The Baron’s Dangerous Contract

by Archer, Kate

  “I suppose Miss Darlington is devastated that she was not taken into supper by Lord Burke,” he said out of nowhere.

  Miss Dell looked at him quizzically. “Devastated may be too strong a term, Lord Cabot. Though you would be right in thinking the lady does not love an endless stream of meaningless praises and Lord Burke would never be guilty of it. He is a gentleman who says what he means.”

  “I imagine he’s said quite a lot recently,” Henry said, though even to his own ears he sounded petulant.

  “If he has, I am sure it was all full of good sense,” Miss Dell said. “Though I am not certain I can say the same for your friend.” Miss Dell paused for a moment, then said, “Why does Lord Grayson go on in such a manner?”

  Though Henry understood perfectly the meaning of Miss Dell’s query, he had no interest in a lengthy discussion about Grayson’s flirtations. He said, “Grayson goes on as he chooses. I only wonder that some people do not think carefully about their future, and what would be right, only because of a misunderstanding.”

  “Do you say I have misunderstood Lord Grayson’s temperament?” Miss Dell asked in some surprise.

  “We all understand him well enough,” Henry said. “I would only hope that everybody had such understanding about other people and did not make choices they would later regret. One ought to think of who one is actually suited to. That is all I say.”

  It was well that was all that he did say. Miss Dell’s attention, thankfully, was taken by Mr. Grettinger on her other side before she could press him to elaborate on his cryptic speech. God knew what he might have said next.

  All in all, it had been a most unsatisfactory evening.

  *

  The next day passed by with the house going on quietly, though tension hung in the air throughout Newmarket. The races would begin the following day and the town was anything but quiet. Stalls were being erected to sell everything from refreshment, to a reading of fortunes, to the inevitable thimblerigging games. Carriages filed in, and every scallywag from London who thought they might chance upon an opportunity had made their way there on every possible sort of conveyance.

  Lord Mendbridge’s men were hard at work building their private stand adjacent to the common seats. For himself, the lord would not have minded to sit in the general stands with whoever happened to turn up, but he would not place his sister or his daughter in such circumstances. One not so careful might find themselves sitting next to a pickpocket intent on relieving one of one’s purse or a farmer in his cups who might forget himself and pinch a knee.

  Penny had been to the stables and had found the place as calm as she had expected. Nobody wished to spook the horses or alarm them in any way. This was, as usual, only partially successful. The distant sounds of building were not entirely muffled and even if they had been, horses knew well enough when something was in the air. They felt it on the people who came to care for them, they felt it on their owners. It was as if some sort of vapor emanated from those who worked so hard to pretend nothing particular was in the works. Horses knew, they always knew.

  Penny and Doom had walked the line of stalls, listening to gentle stamping and soft nickers as they passed by, and checked on Zephyrus and Bella. Both horses were in good order, though she could see in each an alertness that signaled something coming. Bella seemed the less eager to discover what that might be, as she had backed herself in her stall. Penny noted her upright ears and her eyes a smidge too wide and knew she was right to not have entered the filly in the thousand guinea stakes. Zephyrus, to her delight and approval, seemed all eagerness and gently kicked his stall to be let out.

  Penny ordered that they both be turned out at a nearby field as that was likely to settle them. She knew that Zephyrus could not put his attention on both the atmosphere of change and the eating of grass that he liked so well. Bella was used to having Zephyrus nearby while she grazed and would take comfort in it.

  On race day, they would be let out at dawn for a short period, and then taken back into their stalls to rest for four hours. This, Penny judged, would keep Zephyrus in spirits while allowing his stomach to settle before the race. A horse’s spirit, she well knew, was half the battle. Further, allowing Zephyrus and Bella to go out when the other horses remained confined would have the benefit of irritating their stall mates. Though she knew of no horse language, she could well enough guess their thoughts on seeing other horses turned out. A vague discontent would settle over them and who could they blame but their caretakers? Let the other owners, who thought they knew so much, stick to their routines. She was certain she had the better of them.

