Authors: Emery Lee

Highest Stakes (30 page)

BOOK: Highest Stakes

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Robert brightened. "This is exceptional news! I had feared Charlotte's discovery every moment, and Charles is no match for me. Never has been. 'Twill be an effortless victory."

"This is decidedly to our advantage, Robert," Charlotte agreed. "Charles is barely more than a competent rider."

Philip interrupted. "I fear you both labor under some misapprehension. Charles Wallace is not to ride."

"If not Charles, then who?" Charlotte asked, bewildered.

"Simply stated, me."

"Surely you jest, Drake!" Robert exclaimed in disbelief.

"I assure you, 'tis no jest."

"Just whose side are you on?" Charlotte exclaimed.

"Why mine, of course. When have I implied otherwise?"

"But why would my uncle possibly trust you?" she asked incredulously.

"We came to a mutually advantageous agreement," Philip replied blandly. "After some manner of negotiations, Sir Garfield put forth such an attractive offer that I could find no reason to refuse. You came to Yorkshire in pursuit of your ambition, Devington, and I came with mine. The ends justify the means," Philip replied unabashedly.

"The devil you say, Philip! This changes everything!"

"Indeed. The weights are decidedly a problem. I daresay poor Rascallion must now carry near thirteen stone."

"That's hardly what I meant! I say Sir Garfield should forfeit."

"He is unlikely to do so with any measure of grace, Devington. I should think it much more to your advantage to finish this business in a sporting fashion. Indeed, I have a strong yen for sport. Are you not up to the challenge, old man?" He goaded Devington with an arrogant arch of his brow. "It's been some time since we two have pitted our skill against one another. The training field at Woolwich last comes to mind."

"Woolwich was decidedly to my disadvantage, and you know it. The scales were balanced in your favor; you designed it so."

"Decidedly, Devington. I could hardly allow a green recruit to show me up in front of the ranks, could I? But I'll promise you a fair run."

"Think again, Drake, if you imagine besting me on the racecourse!"

"I count you a worthy adversary, Devington, though Rascallion appears more than capable of the challenge. 'Twas exceedingly illjudged of Sir Garfield to place him in that imbecile Harrow's hands. The horse simply wants for a rider with more finesse. Now what do you say? I have thrown down the gauntlet. Do you accept?"

"Bloody hell, Drake, I accept!"

With public executions the most popular entertainment of the day, word spread like wildfire of the continuation of the race featuring the homicidal horse. With their nominally suppressed appetites for blood whetted by the earlier race, the Doncaster populace thronged to the rail in eager anticipation of Rascallion's next performance.

Robert recognized the raw talent, the fleetness of the younger horse, particularly once liberated from his brutal jockey. Rascallion under pressure was volatile and easily rattled, but Philip Drake, an expert rider with a level head and a light hand, was just the sort to manage such volatility.

The major, fully cognizant of his mount's weaknesses, would ride him accordingly, and if he could sufficiently focus Rascallion to bring all to bear, he would be a daunting, if not invincible, foe.

Robert still harbored some doubt that Mars possessed the sheer swiftness to outrun the younger colt, especially with the onerous thirteen stone he must carry to even the odds. The going under such weight would prove arduous, but Mars was intrepid to the last, and when asked, would give all without faltering.

Robert rested unwaveringly in his horse's courage and strength of will, but Philip would know how to get the most out of Rascallion. He hoped he needn't press Mars for supreme efforts. Robert would have to ride smart if they would prevail.

Once mounted and ready, the two officers proceeded to the starting post. Mars, well collected, proceeded as before, keenly aware of his rider's anticipation. Philip had the rambunctious Rascallion surprisingly well in hand, and the snorting colt sidled up to the start. Saluting one another, they nodded readiness to the steward, who lowered the flag.

The two horses burst forward in unison, but Rascallion, encouraged by his earlier success, initiated his new rider with a wild bucking spree. Demonstrating great prowess in the saddle, Philip was unmoved and smartly pulled the colt's head up to regain control. Philip knew from the prior run that this colt was, in Newmarket jargon, a "fizzy" runner. Such types never bore heavy management. Rascallion needed to be eased along in his running. Rather than holding fast to the horse, Drake mystified the spectators by crouching low over the testy colt's neck and murmuring words of encouragement.

Under Drake's cool and calm management, Rascallion remarkably forgot his act of rebellion. He once again pricked his ears to dash forward with great celerity, anxious to regain his lost ground. Having now won his first round with the colt, Philip channeled Rascallion's surplus of nervous energy to setting his mind back on the field.

