How to Marry a Rake (5 page)

‘True.’ Matthew sighed. He slapped his thigh where the extra length of his breeches was neatly pinned over the peg that replaced the rest of his leg. ‘But I vow,
she’s mourning this leg of mine as deeply as she does my father.’ He sat silent a moment. ‘She’s convinced my life is over as well.’

Stephen’s jaw tightened against a surge of resentment. He’d felt this before, on behalf of his friend. Matthew’s mother’s sentiments reminded him painfully—and infuriatingly—of his own mother’s maudlin excuses. Weak, defeatist drivel. It put his back up and made his gorge rise.

But Matthew’s face had hardened. He looked up at Stephen with a glower. ‘I’m here to prove her wrong.’

Stephen relaxed. ‘She couldn’t possibly be more wrong.’ He grinned to lighten the mood. ‘Does she know how frightful a dancer you always were?’ He gestured to his friend’s elaborately carved peg. ‘Surely you can do as well with that contraption as you ever did on your own two feet.’

Matthew gave a startled chuckle. After a moment it turned into a genuinely rueful laugh. ‘No, this is the perfect excuse to give up dancing.’ He eyed Stephen’s blond hair, cut far shorter now than when he’d been living a fashionable life in London. ‘But I still have my wits about me and a damned good head of hair above them. Surely there’s a young lady or two who won’t mind sitting out a set.’ He sighed. ‘Or there’s always the card room.’

‘You forget where we are. It’s Newmarket, man! And you’re as good a judge of horseflesh as any man I’ve ever met. You could talk of nothing else for the entire week and still be thought a sparkling conversationalist.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now, let’s introduce you around.’

* * *

 

For the next hour Stephen stayed at Matthew’s side, presenting him to all and sundry. It was no easy task. Never in all of his life had he had to work so hard to maintain an air of complacent good humour. For while a few grasped his friend’s scarred hand in easy welcome, it was clear that many others were uncomfortable with, even scornful of, his deformities.

Stephen wanted to berate every fool who allowed his revulsion to show on his face and he wanted to shake the idiot woman who flatly refused to offer her hand, but fortunately Matthew was in a jovial temper—and he wasn’t above a self-deprecating joke or two. Together with Stephen’s hearty laughter and calm acceptance, they managed to quickly soothe most of the discomfort they encountered.

But Stephen was beginning to feel stretched too thin. He felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. He was happy to work to secure Matthew’s acceptance, of course, but at the same time he was watching for an opportunity to re-engage Ryeton. The earl had been about to include him in his party tomorrow. He wanted to give the man the chance to finish the invitation and he wanted to accept it with alacrity.

And he wanted to forget Mae Halford’s presence. She certainly appeared to have forgotten his. It was almost unnerving, in fact. He could scarcely recall a time when he’d been in the same room as Mae and had
not
been the centre of her formidable attention. He told himself firmly that he was glad of it.

Yet suddenly she was looking up, as if the weight of
his regard had been a tap on her shoulder. Their gazes met. The ghost of a smile crossed her face.

Stephen pivoted away. Matthew was engaged in conversation with a wide-eyed young miss. To hide his confusion he looked about for Ryeton.

There. The earl and Toswick stood talking just a few feet away. Ryeton met his eye, but quickly averted his gaze, as Stephen had just done to Mae.

Something scuttled down Stephen’s spine. A warning, perhaps. But he was determined and a little desperate. ‘Come,’ he interrupted Matthew. He smiled an apology at the girl. ‘I must introduce you to the man who is set to fleece us all. I believe the lucky devil’s got a favourite in every damned race. We’ll all end up indebted to him by the end of the week.’ He took a step towards the two men.

And then it happened—one of those moments that can occur naturally in any crowd. The orchestra wound to a finish. Conversations paused as guests lightly applauded, and the Earl of Ryeton’s words rang out unusually loud over the quiet moment.

‘What is he thinking? This is a ball, for God’s sake. It’s the height of poor taste for that man to expose the rest of us to his disgusting abnormalities. And has Manning run mad? To squire the cripple about in good company?’

