Fortunate Wager (Newmarket Regency Book 3)

by Jan Jones

  FORTUNATE WAGER

  by

  Jan Jones

  Secrets and sabotage on the Regency racecourse

  ~ A Newmarket Regency ~

  Fortunate Wager was shortlisted for the RNA Love Story of the Year in 2011

  Fortunate Wager copyright © 2009, 2016 by Jan Jones

  Kindle Edition

  Jan Jones has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the author at the address below.

  This is a work of fiction. All names and characters spring entirely from the author’s own imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design and formatting www.jdsmith design.com

  All enquiries to jan@jan-jones.co.uk

  Fortunate Wager was first published by Robert Hale Ltd in 2009

  FORTUNATE WAGER

  is dedicated to the Romantic Novelists’ Association for their love and support and to my Friends and Writers group ditto

  CHAPTER ONE

  Newmarket. April 1817

  Caroline was reading in the window seat when Scroope opened the door to the sitting-room. She hastily arranged the first volume of Emma underneath The Racing Calendar and looked up enquiringly.

  “Lord Alexander Rothwell,” announced Scroope.

  An immaculately dressed gentleman strode into the room. He glanced around. “You appear afflicted with deafness,” he said to the butler. “I asked for Mr Harry Fortune, not one of the young ladies. Or is this a ploy on behalf of your mistress to ensure that all marriageable men in the vicinity are introduced to her daughters whether they will it or not?”

  Scroope turned brick-red with outrage. Caroline bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing. She had seen Lord Rothwell from afar during the tedious half-season she had done last year before her godmother fell ill and she had left London to nurse her. Now she confirmed her impression that the second son of the Duke of Abervale was tall and well-made, had dark brown hair with a meticulous fall of curls across the left side of his brow, and eyes of light hazel. A personable figure and a very tidy estate. No wonder he had been so sought after. The only slight flaw was that his face held an impatience suggesting he was often bored witless by other people’s stupidity. Caroline knew how he felt.

  “I was under the impression,” said Scroope, his jowls quivering accusingly as he looked at Caroline, “that Mr Fortune was in here. Along with Miss Taylor.”

  Caroline assumed her most guileless smile. “Certainly he was, but poor Louisa came over unwell, so Harry felt obliged to see her safely home.”

  The butler stiffened. “I was not aware of any such occurrence.”

  “No?” said Caroline, even more innocently. “It must have been while you were absent from the hall.”

  “Fascinating though these domestic details are, they do not get us any closer to your brother’s present whereabouts,” snapped Lord Rothwell. “He is not at his Penfold Lodge stables where I was expecting to transact a matter of business with him, neither is he here. At what hour do you expect him?”

  “Oh, I never expect Harry,” said Caroline. “It makes it all the nicer when he does appear. I daresay the alarm over my friend’s indisposition caused his appointment with you to slip his mind. May I ask him to wait on you?”

  Her visitor’s eyes grew sardonic. “That will not be necessary. If he hasn’t the courtesy to be at Penfold Lodge himself, I shall simply take my horse regardless of his groom’s pettifogging objections. Perhaps you would tell him so when you have the happiness to see him next.” He turned to leave.

  A quick alarm jumped in Caroline’s breast. “Has there not been some mistake? We do not... That is, my brother does not train any of your lordship’s horses.”

  Lord Rothwell’s well-shaped eyebrows rose. He put up his quizzing glass and surveyed her from top to toe. Caroline returned the look in defiance of the edict that advised young ladies to be modest at all times. She knew well enough what he was seeing: brown hair that refused to curl, regular features with nothing to lift them out of the ordinary, an ill-fitting gown in blue-spotted muslin, slightly scuffed indoor slippers. In other words a plain young woman, indifferently dressed, too unfinished for society’s taste and not rich enough to be worth cultivating. “You are conversant with all the inhabitants of your brother’s stable?” he said sarcastically.

  “Yes.” She caught the flicker of surprise in his face and schooled herself not to show any satisfaction at having bested him. “Harry runs Penfold Lodge for our cousin, you see, and since he has never been much of a hand at letter writing...”

  “The reports fall to you. As do making his excuses whenever they are called for.” Lord Alexander Rothwell’s disapproval was etched into his countenance. “I should have thought you too young.”

  “People generally do,” agreed Caroline.

  He held her eyes a moment longer, then shrugged. “I won a horse from your brother last night. His groom is adamant that it cannot be released to me without Mr Fortune being present to confirm the transaction.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” But despite her light tone, Caroline’s stomach dropped away. That was why Harry had slithered off this morning. And to think she had been sorry for him and Louisa having to snatch these stolen moments where they could. She had even helped them slip away while Scroope was engaged elsewhere. Sometimes her brother really was the very edge of enough.

  Concentrate, Caroline. Which horse had Harry lost in this wretched bet? They couldn’t afford to give away any of them. Out of habit, she gave a tight smile and disguised her anxiety with the superficial chatter she had developed to distract Mama from the fact that she wasn’t doing whatever it was she had been asked to do. “Come now, my lord, I am sure if the case were reversed, you would tell your own men to act in exactly the same manner.”

