sometimes, depending on the relationship, much less. Henry had many friends, of course-and not a few enemies. While his business arrangements began in friendship, they had a way of ending in acrimony, for when people did not fall in with his plans, he had a tendency to give in to his temper.
Just now, however, nothing untoward disturbed him. He had accomplished both his bath and his dinner and was awaiting Mrs. Stanley’s return to the Red Horse’s private drawing room, his hands folded over his slightly stout middle. This agreeable anticipation was interrupted, however, by someone’s clearing a throat and a tentative “Er, Radwick, old chap.” Henry looked up to see Lord Reginald Hunt standing in the door, his hat in his hand and a hangdog look on his face.
Henry did not show his annoyance at this intrusion, or demand to know how the devil Hunt had sniffed him out here. At the moment, he felt only contempt for the man standing before him, who had so obviously had a bad day. He smiled and gestured to the chair Mrs. Stanley had left.
“Sit down, Reggie, dear fellow,” he said affably, “and join me in a brandy.” He lifted the decanter and poured. “Why aren’t you feasting at Marlborough House with the rest of the Club?”
“Couldn’t face it,” Lord Reginald muttered, slumping dejectedly in the chair. His frock coat was marked with dusty creases and his shirt cuffs were dirty. He wiped a bleary eye. “Too low.”
“A pity about Gladiator,” Henry said consolingly. “When he came storming round the corner, he looked like a dead cert.” He paused. “I suppose you had a great deal on. Had the horse been mine, I would’ve emptied my pockets on him.” It wasn’t true. Henry always hedged his bets.
“All I had, and more, was on that horse.” Lord Reginald tossed off the brandy and pushed his glass forward, summoning a wan smile and making an attempt at bravado. “But he’ll run again. And I have Alabaster in the Gold Cup at Ascot, and Tarantula in the Ascot Stakes. I’ll get it back.”
“That’s the spirit.” Henry poured again. Mrs. Stanley appeared at the door; then, seeing that Henry was doing business, gave a little wave and vanished.
Lord Reginald sipped more slowly this time. “I’ll be brief, Henry, old chap,” he said. “I need thirty thousand to settle.”
Henry leaned back in his chair, folding his hands and pursing his lips. He had been at this point before, with any number of desperate clients, and he knew his lines very well. When the right amount of time had ticked by, he said quietly: “Thirty thousand is a very great deal, Reggie. In the circumstance, that is.” Henry did not have to say what that circumstance was. Lord Reginald understood perfectly that this large addition to his already enormous indebtedness entitled Henry to take part of the security he had pledged: the estate of Glenoaks, in Cambridgeshire, several dozen works of art, and half his stable.
The silence had lengthened almost intolerably when Lord Reginald cleared his throat. “Damn it all,” he growled, all show of pleasantry abandoned. “Take the bloody estate, then. I never go there anyway. Just give me the thirty thousand.”
“The estate,” Henry said quietly, “and Tarantula.”
“Not the horse!”
Henry shrugged and was silent.
“Oh, all right, then,” Lord Reginald said angrily. “He’s a loser, anyway. Have him, and be done.”
Henry smiled. “
Lord Reginald brightened, forgetting his rancor. “Oh, indeed,” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you, Henry,” he said, picking up his hat. “I know I’m safe with you. You’re the best friend a man ever had.”
Henry Radwick smiled. He was already thinking of making a trip to Glenoaks, just to see what Lord Reginald Hunt had lost.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paradox though it may seem-and paradoxes are always dangerous things-it is none the less true that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.
“The Decay of Lying” Oscar Wilde
It was after eleven on a glorious June morning, and Lord and Lady Charles Sheridan were sitting on the terrace overlooking the gardens and the little lake, its wild banks tumbled with ferns and briar-rose. Charles was reading the
“I’m afraid that the headmaster at Westward Ho! has nothing new to report,” she said sadly. “It has been almost seven months since Patrick ran away from school, Charles. And not a word, not one single word. Something dreadful has happened to him, I’m sure of it.”
Charles hardly knew what to say. He knew how much Kate cared for Patrick. He’d been fond of the boy too, and had hoped that perhaps he might help fill the place of the son whom he and Kate would never have. It was hard to find words that would comfort Kate when he felt the loss as deeply as she. He rattled his paper and affected a careless air.
“You know the boy,” he said. “Free as a breeze, with not a shred of responsibility. It’s a wonder Patrick stayed at school as long as he did, Kate. No doubt he’s gone to sea, and will come back to astound us with exaggerated tales about the South Pacific.”
Kate made an impatient noise. “Patrick is a free spirit, but I don’t believe that he has no sense of responsibility. He left school for a good reason.” She laid the headmaster’s letter aside. “I think I’ll place another round of advertisements in the newspapers. Someone is bound to have seen him.” She took up another envelope, slit it, and gave a surprised exclamation.
Charles lowered his newspaper. “Something else?”
“It’s a note from Mrs. Langtry,” Kate said, scanning it. “She’s invited me to stay with her at Regal Lodge, at Kentford, near Newmarket. She writes, ‘Since I’ve decided to go forward with the stage adaptation of your story, I believe our time together could be most productive. My cottage is small, but I am delighted to share it with you. Come as soon as you can.’ ”
Charles was nonplused. He wasn’t aware that his wife knew the actress. “Lillie Langtry? A stage adaptation? What story?”
Kate frowned at him over the top of her reading glasses. “I suppose you’ve been too engrossed in that racing business to recall that I met Mrs. Langtry at the Derby and that she expressed an interest in producing ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ ”
“Good Lord,” Charles said, abashed at not remembering. “Isn’t that the story about the stolen sapphires? The one you so indelicately modeled after the so-called theft of Lady Marsden’s emeralds?”
“Yes,” Kate replied ruefully. “In the story, the duchess needed money to pay her debts, so she pawned her jewels, then staged their theft to conceal what she’d done. When a thief actually did steal them, she tracked him down and got them back.” With a smile, she added, “The duchess is quite a strong character. Mrs. Langtry, of course, wants to play her.”
Charles chuckled. Lillie Langtry’s range as an actress was notoriously limited, and she was