Toswick whispered urgently, trying to shush the earl, but Ryeton paid him no mind and suddenly that donkey’s laugh hung in the air. ‘The man’s lucky he wasn’t born a horse. Were he one of my nags I’d have him shot.’

Time stopped. All around them men stilled and
ladies gasped. Stephen halted in midstep, caught up in a torrent of icy-cold shock and heated fury. For the fraction of a second, he reached for his usual control, scoured his brain for a jaunty bit of humour that might salvage this horrifying moment. But then he saw the flush of anger and embarrassment spread across Matthew’s face. He thought of the incredible courage it had taken for his friend to show up and act as if his life and his body had not been shattered—and he saw the moment Ryeton realised what had happened, right before his nose tilted up and his expression settled into a belligerent scowl.

This was it, then, one of those moments by which a man defined himself and shaped the course of his life. Stephen allowed himself the briefest sliver of a moment in which to mourn his lost opportunities, to prepare himself for an added burn of guilt, before he embraced the wrath surging through his veins and entered the fray.

‘I dare say you would, Ryeton,’ he ground out. ‘But what if the case were reversed? Surely it would be better to be shot for a heroic warhorse than a dim-witted, braying ass.’

‘Excuse me?’ Ryeton turned his reddened face to their host. ‘What did he say to me?’

Toswick only sputtered helplessly.

‘You heard me, my lord. Feeling better about yourself, are you, for having judged a man by the bits he is missing?’ Stephen’s fury raged through him, opening wounds he’d thought long buried. Suddenly every mocking slur cast against his unorthodox family, every whispered taunt about his sad and lonely mother stung
him again, releasing their venom into his veins. ‘It’s obvious, though, that he’s not the only one here missing a few vital pieces. And were I forced to choose between your affliction and his, I’d gladly give up my leg and the use of my hand if it meant I could keep my honour and integrity.’

Another round of gasps went up from the crowd. Ryeton, nearly purple with fury, thrust his glass at Toswick. ‘I shall find a great deal of pleasure in making you regret those words.’ Ryeton’s voice took an unexpected turn to a higher octave at the end of his threat.

Stephen might have laughed if he hadn’t understood just how many ways it could come true. He took a menacing step towards the man. ‘You are welcome to consider whom you would like as your second. I believe we were in the process of arranging to meet in any case, it would be just as well to make it a dawn appointment.’

‘No.’ Matthew’s voice rang out this time, the authority inherent in his tone a direct contrast to Ryeton’s bleating. ‘It’s my infirmities he mocks, and did I think him worth it, it would be me meeting him at dawn.’ He gave Ryeton a hard stare. ‘And though I may have only one good hand left, my lord, I’ve killed more than a few Frenchmen with it. I doubt I’d have any trouble dispatching you.’

He paused and swept a steely look across the gawking guests. ‘But I don’t find him worth the trouble. He’s entitled to his opinion. Whatever he thinks of my “abnormalities”, I know I obtained them on a field of honour, defending my fellows and my country, and my king.’

Matthew might have said more, but he was interrupted
by a softly uttered, ‘Oh, bravo!’ from the chit he’d been talking with. He coloured once more and looked to Stephen.

‘Let’s go,’ Stephen said shortly. He gave Ryeton a last glare before gesturing to the crowd knotted around them. A path opened up, and he waited for his friend to set out before him.

But the evening held one last shock. Stephen stared as several footmen burst into the ballroom. Two pulled up just inside the door, but one had his head down and a dogged expression on his face. Guests shrieked, scattering before him. Drawing closer, Stephen saw the reason behind it all. Fleet as a frisky colt, a boy dodged and darted just ahead of the man—a grime-spattered boy who, cap in hand, caught sight of the cleared aisle and pelted down the centre of it. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the earl.

‘Lord Ryeton,’ he wheezed. He bent over to catch his breath. ‘There’s trouble in the stables. ‘Tis Pratchett, my lord!’

