Highest Stakes (45 page)

  "That's Second Lieutenant Prescott, of the First Foot," he replied smugly. "And I confess, the pleasure is entirely mine, Major."

  "Quite." Philip noted the vindictive glint in the other man's eye as Prescott displayed the bloodstained weapon. "My gratitude for retrieving my saber, Prescott." Philip extended his hand to take his sword.

  "Let's not be precipitate." He pulled it out of reach. "I believe this weapon shall be required as evidence."

  "Evidence? Your interference is both unwarranted and unwelcome."

  The Lieutenant reddened but pressed. "I think not, Major. I shall retain the weapon, as I intend to exercise my right, indeed my absolute obligation, to place both you and Devington under arrest."

  "Bloody hell! The matter is between me and my subordinate and none of your damned business!"

  "I gainsay you on that account, Major. The Articles of War expressly make this my business." He was immensely satisfied at having gained the upper hand over his nemesis and took no pains to hide it.

  Philip's position was precarious. Although he had threatened charges against Devington, his had been a bluff to intimidate Charlotte into submission. The ensuing events, however, destined them both to face the courts-martial. Dueling, particularly between officers, was expressly prohibited.

  He cursed under his breath. The damned hothead had brought it upon himself, indeed upon them both. Under normal circumstances, the commander in chief would turn a blind eye to a discreet settling of a point of honor, but their conduct had been anything but discreet. Two decorated officers had fought in broad daylight, with half the town of Leeds and a dozen infantrymen as witnesses.

  Philip was backed into a corner. Knowing defense impossible, he chose the offensive. "I regret to pull rank,
Lieutenant
, but the prerogative is mine. My purpose in Leeds was to recall Captain Devington to duty. He disobeyed my direct order, and I intend to charge him with insubordination as soon as he is recovered from his injuries."

  "Insubordination? Drawing a sword on one's superior far surpasses the bounds of insubordination, Major. Assaulting an officer is a capital offense."

  "Mayhap so, Prescott, but once again, 'tis none of your concern. For now, the captain is unfit to travel, let alone face charges. Feel free to pursue your case most zealously once we return to Whitehall, but for now, you must defer your pleasure."

  Prescott stared at his nemesis, feeling robbed but vowing to press forward and follow this through to the end. "To whom will you be making your report, Major?"

  "To Ligonier, I would presume, as he is currently in command of all cavalry."

  "Then I expect to see you when I report to General Ligonier. Until then, I shall retain the evidence."

  "If you insist, Prescott," Drake said dismissively. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend. Good day, Lieutenant."

  Philip knew the incident would be impossible to explain off. There were too many witnesses, and Devington was severely wounded. Charges were inevitable unless he could appeal to someone with influence, someone who wielded power over the very arbitrary military courts.

  For now, he could ensure only that Devington saw Pringle. The rest remained to fate.

Charlotte sat endlessly through the night in silent, prayerful vigil. She dared not leave Robert's side, for fear he'd awaken and not find her near, or worse yet, that he might slip away from her.

  She prayed for a miracle, that he could be whole again, that they might still escape together, but with the rising sun, she prayed most fervently for his life, so pale and still he lay against the pillows.

  The barber surgeon, Dr. Wilkins, came early to reassess his patient, and Drake reminded him again of the peril to his own members should he fail to deliver the captain intact to Dr. Pringle.

  His duty done, Philip proceeded without vacillation to bodily drag Charlotte away from Robert's bedside.

  "But you can't expect me to leave him like this!" she wailed.

  "He is under a physician's care, Charlotte. There is nothing you can do for him. I have vowed to return you to London, and return you I shall."

  Arriving in the coach yard, she jerked her arm from Philip's grip, spurning his assistance with a hateful glare, and climbed in. As she awaited their departure, she sat in the carriage, silently seething, her heartbreak mixed with loathing, hot tears burning her eyes. Her hatred burned white, and had she Robert's sword, she would have carved out Philip's treacherous heart of stone without compunction. The thought brought a fleeting smile to her otherwise wan countenance.

  Charlotte was thankful Philip followed on horseback, riding with the groom he had hired to help convey Mars and Amoret. She couldn't stomach his loathsome face, let alone suffer confinement in a carriage with him for days on end. Believing Robert's fate lay largely in his hands, she endured the journey, alternating between impassive silence and heart-wrenching fits of weeping.

  She and Philip exchanged precious few words in their three days of travel together, until parting company at Leicester. The carriage driver was instructed to deliver Charlotte to her uncle's residence, while Philip rode back to the village where he had left Hawke. He collected the grateful horse, who though none the worse for wear, had no doubt suffered the indignities of pulling a cart while in the smith's care.

