by Deb Marlowe
‘This is our last chance,’ he said low. ‘We must find word of Pratchett today.’
Breathing deeply, she nodded. He smelled like sunshine and soap and just the faintest undertone of horse. She edged towards him and breathed in once more.
‘You are going to Lady Ryeton’s gathering today, are you not?’
She nodded again, keeping a wary eye on her mother.
‘Good. Please, do your best to keep your eyes and ears open. And if you hear anything, even the smallest whisper, of a leg named Chester Cray, get word to me right away.’
He didn’t insult her by telling her how to manage any of it. His trust warmed her nearly as much as the quick caress he ran across her palm as he bent over her hand.
She squeezed his hand and he straightened to meet her gaze. Mae was struck by the weight of frustration on his face.
‘This may be the one scheme we don’t manage to pull off, Mae.’ His tone was already heavy with desolation.
She scoffed. ‘Ryeton is not going to be the one to best us.’
His expression lightened a bit.
‘We’ll get there, Stephen, if we don’t give up. Today is our day.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Did you hear the rumours circulating about Lady Ryeton?’
Eyes widening, he shook his head. She gave him a hurried explanation. The uproar at the start had been sorted out and her mother was listening as Mr Grange explained how false starts adversely affected the horses.
Stephen blinked. He looked adorably vacant for a moment. Mae wondered if she looked as distant as he did now, when all the gears in her mind started turning.
‘Cray might be the key to clearing all of this up,’ he said after a moment. ‘I can’t find him about here. I’m going to head back into town to try to search him out.’ His eyes softened as his gaze met hers, and then he was taking his leave of the others.
She watched him stride away through the crowds, his hair golden in the sun and his shoulders half again as broad as any man’s present.
And she grinned.
Yes, today was quite the best race day she’d had in years.
This had to be the worst race day Stephen had experienced in years.
He stalked away from Mae, only slightly mollified that he wasn’t leaving her alone with Matthew Grange. He hadn’t liked the look of the comfortable coze the pair of them had been sharing when first he’d found them. Shards of their companionable laughter had pierced him like steel. Here he was, still burning with unslaked lust and she sat sharing smiles and a narrow bench with one of his best friends. It was her right, of course. He’d been the one to urge her to continue her mission. Nothing they had done together had been irrevocable. Yet the sight of them had been the crowning touch on a morning filled with frustration and failure.
It wasn’t all bad, of course. The fillies had generated a good bit of talk and thanks to Mr Halford and Lord Toswick; at least a mild interest in Fincote Park had begun as the setting for a private match between them.
But time was running short. He would shortly lose his chance to find Pratchett and put himself and Fincote Park square in the centre of the racing world’s attention.
His brain was abuzz with possibilities. He had been dismissive of what Mae had said last night about Lord Ryeton’s possible financial difficulties, but this new gossip regarding his countess forced him to think again.
He stared at the earl as he passed him by. The man sat cooped up in his carriage with a few of his cronies, ignoring his wife, gazing morosely out of the window and refusing to talk to anyone.
For the first time, Stephen considered that he might fail. But he could not give up, even if the only lead he had was a leg who hadn’t even bothered to show up for the races.
Chester Cray was still not to be found, although he had heard whispers this morning that Cray was indeed in town, and perhaps ill.
Urgency grew in Stephen’s breast. He was going to find that horse. One way or another, Ryeton was going to help launch Fincote Park.
He left the excitement of the races behind and returned to Newmarket proper. The streets lay quieter, the taprooms emptier than he’d seen it since he’d arrived. Good. It should make it all the easier to track down the hidden leg. He sighed. It was a damned sorry state, but the lack of distraction would make it that much harder to keep his mind off Mae Halford.
He’d told her about his mother. He still wasn’t over the shock of it. It was a little uncomfortable today, walking about like normal, but knowing that she knew. Mae saw more of him, in fact—the real, flawed Stephen and not the burnished image he projected—than anyone else ever had. And with her perception and quick mind, she was likely to start putting pieces together and seeing even more. Uncomfortable? It was a ridiculously scary thing to give someone a peek at all the private, ugly bits of you. And yet, somehow, Mae’s easy acceptance almost made him yearn for more.
