Amanda Scott (3 page)

“Yes, darling, of course,” he said. “Landlord, have you a maidservant who can attend my daughter and perhaps sleep in her bedchamber? We were unable to bring her maid with us today, and she is not accustomed to looking after herself.”

Bowing obsequiously, the landlord said, “To be sure, sir, I’ve a wench who’ll look after her. Won’t be the sort Miss be accustomed to, but Mag will see to her well enough.” He shouted to the nether regions of the inn, whereupon a plump young woman with crisp brown curls spilling from beneath her mobcap came hurrying in response, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Lawks-a-mussy,” she exclaimed, “ain’t I a-comin’ as fast as me legs will carry me?” Seeing Sir Geoffrey and Melissa, she bobbed a hasty curtsy,

The landlord said, “Mag, you’re to look after Miss Seacourt here whilst she refreshes herself afore dinner. Put her in the yaller room at the top of the stairs, and her da in the next. They kin use the wee parlor beyond it fer their supper.”

“Right you are.”

Sir Geoffrey said, “As a matter of fact, landlord, if you agree to the notion, I’d like to hire this young woman to accompany my daughter for the three days remaining of our journey. She looks capable, and I’ll see to it that she gets back to you safely.”

“Lawks-a-mussy,” Mag exclaimed. “Me? Go to Lunnon-town?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not London,” Sir Geoffrey said, “only to Newmarket.”

Melissa gasped. “Newmarket!”

Raising an eyebrow, Sir Geoffrey said, “Did I forget to mention where I am to pay off Yarborne, darling? Since he, like every other sporting man in England, is in Newmarket now for the annual Spring Meeting—the horse races, that is—we’re to meet him there.”

Neither Charley nor Lady Ophelia could help her now. She was on her own.

Monday, 3 May 1824, Newmarket

“M
AIN OF SEVEN, GENTLEMEN
, five thrown,” declared the groom-porter at the hazard table in the crowded main gaming room of Newmarket’s famous Little Hell. “Odds three to two against the caster. Chance of five to win; seven loses.” Collecting the dice from the table, he looked up at the large, dark-haired man who had just cast them. “Will you increase your stake, my lord?”

Nicholas Barrington, elder son of the Earl of Ulcombe and presently styled Lord Vexford, nodded. Taking the dice from the porter, he dropped them into the dice box and set two more rouleaux with his markers on the table. “Adding twenty guineas,” he said in a deep voice that carried easily to the other players.

“Thank you, my lord. Who covers, gentlemen?”

When most of the others—some fifteen in all at the table—moved to cover Vexford’s stake, the much shorter, rather plump gentleman beside him said plaintively over the rumble of their voices, “By Jupiter, your luck’s in with the bones, Nick, but lovers another matter, ain’t it? As I hear it, the Hawthorne’s been out of sorts ever since the pair of you arrived in Newmarket. Daresay you’ve just got bored with her, but to hear her tell it, you’re being purposefully cruel, and folks are bound to believe it, since she uglifies any other chit unfortunate enough to be seen in her company.”

“Do you believe her, Tommy?” Vexford murmured.

Lord Thomas Minley said hastily, “Dash it, Nick, she cites dozens of instances of your cruelty. Names dozens of witnesses, too. But though other folks are bound to say even
you
can’t expect your luck to hold with women and gaming all at one and the same time, I say you’re just bored with her.”

Smiling lazily down at him, Vexford said, “I’m increasingly bored with the whole game of life, Tommy, but what makes you think I’m bored with Clara?”

“Plain as a pikestaff,” Lord Thomas said. “At the Heath, she clings to you like a limpet whilst you watch the damned horses, and where is she right now, I ask you? At some dashed assembly or other, wondering where the devil you are, that’s where she is right now. And, like I said, she’s named dozens of witnesses.”

“Clara always names dozens of witnesses, particularly when she’s lying through her pretty teeth,” Vexford said. “She knows better than to expect me to do the fancy here, however, and as to my watching the horses, everyone does. That
is
why one attends the Newmarket Spring Meeting, after all.”

Lord Thomas snorted. “That’s one reason, but it ain’t the only one, and that’s a fact. Gambling’s the main reason they come, and don’t say it ain’t, my lad, not when you’ve had a monkey off me in less than an hour right here in Little Hell and another this afternoon before the first subscription heats were over and done.”

“But I need the money,” Vexford said in a dulcet tone. “The lady’s damned acquisitive. Are you covering my stake, Tommy?”

