Page 43 of Unending Joy
Thornhill passed around balloon-bellied glasses of brandy. The amber liquor caught the lamplight in cheerful flames, and for a moment camaraderie exhaled like a contented sigh.
Freddy set his shoulder to the mantelshelf, cradling his glass in one hand. “An incomparable day, Thornhill,” he said, nodding towards the bulldog. “Even Charlie has dreamt himself into victory.”
“To the next race,” Thornhill toasted, administering the dog a triumphant thump. “Banquet will make the rest look like coach horses.”
“He will prevail in the next Cup,” Carew put in, seated at a low table strewn with newspapers and betting lists.
Talk drifted through pedigrees and training regimens until Freddy’s patience frayed. He lifted his glass, let lamplight flicker against the oily surface, and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he began, striving for casualness, “did any of you happen to observe Colonel St. John’s…negotiations…this afternoon?”
Stuart lifted sleek brows. “I wondered which of us would breach the subject first.”
Thornhill’s merriment dimmed. “Negotiations?”
“Bookmaking,” Freddy clarified. “I saw him under the Grand Stand with a fellow who would make you cross the street and dart into an alley to avoid.”
“I saw as well,” Carew admitted, fingers drumming a muted cadence on blotter leather. “And I have laid enough wagers in my time to know there was nothing respectable about that bookmaker.”
Stuart swirled his brandy, watching the eddies. “From a distance the Colonel appeared in some agitation—no scandal there, most men flutter when money stands to vanish. Yet he returned to Miss Whitford smiling as though angels sang. The contrast intrigues.”
Thornhill bristled. “Do you suspect the man of being badly dipped, Cunningham?”
Freddy exhaled. “That is precisely the dread that nips me. I have never heard St. John boast of deep pockets. Rather the contrary: second son, older brother firmly installed in the country seat.”
“He served with honour,” Stuart conceded. “That much I know from the dispatches.”
“Honour seldom pays promissory notes.”
Stuart set down his glass. “Well. I can look into him. Military records are not inviolate.” He glanced round the circle, eyes sharpening. “If today’s venture went badly, he may grow desperate—better that we learn how deep he stands before matters progress.”
“Has she formed an attachment?”
Freddy angled his head in thought. “Joy—?” He broke off, searching for accuracy. “It is hard to say. She enjoys the attentions—who would not?—but I have heard no talk of affection. Flattery perhaps; no more is my guess.”
Carew drank, then set down his glass with a bark of decision. “If St. John is a hardened gambler drowning in debt, he must be kept beyond Joy’s reach.”
“That may prove difficult,” Thornhill said quietly from his perch by the window. “A man on the edge clings to any lifeline—especially a dowry rumoured to be as handsome as Miss Whitford’s.”
“Curse my brother for voicing that aloud.” Stuart scowled.
Carew’s eyes narrowed. “Does the Colonel possess any solid prospects?”
Freddy shook his head. “Not that I am aware.”
“I will look into that as well. I am surprised my brother has not done so,” Stuart admitted. “He seems much too old for her.”
“Twelve years, the same as me,” Freddy remarked.
“But he has been to war,” Stuart pointed out. It did not need to be said what war could do to a man.
“True,” Freddy admitted, “and I have not spent nine of those twelve campaigning in Spain and France.”
“War alters a man. Joy’s innocence is easy to covet.”
The bulldog snorted, and for a heartbeat only the ticking of a clock intruded on thought.
Carew tapped the arm of the chair. “We must determine two points: the state of the Colonel’s purse and the sincerity of his suit. The first Stuart undertakes; the second…Cunningham, you know Joy best.”
“So you would have me interrogate her?” Freddy gave a half laugh.