Almost.
But he couldn’t regret sharing it. Especially not if it kept her from doing anything rash. He snorted. As if there was anything more rash than nearly bedding him.
Good God, but how he’d wanted her. Wanted her still. Somehow, over the past few days, aching for Mae Halford had become a constant. The usual state of things. But he couldn’t regret his restraint last night either. Things were too unsettled between them. And in any case, there were other ways to bind her to him.
He stopped short, right in the middle of the pavement. Was that what he wanted? To bind her to him?
Images crowded his mind. Shared triumph and joy. Lust and laughter. A smile of warmth and approval from her father. And the far less attractive picture of her pressed close and chortling with Matthew Grange.
Just let him find Pratchett. Then it would be the time to find things out.
Chapter Fifteen
There were several radiant faces gracing Lady Ryeton’s sunny parlour that afternoon, lucky ladies whose picks had taken the field and who were going home with extra spending money today. There were also several downcast countenances, the sad and ill-tempered faces of those who had lost.
‘Do you think that we’ve done them a disservice?’ Mae’s mother whispered over her cup of tea.
‘Of course not,’ Lady Toswick insisted. ‘We made it clear—several times, at that—that no one should bet more than they could afford to lose.’
‘I’m not sure everyone took that advice,’ Addy said cautiously. ‘Just look at the baroness.’
As one, the group of ladies turned to gaze at a plump, matronly lady who stood scowling at a tray of steaming oyster loaves.
‘She’s been looking like that since we arrived. And she keeps staring at her hand.’ Addy leaned forwards and narrowed her gaze. ‘Can you see a mark on her finger? Does anyone know if she was wearing a ring earlier?’
‘Oh,’ breathed Miss Ward. ‘Will Lord Malden be angry with her?’
‘Well, it would serve her right if he was,’ Lady Toswick insisted indignantly. ‘We were very clear in our point that this enterprise is strategic in nature and not financial.’
‘I don’t believe my sister is enjoying our experiment, either.’ Miss Lucy sounded resigned as she gazed across at her sister, standing alone in a corner.
‘Well, I don’t care,’ Lady Toswick declared. ‘Barring the scorn of a few old codgers, I’d call the first phase of our plan a tremendous success. Most of the gentlemen were intrigued and impressed—with our presence, of course, but, more importantly, with our knowledge.’
‘Mr Grange did pronounce himself enchanted,’ Miss Lucy said, brightening. ‘And a chorus of other men agreed with him.’
Mae was enchanted with the invitation right into Lord Ryeton’s home. The estate, located in Stetchworth, just outside of Newmarket, was ruled over by a lovely Jacobean manor house, graced with many mullioned windows, its steep roof peppered with a multitude of chimneys. There was no sign of the earl himself, but with Addy’s gossip fresh in her mind, Mae was keeping her eyes open. And the tour of the stables w
as still to come.
‘A gaggle of gentlemen wished to accompany us here this afternoon as well,’ Mae’s mother contributed.
‘Yes, and did you not hear what Lady Ryeton told them? This celebration was for hens and chicks only, and we would meet the roosters again tonight at our soirée.’ Lady Toswick laughed.
The buzz of gossip continued around them as Mae leaned closer to her mother. ‘Mama, what’s the first thing most people would do, should they find themselves in straitened financial circumstances?’
‘Round up the valuables and start selling them off,’ Elizabeth Halford answered promptly, having had some experience of such matters early in her life.
‘Like paintings?’ Mae directed her gaze at a small landscape on the parlour wall. It was centred in a large square of darker-coloured wallpaper, as if it had been hung in place of a much larger work of art.
Her mother followed her gaze, and then glanced about the room. After a moment she looked pointedly toward a sturdy sofa, too large for the corner nook it sat in. ‘And furniture too,’ she said softly.
