The young Viscount Wrackby made as if to clap Dagonet on the shoulder. Then he recalled that Devil Dagonet wasn’t the kind of chap with whom you got too familiar, so he wrung his hand instead, memorizing the reply he had just heard to share later with his cronies.
“Oh, never better! You’re the very fellow anyone could the most wish to see. Kendal and Frost are here. You remember them from Paris? Come, after this match, we’ll give you a game of dice! There’s a tent set up over yonder. You know that Crockford’s opened a hazard saloon in Newmarket town? It promises to outshine his own Hell in St. James’s Street.”
A few moments later, Dagonet was walking with a group of the most fashionable dandies, any one of whom would have given half his fortune if he could only affect quite that air of casual menace, to the spot where they could best see the start of the next race: a match between a colt and a filly.
“You’ll lay a pony on Mr. Lane’s bay colt out of Scalper, Dagonet?” Wrackby lowered his voice to a whisper. “A ‘cert’, sir! The filly has been made safe. The ring men shout themselves hoarse over a fixed thing.”
“I’d not back him,” Dagonet said with a smile. “My guess is that the filly will win.”
Lord Kendal instantly followed his lead, and stared at Wrackby for a moment through his quizzing glass. “Indeed, she will, sir! The colt has no wind; without wind he has no air; and with no air, sir, he’s no dandy and no gentleman, but a scurvy rogue. We’ll have none of him! I’m for the mare.” He took out his book, where all his bets were recorded.
“But Golden Rule has took poison! I had it from one of the touts. The bay colt has more wind than the filly, sir. I’ll lay you a hundred on him.”
“And the blacklegs are in on the game, Wrackby,” Dagonet said. “Save your guineas and I’ll take them off you at hazard.”
Wrackby hesitated. Dagonet had the infuriating habit of almost always being right and now Kendal would benefit, but it was too late. There was a roar as the two horses came under starter’s orders. The bay colt was fretting and dancing under his jockey. He was a sleek, nervous horse, and the filly who was supposed to be poisoned certainly looked sleepy in comparison.
“Such a steed was Cyllarus, tamed to the rein of Amyclean Pollux,” Kendal drawled. He did not seem in the least concerned that the filly was so quiet.
“Hardly Amyclean Pollux, my dear chap,” Dagonet said smoothly. “The jockey’s an English John Bull. But the colt is mishandled, wouldn’t you say?”
“Never say so, sir!” Wrackby exclaimed. “Mr. Lane has the best lads in England.”
“Not unless he has the hire of one John Catchpole. I never saw a better man with a horse.”
“Catchpole?” Frost said. “I’ve heard of him: used to run Lord Bentwhistle’s stables in Hertfordshire. An Exmoor chap, wasn’t he?”
Dagonet smiled. “The very man. Is he still there?”
“Devil take me if I know, sir!”
“I care nothing for your Exmoor men, Frost,” Wrackby said. “I still say it’s the nag, not the filly, wins the money. I’ll stake you all a dinner he’ll win by two lengths.”
Lord Kendal turned and quizzed the Viscount until he blushed. “What, sir? He’s not worth a doxy’s promise.”
The horses were off. Within a hundred feet, the bay colt stumbled and checked, and Golden Rule, who was supposed so reliably to lose, won by several lengths.
“I’m ruined! I had a hundred guineas against her.”
“And a dinner, sir!”
Some time later, bemoaning their losses with a curious lack of conviction, the dandies retired to the gaming tent, and ordered the most expensive wine they could find.
Led by Dagonet, the conversation soon become a debate over the virtues of the various training methods espoused by different horsemen, but nothing more was to be learned about John Catchpole. Still later that night, after a comfortable meal consisting of soup, sauces of lobster and oysters, various dressings, sausages and roast beef followed by jellies, tarts, nuts, cheese and fruit, all liberally washed down with claret and port, the gentlemen found themselves around the gaming tables at Crockford’s, wagering deep against the rolls of the dice.
At four in the morning, mysteriously still almost sober, though admired as the wit of the evening by his fellows, Charles de Dagonet walked thoughtfully back to his lodgings the richer by four hundred guineas and a vital piece of information about a certain Exmoor man.
