Highest Stakes (73 page)

  "Don't place any great hope on my reform," he remarked dryly.

  "Indeed, I should never expect you might suddenly give up the practices of excess and dissipation you have spent eons perfecting," she said with a snort. "'Tis quite a ridiculous notion."

  "No reason to get your hackles up so early, darling one. I shall remove myself to town directly, and you may continue in your cherished solitude."

  "I do not cherish solitude, Philip; I am simply discriminating in the company I keep."

  "
Touché
, dear heart." His answering smirk was provoking. "But pray let us truce, light of my life, for contrary to my fresh appearance and exceeding good temper, I've the devil of a headache." He beckoned the footman for coffee.

  "All right, I shan't cross swords with you any further."

  "You are forever gracious, dear heart," he said.

  She ignored the taunt and filled her plate from the sideboard. She then seated herself to his right.

  "Philip," she began, "your sudden change in habits has stimulated my curiosity. What would take you to town precipitately? The races do not commence until the morrow."

  "Ah, but there is another to be run
this day
."

  "Another race?" she replied with keen interest. "I had not heard of it. Pray, who are the runners?"

  "This event should prove nothing but a farce, though it shan't hurt Shakespeare to run a warm-up lap before the King's Plate."

  "You are running Shakespeare? Against whom? And why would you not inform me?"

  "'Tis hardly an event worth mentioning, sweeting. The challenger is inconsequential, an unknown brought from Virginia by a gentleman of prodigious pomposity, by all account."

  "He brought his horse all the way from the colonies to run a match against Shakespeare? I am confounded."

  "Apparently, this horse of no distinct breeding has bested the Virginia bloodstock. Thus inflated, the gentleman has the impertinence to challenge the English runners on their own turf."

  "How extraordinary! I am incredulous you accepted."

  "I should not have, but the wager was such that I could hardly refuse."

  "What precisely
do you know
of this horse, Philip?"

  "He's a four-year-old sired by an unknown of Eastern descent that was imported to the colonies. The dam, however, is of some indigenous breed created by the savages. Completely ineligible to run the track, of course."

  "Indeed? 'Twould appear great folly on his part, unless…" Charlotte furrowed her brow as she sipped her tea. "An obscure gentleman, with a horse of mixed blood, who has come across the ocean, no doubt at great expense." Charlotte frowned at a passing thought. "Have you seen the horse run?"

  "What need have I? The Hastings stud owns some of the finest horseflesh in England, all to your credit, I might add." He affected a gesture of tribute. "I should not trouble myself further on the matter, oh dearest one."

  "I do, you know," she answered. "I
always
contrive to watch our rivals exercising on the Heath the week before a race. Indeed, just yesterday I witnessed a new one. His small stature and unusual coloration first drew my eye, but as it was barely daybreak, I caught only the end of his session. He was remarkably swift. I am sure I have never seen this one before… I wonder, Philip?" she said in trepidation.

  "Daniel Roberts and his Retribution hardly signify." His reply was disdainful.

  "Retribution? Is that what he calls the horse? What a curious name."

  "One would imagine his owner must carry a great chip on his shoulder."

  Charlotte was suddenly overcome with a feeling of foreboding. "Philip," she began, "I wish to attend this race."

  "It is hardly an occasion of sufficient consequence to merit the attendance of the
Countess of the Turf
."

  Charlotte scowled at his sarcastic accolade. "Nevertheless," she persisted, "I
am
going with you. Be pleased to order my horse." With this command, she set down her cup and summoned her maid. "Letty, I shall require my riding habit at once."

The match race between Lord Hastings's Shakespeare and Daniel Roberts's Retribution was scheduled for eleven o'clock. The course would be the Rowley Mile track, and the distance two miles, four furlongs, in a single heat, a distance considered most evenhanded, considering the three-year age difference between contenders. Jockeys would ride, and each horse would carry ten stone.

  Word of the extraordinary wager, recorded for posterity in White's betting book, spread throughout the countryside. Throngs gathered to witness the spectacle, but the mysterious Mr. Roberts and his peculiar horse were nowhere to be seen.

  By a quarter hour before post time, with the challenger still to make his appearance, Shakespeare's owners grew restless and increasingly impatient. At ten minutes before the start, rumors abounded that the challenger from America had pusillanimously turned tail and run.

  The crowd, by now thoroughly disenchanted and disgruntled at the forfeiture, had begun to disperse, when finally appeared a grizzled jockey on his slight-statured and oddly colored mount. The flustered gentleman who followed horse and jockey addressed the Earl and Countess of Hastings, making no immediate explanation for the late showing.

  "I trust we have not kept you waiting?"

  "Arrived in the nick of time, I should say, Lee," Lord Hastings remarked, checking his timepiece, which showed but five minutes to post time. "Might I inquire after the enigmatic Roberts?"

  "The gentleman has unfortunately taken ill and is unable to attend. I stand in his stead."

  "If the gentleman is unwell, Lee, the race must certainly be postponed." Lord Hastings's voice dripped with exaggerated courtesy.

  "By no means, my lord! Should that occur, I fear he would be called craven. 'Tis out of the question! As stated, I stand in his stead."

