by Deb Marlowe
‘All night?’ Miss Lucy was aghast.
‘Well, we do let them out for morning chores.’ He grinned at the girl.
The long line of spacious stalls was impressive, with at least twenty animals in residence this week and room for ten more. Mae’s only disappointment was that she saw no sign of anything that might help her and Stephen.
‘Where was Pratchett’s stall, Mr Walker?’ she asked as the tour began to wind down.
A pained look crossed the man’s face. He led them down the centre aisle, past the last occupied stall and stopped at a large and spacious box, still being kept in readiness for its missing occupant.
‘The horse was stolen from here?’ Mae’s mother looked about her with a frown. It might have been doubt in her expression as she noted the busy and public nature of the spot.
‘Right out from under our noses,’ Walker answered grimly.
‘But don’t you have dogs about the stables?’ Lady Toswick asked. ‘Surely they would have raised an alarm.’
‘No dogs.’ Lady Ryeton spoke firmly and gave a shudder. ‘I can’t abide dogs. I won’t have them on any of our estates.’
‘Likely they would have been drugged, in any case.’ Mr Walker’s sigh was heavy.
‘The whole thing must have been terribly distressing.’ The incorrigible Miss Lucy was definitely batting her eyelashes at him.
‘What has happened to Pratchett’s groom—the man found unconscious after the horse’s disappearance?’ Mae asked.
‘He’s recovered, but he’s still fair upset,’ Walker admitted. ‘I’ve given another horse into his care, but his heart is not in it.’ Clearly finished with the topic, he gestured back down the direction they’d come. He set out, heading for the stable office, and all the ladies began to trail behind.
Except for Mae. She stayed, staring into the empty stall. Quiet settled over the spot as the ladies and their chattering grew farther away. Where are you? She sent the silent question out to the missing horse.
Her mind and her stomach were churning. This hunt for Pratchett had unexpectedly given her a second chance with Stephen. She felt closer to him than ever before. Perhaps it didn’t matter if they never found Pratchett.
Except that it did, for it was important to him. They were so close to finally unravelling this puzzle. She wanted to solve it for him and set Stephen’s feet firmly on whichever path he wished to follow. Whatever happened between them from here, she didn’t want it to be by default.
Mmmrph.
Mae jumped, but it was just a barn cat rubbing affectionately against her ankles.
‘Well, and a good afternoon to you, too.’ She was forgivably and immediately reminded of Pratchett’s cat companion, for this animal was black, but had a white chest that almost looked like a cravat, two creamy boots on her back feet and a matching tip to her tail. She butted Mae imperiously with her head until she bent down to stroke her. ‘You certainly are a bossy one,’ she said with a smile. ‘But such a pretty girl, too.’
The cat purred in response, but then darted swiftly away, heading along the row of unoccupied stalls.
‘Oh, do you have a nest of kittens back there?’ Mae asked. Perhaps it was foolish to talk to a cat, but suddenly she longed for the warm and simple pleasure that only soft and cuddly kittens could give. Lady Ryeton’s and Miss Lucy’s opinion notwithstanding, but Mae would much rather admire a litter of new babies than ogle Mr Walker. Handsome though he might be, he couldn’t warm her heart with his smile as Stephen could, nor could he set her pulse a-quiver as Stephen could with just a look from his clear blue eyes.
Hopeful, she followed the cat until she stopped at the last stall in the long row. An obvious coquette, she glanced at Mae before she jumped lightly up on to the open half-door. With another little call she disappeared inside.
The light shone dimmer at this end and the quiet lay heavier in the air. Instinctively, Mae lightened her step. ‘Do you have your darlings hidden in there?’ she asked in a crooning, sing-song voice.
Her answer, as she stepped closer, came in the form of an angry squeal. Mae let out a corresponding scream and jumped back as an equine head shot out from the stall, teeth bared and aimed for her arm with vicious intent.
Gasping, she backed away. Thick mucous sprayed as the horse squealed again. The drainage coated the sides of its mouth and around the tender skin of its nostrils. The animal’s eyes rolled in its pique, and it thumped its displeasure in a deafening boom as it kicked the barn wall.
