How to Marry a Rake (9 page)

‘If you cannot open your mouth without making a quiz of yourself, then I wish you would keep it closed!’ Miss Metheny had gone off crimson again.

Mae could not suppress another pang of sympathy for the difficult Miss Metheny. Miss Lucy had proven quite helpful today, but she possessed a definite gift for discomposing her sister.

‘Surely you jest, Miss Lucy. Your sister appears to have every social advantage over me. She has knowledge and experience of London society, while I have been gallivanting abroad.’ Mae cast a smile of camaraderie towards the beleaguered girl. ‘She can have no need to feel threatened by me.’

But Miss Metheny was in no mood to form alliances. Or perhaps she had been pushed past her endurance. Raising her chin, she speared Mae with an unmistakable challenge. ‘The word is that you possess a dowry of fifty thousand pounds. That’s enough to make you a threat to every unmarried girl in London.’

Mae flushed. Or perhaps Miss Metheny was just a shrewish vixen. Whatever the case, she would not allow the girl to vent her spleen all over her.

‘But I saw you speaking to Lord Stephen Manning last night.’ Miss Lucy broke in, her eyes alive with interest. ‘Perhaps your interests lie in that direction?’

Mae struggled to control both her colour and her temper. ‘Lord Stephen and I are old friends. We practically grew up together. Are you well acquainted with him?’

Miss Lucy’s face lit up. ‘No, but I should certainly like to be.’

‘I can easily arrange an introduction.’

‘To one of the Fitzmanning Miscellany?’ Miss Metheny broke in. ‘Don’t be absurd. That family has made its home in the scandal sheets for the last twenty years. It wouldn’t be seemly.’

Every trace of empathy for the girl died a quick and fiery death. Mae straightened, her fists clenched.

But Addy leaped to Stephen’s defence even before Mae could. ‘Lord Stephen Manning—’

‘Is a second son of a disreputable duke,’ the nasty bit of baggage interrupted. ‘And likely in need of an heiress. He would do very well for
her.’
Not finished yet, she looked down her nose in Mae’s direction. ‘You might also consider Viscount Landry, Miss Halford. He’s been sniffing about the house party. He’s pockets to let and growing quite desperate. I shouldn’t think he’d object to a merchant’s daughter.’ She let loose a bitter laugh. ‘In fact, he has fifty thousand reasons not to object, does he not?’

Her chest tight, Mae took a step closer to the odious Miss Metheny. ‘Has the viscount perhaps shown an interest in you?’

Miss Metheny, her lips pressed tight, did not answer.

Her sister did. ‘Indeed, no! But then Delia does not have—’

‘A pleasant manner? A gracious temperament?’ Straightening her spine, Mae stared at the girl who seemed so determined to be nasty. ‘Well then, the viscount will have at least fifty thousand and two reasons to prefer me over you.’

She stepped back and looped her arm in Addy’s. ‘Come, Addy. I understand there is to be a card party tonight. Let’s go and prepare ourselves, shall we?’

‘Let’s,’ Addy said firmly. They stepped away. ‘I never did care for toast.’

Stephen had been right about one thing. Every man-jack in Newmarket was still talking about Pratchett’s disappearance—and they all had a theory on what had happened to the horse, and why.

The grooms he spoke to all suspected a rival owner had done the deed—and they were all fearful for their own four-legged charges. The black legs he encountered shared the grooms’ suspicions and went about muttering about pots and kettles and shades of black. Just to make things interesting, the owners and enthusiasts he talked with were all convinced the job was the work of a crooked leg or, even worse, a consortium of them.

‘It makes sense.’ Lord Toswick was morose, mourning Pratchett’s loss as a stud. Stephen had encountered the earl and his cronies along Moulton Road, mounted and heading to a cockfight at the edge of town in an effort to restore his spirits. ‘Ryeton has been very vocal about putting a stop to the cheating legs and their skullduggery. He wanted them to answer to the Jockey Club.’

‘If it was them, then perhaps they meant it as a warning.’ Matthew Grange, driving a smart cabriolet, accompanied the earl’s group.

‘I doubt it,’ Stephen said with a frown. ‘It’s not their usual mode of operation. Normally the legs allow a clear favourite to build. Once the betting is high, they
then
arrange something, a laming or a poisoning right in the last hours before the race. When the horse shows poorly or doesn’t run, they rake in a fortune. There’s no profit to be made if the horse disappears before the bets are made.’

