“At the very least.”
Henry grinned. “I heard ye were more specific than that when you put out the warning, Master Jason.”
“Yes, a bit more. We will see if anyone is foolish enough to test me. Keep your eyes sharp, Henry.” Jason looked out now over the dozen horses coming up to the starting line, most of them bucking and rearing.
Charles Grandison’s Ganymede stamped his right front hoof over and over again. Ganymede was favored to win the race, which pleased both Hallie and Jason, as they stood to make a good deal of money with a victory, what with the four-to-one odds the bookies had set. And all because Dodger was an unknown. He’d had made his name in Baltimore, not here in England.
Ganymede, two horses down the line from Dodger, continued his stamping. Jason watched Dodger’s ears flick back and forth. It didn’t appear to make him uneasy, unlike the big gelding between Dodger and Ganymede who was rolling his eyes, his jockey trying to calm him and failing. That was it, Jason thought, the hoof-stamping was to intimidate.
Lamplighter, Lord Grimsby’s huge bay Thoroughbred, was snorting so loudly the horse beside him tried to back away.
At last, the moment of truth. Lorry sent Hallie and Jason a salute with his whip, hugged himself to Dodger’s neck, held him steady and calm, stroking his neck, speaking quietly to him, until Mr. Wesley shouted, “Go!”
Then he stretched himself out, kicked Dodger lightly in the ribs, touched his whip to Dodger’s ears. The dozen horses kicked and bucked and heaved forward. Whips slashed down, horses slammed into each other, trying to take over space, jockeys shoved and kicked out at other jockeys. The ground was dry, and dust flew thick in the air. Lorry, prepared, pulled his handkerchief up over his nose.
Dodger, as was his wont, kept his head down, all his attention on covering that track. Lorry, coached by Jason for hours, continued to hold himself low over Dodger’s neck—“eating his sweat”—and ignored the other horses.
“Keep his head down, Lorry,” Jason said over and over again. “Yes, that’s it.” He was squeezing Hallie’s hand hard. Suddenly Jason saw a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, not twenty feet away, off to his left, from the copse of oak trees beside the track. He’d seen it before at the Hinckley racetrack outside Baltimore—it was the silver of a gun stock glinting off the sun when the man brought it up to fire. Jason yelled to Henry, but he didn’t hear him, his eyes on Dodger. Jason picked up a good-sized rock, prayed, and hurled it. He didn’t hear anything over the crowd noise, in fact, none of the people standing near him even noticed what he’d done, but the gun stock suddenly disappeared.
“That was an excellent throw,” Hallie said, holding his arm tightly. “I wonder which jockey the poltroon was going to shoot?”
Horace, one of the stable lads, sixty years old, hoary and seamed and agile as a mountain goat, yelled, “Ye got ’im! I’ll see to the blighter, Master Jason!”
“Dodger’s gaining on Lamplighter,” Hallie yelled. “He’s going to get him, I know it. Lamplighter is fast, damn his eyes. Run, Dodger, run!”
Lamplighter, the big muscled bay Thoroughbred from Lord Grimsby’s stable, had taken the lead from the start.
Hallie grabbed Jason’s hand, yelling, “Dodger, come on, Dodger,” over and over again.
“It’s the fourth lap. Dodger will make his break, any second now,” Jason said, and held his breath. The field was close, the horses nearly on top of one another the track was so narrow at this point. Nothing but yelling, louder and louder, but Jason didn’t hear them. He was concentrating on Dodger and on Lorry Dale riding so low on his neck they almost looked like one. It was time. Break, Dodger, break now. It was as if Lorry snapped a spring. Dodger leapt forward—exactly like a racing cat, Tysen Sherbrooke was to tell everyone later—and in the space of three seconds there wasn’t more than three inches between him and Lamplighter. He was gaining, gaining, nearly there. Soon Dodger and Lamplighter were nose-to-nose.
Charles Grandison’s Ganymede was moving up on Dodger’s left side. Unless Dodger could get past Lamplighter, he’d be trapped between the two horses, a favorite ploy.
“You’ve got to move up, Dodger. Run.”
