Life Mask (49 page)

'Who do you fancy, Derby? Barrymore's Chanticleer is the favourite, but at seven to four it's hardly worth the stake. I've put a bit on Lord Grosvenor's Skylark at eleven to five,' said Bunbury. 'Have you got yourself a
General Stud Book,
by the way? Splendid new publication; you can check a pedigree in half a minute.'

'Yes, but there's more to a horse than his lineage,' Derby pointed out. 'I was going to back Escape today, but he did so poorly yesterday that I lost 50 guineas on him. The other horses were practically rubbed down by the time he limped in.'

'Past his best,' said Bunbury, nodding sorrowfully. They watched Escape's jockey, the dandified Sam Chifney in ribboned boots and love-locks, whisper in his ear. 'Very odd the Prince is still running him, when he's so much good horseflesh in his stables.'

'Well, he's always been a chancy creature—'

'Who, Prinny?' This made Derby laugh. 'Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't withdrawn Escape from today's course, as it's a full four-miler,' Bunbury pointed out.

'Well,' said Derby with a shrug, 'Escape's a stuffy horse who needs a good gallop to warm him up. And if Sam Chifney's feather-light hands can't coax some speed out of him...'

'Yes, the Prince's pet has invented a new species of riding, hasn't he?' said Bunbury enviously. 'Ever so subtle in his pacing, doesn't push till the final stretch and never beats a horse, or cuts his mouth, even.'

The noisy flash of a pistol and they were off, Chanticleer leading, with Skylark behind him. The gap narrowed; the horses clumped together, all running well despite the wet ground. Derby used the spyglass in the top of his cane to examine the field. Skylark, now, then Chanticleer, with All for Nought in third. Babylon, Mother of Pearl, Little Pickle, Escape. Skylark still had it; Bunbury must be counting his winnings. Derby looked away from the course to grin at his old friend. But Bunbury was pointing with a frown. Derby looked back as the horses came into the final furlong and scrubbed the rain off his spyglass with his handkerchief. Escape was speeding past the others as if he had wings; Chifney, bottom in the air, perched on him like a monkey. Escape, Chanticleer, Skylark.
Surely not.
Escape, it was Escape, past the line.

A few scattered cheers soon died away. There was a strange kind of silence. Derby looked at his friend, who was going purple. 'Bunbury—'

No answer.

'What just happened?'

'It smells like rat, that's all I'll say. It smells damnably like rat.' The Baronet stamped down the steps of the stand. Derby rushed after him.

The betting room was pandemonium. A herd of men who'd backed Chanticleer were protesting. 'We've been done—bilked and bubbled,' howled one.

'You took your chances,' snapped the man opposite him.

'Pox on that! There's been some skullduggery.'

Bunbury and the Prince of Wales were standing less than a foot apart when Derby caught up with his friend. 'All I'm saying, Your Royal Highness,' said Bunbury with pointed deference, 'is that the matter needs to be looked into. As President of the Jockey Club, I feel it my duty—'

'What
matter
? What
matter
?' Prinny -interrupted him, staccato, sounding oddly like his father. 'The race was run and the race was won.'

'It's very curious, that's all,' insisted Bunbury. 'Very strange that a horse from your stable that crawled along like cold sausage yesterday should suddenly get such a spring in his heels today.'

'What are you insinuating?' barked the Prince, standing very tall in his striped silk jacket; his stomach bulged from under it. 'That Sam Chifney deliberately and maliciously held Escape back yesterday to get a long price today? I don't believe you're making that accusation!'

'I'm making no accusation.'

The Earl of Barrymore threw his arm carelessly over the round royal shoulder. 'Well, as Chanticleer's owner and the loser, surely it's up to me to cry foul? My horse was beaten by my honourable friend's here and that's all there is to it.'

Bunbury looked between the two aristocrats. 'All I'm saying is that a full investigation's called for, if the Jockey Club's to retain the faith and goodwill of its members. I propose that Chifney be questioned by myself and my fellow stewards, Mr Panton and Mr Dutton—'

The heir to the throne turned on his heel and walked away, Barrymore hurrying after him.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of rumour. Later in the afternoon, after some cold beef in an inn, Derby glimpsed Bunbury in the crowd and pulled him aside. 'What did you get out of Chifney?'

