Highest Stakes (47 page)

  "Indeed?" Philip queried.

  Sir Garfield directed Lord Uxeter a warning, which he ignored, saying, "Since all has been resolved, Sir Garfield, we shall speak again after the race." He directed a smirk at his brother, and Lord Uxeter took his leave.

  What had just transpired between them? Philip asked himself and turned back to Sir Garfield with growing unease.

  "Now as to
our
business, sir. I have done your bidding, though it was clearly contrary to my conscience and cost me dearly. In truth, no dowry could compensate for what I have lost."

  Sir Garfield pulled a fat coin purse from his pocket. "And what would you expect as recompense for your
losses
?"

  "There is no restitution for integrity," he said bitterly.

  "On the contrary, Major. Integrity always has a price. To lose or to keep; there is invariably a cost. Some just pay more dearly than others." He tossed the coin purse to Philip, who made no move to catch it. Shrugging, Sir Garfield continued. "All will be settled in good time, Major, but I have first a race to attend. We will talk again when I return to London. You may call Wednesday at Upper Brook Street. Wednesday next," he repeated, dismissing the major.

  With no interest at all in the races, Philip left the heath for his lodgings. Edmund and the baronet were playing some deep game at his expense. He could feel it in his very marrow. What had happened in the few days of his absence?

  He was deeply unsettled, and the knowledge that he had soon to make his formal report at Whitehall only compounded his discomfiture. He still hadn't composed a plausible story to excuse the duel. It appeared increasingly inevitable that Devington would face courts-martial.

  Though it was still morning, Philip bought another bottle of whiskey, taking it back to his quarters where he could brood undisturbed and drink himself again into mind-numbing oblivion.

According to long-standing tradition, the King's Plate was a race for horses, mares, and geldings no more than six years old the grass before. The race was run in three heats of nearly four miles, all riders carrying twelve stone, and no serving man or groom to ride.

  Post time, mandated by the Articles Relating to Royal Plates, was at one of the clock. Privileged gentleman by the hundreds, preferring a bird's-eye view of the proceedings, crowded into the brick viewing pavilion. Those less fortunate elbowed their way through the horde to find their best place along the course. The King's Plate was about to begin.

  Sir Garfield, pushing and prodding his way toward one of the pavilion windows overlooking the starting post, took his position. The vibrantly clothed runners in the King's Plate, twenty-three horses in sum, had begun to appear on the heath, each led by his outrider to the start.

  The herd now visible on the field was the very prime representatives of English racing horses, in whose veins still coursed the blood of the desert kings from such far and exotic lands as Syria and Tangier, the stallions who were imported by the dozens to improve the native English breed. For the past half century, this imported blood had been selectively intermingled with that of the original royal mares received as part of the dowry of King Charles's wife, Catherine of Braganza, to create the matchless "thorough-bred" horse.

  Though all the runners varied in size and shape, the unique form of the racer was unmistakable in each—the lightly sculptured head with large and aware eyes and attentively pricked ears. Their deepchested bodies were long, sleek, and sinewy; their long, strong legs and powerful haunches stretching elastically in a fluid stride as they floated across the turf. Their every motion defined an ultimate state of fitness to run.

  With six gray horses amongst the throng, only the yellow blanket and jockey silks identified Sir Garfield's Tortoise to his owner.

  The horses approached the starting post, dancing in line, circling, pacing, jigging, jostling, edging ever closer to the mark as all eyes fixed on the starter's flag in anguished anticipation. With a squeal, a horse suddenly reared and broke the line, setting all into chaos.

  Half a dozen others followed suit. Badger leaped forward, jolting Tortoise off balance and knocking him to his knees. Charles vaulted forward with the fall, found himself lying on his horse's neck, hugging for dear life, as Othello, a charging half-ton of horseflesh, came bearing down on them. Charles closed his eyes in terrorized expectation of impact, but at the last second, with a loud
tally-ho from Lord Portmore, the leggy black leape
d clean over them!

  Unfazed by the episode, Tortoise calmly hoisted himself back onto his feet, and the much-shaken Charles unsteadily slithered back into his saddle. Minutes followed while the false starters circled back and reclaimed their positions at the post.

  Charles Wallace had ridden a score of races in his reluctant turf career, primarily mounted on mediocre horses chosen more for their tractability than their fleetness. Tortoise, however, like his full sister White Rose, was one of those exceptionally rare equines who embodied the very best in temperament with superb athletic ability. Charles knew that in this mount, he was doubly blessed.

  As the flag was raised, he awaited the signal with bated breath, forcibly loosening the iron grip he held on the reins. Instinctively, Tortoise poised himself to launch. The red flag dropped.

