agree, Marsden?”
“It’s large, I’ll give it that,” Bradford said in an unwilling tone. “But size isn’t all your lordship is looking for. You want to know how the horses are trained, how well they’ve performed.”
“To be sure,” Charles agreed absently. “But that’s your department, I’m afraid.” His glance had been caught by a wiry, red-haired lad walking with a springy step along the passageway toward the tack room. He was carrying a saddle.
Charles frowned. That boy-
Bradford and Pinkie had turned away and were walking toward the office. Bradford was saying, “I should like to take a look at the stable’s form book on behalf of his lordship,” and Pinkie was protesting angrily that this was a great imposition and he was sure his uncle would not consent. Both appeared to be fully occupied with their discussion, so Charles took the opportunity to go in the opposite direction.
In four purposeful strides, he reached the open door of the tack room. The boy was there, reaching up to hang the saddle on one of the dozens of brackets set in the opposite wall. Charles entered the dim room and stood silhouetted against the bright light from the doorway. Sensing another’s presence, the boy glanced over his shoulder.
“Hullo, Patrick,” Charles said quietly. “It’s good to see you again.”
The boy turned, his eyes growing large in his freckled face. “Damn!” he breathed.
“I see your language hasn’t improved,” Charles replied, trying to keep his voice even, so that he betrayed neither surprise nor anger. “What are you doing here, Paddy? Why didn’t you stay at Westward Ho!, where you were put?”
Patrick pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t fancy lickin’s and bullyin’,” he muttered. “Didn’t much take to books, neither.” He raised his chin defiantly. “I came here to apprentice as a jockey.”
“Well,” Charles said mildly, “I suppose you could do worse. Do you like it here?”
Patrick chewed on his lower lip. “Yes,” he said. He hesitated and then added, with characteristic honesty, “I liked it a lot more, before they did what they did to Gladiator, and Johnny Bell died.”
“To Gladiator?” Charles asked in surprise.
“My horse. The horse I do for, that is.” He straightened his shoulders proudly. “I’m his traveling lad.”
“Amazing,” Charles said, more to himself than to Patrick. Finding the boy was a wonderful stroke of luck that he couldn’t wait to share with Kate. But finding out that the boy was Gladiator’s lad was two wonderful strokes of luck, at a single instant! Now, if he could solicit the boy’s help-
Patrick’s eyes had filled, and he wiped away the sudden tears with a coarse sleeve. “And Johnny Bell was my good friend. He’s the jockey who died at Epsom last week.” The words were tumbling out, as if he had held them too long inside himself. “They made the horse drink something out of a bottle. Whatever it was, it made him crazy.” He looked up at Charles, his lips trembling. “I’m afraid for Gladiator, sir. If they make him run like that again, it’ll
“I see,” Charles said. He studied Patrick for a moment, liking what he saw. The boy’s hard-won experience of school and life was clearly written on his young face, and the trembling lips and smear of tears on the dirty cheek were testimony to his unhappiness. But he had grown taller and carried himself with a new dignity, and there was a bold thrust to his chin and a spark in his eyes that let Charles know that his fiery spirit had not been quenched.
“As it happens,” Charles went on, speaking in a lower voice, “I am here to learn what happened to the horse-although no one but you is to know that. They think I am here only as an owner, to place two new horses.”
Patrick’s eyes widened and hope flushed in his face. “You can stop them from giving that stuff to Gladiator again?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said truthfully. “But I would like to persuade the Jockey Club to make ‘that stuff,’ as you call it, illegal, so that it may not be given to any horse.” Thinking he heard a footstep, he glanced over his shoulder. “But it’s not a good idea to talk here, where we might be overheard.”
“No, sir,” Patrick said with emphasis. After a moment, he added, “I could slip out, sir. After the other lads are asleep.” He grinned and his eyes lightened. “It wouldn’t be the first time, sir.”
“No,” Charles said with a little smile, “I’m sure it wouldn’t. I am staying with a friend who has temporary lodgings at Hardaway House, on the left side of Wellington Street, just off the High Street. The house has a brick gateway and a green door. Do you think you can find it?”
“O’ course, sir.” Patrick spoke with a shy confidence. “I think I can manage ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock it is, then,” Charles agreed. He turned to go, then turned back. “Patrick,” he said in a softer tone, “I’m very glad to have found you.” He held out his hand as if to another man. “I shall look forward with great pleasure to seeing you tonight, and to hearing your adventures since you left school.”
A deeper flush spread over Patrick’s cheeks. He squared his shoulders and took Charles’s hand. “Sir,” he said, in a proper schoolboy’s voice, “Thank you, sir. Ten o’clock, sir.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mrs. Langtry was dangerously fascinating. She did not for a moment conceal the baseness of the character she represented.
Review of Lady Barter Dramatic Notes, March 1891 Cecil Howard
Of course, one always has to ask oneself if one is playing the character or merely portraying one’s own true nature, or a part of it.
Lillie Langtry
Kate loved roses beyond all other flowers, and Lillie’s were magnificent, blooming extravagantly in shades of pink, red, white, and yellow, filling the entire garden with their scent. The June day was warm, and after a time she found a wrought-iron bench and sat down to enjoy the sweet, heady fragrance, the drowsy harmony of the bees, and the throaty cooing of the doves in a distant dovecote.
But as she sat, enjoying the quiet afternoon, she became aware that it was not entirely quiet nor harmonious. She looked up. The bench on which she was sitting was placed almost against the house, under an open window. Inside, Lillie Langtry and a man were engaged in discussion.
“Of course I’m grateful to you, Spider,” Lillie was saying. She laughed lightly, and Kate could imagine the sweetly flattering smile, the touch of her hand lending endearing emphasis to the affectionate nickname. “You’ve been of enormous support over the past few years, my dear. I could never forget that you’ve helped me stage-”
“Helped you?” the man broke in. His voice was clipped, with a cutting edge. “I have financed every one of your plays for the past eight years, and
“Please don’t be cruel, Spider,” Lillie said wearily. “Yes, I acknowledge it. Things have been rather difficult in the past few years, especially here in England.” Her voice warmed. “But you’ve always been an angel. The truest, dearest angel a woman could hope to have.”
“And this is how you reward me?” the man demanded roughly. “By announcing that you’re to