Simultaneously they both looked at the lavish spread of food and drink, spread out across two buffet tables.
‘It’s a show,’ Mae whispered. ‘And we’re the audience.’
‘The signs are faint, but they are there. You have a good eye, Mae.’ Her mother gave her a look of approval. ‘Your father will want to know about this.’
As would Stephen. Mae could hardly wait for the stable tour to begin. Who knew what clues might be lurking there?
Stephen stepped wearily out of the gusting wind and into yet another tavern. He’d met a somewhat inebriated gentleman earlier, who had assured him that Chester Cray was indeed in town and that he liked to frequent one of the dramshops on High Street. Unfortunately, the helpful fellow didn’t know which one and Stephen had underestimated just how many taprooms there were on the long stretch of road.
‘Manning!’ His name rang out as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. ‘Come in and have a pint with us—we’ve good news to share!’ Toswick sat at a large table with his stable manager, along with Grange, Banks, a few other assorted gentlemen and a tavern doxie or two.
Stephen sank down into the hastily pulled up chair with a heavy heart. ‘I could use some good news about now.’
‘Well then, brace yourself—the membership held the ballot and you are officially a member of the Jockey Club Coffee Rooms!’
‘To Lord Stephen!’ Matthew Grange held his mug high in a toast. ‘Give him some time, gentlemen, and he’ll be a full member—and soon after that, a Steward!’
A cheer broke out, warming Stephen’s heart. He shook Toswick’s hand in gratitude. He had made solid progress toward his goals. He had that, at least, even if he never found Pratchett and made a grand entrance into the racing world. Yet he had no desire to drop his fruitless quest for the damned horse. He felt driven to find the animal, by the weight of expectations that awaited him at home, and now, by the unwise wish to impress Mae.
And that was the thought that had been making him more uncomfortable as the afternoon wore on. He’d been painfully honest with Mae last evening. Perhaps it was time he was brutally honest with himself, now. Because what he feared was that this adventure was slowly becoming more about her than it was about Ryeton or Pratchett or even Fincote.
He sighed and ordered a pint.
Toswick did too, although it was clear that he was having a much better day. ‘Ah, it was a great day all around, was it not?’ the earl reflected. ‘Even though Butterfly lost—but by a nose only!’ He shook his head. ‘Now there’s a horse that hates to lose.’
His manager agreed. ‘You’ve called that one right. She’s like a lady with the megrims tonight. Her groom will have his hands full, trying to console her.’
‘Further good news for you, though, Manning,’ Grange said. ‘There’s a good bit of talk about that private match we’re putting together.’
Stephen summoned a smile. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘You don’t look it,’ Toswick said bluntly. ‘You look like a lad who has lost his best friend.’
‘No, I’ve only lost a leg,’ sighed Stephen.
‘That makes two of us,’ quipped Matthew Grange.
A moment of stunned silence held sway, and then there was a roar of laughter. Stephen laughed until he cried and then he laughed a little more. It took a good five minutes for order to be restored around their table and then Stephen called for a round of drinks and toasted his friend.
‘Ah, me, but that was a good one.’ Toswick chuckled and wiped his eyes. ‘Are you still looking for Cray, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, the man’s a magician, I swear, for every time I think I’ve got a bead on him, he disappears.’
‘Not a magician, but an invalid,’ Toswick’s manager said. He glanced Matthew’s way. ‘Cray took a bad spill off his horse and broke his leg. He’s holed up in town, recuperating.’
Stephen nearly dropped his pint. ‘Where?’
‘At the Two Crowns, I believe?’ The man sounded uncertain. ‘I heard the stable lads gossiping about it. They all think Cray hit his head in the fall.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s gone daft. He’s holed up in the taproom, sitting on his chair like a throne and holding court like a prince. He’s still making his book, but only with the stable lads and grooms that frequent the place.’ He shook his head. ‘And they say he’s keeping Pratchett on his book for the Guineas. He’s still taking bets on the horse.’ He took a long swig. ‘Daft indeed.’
