by Lucy Adams
The Duke’s Secret Wager
London Season Matchmaker Book Four
Lucy Adams
© Copyright 2019 by Lucy Adams - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document by either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited, and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
This is a work of fiction, and though I do strive to be historically accurate, you may find some historical discrepancy along the way. I am growing as an author and learning as I go along. Please forgive me for that and enjoy the story.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Want to read the prologue in its entirety?
Also by Lucy Adams
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter One
“Dash it all!”
Matthew, Duke of Blackwell, strode hurriedly across the grass towards the stalls, praying that his horse was fully prepared and readied for his jockey. He had not had any intention of being so late this afternoon, but last evening, he had drunk a little too much and had, somehow, managed to find himself in a rather disreputable establishment along with some of his acquaintances. It had been an excellent evening, but unfortunately for Matthew, the liquor had taken its toll and he had fallen into a sound sleep that had been difficult to rouse from. Waking to discover that, not only was he in the same clothes as last evening, but also that he was not even in his own townhouse had been something of an embarrassment and had brought Matthew a good deal of frustration, given that he had meant to be at the racecourse rather early to ensure that his newest mount, Beauchamp, was ready and prepared. Of course, he had not had any other choice but to return to his lodgings to wash and change his clothes, which had made him very late when it came to returning to the course.
“I must apologize,” he said, walking into the stall and expecting to see his jockey, Nathanial Rigby, standing next to Beauchamp, but—much to his surprise—he saw a small, thin young man running a brush down Beauchamp’s side. “I say!” Matthew exclaimed, slightly concerned as to who this fellow might be and wondering if it was linked to any of his rivals who could very well be seeking to discover as much as they could about Matthew’s newest purchase. “Whatever is it that you think you are doing?”
The fellow stammered furiously, dropped the brush, and stepped away from Beauchamp’s side. “I do apologize,” he said, his voice high and therefore betraying his youthfulness. “It is only that this is such a magnificent horse that I could not help but come in to see it.”
Matthew frowned. The lad was speaking in such a refined manner that Matthew wondered where the fellow had come from. He did not appear to be of the same ilk as Nathanial Rigby and certainly Matthew had never seen the boy about before.
“When did you see my horse?” he asked, narrowing his gaze just a little as he walked nearer to Beauchamp, suddenly afraid that the lad had done something to his horse that would hinder it in the race. “He has not been in a race before so I cannot—”
“Forgive me, my lord,” the boy interrupted, doing some sort of awkward bow, which seemed to involve him bending his knees as well as leaning his head forward. “The truth is, I have been seeking out a position as a jockey, and in wandering through the stalls, I thought to ask if you had someone already in place for such a thing.”
Matthew wanted to laugh aloud but restrained himself before he could do so, seeing the boy’s eagerness but wanting to tell him that no gentleman of worth would ever accept someone as their jockey simply because they wished to be so. “I see,” he said, unable to prevent a smile from spreading across his mouth. “But have you any experience, boy? Are you well known amongst the gentlemen present? Have you been to Tattersall and tried to speak to gentlemen there?”
Much to his surprise, the young boy blushed furiously, making a small stab of guilt launch itself into Matthew’s heart. The boy clearly knew that Matthew was being a little sarcastic in his questions and did not quite know how to respond. Thrusting the guilt aside and telling himself that he had no need to worry over the lad’s welfare, given that he was a mere stranger who had simply walked into Matthew’s stall without so much as a “by your leave”—Matthew cleared his throat and pinned the boy with a stern gaze. He would have to learn that, if he wished to be a jockey, then there were ways to go about such things.
“I am not well known,” the boy replied, his voice hoarse. “I have no particular understanding as to what I am to do nor where I am to go if I wish to be a jockey, my lord.”
“I believe you mean, ‘Your Grace,’” Matthew corrected, seeing how the boy’s head shot up, his eyes flaring wide, before dropping his head again. “I am a duke after all, and this is my horse.” He frowned, seeing how Beauchamp seemed to have taken to the lad, for he was busy snuffling at the boy’s pockets. “Although Beauchamp does seem to like you, I will admit.”
The boy nodded but still did not look at Matthew, one hand reaching up to stroke Beauchamp’s velvety nose. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he murmured, his face a little flushed with embarrassment. Matthew felt his anger begin to fade away, realizing that the boy had not meant any harm by coming to see Beauchamp. He was clearly just lost in his own dream of being a jockey and had not come to harm Beauchamp in any way. He studied the boy, seeing how small and light he appeared to be, with a thin frame and a delicate face. The boy clearly had not yet met with adulthood, but that would soon come upon him.
He would make an excellent jockey if he could ride.
Matthew flung the idea far from him at once. He already had a jockey, he thought, reminding himself that he had Nathanial Rigby, who had won the previous week’s race…albeit on a different horse.
