Donal wrapped his fingers around Inglesham’s wrist and pulled his hand away. “You’ll get your money,” he said. “And then we’ll renegotiate this agreement.”
Inglesham laughed. “Re…negotiate? Naturally, Doctor. Wouldn’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, would we?”
But Donal knew he was lying. Once he saw his bets pay off, he’d only want more, and there was a whole season of races ahead of him. Eventually it would no longer be enough for Donal to pick likely winners. Inglesham would expect him to influence the horses directly. As long as he threatened Ivy’s exposure to the authorities, he would seem to have the upper hand.
Tod was convinced that the only solution to Donal’s dilemma was another, more malignant use of Fane power…one that would leave the viscount incapable of threatening anyone ever again. A horse breaking free of its handler at just the right moment could remove the mortal “problem” in a matter of seconds.
“I am a healer, not a murderer,” Donal had argued. And he wouldn’t subvert any animal to injure a human. There must be another way.
Donal climbed the steps into the grandstand constructed for the wealthy who had paid for the privilege of viewing the race apart from the common rabble. The four horses that had not been withdrawn from the race approached the starting line, where the starter waited with his hand poised near the brim of his hat.
“Well?” Inglesham said.
Donal studied the horses, opening his mind to the nervous thoughts of the colts dancing under their jockeys’ firm control. One of the animals was chafing at the bit more than the others, and through his body Donal felt the jockey’s tense posture and the grip of his thighs on the colt’s barrel.
“Johnny’s Cavalier will be held back,” he said to Inglesham.
The viscount hissed through his teeth and jotted a note in his small black book. “And the others?”
Donal closed his eyes. A blood bay colt sidestepped and winced at a slight, deep-set pain in his left rear fetlock. “Tuesday’s Child will finish the race, but not first.”
“Excellent.” Inglesham snapped his book closed and stood up. “Enjoy yourself, Fleming. I’ll even place a small bet on your behalf.”
He was gone before Donal could protest. Hunching low on the bench, Donal imagined himself far from this place and the filthy miasma of human rapaciousness. He ran and leaped with gazelles on the open veldt. He splashed in the wide rivers of Sheba’s infancy. He padded through Othello’s jungle, relishing the rustle of fallen leaves under his bare feet. Flowers in fantastic hues nodded at the ends of sweeping vines. The water in the streams was a flawless cornflower blue, and the butterflies were as large as Donal’s head.
Butterflies. Donal held out his hand, and one of them perched on his fingers, fanning enormous wings that sparkled like rubies. The forest opened up into a meadow carpeted in blossoms of astonishing variety, some in colors Donal had no words to name. Sunshine unmarred by a single cloud bathed the meadow in golden light.
Donal bent to touch an azure petal, and the flower quivered with joy. That was when he knew he was not in Othello’s jungle, or anywhere else on earth.
Tir-na-Nog. He shook his head, bewildered by the substantiality of the Fane realm his imagination had conjured up from Tod’s description and his own deficient memories. The vision held him captive with its beauty, its calm, its sublime tranquillity. There were no fences or cages in the Land of the Young. Nothing ever truly died in Tir-na-Nog; suffering was all but unknown. Freedom was an unquestioned birthright.
Freedom from pain, from want—from love.
But that was only part of Tir-na-Nog. There was also vanity, indifference, casual cruelty to the humans who fell under the Fanes’ spell. There was no such thing as perfection….
Donal opened his eyes. The crudeness of the mortal sphere wiped all traces of Tir-na-Nog from his thoughts. Acrid scents of horse dung and perspiration wafted through the grandstand. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled with the sensation that someone was watching him.
He turned in his seat, half-expecting to find Tod hovering at his shoulder. But the eyes that met his were not the hob’s smokey brown, nor did he recognize the face to which they belonged. The fair-haired lady was lovely, exotic…and bold as a Newmarket doxy. Her dress was cut in an unfamiliar style, hinting of faraway lands, and her ice-blue eyes laughed at Donal as if they shared some secret jest.
