The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “By Jove, that’s a beautiful stepper you’ve got below.” Fickett flashed him an enthusiastic smile as he accepted the IOUs from Gerrit’s hand. The boy undoubtedly had unlimited credit at home.

  “Thanks, she’s been with me a few years.” Gerrit drained the last of his drink and rose from the table. His limbs felt stiff from sitting so many hours.

  “I bet she saw some battles.” The earl donned his coat and picked up his fat purse.

  Gerrit rolled down his sleeves and fastened his cuffs. “Steady as a rock in all of them.” Where in all of creation was he to come up with five hundred pounds? He didn’t think he had anything of that much value. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Crockett would have his hide for sure this night. How many times had he told him to stay away from the faro table?

  He could hear his voice now. Play whist if you must, but don’t lay odds on faro. You’ll lose your shirt if you do.

  If his shirt was of any value tonight, he would have played it. What was it about playing that, once he started, he felt compelled to see the game through, always hoping for better luck at the next turn?

  “Royal has saved Gerrit’s life more than once,” Edgar told the earl. “Once when Gerrit was wounded and was just hanging by his stirrups, Royal knew enough to leave the battle and carry her master back behind the lines. She’s never lost her master.”

  Fickett slapped his gloves against his palms. “I’d love to own a horse like that. Did you see my pair of grays? By Jove, they’re tops. Won every race I’ve run ’em in.”

  “Yes, they’re a fine pair.” Gerrit had noticed the pair of horses when the young gentleman had come dashing to a stop in his high-perched phaeton in front of the tavern. Gerrit had remarked to Edgar that they’d last the young swell but a short while if he treated them like that every night.

  As they turned to leave the room, Fickett thumped Gerrit on the back. “I say, I have a capital idea. I’ll tear up your vouchers in exchange for your horse.”

  Gerrit stared at him, hardly believing what he’d heard. Was the boy serious, or did he know Gerrit had his pockets to let and no way of paying his gambling debt?

  The others all began to speak. “That’s a good offer. You’d better take it, Hawkes. Royal’s a fine mount, none better, but you can get a fine mount for two hundred. Top-of-the-line.”

  Gerrit looked at the vowels stuffed in the young man’s pocket. “I have a better idea,” he said, a thought forming in his mind even as he spoke. “I’ll race you for those IOUs.”

  The young man’s eyes gleamed.

  “If Royal beats one of your grays, you tear up my vowels. If your horse beats mine, I owe you the money plus,” Gerrit wet his lips, knowing there’d be no turning back once the words were uttered, but feeling that same sense of invincibility he did whenever he placed a bet, “Royal is yours.”

  The man thrust out his hand. “By Jupiter, you’re on!”

  The two shook hands, the young man trembling with eagerness, Gerrit keeping himself reserved. If he lost, he’d probably have to flee back to France.

  The men hurried out the door, impatient for the race to begin. Edgar turned to Gerrit, concern in the lieutenant’s eyes. “Are you sure about this, sir? You’ve had Royal a long time. I’d hate to see you part with her now.”

  Gerrit grinned at him. “Who’s going to part with her? You said yourself what a splendid horse she was.”

  “Yes, but you saw his grays. They’re racers. Besides, are you in any shape to race?”

  “In no worse condition than he is,” he said with a glance at Fickett, who had stumbled in his haste down the stairs.

  When they stood on the street, the sky was already beginning to lighten with the dawn.

  “Where shall we race?” They looked up and down the deserted length of the street.

  “Too bumpy and slippery,” Edgar judged the dark cobblestones, shiny with the light mist that had fallen through the night.

  “What about the Mall? We’re not too far and it’s light enough now.”

  “Yes! The length of the Mall. We’ll cross St. James’s and determine the length of the course there.”

  “Two furlongs easily. That would make a splendid race.” Fickett and his companions, who had joined them from the tavern as soon as they’d heard about the race, nodded in agreement.

