Just Deserts (5 page)

The baron ignored this provocative remark. Unlike
his fashionable acquaintance, he had no patience with
matched
horses which he regarded as an affectation. Yet as Fitz was
quick to point out, this team was beautifully
toned.

‘
Toned how?’

‘
A grey, a dapple grey, a black and a blue roan.’

‘
Coincidence.’

‘
And I suppose it is coincidence that your favourite pair
are a bay and chestnut so light that the one is almost gold and the
other as bright as an orange sunset.’

Chiddingly had the grace to blush, but said defensively,
‘Well, there is nothing in choosing a pleasing colour, after all. I
own I am partial to greys above all.’

‘
A pity then that nearly all your blood horses are of darker
hue.’

‘
Not at all. This very filly is a grey, and she is pure
Barb.’

So indeed it proved. It took some time to reach the Legal
Quays hard by the Tower, and the wharves were so crowded that there
was nothing for it but to leave the phaeton in the groom’s charge
and proceed on foot. They had to push their way through hawkers and
porters with loads rolled along, yoked across shoulders, or wheeled
on a handcart through the press of persons clamouring for each
other’s attention.

‘
I wish I had waited for a sight of this Barb until I might
see her in comfort,’ Fitz complained.

But when they finally caught sight of a string of horses
being walked off a couple of barges about fifty yards down the
quayside, he forgot his woes, catching something of his friend’s
enthusiasm.

‘
There they are! Good God, Chid, there are enough to equip a
company.’

If this was an exaggeration, there were certainly a good
five and twenty horses.

‘
Tidmarsh!’ called out Chiddingly, catching sight of his
trainer, who, with Clatterbridge, the baron’s head groom who had
arranged to meet him here, was moving about the group, organising
the unloading of his cargo and going from horse to horse, keeping
them calm.

‘
Tidmarsh!’

He looked round, saw his master and waved. It was a
surprisingly young face that was turned towards them. A
good-looking lad in a brown scratch wig and a dark old-fashioned
frock, he did not look at all like a man to whom one would entrust
the delicate business of training a racehorse. But Tidmarsh had
been around racing stables all his life and had come to Chiddingly
two years ago, chock-full of revolutionary ideas which had tallied
so exactly with his master’s own thoughts that he very soon took
over the entire conduct of the training routines for his
stud.

‘
What have we got, Tidmarsh? Anything promising? And my
Barb—you have her safe?’

‘
She’s here right enough, my lord. I brought her off
myself.’

He led them between the flanks of two large bays to where
the filly stood, not, like the rest, roped up in twos or threes,
but alone, her bridle held by a small boy who was ready enough to
earn a couple of shillings. She was a superb animal. Almost pure
white, she was close coupled and at a year old already well
ribbed-up, with good let down hocks and plenty of bone. She had the
Barb’s small head and great velvet eyes.

‘
What a beauty!’ Fitz exclaimed, running a hand down the
sleek neck.

‘
Gentle as a lamb, too,’ put in Tidmarsh. ‘Sweetest tempered
little thing I ever saw. No vices, I’d stake my life, my
lord.’

Proving the truth of his assertion, the filly nuzzled at
Chiddingly’s hand as he put it up to stroke her, and stood quietly
while he examined her legs and checked the hoofs.

‘
Perfect,’ he said with satisfaction as he stood back at the
end of this exercise. ‘Now what of the rest?’

It was then he became aware of an air of suppressed
excitement that hung about his trainer. His breath caught and he
felt a pulse beat in his throat. He spoke almost
brusquely.

‘
We have something!’

Tidmarsh drew a breath and his eyes lit. His voice was
calm, however. ‘Yes, my lord. We have something.’

Without another word, he turned and moved back towards the
barges. Chiddingly exchanged a glance with Fitz and recognised an
echo of his own rising excitement.

Most of the horses had been unloaded by now and were being
shunted, under the direction of Clatterbridge, through the press on
the dock to a yard behind some warehouses hired for their temporary
accommodation.