  Paying the promised coin, Philip handed Mars off to his hired groom and vaulted back into his own saddle, on his own horse at last. It was a small comfort, for which he was thankful.

  He had carried out Sir Garfield's wishes in order to secure his own future, but ironically, this future no longer held the same appeal. The course he had chosen now threatened to choke the life out of him. Philip closed his eyes, wishing the entire episode would fade away as a bad dream.

  He needed a drink. Perhaps large enough quantities of cheap whiskey would drown his newfound conscience and dull his raw sensibilities.

N ewmarket
was first established as a premier racing center nearly a century hence by King Charles II, who was such an avid turf follower that he removed his entire court every spring and autumn to his favorite venue. Indeed, the Merrie Monarch was so enamored of Newmarket that he hired gentleman-architect William Samwell to build a two-story brick viewing pavilion overlooking the heath, and even the Rowley mile racecourse was named in honor of the King's favorite horse, Old Rowley.

  Charles II, an expert horseman in his own right, even raced his own horses against the gentlemen of his court on these famed Cambridgeshire chalk downs. A true patron of the sport in every way, he established the first official rules, as well as the series of races called the Royal Plates, thirteen official races run in various locations throughout England.

  Newmarket held the distinction of commencing the racing season each year with its six days of slated match races, culminating with the prestigious and highly competitive King's Plate. More than any other, this race lured hundreds of horses from scores of racing studs throughout England.

  Now, with the advent of spring, this sleepy town once again sprung to life, transforming into a racing mecca. Turf-ites of all classes descended. Farmers delivering their cartloads of oats and hay jammed the byways into the teeming village square, competing with the owners and breeders who arrived in their carriages.

  High Street echoed with the clip-clop of iron striking the cobbles, suddenly swarming with sleek, sinewy, snorting quadrupeds and their wiry young grooms. Jockeys and grooms eagerly employed themselves with their charges, proudly parading their coursers, conspicuously adorned in the brightly hued sheets of their masters' racing colors, and touting to one another the superiority of their masters' stock.

  Meanwhile, said gentleman of the turf congregated in the public houses and crowded the cockpits. Lords and cock-keepers, grooms, and blacklegs rubbed elbows with talk consisting only of horses and cockfighting, heedless for the time being, at least, of the invisible boundaries that normally divided their classes.

  The atmosphere was permeated with the sights, smells, and sounds of horses. The racing season had officially revived from its winter dormancy.

  This was the scene greeting Sir Garfield and Charles Wallace upon their arrival at the Rutledge Arms on High Street.

  Gazing about him in appreciation, Sir Garfield remarked to Charles, "A man's paradise is Newmarket, m'boy." He added with a lascivious wink, "We have before us a full se'nnight of gaming, drinking, cockfighting, and horse racing, with virtually no women, save the kind that enhance the entertainments."

  As father and son were about to leave the inn yard, Charles noticed the late arrival of a familiar black coach-and-four with a gold emblazoned crest.

  "I believe 'tis Lord Uxeter arrived," he remarked to his father. "Should we await him?"

  "By all means, m'boy. We are soon to be kinsmen, you know." The men went to meet the carriage.

Jeffries had arrived a week prior to ready Sir Garfield's runner, Tortoise, a son of Whitefoot out of Amoret, and full brother to White Rose, who had won her very first race at Lichfield two years past. Given the horse's mix of old proven racing blood from the likes of Darcy's White Turk and the Byerley and Darley Arabians, Jeffries had high expectations of Tortoise, particularly after his sister Rosie's early success.

  Although the gelding had begun his training with Devington as his rough rider, Jeffries had entrusted the gelding to Charlotte, following her success with Rosie. Unbeknownst to Sir Garfield, it was actually his niece, Charlotte, who had prepared Tortoise to run.

  "How does he go, Jeffries?" Sir Garfield asked as Jemmy brought the gray gelding into the rubbing house after his afternoon gallop. The rubbing grooms removed his three layers of rugs and began to massage him briskly with wads of clean straw.

  "He be runnin' in high form, sir." Jeffries grinned conspiratorially. "He ain't like some o' these morning glories I seen the past se'nnight, what come out and breeze fresh as you please and wilt away in the afternoon race."

  "That's promising, indeed," Sir Garfield said.

  "Aye. I been watchin' 'em on the Gallops and waited for just the right ones before sending Jemmy out wi' Tortoise. He paced hisself well against Badger two days back and blazed a trail past Mr. Routh's Frolic, what won the Malton Plate. He had the Duke of Perth's Chance blowin' to keep up and stalked Lord Portmore's Othello with ease. Our boy will hold his own wi' the primest of the cracks, even if ye was to put a monkey on his back."