  “I, Miss Fortune, would have left instructions to...” Lord Rothwell broke off as he registered the unfortunate juxtaposition of syllables in her name. “Dear me. Now I understand why your older sister was so precipitous in accepting that wet fish Mitton’s offer of marriage. At the time I assumed it was to escape your mother’s relentless thrusting of her into the bosom of society at every opportunity.”

  Caroline gasped. He really was astoundingly rude. “Mr Mitton has many good qualities,” she said, standing up. “He and Honoria are exceedingly happy together. If you will excuse me while I change my shoes, I shall accompany you to Penfold Lodge to resolve this muddle.”

  “You?” He looked unflatteringly sceptical.

  She drew an exasperated breath, not caring whether he heard it. He was the most uncivil man she had ever met, she was furious with Harry for having staked one of their horses in a wager when he had promised faithfully that he would never do such a thing again, and just at this moment she wanted nothing more than to be rid of the pair of them. “It seems the most expedient solution, don’t you think? Especially in view of the fact that the first sweepstake is due to start in little over an hour and you will doubtless wish to attend it.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue (or ask how she came to be conversant with the times of the races on Newmarket Heath), but swept past him and ran up the stairs to her chamber.


  Within a very few minutes she was ready. So, alas, was Scroope. He barred the doorway, righteousness incarnate. “Do I understand, miss, that you are proposing to walk through the streets with a gentleman unrelated to you without even a maid?”

  Caroline sighed. Scroope was a new addition to the household. New and extremely tiresome. “It is but a step to Penfold Lodge. And if you can find a maid in this house prepared to set so much as a toe out of doors when Newmarket is populated by the racing fraternity, I will gladly take her.”

  The butler’s jowls quivered. “Mrs Fortune would never forgive me if I allowed you to go out in such an improper fashion.”

  “Nonsense. Whatever your feelings on this head, Mama’s maternal anxieties will be completely allayed when she hears Lord Rothwell escorts me.”

  The gentleman in question instantly swung around from where he had been adjusting the tilt of his high-crowned hat in the mirror. “Good God, you are right. How considerate of you to alert me to the danger.” He clicked his fingers at the young footman standing glassily to attention at the foot of the stairs. “You. Is your presence by that newel post vital for the next fifteen minutes?”

  “No, sir,” said the footman, flustered. “That is...”

  “Then you may follow us to Penfold Lodge and prevent either of us from compromising the other on the way.”

  Caroline knew she should be mortified by Lord Rothwell’s accurate reading of Mama’s character, but was having difficulty not laughing at the incensed look on the butler’s face. “I shall call on Mrs Penfold whilst I am there, Scroope. One of the Lodge servants will escort me back.”

  They traversed the short distance rapidly, his lordship evidently not considering it necessary to modify his normal pace simply because a female walked alongside him. “Are you always so rude?” asked Caroline.

  “I find it separates the wheat amongst my acquaintance from the chaff. Are you always so direct?”

  “Indeed no. Young ladies with no accomplishments, small portions and average looks cannot afford to be.”

  He glanced at her, surprised again. “And yet you are to me. May I ask why?”

  “Because I have no accomplishments, a small portion and average looks, of course. The ‘my lords’ of this land are rarely interested in commoners, however much Mama may wish otherwise, and so it is better to be businesslike, is it not?”

  “It is unfortunate your brother is not of the same mind,” said Lord Rothwell. “You would then have been spared a walk.”

  “Think nothing of it. I like to walk and would not have been able to otherwise, without a maid to accompany me. So you see, Harry has done me a favour with his forgetfulness.”

  Caroline spoke unconcernedly, but she was increasingly certain that her wretched brother had forgotten Lord Rothwell on purpose. Dearly as she loved Harry, she cherished few illusions about him and knew he was apt to be unrealistically optimistic when in his cups. Last night’s was not the first disastrous wager he had made. Every time, he swore he would not do it again.

  At Penfold Lodge, there was a surface calm which did not deceive Caroline for one moment. Her quick eyes noted a closed door on a stall that had been empty that morning, two strangers whom she assumed were Lord Rothwell’s grooms, and all their own men, even those who should by now be taking their break, standing in attitudes of unconvincing idleness in the yard. “Good morning, Flood,” she said. “I understand there has been a little trouble.”

  The head groom’s stolid, weatherbeaten face relaxed. He jerked a thumb at one of the men in front of the closed stall. “The trouble, Miss Caro, is that this here nasty, cheese-faced runt said he had orders to take away Rufus. So I said I didn’t have no orders to let him. So then his lordship turns up, but with no sign of Mr Harry nor no note or letter neither. So that’s where we stand.”

  Caroline’s hand flew to her breast in alarm. “Rufus? What exactly were the terms of your bet with my brother, my lord?”

  Rothwell spoke impatiently. “I wagered my bay hunter against his chestnut stallion that I would throw sevens before he did.”