  Of course, she knew Lord Cabot was in agreement with her, as they’d had many discourses over the subject. She supposed he could just as well choose another field for his filly.

  Now, Doom came jogging back from having turned out her horses. “Zephyrus is in fine form,” he said, “he done his usual race around the fence to show who’s in charge and then bucked a few times for good measure. Bella did as she always does, she watched him admiringly and then settled to graze.”

  Penny was satisfied that all was as it should be. “Let us go then, the boys will bring them in later. I wish you to rest today and go to bed early. The morrow will take all your strength and concentration.”

  “I’m ready, miss,” Doom said with all confidence. “This place is in me bones.”

  Penny smiled and they proceeded to walk the line of stalls back out to the carriage. She noted a slight boy hanging about Lord Cabot’s stall. His rider, no doubt.

  “What ho?” Doom suddenly called to the boy.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder at their approach. His eyes grew wide and he sprinted out of the stable. The dust he kicked up remained the only evidence that he’d ever been there.

  Penny looked at Doom quizzically. Her groom was looking just as quizzically at the spot where the young boy had so recently stood.

  “What is it, Doom? Are you acquainted with Lord Cabot’s rider? But why should he have raced off like that? He looked near terrified to see you.”

  A sudden thought came to Penny and she sighed. “You have not got into some scrape with the fellow? This is neither the time nor place for boyish scuffles.”

  “I ain’t fought nobody in a month and that ain’t the lord’s rider,” Doom said. “That there is the assistant to the grocer Mrs. Lowell has taken on. She dumped Slincher and went with Cumberbald on account of a pineapple and Turkish dates.”

  Much of what Doom ever said to her was mystifying, but Penny thought this particular bit of news was more obscure than usual.

  “His name is Freddy,” Doom went on, “and he hangs about the kitchen ever so much. Mrs. Lowell has taken a liking to him, but for myself I ain’t so sure. The two of them are forever gossipin’ about house business while he eats her cakes. As a general thing, it used to be me that was talkin’ and eatin’ the cakes.”

  Penny suppressed a smile. It seemed Doom had been replaced as eater of cakes and exchanger of news and was not particularly amused by it.

  “I got my suspicions, is all,” Doom went on. “Nothin’ solid-like, just a feelin.’ Where did this Cumberbald come from out of nowhere? How does he send that fellow with a pineapple? Mrs. Lowell says it’s a present fit for a king.”

  “Ah well,” Penny said, “I suppose Mr. Cumberbald is ambitious and as for that rascal, he ought to be out working and has slipped in to get a look at the horses. No harm done, he is only a boy, after all.”

  Doom did not seem convinced, but then Penny reasoned he would not be. The usurper of Mrs. Lowell’s affections was not likely to be looked upon kindly.

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Farthingale was well-pleased with the developments of the last twenty-four hours. The betting had ranged wildly on the three-year-old filly race. One moment, Cabot was expected to die of his injuries, and heavy betting on that particular development had leaned toward Tuesday. But then, as if the angels in heaven smiled down upon him, Cabot had left h
is bed and danced the night away at a ball. If there was anything that could convince of a death not being imminent, it was to find the patient dancing at a ball. All ideas of Cabot’s early demise had been cast aside. Farthingale had himself lurked in the bushes outside of Lord Beckman’s house to confirm that the rumors were true—that Lord Cabot was indeed on his feet again and would attend the races.

  He’d been more than satisfied over what he’d observed. Cabot had leapt down from his horse as if there had never been a thing wrong with him. Then, Mr. Farthingale had spent a deal of time crouched outside a window of the ballroom and was exceedingly pleased to see his quarry dancing with nary a limp.

