How To Marry a Rake

by Deb Marlowe

  ‘I doubt it,’ Stephen said with a frown. ‘It’s not their usual mode of operation. Normally the legs allow a clear favourite to build. Once the betting is high, they then arrange something, a laming or a poisoning right in the last hours before the race. When the horse shows poorly or doesn’t run, they rake in a fortune. There’s no profit to be made if the horse disappears before the bets are made.’

  Toswick shrugged. ‘Perhaps Ryeton’s wife had a hand in it. She’s been giving him the devil of a time.’

  ‘I think I like her already,’ Matthew said with a grin.

  ‘That’s because you haven’t met her,’ Toswick answered with a shudder. ‘She’s a sly thing, just the sort of woman to come up with such a bizarre way to punish a man.’

  ‘Bizarre, but effective,’ retorted Matthew.

  Toswick’s horse began a restless dance. ‘Let’s be off, then. Care to come with us, Manning?’

  ‘Thank you, Toswick, but I’m still searching for a decent match up for Fincote Park.’

  ‘Very well, then.’ Impatient, the earl’s horse pranced again, setting off several other mounts. But Toswick paused. ‘You might consider fillies. My Butterfly runs a very decent trial and I hear that Halford has brought over an exceptional animal from France. You should go and have a look at her. I wouldn’t be averse to a match between them.’

  It was a very generous offer. Stephen was grateful for it, even if he did have something bigger and better in mind, thanks to Mae. Had there ever been another like her? Gad, he’d barely presented her with his dilemma, yet she’d sized up the situation and seized upon a brilliant, all-encompassing plan. ‘Thank you, Toswick. I’ll do that now.’

  The group departed and Stephen made the rounds of several stables, including Mae’s father’s. Barty Halford had spared no expense, renting space on Mill Hill, near to some of the greatest trainers of the day. Well built and modern were these stables too, with spacious loose boxes and more than adequate ventilation. Stephen spent some time observing Halford’s famous filly, but he unobtrusively sought out Ornithopter as well.

  Mae was right. The horse was no beauty, but Stephen dallied, gossiping with the stable hands until a groom took the horse out for exercise. He saw for himself how the animal carried a gorgeous stride, long and smooth.

  The sight of it renewed his determination. Pratchett and Ornithopter. What a contest it would be—between two such magnificent animals! Their names—and Fincote Park’s along with them—would be spoken for years. But he had to find Pratchett first, for any of it to be feasible. He moved on, praying for a hint of the information he needed.

  Everywhere the talk was of Ryeton’s predicament and Pratchett’s fate. Everyone had an opinion, some claimed more knowledge than they ultimately possessed, but none cursed Ryeton with more animosity than Viscount Landry, whom Stephen found loitering about the training stables.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? Not an ounce of generosity in the dastard,’ the viscount said, leaning heavily on a paddock rail. ‘The man is black of heart and soul.’ He glanced askance at Stephen and squinted in the sun. ‘You cannot say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still there, when it happened.’ Stephen kept his tone casual at first. Wind blew sweet and strong from the Heath. He lifted his face, let it wash over him before he spoke again, with just a shade of bitterness to colour his words. ‘The rotter can say all he likes about me and my enterprise, but I’ll not hear him disparage a good man who gave his all for king and country.’

  ‘Rotter,’ Landry agreed glumly. ‘That’s the nicest thing you could say about the man.’

  Stephen studied his old associate. Something was going on between him and Ryeton. And Landry still wasn’t talking about it. In Stephen’s mind, that only highlighted the significance of the thing. He pushed away from the fence. ‘This breeze is drying me out. Care to stop in a pub?’

  Landry’s expression brightened, yet he hesitated.

  Ah. The wind blew in that direction too, did it? ‘Come, I’ll buy you a drink, man. Enemy of my enemy and all that.’

  ‘All right, then. I suppose you’re right—those of us who can see Ryeton for what he is should stick together, eh?’

  Stephen merely clapped the man on the back and hoped he was still a talkative drunk.

  He was—and a melancholy one as well—but he took a damned long time to get there. The hour grew late and Stephen’s pockets grew lighter, and though Landry eventually bemoaned fate and bad fortune at the gaming tables, hard-hearted wenches and tight-fisted fathers, he steadfastly declined to say more about Ryeton.

