Deb Marlowe - How To Marry a Rake

‘Yes, yes, and of course there are plenty of honest men making books.’ The earl appeared to be impatient with even a hint of disagreement. ‘It’s the crooked ones that are making things so damned difficult. Three separate incidents I’ve had in my stables over the past year. Two were caught in time, but I lost a very promising filly to poisoned feed.’ Ryeton’s colour had grown higher. ‘It’s a travesty, is what it is.’ He tossed back his drink and waved for another.

‘It does lend an ugly taint,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Cheating only breeds suspicion and distrust where we would hope for enthusiastic and healthy competition.’

‘Something must be done before things get even more out of hand. I’ve called a gathering of the Jockey Club stewards to discuss the issue. We need swift justice—and stern consequences. A precedent must be established.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘We cannot expect these people to govern themselves. They are not gentlemen.’

He glanced askance at Stephen. ‘The stewards meet early tomorrow. Perhaps if you are about …’ He paused. ‘Ah, but I’d forgotten. You are not a member of the Jockey Club, are you, Manning?’

‘That honour has not been mine.’ Not yet. ‘But I am hoping to find sponsorship for admittance to the Coffee Rooms,’ Stephen added smoothly. Acceptance as a member of the Jockey Club Rooms was the first step towards becoming a full member of racing’s elite body.

Ryeton hesitated, then nodded towards their host. ‘I’m assembling a group to ride out and watch the practice on the Heath tomorrow afternoon. I had just invited Toswick.’

Stephen grinned. ‘There’s scarcely a better moment, is there? To lean into the wind of a group of galloping thoroughbreds and feel the thunder of their passing beneath your feet?’

Ryeton nodded and triumph bloomed fiercely in Stephen’s chest. This was it; the earl was going to invite him along. Yes. He needed this. Fincote needed this. It was a small step, but a first one towards a bright future. For him and for the people who depended on him.

‘Perhaps you would care to—’

Something struck Stephen behind the knee and he stumbled forwards into Ryeton, cutting him off.

‘Perhaps, Manning, all that thunder and wind comes from your flapping jaw,’ someone said behind him.

‘What?’ Turning, Stephen suppressed a surge of irritation and a vision of Mae Halford’s mischievous grin. She always did have an exquisite sense of timing—and an uncanny ability to intervene in the most inopportune moments.

But of course it wasn’t Mae interfering. Instead, he found a gentleman hovering close, his handsome visage blighted by rough scars that traced a path along his jaw and climbed the right side of his face. He leaned heavily on a cane with one hand, held the other outstretched and grinned widely all over his face.

‘Grange?’ Stephen’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Matthew Grange! What in blazes are you doing here, man?’ His eyes running over his friend, he reached out and grasped his hand.

‘I thought to hire myself out as a jockey.’ Matthew’s mouth twisted. ‘Idiot!’ he said fondly. ‘What do you think? I’m here for the races.’

Stephen still had not let go of his hand. ‘Of course. Hanstead Hall is so close—I’d hoped to stop for a visit after the racing. I hadn’t expected. It’s just so damned good to see you out and about.’ Recollecting himself, he pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, you shocked the good manners right out of me. Matthew, do you know the Earl of Ryeton?’ He turned. ‘Ryeton, if I may present an old friend …’

But the earl had taken a step back and was already engaged in conversation with some others. ‘Perhaps later,’ Stephen said, swallowing a wave of disappointment. He stared at Matthew again and a slow smile broke out over his face. ‘Damn, but you look a sight better than the last time I saw you.’

He’d met Matthew Grange on the first day of school, when he’d punched him in the nose for calling his father’s mistress a whore. Matthew had tripped him on his way down, and despite the fact that Grange had two years on him, they had been evenly matched. They’d beaten each other to a bloody pulp, Matthew had apologised and they’d been inseparable for years.

Until his friend bought a commission and went away to put Napoleon in his place. Matthew had barely got in on the end of the conflict, but he’d been at Waterloo. In fact, he’d been caught right next to a twelve-pounder when a mortar hit it. Burned by exploding gunpowder, scarred by molten metal, and with the addition of a load of shrapnel in his right leg, it had been nearly a year before he could be moved.

Matthew had continued to fight, struggling to heal at home, but heartbreakingly, had lost his leg last year.

‘I dare say cadavers have looked better than I did when last I saw you.’ Matthew laughed. ‘But I feel a damned sight better, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘And glad I am to hear it.’

‘What’s that I heard about the Jockey Club? Hoping to wiggle your way in?’

‘Hoping to earn my way in,’ Stephen corrected. Matthew already knew about Fincote. He took a minute to explain his hopes regarding Pratchett. ‘Ryeton’s champion is my best hope for a spectacular launch, but barring that sort of instant notoriety and success, membership in the Jockey Club is the next best way for me to establish Fincote as a racecourse of repute.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a significantly longer path, though.’

Matthew grinned. ‘You’re young yet, Manning.’

‘Were it only me I had to worry about, I’d have the patience of Job.’ Stephen had to work to hide his anxiety from his friend. ‘I know I wrote to you about the conditions I found at Fincote.’

But he hadn’t, really. Even if he’d been so inclined, there had been no way to put down on paper what he’d discovered or how it had made him feel. Why hadn’t he checked in on the estate when he’d first inherited it? He knew why, but still he’d cursed himself a thousand times for allowing Fincote’s people to become as helpless and hopeless as his mother had been.

‘I convinced them to go along with my plans,’ he continued. ‘They deserve to finally see some returns for their labours.’ He sighed. And then he returned Matthew’s grin as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. ‘But enough about me. This is a night for unexpected comings and goings.’

He glanced across the ballroom. Mae stood slim and tall in the corner, a bright candle amidst a crowd of sober-clad gentlemen. Let her shine her light on them—as long as she didn’t start aiming it at him again.

He glanced about. ‘But never tell me you’ve come alone? After the difficult time your mother has experienced, I would have thought she’d enjoy a spot of society.’

Matthew frowned. ‘You would think so, but she hasn’t thrown off her mourning yet.’

‘Not yet? But surely it’s been … yes, well over a year since your father passed on.’

‘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.’