by Robin Paige
He stopped, thinking that what he had been about to say was no compliment to his friend. But they had been acquainted since Eton and near neighbors since Charles’s marriage to Kate, and Bradford knew that while Charles’s father and brother had both kept horses, his own interests lay elsewhere, with fossils and bats, and such anomalous oddities as fingerprints and ballistics and X-ray machines.
Charles did not appear to have taken offense. “It’s true that I don’t know enough about racing to be involved with this investigation,” he said pleasantly. He settled back into the leather chair and propped his boots on the hassock. “But you do, old chap.”
“Afraid you’re right,” Bradford murmured ironically, putting a match to his cigar. It was his great ill luck that he had grown up with racing: racehorses in the family stable, trainers and stablelads on the family payroll, and the Marsden Stud as the chief subject of his father’s conversation. In fact, the Old Man’s foolish devotion to his equine bloodlines had been largely responsible for the loss of the Marsden fortune, for he had insisted on keeping his stable—among other ruinously extravagent entertainments—until his creditors finally forced him to sell up. By the time of Lord Marsden’s death, some two years before, almost the whole of Bradford’s inheritance had been handed over to the banks and moneylenders. It was not a unique situation, of course: the same circumstance was occurring across England as the old landed elite, its vigor spent and its wealth wasted, dwindled into impoverishment. Almost all the sons of the leisure class were now faced with the same problem that confronted Bradford: how to find a socially acceptable occupation that yielded enough income to survive. Some, like Bradford, had gone into finance and business; others pursued American heiresses; still others pursued Lady Luck.
But the father’s expensive lesson had not been wasted on the son. While Bradford might make the occasional bet, he had seen enough of racing to know how foolish it was to wager one’s future on the horses. Not that his own early speculations had proved any more productive than his father’s, unfortunately: he’d lost a potful of money in one of Harry Dunstable’s automotive stock swindles and almost as much in a failed Canadian mining scheme. But things had definitely changed since he became associated with Cecil Rhodes and the Rhodesian Mining Consortium, on whose board of directors he served. Due to the recent gold discoveries, the Consortium stock he’d purchased looked like being worth something, enough to permit him to marry. He lingered on the thought of Edith, whom he had met in the Consortium’s London office, the imagining of her like champagne in his veins. A rare and wonderful girl, vivacious and lively, and smart as a whip as well, with enough ambition and strategic good sense for the two of them. She was all this, and Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter, as well. Think of that—Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter! Bradford’s mother might not think the marriage was advantageous—the poor old creature was blinded by tradition—but Bradford knew better. The possibilities made him almost giddy.
Charles cleared his throat, and Bradford came back with a start to the conversation. “Between the two of us, I think we should be able to handle the investigation,” Charles said. “Admiral North has also promised to lend the Club’s investigator, a retired Scotland Yard policeman.” He lit his pipe and blew out the match. “I hope you’ll agree to help, Marsden. You have to admit, it’s a rather interesting affair. I think the admiral is right when he says that a great deal may hang on it.”
“I agree,” Bradford said, “and in a different circumstance, I’d join you in an instant.” He’d like nothing better, in fact, than to dig up a racing scandal and drop it into the reluctant hands of the Jockey Club stewards. But he had other important matters to attend to. “Edith and I expect to be married very soon, Mama notwithstanding.”
“She doesn’t approve?” Charles asked.
“Does Mama ever approve of anything?” Bradford countered. “I don’t expect to bring her round to our view, so I’ve decided to ignore hers. For the next two weeks, I’ve taken temporary lodgings near Edith’s mother’s, at Newmarket, to make myself available for wedding consultations and the like.” He paused to tap the ash off his cigar, not wanting to disappoint his friend, or to miss what sounded like an interesting game. If the investigation didn’t range too far afield—“Which stable is it you’ll be looking into?”
“Grange House Stable, on the Moulton Road, just outside Newmarket,” Charles said. “But of course, if you—”
“Grange House!” Bradford exclaimed. “Why, that’s only a mile or two from the lodgings I’ve taken. It’s the stable where old Angus Duncan trains now. Twenty years ago, though, he trained for my father. And if I’m not mistaken, Edith’s stepfather has a horse or two in training there.” He studied the tip of his cigar. “How were you thinking I might help?”