  Gerrit, leading his horse, and accompanied by his fellow officers, left the York Street tavern and walked past the barracks toward the park. It took only a few minutes to arrive at the long promenade. Tall, slim trees planted at evenly spaced intervals created a wide alley down the length of the Mall.

  One of the young men volunteered to ride to the end. “I’ll mark the finish line.”

  “You go with him,” Gerrit instructed Edgar.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men shouted when they reached the end of the Mall. The usually crowded promenade was empty of all except their group.

  Gerrit sat atop Royal and patted her neck. “Don’t let me down, old girl. I need this win.” He felt better in the cool dawn air. He looked down the broad, tree-lined corridor, envisioning the moment of crossing the finish line. The morning was foggy, but not enough to impede their race.

  “Gentlemen, to your marks,” one of the gentlemen shouted. At the words, Gerrit and Fickett leaned forward on their mounts. The horses, as if sensing the tension in their riders, snorted and fidgeted, pawing at the hard-packed earth.

  “At the sound of the gun, you’re off,” the man on the sidelines told them. They each nodded.

  The man lifted his pistol and Gerrit braced himself for the noise. A second later the explosion rent the early morning air. Gerrit dug in his spurs and Royal was off. The pounding hooves thudded through Gerrit’s body and up to his temples. The wind whooshed past him. He leaned forward into it, holding the reins, digging in his knees.

  “Come on, girl, come on,” he urged, holding his course steady with a light pressure on the reins. He didn’t look to the other horse, but focused ahead on the invisible line between the two men standing there beneath the tall, shady trees.

  The damp earth kicked up around them and he could scarcely hear the shouts of the men. He had no idea if he was ahead or behind or even with his opponent.

  As soon as it had begun it was over. Edgar came running up to him. “Congratulations! You beat the gray by a handspan. By Jove, that was a fine race.” He slapped Gerrit on the back as soon as he’d dismounted.

  As the excitement of the challenge ebbed, Gerrit began to feel sick. He had drunk too much and eaten little. The short gallop had shaken his insides like a spinning wheel.

  Fickett held out his hand, no animosity visible on his face. “What a piece of horseflesh! I’m still willing to buy her from you. Name your price.”

  “She’s not for sale.” Gerrit turned to Royal and smoothed down her sweaty neck. “Just cancel my faro bets and we’re even.”

  “I’ll give you eight hundred for her,” the youth insisted.

  “No.” Gerrit turned to the others. “But I’ll stand you all a drink at the nearest tavern.”

  The men cheered.

  He gestured across the park. “The Rose and Lion is sure to be open still. It’s not far from the Horse Guards.”

  Edgar walked beside him, the fine gravel crunching under their boots. “I didn’t think you were in any shape to race a horse in the dark over an unmarked course. You’re one lucky devil!” The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know how you pulled it off.”

  “’Pon my word, I hardly do myself. Perhaps because Royal was more in control than I.”

  “Eight hundred quid. That’s a hefty sum.”

  When they arrived at the tavern, Gerrit tossed a coin to a lounging boy to take Royal. “I’ll double that if you rub her down, feed and water her.”

  The taproom was nearly empty, only one patron stretched out, snoring on a wooden bench by the large fireplace.

  “A round of your finest!” the sergeant shouted toward th
e bar. When no one appeared, they all raised their voices. Finally a man in a white apron, his hair mussed and his eyes blinking as if he’d just been roused from sleep, emerged from the back.

  “What’ll it be, sirs?” he asked them as if it was a normal occurrence for a loud group of gentlemen and soldiers to appear at the crack of dawn.

  “A round of your finest ale,” Gerrit ordered.

  “And some hot soup!” another one added.

  “You heard it. Be quick about it,” Fickett bellowed, thumping the bar with his fists.

  The men settled around a long table, stretching out their legs and loosening their neck cloths, their talk returning to the race. A young maid hurried in to light the candles in the wall sconces.

  She stooped in front of the grate and began to sweep out the cold ashes in preparation for laying a new fire. As Gerrit watched her, he suddenly remembered.

  Miss Leighton. The rout.

  He swore under his breath.

