Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 04] (13 page)

The one called Jerry grinned. “If you expect a victory over Dicky and Will to convince me that you’re a knowing one where racers are concerned, you’re out, Ned. I’ve no intention of wagering my blunt on another nag of your choosing.”

“That’s unfair, Jerry! I own I had bad luck yesterday, but that was through taking someone else’s advice. Those chaps we met were jolly bucks, too. You thought so yourself. You didn’t object to making their acquaintance, but I don’t deny they let us in damnably. I lost thirty guineas myself, after all. I made up half of it on Jersey’s Glenmara, though, and I mean to double that sum this afternoon.”

“Not with that silly nag you’ve chosen, you won’t.”

Their exchange carried easily above the chatter of nearby onlookers to Viscount Raventhorpe, who had been watching the pair for some time. He was aware that neither had noticed him even when he strolled near enough to overhear their conversation. “Which silly nag did you choose, Ned?” he asked.

It did not surprise him to see his brother jump nearly out of his skin at the sound of his voice.

Ned’s face was pale when he whirled to face him. “Justin! Good God! I did not know you were here. That is, n-no one t-told me you were coming.” He tugged at his light-green cravat, artfully tied with a full, soft bow. “I-I thought your duties at court must keep you away. What I mean to say is—”

“I know what you mean to say, Ned. Do stop tugging at your neckcloth. It’s already a sad-looking thing. You’d have done better to choose black or white. Do I know your friend, by the way? I cannot recall that we have met.”

“Oh, this is Jerry Bucknell. I’m sure you have heard me speak of him. He is from Devonshire, don’t you know, and studies at the Inner Temple with me.”

“Have the pair of you been called to the bar before your time? You certainly must be flush enough if you can afford to have lost thirty guineas yesterday.”

“Well, I know you mean that for another setdown,” Ned said with a look of irritation, “but I am flush, as it happens, because I’ve still got most of my quarterage. It’s only a bit over a fortnight since Ladyday, after all.”

“Yes, but perhaps you have forgotten that your quarter’s allowance is supposed to last you three months, not merely three weeks.”

Reddening, Ned shot a sidelong look at his friend, then an angry one at his brother. “How you do take a fellow up, Justin! If you heard that about my thirty guineas, you must also know that I’ve already won fifteen back. Moreover, if Mr. Craven’s entry in the Queen’s Plate don’t win, I’ll be very much surprised.”

“Mr. Craven’s entry?”

“A mare called I-Wish-You-May-Get-It. What name could be more likely to win for me?”

“I think I’d have more faith in a certainty than a wish. Don’t you think Jersey’s Caesar in the Handicap Sweepstakes would be a better bet?”

“Pooh, everyone will put money on Caesar. That horse has taken every race it’s entered this year, so the odds will be nothing. Indeed, Jersey’s horses have won nearly every race they’ve entered, so even though I managed to win a few guineas this morning on Glenmara, I don’t mean to risk more on his nags. He hasn’t entered for the Queen’s Plate, though. Someone else
has
to win.”

“That’s a point, certainly,” Justin said. “I have only one other question for you, and perhaps for Mr. Bucknell, as well, since you mentioned that he is also a student at the Inner Temple. Were you not keeping commons this week?”

Ned avoided his gaze, saying glibly, “That’s nothing to rag a chap about. I’ve kept seven of the twelve terms already. I can afford to miss a dinner or two.”

“You cannot afford to displease your bench master, however,” Justin pointed out. “Not when he is the one who will decide in the end whether to call you to the bar or reject you. There can be no appealing his decision, you know.”

“I do know,” Ned said. “I think it’s dashed unfair, too, that he should have the power to act at his pleasure. They say we law students
eat
our way to the bar, and that’s true, I suppose, since dining with the barristers and other members is how we learn all they can teach us. There can be no harm in that, though, because clients can take the liberty later of judging how far we have otherwise qualified ourselves. Still, every man who dines with a society should be called to the bar. Otherwise, rejection should be founded solely on his ignorance of the law and be subject to appeal to a higher jurisdiction. As it is, benchers can and do exercise their power on private or political motives, rather than on any basis of law.”