“I plan to bring down two suitable horses from Somersworth to stable at Grange House. I thought that might allow me to get a look at their practices. Since you know Duncan, perhaps you would introduce me.” Charles stroked his brown beard thoughtfully. “You might also go with me to the stable a time or two. It shouldn’t take you away from Miss Hill, but you might find it a bit intriguing.”
More than a bit, Bradford thought, feeling a flicker of excitement. “The wedding is to be a simple one, so I’m sure I could be spared for a bit of nosing around.” He narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I should rather relish putting a stop to some of the ugly things that are happening in racing these days.”
Charles nodded. “The issue seems to be doping, particularly the use of stimulants, although sedatives are used as well. Apparently the practice isn’t much known here in England, but from the reading I’ve done, it seems to be widespread in America, especially on the smaller tracks.”
“Doping!” Bradford exclaimed indignantly. There was no limit to the depths to which people would stoop to alter the odds. He shook his head. “A vicious business. Making the horse stupid or making him savage—either way, it’s dangerous. Misjudge the dose, and the poor beast may die, or be ruined.”
“Misjudge the dose and the jockey may die,” Charles reminded him. “Johnny Bell was killed because he couldn’t control the horse. If I read the admiral right, he’d like to obtain evidence that will convince the Club to ban doping—if that can be done without attracting too much attention.”
“That’s the Club,” Bradford muttered. “Always eager to avoid scandal, even if it means brushing bad practice under the rug. It will have to be faced soon, though. There has been an invasion of these American jockeys and trainers, and an enormous infusion of American money. The stewards are going to have to stop dithering and do something.”
Charles drew on his pipe. “Then perhaps we can find the evidence that will prompt them to take some decisive action. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you,” Bradford said. They smoked in silence for a few minutes; then he added, “Speaking of taking action, Edith and I happened to motor past the cottages on that parcel of land I sold Kate recently. I noticed that they are being repaired. Are you thinking of letting them?”
“I?” Charles asked, and both brows went up. “That’s Kate’s property, you know. She used her funds for the purchase. She does as she likes with it.”
Bradford prided himself on his own modern attitudes, but he still had not got used to his friend’s unconventional marriage. He could understand Charles’s allowing his wife to purchase property, but he could not comprehend his permitting her to actually manage it. “Well, then,” he said dryly, “what does Kate plan to do with the cottages?”
“She wants to expand her school,” Charles said, “but she needs additional dormitory space. She acquired the property with the intention of refurbishing the cottages and using them to house students who come from a distance.” He grinned. “There’s no stopping that woman once she gets an idea, you know. Between her and the Countess of Warwick, I believe they plan to train every able-bodied woman in England to earn her livelihood from the land.” He shook his head. “And by Jove, I think the
y might succeed.”
CHAPTER TEN
Monday, 5 June, 1899
Regal Lodge, Newmarket
Now that Lillie was a race-horse owner, she decided to go in for racing in a really big way. She found a counsellor and guide to advise her about racing and pulling off betting-coups; bought a house at Kentford, just outside Newmarket, called Regal Lodge; and adopted the name Mr. Jersey as a racing pseudonym.
The Gilded Lily: The Life and Loves of the Fabulous Lillie Langtry
Ernest Dudley
Kate, with Charles and her maid Amelia Quibbley, took the morning Great Eastern train from Colchester east and north to Ipswich, then west through Bury St. Edmunds to Newmarket. There, they separated at the station, Charles being met by Bradford Marsden and walking off in one direction, Kate hailing a hansom and being driven off in another. It was after eleven when the cab pulled up in front of Regal Lodge and she got out, followed by Amelia, who waited while the driver took down the bags.
Mrs. Langtry had written of her house as a “small cottage,” but it was neither small nor very like a cottage, Kate thought, looking up at it. Regal Lodge was a substantial brick house, half-timbered in the second story, with a great many mullioned windows and numerous imposing gables and chimney pots, set behind wrought-iron gates off a quiet lane. Mrs. Langtry placed a premium on privacy—as well she might, for Charles had told Kate that when the Prince visited the racing stables at Egerton House, where his racehorses were trained, he visited Mrs. Langtry as well. His Highness was not in such oblivious thrall to the Honorable Mrs. Keppel that he had forsaken his old friend Lillie.