Chiddingly and Fitzwarren reached the edge of the quay and
followed Tidmarsh’s pointing finger to the first barge where a
single horse had been left to stand alone.

As if to emphasise the supreme importance of this moment,
the sun, which had been playing at peek-a-boo amongst the clouds,
chose this instant to plunge a shaft of light out of the sky.
Silhouetted in the rays, Chiddingly beheld the inky black outline
of a magnificent stallion.

‘
Fitz! Oh God, Fitz!’

Chiddingly put out an unsteady hand and grasped his
friend’s arm in a convulsive grip. His eyes still on the horse,
Fitzwarren clapped his own hand over his friend’s.

‘
I know, Chid, I know.’

In a moment the grip left his arm and he turned his head in
time to see Chiddingly dash a hand across his eyes.

He was not surprised at his friend’s emotion. Even he,
mediocre judge of horseflesh that he was, could tell at a glance
that here was something quite out of the ordinary. How much more
must it mean to Chid, whose sole ambition was centred on the search
for just such a creature?

It had still to be seen whether the conformation was
perfect, but it was to be supposed that Tidmarsh, whose enthusiasm
had been patent, was enough of a judge to tell if anything had been
amiss. It did not take a genius to wonder whether such an
apparently excellent piece of horseflesh might have faults,
considering he had been despatched as part of a job lot.

Tidmarsh and Chiddingly were even now moving on to the
barge to take a closer look. Fitz followed and stood watching while
the pair walked round the stallion arguing his merits. They agreed
that he filled the eye but Tidmarsh held that he looked to be too
heavily built for a sprinter.

‘
Yes, but I will lay you odds we have a stayer here,’
Chiddingly countered. ‘Look at those long muscles. And his
shoulders are deep enough.’

‘
For my part,’ Tidmarsh argued, ‘these strong gaskins are of
more moment. I’ll warrant he goes well at the gallop.’

‘
The hocks! My God, I cannot wait to see him
run!’

But both parties were at one in their satisfaction that the
great barrel of a chest showed the stallion to be deep through the
heart which was, they asserted, all that really mattered. The horse
fidgeted and tossed his head, blowing and stamping as if he
resented this discussion of his points.

‘
Perhaps it is his temperament that led your scallywag of a
dealer to dispose of him?’ Fitz suggested.

‘
If it was, the more fool he,’ said Chiddingly. ‘To my mind,
this display of attitude is but proof of his mettle and not to be
deprecated.’

Tidmarsh was in fervent agreement, and the two men
continued to eulogise over the horse, to the animal’s obvious
disgust.

By the time they had done, Fitz’s interest had long turned
to boredom. He thought the stallion exceptional and would certainly
be willing to see him show his paces, but he could not share this
wholehearted absorption. His attention wandered about the busy
dock, and he amused himself by watching the press of persons
there.

As his eyes flitted across the sea of faces, one seemed
suddenly familiar. A gentleman of middle years, engaged in
haranguing a set of porters who were manoeuvring some heavy trunks
towards a cart drawn up close by the warehouses. Next to this stood
a coach with its door open wide. Fitz glanced again at the man in
charge of these proceedings and noted, with abrupt realisation, the
deep colour of his features. The nabob!

As the thought came into his head, movement in the coach
doorway caught his eye. He saw a lady’s feathered hat poke out,
charmingly framing the features of Miss Penelope
Winsford.

‘
Good God,’ he exclaimed. ‘Here, Chid!’

He had to call again before Lord Chiddingly’s attention
could be dragged away from his new acquisition.

‘
Chid, look there. Just climbing out of the coach there. It
is Miss Winsford.’

Chiddingly looked, but it was plain that Miss Winsford’s
appearance could not rival the attractions of his horse.

‘
Shall we not go over?’ Fitz suggested. ‘After this
morning’s meeting, I’ll warrant she will be much surprised to see
us.’

