Joan Smith (22 page)

They were soon at Northfield. Trudie assumed Mr. O’Kelly would come in to say good-bye to her aunt, but he had several commissions to discharge before leaving town, and couldn’t spare the time. “I have to settle up all my bills and thank a few people who were particularly kind to me,” he explained.

Mrs. Harrington, Trudie felt, ought to be one of those people, but she was suddenly tired of Mr. O’Kelly. He spoke of his sensitive feelings and disinterest in money out of one side of his mouth, but from the other came congratulations on her having “nabbed an excellent parti,” almost before he had finished bemoaning his jilting. They parted as friends, but Trudie found herself regretting her outspokenness in the carriage. She was glad Mr. O’Kelly was leaving.

While they made the trip to Northfield, the young gentlemen went around to the stables to have a look at Peter’s new acquisition.

“Fandango’s gone already!” Norman exclaimed. “You didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to him, Clappet.”

Sir Charles and Peter exchanged a derisive look at such sentimental rubbish. Still it was odd O’Kelly had whisked the colt away so quickly, and when it had a burst blood vessel in its lung too.

“Did he have a horse doctor take a look at Fandango?” Sir Charles asked his own groom.

“No, sir, his jockey just hopped upon the nag’s back and galloped out of here like greased lightning.”

“He’ll kill Fandango!” Norman worried. “Riding a colt in that condition—why, I’m surprised Fandango was able to walk. He should have had him looked at before riding him.’’

Sir Charles ran a hand over his white brow to aid concentration. “Something havey-cavey going on here,” he said. “Like greased lightning, you say?”

“Forty miles an hour,” the groom assured him. “And a new rider for Fandango too—you’d think the nag would have kicked up a fuss, the way he was ranting and roaring just before the race.”

“He can’t have burst any vessels, that’s for certain!” Clappet said. “What do you suppose got into him to act so hostile, Wiggins?” he asked his own groom. “If he wasn’t hurt, why did he buck and rear so?”

“He
was
hurt,” Norman pointed out. “There was that blood coming out of his nostrils.”

“The demmed cribber got a sliver up his snout, likely as not. If that’s all it was, O’Kelly picked himself up a bargain. But not as fine a bargain as I got with Sheba,” he declared, and turned back to examine his filly in more detail.

He advanced to her, hand out to pat her velvet nose. Sheba reared her head back, bared her teeth and snapped at him. Her powerful hind quarters hunched down, her front legs came up, and her hooves flailed the air. The light in her eye bore more resemblance to a Bedlamite than an eagle, and a diabolic whinnying sound rent the air. Clappet jumped back in fright. “Steady, girl,” he said, trying to grab her rein.

But her flailing legs prevented it. Everyone present fell back, and Sheba came back down on all fours, glaring at them, while her tail whisked angrily.

“Get a hold of that bridle, Wiggins,” Lord Clappet ordered.

“I ain’t about to be trampled into the ground,” Wiggins answered, but he edged forward carefully. Sheba’s head turned, and she followed Wiggins’s movement with glaring eyes. She almost seemed to be daring him. When his hand went out cautiously, she lunged her head forward and nipped his fingers. Wiggins jumped back, shaking his hand. “She bit me!”

“Lord, you call that a bite. You ain’t even bleeding,” Peter scoffed, and paced forward to try for the reins himself.

Sheba had had enough of interference. She lowered her head and butted Clappet in the stomach hard enough that he went sprawling on the floor. He had the wind knocked out of him and missed the next development. Wiggins unwisely raised his crop. Sheba lifted her front leg and delivered one sharp kick to the groom’s hip. It sent him reeling back into the crowd, which at least prevented his being trampled to death.

Sheba bolted out of the stable, leapt the fence, and went cavorting down the track sideways, from rail to rail, kicking up her heels and, Sir Charles greatly feared, bucking her shins beyond redemption. He had never seen such a wild, untrammeled exhibition of equine ferocity, and sincerely hoped he would never see one again. The filly had run mad. There was no doing anything with her.

Wiggins stumbled to the rail and watched her, shaking his head. “If we could get a gallon of ale into her, she’d calm down.”

“Go to the closest inn and fetch one, then,” Sir Charles ordered. “We can’t let this hoyden run wild into town. She’ll kill someone.”