Donal raised his hand to tip his hat, but the lady had already turned away, her silver laughter cutting through the buzz of conversation as she exchanged some witticism with her handsome male companion.
“A pretty piece, that one,” Inglesham said, taking his seat beside Donal. “A Russian countess. She’s taken Shapford, near Edgecott…well above your station, even if she is a—”
He broke off as the crowd suddenly hushed in anticipation of the starter’s signal. The horses fretted and stamped. Inglesham raised his field glasses to his eyes, and then the horses were off in a blur of flexing muscle and flying hooves.
The race ended in victory for a gray by the name of Archangel, and a tidy profit for the viscount. His bets paid in two of the remaining three races. As Inglesham summoned his carriage for the return to Edgecott, Donal once again broached the subject of renegotiation.
“There must be a limit to this agreement,” he said, sitting as far from Inglesham as the carriage seats would allow. “I have shown my good faith. Now you prove yours.”
Inglesham chuckled. “Don’t be so anxious to end such a successful partnership, my friend,” he said. “You, too, could be a wealthy man…and there is little in this world that wealth cannot buy.”
“It can’t buy honor,” Donal said.
The viscount’s smile turned sour. “It may, however, secure your little maid’s future.”
Donal dug his fingers into the leather of the squabs. “Do you think this game you play is without consequences, Inglesham?”
“Ah. The inevitable threats at last.” He gazed indifferently at the passing scenery. “It might interest you to know that I have not entirely overlooked the areas in which your resistance to our bargain might prove inconvenient. I have already written a letter addressed to certain influential friends in London. Should Cordelia ever learn of this arrangement, the letter will be sent immediately. And if I should fall victim to an accident of any kind…” He shrugged. “I have left evidence that will send the authorities directly to you.”
Donal laughed. “Evidence? That I have some magical power only a fool would credit?”
“I trust it won’t come to such dire circumstances. And while you may wish to do me harm, Fleming, I don’t believe you have it in you.”
The remainder of the afternoon’s drive passed in silence. When they reached Edgecott in the early evening, Donal demanded that Inglesham set him down some distance from the gate. Inglesham leaned out the window to make some final comment, but Donal had already started through the park at a hard, fast stride.
At the last moment he turned off the road to the house, unable to bear the prospect of meeting Cordelia if she had returned from London. His cottage, caught between lowering sunlight and deepening shadow, presented the illusion of a safe refuge, and Donal thought only of sleep. But when he reached the door he found that peace was to elude him once again.
Theodora sat on the weathered bench beside the door, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She stood as he approached, and Donal saw the tension of some pressing concern on her pleasant, homely face.
“Dr. Fleming. Donal. I am so glad you are returned.”
Donal felt an entirely irrational thrill of alarm. “What is wrong, Theodora?”
“I am sorry to disturb you…perhaps it is nothing. Indeed, I cannot be certain—”
“Come inside.” He opened the door and gestured her to precede him. “I have little to offer you, but if you would allow me to put a kettle on the fire…”
“No. No, thank you.” She sat in the plain wooden chair near the hearth an
d regarded him anxiously. “It is about Cordelia.”
Donal closed the door and perched on the edge of the bed. “What has happened?”
“As I said, it may be nothing, but…” She squared her shoulders. “This afternoon, Cordelia quarreled with Sir Geoffrey again. It has happened lately with greater and greater frequency, and the effects upon Cordelia have been…painful to observe.”
“Yes.” Donal’s ribs pressed in on his lungs. “This quarrel was a particularly bad one?”
“I…overheard some part of it.” Her cheeks reddened. “Afterward, Cordelia was quite agitated. She rushed about the house as if she could find nowhere to turn.”
And I was not here, Donal thought bitterly.