The next morning early he set out for the famous Hertfordshire training stables of one Lord Bentwhistle.
* * * *
“And what the devil do you have against my grandson, miss?” snapped Percival Blythe, Marquis of Somerdale.
Catherine looked steadily at the old man facing her across the neat parlor in his rented rooms in Bath. He was nothing like she had expected. Devil Dagonet’s irascible grandfather was as round as a plum and about the same color. The florid cheeks were haloed by a shock of snow-white hair and whiskers. His left leg, in a soft woolen stocking to relieve the pain of his gout, was propped up on a needlepoint stool. At every other sentence he pounded the floor beside his chair with a silver-topped cane, while the brass buttons on his chest leapt with the effort.
He glared at her. “Well? I can tell you don’t care for him. He’s a damned rascal, and what’s worse, he broke his word to me; but the jewelry was his, and there’s no female on this earth can resist him.”
“Then I hope I am the exception, my lord,” Catherine said.
“Do you, by God?”
At which point, Lady Montagu tried to intervene. “Father, you cannot imagine how dreadful it was. Dagonet threatened me with a pistol. In my own house!”
“My house, madam!”
“Yes, well. Miss Hunter cannot do other than despise him. He had the temerity to insult her in front of us all.”
The old gentleman glared at Catherine once again. “So he kissed you! If I were sixty years younger, I’d do the same myself.”
“I see where Dagonet gets his arrogance, my lord. Had you done so, I should have reserved just the same distaste for you.”
“You’re a damned impertinent baggage, young lady!”
Catherine’s blood was up. “And you, my lord, are a despotic old man.”
Lady Montagu’s mouth dropped open, but to her immense surprise, before her father could reply, her companion began to laugh.
“This is too absurd, my lord,” Catherine said, between gasps of merriment. “I pray you will forgive me, for I mean no disrespect.”
Then suddenly the marquis was laughing too, in a great shout of good humor, leaving Lady Montagu to wonder how on earth the unprepossessing Miss Hunter had managed to win over her father with less effort and more completely than she or her own children had ever done.
* * * *
Later that day, Catherine sat alone at the harpsichord. Softly she sang the words to the old song:
“We lingered where the water flows; sweet promises her eyes did make.
I gave her but a single rose, but she my heart and soul did take.
I am a knight without a grail; I am a tower without a dove;
I am a ship without a sail; and lost am I without my love.”
It was the song she had been singing when Dagonet found her in the grotto. She shook her head, furious that the words should bring her a memory of his sea-green gaze. It was no use. However carelessly he had used her, she must know more about the mystery of Devil Dagonet. What she had learned from Mary clarified nothing, really. From what Lord Somerdale had said earlier, there had been some matter of honor, of a promise made between gentlemen. That had certainly been part of the reason for Dagonet’s banishment and his grandfather’s rage.
The marquis was of exactly the type and the generation to forgive or even admire an entanglement with a woman. What had he said to Lady Montagu? “I never gave a damn about the girl, ma’am. And I don’t give a damn about young Charles showing up at Lion Court. Do that pompous son and insufferable daug
hter of yours good to get a shaking up. I’m damned if I wouldn’t have liked to see their faces! But Dagonet broke his word to me, and he can go to the devil where he belongs as far as I’m concerned. I just don’t want any more impertinent letters on the subject from your daughter, ma’am.” Then seeing Catherine’s expression, he had turned to her. “And what the devil do you have against my grandson, miss?”
At which point, Catherine realized quite how much the old man had been hurt by the discovery of his grandson’s betrayal, and quite how much there was that she could not fathom about Devil Dagonet. How could he be both musician and swordsman, soldier and horseman, risk his life for the sake of helpless creatures, yet carelessly destroy the hearts of women? What had really happened by Lion Court Lake? Why had he arranged to meet Millicent Trumble? He might be a ruthless rake, but to her chagrin, she was forced to admit she could not stay indifferent. Somehow she must discover the truth.