  The following day, as the news spread like a fire across Newmarket, he’d risen early to seek out Mr. Plastermen. That gentleman had a few advantages when it came to the bet-taking trade. He had been in the business for years—he was no fly by night. Further, his London address was well-known, so there was little danger of the fellow attempting a dodge to avoid paying up. And most appealing, Mr. Plastermen ran a sophisticated operation—one could bet to win or lose, or which order the horses would come in, or by how many feet one horse would beat another, though that one was notorious for sparking arguments. One could even bet against another gentleman’s bet. If one knew Lord so and so had laid a hundred pounds on a particular horse that was unlikely to win, one might wager against the outcome. Every so often, an outlandish bet would surface—how many black horses would place, or if a horse with a white sock would win. How Mr. Plasterman kept it all straight, Farthingale was not certain other than knowing he was a great student of odds and chance. For himself, Farthingale did not much care how Plasterman did it, as he liked to ensure the odds ran in his favor through his own actions, and not from some dusty theory.

  Mr. Plastermen had been happy to accept a large bet against Cabot’s Bucephalus. Farthingale proclaimed he knew well enough that Bucephalus was the superior horse, but he was certain all was to be up for Cabot by Tuesday. He’d even heard, though he certainly had not, that relatives from all over England made their way to the deathbed. The early demise of the lord would leave horse and rider dejected and at sixes and sevens—they could not hope to win. If, Mr. Farthingale said with a convincing pound of fist in hand, they even found the strength to turn up at all! He was certain he’d convinced the man that the news of Cabot’s regained health had not yet reached his ears. It had, though. It most delightfully had. The bets would come in swift for Bucephalus, with only himself knowing that Bucephalus would not race from an entirely different cause.

  Just now, his bets having been secured and he having returned to his room at the Bull and Bell, he opened his door softly. He peered up and down the corridor to assure himself that the tavern’s halls were empty of ears that might listen. He shut it again and turned to Freddy.

  “I will wake you near dawn. You will want to get there early enough to gain access to the horse, but not so early that some night-watch or other would challenge what you do there. Dose the cup, deliver the berries, and be off. Having accomplished that little errand, our fortune is made.”

  Freddy eyed the brown sack in front of him. He opened it, peered in, and then tied it closed. “She ain’t gonna keel over though, is she?” Freddy asked. “I don’t like killin’ animals. I might eat a chicken with gusto, but I ain’t never gonna wring its poor little neck.”

  Mr. Farthingale examined his protégé, ever surprised by the boy’s delicacy of feeling. He was particularly bemused by the idea that Freddy was far more concerned with the horse than he apparently was with the health of its rider. He said, “She will not keel over, as you so delightfully phrase it. She will merely be out of sorts and in no condition to run a race. Nor will her rider be in any shape to turn up. They will take the day off together.”

  What he said was probably true, he did not expect the horse’s dose to be fatal. Nor did he wish it to be. He wished the dose to produce only an unsteadiness of gait. Just enough so that all would see the horse was indisposed without being able to pinpoint the exact nature of the complaint. A dead horse would invite too many unwelcome inquiries. He had guarded himself well enough by placing his bet against Cabot so early in the day, it would be entirely believable that his bet had been laid because he had been in ignorance of the lord’s recovery. Not, that he had known there was anything wrong with the horse. Still, he would prefer nobody look at him and his bets too closely.

  On the other hand, he was not particularly experienced with poisons. He had a vague idea that such substances could not be entirely relied upon to do exactly as one hoped. He must be ready for any circumstance that might arise.

  As always, he had considered his options and chosen two different strategies. If the poison were not enough to affect the horse, then he must hope its rider was incapacitated. Finding another suitable rider on the morning of a race was highly unlikely.

  For now, things went along swimmingly. The idea that Cabot was recovered and the gentleman’s horse had all along been the superior creature was spoken of everywhere. The bets flowed heavily in favor of Bucephalus. With any luck, he would leave Newmarket with a tidy sum and Lord Cabot would still be in debt to him for three hundred guineas. That particular amount might not be readily paid, but it would be paid eventually.

  Business was, as always, moving along at a satisfying clip.

