The Baron’s Dangerous Contract

by Archer, Kate

  He was let into the building by a young boy who had not seemed to have encountered a washcloth recently. The boy was solemn for his age and had taken his card and examined it carefully, though Henry was in doubt as to whether he could read it. Seeming satisfied with its veracity, the boy led him up the stairs and down a long corridor. He motioned him to wait and slipped through an unmarked door.

  A good ten minutes went by before he was shown in. A good ten minutes went by while he wondered if he ought not just leave or was there not some other idea that might come to him. Still, he stayed standing in the corridor like any schoolboy waiting to be let into the headmaster’s chamber. Finally, the door opened again.

  Henry could not say precisely what he had expected from a moneylender’s place of business. He’d had vague ideas of dark corners and threatening visages. He’d supposed the proprietor would be a shifty-looking fellow—the sort one crossed the street to avoid passing after dusk. He was, therefore, surprised to find a light and airy drawing room of sorts. The furniture was of good quality, the carpet fine and recently brushed, and the windows had not a speck of dirt on them. The only aspect of the room that was not so usual was that the bookshelves held stacks of papers rather than books.

  The man who rose from the desk was exceedingly well-dressed in fine linen with nary a spot or fray to be seen. He was the sort of fellow who might be found behind the counter in any shop on Bond Street, who’d been hired for his looks and smooth demeanor.

  The man laid Henry’s card on the desk and bowed. “Lord Cabot, you are most welcome. I am Nathaniel Farthingale. Please take a seat. I venture a man of your importance may have many matters to attend to and so I will be careful of your time.”

  Henry took the seat in front of the desk. He did not, in fact, have many pressing matters to attend to. This was the only matter he wished to accomplish, though the man’s elegant manners went some way to putting him at ease. He’d wondered how he would explain the importance of the filly stakes to one not familiar with the ton’s way of living. This man seemed as one he could talk to and would understand his current difficulties.

  “May I ask,” Mr. Farthingale said, folding his elegant white hands, “by what means you came to discover me?”

  “Mr. Mackery recommended you,” Henry said. In truth, Mackery had not exactly recommended the man, but that seemed not worth mentioning. “We belong to the same club.”

  “Ah yes, gentlemen and their clubs,” Mr. Farthingale said. “May I inquire, how does Mr. Mackery get on? I had hoped to see him this past week and have been blighted by his inattention.”

  This, Henry thought, was veering into dangerous territory. He could hardly tell Farthingale that Mackery was set to fly to his Italian contessa. “Oh, he seemed well enough,” he said, seeking to adopt a breezy tone.

  Mr. Farthingale examined his folded his hands. “I see,” he said. “Well, one hopes he makes no rash decisions. I believe Italy is exceedingly hot in this season and I understand the malaria to be terribly unpleasant. Or so my friends who occupy those regions tell me.”

  Henry did his best to keep his face neutral. How on earth would Farthingale know that Mackery was about the fly the coop? He must have paid off Mackery’s servants. Despite his polished demeanor, Henry suspected this man of having associates who were not quite as elevated in their appearance and manners. Further, he must have associates spread out everywhere. He wondered if Mackery would find himself entirely out of Mr. Farthingale’s reach on those distant shores.

  “But enough about our mutual friend, Lord Cabot. I am at your service.”

  Henry was relieved to get off the subject of Mackery and said, “It’s just this, I suppose you know all about Newmarket?”

  “Knowing all about it would be too much to claim, I am afraid,” Mr. Farthingale said, straightening one of his cuffs. “But one can hardly be ignorant of its renown for horseracing.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said. “I have a fine filly. Bucephalus, descended from Selim.”

  “A filly? Named Bucephalus?” Mr. Farthingale asked.

  Henry was certain he saw the man’s lip tremble in mirth. He realized it was an unpleasant sounding name and had no idea why the original owner, Mr. Porter, had named her such, other than he was a foolish man, generally drunk. As much as he might wish for something like Athena or Juno, the filly had been named and he could not undo it. In any case, she’d been named after Alexander the Great’s beloved war horse. He really did not know what was so amusing about that.