Toswick shrugged. ‘Perhaps Ryeton’s wife had a hand in it. She’s been giving him the devil of a time.’

‘I think I like her already,’ Matthew said with a grin.

‘That’s because you haven’t met her,’ Toswick answered with a shudder. ‘She’s a sly thing, just the sort of woman to come up with such a bizarre way to punish a man.’

‘Bizarre, but effective,’ retorted Matthew.

Toswick’s horse began a restless dance. ‘Let’s be off, then. Care to come with us, Manning?’

‘Thank you, Toswick, but I’m still searching for a decent match up for Fincote Park.’

‘Very well, then.’ Impatient, the earl’s horse pranced again, setting off several other mounts. But Toswick paused. ‘You might consider fillies. My Butterfly runs a very decent trial and I hear that Halford has brought over an exceptional animal from France. You should go and have a look at her. I wouldn’t be averse to a match between them.’

It was a very generous offer. Stephen was grateful for it, even if he did have something bigger and better in mind, thanks to Mae. Had there ever been another like her? Gad, he’d barely presented her with his dilemma, yet she’d sized up the situation and seized upon a brilliant, all-encompassing plan. ‘Thank you, Toswick. I’ll do that now.’

The group departed and Stephen made the rounds of several stables, including Mae’s father’s. Barty Halford had spared no expense, renting space on Mill Hill, near to some of the greatest trainers of the day. Well built and modern were these stables too, with spacious loose boxes and more than adequate ventilation. Stephen spent some time observing Halford’s famous filly, but he unobtrusively sought out Ornithopter as well.

Mae was right. The horse was no beauty, but Stephen dallied, gossiping with the stable hands until a groom took the horse out for exercise. He saw for himself how the animal carried a gorgeous stride, long and smooth.

The sight of it renewed his determination. Pratchett and Ornithopter. What a contest it would be—between two such magnificent animals! Their names—and Fincote Park’s along with them—would be spoken for years. But he had to find Pratchett first, for any of it to be feasible. He moved on, praying for a hint of the information he needed.

Everywhere the talk was of Ryeton’s predicament and Pratchett’s fate. Everyone had an opinion, some claimed more knowledge than they ultimately possessed, but none cursed Ryeton with more animosity than Viscount Landry, whom Stephen found loitering about the training stables.

‘I told you, didn’t I? Not an ounce of generosity in the dastard,’ the viscount said, leaning heavily on a paddock rail. ‘The man is black of heart and soul.’ He glanced askance at Stephen and squinted in the sun. ‘You cannot say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I wasn’t sure if you were still there, when it
happened.’ Stephen kept his tone casual at first. Wind blew sweet and strong from the Heath. He lifted his face, let it wash over him before he spoke again, with just a shade of bitterness to colour his words. ‘The rotter can say all he likes about me and my enterprise, but I’ll not hear him disparage a good man who gave his all for king and country.’

‘Rotter,’ Landry agreed glumly. ‘That’s the nicest thing you could say about the man.’

Stephen studied his old associate. Something was going on between him and Ryeton. And Landry still wasn’t talking about it. In Stephen’s mind, that only highlighted the significance of the thing. He pushed away from the fence. ‘This breeze is drying me out. Care to stop in a pub?’

Landry’s expression brightened, yet he hesitated.

Ah. The wind blew in that direction too, did it? ‘Come, I’ll buy you a drink, man. Enemy of my enemy and all that.’

‘All right, then. I suppose you’re right—those of us who can see Ryeton for what he is should stick together, eh?’

Stephen merely clapped the man on the back and hoped he was still a talkative drunk.

He was—and a melancholy one as well—but he took a damned long time to get there. The hour grew late and Stephen’s pockets grew lighter, and though Landry eventually bemoaned fate and bad fortune at the gaming tables, hard-hearted wenches and tight-fisted fathers, he steadfastly declined to say more about Ryeton.

His refusal piqued Stephen’s interest even further. He
wanted to curse in frustration when Landry slammed down his pint and declared he must go.

‘Toswick’s giving a card party, you know.’ Morose, he looked down at the disarray of his clothing. ‘Going to try to weasel my way in. Should go and change, but there’s no use. Even my valet has abandoned me.’ He turned to stare into his empty tankard, his lower lip quivering in drunken abandon. ‘I don’t even have a clean neckcloth to my name.’

Staring at the viscount, Stephen executed several slow and solemn blinks. He hadn’t drunk nearly as much as Landry, but the viscount didn’t need to know that. When a man dived so deeply into his cups, he rarely liked to go alone.