  The pack exploded! Charles had no need to ply the spur. Tortoise lurched into motion, dashing off with the pack pounding down the heath. By the quarter-mile marker, the Duke of Somerset's Achilles had broken from the band to steal the lead, sending clumps of spongy turf heavenward in his wake. Phantom surged forth right on his heels, with Badger giving chase and Chance trailing the trio in fourth.

  By the half mile, Charles and Tortoise were packed in the middle and compressed on all sides, with now nigh as many horses in front as behind. Surrounded as they were, Charles was unable to break loose. He balanced tensely in his stirrups, uncertain of his strategy, and floundered in this limbo.

  Remembering the trainer's instructions to let Tortoise run his race, he gave the horse his head, and slowly, steadily, incrementally they began to thread their way through the crowded field pounding down the turf for a long and grueling four-mile run.

  Charles leaned over Tortoise's withers, and they drove steadily on, the horse's hindquarters rising and falling in his own perfectly rhythmic pace. For now, they needed only to stay in play, just hold on and ride out the miles until the last few furlongs, when the pressure would be on and the leaders running out of steam.

  Charles had no need to press Tortoise for raw speed in this race. It was a test of endurance, and Jeffries had assured him that Tortoise was no jade. The horse had endless bottom and would give all when the time came to break loose, but it was up to Charles to judge the moment.

  As Charles and Tortoise drove relentlessly on, neither gaining nor lagging, the field began to thin out before their eyes. The horses began to shift, some moving up and others dropping back, losing their positions to the stalkers, the horses that would shirk the lead but incessantly drive and push the leader to ride himself out too soon.

  As the final bend of the Round Course approached, the thundering herd folded in upon itself for the last time and geared into sudden acceleration. One by one, the runners fought to claim their positions. Early leader Achilles had now fallen into sixth, and Badger struggled to push back into fourth, but suddenly Starling appeared from nowhere to pull ahead into third.

  With only a quarter mile to go, the time had come. Bellying onto Tortoise's neck, Charles lightly plied his whip, and the gelding responded like a fresh starter. With a grunt, he stretched out and pounced. Claiming his prey with every stride, he blazed past the flagging Othello, coming eye-to-eye with Phantom. He drove on, lunging past Miss Vixen to creep up on the startled Starling, and breezed past effortlessly.

  To his amazement, Charles found himself in the lead and flying past the finish. By the wave of his flag, the steward signaled the distance post. Tortoise had won, distancing half the field.

Full of brandy and in fine spirits, Sir Garfield rejoiced at his success. Charles and Tortoise had taken both the first and second heats and won the King's Plate. The baronet was determined to commission an equine portraitist to render his champion's likeness for all posterity. He and Charles were discussing the artistic merits of John Wootton versus newcomer James Seymour when Lord Uxeter arrived.

  "My congratulations to you, Charles, for having proven yourself on a field of your betters. 'Tis the talk of Newmarket." Lord Uxeter's sardonic greeting drew Sir Garfield's immediate attention.

  "But he proved
himself
the better man, my lord," Sir Garfield challenged.

  "I should only say I proved I had a better horse, Father," Charles interjected wryly, remembering Jeffries's earlier remark about the monkey.

  "Your modesty becomes you, young Charles." Lord Uxeter smiled.

  "A drink, my lord?" Sir Garfield offered a glass, which Edmund waved impatiently away.

  "No. I shall not tarry now the racing is done. Personal matters demand that I depart for London forthwith." He spoke tersely, still bitter from the loss he could ill afford. "If it pleases you, I should like to send for my bride immediately."

  "Indeed, my lord. The sooner all is settled, the better, I say," Sir Garfield agreed.

  "Then I take my leave of you. Charles," he said, addressing the younger man, "will you accompany me back to London? So tedious, these journeys, when one travels alone."

  Charles looked to his father, who nodded his acquiescence. With a bow to Sir Garfield, Edmund left with his new protégé in tow.

R obert
awoke to pain, sharp and searing in his right arm, and a dull, throbbing ache in his head. His body was stiff and weak, weaker than he could ever recall. He tried to raise himself in the bed, but his arm refused to cooperate. He collapsed with a groan back onto the pillows.

  A stern voice spoke in the dim light. "So, back to the land of the living, are ye, Captain?"

  The voice was familiar. He'd heard it before, but his mind was still muzzy. "Where am I? And who the devil are you?" His throat was so dry he could barely croak the words.

  "Easy there, lad. Ye'll be wanting a drink afore any lengthy conversation. Ye've been nigh insensible since delivered from Leeds."

  Leeds? Why had he been in Leeds? With a jolt, Robert's memory came flooding back, filling his vision with the nightmares that he now realized were his reality. His life was torn to pieces. As he remembered it all, hatred and despair burned through him.