  “Never mind the name, long story,” he said. “She’s a three-year-old and of course, there is the thousand guinea filly stakes. I am certain she can take the win.”

  “You must be both delighted and proud, Lord Cabot,” Mr. Farthingale said.

  “Yes, I suppose,” Henry said, wondering if he heard a touch of condescension in the man’s voice. “It’s just that, I don’t have the stake for it. At this moment. Naturally, there are some other expenses I will incur. So you see, it’s vital that I take out a loan. Two hundred guineas ought to cover it. When I win, I’ll have a thousand guineas in ready money.”

  “And if you do not win?” Mr. Farthingale asked.

  “She’ll win,” Henry said in all confidence. Really, there was no chance she would not. He’d never owned a horse so swift, and one who enjoyed it so much. One had only to point her in the right direction and she was off like a shot. Further, his groom had been brought in from his father’s estate—Rupert was a light and lithe man who had a remarkable way with horses. They could not lose.

  “Indulge me, though, my lord. What is to be done if you do not win?” Mr. Farthingale asked, eyeing him critically.

  Henry had not really considered that particular outcome and so had to think fast. He said, “Well, I could always apply to my father to cover it.”

  Mr. Farthingale laughed rich and deep. “You jest, certainly. There cannot be a soul in London who does not understand the intent of the Dukes’ Pact. I suspect your father will not cover any of your debts until you are suitably married.”

  Mr. Farthingale suddenly clapped his hands as if he had remembered something. “But my dear Lord Cabot, are felicitations in order? Can it be that you have secured the lady that is to be by your side for all of your days?”

  “No!” Henry said, lest the man become even more enthusiastic over nuptials that did not exist.

  “Very sad news, indeed,” Mr. Farthingale said gravely. “You see, my lord, what you ask is quite impossible. First, your proposed investment is in a horse race, a notoriously bad risk. Second, you have no means to repay the debt as your father has ranged himself against you. Were I to consider such a loan, it would be at great risk to myself and must be at usurious rates. That, as I consider myself a man of honor, I do not like.”

  “Is it just the rates, then?” Lord Cabot asked. “Really, I must have the funds, at whatever cost.”

  Mr. Farthingale did not answer immediately, but rather allowed a silence to fall between them. As Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Mr. Farthingale regarded him.

  “Whatever cost, did you say?” Mr. Farthingale said, fingering the corner of a paper that sat in front of him. “If you are certain that is the case, then perhaps something may be arranged.”

  *

  Like all Lord Mendbridge’s projects, the house in Newmarket had been specially built. The lord had waited with all patience for the right piece of land to come up for sale and then outbid his competitors ruthlessly. The house sat a quarter mile from the town center on a low rise. It was commodious, though not over-elegant. But for the drawing room, there was not a carpet in the whole of the first floor. Lord Mendbridge had been determined that this house be one that a fellow could walk in the front door with muddied boots and not worry about setting off the mistress of the house over it.

  Penny adored the place. It lacked fuss and pretension and was solely focused on the task at hand. The floor in her own bedchamber was covered in a patchwork of smaller carpets
that might be easily taken out and beaten to get rid of the dried mud and dust that was inevitably ground into them. Her aunt’s bedchamber was the only outlier, that particular room might be found in any elegant house in town and had a charming adjoining sitting room. Mrs. Wellburton had no need of easily-cleaned carpets—the lady had never set foot in a stable, entirely satisfied to meet her carriage at the front doors.

  They had arrived to the usual chaos. Though Montrose had sent servants up early to ready the house, it seemed no matter how early they were sent, there was always a last-minute panic. Housemaids ran this way and that, footman bumped into each other, and Montrose stood in the middle of it quietly sighing.

  Penny’s first priority was to see that Kitty Dell’s accommodations were in order before her friend arrived. She had brought a trunk full of things to add to Kitty’s bedchamber to make it more suitable for a lady of certain sensibilities—a delicate spread for the bed, a few throws to soften up the rather austere furniture, and a pile of small carpets that might be laid down in some attractive fashion.