“He’s head to head with Lamplighter,” Jason said, “Dodger’s got to get ahead of him.” But Dodger wasn’t past Lamplighter when Ganymede’s jockey managed to pull alongside Dodger and began to press inward. Jason thought he’d never breathe again. Suddenly Mr. Blaystock’s Brutus was directly behind Dodger, sweat spuming off his neck. He looked mean and vicious and as strong as the Devil. Lord Renfrew and the young lady were yelling their heads off, her father as well, looking nearly apoplectic. Charles Grandison stood quietly, his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes on Ganymede. His lips were moving.
Jason clearly heard the girl’s father yell, “Bite him, Brutus, bite him now!”
Elgin yelled, “No, use your whip! The whip!”
Bite? What was this? The horse couldn’t get past the wedge of three, all of them so close together, keeping the rest of the pack behind them, until one of them broke to the lead, or the middle horse was squeezed out. Brutus’s jockey leaned forward, and slashed his whip on the flanks of all three horses. He nearly overbalanced when he struck Lamplighter, but held on, and kept slashing.
Lorry Dale, unlike the other two jockeys, didn’t look back, kept his head down, kept talking to Dodger. In the next moment, Lamplighter moved to his right to escape the jockey’s whip. It gave Dodger a precious second and he pulled quickly ahead of both Lamplighter and Ganymede, a half length now. Brutus came between Lamplighter and Ganymede, running hard, harder, moving ahead of them, only Dodger in his path now.
“BITE HIM, BRUTUS!”
Brutus stretched out his neck and bit Dodger on his flank.
Dodger’s ears flattened, his tail slashed in Brutus’s face, and he put his head down and ran hard.
Ganymede’s jockey kicked out at Lamplighter’s jockey, his boot connecting with his leg. If a jockey didn’t practice this, he’d go flying off his horse’s back with one good hard kick, but Lord Grimsby’s jockey held on tight. Then Ganymede’s jockey raised his whip and brought it down hard on Brutus’s rump. Brutus, enraged, ignored his jockey, kicked out his hind legs, slowing him down, but he missed Ganymede, who was now beside him, pushing forward.
Dodger, run, run, run.
Once again Lamplighter and Ganymede came up on either side of Dodger and tried to press inward again, crowding him. Lamplighter’s jockey struck his whip out at Lorry then again at Dodger. Dodger screamed and reared, and Jason watched Ganymede pull ahead. Lorry appeared rattled. Jason knew the blow from the whip must hurt. He’d taught Lorry what to do and stood there, helplessly, praying that Lorry would remember, that he’d act before Ganymede. Lorry Dale stood straight up in the saddle, kicked out his left leg and connected with Ganymede’s jockey. The jockey went flying. Ganymede veered in front of two horses and the three of them tangled to the shouts of their jockeys toward the side of the race course.
Lord Grimsby’s Lamplighter was closing again on Dodger, but the finish line was close now. Almost there, almost.
There was a popping sound.
It was a gun firing, Jason thought blankly, and watched in disbelief as Lorry grabbed his right arm. But he didn’t fall. He tucked himself closer to Dodger’s neck. To Jason’s surprise, very few of the spectators appeared to know one of the jockeys had been shot.
Jason’s hands were fisted at his sides as he watched Dodger run nose-to-nose with Lamplighter. Time slowed, seemed to stop altogether. Then Jason smiled as Dodger stretched out his powerful neck and shot forward. He sped over the finish line a full half-length in front of Lamplighter. Brutus came in third, for which there was no prize money at all.
He heard a loud curse from Lord Grimsby, a yell of fury from Mr. Blaystock, and nothing at all from Charles Grandison. Was that weeping he heard from Lord Renfrew?
CHAPTER 36
There was a moment of stunned silence. It wasn?
??t every day an unknown thoroughbred won the Beckshire race, or any other big race for that matter. Many of the spectators had lost a goodly number of groats. Then, with all the Sherbrookes leading the way, the air began to thicken with cheers, louder and louder still. Those who had taken the chance on the long odds and the unknown Dodger soon out-shouted the Sherbrookes. Jason heard his twin, could see his father’s grin splitting his face. Hallie was in his arms, hugging him, squeezing his arm, laughing, then rose to her tiptoes and kissed him hard right in front of everyone. She laughed into his mouth, kissed once, twice more.
Jason stood there watching Lorry slow Dodger. He watched him pat his neck continuously, just as Jason had taught him, holding him firm with his knees, holding his right arm, the blood oozing out between his fingers.
“Oh God, he’s been shot,” Hallie said blankly. “I didn’t see. Oh, blessed hell. Jason, who would have shot at Dodger?”