‘Miss!’ Mr Walker had reached her side. He gripped her arms and tried to pull her away. ‘Miss! Are you all right?’
‘Wot’s this?’ A burly, heavily scowling man came around the corner of the building, a heavy bucket in one hand. He took one look at the horse, still snorting his displeasure and indulging in little hops off his front feet before dropping the bucket and turning to glare at Mae. ‘What in bleedin’ hell is she doin’ down here, Walker? You was supposed to keep the liedies away!’
Mae stared at him. He sounded like a Seven-Dials cracksman, not a Suffolk-bred groom. He didn’t look like any stable lad she’d ever seen before, either. He glared and took a threatening step towards her.
She held her ground, long enough to glance past him and get a good look at the horse. A bay with four white feet.
‘Come along, miss. Let’s get you back to the stable office with the other ladies.’
‘What is wrong with that animal, Mr Walker?’ Mae was still stubbornly standing her ground.
‘He’s suffering from an equine malady. He’ll be fine in a couple of days, but he’s skittish in the meantime.’
‘He’s sick, is wot’s wrong wit’ ‘im,’ the other man growled. ‘It makes him cranky, jest like interferin’ liedies make me cranky.’ He laughed. ‘The difference is, he gets oats and molasses and yer lucky ye got away with all yer fingers.’
Mae stepped back, ready to go with Mr Walker just in order to get away from the unpleasant man. The horse didn’t appear to like him any better than he liked her. Lightning quick, he tried to take a chunk out of the hands that held the upturned bucket over his feed box. The burly man cursed and jumped back just as she had.
Mae turned away, but before she could take a step, the cat jumped from her perch in the corner of the stall. The animal leapt lightly and landed on the horse’s rump.
Mae gasped in alarm.
Before she could get a protest past her lips, the horse stopped half-rearing. Daintily the cat walked down his rump and settled into the dip of the stallion’s back, curling up contentedly like the spot had been made for her. The bay nickered and bent to nose at the sticky mass in its box.
Numb, Mae let herself be led away. She and Mr Walker were met halfway down the row of stalls by the group of twittering ladies.
‘Mae, are you all right?’ Her mother looked pale with worry.
‘I’m fine, Mama.’ More truthfully, her brain was nearly rattling in her skull, so busily was it working.
‘Good heavens, who knew horses could be so vicious?’ Miss Lucy simpered up at the groom. ‘Mr Walker, your job must be quite dangerous.’
‘Just look at your skirts, Miss Halford.’ Miss Metheny said, nearly scolding. ‘You’ll be lucky if they are not ruined.’
Mae glanced down, expecting to see a spray of horse mucous across her skirts. Instead, she found a smear of white marring her hems.
‘It is all over your hands, as well!’ Miss Metheny could not hide her disgust.
Mae looked down at the white streaks across her palm.
‘Come along to the office,’ Walker urged. ‘We’ll find a cloth and get you cleaned up.’
She didn’t look him in the eye. Couldn’t. Because voices were echoing in her head and broken images were sliding together to form an unbelievable whole. A bay with four white feet boarded alone in the middle of nowhere. Another here in Lord Ryeton’s stables. A black cat and white streaks on her hands.
She had to find Stephen. Now.
&
nbsp; She had to tell him that she’d found Pratchett. That he’d never really been lost at all.
Actually, Stephen had to disagree with Lord Toswick’s stable manager. Chester Cray did not look so much like a king on a throne as a broody hen on her nest.
The Two Crowns was roaring with life. Racing men from every aspect of the sport filled the room, from the group of jockeys singing at the bar to the wealthy owners playing at cards at a corner table. Stephen even thought he saw a few disreputable-looking men suspected to be hired touts sitting with their heads together at a table. The taproom was doing a booming business and all about men were celebrating, commiserating or making plans for tomorrow’s even bigger day of racing.