“Another good point,” Justin said, “but you would be better off making it where it might influence someone with power to change the rules. Since your intent was to divert me from what I have to say to you, however, you shot wide of the mark. You’re behaving recklessly, Ned. When you find yourself at low tide later in the term, I hope you will remember—”

“Justin! Thunderation, you here, my boy? I am excessively glad to see you!”

Recognizing his father’s voice, Justin turned with a sinking feeling and said, “Good afternoon, sir. Behold me as amazed to see you as you are to see me. I distinctly recall your telling me you intended to forgo the spring meeting.”

Sellafield dismissed the comment with an airy gesture. “I may have said something of the sort, I suppose. A man never knows when he will take it into his head to do a thing, after all, which brings me back to the point, my boy. I find myself with my pockets to let for the moment, but for half the share, I’ll put you on to an excellent thing. You’ve only to look at Craven’s mare to know …”

Detecting familiar signs of his parent’s overfondness for drink, Justin gritted his teeth and thought how fortunate it was that his mother, at least, did not constantly apply to him for money. Affecting a politeness he did not feel, he let Sellafield finish before he said quietly, “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t share your faith, or Ned’s, in that mare’s ability.”

“How can you say that? I tell you, that little girl’s near as swift as Eclipse was in his day. You’ve only to look at her. She’s got the finest …”

Noting that Ned had already taken advantage of the interruption to slip away, Justin hoped the lad would not soon have occasion to beg him for funds. He would be sorry to refuse, but he could not in good conscience encourage him to take the road their father had taken. Again he waited until Sellafield finished speaking before repeating his unwillingness to bet on I-Wish-You-May-Get-It.

“Damme, lad, but you don’t know a good thing when you see it,” the earl snapped. “It don’t matter, though, because even if it should chance that you are right—which it won’t—I’ve got a bet on with Conroy that cannot miss.”

“A bet with Conroy? Has he got a horse running?”

“He does, and a loose screw it is, too, wholly untrustworthy.”

“Is that why you bet against it? I am surprised he would take your bet if he does not think the nag a good one,” Justin added, recalling that for some time Conroy had been pressing him to help in his quest to regain royal favor. He wondered if the man hoped to sweeten him up by allowing Sellafield to win.

Sellafield chuckled. “He didn’t even want to bet with me, but I made it impossible for him to refuse. I bet two thousand the tit would neither win nor come in last, that it would place where no one would notice it. He took offense—as who wouldn’t? Indeed, I had counted on that very thing to make him put up his money.”

“I don’t think that was wise, sir. Conroy is no man to challenge.”

“Ah, bah; there’s no talking to you,” the earl snapped, turning on his heel.

Justin sighed but made no attempt to call him back.

Another familiar voice said mockingly, “Having a hard time keeping your team in harness, old man?”

“That’s hardly an appropriate or proper metaphor, Puck,” Justin said, turning with a slight smile to greet his friend. “If you mean to encourage me to wager a huge sum on I-Wish-You-May-Get-It, you, too, can save your breath.”

“I’ll be jiggered. Is that what they wanted? What fools. That mare’s a zero. General Grosvenor’s Daedalus will take the Queen’s Plate. Uh-oh,” he added in a lower tone, “don’t look now, but here come Devon-Poole, Conroy, and that aide of his, Morden. Talk about zeroes! I’ll just take myself off again, and you can find me at the Jockey Club later, if you want me, or at the Rutland Arms.” He nodded to the approaching trio, then departed without another word.

“Good to see you here, Raventhorpe,” Sir Adrian Devon-Poole said heartily, extending a hand in greeting. He was a tall, slender man with an air of distinction reinforced by a full head of silvery grey hair. Without waiting for a response, he added, “Dare I hope that you require companionship this evening, my boy? I’ve come to Newmarket without my family, and I should be delighted to share a meal.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I have arranged to meet friends,” Justin said, briefly shaking the outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Conroy,” he added, nodding at the aide, Morden, without formally addressing him.

“Afternoon,” Sir John said, looking intently at Justin. “I trust you’ve found time to talk with Melbourne since last we met.”

Devon-Poole interjected in his hearty way, “John, John, this is no place to conduct business. The weather is mild at last, the heath is well attended, and the lad has come to enjoy the races. Leave your politics in London, man!”

