Highest Stakes (19 page)

  "An empire? What do you mean, Devington? I thought we spoke of a simple country squire."

  "On the contrary. Although of humble beginnings—a tavern keep, to be precise—Sir Garfield Wallace is an extremely wealthy man."

  "Indeed? From a tavern to a fortune? I should like to know how this came about."

  "'Twas in truth my father's notion. He was a private coachman for a genteel family in Doncaster and remarked one day over a shared tankard at Wallace's Blue Boar Tavern that it might be a profitable enterprise to start a public coaching service between Doncaster, Sheffield, and Leeds."

  "One must credit his foresight," Drake remarked.

  "Quite so, but Conrad Devington was never overly hindered with ambition. Garfield Wallace, however, was. Believing his establishment ideal to stage such a commercial venture, he and my father became partners of a sort."

  "So I presume that this Wallace fellow put up the capital?"

  "Precisely so. They began with a single coach-and-four. My father, with his keen eye for horseflesh, kept the business well supplied with strong, sound horses. In the first year, they were profitable and able to purchase additional coaches. My father then suggested breeding their own carriage stock to produce superior horses that could endure longer trips under heavier loads. Wallace compounded their initial success by building more inns and expanding the routes to include London and Edinburgh."

  "It sounds like an extremely lucrative venture."

  "It was; but my father had a partiality for gin. My mother, whom he loved dearly, kept him in line, but I was still in leading strings when she contracted smallpox. He never recovered from the loss and took heavily to the bottle from that time. He was never the same man."

  "But what of the partnership? Did it dissolve?"

  "Not precisely, but Wallace took advantage of my father's weakness, buying him out for a pittance during one of Conrad's drunken binges. Wallace then kept him on as stable master."

  "Grasping bastard, eh?"

  "You have no idea, Drake. Having tasted of riches, Wallace hungered for more, for what was yet out of reach. He had wealth but no social status, so he sold out and invested the bulk of his worth with the Society of Merchant Venturers."

  "Invested with the slavers, eh?" Drake commented with mild distaste. "Barbaric business that, but I durst not assume the moral high ground. My father might own shares in a dozen such enterprises, for all my knowledge. I gather the investment was fruitful?"

  "Immensely so. His profits on the Bristol slaving ships provided a yield sufficient to buy an estate and enter the ranks of the landed gentry. He then wooed the daughter and only child of a baronet and somehow finagled to come by the title upon his father-inlaw's passing."

  "Patents of nobility are a rare commodity
these
days, unlike centuries hence, when the Crown sold peerages to fill their private coffers. My own family's title traces back to James I, who supplemented his personal fortune thus."

  "In Sir Garfield's case, he may have gained a title but has yet to achieve the heights of grandeur to which he aspires. He's a man who will use any means at his disposal to get what he wants."

  "I am intimately acquainted with the archetype. I confess my own father comes immediately to mind," Drake remarked deprecatingly. "Although an interesting rags-to-riches tale, I still fail to see how this all relates to you, Devington."

  "I warned you 'twas a long story, and beg your forbearance. Now where was I?"

  "The shrewd, ruthless baronet made his fortune but yet reaches higher," Drake prompted.

  "Indeed. Desiring to mix with the aristocracy, Sir Garfield focused his attention on the turf. He converted the stables, which once bred the country's finest carriage horses, into a racing stud, but my father had no experience of running bloods, so Sir Garfield was obliged to seek a competent man for the purpose. He found such a one in John Jeffries."

  "The man who eventually took your father's stead."

  "I don't begrudge Jeffries. He has been friend and mentor to me and is the devil of a horseman. I resent only Sir Garfield's duplicity, which led my father to drink himself into an early grave."

  "This was when you were in North Yorkshire?"

  "Indeed, my story now comes full circle. Upon my return, Sir Garfield promoted Jeffries to stable master. Although I had little after my father's death, Charlotte's father had left her a small dowry. Our monies combined should have sufficed to make us a very modest start, but Sir Garfield refused to consider my suit, and as you aptly surmised, sent me packing."

  "You were no doubt in a state of mind to commit some act of folly."

  "We discussed elopement."

  "Mayhap not the wisest course of action, when one has not even a pot to piss in."

  "Spoken in the words of a true sage, Drake."

  "So we come back to the beginning. In an impetuously quixotic

notion, you took your destiny into your own hands and left the girl behind to seek your fortune in the Horse Guard. And now you intend to claim your bride. What is your strategy?"

"'Tis what plagues me, Drake, as I yet have none."

A fter three days with nary a break from the saddle, the officers'
suffering bodies ached for respite. Their very bones jarred with each plodding step of their utterly spent mounts, but Doncaster remained another half-day's ride. Gaining Sheffield—damp, cold, and ravenous—the travel-weary pair drew up at the first public house they encountered: the Dark Horse Tavern.