  Edgar nudged him. “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just remembered an engagement.”

  Edgar gave him a sly wink. “Never mind. You’ll be able to smooth things over with your winnings.”

  Before he could agree about his oversight, the barkeeper returned with a tray loaded with pewter mugs and slammed it down on the table. The foamy amber liquid sloshed forth.

  Edgar stood up as soon as everyone had grabbed a tankard. Holding his high, he shouted, “To the best, bravest major in His Majesty’s Guards!”

  They raised their tankards toward Gerrit. “Hear! Hear!”

  “To Royal!” added Fickett.

  “To Royal!” they all repeated, banging tankards.

  The serving maid returned with a tray of soup bowls, followed by the barkeeper with a tureen of soup. Gerrit sipped at the tepid ale, needing something to clear his mind and wash the taste of gin from his mouth.

  Neither his companions’ hilarity nor the tasty soup was enough to dispel his irritation at his own forgetfulness. Had last night been Friday already? How could he have forgotten the rout? He’d promised Miss Leighton to introduce her to Delia. He knew from experience how crowded a rout could be, so he hadn’t much hope that the two ladies had been able to find each other without him.

  Without finishing his soup or ale, he stood.

  “Where’re you going? Have some more ale!” The sergeant held up the pitcher to him.

  Gerrit shook his head. “Have it yourself.” After settling the bill with an IOU, Gerrit headed for the stables.

  After a few hours’ sleep, he’d go around to Miss Leighton’s and leave a note of apology.

  Or should he just forget her? The thought took hold. He’d been spending entirely too much time thinking about her. It was better she see what a worthless cove he was, before any real harm was done.

  The last thing he desired was for a young innocent to develop a tendre for him. He was the last man to be trusted.

  The sound of curtain rings screeching across their rods awakened Gerrit. A second later, daylight bombarded his eyelids as he cracked them open.

  Crocker set a tray on the bed. “Good afternoon, sir. I brought you a nice hot pot o’ coffee.”

  Gerrit eyed his batman deciding whether he could muster the energy needed to throw him out of the room. He probably couldn’t even manage flinging the tray to the ground, he realized, testing his limbs. They felt like lumps of cold porridge.

  “What…are…you doing here?” he groaned, falling back against his pillows.

  Crockett smiled at him, bringing his beaked nose downward and his eyebrows together in an evil-looking grin. “Just following orders. You told me to always get you up before three.”

  Gerrit ignored him, knowing it was useless to get the better of his man in the shape he was in. “What time is it?” he asked through a yawn.

  “Just passed two o’ the clock. Now, why don’t you sit up before this coffee gets any colder?” Crocker gazed down his nose at him. “I’d say you could use a good cup or two. What happened last night? Get run over by a dray?”

  Gerrit eased his body up against his pillows, which Crocker obligingly placed behind him. His own odor assaulted him. By George, he reeked of stale smoke. A wash and shave was what he needed, he decided, running a hand across the bristles on his cheeks. A good dunking in some water should also help his sluggish head.

  Crocker laid the tray on his lap. “So, anything of interest happen to you last night?” He poured the coffee from the dented pewter pot into a cup and handed it to Gerrit.

  The prior evening was a haze of indistinct images. A young lord…faro…

  Better not enlighten Crocker about that.

  Had he won or lost? He dug in his memory. Maybe an inspection of his pockets would be quicker.

  A horse race. Yes, he’d won a horse race. More of the bits fell into place. “I recall winning a horse race. And betting lots of money,” he added.

  “Did you now? ’appen to know if you won or lost?” Crocker was a great fan of the turf.

  “I won.”

  Crocker went immediately to his coat pockets. After turning them inside out, he looked at Gerrit in puzzlement. “Where’s the blunt then?”

  Gerrit took another sip of coffee, a longer one as he let the strong, hot liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing. He might manage getting out of bed after all. “I don’t have any.”

  “No winnings? What kind of a race is that?”

  “The winnings were more in the line of a cancellation of debt.” The details were becoming clearer.