“I would ensure this fellow won every single race he entered,” the boy said, surprising Matthew with the confidence that filled every word. “He needs a gentle hand, I think. He should not be tugged this way and that, nor hit with the crop. Instead, he should be allowed to ride with all speed and determination that he has within him.” The boy looked back at Matthew, one eyebrow lifted slightly. “Can your jockey do that?”
“I am certain that he will,” Matthew responded, surprised that the boy seemed to know so much about this horse after only such a short time and certainly having never seen him raced before. He frowned, thinking of how little time his jockey spent with his horses, for Nathanial Rigby had a good deal of confidence in his own ability and had eschewed any suggestion that he might want to spend some time with the mount he was to ride in whatever race was to follow.
“Tell me,” Matthew said with a small smile that told the boy he was merely being polite. “How many races have you won?”
The boy’s green eyes darted away, back to Beauchamp, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. “I have never formally raced,” he began, spreading his hands. “I have so often been refused due to my supposed youth and inexperience, but that is the failing of them, not of my own. If they gave me the opportunity t
o prove to them that I can ride even more proficiently than their own jockeys, then they would see that I could do precisely what I state.”
“I see,” Matthew replied with a wry smile. “I must apologize then, that I too must do as others have done before me and refuse to accept you as one of my jockeys.” He stepped to one side and gestured to the door. “If you would, please.”
The boy sighed audibly, ran one hand down Beauchamp’s side and then rubbed his velvety nose one last time. Then, he made his way towards the door, muttering something under his breath as he passed Matthew.
“I thank you for your willingness to listen to me at the very least,” the lad said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he began to walk away. “Good day, Your Grace.”
“You speak very well for a hopeful jockey,” Matthew commented, seeing the boy turn around, surprise etched in his expression along with what Matthew believed to be a flicker of guilt. A suspicion began to rise in his mind as he took a couple of steps closer. “Tell me, what is your name? And where do you hail from? I ask only so that I can seek you out should I decide to give you the opportunity to prove yourself.”
The boy opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I come from a family that does not approve of my desire to ride,” he said eventually, confirming Matthew’s suspicions all the more. “That is why I speak well, as you have noticed.”
“And why you have not had, as yet, any particular experience,” Matthew added, seeing the boy’s jerky nod. So, the boy was from a refined family, most likely, which meant that he did not have the support of his father in seeking to be a jockey for the races. It also explained his excellent speech and manner. “So, what is your name, if you please?”
The boy turned his face away, his cheeks a little flushed. “Christopher,” he replied with a lift of one shoulder. “Christopher Leighton.”
“Leighton,” Matthew murmured, again thinking that this was an excellent name and probably came from an excellent family. “Then I wish you the very best, Leighton, in seeking to pursue what you love.” He shrugged. “If there was a way to permit you to prove yourself to me as regards riding, then I should be glad to offer it to you, but as I have said, I already have a jockey who has won races for me before.”
The boy nodded, appearing quite miserable, for his gaze remained downcast. “I quite understand, Your Grace,” he responded, inclining his head. “If you will excuse me.”
With that, he turned around and left Matthew and Beauchamp, his shoulders slumped and his steps heavy. Matthew could not help but chuckle, wondering just how long it would be before the boy was hauled into line by his father or his mother and told in no uncertain terms that he was to do as he was told without question. If his father was titled, then the boy would have to learn that a good many things came from having a place in high society. Most likely, he would forget about this desire to be a jockey and would fall into line, just as so many gentlemen had been required to do before.
Turning around, Matthew made his way back to the stall and discovered that his jockey was, finally, waiting for him inside. He showed no interest in Beauchamp, however, for he did not even go over to the horse but rather merely glanced at the stallion with apparent disinterest.
“Ah, Rigby,” Matthew said at once, gesturing towards Beauchamp. “This is my latest purchase. I believe I am the envy of a good many gentlemen.” He chuckled at this, recalling how there had been many disgruntled fellows at Tattersall when he had been the one to secure Beauchamp. “He is an excellent horse by all accounts, and when his racing comes to an end, I intend to put him out to stud.”
Rigby sighed and nodded, his eyes a little weary as he threw another glance up towards the horse.
“Do you think you will be able to win this race?” Matthew asked, trying not to be irritated by the jockey’s manner. “The Gold Cup is in a month’s time, and you know very well the prestige that comes with winning such a race.”
“Yes, I do,” Rigby replied with an air of dissatisfaction. “But if you want me to race for you, then I want a bit more coin.” He continued on as Matthew’s brows lowered. “I’ve won a good few races for you so far this year, and I don’t make as much as some of the other jockeys. And you being a duke and all…” He trailed off, arching one brow as though Matthew ought to understand precisely what was being said and what Rigby was asking for. Irritated, Matthew realized just how rude the fellow was being, particularly when he spoke to Matthew without correct deference nor any outward sign of respect.