“I hoped she might confide in me about her difficulties,” Theodora continued, “but she went into her sitting room and did not come out again until one of our local farmers arrived and asked to speak with her on urgent business. Shortly afterward she left the house, dressed in a heavy cloak. Her behavior was such that I became worried for her, and I followed the farmer until I overtook him.” She swallowed. “He told me that Cordelia had a longstanding arrangement with several farmers and villagers, men she trusted, to inform her when certain events occurred in the neighborhood. It seems that a dogfight was to be held near Charlcombe this very evening, and—”
Donal shot to his feet, his thoughts hardening to crystal clarity. “Cordelia has gone to stop it,” he said.
“It is what I feared.” Theodora held Donal’s gaze, her own dark with misery. “She has been reckless in such matters before, as you saw in London. But I do not believe that she has ever attempted such a thing without first contacting others who despise such sport as she does. She is but one woman, and the sort of men who would force animals to fight each other for their own amusement…” She shuddered. “Even now I can scarcely credit that she would be so foolish.”
Unless she has been driven to the point of desperation, Donal thought. Desperation to take action, to fight adversaries who can be openly opposed and defeated, unlike the enemies she faces in her own home and heart.
Enemies she could never acknowledge: her father, Inglesham, the societal conventions that kept her bound to rigid duty and an endless quest for perfection that remained ever out of reach….
“I asked Croome to send our footmen after her,” Theodora continued, “but Cordelia had given the servants an afternoon’s liberty. I considered calling the constable, but feared he would arrive too late. That was when I thought of you.”
“You were right to do so. Do you know specifically where this fight is to be located?”
“Only what I told you. Such fights are illegal, and so its patrons are careful to keep the details secret from outsiders.” She rose, clutching at her skirts. “There must be dangerous men there, Donal. You should not go alone.”
“I won’t be alone.” He clasped her hands. “You did well to come to me, Theodora. It will be all right.”
“I will pray for you both.”
He nodded, collected his bag and strode for the door, his thoughts reaching out for two he could count as allies. Tod was nowhere to be found, but Sir Reginald had found his way out of the house and was waiting for Donal in the drive.
He picked up the spaniel and ran for the stables, breathing deeply to calm his dread. Reggie licked his chin and whined.
“I would prefer not to take you at all, my friend,” Donal told the spaniel, “but once we reach Charlcombe I may need your admirable nose to help me locate the fight.”
Sir Reginald shivered, catching some part of the dark images that spilled from Donal’s mind. Donal hugged the dog close. “I won’t take you anywhere near that place,” he said as they approached the stable. “You’ll remain safely with Boreas once I know where to go.”
He raced past a startled groom to Boreas’s stall, where the stallion was already splintering the walls with his hooves. Donal untied the horse, carefully balanced Sir Reginald on Boreas’s withers, and mounted bareback.
“Now, Reggie,” he said, “we shall find Cordelia.”
THE BYRE STANK of filthy straw, unwashed bodies and animals pushed to the very edge of their endurance. The cloak Cordelia wore did nothing to insulate her from the horror of the sounds and smells, the avid faces of the men who shouted out their bets as they prepared to send innocent animals to pain, mutilation and death.
There were no women here to witness this atrocity. The rough shirt and trousers Cordelia wore might disguise her sex at a distance, but if any of these human monsters discovered who hid in the shadows they would have cast her out with neither courtesy nor compunction.
Shivering with disgust and rage, Cordelia edged her way to the corner of the byre where the dog crates were kept, most so small that their occupants—many missing ears or marked with horrible, half-healed wounds—had no choice but to lie in their own excrement. The stench was unbearable, yet one of the dogs, a brindle terrier, crept up to the bars and whimpered, begging for some comfort in this canine hell.
Cordelia pushed her fingers into the cage and stroked the scarred nose, nearly weeping at the gentle touch of the animal’s tongue on her skin. Other dogs pressed toward her, some wagging their tails in defiance of their ghastly plight.
Aware that her opportunities were severely limited, Cordelia kept her ears and eyes open while she examined the cage latches. As contemptible as the dogfighting patrons might be, their shared vice evidently led them to trust each other to some degree. None of the cages was locked.