Except for Cray. He sat alone in a corner, comfortably ensconced on a padded chair, his broken leg propped up on a pillow and stool before him. He was surrounded by bits of paper. Ragged pieces, covered with scribbles, spread out across his lap and filled his chair. Layers of crumpled sheets lay deep on the floor all about him. He had his chin propped on a fist and sat quiet, apart from all the others. One look at the distance in his eyes and Stephen could see that the man was far away—and likely had no desire to be brought back to reality. He sat down near him, ordered a pint and waited.
It took a while for Cray to come back. Stephen rejected the eager offers of two tavern girls and made it clear to a couple of hard-eyed gamblers that he had no wish to join a game of any sort.
Finally, Cray moved. His chin came down, he looked around and started a little as he spied Stephen.
He grunted.
Stephen just waited.
‘Manning, isn’t it?’ The leg’s voice sounded creaky, as if it hadn’t seen much use lately.
Stephen nodded. ‘Cray.’
‘I knew your father. You’ve the look of him.’
Another nod.
That look of distant reflection came over the man’s face again. ‘A good man, your father. He could scheme and manoeuvre with the best of them. Ruthless at it, too.’
Stephen suppressed a smile. That did sound like his father.
‘Heard you were following in his rakish footsteps a while back. Thought you were going to turn out as wild as he. But now I hear you’ve gone respectable.’
‘Sad, but true.’ This time the grin did break out.
Cray did not look amused. ‘Jockey Club’s changing things. The whole damned sport has gone respectable.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘At least on the surface. Or for a while.’
Stephen shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is time. Racing might flourish even more if it goes respectable.’
Cray frowned. ‘It’ll take all the shine out o’ it.’ He sat silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating such a thing. ‘Heard about your course,’ he said at last. ‘I’d likely visit it myself, were I not retiring.’
‘Retiring?’ Stephen was surprised.
‘Yes.’ The other man laid a hand on his thigh, above the splint on his broken leg. ‘Something like this happens and suddenly you find yourself at a stop. With plenty of time to think.’ He glanced about the crowded, noisy room. ‘I think I’m done. This is my last book.’ He shot Stephen a sly glance. ‘I contemplated going respectable myself.’
‘I can highly recommend it.’ Stephen laughed.
‘I meant to retire in style.’ His face bitter, he waved for a serving wench to bring him a drink. ‘I thought I’d finally played out the one scheme guaranteed to get me a fortune as big as any of these titled toffs.’ Worry appeared to settle over him like a blanket. ‘Now I begin to think I been outplayed.’
Stephen gazed at the man steadily for a moment. Sudden understanding flashed between them. ‘Ryeton,’ was all he said.
Cray stared a bit longer, measuring Stephen like it was his own life hanging in the balance. As perhaps it was. At last he gave a slow nod.
‘I mean to find that horse.’ Stephen allowed all the earnestness and conviction he felt to colour his tone.
Cray still looked hard. ‘Why?’
Stephen thought for a minute, and in the end, he decided to tell the man the truth. ‘At first I wanted to find him because I thought if I returned him, I could convince the earl to race him at my track. I had a spectacular private match in mind to start us off right.’
‘It’s sound thinking.’
‘But then I began to look into the matter. And no one knows anything. There are a million foolish conjectures and not one whiff of anything solid. That’s significant in and of itself.’
Cray only nodded.
‘You know this world as well as I do. Everybody talks. Endlessly. I should have been able to find some nuggets of truth behind the gossip. But there were none. Why not? And then other things began to come to light and I began to come up with some very odd ideas, myself. And now I find that they make me even more determined.’
‘Why?’ Cray asked again.
‘Because if what I’ve begun to suspect is correct, then Ryeton is the worst sort of hypocrite—spouting one set of principles while practising another. Because if he is perpetrating this fraud on all of us in the racing world, then it would do me and my track a world of good were I to expose him. Because he mortally insulted a friend of mine.’ He breathed deep. ‘Because I’m hoping to impress a lady.’
A crack of laughter exploded out of Cray. ‘Now that sounds like your father’s son!’
He continued to chuckle, but Stephen leaned forwards. ‘Tell me why you are still taking bets on Pratchett for the Guineas.’
Silence reigned in their corner for several long moments. Stephen began to fear that Cray had offered as much co-operation as he was going to get.