Bunbury made a rude noise. 'Claims the horse just needed a good warm-up and that he only made 20 guineas off the race.'

'So will you be leaving it at that?'

'I will in my hole,' said Bunbury. 'Chifney may ride like the Archangel Michael, but he's a cocky little lying dilberry.'

'How far up does the cheat go, then?' Derby murmured in his ear. 'Just Chifney? Or the stable manager? Or Prinny himself?'

'I don't know,' said Bunbury, 'but I know my duty. Fudging a horse's height by making him duck an inch, or calling a young four-year-old three, or claiming a false start, those aren't worth a fight with royalty—but this is an outrage. Come on.' Arm in arm with Derby, he marched back into the betting room.

There was Prinny in the corner with a glass of champagne. Derby felt Bunbury quail slightly beside him. 'Are you sure about this?' the Earl asked his friend.

'I am.'

'Even though you'll be making an enemy of the next ruler of England?'

'Are you telling me not to? The Jockey Club mustn't be a respecter of persons. If we suspect sharp practice we must name it, in commoner or king.'

'I wouldn't dream of stopping you,' said Derby, grinning at his friend.

'Well, then.' Bunbury walked forward and stood at the perimeter of the little circle. The Prince was finishing a joke, something about the new look in ladies' clothing, how high-waisted dresses made them all look
enceinte,
so the guilty were camouflaged among the innocent.

'Ha ha!'

'Splendidly put, Prinny!'

Finally he turned and said with crisp rudeness, 'Well?'

Bunbury began a little hoarsely, but didn't clear his throat. 'I've been deputed by my fellow stewards, Your Royal Highness, to inform you that no proof has been found of the guilt of Sam Chifney but there remains a strong suspicion.'

The Prince of Wales looked at the Baronet with a kind of attentive disgust, as if memorising his face.

Derby found himself moving forward. He didn't push; he just positioned himself gracefully by his friend's side. They were on the edge of the cloud of perfume the heir to the throne always carried with him.

The Prince's eyes flicked over him. 'Derby,' he said without a nod. 'Don't tell me you're mixed up in this business?'

Derby threw up his hands. 'Only as an observer. I wouldn't dream of interfering in a Jockey Club inquiry; after all, that's what we elect the stewards for.'

This gentle reminder made the royal eyes bulge.

Bunbury spoke up again. 'Our decision has been a painful one but necessary. We wish to tell you that if Sam Chifney ever rides one of your horses again, no gentleman will enter the race against you.'

'Oh, you
gentlemen
need have no fear of that,' said the Prince after a long moment. 'This was my last race. I shall retire from the Turf.' He turned aside and held out his champagne glass for a refill.

That night, at the noisy inn, Derby and Fox sat sucking the bones of a very tasty duck. 'Don't you think there's a kind of glorious independence in what the stewards did, though?' Derby asked. 'Isn't it a sign of the times, a mark of our confidence as a generation whose task, is to root out corruption and reform Britain? Our fathers would never have stood up to a Prince of the Blood Royal like that.'

Fox started to laugh. He wheezed and then he coughed, and Derby thought his friend might be choking on a small bone.

'What is it?' He thumped Fox's back.

'When you put it like that, Derby, there's something peculiarly English about the whole affair. Trust us to have our own Revolution, but on a miniature scale on a racetrack! No, but I think it's a sad misunderstanding,' added Fox, sobering. 'I'm convinced the Prince's people pulled a cheat but he knew nothing of it.'

Fox never liked to believe any ill of his friends, thought Derby. 'The Prince may be near thirty, but he's as temperamental as a child,' he pointed out. 'I suspect he was rather glad of an excuse to sell up his stable and clear some of his debts; they say it'll save him £30,000 a year.'

'We simply must stay on good terms with him if we're ever to get into government,' said Fox in a low voice. 'He's been vastly twitchy about
Frenchified ideas,
especially since Louis's botched flight to Varennes; he called me and Sherry in to Carlton House in July and showed us that outrageous Gillray cartoon with myself as executioner holding an axe over King George's head! He pretty much ordered us to stay away from the Bastille celebrations.'