  Kitty was a second cousin and the two girls had spent every holiday and summer together. Kitty lived nearby in Devon, and Lord Mendbridge and her father had a long connection. Penny adored Kitty, though the girl could not be less like herself. Kitty was bookish and rode a very staid horse at a very staid pace. She was far more educated than most females and often made some remark about a historical event or obscure scientific discovery that Penny was certain she’d never even heard of.

  For all that, though, Kitty was thoughtful and had a calmness of spirit that Penny admired. When they had been children, it was often Kitty who would talk Penny round when she was in the throes of some foolish heartbreak. If Penny would lament that her governess was a dragon, Kitty might point out that if the lady were a dragon, she was entirely mythical and not worth bothering about.

  Mrs. Wellburton bustled into Kitty’s assigned room, conveniently next to Penny’s own, and looked about at her niece’s handiwork.

  “Well,” she said, “I see you’ve done what you can with what you’ve brought. And yet, it is still too severe. Kitty is not one of you horse-mad types and will not understand the advantages of being able to drag mud everywhere with nary a care.”

  Penny looked critically around the room. It was true, it was nothing like Kitty’s own bedchamber, which was a riot of blue and violet silks and velvets, with everything soft and rounded.

  “I’ll have a footman bring in the peach brocade armchair from my sitting room,” her aunt said. “It’s well-padded and will be just the thing. As well, a side table next to it where she may stack as many books as she likes. And I believe I have another set of curtains put away somewhere—these look like they belong in a hunting lodge. Last, I am certain we can locate a larger carpet in the attics to soften the whole thing up.”

  Penny was relieved to have her aunt take charge. If she were to be honest, her various additions had done little to bring the sort of charm that would suit Kitty.

  Her aunt laid a hand on her arm. “We will not only have Kitty arriving on the morrow, but Lord Cabot comes too. I do not know why he comes so early, but your father says he has a horse in the thousand guinea and wants her well-settled before time.”

  Penny raised her chin and said, “I will act the proper hostess and no more. Lord Cabot will find the house rather chilly. I am only sorry that poor Kitty must put up with him.”

  Mrs. Wellburton laughed. “Poor Kitty, indeed. I would not worry about Miss Dell,” she said. “Though she can seem a retiring sort of person, she is not likely to be run over by a lord. The girl has a deal of sense and it has always been my observation that when she arrives at a considered opinion, she digs in her heels and sticks to it.”

  Penny nodded, knowing it was true. Kitty did have an enormous amount of sense. She need not even wonder what her friend would advise after hearing she’d wasted two seasons dining with Lord Cabot, only to find herself publicly insulted.

  “Now, leave this room to me,” her aunt said kindly. “I am certain you wish to be off to the stables to see how everything gets on.”

  *

  As the dawn broke, Henry watched his valet pack up the last of his things. He’d done it, he’d got the money. At what cost was another matter. He’d borrowed two hundred guineas and now he was in debt to Mr. Farthingale for three hundred guineas. It was usurious, though he’d argued for it and the moneylender had argued against it. Mr. Farthingale, if he were to be believed, had never lent funds to a gentleman for a stake in a horse race. He claimed it to be the very worst sort of gamble and far too likely to end in disappointment for everybody.

  Henry had taken the man through a history of his horse’s genealogy, her habits, her enthusiasm and single-mindedness when she galloped. When that had seemed to have little effect, he’d claimed that his friends would never allow him to fail to pay a debt. It was at the mention of Ashworth being a particular friend that Mr. Farthingale had seemed to relent. Even Cheapside had heard of Ashworth’s seeming unlimited ability to win at cards.

  Henry could see now how fellows like Mackery got so deep into a ditch. If he were to lose the thousand guinea stakes, just as Mackery had lost at cards, what then? Borrow from another moneylender to pay the first and so on until the whole scheme eventually collapsed under its own weight?

  At least he didn’t have to worry about losing. He’d never been so certain of a race in his life. At the end of it, he’d pay Mr. Farthingale and still have seven hundred guineas to spare.