‘Come as my guest,’ Stephen said at last. ‘I’ve linen. I’ll loan you some.’ His gaze traced a wobbly path up and over the man. ‘A clean shirt, too.’

‘Will you, by God?’ Landry slammed his pewter mug down again. ‘Tapster! I’ll have another. There’s still a bit of generosity left in this world and I would drink to it!’ He downed the last mug in one long swallow. ‘Manning …’ he staggered to his feet ‘… you’re as good a friend as I’ve ever had. Must get into that party, you see. The play won’t be deep, but the company … ‘

‘I’m happy to help … ‘

‘Halford will be there. Man’s got more gold than Midas, or so they say. Looks like a troll, though.’

Stephen’s stomach twisted. He’d forgotten Landry’s determination to meet the ‘new heiress’. ‘Shall we go? We’ve no wish to be late, I’m sure.’

‘He’s got a daughter, did you know?’ Landry’s gaze had gone suddenly intense.

‘I did know.’ Firmly he ignored the sudden vision of how Mae had looked at Toswick’s last-evening entertainment, glowing from the inside and casting all those about her into the shade. Or this morning, when she had shone brighter than the sun.

‘Still haven’t managed to meet her. Mean to, though.’ He sighed. ‘Tonight.’

‘Come along, then, and get dressed. I’ll introduce you.’ And then he’d make sure that Landry stayed far away from Mae. Surely there was another woman of means in Newmarket he could be turned towards.

Stephen finally coaxed the man away and got him safely to Titchley. To be safe, he sneaked him up the back steps and rang for a hot pot of coffee. He’d thought the viscount would sober up a little as they dressed, but Landry appeared to be feeling the delayed effects of his afternoon of drinking.

At last the viscount was poured back into his superfine. They stood a moment, facing their reflections in the room’s small mirror. Stephen had heard the ladies liken Landry to a Greek god. He was indeed handsome, with strong, even features and dark hair just a touch too long. Cut specially to tempt the ladies’ fingers, likely. He bent down to ruffle his own short curls. A sour twang thrummed in his gut at the thought of the viscount making his bow to Mae.

Higher aspirations.

He shook his head. Landry was his friend, but surely not even Halford would crave a title so badly that he’d sell his daughter to the man.

Without warning, Landry broke down. Stephen stepped back in alarm. The viscount’s hand braced on
the mirror’s frame, his body shook with the force of his sobs. ‘It’s a damned cruel world, that’s what it is,’ he wailed. ‘I vow—a title’s a damned heavy thing.’ He met Stephen’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Almost, I could wish myself a second son. Free. Like you.’

With visible effort, he pulled himself together. Sniffing audibly, he reached into a pocket for Stephen’s handkerchief. ‘But I’m not. I’ve had my time in the sun and I’ll pay the piper like a gentleman should.’

He tried to clap Stephen on the shoulder, but ended up leaning heavily against him. ‘I wish better for you, Manning. I do. I pray you never know the depths to which a man is forced to sink, the things he must do, if only to survive.’

Ears pricked, ignoring the tingling travelling down his spine, Stephen steadied him. ‘Sounds like a heavy load you’re carrying.’

‘You can’t know,’ Landry sighed in answer.

‘You might want to share it—bound to lighten your burdens.’

‘No.’ The viscount heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘I will soldier on, as so many of noble blood have done before me.’ He pushed away. ‘Come. It won’t do to be late.’

After his outburst, Landry appeared to sink into a daze. He kept silent as they made their way along the long, dark corridor. He stalked down the stairs, almost as if he’d forgotten he had a companion. Stephen hustled along beside him, his mind racing far faster than their feet. He had to find a way to get the viscount to talk.

They’d reached the marbled hall. Again the parlours to the right had been opened up to form one great room.
Warmth and laughter drifted from beyond the doors. Stephen made one last desperate attempt as the butler prepared to admit them. ‘You don’t suppose Ryeton will be here this evening, do you?’ he drawled low to Landry. ‘I’d heard he was chasing word of Pratchett all about the countryside.’

‘Ryeton?’ The word appeared to clear the mists in Landry’s head. He sprang to life, spinning about and glaring at Stephen as if he’d never seen him before. ‘That black-hearted cretin? He’d better not be within, or I’ll draw his cork for him!’ He stepped close and grasped a handful of Stephen’s coat. ‘Do you know what the dastard has done to me? Pratchett was mine! Ryeton stole him out from under my nose!’