It was time to get stern with himself. He had to focus on the task—or the man—at hand. He’d done more than a bit of research on the earl. Ryeton was practically a legend in racing, widely acknowledged to own the deepest stables in the kingdom. But beyond his racing credentials, Stephen had discovered only that the earl gambled at the drop of a hat, had a contentious relationship with his countess and kept a mistress of long standing here in Newmarket.
He hadn’t heard of the braying laugh before tonight. Or that the man could be so damned elusive.
Perhaps it was Landry’s assertion of snobbery that explained the earl’s reticence. Perhaps he didn’t approve of the Manning family’s reputation or even of Stephen’s own colourful past. Whatever the case, Stephen was drawing desperately close to the conclusion that the man was trying to avoid him.
The ballroom was crowded, but the two of them were moving in the same circles. Mae’s father was here, too, and he was just one more object to throw into this delicate balancing act. This was more of a circus than a ball, what with Stephen subtly chasing Ryeton, delicately avoiding Barty Halford, and shivering each time Mae’s throaty chuckle floated past.
If there was one bright spot in this difficult evening, it was the enjoyably single-minded nature of the conversations. In this end of the room, there was only one subject of interest. Horses and racing were what had brought them all together. The air was replete with references to bloodlines, time trials and handicaps. Pratchett’s name was on everyone’s lips and Stephen felt a stab of longing every time he heard it.
This was his chance. Not for nothing had Stephen lounged for hours with his brother Leo in Welbourne’s stable offices. Just for this moment had he fought exhaustion and stayed awake after a long day’s labour at Fincote, devouring the Racing Calendar and the Stud Book. He entered into the debates with fervour, insight and authority and held his own with these men of the turf.
He saw surprise on some faces—and a grudging respect on others—and his spirits soared. That look meant everything to him. He craved it. He might be a man grown, with burdens and responsibilities and goals, but the shameful truth was that there was still a remnant of the young man he used to be inside him—the one always searching for an audience. Earning a bit of esteem from these men soothed that bit of his past and at the same time promised security to the people of Fincote who were his future.
Now if only he could find the chance to inspire it in the Earl of Ryeton. He made a surreptitious half-turn, trying to search out the earl’s whereabouts, but his gaze fell on Mae Halford instead.
And held there.
She had left her chair and was moving gingerly about the ballroom. He seemed to have been almost unnaturally aware of her all evening. It felt ridiculous—as if time had somehow swapped their roles and now he was the one with the fixation. He told himself that he was only being wary. That it was only that laugh, so much more adult, more aware somehow, than the girlish giggle he remembered. But there was more to it than that.
At least fifty other ladies flitted throughout the ballroom; Mae managed to outshine them all. The others shone in the bright light of the chandeliers, their jewelled gowns and soft skin showing to advantage. But it was as if a thousand little lamps were lit inside Mae. She glowed from within—and it took an extreme force of will to look away.
He expended the effort. Lord Toswick was calling him. His host clapped him on the shoulder as Stephen stepped over to join his group.
‘We’re discussing the growing difficulties with the legs,’ Toswick informed him. ‘Seems like more and more of them have gone crooked.’
A leg, or black leg, was a professional gambler, a man who ‘made a book’ by taking bets on all the horses in a race. Legs flocked to every major race, and racing men flocked to lay down their money with them.
‘I heard the Blands were in town,’ someone said in hushed tones. The Bland brothers, and a few others like them, had become notorious for interfering with horses in order to affect the outcome of a race. Laming, opium balls, even poison had been used to nobble a favourite and ensure the leg a hefty income.
‘Lord Stephen has had some first-hand experience with just their sort,’ Toswick said with a laugh. ‘And he was barely out of leading strings.’
‘I was fifteen,’ protested Stephen. ‘Hardly a babe.’
‘Tell the story,’ Toswick urged.
The other gentlemen urged him on, so Stephen told the tale of how, disappointed at being left behind when his parents travelled to see the St Leger, he had run away to Doncaster on his own. While hiding in the stables he had uncovered a plot to maim the race favourite. He’d foiled the plan, reported it, and then won a small fortune betting on another horse altogether.
As it was rather late, and the champagne had been flowing freely all evening, the gentlemen all found this to be uproariously funny. Stephen’s hand was shook and he was congratulated all around, until a more officious voice broke in.
‘That was extremely well done of you, and at such a young age, too.’ It was the Earl of Ryeton, joining their group and shaking his head. ‘Surely something must be done about these blasted legs.’ He glanced down his nose. ‘Young Manning, is it not?’
Lord Toswick stepped in to make the introductions. Stephen’s heart accelerated and he sent the man a silent blessing for the opportunity.
‘Of course, I don’t mean to paint all the legs with the same brush,’ he told Ryeton. ‘Gambling has always been a large part of the sport.’ He nodded to the company around them. ‘Everyone here knows that racing would not be what it is today, if not for the betting.’
‘Yes, yes, and of course there are plenty of honest men making books.’ The earl appeared to be impatient with even a hint of disagreement. ‘It’s the crooked ones that are making things so damned difficult. Three separate incidents I’ve had in my stables over the past year. Two were caught in time, but I lost a very promising filly to poisoned feed.’ Ryeton’s colour had grown higher. ‘It’s a travesty, is what it is.’ He tossed back his drink and waved for another.
‘It does lend an ugly taint,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Cheating only breeds suspicion and distrust where we would hope for enthusiastic and healthy competition.’
‘Something must be done before things get even more out of hand. I’ve called a gathering of the Jockey Club stewards to discuss the issue. We need swift justice—and stern consequences. A precedent must be established.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘We cannot expect these people to govern themselves. They are not gentlemen.’
He glanced askance at Stephen. ‘The stewards meet early tomorrow. Perhaps if you are about …’ He paused. ‘Ah, but I’d forgotten. You are not a member of the Jockey Club, are you, Manning?’
‘That honour has not been mine.’ Not yet. ‘But I am hoping to find sponsorship for admittance to the Coffee Rooms,’ Stephen added smoothly. Acceptance as a member of the Jockey Club Rooms was the first step towards becoming a full member of racing’s elite body.
Ryeton hesitated, then nodded towards their host. ‘I’m assembling a group to ride out and watch the practice on the Heath tomorrow afternoon. I had just invited Toswick.’
Stephen grinned. ‘There’s scarcely a better moment, is there? To lean into the wind of a group of galloping thoroughbreds and feel the thunder of their passing beneath your feet?’
Ryeton nodded and triumph bloomed fiercely in Stephen’s chest. This was it; the earl was going to invite him along. Yes. He needed this. Fincote needed this. It was a small step, but a first one towards a bright future. For him and for the people who depended on him.
‘Perhaps