“I am, though only a fool would believe you need my blunt to pay for Clara’s baubles. Dash it, I saw that ruby bracelet you gave her.” His gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Is that what it is? She asks for too many pretties? I can believe it. Too demanding by half, I’d say—for my taste, anyway. But then, I could never afford her in the first place. Be done up just paying for one of her shoe buckles, and don’t tell me she don’t wear ’em. That chit flaunts glitter wherever she can manage to put it. Now I come to think of it, Nick, maybe you’d best get rid of her. You’ve enough luck and to spare, even for finding a new light-o’-love.”

Vexford looked pointedly at the other gamesters who were waiting for Lord Thomas to cover the stake. When he had done so, Vexford gave the dice box a shake, then cast a three and a two.

“There, you see,” Thomas said in disgust. “Odds against it, and you throw chance. No doubt you’ll call a new main now and nick the board.”

While the groom-porter called the odds, Vexford added to his stake again, and Thomas, albeit shaking his head at his friend’s incredible luck, covered again when the others did. Vexford threw an ace and a four.

Thomas groaned. “That’s done it. Someone ought to call for new dice.”

Vexford looked at him. “Do you want to do so?”

“By Jupiter, no! Just thinking someone might. Serve you right if they had, right in the middle of your cast, so you’d have had to throw over with new ones. And it’s no use looking daggers at me, for I’m damned if I’ll cover you again. When you’re in vein, old lad, there’s none as can touch you, not even Yarborne. Look, there he is now. I’ll confess, I’ve wondered about him. Rich as Midas, yet I never heard his name mentioned before last year or so. Still, one sees him everywhere, and there he is now, collecting more blunt. Must have made a private wager that you’d cast chance again.”

“You suspect everyone of something, Tommy,” Vexford said, “and while I’ll grant you that Yarborne’s got more money than most, he also gives as much as any man in London to the poor and needy. Not only is he rich but he must choose his wagers well, for he’s said to be more of a gamester than I am.”

“Dash it, that can’t be true. You live and breathe cards and dice, and Yarborne’s forever organizing musicales, ladies’ supper parties, and concerts to raise money for the poor. But I’m not the only one who don’t trust him much. My father says he’s just trying to build a reputation for himself, to work his way into the highest circles, and has taken your father as his example. One no sooner hears Yarborne accused of some dashed scurvy thing like usury than one learns he lent money to some fool, interest free, just to keep the bailiffs from the chap’s door. But—Good Lord,” he exclaimed when his errant gaze fixed suddenly on the entrance to the crowded room, “here comes Dory! Don’t tempt him to play, Nick, I beg you. It ain’t right to take advantage of a man of God under any circumstance, and certainly not when he’s my brother.”

The Reverend Lord Dorian Minley, ten years older than Lord Thomas, strolled up to the table and watched with polite interest while Vexford threw the dice again. When most of those gathered around groaned in much the same way that Thomas had earlier, the vicar said with a chuckle, “I collect that you’ve thrown in, Nicholas.”

Thomas said with a snort, “He has. If he don’t nick the board with his first cast, he throws chance three or four times running. Goes against all the odds, Dory. In his position, I’d throw chance and then the main, which would mean—in case you don’t recall—paying off each and every man at the table. That would serve Nick right if it ever happened, but he throws only winners. If I didn’t know him for an honest player, dashed if I wouldn’t call for a hammer to break those dice. But when did you arrive in Newmarket, old man?” he added in a more genial tone.

“Earlier this afternoon,” the vicar replied with a singularly sweet smile. The two brothers looked a good deal alike despite the difference in their ages, for both had the same hazel eyes, curly brown hair, and sturdy, plump figures. The second and fifth of the Marquess of Prading’s six offspring, both were of average height, but standing next to the tall, broad-shouldered, loose-limbed Vexford, they looked nearly diminutive.

Lord Thomas exclaimed, “Dash it, how could you have arrived this afternoon, Dory? I never saw you at the Heath.”

“As it happens, I took a walk along the Devil’s Dyke,” the vicar said, “and the oddest thing happened to me there. I shall tell you about it later, for it is too noisy by half in here to engage in a proper conversation.”

Thomas said at once to Vexford, who had been keeping an ear on their conversation while he added to his growing stake, “Look here, Nick, I’m famished. If you want to have supper with Dory and me, you’ll have to pass that box on soon, or else I’ll just toddle off along with him now to the supper room.”