  Now that his money problems were at an end, he must turn his attention to the other problem hanging over his head. He would set off for Newmarket this very morning. Miss Darlington awaited him and he could not say what his reception would be. He could rightly guess his reception from that old aunt of hers, the lady had been cool enough to him in the past to signal her distaste, now she must be positively livid.

  But then, perhaps Miss Darlington had never even told her aunt of their unfortunate conversation at the Hathaways’ ball. After all, she was a stalwart sort of girl. Would a lady who drove her own phaeton really go running off to tattle to an aunt? Perhaps not. He knew others had observed what had occurred, but would it have even been mentioned within Mrs. Wellburton’s hearing? There was every chance it had not been, after all one never gossips to the people involved in the gossip. Perhaps it would only be Miss Darlington herself that he must smooth things over with.

  As he had been thinking through everything that must come, he had been distracted by the near constant sound of feet hurrying up and down the hall. “Jarvis,” he said, “what on earth do they do out there?”

  Jarvis finished wrapping a neckcloth around a stiff paper roll in his own unique fashion to avoid creases. “It’s the other two valets,” he said. “Lord Dalton and Lord Grayson have both surprised them with a change of plans. They leave for Newmarket themselves in a few hours and that library downstairs is stacked with gentlemen’s items—nobody knows what belongs to who. Never you worry, though, I can’t say whether I rescued your own neckcloths from the piles, but I took the best quality. Let those other two sort out the rest how they might.”

  Henry felt the faintest flush creep up his cheeks. He had forgotten about his third problem. Dalton and Grayson would expect to find him at the club. He’d not told them he was staying with Lord Mendbridge. And the daughter they were so suspicious of.

  Now, he was to understand that particular problem would arrive well ahead of time. In fact, that particular problem would arrive only hours after he did so himself.

  *

  Penny had ordered the phaeton brought round. The house had its own modest stables with stalls for their pleasure horses, a roomy carriage house, and accommodations for the stablemaster and the grooms. As did their house in town, there was also a meeting room, though it was housed in Mrs. Payne’s tidy cottage.

  The horses that would race had been brought to a larger stable that rented out to participants and was far clo
ser to the turf. One did not wish to tire a horse before a race and Lord Mendbridge had early secured stalls in the best situated of them.

  Penny was eager to see how Zephyrus settled in. For that matter, she was eager to see how Bella got on with all the noise and frenzy of the environment. The grooms had been directed to exercise her nearby other horses and take her through town on occasion. Though Bella would not race, how she did on her oats and whether she seemed nervous after experiencing so much that was new would tell Penny much about her future.

  As they made their way through town, Penny could see that they were not the only people to arrive early. The streets were bustling with activity. She weaved and dodged until they had cleared the center and then trotted the horses toward their destination on the outskirts.

  Halting the phaeton, Doom jumped down and gave her a hand while the attendants employed by the stable raced to the scene. They would lead away her carriage to water the horses and put them in shade. Penny had been there many times before and recognized the grooms. They recognized her too and had speedily come to her aid as she was in the habit of tipping generously at the end of the races.

  “Them three seem on their toes,” Doom said of the grooms. “Not like some London lads what drag their heels.”

  Penny nodded, agreeing with the assessment though she had not asked for it.

  They made their way into the stables, Doom commenting on everything he saw as if he were the owner come to review his property.

  Lord Mendbridge’s horses were always kept together at the far end of the stable. Penny picked up her skirts to avoid the worst of the dust and made her way down the aisle.

  “Just here,” she said. “Moses, High Stepper, Renegade, Falcon. Zephryus, there you are,” she said, rubbing Zephryus’ muzzle. He bent his head toward her and she rubbed the inside of his ears—he’d had a special fondness for it since he was a foal.

  The horse seemed in good spirits and no worse for wear from his journey north. Doom pulled a step stool to the stall gate and climbed atop it to take over the ear rubbing. Zephyrus had a timetable all his own and if one were to shirk their duty in ear rubs, the horse was not opposed to kicking the door to express his displeasure.