“To race?” Emma asked, her voice laden with doubt.
Thoughts of Griffith Halliwell intruded again. “Not necessarily. As we know, there’s money to be made using a horse for…er…breeding other…er…baby horses.”
Annoyed with herself for suddenly becoming a tongue-tied henwit, she took a deep breath and explained. “Stud fees, they call it.”
“Indeed, Lady Susan,” Oscar confirmed, coming to her rescue yet again. “And, if you are serious about buying a thoroughbred for breeding purposes, I can put you in touch with someone anxious to sell such a horse, a grandson of Eclipse.”
“Eclipse?” Emma asked.
“Greatest thoroughbred that ever lived. Undefeated in eighteen races, including eleven King’s Plates. Descendant of the original Godolphin Barb.”
Susan was sure that must be an impressive achievement. “I doubt I could afford it,” she admitted.
“Well, this gent’s willing to negotiate,” Oscar whispered, tapping the side of his nose. “His creditors have him in a bind. And I think he’d prefer to sell the stallion to someone in the north, otherwise he has to get him transported to Tattersalls in London.”
“Can’t they simply have someone ride it there?” Gabriel asked.
“There’s the rub, my lord. The horse no longer races because the coffin bones in his feet are a problem. Nothing wrong with his…er…other equipment though.”
Hidden behind her own fan, Rebecca tittered.
Emma’s face turned beet red.
Susan glanced at Patsy but, fortunately, the child was preoccupied with watching the next group of horses.
“We might be interested,” Gabriel said, much to Susan’s surprise and delight. She doubted her excitement would allow her to get much sleep at thePied Bull.
*
“Finally, my luckhas changed,” Arthur Coleman hissed.
He quickly pulled the cloth cap lower to hide his face, turning away lest the haughty Susan Crompton and her niece take their attention off the horses parading in the paddock.
Not that there was much chance they’d recognize him. The relentless Jamaican sun had bronzed his skin and bleached his hair. If his father thought he was going to spend the rest of his life in the hellhole his Uncle Nathan referred to as a sugar mill, he was sadly mistaken. Wielding a whip in the sweltering heat was exhausting. One little error in judgment and he was expected to forfeit the Whiteside barony and spend his life dealing with truculent slaves. As if attempting to kidnap the Farnworth brat was such an enormous crime. And, if his henwitted sister thought one of her brood would inherit… “I think not,” he muttered.
It hadn’t been easy to get away from the plantation. His uncle kept a closer eye on him than on his slaves. However, all the white men who worked as overseers on the plantation took advantage of slave women, so Arthur had followed their example. He had to admit he was fond of one or two of the women he bedded, especially the ones who fought him before surrendering.
His uncle warned him about the black magic practices the slaves carried on. Arthur thought it was all bunkum until he jokingly suggested one of his women cast a hex on his uncle. Nothing too serious. Just to put him out of action for a few days.
Lo and behold, the man had taken to his bed with a bilious stomach and Arthur had fled.
He’d made his way to Kingston, keeping off the beaten track and feeling more like a runaway slave with each passing day. If running meant enduring a thousand insect bites, raging thirst, intolerable daytime heat and freezing nights, why would any slave want to bother trying to escape? What’s more, Arthur didn’t have to worry about having a limb hacked off if his uncle caught him.
Signing onto a British ship as a crew member had been easy—his skin was the right color and he spoke English. After weeks of hard labor, weevil-infested hardtack, terrible seasickness, and fending off filthy bearded seamen who ogled him like a piece of meat, Arthur fell to his knees, close to tears when he disembarked on the rain-drenched Liverpool docks. He’d made it home.
He’d hoped to sail into Bristol or, better still, London. He had to make money fast if he was to have any hope of reestablishing himself. Liverpool was too close to Preston, where he was well-known; hence he’d come south to Chester, hoping to win big on a horse race.
That hadn’t happened. The pittance earned aboard ship was all but gone. However, having followed Susan and Patsy Crompton, he’d discovered the earl’s entire family was in attendance. At the end of the day, he trailed them to thePied Bullwhere he slept in the stables.
*
Arriving in Preston,Griff breathed a sigh of relief when Frederick guided the carriage into the yard ofThe Coach and Fourin the late afternoon. He doubted they would have made it much further. A stable boy hurried off with his bag to secure accommodations while he discussed the wheel problem with the inn’s ostler and his footman.
They quickly came to the conclusion the buckled wheel was beyond repair and would have to be replaced. The ostler sent the stable boy off to fetch the wheelwright from the other side of town.
Griff had no option but to retire to the inn’s taproom. The place was already crowded with jovial men but he was lucky enough to find a seat at a small table near the rear of the cozy room. He looked up at the oak-beamed ceiling and let out an exasperated breath. Here he was, a wealthy earl in possession of numerous expensive carriages, yet obliged to pass the time among common folks waiting for a new wheel. When he got back to Clifton Heights, he’d have to look into purchasing at least one new vehicle, although what was the point if he spent all his time in London?
He was imbibing his third tankard of ale when the nervous ostler approached, cloth cap in hand, to inform him the wheelwright would only undertake the job at his workshop. “So, yer lordship, I sent yer footman off wit’ yer carriage,” the fellow explained, all the while scanning the surroundings for an avenue of escape.