During the rest of her stay in Bath, however, her resolution was not to be tested. The marquis did not again refer to Dagonet or to the reason for his disgrace. Instead Catherine played chess or cards with the old man, entertained him at the harpsichord, and argued the issues of the day. The pale sun of October gave way to November’s gray skies. They had been in Bath almost a month when, at last, she and Lady Montagu packed up to go on to London. Lord Somerdale hobbled out with his cane to see them off.
“Good-bye, Papa,” Lady Montagu said, fussing with her gloves. “Shall we see you in London this winter?”
“Bah! I’m damned if I’d make the journey for the sake of your whey-faced offspring. Now, if Miss Hunter would promise me a game of chess, I’d come for the sake of one more checkmate.”
“You’ll not get it, my lord,” Catherine replied with a laugh. “I’m determined not to be beaten again.”
The old man’s face was suddenly wistful. “We’re a good match, young lady. It was only Dagonet who could never be bested. I’d like to see you in a match with him. But then you don’t care for him, do you?”
“I think my feelings match yours, Lord Somerdale. He can go to the devil as far as I’m concerned.”
He gave her an extremely shrewd glance. “Yes, I was afraid your feelings might match mine, my dear. He’s a damnable fellow! But if he should ever cause any hurt to you, he’ll answer to me for it.”
Catherine was furious to find that her voice was a little unsteady. “How could he possibly injure me, my lord?” she lied. “I am immune to Devil Dagonet.”
Chapter 10
It was still early in October when Charles de Dagonet rode casually into Bentwhistle Park. All the way from Newmarket, he had not allowed himself to think once about Catherine Hunter. If he did, her fresh scent would fill his nostrils. He would be haunted by a vision of her as she had looked in the grotto and on the moor: her face, framed by a cloud of tumbled dark hair, flushed with color; her wet muslin dress clinging to the curves of her breasts and thighs. He would be pierced by the memory of the sweet taste of her mouth and the feel of her soft hip beneath his palm. He cursed softly and deliberately, though with a certain acerbic acceptance of irony.
Whatever tender feelings she might have unexpectedly aroused, he could never allow her to be part of his life. As long as the mystery about his past conduct remained, there was nothing he could in honor offer her.
He was an outcast and made his living at hazard. She was the respectable daughter of an old benefactor and the sister of his best friend’s wife. It was to be sincerely hoped that she was so disgusted by him that she had forgotten all about him.
He entered the stable yard and was accosted at once by a groom, who doffed his cap respectfully at the sight of the powerful-looking gentleman mounted on a silver-gray Thoroughbred.
“May I be of any help, sir?”
“You might provide a trough for the gray, young fellow, and walk him out a little. Here’s a guinea for your trouble. Then I should like a word with your head stableman. I’m in the mind to purchase a new mount.”
“Why, thank you, sir! Much obliged. That’d be Mr. Grimes, sir.”
“Mr. Grimes, is it? I don’t recall the name, but I’ve been away in the Peninsula. Has he been here long?”
“These five years, sir. Since I first started as a lad.”
“He must be a good man, then, for I just saw a couple of Lord Bentwhistle’s nags win up at Newmarket. Seems I remember some of the horses from the old days, too. Who was the trainer then?”
“A Mr. Catchpole, sir. But he’s gone now from Hertfordshire. There was some kind of trouble about him, had something on his mind, most like, and he took to drink. The master turned him off without a reference.”
“Did he, though? Whatever became of the chap?”
“Went to London, as I heard tell, sir. Came to a sticky end, I wouldn’t be surprised. He was a rough customer after a bout with the bottle. Though good enough with the horses, he took to beating up us lads. I had a hard knock or two from him myself. Well, the master wouldn’t stand for it, and Catchpole was turned off. None of us was sorry to see him go, and that’s a fact. Never heard of him since, and good riddance.” The groom spat into the cobbles. “Why, here’s Mr. Grimes now, sir. Good day to you.”
As the groom led the gray away to water, Dagonet turned to the newcomer and engaged him in a knowledgeable conversation about Thoroughbreds. They were occupied for over an hour, but as it turned out, there was nothing in Lord Bentwhistle’s stables that interested him, after all, and much to the regret of Mr. Grimes, Devil Dagonet rode away without making a purchase. He had what he had come for, however, and the silver Thoroughbred was turned at a spanking trot for that great city where anyone with something on his mind could disappear for five years or longer: London.