In response, Vexford called a new main and cast again. Once more the result was greeted with a groan, but this time, when the porter asked if he would increase his stake, he shook his head. “My luck can’t hold much longer,” he said, “so I’ll take Tommy’s excellent advice and pass the box.” Handing the dice box to the man on his left, he gathered his winnings, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be delighted to join you and Dorian for supper, Tommy.”

“The devil if you’ll just
join
us,” Lord Thomas said tartly. “You’ll bloody well
pay
for the supper.”

Chuckling, Vexford followed the two Minley brothers to the supper room, where they were fortunate enough to find a corner table unoccupied. As they took their seats, Lord Thomas said to the vicar, “I’ve just been advising Nick here to spend some of that luck of his in finding himself a new mistress, Dory. The one he’s got now is too avaricious by half. But no doubt you’ll remind him that the Church of England frowns altogether on such sinful liaisons.”

The vicar smiled. “I could do that, of course, but I should hate to imagine myself responsible for any young woman’s being cast adrift without support or shelter.” He shot Vexford a quizzical look, adding, “However, I daresay that our Nicholas would not abandon any friend of his to such a fate.”

Thomas grimaced. “Good Lord, no! Clara could live for a lifetime on the proceeds of the bracelet he gave her last week, and heaven only knows what else she’s managed to cozen out of him. It’s more likely that she’ll refuse to accept her congé. Woman’s a dashed limpet, like I was telling him before.”

A servant approached, and conversation lapsed while the gentlemen discussed the evening’s menu with him. Once he had gone, Thomas said as if there had been no interruption, “Mind you, I don’t say he ain’t been fair to her. I’m just saying—”

“You’re saying rather a lot, actually,” Vexford interjected gently but in a tone that caused the experienced Lord Thomas to fall instantly silent. “I’d prefer,” Vexford went on, “to hear what the vicar has been up to of late. I don’t think we’ve encountered each other since last year’s Spring Meeting.”

“That is perfectly true,” the vicar said with an understanding smile at Thomas, who seemed to have no more desire at the moment to speak. “It is difficult for me to get to London these days, you know, let alone into Hampshire, although I did meet your estimable sire right here in Newmarket at the Calver Stakes a fortnight ago. I collect that he has not returned for the Spring Meeting, however. At least, I have not yet laid eyes on him.”

“No, he and my mother are at Owlcastle,” Vexford said, referring to the Earl of Ulcombe’s primary residence, which occupied vast parklands in Hampshire. “He is presently engaged in building a home for blind orphans in Upton Grey, on the edge of the New Forest, but they will return to town by week’s end, I believe.”

“I have heard of this latest enterprise of his,” the vicar said, nodding approval, “and though I am sorry not to see him again, I shall doubtless do so when I visit London next month. It has been far too long since I did, and so I mean to attend the Epsom Derby. I have not enjoyed that exciting spectacle since my Oxford days.”

The servant returned with their wine, filled their glasses, and went away again, leaving the bottle on the table, before Lord Thomas said, “Look here, Dory, didn’t you say something odd happened to you today in the Devil’s Dyke? Can’t think why anyone would want to go for a walk in a ditch rather than watch the heats, after coming to Newmarket for the races.”

“Call it an impulse,” the vicar said, “but indeed, the strangest thing happened. I really cannot account for it. I thought I was quite alone, you know, and didn’t expect to meet another soul, but as I rounded a curve, I heard a chap talking. Found him rather shortly after that, sitting cross-legged on the ground, chattering away to himself. I bade him good-day, and took the liberty of inquiring about what he was doing there.”

“‘Why, sir,’ says he, ‘I am at play.’”

“‘At play? With whom?’ I asked. ‘I see no one.’”

“‘My antagonist is not visible,’ says he. ‘I am playing with God.’”

Lord Thomas exclaimed, “The devil he did! What did you say to that, Dory?”

“I asked what game they were playing, of course.”

Vexford chuckled. “Good for you, Vicar. What game did he say?”

“Chess.”

“And did you see a chessboard?”

“None. Indeed, I pointed that out to the chap, and then—just funning a bit, you understand—I asked if he and God had placed any wagers on the outcome.”

“And had they?”

“According to my newfound acquaintance, they had. And—would you believe it—when I mentioned that he did not stand a chance to win such a wager, since his adversary must be the superior player, he said, ‘He takes no advantage of me, sir, but plays as a mere mortal.’ Being naturally rather stunned, I asked how they settled accounts. ‘Very exactly and punctually,’ says he. ‘And pray, how stands your game now?’ I asked, whereupon the chap admitted that he had just lost to his opponent.”