Wiggins ran to fetch a bucket, and when he returned to Sir Charles, Peter and Norman were with him. Wiggins was carrying a bucket, at which they all stared wide-eyed. “What is it?” Sir Charles demanded.

“Ale,” Wiggins answered importantly.

“What, already? That’s quick work. Put it here and let’s see if she’ll come for it.”

“It’s empty, nearly,” Wiggins informed him.

“You see what he’s done!” Peter exclaimed indignantly. “O’Kelly gave Sheba a bucket of ale before the race.”

“Don’t be such a gudgeon,” Sir Charles said. “Why would he give it to her
before
the race? It would slow her down.”

“And pacify her, so she wouldn’t act up like a hurly-burly nag during the race,” Peter explained. “It’s all that kept her from running wild, I bet. Lord, you said yourself the jockey was holding her back for all he was worth. Sheba still distanced the field, but if she’d been stone cold sober, she’d have—well, I don’t know what she might have done.”

“Thrown her jockey for a start, with the other nags present,” Sir Charles advised him. “O’Kelly always raced her alone. Now we know why. She ain’t just gate-shy; she’s a loner. You’ll never train her to compete. Good God, look at her go, though!” he added as Sheba bolted over the rails and streaked toward Bury St. Edmunds. “We’ll never catch her.”

“We’ve got to try,” Peter said reluctantly. “I’ll be dunned for broken windows and broken bones and the lord only knows what else. Will you come with me, Nick?”

Sir Charles’s groom joined them. His chest was puffed with importance, and in his hand he carried a wicker basket. He waited till the spectators had gathered around before lifting the lid. There, wrapped in a towel from the Golden Lion, a small eel, still living, squirmed sluggishly in a capped bottle. There was another smaller bottle, holding a quantity of red liquid that looked like blood.

“What the deuce is that?” Norman Barten asked, frowning in perplexity.

“Well, I’ll be stapped!” Sir Charles said.

“What is it? What does it mean?” Lord Clappet asked.

“It means you’ve been gulled good and proper,” Sir Charles announced, not without a measure of suppressed glee. “I see what he’s done now. O’Kelly put a live eel down Fandango’s gullet before the race, to make him turn wild. I’ve heard of that stunt before but thought it was a Banbury tale. He must have brought along this one for a spare, in case the other one died. His groom will get a good jawing for leaving the evidence behind. It
is
evidence,” he added. “Put it in our carriage, Norman,” he said, handing the basket to Norman.

“I don’t see why O’Kelly would have done that to Fandango,” Peter objected. “There’s no question of Fandango being able to outrun Sheba.”

“Aye, but Fandango is a colt,” Sir Charles said knowingly. “Sheba was hardly under control with a gallon of ale in her, and running only with fillies. If Fandango had been allowed to run, even the ale wouldn’t have been enough to hold Sheba in check.”

“What about the red stuff in the bottle?” Norman asked, lifting it up. “It looks like blood.”

“It probably is blood—from a slaughterhouse,” Sir Charles announced. “This is what he daubed on Fandango’s nose, to make us think he’d broken a blood vessel. It gave an excuse for Fandango acting up so violently. Another Greek’s trick.”

“If you knew all these tricks, I wish you might have mentioned them before the race!” Peter complained.

“I never thought a gentleman like O’Kelly would resort to such low stunts.”

“It explains how Fandango could gallop away within half an hour of his fit. The eel was dead by then,” Peter said. A menacing frown drew his brows together. “We’ll see what O’Kelly has to say about this tonight at dinner.”

“Well, if you ain’t a sapskull, Clappet,” Sir Charles said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You saw the way he rattled down that road at top speed. We’ll never see him again. O’Kelly is long gone with your money and your perfectly good colt.”

“And your watch,” Norman added. Then his face blanched, and he looked wild-eyed at the others. “And with Trudie!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to go after them.”

“I’ll join you,” Sir Charles offered.

“What about Sheba?” Peter asked, fearing the awesome job of catching her was to be left to him alone.

“I hope you ain’t suggesting Sheba takes precedence over Norman’s sister!” Sir Charles exclaimed. “Take your groom, and mine as well,” he offered as a sop.

“But someone has to look after Lightning,” Norman pointed out. “I see old Munger peeled off on us with his nag and his men. He was probably in on the whole rig. I must go.” He darted for his carriage.

“You’ll have to make do with Wiggins, Clappet. My groom must tend to Lightning,” Sir Charles said. He spoke to his groom and left with Norman.