  They entered the ramshackle stable yard and slithered wearily from their lathered and drooping mounts. After settling their horses, the pair dragged themselves to the tavern. The taproom reeked of stale ale, and the smoky tallow provided meager illumination in the cluttered, low-ceilinged space. Hungry beyond discrimination, the pair collapsed at a corner table, wincing at the hard bench that was so unforgiving to their saddle-sore posteriors.

  Pausing little for conversation, they greedily devoured a meal of bread, cheese, and mutton stew, chasing it all down with several tankards of stout.

  Now sated, Captain Devington leaned back from the table, suppressed a yawn, and sleepily took in his surroundings. Major Drake, hands clasped behind his head, directed his calculating gaze toward an even dingier back room, taking in a small band of foot soldiers playing at cards. Devington noted his comrade's less-than-latent interest.

  "Infantry," Drake humphed, scrutinizing the company more closely. "Devington," he asked, "do my eyes deceive me, or might it be our old chum Prescott?"

  "Prescott, you say?" Devington grimaced. "I had hoped never again to cross paths with that blighter."

  "Are you so poor spirited as that?" The Major grinned wickedly.

  Robert refused the bait. He replied with another yawn, "I don't guess to know what you're about, old man, but I'm nigh fagged to death."

  "It's bad form to go to the races with empty pockets," Drake chided.

  "My pockets, although lean, are not yet empty. However, I know of no surer way to hasten that inevitability than to gamble what I have following little sleep and much stout. You're on your own, old chap; I shan't join you in your sport this night." Somewhat unsteadily, he rose to his feet.

  "I find to the contrary that the prospect of sport has given me a second wind." Philip cracked his knuckles.

  "On the morrow, then." Robert sighed, staggering to the staircase and up to their room.

  "Oh, I daresay I shan't be detained overlong." Philip laughed and swaggered toward the back room.

  It was mid-morning and Christmas Eve Day before the deeply slumbering men finally roused.

  The first to wake, Robert blinked in an effort to orient himself. "Sheffield," he mumbled, remembering where he was. His critical gaze took in their less-than-pristine accommodations. "We must have been completely fagged," he remarked disparagingly and rose stiffly from the hard bed.

  "What are you muttering?" Philip muttered. "And don't I recall already having this conversation about rising before the cock? Damme if one of us remembered it."

"Philip, it must be near noon. We'd best be about our business."

  "
Your
business awaits, Devington, not mine. I took care of
mine
last night. While you counted your Yorkshire sheep, I perchance fleeced mine." He chuckled. "Fleeced them but good, I might say. As I stated earlier, 'tis poor form to attend a race without a farthing. Makes a very bad impression."

  "Glad Lady Luck was on your side, Philip. Just remember she's fickle. You can only hope she returns to you at the track."

  "No fear, man. I've never wanted for a lady. She'll return. She may even bring her twin, Lady of Fortune. I've always fancied a threesome." He chuckled again.

  "Reprobate."

  "The boot fits just fine," he quipped, customarily getting the last word.

  "I do have important business to attend this morning, a long overdue call, so to speak. Would you be offended should I not ask you to accompany me? When I return, we can continue on to Doncaster."

  "Don't fear for me, ole chum. I shall contrive to entertain myself. Perhaps our friend Prescott remains?" The devilish grin reappeared.

  "Are you determined to cross swords with him again? He has company this time," Devington warned.

  "You need not fret for my safety. He's proven himself no better swordsman on foot than on horse."

  "So you say? And a poor loser as well, by the sound of it," Robert replied with mixed exasperation and relief. Turning to his ablutions, he approached the cracked and tarnished mirror at the dressing table, noting his disheveled appearance with a decided grimace. Discovering no water with which to wash or shave, he rang for the chambermaid.

  Several rings and nearly twenty minutes later, the call was answered by the same voluptuous bar-cum-chambermaid who had tended the taproom the prior evening. Sizing them both up and down, she inquired in seductive tones, "And 'ow may I serve you 'ansome gents?" Placing a special emphasis on
serve
, Maggie directed Philip a wicked look, leaving no question as to her meaning.

  While Philip quirked a brow in her direction, Robert ignored the exchange, answering, "Hot water, miss. I should very much like some hot water in which to wash and shave." He would have preferred a bath but knew such a request would be ludicrous in their present abode.

  "Oh, I'll gladly wash and shave ya, Cap'n." The girl winked knowingly at Philip.

  "Cheeky wench," Philip returned with a wicked gleam.

  Robert retorted in his growing impatience, "No need to put yourself out, miss."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," Philip drawled. "Maggie here can
put
herself out
as she well pleases."

  "I've pressing business and should like to be on my way. I've no further time to waste," Robert retorted and tromped out.

  Ignoring Devington's outburst and fitful departure, Maggie cast her siren's gaze on Philip. With her hips sashaying, she slowly approached until they stood breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Placing both hands on Philip's shoulders, she gently but firmly pushed him back into a nearby chair and shamelessly rucked her skirts to straddle his thighs. Pressing her half-exposed breasts into his face, she breathed wantonly into his ear, "Now 'ow did you want
your
shave, Cap'n?"