Elizabeth Mansfield (19 page)

Monk shrugged. "I'd prefer that they be seated inside, to prevent unnecessary distractions."

"Yes, that's acceptable," Luke said. "And we draw cards to see who is first to choose his team, is that agreed?"

"Of course," Monk said. "Shall we shake hands?"

"In one moment," Luke said, rising. "First I'd like to talk to Taffy again."

The two men walked outside. Taffy guessed what Luke was going to say. "It's the changing of the horses at the posting stage, isn't it?" he asked worriedly. "That's the ace."

"Yes, I think so. It's a good ploy. In the hurry to change the horses, how could I possibly notice if one of the four was a flat-sided screw?"

"Even if a horse looks fine and has an elegant shuffle, he might very well be tied in below the knee when running," Taffy muttered.

Luke paced about the yard, considering the situation. After a moment his expression brightened. "Look, Taffy, perhaps we can outsmart them in this," he said. If you rent a decent hack, you can make it to the Bull's Head in better time than we. You can look over the second teams and make certain we're not being tricked."

Taffy nodded eagerly. "Good idea, by jove!" he cried. "If I discover a deplorable slug, I'll make the ostlers put in another." He slapped Luke on the shoulder. "I'll be on my way at once and ride like the devil. Good luck!"

Luke returned to the taproom and the two contestants shook hands. While the ostlers loaded the passengers and baggage, Luke and Monk drew cards for first choice. Luke won. They went to the stables, and Luke looked over the two four-horse teams carefully. There was not much difference between them that he could see—the horses were all tired and overworked. Since neither team seemed more promising than the other, he chose the team whose left leader nuzzled his shoulder. It was as good a reason to choose as any other.

They were now ready to go.

The two coaches started out evenly. The passengers, hanging out the windows, shouted encouragement every time he drew out ahead. The passengers in the other coach did likewise. Luke, up on the box, tried to block out their shouts. He was not happy with this match. It was not pleasant driving these tired horses, and the coach itself was clumsy and lacking in spring. He was not accustomed to driving so sluggish a vehicle. His experiences driving coaches-and-four at the Four-in-Hand Club had not prepared him for this. This stage was so heavy it seemed to drag at the rear.

The road was wide enough for the two carriages to move along side-by-side, but at one point Monk edged his coach into the center, forcing Luke's front right wheel off the road into a muddy gully. For a moment Luke feared he'd be stuck. Monk pulled ahead. Monk's passengers, aware of his unsportsmanlike nick, for once did not cheer.

Gently, Luke coaxed his horses to dance to the left, rocking the coach, and the wheel came free. Realizing that Monk might use that base maneuver again, he picked up speed until he managed to pass Monk's coach. Then keeping his team to the center, he did not permit Monk to pass him again.

They were making remarkably good time. A fast stagecoach could make twelve miles an hour, but Luke, glancing at his pocket-watch at the half-way point, anticipated reaching the posting stage in under forty minutes. Luke arrived there only a few seconds ahead of his opponent. The ostlers came running. Two groups of boys untied the first teams and two others quickly harnessed the second. Luke sighed with relief as he caught sight of Taffy. Monk, who was using the pause to take a quick swig of ale, looked surprised to see Taffy there, but he showed no sign of alarm. Luke interpreted Monk's untroubled expression to mean he'd not done anything tricky with the new teams. He now could easily anticipate what Taffy was going to tell him. "I know," he said when he saw Taffy's discouraged face, "they're
all
slugs. This
wasn't
the ace."

"There must be something else, then, Luke," Taffy muttered, casting a look of loathing at the complacent Monk. "Keep your eyes open."

"Don't worry, I will. Hurry on back to the White Hart. I may need you at the finish."

Having come in first, Luke started the return run first. He tried to keep ahead, but Monk managed to catch up. They rode neck-and-neck for several miles, Luke keeping a wary eye out for Monk to swing into him, but Monk made no effort to do so. This convinced Luke, if he needed more convincing, that Monk had something else up his sleeve. He studied Monk's carriage as it lumbered along beside his. It seemed to him that the other coach had a bit more spring than his, but it was certainly far from what one could call well-sprung and would probably not make much difference to the outcome. The condition of the coach, he decided finally, was probably not the ace either.