It was then that the rest of the spectators realized that Dodger’s jockey had a bullet through his arm. There was a chorus of outrage, and of curses.
Jason said, “Someone who wanted to win badly. Everyone is upset about this now, but truth be told, it won’t change anything. You know what, Hallie, I’m thinking the owner who hired the first man to shoot also hired the second. And we’ve got him. We’ll see if Henry and Quincy and our other men can find the man who shot Lorry.” Excitement pounded through him. Dodger had won and Lorry appeared to be all right.
As it turned out, the bullet had barely nicked him, but Jason knew it must hurt badly. He and Hallie stood over Lorry as the physician bound him up. After thanking the doctor, Jason and Hallie turned to find themselves surrounded by a dozen excited Sherbrookes, laughing all of them and slapping both Hallie and Jason on the back. Jason realized, as he looked into all those beloved faces, that they were all so very happy he’d won because they still saw him as the wounded man who might bolt again. Fact was, Jason thought, hugging his aunt Mary Rose close, he hadn’t thought about that horrible day for a while now, perhaps nearly a month. He looked over at Hallie, laughing with his uncle Tysen. She was enjoying herself immensely, but he saw her looking around whenever she thought she could get away with it.
She was looking for him. He was suddenly filled with warmth and a soft sort of pleasure that made his chest two inches wider. Jason turned, grinning, at a tug on his sleeve. It was Henry. “Master Jason, we’ve got the blighter over there by Dodger’s wagon. The second blighter, the one wot shot Lorry, I’m sorry to say he got away.”
“We’ll find out all we need to know from the first one, Henry.” He went over and grabbed his wife. “We have some business to attend to, Uncle Tysen. Excuse us for a moment.”
“Well, at least Henry got the first villain,” Hallie said. “I want to question this fellow myself, I want to grind him into the dirt. How could he do that? As for that other fellow—to shoot a jockey, it’s disgraceful. Jason?”
“Yes?”
“You told me that no one tried with Charles Grandison because of the consequences. Lorry kicked Ganymede’s jockey off his back.”
“I don’t think Charles is going to say anything since his jockey tried to take Lorry down first. Charles should have realized I’d teach Lorry to fight as dirty as needed.”
“If Charles does try anything, I’ll have something to say to him. Now, Jason, I want to beat Charles’s consequences.”
Jason hugged her, felt her heart against his chest. “Yes, we will. Ah good, James is bragging on Dodger like the proud papa. He’ll keep everything under control whilst we deal with this idiot.”
The idiot was young, that was Hallie’s first thought, his clothes filthy, as if he’d slept in this field for a good two days before the race. Probably searching for the best spot from which to shoot, she thought, her hand clenching at her side. He was sitting on the ground, his back against the right rear wheel of Dodger’s traveling coach. Henry stood on one side of him, Quincy and Horace on the other.
Hallie stood over him, hands on hips. “Your boots are a disgrace,” she said, and kicked his right foot.
He looked up at her, eyes widened. “Aren’t ye a purty little thing, missus, all that lovely hair on yer head, sweet breath flowing over me, each word ye speak like bells chiming beautiful music. I appreciates beauty, so the beauty should appreciate me, don’t ye think?”
“No.”
“Now yer’re saying ye don’t like me boots?” He gave her a young man’s cocky grin. “Ye want to polish ’em all up fer me?”
“No, I’m going to have your boots pulled off and you’re going to walk over a bed of nails. Hot nails. What do you think of that?”
“Ye’re a young lady, I seen ye wi’ that fella over there. Now me, missus, I could show ye some real fun iffen ye’d—”
“Are you mad, you moron? Look at that fella over there.”
He looked. “Well, meybe not,” he allowed. “I don’t knows why I’m here. These bully boys grabbed me where I was taking me nap and—”
Jason said, “What’s your name?”
“I done forgit,” he said and spat. “I demands ye lets me go. I didn’t do nuthin’, I’m just ’ere to see all the swells.”
“Nice gun you’ve got here,” Hallie said. “Are you utterly stupid? Look at how dirty you’ve let it become. I’ll bet you Mr. Blaystock gave it to you all clean and primed, and yet—”
“No, tweren’t like that a’tal. I—”
“Mr. Blaystock gave you a dirty gun? He expected you to shoot a horse or a jockey with a dirty gun?”