Kate rang the bell beside the iron-studded front door and was admitted by a courteous butler named Williams, who begged to inform her that Mrs. Langtry offered her most profound regrets, but that she was engaged with her advisers and could not be disturbed.
“If her ladyship would be pleased to be shown to her rooms,” he added, “the luncheon bell will ring shortly.”
The rooms—a spacious bedroom and dressing room; a private bath with a water closet and a bathtub which was connected to a small gas hot-water heater; and a sleeping closet for Amelia—were more than ample. The bedroom was luxuriously furnished in blue and silver draperies, bed coverings, and carpets, and there were bowls and vases filled with roses on every table. Amelia unpacked a champagne-colored dress of embroidered linen and helped Kate change into it.
“You look lovely, m’lady,” Amelia said, putting the finishing touches to Kate’s hair just as the luncheon bell rang.
“Thank you,” Kate said, smoothing her skirts. “If you don’t mind, Amelia, I’ll leave you to finish unpacking. And then you might go downstairs and join the staff at lunch.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Amelia answered equably, taking Kate’s leather jewelry box from the portmanteau. She gave Kate a sidelong glance. “Are there any special instructions, ma’am, especially as regards the servants?”
Kate smiled at the question. It was hard to keep secrets from one’s lady’s maid—and impossible to hide anything from Amelia Quibbley. The young woman—brown-haired and petite, with a pretty, open face—had been with her for several years, not just at Bishop’s Keep but also at Sibley House, the London residence where Charles and Kate stayed when Parliament was in session. The house was big as a castle and as unfriendly as a mausoleum, with a large, impersonal staff supervised by an impassive butler and a tyrant of a housekeeper. Kate relied on Amelia’s company and friendship and often used her as a liaison with the other, less amiable staff. Perhaps for this reason, perhaps for others, Amelia had developed an almost intuitive sense of what her mistress might require of her, as well as the ability to appraise an unfamiliar household.
Kate took the gold brooch that Amelia handed her. “I have two purposes in being here, Amelia. Mrs. Langtry has expressed an interest in staging one of my stories, and while the idea doesn’t greatly appeal to me, I plan to discuss it with her.” Looking at herself in the mirror, she pinned the brooch at her throat. “And Mrs. Langtry has agreed to be the subject of an article I’ve been asked to write for The Strand, and I would be glad of any insights into her true nature—the sort of insights servants sometimes share. I might not be able to use them in the article, but they would help me to better understand her character.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Amelia said demurely. “I’m sure people ’ud like to know wot she’s really like. When she’s not on the stage, that is.”
Kate met Amelia’s eyes in the mirror. “I’m sure they would,” she replied.
“Lady Charles!” Mrs. Langtry exclaimed, rising gracefully from a sofa in the drawing room. She was wearing an elaborate dress of sea-foam green watered silk with a bodice of pleated chiffon, cut low to show the full, soft whiteness of an alluring neck and shoulders, with a circlet of impressively large pearls clasped around her throat. She held out both her hands, and she and Kate traded the inevitable social kiss on both cheeks.
“So delighted that you are here at Regal Lodge!” Mrs. Langtry continued. “But I shan’t have any sort of ceremony. I insist that you call me Lillie, Kathryn.”
“Kate, please,” Kate said.
“I’ve played two Kates,” Lillie said firmly, “and you’re not a bit like either of them. If I can’t call you Kathryn, I shall call you Beryl.”
Lillie turned to gesture to two men, who were smoking and talking alongside what appeared to be a large tiled fish pond, sunk into the drawing-room floor. “Before you go, gentlemen, you must be introduced to my houseguest—the famous lady author. She’ll be writing an article about me for The Strand. Lady Charles Sheridan—also known as Beryl.”