When Islington came in sight, and Luke was preparing to spur the horses to the final sprint, Monk's carriage made a sudden lurch to the center of the road. To avoid a collision, Luke had to give ground. With Monk ahead and keeping to the center, there was no hope for Luke to win unless he could pass. And he could only pass by going slightly over the edge of the road. If he could find a dry patch, where the wheels would not be obstructed by mud, he might manage it.

Maneuvering to the side, he watched for his opportunity. At the first dry-looking stretch, he whipped the horses to their greatest speed and circled the obstructing carriage. For a moment it seemed that he would make it. As his carriage trundled past the other, his passengers sent up a triumphant shout. But just as he was turning back onto the road, to his surprise, the right rear wheel sank into the dirt and stuck. The carriage rocked alarmingly to a stop, the horses reared up, and Monk's coach wheeled by. It was only moments to the finish line. The race was lost.

Luke tried to rock the wheel loose as he'd done earlier, but it was stuck fast. Since the race was obviously over, the passengers climbed down to offer help. It took several minutes of back-breaking effort—all the passengers pushing and the horses pulling—to get it free. When they eventually limped into the courtyard, Monk, Poole and Taffy were waiting. "Good race, old man," Monk said with ill-concealed triumph. "And don't worry about the blunt. You can pay me whenever it's convenient."

Monk and his cohort turned and strolled cheerfully toward the inn, shouting an invitation to the passengers of both coaches to the taproom for a drink on the winner. "It's a bloody shame," Luke heard one of his passengers mutter to another. "That chap whut won didn' play fair."

The remark did little to lift Luke's spirits. As the ostlers led the horses to the stable, Luke stood staring at the carriage that had cost him a fortune in money and pride. Monk had bested him, and there had been no ace to help him do it... at least no ace that Luke could discover. He'd apparently won by his own skill. The maneuver to run him off the road was a scurvy act, but not illegal. Thus there was no one Luke could blame for his loss but himself.

Taffy stood beside him but, sensing how Luke must be feeling, wisely remained silent. The setting sun threw long shadows across the yard, providing an all-too-appropriate aura of funereal gloom.

At last Luke recovered his equilibrium enough to describe to Taffy what had happened. "I don't want to seem to be avoiding responsibility for losing this damned match," he said when he'd finished, "but I don't see how that deuced wheel sank so deeply into the ground. At the speed I was going, it should have glided over the soft spot."

Taffy walked over to the coach and examined the wheel. He could see nothing amiss. Just then a couple of ostlers appeared and began to untie the baggage. "Why are you doing that?" Taffy asked one of the boys. "Aren't the passengers going out again in a few hours?"

"This isn't their baggage," the boy said. "It's just some boxes and bundles Sir Rodney told us to load."

Taffy's eyebrows rose. "You don't say!" He threw a speaking look at his friend. "These all belong to Sir Rodney, men?"

"Don't know, sir. They was a'ready sittin' here in a pile when Sir Rodney tol' us to load 'em. Damn heavy they are, too. Took the pair of us to load each one. An' we needed more help with those two." He pointed to two lumpy bundles wrapped in burlap and stacked just above the right wheel.

Luke, eyes intently fixed on the bundles, came up and joined them. "Would you be good enough to unload those two? We'll help, if you can't manage them yourselves."

"But, m'lord," the boy said hesitantly, "I don' know if Sir Rodney'd like us to—"

"We'll take the responsibility," Taffy said, holding out a gold sovereign to each of them.

The boys' eyes popped at the sight of the yellowboys. Gold coins were a rarity for them. Without further ado they untied the two bundles that Luke had indicated. Taffy and Luke had to help them lift the bundles from the luggage platform and set them on the ground. When the task was completed, they sent the ostlers about their business and Taffy, taking out a pocketknife, cut off the ropes. The two men knelt down and stripped away the burlap wrapping. What they uncovered made them gasp. The burlap had disguised two large iron
anvils.

Luke snorted bitterly. "No wonder the wheel sank."

"It makes no difference, you know," said a voice behind them. They turned to discover Monk, watching them.

"No difference?" Taffy cried in fury. "It's a damned cheat!"

"You, Rodney Moncton," Luke said in a voice of ice, "are nothing more than a damnable blackleg."

Monk sneered. "Calling me names, Lord Kettering, does not change the outcome. I won."