* * * *
Catherine and Lady Montagu arrived at Mrs. Clay’s Leicester Square residence quite exhausted. The journey to London from Bath had taken two long days. The weather had been terrible, so that the turnpike was mired in mud. All her life Catherine had longed to see the capital city, but as they drove in there was a solid downpour of rain, and Lady Montagu insisted on having the windows drawn tight and curtained. Thus she saw nothing of all that glory, splendor, and bustle that she had dreamed of admiring. She caught the briefest glimpse of the gracious square with its imposing modern facades as she was hurried into the house, before they were greeted by Charlotte Clay herself.
Lady Montagu was instantly whisked into the elegant parlor, which boasted a roaring fire that crackled and flamed in the most inviting way, while Catherine, in her damp coat, was directed to oversee the servants’ disposal of the luggage.
As the ladies left her in the hall, she could not help but overhear Mrs. Clay comment to her mother. “Really, Mama, why did you have to bring that impossible country companion? Dagonet saw right away what kind of woman she is. I trust you will not expect me to entertain her in my drawing room. Mr. Clay was always so particular about maintaining the highest standards of propriety amongst one’s acquaintance. But let me introduce Lady Pander, my most particular friend. Lady Pander and I always agree on every detail, especially on this.”
Catherine glanced through the open door to see a sharp-faced woman in blue silk, who simpered a little as she bobbed a curtsy to Lady Montagu. The ladies were barely seated before Lady Pander launched into a description of the society that had already arrived in London for the season.
“Lady Beauville is reliably said to have been seen traveling with the Viscount Fenchurch, quite unchaperoned! I trust it can’t be true, but I do have it on the best authority that Miss Hope was compromised by Lord Albers, and yet he won’t marry her, they say. My dears, she is quite ruined. Of course, I shall not spread the tale, but it’s on everyone’s lips.”
Good Lord! There were definitely compensations to being excluded from such vicious company. Catherine grimaced to herself and concentrated on the correct disposition of Lady Montagu’s bandboxes, while the drawing room conversation dropped to a whisper. Yet
the ladies’ gossip was soon interrupted by a hammering at the front door, announcing the arrival of Sir George Montagu. The footman showed him into the drawing room, where he was greeted by an effusion of arch comments.
Catherine was quietly explaining to a maid how Lady Montagu liked her morning chocolate served, when George’s voice rose to a bellow.
“Yes, it is true! The talk of the whole damned town! Begging your pardon, Lady Pander. He’s here in London, and lording it up with a crack high-perch phaeton and pair. Been here almost six weeks. I met Lord Kendal the other day and the fellow had the nerve to tell me that Dagonet was fast becoming the favorite in the Prince’s set. He’s even been elected to White’s. He’s gambling deeper than any of them. Yet the money’s coming from horse trading. They say he’s taken up with the lowest crowd in the city: horse dealers and touts and such like!”
“La!” Lady Pander cried. “How delicious! You can’t mean it.”
“You understand, Lady Pander,” Charlotte interrupted. “We have quite overthrown any connection. Charles de Dagonet is no longer considered to be a member of our family.”
“That’s what I told Kendal, ma’am,” George continued. “I informed him that after the behavior which Dagonet displayed at Lion Court and the scandal that caused the marquis to disinherit him, we could trust he would never be accepted again by polite society. And Kendal had the effrontery to fix me with that dammed quizzing glass of his and insult me to my face.”
“What did he say?” Lady Pander asked.
“He said, ‘I wish I’d had the presence of mind to drown all my past mistresses, sir. I could have saved myself a great deal of trouble.’ Those were his very words.”
There was a shocked silence for a moment. Catherine could easily imagine Lady Pander’s smirk, as she saved up this on-dit to spread around town.
“Well,” Mrs. Clay commented at last. “My late husband would not have found Dagonet defensible. Mr. Clay had the highest of standards. But what can you expect from someone who is half French? Bad blood will out. That the other gentlemen tolerate him for their amusement in the gaming hells is all very well, but we can rest easy that we shall not encounter our cousin at Almack’s or in any well-bred drawing room.”
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