“But—” Conroy began, only to have his chief companion divert him again.

“I’ve told you, I’ll talk to him,” Sir Adrian said more brusquely. “Here now, they’re up and running. Pay heed. I’ve got my blunt on I-Wish-You-May-Get-It. I own I could not resist the name.”

Unfortunately for Sir Adrian, and for Ned, after several false starts due to the awkwardness of an entry called Sister-to-Plenipo, the list got away in good order with one exception. I-Wish-You-May-Get-It lost ground from the first. Despite the shouted urging of onlookers, including Sir Adrian (and Ned, too, Justin was sure) and its own best efforts, the mare chased Sister-to-Plenipo and the others for only half a mile before giving up altogether. Daedalus, having taken the lead at the outset, kept it to the end, winning cleverly by half a length.

Justin excused himself to the other two men, earning a look of displeasure from Conroy, which he ignored. He did not like him at the best of times. Since Conroy had begun pressing him to take his side at court, Justin liked him even less.

The rest of the afternoon afforded only two races, a proposed handicap not having filed. Neither race interested him, although he noted with resignation that Conroy’s horse finished dead last in the second.

He began to wonder why he had honored the Spring Meeting with his presence. His mood improved slightly, however, as he strolled back to the center of town. He met a number of friends, for his route took him along the southern side of the High Street, past the post office, to the dignified entrance of the Jockey Club.

Originally a coffee room, the building was now much grander, having undergone several bouts of improvements and alterations in the years since 1752, when club members had acquired their first lease. A screen with an ornamental gateway enclosed the betting court, and when Justin passed into it, the old clock at the back of the yard showed the time at nearly half past five.

Handing his cloak, hat, and gloves to the porter at the members’ entrance, he asked if Sir Halifax Quigley was still on the premises.

“Yes, my lord. He is still at table with Admiral Rame, sir.”

Justin’s mood improved even more, and he made his way to the dining room with more lightness in his step. The admiral was a man he—like all members of the Jockey Club (and all Newmarket, for that matter)—much admired. Practically every man in England over the age of five knew the admiral’s history well.

A younger son of the Earl of Thruxton, the Honorable Robert Rame had attended Harrow School without remarkable achievement. Then, as was the custom of many younger sons, he had taken up a career in the navy. After seeing action in numerous locations around the world, once nearly losing his life while in charge of a prize vessel that sank, he enjoyed a six-year sojourn ashore, discovering a deep love of sporting activities before the call of the sea (and the British navy) demanded his return.

It was then that he had achieved his greatest naval triumph. Commanding a frigate of thirty-six guns called the
Vandal,
through difficulties of which the landbound public had small conception, Rame had brought her back from Newfoundland without a rudder and leaking badly, the menace of a watery grave constantly threatening him and his crew. His judgment and ingenuity had forcibly struck all patriotic Englishmen when, upon the
Vandal’s
successful return, they read in their morning papers detailed descriptions of its terrifying adventures. When he retired soon after his return, members of the Jockey Club unanimously chose him to be one of their stewards, the sole arbiters of equine matters at Newmarket.

Seeing Puck and the admiral at a table set beneath a painting of the
Vandal
that the admiral had recently presented to the Jockey Club, Justin made his way toward them. As he drew near he heard the admiral say in the clear tones that came from years of shouting orders on the deck of a windblown frigate, “Handicapping is quite an art, my lad. A public handicapper should be a man of independent circumstances in every sense of the word, and beyond suspicion of accepting illicit compensation for favors received. Ah, good evening, Raventhorpe,” he added, catching sight of Justin. “The lad here said we might expect to see you.”

“Good evening, sir. Don’t get up, I beg you. Hallo, Puck. Did you order enough food for me?”

“Don’t I always? Look here, sit down and tell us what you think about this. I told the admiral I thought the most interesting one of his duties must be the setting of handicaps for each horse in a race. He says it’s a dashed great responsibility.”

Sitting, Justin smiled at the older man. “A difficult and thankless task is what I should call it, sir. I don’t envy you finding yourself saddled with it. Not only must you try to satisfy the owners but you have to put up with censure from every capricious scribbler who chooses to display his opinions in the newspapers.”