  His refusal piqued Stephen’s interest even further. He wanted to curse in frustration when Landry slammed down his pint and declared he must go.

  ‘Toswick’s giving a card party, you know.’ Morose, he looked down at the disarray of his clothing. ‘Going to try to weasel my way in. Should go and change, but there’s no use. Even my valet has abandoned me.’ He turned to stare into his empty tankard, his lower lip quivering in drunken abandon. ‘I don’t even have a clean neckcloth to my name.’

  Staring at the viscount, Stephen executed several slow and solemn blinks. He hadn’t drunk nearly as much as Landry, but the viscount didn’t need to know that. When a man dived so deeply into his cups, he rarely liked to go alone.

  ‘Come as my guest,’ Stephen said at last. ‘I’ve linen. I’ll loan you some.’ His gaze traced a wobbly path up and over the man. ‘A clean shirt, too.’

  ‘Will you, by God?’ Landry slammed his pewter mug down again. ‘Tapster! I’ll have another. There’s still a bit of generosity left in this world and I would drink to it!’ He downed the last mug in one long swallow. ‘Manning …’ he staggered to his feet ‘… you’re as good a friend as I’ve ever had. Must get into that party, you see. The play won’t be deep, but the company … ‘

  ‘I’m happy to help … ‘

  ‘Halford will be there. Man’s got more gold than Midas, or so they say. Looks like a troll, though.’

  Stephen’s stomach twisted. He’d forgotten Landry’s determination to meet the ‘new heiress’. ‘Shall we go? We’ve no wish to be late, I’m sure.’

  ‘He’s got a daughter, did you know?’ Landry’s gaze had gone suddenly intense.

  ‘I did know.’ Firmly he ignored the sudden vision of how Mae had looked at Toswick’s last-evening entertainment, glowing from the inside and casting all those about her into the shade. Or this morning, when she had shone brighter than the sun.

  ‘Still haven’t managed to meet her. Mean to, though.’ He sighed. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Come along, then, and get dressed. I’ll introduce you.’ And then he’d make sure that Landry stayed far away from Mae. Surely there was another woman of means in Newmarket he could be turned towards.

  Stephen finally coaxed the man away and got him safely to Titchley. To be safe, he sneaked him up the back steps and rang for a hot pot of coffee. He’d thought the viscount would sober up a little as they dressed, but Landry appeared to be feeling the delayed effects of his afternoon of drinking.

  At last the viscount was poured back into his superfine. They stood a moment, facing their reflections in the room’s small mirror. Stephen had heard the ladies liken Landry to a Greek god. He was indeed handsome, with strong, even features and dark hair just a touch too long. Cut specially to tempt the ladies’ fingers, likely. He bent down to ruffle his own short curls. A sour twang thrummed in his gut at the thought of the viscount making his bow to Mae.

  Higher aspirations.

  He shook his head. Landry was his friend, but surely not even Halford would crave a title so badly that he’d sell his daughter to the man.

  Without warning, Landry broke down. Stephen stepped back in alarm. The viscount’s hand braced on the mirror’s frame, his body shook with the force of his sobs. ‘It’s a damned cruel world, that’s what it is,’ he wailed. ‘I vow—a title’s a damned heavy thing.’ He met Stephen’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Al
most, I could wish myself a second son. Free. Like you.’

  With visible effort, he pulled himself together. Sniffing audibly, he reached into a pocket for Stephen’s handkerchief. ‘But I’m not. I’ve had my time in the sun and I’ll pay the piper like a gentleman should.’

  He tried to clap Stephen on the shoulder, but ended up leaning heavily against him. ‘I wish better for you, Manning. I do. I pray you never know the depths to which a man is forced to sink, the things he must do, if only to survive.’

  Ears pricked, ignoring the tingling travelling down his spine, Stephen steadied him. ‘Sounds like a heavy load you’re carrying.’

  ‘You can’t know,’ Landry sighed in answer.

  ‘You might want to share it—bound to lighten your burdens.’