  Dice! The part of Caroline that wasn’t panicking was furious. Harry hadn’t even bet at cards where he had some skill, but at dice which everybody knew was purely luck. “Then I am afraid I see the problem only too well,” she said, keeping her voice composed. No wonder her brother had escaped with Louisa, leaving her to sort this out. She was venturing onto very shaky ground here. The only thing she could think of was to trust to his lordship’s sense of honour. “I regret to inform you, sir, that you have been misinformed. Rufus does not belong to Harry, and so was not his to bet. Rufus is mine.”

  Lord Rothwell looked bored. “Naturally he is. Has been since last week, I daresay, and the ink barely dry on the transfer papers. I confess I am disappointed. I expected a better ploy.”

  Anger flickered in Caroline. “I assure you it is true. Lady Penfold left him to me in her will last year. She was my godmother. If you care to ask at the Jockey Club, they will tell you he has been entered under my assumed name of ‘Mr Lodge’ for the past three meetings.”

  “S’right, my lord. That’s what I tried to tell this thieving cat’s-paw of yours, only he’s seemingly got dung in his ears and couldn’t hear me,” said Flood. “Mr Harry don’t own a chestnut stallion at all.”

  “Then what the devil was he doing accepting the wager?”

  “I might ask what you were doing proposing it when he was evidently in his cups,” countered Caroline.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Caroline gave him back stare for frosty stare. “It stands to reason that he must have been, my lord.”

  For a moment they locked wills. Caroline could feel the flags flying in her cheeks but she was determined not to give way. A scandal such as this, touching on Harry’s honour, could ruin him completely.

  “Is it common knowledge?” Lord Rothwell snapped at last.

  Relief thundered in her veins. “That I own Rufus? I believe so. Certainly amongst the regular race-goers.”

  “Your magpie here knew for sure,” put in Flood. “Seen him making enquiries last October. Course, he weren’t working for you then.”

  Lord Rothwell’s eyes swivelled to his groom. “Is this true, Jessop?”

  “No, sir,” said the undersized man virtuously. “I’d have telled you if it was.” He shot a malevolent look at Flood.

  Caroline found his lordship’s gaze on her again and read fury, chagrin and exasperation in it. Now she had made her point, she could almost feel sorry for him. He would be roasted unmercifully once his friends discovered he’d been gulled. Stop that, Caroline. Stay on the attack. “Perhaps you would like to inspect the rest of our stock?” she invited. “To prove that the only chestnuts on the premises belong to other people?”

  His lips thinned. “I believe I would.”

  “Not him,” said Flood, jerking a thumb at Jessop again. “I’m not having the likes of him loose in my stables.”

  “Back to the White Hart, Jessop,” said Lord Rothwell. “Saddle my riding horse. I shall not be long.”

  The groom sent another vicious look at Flood and hurried away. The second lad gulped and followed.

  “You allow your groom extraordinary licence,” observed Lord Rothwell.

  “Flood has been at Penfold Lodge these thirty years. I would not dream of questioning his judgement when it comes to stable matters.” Caroline halted at the first paddock where the foals frolicked up to the rail, expecting treats. She was surprised to see a softening of her companion’s features as he watched their antics. Perhaps the man was not wholly inhuman after all. They continued on past the two-year-olds (“The chestnut filly and the bay colt are ours, the other two belong to my cousin”) to the last field where the older horses grazed. Rufus ambled over, blowing gustily down the front of her pelisse.

  Lord Rothwell compressed his lips. “You have made your point. He is evidently your horse.”

  “Only since Lady Penfold died,” said Ca
roline, feeling she could now afford to be generous. “But I helped her grandson birth him and then I cared for him when Bertrand was sent overseas with his regiment, so we have always had a special bond.”

  “Helped birth him? But this horse must be five or six years old. You were surely very young to be playing midwife?”

  “Thirteen. I daresay I was a great pest. Bertrand was killed in the Peninsular, which is why Penfold Lodge passed to Lady Penfold’s great-nephew.” She took a shaky breath and turned her face away, berating herself for not yet having conquered her sense of loss, gave the stallion a last rub along his neck and headed back towards the stables.

  “Your cousin.”

  “His wife is our cousin, yes, which gives us kinship.”

  “And these horses are all you have?”

  Caroline forced herself to sound businesslike. “Apart from two mares running today, yes. Our facilities are excellent - Lady Penfold was something of a stickler where her horses were concerned - but we do not have much room at the Lodge, and thought it sensible to stay small for the first few years. Harry is a good trainer, especially of young horses, but it is awkward enough having him in direct competition with the Fortune string without leasing more land and giving Papa even more excuse to accuse him of overreaching himself.”

  Lord Rothwell gave a short laugh. “Sense is not an attribute I would have awarded to your brother after last night’s exhibition.”

  “It was very bad of him to mislead you by omission. I daresay it never crossed his mind that he might lose.” Please, she thought, please let him be magnanimous.

  There was a heavy silence. “I am prepared to forget the matter.”

  Swift relief coursed through her.

  “Provided, of course, Fortune keeps to the second half of the bet.”

  Caroline perceived she had celebrated too soon. Her heart sank into her boots. “There was a second part?”

  “Why yes, that he could take any horse in my stables and turn it into a race winner by the last day of the Second Spring meeting.” Lord Rothwell looked at her blandly. “He was most insistent it could be done.”