride to maintain her position.

  By the end of the final lap of the arduous run, Lord Uxeter had completely used up his horse, and Slug had completely used up his rider!

  Grinning with satisfaction, Devington seized the moment to claim the lead, murmuring low to Rosie, "It would appear, my lovely girl, the race is ours."

Charles Wallace arrived breathless and perspiring just as Devington, with only a few furlongs to go, gave Rosie her keenly anticipated cue to seize the lead. The mare visibly coiled and sprung forward with renewed vigor. Her dainty legs sliced the air, barely grazing the turf with her flying hooves, and she overtook the harried Hawke to win a clean and undisputed finish.

  Charles couldn't believe his eyes, but moreover, couldn't understand how Devington had managed to ride. The Lichfield races prohibited grooms. He feared there would be hell to pay once the breach was discovered, but for now he reveled with his friend who had just clearly beaten the unbeatable.

  Sir Garfield arrived amid a plethora of congratulations on the fine performance of his mare, accepting the news with amazement, and made his befuddled way to the paddocks. How could Charles have possibly run Rosie in the last race? The second was already underway, and Charles had been only a few minutes ahead of him. There must be some misunderstanding, but he was loath to refute the glad tidings.

  He arrived at Rosie's paddock just as Charles clapped Robert on the back. "Capital ride, Devington! I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw you overtake Uxeter. He's a veritable fiend in the saddle, you know."

"Rosie performed admirably," Robert replied.

"'Twas more'n just Rosie took
that
race."

  "Devington!" Sir Garfield began just as Lord Gower appeared with his distinguished guest.

  "Sir Garfield," Lord Gower said, "my most eminent guest wishes to be made known to the owner of the splendid mare who cleaned the field of her illustrious company.

  "Monsieur Le Grand, may I introduce Sir Garfield Wallace of Wortley, South Yorkshire. Sir Garfield," he continued, "I present
Le
Grand Ecuyer de France
, Charles de Lorraine, comte d'Armagnac."

  Confounded as to how to greet a French dignitary, Sir Garfield's bow was so low and obsequious that his knees creaked, and stays threatened to burst. Failing to recall the elongated title, he tentatively began, "Munsoor…" and directed a pleading query to Lord Gower.

  "Monsieur Le Grand," Lord Gower volunteered.

  "Indeed. Indeed.
Munsoor Le Grun
."

  The comte flinched at Sir Garfield's appalling French and responded, "
Mais oui
, I was most insistent to speak with the owner of this
cheval magnifique
, who claims such victory. And such rider superlative, he too must be congratulated,
non
?"

  "Just so," Lord Gower agreed. "But I don't believe I am acquainted with your kinsman, Sir Garfield." He eyed Robert curiously. Sir Garfield flushed, but Devington interceded, saving them both from disgrace.

  "Devington. Robert Devington," he offered with a deferential bow, thankful for having once aped Charles's lessons in etiquette and gentlemanly comportment. The gentlemen's reciprocal nods affirmed that his efforts had passed muster, but his bravado wavered when his lordship prodded further.

  "What precisely
is
your kinship to the baronet, Devington? A nephew on the wife's side, mayhap?"

  "N-no, your lordship." Devington vowed to stay as close as possible to the truth. "The relationship is by law rather than blood. I am betrothed to Sir Garfield's niece, Miss Charlotte Wallace."

  "Indeed so? My felicitations to you. 'Tis peculiar I had heard none of this." He directed his inquiring gaze to Sir Garfield, who opened his mouth to refute.

  Robert again interjected, "It has yet to be announced, your lordship, as Charlotte is but seventeen."

  The reply satisfied Lord Gower. "'Twould appear congratulations are well in order, young Devington, on a superlative ride. Lord Hastings, the owner of the defeated champion, was near apoplectic when he saw you rout his prized stallion, ridden by his heir apparent, no less."

  "More than worthy opponents," Devington said humbly.

  "I privately confess to a belief that Uxeter is heavy-handed with his livestock, and 'twas past time for his set down. Now as to the point of this introduction, Monsieur Le Grand?" he prompted.

  "Sir Garfield," the Frenchman began, "I had come to this country, you see, in search of a fine stallion for the stud
Royale
, but I tell myself, after seeing this performance of your mare, that one must never underestimate the value of the broodmare,
non
?"

  "Just so," Sir Garfield replied.

  "Then I should like to discuss with you the procurement of such a specimen as this mare. The King of France is a man
très genereux
, Sir Garfield."

  "Indeed?" Sir Garfield's eyes lit with an avaricious gleam.

  "What would you say to an offer of five hundred pounds?"

  "'Tis exceedingly generous, Sir Garfield," Lord Gower encouraged.

  Sir Garfield carefully posed his reply. "It is indeed, but the mare is yet young. This is only the first of what I suspect should be many successful racing seasons. I might gain as much in her race winnings alone, not to mention the sale of future offspring."

  "'Tis a truth I should not doubt," the comte conceded. "As I perceive you are a shrewd man, we shall then forgo this
bourgeois
custom of bartering. I shall ask directly. Precisely what amount of
gold
should entice you to part with this mare?"

  "No less than one thousand guineas."

  "A thousand guineas! 'Tis not unheard of for a stallion, I think, but such is a price
très cher
for a mare,
n'est ce pas
?" He directed this last to Lord Gower.