As Lillie made introductions, Kate studied the two men. The elder was Captain Dick Doyle, whom Lillie presented as her racing manager, an enormous man in frock coat and waistcoat with a pale gray tie. He was round-cheeked and jovial, but there was a shrewd glint in his piggish eye. Kate felt herself being assessed and swiftly dismissed as being of no possible interest or utility. Lady authors were not, apparently, among the entities he managed.
The other man, slim and youthful in appearance, was natty in a checked tweed suit and red tie with a huge diamond tie tack. His name, Lillie said, was Todhunter Sloan.
“Tod is the brilliant American jockey who introduced short stirrups to England two years ago,” Lillie said, smiling at him playfully. “They all laughed at his style when he first began to ride in this country. A monkey up a stick, they called you, didn’t they, Toddie? But then he showed them how to win races, and they stopped laughing. And now they all try to copy you, don’t they, dear?”
Sloan grinned and tapped his cigarette into a delicate porcelain bowl that did not look in the least like an ashtray. “Damn right, Lil, m’love,” he drawled, in a broad Midwestern accent. “They all want to be just like me, don’cha know.” He snorted disdainfully. “Brit jockeys don’t have the sense the good Lord gave a goose. No idea how to run a race. Hang around at the start like it was a damned Sunday-school picnic and they was waitin’ fer somebody to pour the lemonade.” He threw back his head and guffawed, showing horsy looking yellow teeth.
“There’s nobody like you, Tod, old chap,” the fat man replied in an affably ingratiating tone. “You’re one of a kind.”
“You betch’er boots I am,” the jockey said boastfully. “Can’t nobody come near to Tod Sloan.”
“Except perhaps for the Reiff brothers,” Lillie remarked in an offhand tone, “who seem to be two of a kind.” The corners of her lips curled upward in a slight smile. “Johnny and Lester are doing quite well, wouldn’t you say, Toddie? Riding quite aggressively, scooping up the purses. I’m beginning to fear that these new American jockeys shall give us all a run for our money.”
Tod Sloan’s boyish cheeks grew red and his grin faded. “You don’t need to be afraid of anythin’, Lil. That last time out on Reliable, that was a fluke.” He thought for a moment, scowling; then his voice rose and his tone became belligerent. “Say, you ain’t tryin�
� to tell me you don’t want me to ride for you no more, are you? ’Cause if that’s what you want, I c’n oblige you, for certain. I got plenty o’ offers. Why, Lord Beresford tells me that the Prince hisself wants me up. Think o’ that, Lil! The Prince hisself!”
Lillie gave a pretty little pout and put her hand on the jockey’s sleeve. “Of course I want you to keep on riding for me, you silly boy. It’s just that . . .” She glanced significantly at the captain.
The fat man stepped forward, moving as daintily as a girl. He placed his arm across the jockey’s slender shoulders. “I’m sure our lovely Lillie didn’t speak to offend, old chap. Just to remind you that we have competitors, and that she’s counting on you to bring home a winner, no matter what you might have to do to get it.” He raised both eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. “But that’s the business we’re in, isn’t it? We all need a challenge now and then, don’t we?”
The jockey’s “I s’pose” was sulky, but he brightened at Lillie’s smile. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“I know you’ll ride as hard as ever you can for me at Haydock Park on Saturday, dear Tod, and not let those other American jockeys push you around. I’m so sorry I won’t be able to see the race, but I’ll look forward to hearing that you and Reliable have taken a first.” She turned to Doyle. “I leave it to you, Captain, to suggest a winning strategy for the race. And of course, to see that my wagers are placed at the best odds, and that Tod has a handsome present for his work.”
While all this was going on, Kate had wandered over to gaze into the fish pond and discovered it stocked with large goldfish, some in quite striking colors. Standing off to one side, unobserved, she caught the captain’s surreptitious wink at Lillie. While she did not understand all that had been said, she felt quite sure that Lillie and the captain had been putting on a performance for the benefit of the jockey, who was so engrossed in himself that he failed to notice how he was being goaded into some sort of action by two people who were far more shrewd than he. In Kate’s opinion, Todhunter Sloan might be a brilliant jockey, but he was not a very bright man. And Lillie Langtry was extraordinarily skilled at all sorts of performances.