‘Unless he knows something about Pratchett’s disappearance,’ said Stephen, sitting up straight. ‘Perhaps Ryeton was right about him all along.’
‘Can’t be,’ the manager disagreed. ‘Cray’s been holed up at the Crowns for over a fortnight. And believe me, if he’d used some of the Newmarket lads to do the job, word would have got around.’
But the man was taking bets on the horse? In all likelihood, if Cray didn’t take Pratchett, he might know who did.
This was it then, Stephen’s moment of decision. Did he follow this lead and try again to chase that damned horse down? It was clear now that he didn’t have to. He could drop this quest and be content with the progress that he’d already made on his goals. He had a race that would launch Fincote, even if it wasn’t meteoric. He had a foot in, a measure of respect from the men of racing.
But it wasn’t enough. Fincote’s launch had to be as spectacular as he could possibly contrive, the sort that could still happen, if only he found Pratchett. And what of Mae? Even if he succeeded, there were still obstacles standing in their way. His secrets, her father, perhaps even her own inclination. He wasn’t sure he could ever find a way to have both her and the sort of success that Fincote needed.
But he had to try.
Stephen stood. ‘Thank you for the information,’ he said sincerely. ‘And for the company,’ he said to the table at large. ‘And for the laugh,’ he told Matthew. ‘You’ve replaced your leg with a beauty, now I’m going to go and find mine.’
Mae had thought that Miss Hague had only been engaging in so much hyperbole when she complained that Lord Ryeton’s horses lived better than his women, but now she had cause to agree.
The earl’s stables were magnificent. A line of yews and white gravel led the way to the grouped buildings. Long rows of box stalls sat open to fresh air and the gentle south-facing sun. Grassy paddocks were shaded and inviting, and the ladies cooed over the mares and foals. Small outbuildings held tack and supplies.
The tour for the ladies was to be given by Mr Walker, Lord Ryeton’s head groom. Lady Ryeton hung on his arm as he emerged from the stable office.
‘I’m sure that I cannot speak for all of you ladies,’ she said with a wink. ‘But I’m also sure that my favourite part of racing is all the delicious men.’
Mae couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable for the man. Surely he’d laboured for years to earn his elevated position among the earl’s
servants, likely since he was a boy. He might not appreciate being ogled for his manly frame. But Mr Walker did not seem to mind the countess at all. He patted her hand and, bending at the waist, swept an arm to welcome the rest of the ladies to his domain.
Several of the women around Mae sighed. Walker was a grand specimen of a man, finely moulded and in possession of a beautifully chiselled chin. ‘An honour it is, to have so many fine ladies in our stables,’ he pronounced with a broad Irish brogue. ‘I’m happy to be of service, if ye will tell me what it is that ye’re wishin’ to know.’
‘Anything,’ breathed Miss Lucy. ‘Anything at all that you wish to tell us.’
Her sister nudged her.
‘Everything,’ Lady Toswick said firmly. ‘We would love to see how you keep Lord Ryeton’s fine animals, sir, and to see and hear how they are trained. We want to know all the things that go into forming a good racehorse.’
‘Well, now. The truth is that good racehorses are bred as much as trained, but explaining the Stud Book and all the, uh, intricacies of breeding, are beyond my skills.’ He cast a glance in Miss Lucy’s direction and grinned. ‘But even the best-bred animals do need training and care. I’ll be happy to show you how all of Lord Ryeton’s lovelies spend their days.’
‘And nights,’ whispered Miss Lucy.
This time her sister poked her with her parasol.
It truly was an interesting hour as Mr Walker took them through all the various outbuildings and barns. He spoke of purges and sweats and training schedules and bran mashes. He let them inspect the stalls where the horses slept.
‘But why are there cots along the walls of the stalls?’ Miss Lucy asked.
‘The grooms sleep in with the horses in their care,’ Mr Walker explained. ‘Since Pratchett’s disappearance, they have been locked in for the night.’