  Crocker looked long and hard at him. “I see. And what debt might that be?”

  “Faro, as I recall.”

  Crocker went about the business of batman. He picked up a brush and attacked Gerrit’s coat with long, vigorous strokes. Gerrit knew the routine whenever his man was cross with him. Crockett made a great show of inspecting Gerrit’s boots before putting them by the door. “They’ll need a good blacking. Horse manure, bits o’straw, mud…”

  Gerrit continued drinking his coffee and debating whether his stomach was up to the two pieces of slightly burnt toast that lay on the plate. He would just have to put up with Crocker’s sulks for the next hour or two. By this evening, he’d be his old self, ready to go out and do some of his own carousing.

  He glanced out the window. The fog had lifted, leaving a hazy hot day by the looks of it. “What time did you say it was?”

  Crocker made an elaborate show of taking out his pocket watch and snapping it open. “A quarter past two.” He narrowed his eyes at Gerrit. “Where is your own watch, by the way? Haven’t hocked it, have you?”

  Gerrit screwed up his eyes and tried to remember. “I don’t recall. Has it been missing long?”

  “About a week. I’ll just have to check with Farley.”

  The mention of the pawnbroker reminded him of something else. “See if he still has my silver cuff links.”

  “Yes, sir. Now, be you needing anything more, sir?”

  When he started sounding like a real servant, Crocker was truly miffed.

  “Hot water. Lots of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door banged shut behind him as Crocker left with boots in one hand, dirty linen in the other.

  As Gerrit shaved and bathed, he thought about how he should spend his day. He’d check in at the Horse Guards’ barracks and see what might be going on. He didn’t think there were any reviews until the following week. He stared down at the sleeve of his uniform. He really should order a new one for parades and reviews. This one was beginning to show its wear, and the others were in worse shape.

  But first a ride. He wanted to check on Royal. What a fine mare she was. He’d bring her a treat then take her out for a canter. Fresh air, even the hot, dusty air of an August afternoon, could only benefit the two of them.

  Gerrit spotted Miss Leighton riding in an open carriage along the path by the Serpentine. He drew his horse up, seeing the unmi
stakable face of the young American in profile as she sat opposite an older gentleman.

  Once again the memory hit him. He’d forgotten the rout. He’d decided against calling on her. And then when he’d awakened, everything from last night had been sketchy at best. Sudden shame constricted his neck and flushed his face. Since when had he begun feeling shame over a missed appointment with a fair damsel?

  Since he’d returned to England after Waterloo, remorse seemed to dog his footsteps. First with Lady Gillian and now with this young Yankee. What was becoming of the old, carefree Gerrit?

  The young French soldier’s face flashed in his memory. It had started with him.

  It had started with a cadet. Like an invisible fist punched in his gut, the realization hit Gerrit. Only military discipline kept him from doubling over in his saddle.

  “It’s all right, my lady,” he said, patting the mare’s withers. Keeping Royal prancing in place, he considered, unsure of his next move. Only two options presented themselves: forward or retreat.

  “Go on.” He communicated his intentions and the horse advanced.

  He would not retreat.

  He approached the slowly moving carriage and doffed his cap. “Good afternoon.” He bowed to both occupants, noting the absence of Mrs. Bellows.

  Miss Leighton turned. “Major Hawkes.” She gave him a slight smile, as if unsure how to proceed. This only caused him to feel his failure more acutely.

  “May I present my father? Papa, this is Major Hawkes. I told you about his sister, Viscountess Stanchfield.”

  A pair of brown eyes scrutinized his face. “Major Hawkes.”

  “Major Hawkes, this is my father, Mr. Jeremiah Leighton.”

  Jeremiah Leighton. The name was formidable enough. Hester’s description came back to him: thrifty, ingenious, a hard bargainer. Gerrit put his hand to the brim of his hat. “An honor, sir.”

  “Hmm,” was all the man said. “You’ve been on active duty?”

  “Yes, sir. On the Continent,” he added quickly, lest the man think he had been involved in the action across the Atlantic.