Page 35 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
“More like hobbling orders now Sidney’s had at him, I’d wager,” muttered Francis.
“Quite,” agreed Tommy.
Benedict had seen the boy a few times, a chubby lad, expertly rubbing down Cleopatra.He reminded himself to ensure Jonas spread the word to other stable masters in thetonthat he was not to be trusted.“Is he poisoning them?Will my stock have lasting damage?”
“No, thankfully.He was adding a shovelful of dirty sand to their feed.Enough to upset them for a day or so but insufficient to cause any lengthy, detectable harm.He had a feeling Jonas was watching him and becoming suspicious, so he stopped.”
“If he’s stopped, then why did Pericles pull up short in the four o’clock at Ascot yesterday?”demanded Francis.“Tuffy Bannister lost five pounds!He bent my ear about it for over an hour last night after all the hoo-ha died down.”
Tommy smiled again, and despite the fresh horror of his revelations, a small corner of Benedict’s mind thrilled with the devastating effect it had on him.“Your charming brother has changed tack of late by cutting out the go-between.Now, he’s simply paying your jockeys direct to throw the race.”
“Then we must jolly well call him out!”Francis leaped up as if about to lead the charge.“Race fixing is criminal behaviour!”
Benedict’s skin heated as he and Tommy exchanged a look.
Tommy cleared his throat.“It’s a delicate situation, my lord.You see, Lord Lyndon could make similar accusations about His Grace’s…non-horse-race-related activities.”
“Ah, yes.”Francis’s skin turned a similar shade to Benedict’s.“That’s a good point and very well made, sir.So, we are at an impasse.”
He pursed his lips as a thought struck him.“Why are you being so damned helpful, Mr L’Esquire?And not once, but twice in the space of twenty-four hours?Not that His Grace and I don’t appreciate it.But what’s in it for you, apart from ensuring your blacklegs aren’t robbed?”
“Can’t a man be a helpful citizen, Francis?”asked Benedict lightly.“Without attracting suspicion?”
“Not according to Beatrice Hazard, no.”Francis fixed his narrowed gaze on Tommy.And then swung it back to Benedict, who was examining the carpet.And then back to Tommy, who was examining a cushion.
“Ah,” he said after an eternity.
Bravely, Benedict met his eye, looking as guilty as if he’d just strangled a litter of kittens.
“Um…right, ho.”Francis gave an awkward cough.“So, the jockeys.And Lyndon.What’s to be done?”
Chapter Fifteen
NOBODY REVELLED INa full-bodied scandal as much as the collectiveton, but they’d have to hoist their skirts and tailcoats over Tommy Squire’s dead body before the Duke of Ashington would be the subject of it.And when Tommy Squire made up his mind to do something, then, as a string of blackleg stands and gaming hells could attest, it was already done.
Cyprians, mollies, macaronis, catamites—call them what you will—there were as many bashful euphemisms for men such as Tommy and the duke as there were pretty boys flashing their come-hither pouts in the back streets of St Paul’s every Sunday afternoon.And, though everyone turned a blind eye, plenty swanning around the court of King George, too, flagrantly sashaying amongst the highest of society, safe in the knowledge they held the King’s favour.
But a plethora of quiet and unassumingbachelorsalso walked amongst everyday folk.The comfortable Albany residences, for instance, were home to plenty of unremarkable souls, inconspicuously going about their business much like every other man whilst occasionally making the most of discreet opportunities whenever they presented.
As far as Tommy was concerned, if the fourteenth Duke of Ashington wished to live his existence passing as a man such as that, then it was entirely his affair.Having experienced the sharp end of the law himself—thanks to his own appetites—Tommy was of the same mind.Not every man could be Rossingley, slippery enough to straddle both worlds.Tommy lacked the wealthy earl’s good standing, for a start, whilst the duke lacked the courage.Though the more time he spent with the duke, the more Tommy wondered whether it was simply that the man had never learned the skills to protect himself.
At least Ashington could rely on Tommy and Rossingley fighting in his corner.Lord Francis, too, as it happened.His robust support came as huge surprise.Between the three of them, Tommy felt confident they should be able to nip Lord Lyndon’s plans in the bud before Sidney and an axe were called for.
A couple of days passed before they assembled in the duke’s well-proportioned drawing room—the duke, Tommy, Lord Francis, and Rossingley.Rossingley had brought Mr Angel along, too, and he sat quietly, his handsome face impenetrable.
Rossingley cut straight to pouring brandy, an excellent vintage at that.As he accepted a snifter, Tommy noted the deep circles cupping Ashington’s dark eyes.The duke’s countenance was austere at the best of times.This evening, dressed in his usual sombre attire and sharing a chintz settee with flamboyant Rossingley, he was positively Spartan.The low lamplight did the rest, stealing all the remnants of colour from his features.
True to form, Rossingley took centre stage.“The Rossingley’s and Ashington’s have been friends and neighbours for nigh on three hundred years,” he began.“Ever since the seventh Earl of Rossingley dug up a patch of dandelions, brewed them with burdock and nettle, and fed the concoction to his chum, the eighth duke, to cure his gout.Which it did, within minutes.Doubled his sexual appetite too.Legend has it he took on three mistresses the following month.”
Tommy would wager his gambling hells that Rossingley was talking nonsense, but it brought the tension in Ashington’s shoulders down a notch.
“Thus, when somebody mounts an unjustified personal attack on my fellow peer and old friend, it is an affront to me and mine.”His pale gaze briefly flicked in Angel’s direction, who nodded almost imperceptibly.“Even if the perpetrator himself is a close relative of my good and blameless friend, Ashington.”
“Hear, hear,” cried Lord Francis, beaming.“United we stand, bothersome brother be damned.”
Why the man sometimes played the role of buffoon was anyone’s guess.Underneath, Tommy thought he was sharp as a pin.
“The vital question,” continued Rossingley, “is when and where will the hammer fall?Will Lord Lyndon attempt an exposé in one of the gossip columns?Or will he crave a more public shaming?For instance, at one of the clubs?Or, as the rumourmongers are hinting, will he bide his time until a grand soirée?Such as the Horton ball, marking the end of the season?”