  ‘No.’ The viscount heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘I will soldier on, as so many of noble blood have done before me.’ He pushed away. ‘Come. It won’t do to be late.’

  After his outburst, Landry appeared to sink into a daze. He kept silent as they made their way along the long, dark corridor. He stalked down the stairs, almost as if he’d forgotten he had a companion. Stephen hustled along beside him, his mind racing far faster than their feet. He had to find a way to get the viscount to talk.

  They’d reached the marbled hall. Again the parlours to the right had been opened up to form one great room. Warmth and laughter drifted from beyond the doors. Stephen made one last desperate attempt as the butler prepared to admit them. ‘You don’t suppose Ryeton will be here this evening, do you?’ he drawled low to Landry. ‘I’d heard he was chasing word of Pratchett all about the countryside.’

  ‘Ryeton?’ The word appeared to clear the mists in Landry’s head. He sprang to life, spinning about and glaring at Stephen as if he’d never seen him before. ‘That black-hearted cretin? He’d better not be within, or I’ll draw his cork for him!’ He stepped close and grasped a handful of Stephen’s coat. ‘Do you know what the dastard has done to me? Pratchett was mine! Ryeton stole him out from under my nose!’

  Chapter Eight

  Stephen was not in attendance at Lady Toswick’s card party. Despite her disappointment—she couldn’t wait to inform him of Ryeton’s troubles with his wife and mistress—Mae was having a fine time.

  The countess’s long, converted parlour was nicely filled with card tables and lit with brightly glowing sconces. Mae’s father was in a good mood, her mother was relaxed and the room was filled near to bursting with the cream of Newmarket society. Even better, Mae was making definite progress towards her own goals.

  Lord Corbet’s friends, to Mae’s intense satisfaction, were all in attendance. Addy, with significantly raised brows and widened eyes, introduced her to a handsome young nobleman. Lord Banks partnered her in whist, and when they weren’t trouncing Addy and her husband, they talked of Paris and of horses and of where in Europe the best riding might be pursued.

  Eventually the game ended and they continued their conversation alone. The baron was a perfect gentleman; his gaze never once lingered on her, despite the elaborate embroidery gracing the high collar and low bodice of her gown—and the jewellery she’d selected just to invite attention to it. She sighed and, remembering Mr Fatch, listened to him discuss the renovations he planned for his own stables and his hope to start up a stud. Mae, who had visited the Continent’s finest breeders with her father, only listened, asked leading questions, and pretended to be impressed, even when it became clear she knew more about the subject than he.

  ‘I hate to give her up,’ Lord Banks assured Addy when she came to fetch her, but Mae felt no desire to linger in his company. It was a tedious business, this acclimating a gentleman’s palate. Conversation was far more interesting when a man had already had a full taste—she blushed at the double entendre—as Stephen Manning had.

  In perfect unison with this thought, a prickle blossomed on the back of her neck. She spun towards the door just as the butler announced his name.

  Pleasure bubbled up inside her, erupting into a slow grin. She had hoped to see Stephen tonight. But certainly neither she nor anyone else had expected to see him framed in the doorway with his neckcloth tangled in another man’s fist. The unknown gentleman spoke low and urgent, very close to Stephen’s face. He didn’t appear to be daunted by it. In fact, he appeared to be listening intently. She was too far away to hear any of their conversation, but like a ball on a bowling green, the word Pratchett rolled across the room, bouncing and ricocheting from table to table.

  Her grin fractured into a chuckle of delight. She’d thought she be forced to put Stephen’s mission on hold this evening, but perhaps they could find a way to work on both goals at once.

  The two men separated at their host’s approach. Mae whispered to Addy and left her to head towards the group. She knew the instant Stephen’s gaze fell on her, for the weight of it warmed her from the inside out. She smiled, but he lowered his brows at her. With a frown and darting eyes, he warned her off.

  Confused—and annoyed—she stumbled to a halt. Trying to look natural, she took the first empty seat she encountered, next to Mr Matthew Grange.

  Mr Grange, bless him, expressed his delight. He wasted no time admiring her jewellery.

  ‘Your sapphires are stunning, Miss Halford, but I can’t help feeling sorry for them.’