The crowd began to murmur. All the buzzing, gossiping people who had begun to turn away surged forwards again, eager to catch a glimpse of the new commotion.

Stephen noted that the high colour had drained from Ryeton’s face. ‘Well?’ he barked at the child. ‘Spit it out, boy! Pratchett, you say? What’s amiss with my best horse?’

‘He’s been stolen, my lord!’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Pratchett’s gone!’

Chapter Four

B
ack and forth Stephen paced, from sagging stall to weathered doorway. Lord Toswick’s stables were a hive of activity, nearly as busy as the house. This ancient hay barn, tucked at the edge of the stable block, looked as if he might knock it over with a good push, but it was redolent of sweet-smelling hay, just the right size for a good, agitated pace and wonderfully, blessedly quiet.

It might be the only peaceful place in Newmarket this morning, for the entire town was still abuzz with gossip from last night’s ball. Already London’s newspapermen and inveterate rumourmongers were descending on the town, eager to hear the latest details. Oh, and wasn’t there a good deal to hash over? A good bit of it centring around him. He sighed. It was familiar ground, performing as the meaty chunk in the centre of the scandalbroth.

Except he didn’t want to be there any longer. Leaning up against the corner stall, he deliberately breathed in straw-dusted air. He’d worked hard to leave the shrill
boy he’d been, so hungry to be noticed, behind. Side by side he’d laboured with Fincote’s people, desperate to pay back some part of the debt he owed them, but just as intent on proving himself, too.

The old plough horse in the stall approached. Curious, she nudged him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be available to race for me, would you?’ He rubbed her cheek and stroked down her fine, strong neck, taking comfort in her simple affection.

Simple. This foray into Newmarket was supposed to be simple. Two notable horses to match up and draw racing’s elite to Fincote Park. Once there, they’d recognise the superiority of his challenging, well-maintained course. They’d experience the hospitality and eager gratitude of the local business owners and merchants and soon enough they’d all be on their way to becoming a well-known, much-frequented part of the racing circuit.

And he would, at long last, put the ghost of his mother’s neglect to rest.

But those plans lay in tatters now. And because it was natural to do so when his mind was full of chaos or destruction, he conjured up the image of Mae Halford as she’d been last night, challenging him from across the ballroom with that grin on her pretty face—the one that was both familiar and intriguingly new at the same time. She’d moved through the crowd with confidence and grace, as if fidgets and restless energy had never been her natural state.

Stephen had watched the candlelight ferret reddish highlights out of her golden curls and experienced a deep foreboding. She’d been a force of nature when
he’d known her before. The thought of what she might be today—with full knowledge and possession of her power—defied description.

He experienced a profound sense of mortification, too, knowing that she’d witnessed the débâcle with Ryeton. Perhaps because it had been so spectacularly melodramatic. He rolled his eyes and left the horse to her clover-scented hay. The evening had possessed a taste of the theatrical, but Stephen wouldn’t take back a word. Ryeton was an arrogant, small-minded imbecile—but he had been perfect for his needs. The man sat on top of the racing world right now. His horses were well blooded, well trained and practically unbeatable.

And now, unobtainable. Stephen paused at the entry to the tack room and traced the horseshoe hung above the door for luck. He needed a new plan. A new patron. But Ryeton was influential. He had the ear of the Jockey Club stewards and most of racing’s important figures—and Stephen had mortally insulted him. There was damned little chance he could get back in the man’s good graces. Indeed, the earl could kill all of his dreams with just a word.

He set off again, thinking and pacing his way around and around the small open space—until the very path he walked sparked a sudden idea.

A hell of an idea. A thought so simple, so complicated and so brilliant all at once that it set his heart to pounding and his feet to travelling even faster. What if he could get
around
Ryeton? He could well imagine the state the man was in today. By all reports he was frantically following up every lead, trying to get Pratchett back in time to race the Guineas. But what if
Stephen
was the one to find the horse? He could return the thoroughbred to Ryeton with all due pomp and circumstance. It would create a sensation—one that he could use to benefit Fincote Park.