  *

  Dinner that evening at Mendbridge Cottage would be a quiet affair. At least, a quiet dinner would be attempted, but Penny well knew that Petit would turn up at the door to the dining room more than once before the meal was through. As a usual thing, there would be multiple matters that would come up at the last minute from the stables. This year, her father had four horses in the races and so she might multiply the interruptions. Other gentlemen might abhor their stablemaster interrupting their dinner, but Lord Mendbridge would abhor it if Petit didn’t.

  Mr. Thornbridge was to come and dine, an old friend of Mrs. Wellburton from her married days. He was a widower and Penny often thought he was a bit soft on her aunt, though he had made no move over the years to express his admiration in any firm fashion. What Mr. Thornbridge had displayed, over their many meetings, was a singular lack of information when it came to horses. For that reason, he would be seated next to Mrs. Wellburton, that being as far as he could be placed away from her father. Lord Mendbridge was tolerant of the gentleman, as he was so favored by the lord’s sister, but nobody would think to burden him with the man’s company over an entire meal. That would leave Kitty to Mrs. Wellburton’s other side, as she also had little interest in horses. Lord Mendbridge was exceedingly fond of Kitty, but this night would not be the moment to test that fondness. The lord generally had horses on his mind and the night before a race would entirely crowd out any other possible subject.

  That would leave Penny to her father’s left and Lord Cabot to his right. She had little hope of being much engaged by Mr. Thornbridge on her other side, as he would be too much engaged with her aunt.

  At least it was not to be a long and drawn out affair. Lord Mendbridge was of the opinion that the night before the races ought to go on soberly and end early.

  Penny and Kitty had gone down at the last possible moment, so as not to be kept lingering in the drawing room with Lord Cabot. Neither wished to extend any particular conversation with that gentleman. Late last evening, Kitty had confided to Penny her difficult exchanges with the lord over supper. The man spoke in riddles, petulant-sounding riddles. What he had not done, to Penny’s surprise, was unveil himself as a scholar. Rather, Kitty said, he appeared every bit the ox head she’d initially taken him for.

  Penny had not known what to make of it, other than to assume that the lord had some other grand plan in mind. Perhaps he thought to continue to make himself look dull for a time, so that the sudden revealing of vast quantities of knowledge would be all the more stunning. She supposed she should not bother to hazard a guess, as the lord was a confounded sort of person who might be counted on
to enact any sort of bizarre scheme. Had he not toyed with her for months before revealing his true self?

  Penny had told Kitty of Lord Cabot’s having gone to a moneylender so that he might enter his horse in the race. Kitty said it was only further confirmation of Lord Cabot being an ox head, as there could be nothing more idiotic. When Penny had hinted that Lord Cabot might have an eye on her dowry, Kitty had laughed and said, “He’d have to pry it from my hands while pointing a pistol at my head.”

  Penny had found herself cheered by that notion. If Lord Cabot was so foolish as to bury himself in debt, he could well pull himself out of it by his own devices. He would not be rescued by Kitty Dell.

  Now, as they entered the drawing room, Penny saw that Mr. Thornbridge had cornered Lord Cabot in a conversation. She was all but certain her father, who now stood at the window, had been in the vicinity and quickly taken himself off. Mrs. Wellburton sat on a sofa, listening to her friend’s one-sided discussion and nodding in approbation over his considered opinions regarding the Luddites and their condemnation of lace-making machines.

  “Ah, there they are!” Lord Mendbridge said upon seeing Penny and Kitty enter the drawing room. He said it with perhaps more enthusiasm than might be expected and Mrs. Wellburton understood her brother perfectly.

  She rose and said, “Let us go through.”

  Penny found the dining table was one of two worlds. On her aunt’s end, it was filled with news of Mrs. Wellburton’s old neighborhood and endless merriment—apparently a local dowager was up to her old tricks and everybody was terrified that the traditional Maypole was not to come off, as the elderly lady did not find it seemly.

  On Penny’s end of the table, it was all speculation on the morrow’s events, with the rather regular appearance of Petit come to whisper some matter into her father’s ear. They had come to dessert before Penny was at all confident that they had seen the last of the stablemaster for one evening.