  ‘Sorry for them, Mr Grange?’ She glanced down where the heavy sapphire pendant nestled tantalisingly at the top of her cleavage.

  ‘Indeed, for they are completely outshone by the brightness of your eyes.’

  She laughed up at him. ‘Very nicely done, Mr Grange.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He followed the direction of her glance, towards the doors. ‘My social skills have grown rusty. I’m happy for the chance to air them out.’

  Mae glanced about at the empty chairs at his table. ‘I see you’ve been left without a partner. Shall we search out another game?’

  ‘Truthfully, I’d rather not. I had enough card play to last several lifetimes when I was confined to my sickbed. I was hoping instead to find a lovely lady willing to accompany me on a gambol about the room. I’m in need of practice there, too, you see.’ With his scarred and reddened hand he slapped the wooden leg strapped to his thigh. ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Her?’ asked Mae with a smile. The piece was intricately carved and highly burnished.

  ‘Aye. She’s my prop. Always there when I need to lean on her, helping me to achieve all that I want. Just as a good woman does for her man.’ A grin only barely concealed his tension as he waited for her answer.

  ‘I think she’s an object of beauty, practicality and great worth, just as any woman should be in her gentleman’s eyes. How could you, or anyone, not love her?’

  His smile widened as his shoulders relaxed. ‘Shall we stroll, then?’

  They did, with their heads together and with much laughter punctuating their conversation. Mae’s gaze returned repeatedly to Stephen, but he showed no awareness of her at all. He and his companion had been absorbed into a group that included Lord Toswick and her father, although it appeared that Stephen was trying to lure the other man away.

  ‘You mentioned social skills earlier, Mr Grange. Tell me, do you believe that a woman seeking to impress a man must learn to downplay her own accomplishments?’

  ‘In general, I’m not a fan of hiding anything, Miss Halford.’ He gestured towards his missing limb, but frowned thoughtfully. ‘Although, I believe I have met more than one person whose character seemed suited to extreme modesty. Hiding their light under a bushel, as my old nurse used to call it.’

  ‘Ah, then you believe it to be a function of character, rather than gender?’

  He gave her a gentle smile. ‘I confess, the war made me a student of character.’

  She met his gaze squarely. ‘And what did you learn in your studies, sir?’

  ‘Oh, several things.’ He glanced in Stephen’s direction. ‘I learned that many people are not familiar with who they are beneath the
surface.’ His expression grew rueful. ‘I learned that nothing strips a man and exposes the truth of his character like hardship and deprivation. And I learned that nothing brings more misery—or a quick and certain death, in the army’s case—than finding oneself in a position that one’s character is not suited for.’

  She blinked at him. ‘I think your studies have made you a very wise man, Mr Grange.’

  ‘And a tired one, I’m afraid.’ He gestured toward a nearby sofa. ‘Now, I am going to sit down a moment.’ He thrust his chin towards Stephen’s group. ‘You go on—and rid yourself of the bushel.’

  Mae squeezed his hand. ‘I’ll consider your advice, sir.’

  She stepped away. Stephen, she’d noticed, had finally succeeded in separating his friend from the others. She started in their direction, stopping to collect Addy on the way. ‘Play along with me, please,’ she whispered in her friend’s ear. Stephen had dragged the man to a secluded corner. She tugged Addy towards them.

  ‘Of course. But what are we doing?’

  ‘Reconnaissance.’

  Addy’s countenance lit up.

  ‘Who is that man who arrived with Lord Stephen?’ she asked, low.

  Alarm replaced the mischief in Addy’s expression. ‘Mae—that’s Viscount Landry, the very one that spiteful Miss Metheny told you about.’

  ‘Ahh. That will only make this that much more enjoyable.’

  ‘You’ll have to be careful.’ Addy’s gaze lingered on the man in question for a long moment. ‘He may be lovely to look at, but he hasn’t a feather to fly with. Corbet says he’s in dire straits indeed.’

  ‘I’ll take care to admire his beautiful feathers without allowing him to pluck my own.’

  Mae pasted on a smile as they reached the two gentlemen. ‘Stephen, the earl was not sure you would be here this evening. How happy I am that you’ve come.’ She eyed the viscount in appreciation. ‘And you’ve brought a friend.’