“I wish I had brought my own curricle,” Sir Charles fretted, but even Norman’s laggardly team could be whipped into a good speed, and they left in a cloud of dust, while Peter went with his own groom to chase after Sheba, half hoping he wouldn’t catch her.

Following her, at least, was no problem. She had left a wide trail of havoc behind her. An upset potato cart, with potatoes rolling all over the road, slowed them down considerably. The limping beggar muttering to himself about a she-devil nag was obviously a victim. An elegant black carriage just pulling out of a ditch bore further testimony that Clappet was on the right track in going into Bury St. Edmunds.

The actual damage there appeared to be slight. A host of stunned-looking pedestrians were still staring down the road, indicating that Sheba had bolted through very recently. Not half a mile from town, Clappet spotted the beautiful brute calmly grazing in a farmer’s meadow, but the ordeal of retrieving her was still to be endured. And meanwhile, O’Kelly was running to Ireland with his misgotten gains.

“Oh, dash it, I wish Luten were here!” he moaned.

It was several hours before he had accomplished the unenviable job. It involved a trip to the inn to buy a bucket of ale, gingerly putting it over the fence and waiting for Sheba to come and swill it down, and it involved a deal of convincing his groom that the beast was now safe to be taken by the reins, for nothing would convince Wiggins to mount the she-devil’s back.

The sun was sinking into the west when a very tired, bedraggled Lord Clappet limped into his room at the Golden Lion and flopped down on his bed, half wishing he were dead. Sheba was temporarily at the inn stable, too drunk to cause much ruckus, and with always a bucket of ale standing by to keep her relatively placid.

Clappet had one further thing to do, and that was accomplished by ringing for a servant, who informed him that yes, Mr. O’Kelly had left hours ago, early that morning, by the window. He hadn’t checked out, and he hadn’t paid his bill, but his room had been empty when the manager had gone to eject him at ten that same morning.

“Then I guess he won’t be back for dinner,” Lord Peter said, his heart falling to his toes.

The servant looked at him as though he were a lunatic. “I think we can safely say we shall not have the pleasure of Mr. O’Kelly’s company at this establishment again. And while we are on the subject of paying bills, milord, might I suggest you speak to the manager before going out this evening. There is a matter of a few weeks’ room and board, and the stable
...
”

Clappet fell back against his pillows. “I ain’t getting off this bed tonight. Call me the day after tomorrow,” he said, and closed his eyes to review the chaos of his future.

After a troubled half-hour, he saw one little glimmering of light. At least O’Kelly didn’t have Fandango’s papers from Cheveley Park. He couldn’t race the colt or sell or breed him as a thoroughbred without the papers. It gave him courage to get up off the bed and go to his dresser to look at the papers. They were gone. O’Kelly had stolen them—presumably that morning before he had sneaked out by the bedroom window without paying his bill. He must have done it while Nick and he were touring the pawn shops. His plan all along had been to get Fandango, then. Okay O’Kelly had set him up like a proper dupe, and he wasn’t going to get away with it—only he already had, and Clappet hadn’t a single idea where to find him, nor what to do about it if he did, by some miracle, manage to run the scoundrel to earth.

A low, animal moan escaped his throat. He felt worse than he had felt after his first beating at Harrow. At least that hadn’t been his own fault, and he hadn’t had to face Luten after it with a guilty conscience.

Norman Barten was delighted to find his sister safely at home. The news fell tamely on Sir Charles’s ear that O’Kelly had not kidnapped her, or at least ravished her in his carriage, but he was obliged to do the pretty and say he was “never so relieved in his life” to find her safe and sound. He had the pleasure of outlining to Trudie and her aunt what a rotter O’Kelly was and how thoroughly Clappet had been duped, and when this subject had been exhausted, he said, “Sorry to fly off on you, but
I
must see what I can do to give Clappet a hand with Sheba. I daresay she has got all of Bury St. Edmunds and half of Newmarket in a shambles by this time. Will you come along, Norman?”

Norman was nearly as eager as Sir Charles to view the debacle. “I must, since you haven’t got your carriage,” he pointed out, and the two of them flew to the rescue.

Their first stop was the inn, “For there’s no saying O’Kelly didn’t have to make a stop there, you know,” Sir Charles explained. “We might manage to nab him and get Clappet’s blunt back.”