He’d thought himself past the need for the spotlight—but this time he could use it to accomplish all of his goals in one fell swoop. The racing crowd would go wild—and claim him as their hero. It would create the perfect opportunity to convince Ryeton to run Pratchett at Fincote. The earl would look like a fool were he to continue to hold a grudge in such circumstances. He would have to agree—and the racing world, so eager for a spectacle, would stumble over itself to witness it.

Stephen could barely contain his excitement. It was perfect. It would work—if only he could locate the missing racehorse first.

The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. That was the complicated bit, wasn’t it? Though Ryeton had put on a convincing show of shock and bewilderment, he had to have an idea of what motivated such a bizarre incident. And knowledge would give him an advantage that would make him hard to beat.

Stephen started moving again. Society being what it was, someone else might have a hint at what lay behind it, too. Surely someone, a trainer, groom, the earl’s friends—or enemies—knew something. It would be a race to ferret out information and connect the pieces before Ryeton did.

He nodded. It could be done. He could search out the truth. But the job was too big for one man. He would stand a better chance if he had help.

Silently, he considered his prospects.

Toswick, perhaps? Quickly, he discarded the notion. His host was an upstanding gentleman, too honourable to chose between his acquaintances in such a manner. Landry, then? With a stab of disappointment, Stephen recalled the viscount’s tirade against Ryeton. Landry was unlikely to help with any scheme that helped the earl get Pratchett back, even if it aided Stephen at the same time.

No, he needed someone uninvolved. Someone with a quick mind and a sense of discretion. His mind raced. Owner, trainer, black leg and groom—every man-jack involved in racing was knee deep in speculation right now. Yet gossip was likely thickening the air in Newmarket’s social circles as well as in her barns and training courses. Ryeton’s name would be whispered over every teacup, the man’s history and his every social gaffe dug up, dissected and served up alongside the cucumber sandwiches. The information he needed could come from anywhere.

Stephen needed a partner—someone who could help him cover ground, explore every avenue and then come together to sort, sift and piece answers together. Surely he knew someone not averse to a bit of adventure and ready to embrace a good scheme …

He stopped short once more. The answer was at once obvious and frightening. It floated, a red-gold beacon in his mind.

What he needed was Mae Halford.

No! He exploded into motion again, moving faster than ever and setting the old mare to prancing nervously as well. It was an absurd notion—too foolish
to be contemplated. And yet he could think of no one better suited for the job. Mae had been an ally once. Hell, they’d cut their milk teeth on more outrageous schemes. But that was before he’d turned her into an opponent—and she made a formidable foe, indeed. He’d far rather confront Ryeton than her.

Last night she’d insisted that she no longer carried a torch for him. It was not difficult to believe—he doubted her tender feelings could have survived their last encounter. But Mae was nothing if not tenacious. If she did still harbour yearnings for him, he’d be granting her a prime opportunity to catch him in a leg-shackle. If not—well, he’d already hurt her once. That knowledge was one of his heaviest burdens—could he risk adding to it?

And what of her father? She’d indicated that Barty Halford did not wish her to continue their association. The man was nearly as influential in the racing community as Ryeton. If crossed, he could crush Stephen’s plans just as easily as the earl.

No.

Stephen closed his eyes and experienced again the burning need to make Fincote a success. The goal loomed ever larger in his mind—a holy grail that he could not stop chasing. He would never rest easy until it was done.

He groaned and leaned back against the tack-room door, gazing up at the horseshoe above him. He was going to need all the luck he could get. Could he truly be considering this? And the question remained—even if he convinced himself, how on earth was he to convince Mae?

* * *

 

‘Mademoiselle!’

Mae blinked. Her maid’s tone was sharp, the hairpin she’d just jabbed at her skull sharper yet. Still, it took a heroic effort to focus on Josette’s exasperated face in the mirror.

‘Almost I can see the very busy turnings of the wheels in your mind, but three times I have asked if you prefer the plain comb or the pearls.’ Josette wagged a finger at her reflection.

