Page 88 of Fortune Favors the Viscount
“Shortsighted of him,” remarked Lord William.
Kinson glanced at the other man. “No, sir, to be truthful, I’m glad. After what Dickie told me, I’m well shot of the place.”
O’Malley bobbed his head. “I was a training groom at Newmarket, sir. Bobby’s got the right of it.”
Lord William looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Nick. “Might I have a word, Mr. Dashwood?”
Outside the room, Lord William lowered his voice. “I have a suspicion what they’re going to tell me. Are you certain I’m the right man for this?”
Lord William ran a renowned stud farm at Salmsbury Abbey, the principal seat of his father, the Duke of Rowland. He didn’t breed racehorses, but splendid hunters and carriage horses.
Nick nodded. “I think you are. I need someone who’s not at Newmarket.” He’d already got a racehorse trainer’s view of the matter from Stewart Darlington. “Will you hear them out? I only ask your considered opinion of their report of the horses’ health, as an accomplished horse trainer.”
“That I can give,” Lord William replied, “thought I don’t know what weight it will carry with anyone.”
“For my own ears only,” Nick assured him.
“All right, then.” Lord William went back into the room, and Nick went downstairs.
Westmorland found him. “Is this about what happened at the Craven Meeting?”
The Craven Meeting was the first race of the season at Newmarket. This year, the odds-on favorite had run very well in his first match, but fallen ill before the next day’s sweepstakes with a far larger purse, and a six-to-one horse had won. There had been grumbling against both jockeys and allegations of manipulation thrown at both stables.
Not Lord Fitchley. He owned neither horse and had placed no bet on the first race—but he’d placed an enormous wager on the second race, and won. It had only added to his reputation for possessing preternatural instincts about the turf.
Nick gazed blandly at the marquess. “How interesting you would think of that, my lord.”
Westmorland eyed him. “I know what Fitchley’s done, petitioning for the Sidney child. She’s your relation, isn’t she?”
“A distant cousin,” agreed Nick. By now, everyone in London knew he was the Sydenham heir, not really a Dashwood but a Sidney by birth. “I’ve become quite fond of her.”
Westmorland said nothing for a moment. “I owe you, Dashwood. I’ve not forgotten.”
Last year, it had been Westmorland’s plot that ruined Frederick Forester, the Liverpool merchant who ran a side business selling Africans into slavery in the West Indies. Forester had been a member of the Vega Club; Nick hadn’t known of his illicit activities. Once he discovered them, though... That was the game Nick had fixed, deliberately throwing the largest pot in Vega’s history and bankrupting Forester.
He didn’t think Westmorland knew that last bit. The marquess had meant that his fiancée, now wife, had told Nick beforehand that several members of the club intended to ruin Forester. He wondered what Westmorland would say if he knew Nick had not only allowed it, he had personally ensured they succeeded.
“Think nothing of it,” he told Westmorland courteously.
The marquess nodded. “Bear it in mind, if you ever need a favor.” He strolled away.
Almost an hour later, Lord William reappeared. He met Nick’s eyes and gave a nod before going to join his brother in the dining room.
So, it was true. An almost electrical charge shot through him. Nick had believed the tale would bear out, but now he had eyewitnesses, sitting upstairs in the private salon. He found Forbes by the hazard tables. “Show MacGregor upstairs the moment he arrives. If Lord Fitchley graces us with his presence tonight, let me know at once.”
Forbes cocked his head. “Believe me, Dash, if he does, you’ll know. He’s not been quiet about his desire to speak to you.”
Nick smiled lazily. “How convenient. I have something to say to him, too.” He walked to the front and told Frank to fetch one of the boys. Jimmy popped out of the cloakroom and Nick handed him a sealed note and a sovereign. “Chop chop,” he told the lad, and Jimmy nodded once before sprinting out the door.
Fitchley did not appear at the Vega Club that night, though some of his mates did. There was a mild confrontation between Westmorland and Geoffrey Parker-Lloyd, which ended when the marquess and his brother left. Nick gazed expressionlessly at Parker-Lloyd, who tilted his chin defiantly and slouched off to the faro tables.
It was almost six in the morning before the final confirmation came. He was playing billiards, as usual, too restless to go home. In London, he and Emilia couldn’t sneak away as easily as they had done before, and he didn’t want Lucy or Charlotte to spy Emilia leaving his bedroom. They had agreed to be discreet. Today he was going to obtain the marriage license; Grantham should have settlements prepared by the next day. Within a few weeks Emilia would be his wife, but until then... he was playing billiards.
The knock at the door interrupted his contemplation of the table, and consideration of whether he should have it removed to his house. Emilia liked to play. He liked to watch her lean over to play. They could make wagers on the outcome, and pay their forfeits right on the table.
“Come,” he called.
The door opened to admit a tall, lanky fellow with rumpled dark hair and ink on his cuffs. He met Nick’s gaze with piercing gray eyes as he laid down the large leather-bound turf book, where all the horseracing wagers at Vega’s were recorded.