‘Bet,’ the leg creaked at last. ‘Bet. Not bets.’
Stephen thought about that for a moment. ‘Only Ryeton?’
‘Aye. I think I’ve begun to have the same inkling as you have—an idea of what he must be up to.’ He swallowed. ‘And if it’s true, then that earl is an actor worthy of a place on Drury Lane. He had me that fooled, earlier this week.’
‘You saw him after Pratchett’s disappearance?’
Cray nodded. ‘He came in here, cast down in his cups. Sat at the bar drinking, pretending not to see me.’ He spat into a corner. ‘Damn me for a fool.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Aye. The blighter owes me money, has done for months. I admit I come on strong, asking after it. But I never poisoned his horses.’ He saw the reserve in Stephen’s eyes and grew vehement. ‘Nor any other man’s, either! But my business has sorely suffered since Ryeton began bandying my name about as a cheat.’
‘So he came in here and you couldn’t resist rubbing his nose in his misery. How did he respond?’
‘He was drunk and defiant. Or so I thought. He swore he was going to find that horse in time to race him in the Guineas. Now, I’d already heard several wild theories as to what happened to that thoroughbred. I heard an American stole him to strengthen the bloodlines over there. I heard one of Ryeton’s enemies took him and had him gelded to extract revenge and prevent the earl from making a fortune in stud fees. And those were the milder ideas. We all thought that no matter which of them turned out to be true, there was no way Pratchett was coming back to run that race.’
‘You were so convinced that you gambled on it.’
Cray sighed. ‘Aye. We bet all that the earl already owed me and a king’s ransom on top o’ that. I thought he must ha’ been dead drunk to agree to such terms, but I didn’t feel guilty about it. I spent the last couple o’ days anticipatin’ the rich life I was goin’ to retire to.’
‘But something has changed your mind?’
Cray looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘Have you heard the stories about his countess? Run out of town by her London creditors?’
Stephen nodded.
‘It started me thinkin’. Then I heard a name.’ He sighed. ‘And I knew.’
Puzzled, Stephen frowned. ‘A name?’
‘A name that can only mean bad news. A man who goes by the han
dle o’ Peck.’ Cray was watching closely for Stephen’s reaction. ‘Heard o’ him?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘Depends. He’s an ugly sort. The worst. Peck is short for Pecked to Death, which is what he done to the first toff what he killed—killed him slow with his knife, bit by bit.’
‘Charming.’ Stephen grimaced. And then he stilled. ‘You heard this man’s name in connection with Pratchett?’
‘In connection with Ryeton. You should understand, Peck’s name is not well known. The man’s practically a trade secret for unsavory sorts. He keeps his head low and his hands dirty. The men who hire him are usually desperate enough to agree to his outrageous terms.’
‘And now Ryeton’s hired him?’
‘That’s what I heard. And I asks myself, why would the earl need a man like Peck on his payroll? And in his stables, no less?’
Stephen’s heart rate ratcheted. ‘I think we can both make a good guess why, can’t we?’
‘He’ll ruin me.’ Cray’s shoulders drooped. ‘I’ve won and lost fortunes in this business, but if that horse races and wins—it will finish me. I won’t have a sou left to my name.’ His expression hardened. ‘And somehow I doubt that I’m the only fool he’s convinced with his play-actin’. He’s goin’ to bring that horse out in the morning—miraculously rescued! Back from the dead! Ryeton will be swimming in sovereigns by night’s fall tomorrow.’
Stephen sat, silently marvelling. It was a brilliant plan. He could scarce believe Ryeton had nearly pulled it off.
Cray growled low in his throat. ‘It’s no more than I deserve, lettin’ a dastard like Ryeton get one over on me like that.’
Stephen stood. ‘You won’t be ruined if I stop him.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ The leg sounded amused at his presumption.
‘Simple. I’m going to search the earl’s stables. And I’m going to steal Pratchett back.’
Cray laughed. ‘You’ve got spirit, boy, but Peck is dead skilled with a knife. You wouldn’t make it within three feet of him without his blade piercin’ yer heart.’