  "As his legal agent?" Lord Hastings asked, growing increasingly suspicious.

  "Indeed, as his agent," Lee concurred.

  "Lee," Lord Hasting began charily, "as a man of no inconsiderable experience, I confess a degree of skepticism regarding the very existence of Daniel Roberts. It is most curious to me that a man of such reputed vanity, who after proposing such an unprecedented wager, should fail to show his face. I ask you directly, sir, has Roberts fled England in mortification for proposing this race?"

  "Indeed not, my lord! Pray disavow such thoughts. He is merely indisposed and resting this very moment at the White Hart."

  "Yet I shall not be made a fool, Lee. As a gentleman, I should never ask such a thing, but this mystery has invoked a desire to see the color of his gold before this race is run."

  "'Tis indeed a matter of honor, my lord." Mr. Lee blanched at the affront. "I carry the appropriate letters of credit on his behalf. I assure you, Lord Hastings, Mr. Roberts is more than able to settle his bet with you."

  "Then I shall take you at
your word
as a gentleman, Lee. 'Twould appear we have a race to run." Lord Hastings signaled the stewards.

  The contenders, proceeding to the starting post, stood in stark contrast to one another. Shakespeare, long of leg, sleek of body, and high of wither, stood at fifteen-and-three-quarter hands. His superior breeding could be noted in every line and angle of his body. To any knowledgeable observer, he appeared the consummate English thoroughbred.

  Retribution, his challenger, stood at barely fourteen-and-a-half hands. A blue roan, he was truly a horse of a different color among the sea of chestnuts and bays typical of the English horses. The younger stallion was stocky in conformation compared to his elegant contender, with a wider, deeper chest and more powerful hindquarters, and half again as densely muscled as the lean chestnut. His shorter, more compact form appeared nearly squat, lending him more the appearance of a cart pony than a reputed racing champion.

  Retribution's strongest attributes, however, were invisible to the naked eye. He had the heart of a runner and the cool-headed temperament of his sire, which his months of training with Jeffries had served only to season and perfect.

  Arrived at the starting post, Shakespeare danced in edgy irritation. His rider struggled to hold him back, and the stallion snorted his impatience, touting his eagerness to put down the pretentious usurper.

  Jeffries, mounted on Retribution, felt only the tightening of equine sinew as the mounting tension roiled inside the horse. He watched and waited for that certain sign of his mount's readiness. Suddenly, with the prick of his ears, Retribution gave the sign. With a subtle but unquestionable shift in his stance, the colt transferred his weight from front to hindquarters. Thus lightening his forehand, Retribution was ready to explode like a musket ball.

Daniel Roberts had arrived late with the intention of losing himself in the gathered crowd, remarking that everything to this point had played right into his hand. Indeed, the day had proceeded almost as if he had scripted it. To confess the truth, a good portion of it he had!

  Ludwell had earned every penny of the cut Roberts promised him; not that he wouldn't have done it just as a lark! His performance had been impeccable. The man should have taken to the stage. Roberts grinned but hastily sobered as the horses proceeded to the starting post.

  His attention riveted to Retribution; his hands clenched involuntarily at his sides. He watched with bated breath, anticipating that indication, that subtle shift, telling him all he needed to know. There it was! With this sign from Retribution, Roberts could have walked away, knowing before the start that the race was already his!

  At the signal, the pair burst like floodgates. Shakespeare lunged forth, long legs slicing the air, but the elegant thoroughbred hadn't a prayer against the explosive breaking force of Retribution. Launching like a catapult, the roan became a blur of kinetic power. From the raised dais, Lord and Lady Hastings watched with unbridled horror.

  "Good God, Philip, I've never seen such a break!" Charlotte exclaimed.

  "His jockey's a fool. The horse can't possibly sustain that pace. He'll be used up by the first mile," the earl replied unconvincingly, his heart pounding in his throat and threatening to choke him.

  Setting a lightning stride in his own frenetic style, Retribution dropped his head and dug in. And the roan stallion tore up the track. By the first furlong, he had gained three lengths. Stride-by-stride, Retribution ate up yards of turf, leaving Shakespeare scrambling feverishly after him, his jockey pushing, driving, and pleading.

  Mr. Roberts positioned himself where he could best observe his vengeance in action. Until this moment, with his concentration focused on the horses, he had not spared a thought of Philip Drake. But now, Retribution had completed the first mile and there was no doubt of his lead. Robert stole a look at the Earl of Hastings, desiring a firsthand witness of his enemy's torment.

  Looking to the dais for the first time, he suddenly took in the figure seated beside the grim-faced Earl of Hastings—
Charlotte
. The woman at his side was Charlotte, and time had only ripened her. Roberts's heart seized. He had not expected to see her. He was unprepared. He couldn't tear his gaze away, but hers was locked on the track, her lovely face growing deathly pale. He was overwhelmed as never before with invidious hatred of Philip Drake.

  Shakespeare's rider, in sheer desperation, had flattened himself to the withers, urgently cajoling, wildly spurring, and flailing the whip. Accelerating with a groan, the game chestnut answered the call, giving everything he had, but it just wasn't… enough. Shakespeare was distanced before Jeffries ever plied whip or spur to his plucky runner.