“If you win this race, then we can consider your request,” Matthew replied tightly, feeling a faint trace of anger climb up into his heart. “As I have said, Beauchamp is an excellent stallion and should, as far as I am concerned, be able to win the race this afternoon.”
Rigby shrugged, sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the stall. “If you say so, Your Grace.”
A trifle irritated and wondering if Rigby was becoming much too arrogant, Matthew gritted his teeth and tried hard to consider what he should say next that might make Nathanial Rigby realize just how much was at stake. Just because the man had won a few races did not mean that he was indispensable. After all, he had not won every race and certainly did not show a good deal of consideration for the fact that this was precisely what Matthew wanted the most. There was a good deal of prestige that came with winning the Gold Cup race that would be run in a few weeks’ time, and despite the fact he was a duke and therefore garnered respect from others simply by having such a title, Matthew wanted a little more. He wanted his horseflesh to be known throughout England as the very best of stock. He wanted the ton to know that he had won the Gold Cup and that, in doing so, had proven himself to be an excellent judge of both creature and jockey. There was a pride about it that Matthew wanted for himself. At times, he had wondered if it was solely because he wished for the ton to see him as a gentleman in his own right, not merely as a duke who had no discernable characteristics of his own. It was, Matthew considered, not something he could easily explain, but it was there, within him, nonetheless.
“I must make myself clear, Rigby,” he said, with a firmness that seemed to catch the jockey’s attention in a way he had not done before. “This horse cost me a very great deal. I did not rush into this purchase hastily but rather did a good deal of research as to the history of the creature as well as the parentage. By all accounts, Beauchamp should win most races. Therefore, if he does not, I must question whether it is the horse or the jockey that has failed me.”
Much to his surprise, instead of looking concerned or nodding in acknowledgement, Rigby’s brows drew down low over his eyes and his arms folded across his chest. Anger flared in the man’s eyes, his jaw set and his chest working furiously.
“Are you suggesting that I am not a good jockey, Your Grace?” the man asked, sharply. “Or is it that you think this horse is too much for me to manage?”
“Neither,” Matthew replied, finding the man’s attitude to be a little less than pleasant. “Merely that I find you a little arrogant of late. You believe you will win this race having not shown any interest in Beauchamp. You have not asked to saddle him up so that you might take a turn about the grounds to familiarize yourself with him, nor have you asked me about his temperament.” Recalling what the young lad had said, Matthew gestured towards the horse. “Have you considered that your usual method of crop and a tight hold on the reins might not work well for this particular horse?”
Rigby snorted, as though Matthew were being ridiculous. “All horses react to such handling,” he said, rolling his eyes and showing such disrespect that Matthew felt his anger begin to boil within him. “I shall do just as I have always done and the horse will come in first place. There’s no need for you to doubt me.”
“Oh, but I do,” Matthew retorted angrily. “As I have said, Rigby, if you do not achieve within the first three places, then I must consider your position here. Your arrogance has begun to cloud your judgement, your self-assurance bringing you ever
closer to a fall. Be careful, Rigby. All may not be well.”
Swinging about, Matthew strode from the stall and tried to keep a hold on his anger. His jockey had done him very well in these last few races, but the man’s attitude was becoming greatly displeasing. The way he spoke to Matthew was, in itself, an impertinence, but it was as though Rigby knew that Matthew did not have another jockey on hand who could take his place. Lifting his chin and letting the cool air brush away his hot cheeks, Matthew walked aimlessly, trying to keep a hold of his temper. He had meant every word he had said to Rigby, for if Beauchamp did not do well, then he had no doubt that it would be Rigby at fault.
All he had to do was wait for the race to come to an end, and Rigby’s fate would be sealed. For some reason, Matthew was already beginning to think that Beauchamp would not respond well to Rigby and that, therefore, the race would not be successful. Mayhap he was wrong, but for whatever reason, he suspected that the young boy Christopher had a better insight into the type of horse Beauchamp was that Nathanial Rigby.
Muttering darkly to himself, Matthew made his way to the end of the racecourse, allowing the time and the effort it took to walk along the path to cool his anger at Rigby’s demeanor. Mayhap everything would be quite all right. Mayhap the horse would run well and Rigby would manage to win, just as he had done before.
That hope faded the moment Matthew saw the horses begin to charge towards the finishing line. Beauchamp was not running well, his head held back a little too tightly, his stride shortened by the obvious discomfort that the horse was in. Rigby was not giving Beauchamp his head, trying to fight for control instead of riding with the horse. Matthew shook his head, seeing not one but three horses cross the finishing line before Beauchamp did, coming in fourth with another horse. Matthew could tell from the look on Rigby’s face that he was both angry with the horse and fearful that Matthew was about to bring their partnership to an end.