Ah, so that was why they'd been conspicuously missing from the Whig party for the second anniversary; Derby felt irritated that neither of them had told him at the time.

'So Sherry and I went to Ascot with the Prince instead and I lost a shocking lot of money. Mrs A. wasn't pleased. She'd be just as happy if I gave up horseflesh, especially after a scandal like today's. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking of selling my own stable.'

'Gad, the market will flood if you all desert the Turf at once,' complained Derby. He put his hand over Fox's and said more seriously, 'My friend, you're doing a marvellous job of tightrope-dancing.'

Fox's doggish eyes brightened as he laughed at the image.

'No, really. You're holding to the middle ground on these divisive French questions and keeping the Party together, focused on what matters—Reform and British liberties and resisting Pitt,' he finished rather incoherently. 'Posterity will thank you for it.'

Fox gave his hand a hot squeeze. 'Loyallest of hounds!' Then the Duke of Devonshire walked past their table and Fox sang out, 'Pull up a chair and crack the marrow from a bone with us.'

He stood between them, unsmiling. 'Can't do. I've just been given a message.'

'Bad news?' asked Derby.

'No idea.' Devonshire lowered his voice. 'I don't know the fellow who spoke to me. All he said was he'd been asked to tell me I should visit my wife immediately.'

Derby and Fox exchanged a blank glance, trying not to let their thoughts show. 'When did you see dear Georgiana last?' asked Derby.

'Oh, not for six or seven weeks; she's been in Bath for her health.'

'Well. The message probably got muddled,' Derby murmured.

'Yes. Do give her our warmest regards, though, won't you?' said Fox.

They waited till the husband was well out of hearing. 'Could it be what it sounds like?' Derby asked.

'All too easily, I'm afraid,' said Fox, his jowled cheek falling on to his fist. 'Grey's been up and down to Bath a lot this autumn; he's missed more committee meetings than I can count. And I've heard him bandy her name about when he's drinking.'

'Grey may be a hothead, but Devonshire's a cold fish,' pronounced Derby. 'He must be the only man in England who's never been even slightly in love with Georgiana.' That got a rueful laugh out of Fox, who'd always been more than
slightly.
'If he'd only treated his wife with a bit of respect and tenderness, she might never have got into this sort of trouble,' Derby went on. Of course Georgiana had had her little
affaires de coeur
over the years, with Dorset as well as Fox, if rumour could be believed, but she'd never behaved with such a wild disregard for appearances before.

A
NNE WAS
writing a letter of some delicacy to her mother.

You say that your kinswoman the Comtesse d'Albany has delayed her visit to Park Place, with the consequence that it will now overlap with Miss Farren's &, as you put it, Miss Farren does not speak French well, it may not be the thing &
de plus
the house would be very full. 'Am I to understand by this that you wish me to put off my friend's visit? Her French is certainly
adequate for group conversation. Would it not be 'the thing because she's not of high birth ? I confess I can't see why a young lady of unimpeachable reputation, whose rank is based on her own talents, should have to give way to the Comtesse
—
a
soi-disant
queen only in being widow to the Young Pretender—who's accompanied on all her travels, moreover, by an Italian poet to whom she's not married!

Then Anne took a long breath and screwed up the page. What was the point of fighting her mother on this occasion and insulting the pseudo-royal guest? Eliza would hardly enjoy a visit to Park Place if her hostess were nervous or hostile. It would be better to put her off with some excuse to another time. If it had been Mary, Anne could have poured out the whole story, but the actress was a different matter. Though they were friends again, to Anne's great pleasure, there was always some reserve, some veil between them now.

Dearest M.,
cara anima,
she began on a fresh page,

As you ashed I broke the news of your fall down the river bank as gently as possible, but you know W.'s magnifying mind—he received it like a bomb thrown under his chaise longue!

You say Ag. is far less willing to come home than you are, but for once, my dear, I urge you to think of yourself; you're too fond of making sacrifices. I now count the weeks, & soon the days, till your return to London. Though how can meeting in the flesh satisfy me any more deeply than our meeting of minds on paper has, these twelve months ? Travel safely; apply for your
passe-ports
early; be sure to burn all letters, however harmless, before you cross into France.