“No, ’e—well, stick me thumb in me nose. I don’t know wot ye’re jawin’ about. Smart mouth on yer, missus, enough to make a man scurry to ’ide ’is privates. Listen to me, little girl, I don’t know no Mr. Blaystock. Who is this fancy cove?”
“You were going to shoot at one of the horses,” Jason said. “Were you aiming at any one in particular?”
“Dunno nuthin’ about it.”
Hallie went down on her knees beside the young man and grabbed his dirty shirt collar in her hand. “You listen to me, you miserable varmint, my husband is going to send you to Botany Bay. Do you know what that is? It’s a place halfway around the world that’s filled with strange bugs who burrow inside your ear while you’re sleeping and suck the blood out of your head—if you survive your voyage there. Did you know the sun is so hot over there that you’ll explode after a while? That is, if the bugs don’t drain you first.”
The young man had clearly heard of Botany Bay, and chewed his lips frantically. “I ain’t got that much blood in me ’ead to start with. No, no, missus, ye can’t send me there, ye can’t.”
Jason snapped his fingers. “You’ll be gone by Friday.”
“Think of that sun burning through the top of your bloodless head. It will shrivel right up.”
“I thought ye said I’d explode.”
“One or the other. It depends on the bugs. Now, which horse did Mr. Blaylock want you to shoot?”
“Jest the jockey, not the racer. Ye only has the one jockey, it’d put ye right out o’ business.”
“What is your name?”
He gave Hallie a sour look, shook his head.
She said, “Botany Bay. Friday.”
“I’m William Donald Kindred, the proud fruit of me pa’s loins, now filled with gin, not seed. I ain’t niver done nuthin’ like this, but ye see, me ma is real sick, me little brother too, an’—”
“You will remain with us until I have verified that you are who you say you are, Mr. Kindred,” Jason said.
“I don’t want to go to Botany Bay! Don’t put me name on no bill of ladin’. Don’t ye send me to the bugs!”
Hallie said, “Then you’d best be a very cooperative prisoner from this moment on, don’t you think? For goodness’ sake, polish those filthy boots.”
Jason took her hand, kissed her fingers, saw she was looking at his mouth, and smiled at her. “That was well done, Hallie. An excellent questioning technique. Mr.
Blaystock, huh?”
“I saw my father do that once, worked like a charm. Hmm.” She frowned, tapped a lovely shod foot.
Jason said, “What is it? You guessed right.”
“I know him,” Hallie said finally, looking back at the man who was now standing, his hands tied behind him, Horace’s big hand around his arm. “Yes, I’m sure of it now.”
Jason waited, didn’t say a thing.
“I saw him hold Lord Grimsby’s horse once when I was in Eastbourne, in front of Mountbank’s Stable off High Street.”
“Lord Grimsby,” Jason repeated. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, Lord Grimsby had just spoken a few words to his wife, and was off to a tavern, once she was out of sight. I heard him yell something to this man. I’m sure it was our Mr. Kindred.”
“So,” Jason said, looking at the man now walking between Henry, Quincy, and Horace. “He’s not stupid, our dirty young man with his seedy-looking boots. He realized very quickly he could shift the blame onto Mr. Blaystock. He was quite smooth. Interesting.”
“Yes, it is. What are we going to do, Jason?”
Jason smiled down at her, saw her tongue slide over her bottom lip, sighed deep in his throat, kissed her hard, and stepped away from her. “What I’m going to do is try to keep my hands off you until we’re home. Er, Hallie, I meant to ask you, do you really want that chair to be at the foot of the bed?”
“You’re right. My gowns never land on the chair. I know, I’ll move the chair in front of the armoire. It faces the window and such a lovely view it is, don’t you agree?”
Jason stared down at her, fascinated and appalled.
“I’m joking, Jason. I’m joking.”
CHAPTER 37
“This one is too close.” Hallie kissed the long thin scar high on the inside of his left thigh.
“Yes, much too close,” Jason said, and tried not to think of her mouth caressing that scar he always noticed when he was bathing because it had been too close, of her palm now lying flat on his belly, fingers splayed. He was trying his best not to shudder like a palsied man. He said only, “Hallie.” Odd how whispering her name in moments like this flowed so steadily through him now, warm and strong. He said her name again because it felt so good, because her breath was warm against his flesh.