Cordelia sank back on her heels and measured the distance from the crates to the guarded byre entrance. It would seem nearly impossible to free the dogs and get them before their owners stopped her…and many of the poor beasts would be too poisoned with fear or excitement to escape.
That was the tragedy of it. A number of the dogs could never be allowed to run loose, for they had been repeatedly forced to attack weaker animals, cruelly punished for failure and praised for each sordid victory. But Cordelia refused to give up hope. If even one animal could be saved, she would not regret the risk or effort in coming. And if she could actually stop the fight from proceeding…
For just a moment her resolve weakened, and she thought of Donal. He would understand why she had felt compelled to come here, foolish as it might seem. He would gladly stand beside her, and if she had been thinking a little more clearly she would have seen the wisdom of asking him in spite of the dreadful awkwardness of their last meeting.
If awkwardness were all it was. If only she had used the sense she so often berated Ivy for failing to employ. If only she had acknowledged the volatility of her feelings before it was too late….
“Just what d’you think yer doin’ there?”
Cordelia stiffened at the suspicious voice and surreptitiously pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her face. The man came closer, close enough that she could see the black stubble on his chin and smell the liquor on his breath.
“You hear me?” the man growled. He caught hold of Cordelia’s cloak, jerking her away from the crates. “No one gets near the dogs before the fight.” He thrust his face close to Cordelia’s. “Got somethin’ to hide, boy? Maybe you was plannin’ on swingin’ the odds in yer favor?”
Cordelia shrank back in pretended fear. “I weren’t doin’ nothin’,” she protested in her deepest voice. “Just wanted to see what they looked like.”
The man spat into the rotting hay. “This yer first time, boy? It’ll be yer last if you don’t get back to the ring.” He aimed a kick at Cordelia’s legs, which she dodged easily enough. But her hood slipped from her forehead with the suddenness of her movement, and before she could turn her head the man had seen her face.
He uttered a foulness in perfect keeping with his depraved nature and seized her shoulder. “A female,” he sneered. She fought him as best she could, but he twisted her arm behind her back and dragged her into the circle of lamplight that flooded the makeshift ring.
“Look what
we have here, my lads,” he said. “A little lady come slummin’ to share our entertainment.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CLAMOR OF MALE VOICES fell silent. Two men on either side of the ring yanked on the chains restraining their snarling, snapping bull terriers. Shadowed faces turned to Cordelia with snickers and scowls, muttering curses patently unfit for a lady’s ears.
“What’s a female doin’ ’ere?” someone demanded.
“Must’ve come to entertain us,” another suggested with a laugh.
Cordelia stood very still and looked slowly about the ring, searching for a familiar face. Though she had taken pains to disguise her normal appearance with a severe coiffure and well-placed smudges on her face, she knew some of the men might recognize her, and others would simply not wish to be identified by an outsider. Several men in clothing of considerably better quality than the rough garb of the majority hurried toward the entrance and slipped out.
“Well?” Cordelia’s captor said. “She can’t stay ’ere. Anyone claim ’er?”
“Let her go, Joe,” one man said from the rear of the throng. “We don’t want no trouble.”
“What if she tells?” a harsher voice asked.
Joe shook Cordelia impatiently. “Who are you, girl?”
Cordelia pushed her hood all the way back to her shoulders and stepped into the brightest pool of light. A bettor, his fingers wrapped around a heavy bag of coin, gasped in surprise and scuttled deeper into the crowd. Joe released Cordelia and stepped away.
Cordelia smiled, her heart nearly bursting with fury. “It does not matter who I am,” she said. “I have come to stop this foul perversion you call a ‘sport.’”
The silence stretched for a dozen measured heartbeats before the mob broke into a chorus of furious denials. Threats shot at Cordelia like missiles. A half-dozen men slipped out the doors as the “gentlemen” had before them.
“Others know of this,” Cordelia cried above the torrent of voices. “They will be coming soon. Leave the dogs here, and you may—”
Lord of the Beasts Page 26