‘
You may go over,’ Chiddingly said on a sour note. ‘For
myself, I have better things to do.’

‘
Upon my soul, have you not yet done fawning over that
beast?’

‘
I have concluded my examination,’ said his friend with
dignity, ‘but I must check the others and decide which of them to
keep. Those we don’t want we will send directly to Tattersall’s
yard to be auctioned off.’

‘
You may as well sell them all and be done with it,’ Fitz
said, his eyes glinting. ‘You can surely want no other now that you
have this paragon.’

Chiddingly gave a short laugh. ‘Let us hope it may prove
so. But I am far too fly to be pinning all my hopes at this
juncture.’

If Fitz was unconvinced he did not say so, merely adjuring
his friend to follow him when he should have concluded his
business.

‘
No, let us meet at the phaeton. I shall not be above ten
minutes.’ ‘

‘
Ten minutes? I dare say I may count myself fortunate if you
reappear within the hour!’

Chiddingly laughed and promised to be as quick as he could
and Fitzwarren made his way alone across the dock to confront Miss
Winsford as she stood on the steps of the coach peering over the
many heads to see what progress her father was making.

He was agreeably surprised by her greeting. Her eyes lit
and she smiled warmly as she gave him both her hands.

‘
Why, Fitz, what in the world do you here?’

‘
I might ask the same of you. Allow me to assist you to
alight, Miss Winsford.’

‘
Oh, thank you.’ She stepped down and he released her. ‘We
are fetching some of the trunks. They have been brought down here
by barge from the warehouses at Blackwall. Such a muddle as they
seem to be in. Poor Papa is growing quite outraged.’

Her laughter trilled and once again Fitz found himself
amazed at the change in her demeanour. She hardly seemed to be the
same girl.

‘
I was afraid you would not recognise me, Miss Winsford,’ he
said, his tone playful but his eyes watchful for any sign of
guile.

‘
Fiddle, why should I not?’

‘
Well, after this morning.’

‘
This morning?’ Her brow wrinkled. Then she gasped, widening
her eyes. ‘Don’t say you went looking for me in the
park?’

It seemed such an extraordinary thing for her to say that
he was struck dumb for the moment. She read the answer in his face
and he felt something of Chid’s annoyance as her eyes began to
dance.

‘
Oh dear. What did I—? Was it—?’ A giggle, hastily choked,
escaped her, and she tried to prim up her mouth. ‘I owe you an
apology, I dare say.’

‘
Not me,’ he returned, unable to withstand her
charm.

‘
Not Lord Chiddingly again? Oh, don’t say so.’

But her laughter bubbled up. As the bell-like peal tinkled
pleasurably in his ears, he reflected that it was just as well Chid
had refused to accompany him.

‘
Miss Winsford,’ he said, smiling in spite of himself, ‘you
are an abominable little devil. But I confess I cannot be angry
with you.’

‘
I am glad of that.’ She twinkled at him. ‘I am dreadful, I
know. But not as horrid as you might suppose. Truly.’

‘
I don’t think you horrid at all,’ he retorted.

‘
Thank you.’

‘
What I do think. . .’ he began, and hesitated.

‘
Yes? Don’t spare me.’

‘
Very well, Miss Penelope Winsford,’ he said with
deliberation. ‘You are either an unmitigated rogue and an
accomplished liar—’

He paused as the grey eyes darkened and all the light died
out of her face. In the silence that followed, though she did not
flinch from his gaze but met his eyes squarely, it was as if he had
dealt her a blow as painful as that she had given to Chiddingly’s
hand. A dart seemed to pierce his breast.

‘
Or else,’ he continued in a softened tone, almost without
knowing what he said, ‘you are an innocent little
darling.’

The grey eyes wavered a little and a tremor disturbed the
corners of her mouth. But the sweet, musical voice was quite
steady.

‘
Well, when you have discovered which, don’t neglect to
inform me.’