"By overloading Luke's coach?" Taffy shouted. "Do you call that a
win?
I call it outright chicanery!"

"No, it isn't," Monk said smoothly. "We agreed that there would be no more than eight parcels per coach. We did not stipulate what those parcels would contain."

"Is that so?" the little fellow raged. "I'll bring the matter up before the FHC, and we'll see what they have to say. They'll drum you out!"

"There's nothing the Four-in-Hands can blame me for," Monk said with a smug smile. "We laid out the terms, and you agreed to them. It's all quite legitimate."

"Legitimate?"
Taffy was red-faced in fury. "It's a blasted
fraud!
"

"Never mind, Taffy," Luke said quietly, taking his friend's arm. "The man's right. We agreed to the terms. Let's go home." And he pulled the resisting Taffy toward his curricle.

"Hang it, Luke," Taffy cried when they were out of Monk's hearing, "you ought to call the fellow out!"

"What? And have everyone believe I'm forcing a duel to wriggle out of paying my debt?"

"Who cares what everyone believes? The muckworm deserves a bullet in his chest. Or, better yet, to be run through. You know you can best him with either the pistol or the foils."

Luke gave a small, ironic laugh. "He'd probably find a way to cheat me even then." He shook his head morosely. "It can't be done, Taffy. There are no real grounds for a duel. It seems Monk's thought of everything." With a deep, discouraged sigh, he climbed up into the curricle and picked up the reins. "I have to admit it," he muttered, "the man's made a chump of me again."

TWENTY-FOUR

It was dark when he arrived home. Parks was already carrying a lighted candle when he met him at the door. If the butler was surprised at his lordship's disheveled appearance, he made no sign. "Miss Jane's asking for you to step into the library, my lord," he said. "She says there's something important she'd like to show you."

"Some other time, Parks," Luke said wearily, heading for the stairs.

"But 'twill only take a few moments, she says."

Luke did not turn round. "I said, not now," he muttered and began to climb.

But Jane had been listening for him. She came into the foyer and ran to the bottom of the stairs. "My lord, please wait. I have something to show you."

Luke turned but did not descend. "What is it?"

She took one look at his rumpled clothes, muddy boots, and tormented expression, and her chest clenched. "Has something happened to you, my lord?"

Parks, who knew that such a question was inappropriate in a member of the staff, gave her a warning cough.

But Jane did not heed it. "Something's amiss, isn't it?" she insisted.

Parks coughed again. Luke glared at both of them. "I don't see, Miss Douglas, why the question should concern you. And as for you, Parks, take yourself off."

"Yes, my lord," Parks said, and he quickly disappeared.

"Now, Miss Douglas, what is it? And be brief, woman. I'm in no condition to listen to a protracted sermon."

"It's far from a sermon, my lord," she said, stepping forward eagerly and holding out a sheet of paper. "It's a plan. A financial schedule for the rest of your probation. I've worked out a scheme by which you can pay off last night's debt, continue to live in your accustomed style, and still meet your mother's requirements at the end of the month. All you need do, you see, is borrow the amount I've indicated here and invest it short term in the funds—"

His lordship's sudden, strange snort of laughter silenced her. "You've worked out a plan, have you?" he asked mockingly.

"Yes, my lord, I have." She looked up at him with an encouraging smile. "You'll be able to pay the five hundred without having to be—what was your phrase?—a spineless jellyfish. Here, won't you come down and take a look at the details?"

"Forget it, Miss Douglas."

Her face fell. "Forget it?"

He turned and proceeded up the stairs. "It's no use, ma'am. No use at all. It's too little and too late."

"B-But, my lord," she cried, her thoat tightening, "at least take a look. I worked on it all day. It's perfect, down to the last penny! Don't you want to see—?"

But he was gone.

She stared up at the empty stairway. "It
does
have use!" she cried to the unhearing walls. "Don't you see? I did this to prove to you that you needn't change! I never wanted you to become a weak and petty pinch-penny."

The paper trembled in her hand. She sank down on the lowest step, the tears beginning once more to roll down her cheeks. She had hoped her latest effort would win a word of praise from him. "I only want to sh-show you," she said brokenly, "that I n-needn't always b-be a b-bad influence. That the last thing I'd ever wish to do would b-be to... to undermine your m-manhood!" "