‘I’m sorry, Josette.’

‘Do not be sorry. Only pay attention, just for a moment. You can go back to your scheming once we have you ready for the day.’

Mae stared at her image. Good heavens, but her shoulders were drawn tight up around her ears. Deliberately, she relaxed and reminded herself that she
liked
what she saw in the mirror.

Yet thoughts of Stephen and his friend from last evening continued to trouble her. Mr Grange, who likely did not enjoy his reflection any more—but with whom she felt a kinship, none the less. He was an outsider, just like her. They were each undeniably different from the people about them—only Mr Grange wore his differences on the outside.

She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Josette, are we doing the right thing?’

‘What?’ the startled maid asked. ‘The pearls?’

‘No, no. The pearls are fine.’ Turning around in her seat, Mae let the words rush out. ‘The campaign. I know we’ve laid our plans and devised our strategies, but I’m beginning to wonder if it is a mistake to hide
my … foibles.’ She paused. ‘From the gentlemen I am meeting, I mean.’

Josette clucked and turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘Do you know what you are,
mademoiselle?
You are like a banquet prepared by the greatest chefs of my country, rich with ingredients and fascinating layers. But these Englishmen! Bah!’ She tucked in a curl and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Too long have they lived on bland, tasteless fare. They do not know enough to know what is best. You must give them a small taste at a time. Slowly they will become accustomed to the many delicious flavours that make you who you are. Only then will they discover it is too late to go back to their plain English misses.’

Mae laughed. ‘Bad enough my father puts me in the same category as his fillies, now you make me feel like a cassoulet.’

‘Either way,’ Josette said with a smack of her fingers to her lips, ‘you are
magnifique.’

Mae studied her reflection once more and chose to believe her. She knew she was not the same as most girls—had known it since she’d discovered that none of the others improved the efficiency of the kitchens by reorganising the cook’s battery of pots in order of frequency of use. At school she’d been the only one to keep her clothes hung in the wardrobe according to colour and age of the garment. But she’d always chosen to embrace her differences, to believe that they made her interesting and unique. She was different, not less—but it had been a battle to convince the world to believe it along with her.

Josette set down her brush and began to smooth and
arrange curls with her fingers. ‘The servants are buzzing like bees—there is so much gossip in the air, it is like pollen from the flowers.’

Mae looked up sharply. Josette’s tone was entirely too casual.

‘Many interesting things I have heard—including the name of one of the gentlemen.’ She met Mae’s gaze in the mirror now. ‘He is here, isn’t he?’ she asked quietly. ‘The one who so troubled you in the past?’

A heated flush started low in her chest. Mae ignored it and nodded.

The maid pulled away. ‘Aha! I knew it. This is why you begin to doubt yourself—and your purpose.’ Whirling away in disgust, Josette began to murmur in low, rapid French. Mae flinched when she swung back and poked a finger at her.

‘Mademoiselle,’
her maid began heatedly. She paused and took a breath and the exasperation in her face faded to concern. ‘You said you were strong, that you would not let his indifference inflame you.’

‘There is no need to worry. I acted exactly as I must. We’ve promised to keep our distance. Our meeting was bound to be traumatic, but except for the slight damage to my ankle, I am fine.’

‘So it is true, then—it was he who caused your fall.’ Josette began to grumble again. ‘I must catch a glimpse of this man who causes so many difficulties. Surely he must be handsome.’ She eyed Mae slyly. ‘I know his brains must not be the attraction, since he did not have the sense to fall in love with you when he had the chance.’

Mae laughed. ‘Well, you must be careful when
you seek him out, dear. His mind might not be up to your standards …’ she let out a teasing sigh ‘… but the rest of him …’ She paused and closed her own eyes. ‘His eyes—dark blue on the outside, but I’d forgotten how they change toward the centre, fade to the lightest shade, so clear you think you could see right down to his soul, if only he would let you.’ After a moment she marshalled herself and tossed a wicked grin over her shoulder. ‘And his shoulders! I know how you feel about a nice set of shoulders.’