Robert laid low over the gray, his reins laced loosely through his fingers, while Mars galloped in cadence with his rider's pounding heart. Briefly closing his eyes, Robert sensed well before he heard the thunderous approach of Philip and Rascallion coming up hard upon them.

Mars waited, as if baiting the other horse. Rascallion's nose appeared at his flank. Mars still waited. The colt crept up. They were shoulder to shoulder arcing around the bend. The tension rose in Mars. His body recoiling, he pushed onward but made no attempt to accelerate beyond the pace asked by his rider.

Stretching forward neck and neck, Rascallion glared at the gray, tossing his head while his forelegs reached, slicing the air as they proceeded down the track. Refusing to yield, Mars matched stride for stride, hanging alongside.

Rascallion fought to shake off Mars and gain the lead, but the gray refused to give an inch. With a deep and audible groan, the chestnut heaved and strained in another vain attempt, but dogged in his determination, Mars unremittingly clung to Rascallion.

Mars now displayed visible signs of fatigue. His light gray coat was coated with sweat. Foam spewed from his mouth. His sides heaved with every new stride, yet he relentlessly persevered, his cadence never faltering.

The battle heightened in intensity, and the wild-eyed Rascallion began to exhibit chinks in his armor. In his frustration to break free from Mars, the chestnut gnashed at the bit and shook his head in ire. While his mount was holding up well physically, Philip struggled to manage Rascallion's undisciplined mind and bilious temper. Another push could drive the fitful young stallion over the brink. The pair of riders entered the home stretch. The moment of decision had arrived.

Philip knew the potential of the colt under him. Although volatile, managed properly, the horse was a winner, and Philip himself was competitively driven. He had begun the race with a single purpose: to win. His heiress and her twenty thousand could be his, but in the final seconds, his conscience pricked like a needle.

"Bloody hell!" he swore and imperceptibly shifted his weight into his seat, just cue enough to give his horse pause. It was all the advantage Robert needed.

Mars, the warrior horse, was the undisputed victor.

As the final seconds unfurled, Sir Garfield leapt to his feet and nearly tumbled from the dais. His triumph had once again slipped elusively through his fingers, or in his mind, through Philip's fingers. Sir Garfield stormed onto the field in a blustering rage to confront the dismounting major. "What the devil was that performance? You could easily have overtaken them! The horse proved it in the last run!"

Philip handed the hot colt off to Jeffries's tender care, calmly responding, "You forget the colt was riderless and therefore at some advantage."

"What game do you think you're playing, Drake? You let the damned bounder win!"

"You suspect I am in league with Devington? I assure you not, sir. Our arrangement was as much to my benefit as yours."

Philip impassively waited for Sir Garfield to fully and unreservedly vent his spleen, allowing him to run out of breath before answering the accusations flung in his face.

"With all due respect,
good sir, the horse
was coming undone, nearly over the brink, as it were. He's a fine runner but has an exceedingly fizzy temperament. He would have no future at all should I have pushed him beyond his limits. Racing is as much a matter of disciplining the horse's mind as it is his body. Many fouryear-olds aren't mature enough to handle this kind of pressure."

"How dare you lecture me on my stock! I've owned runners since you were suckling your mother's teat, you insolent cur!"

"I repeat, it was to my advantage to ride the colt to victory, but that would have been his undoing. 'Twould have been a very shortlived victory and an ultimate crime if one ill-conceived match race ruined a promising career. In truth," he drawled, "I did you a great service by saving this good horse for future races."

In full accord with the major, Jeffries jumped in, "Aye, he be right, sir. I've said as much, but ye wouldn't heed me. Yer got a prime piece of horseflesh in Rascallion, but like yer prized burgundies, 'e needs a bit of age on him. Knew from the beginning 'twas no good, this race. The major done right by 'im. Though I daresay naught will convince ye o' it." The trainer snorted his indignation and took his young charge off for cooling.

"Believe what you will, sir." Philip turned on his heel. With his aspirations temporarily thwarted, Philip would console himself with a bottle of smuggled French brandy and a warm woman. He had a good notion where to find both, but he first sought out Devington.

"My congratulations on a hellava ride, Devington! Devilish good sport!"

This said, he departed, leaving the astonished captain to wonder,
yet again
, just what Philip Drake was all about.

Sixteen