| THE HIGHEST STAKES chapter i excerpt |
 | |  | |  | |  |
Robert Devington was growing more anxious by the moment. Once more he scanned the crowded and
challenge for maiden five-year-olds, young horses that had yet to win a race. It was a single four-and-a-
half-mile heat, ten-stone weight, and about to start with her rider yet nowhere in sight.
With barely a quarter hour remaining to present the horse and weigh in, Robert was in an agitated
quandary. Audibly cursing, he pulled the blankets from the mare’s back, just to put them back on
again. He considered the only alternatives before him: to deceive the racing judges by presenting the
horse in Charles’s stead and committing an act of fraud; or do nothing and risk both the forfeiture of
Sir Garfield’s entry fee—no paltry sum by any standard—as well as this fine young mare’s best chance
to win a race, a circumstance that would do nothing to improve his standing with his beloved’s uncle.
His future with Charlotte was nearly a hopeless cause to begin with. He could scarce afford to fall afoul
of her guardian’s temper. Robert searched the milling crowd for the last time, desperately seeking a
glimpse of Charles Wallace. Still none, blast it all! His last hope now dashed, he cursed with greater
vehemence and led the horse out of her paddock to commit an act of fraud for the sake of love.
***
The Lichfield races, held annually in September, transformed the Whittington Heath, a three-hundred-
acre sheep pasture, into the premiere event for all of Staffordshire. This hybrid of a horse race, garden
party, and county fair attracted all classes of people from as far away as Derbyshire, the county’s
closest equine rival, but this year it drew an extraordinary number of persons of consequence. Lords
and gentlemen had arrived from the North of England, Wales, and even the Scottish highlands, but as
unusual as this was, never since its inception had this innocuous little village ever attracted a
foreign dignitary.
By far, the most distinguished patron of the races this year was the elegant and illustrious Grand
Ecuyer de France, comte d’Armagnac, Master of the Horse in the court of King Louis XV. Rumored to
have travelled all the way from Versailles to procure a number of English running-bloods for the
Royal stud, Monsieur Le Grand’s visit to Baron John Leveson-Gower had propitiously coincided with
Royal stud, Monsieur Le Grand’s visit to Baron John Leveson-Gower had propitiously coincided with
the Lichfield races, over which Lord Gower would preside.
With the final preparations for the race in progress, Lord Gower and his eminent guest promenaded
the grounds, surveying the field and assessing prospective stock to complement the Royal stud of
France.
“I have heard for a number of years, Lord Gower, that the finest racing flesh resides across the
Channel in England. I was of course loath to believe such a thing, but most curiously, after seeing so
many specimens of excellence, I must confess that this might be so.” He paused his perambulations to
admire a particularly sleek black stallion in one of the myriad paddocks.
“Do you know, what is the breeding of this horse, Lord Gower?”
“Hastings’s Hawke? He is indeed a fine specimen! I believe he is by Francis Lord Godolphin’s barb
stallion, but I shall inquire further, if you so desire.”
“The Godolphin again! He shall forever plague me, this horse!”
Lord Gower gave an inquisitive look, and the count bowed to him slightly. “It is said that one of the
finest producers of racing champions in England was first cast-off by Versailles. A very foolish move by
the Grand Ecuyer, was it not?”
“Am I to assume that you refer to Lord Godolphin’s stallion?”
“Indeed! One and the same, but the name was not so. In France, the stallion was called by El Sham.
You do not know the history of this horse, Lord Gower?
“Only these past years while he stands in Cambridgeshire, Monsieur Le Grand.”
“Then I shall recount to you this story, bien sur?”
“I am most intrigued.”
“The stallion, El Sham, was presented to His Majesty as one of eight horses—chevales pur sang
arabes—from the Sultan Muley Abdulah of Moroc. The grand riding master at Versailles, Monsieur de
La Gueriniere, the man whom I appoint, finds this stallion wanting, you see. As he is small in stature
and not of the form preferred for the dressage, he is cast out from the stud Royale. This same horse
was then procured by your Englishman, Monsieur Coke, who brings him to England, where he soon
becomes the sire of champions! So you see that I, en effet, am responsible indirectly for this horse
leaving France, and now I come to England to find such a one to take back! C’est l’ironie magnifique, n’
est ce pas?” He recounted his tale with surprising good humor.
“Indeed, it is an amazing irony! But in all truth, this stallion’s value was little realized at the first.
When he left our poor departed Coke’s hands for Lord Godolphin’s stud, he was intended as a teasing
stallion, used to prepare the mares for the services of his lordship’s stallion, Hobgoblin. Apparently, he
fought Hobgoblin for Roxana’s honors, and the unintended byproduct, Lath, was a most formidable
opponent on the turf. The fleetest since Flying Childers, some say, and now this former teasing
stallion is making a greater name as a sire than Hobgoblin.
“Indeed, it may be of further interest that a son of his, called by Cade, is to run today. He is full
brother to Lath and already proving as remarkable a runner. His first year at Newmarket, he won both
heats of the King’s Plate. His next year, he ran second only to Sedbury, a great-grandson of Colonel
Byerley’s Turk, another long-proven champion sire. I daresay we might yet see a match race betwixt
the pair, but I should be in a veritable quandary where to lay my money on that one!”
“How I should like to see such a race!” remarked Monsieur Le Grand.
“If one offers a large enough purse, most anything might be arranged for the entertainment of Le
Grand Ecuyer de France.”
The trumpet called the first race, prompting the gentlemen to return to the viewing pavilion, the
elegantly appointed structure erected in Monsieur Le Grand’s honor. Built to Lord Gower’s
specifications, the covered and partially enclosed platform, which had employed a score of laborers for
nearly two full for’nights, afforded a near bird’s-eye view of the field, sheltered from sun, wind, and
rain. Most importantly, however, the structure provided the requisite privacy for all of his particular
guests, who now congregated in anticipation of the first race.
“The races are set to commence,” Lord Gower said, addressing his guests. “I suggest, Your Graces,
lords, and gentlemen, that we take our places.” He indicated the comte should be first to proceed. The
French envoy was followed by nine of the most prominent and influential Tories in the British
kingdom.
Though most were well known to one another through their positions in Parliament, there was little
speech outside the mundane, until the liveried footmen, garbed also to honor the French dignitary,
served platters of delicacies, poured the imported French wine, and were dismissed by Lord
Gower. The host took no chances in protecting the security of this meeting.
Noting the white cockades adorning each guest’s lapel or tricorn, said host raised his glass to the
company. “As each of us today has both literally and figuratively committed a horse to the race”—his
eyes scanned those of the group for reaction to this fitting analogy—“I solemnly propose a toast to the
king across the water.”
***
The day, which earlier promised to be sunny and brisk, had warmed with the noontime sun. The
lumbering traveling coach, after battling miles of the wheel-sucking mire that barely functioned as a
serviceable ingress in the best of times, finally drew near to Whittington Heath. This generously
proportioned coach had carried a family of five ninety-some miles from South Yorkshire for the express
purpose of the races.
Sir Garfield Wallace, master of the household, was a most avid turf follower, but with limited success
to his credit. With his son riding in the first event of the day, he would have been one of the most
fervent of spectators, but his damnable equipage was once again entrenched in the blasted muck!
The occupants of the coach fortunate to be nearest the windows espied the hundred acres punctuated
with vendor booths hawking their wares of everything from mutton leg to bonnet ribbons. These were
complemented by a half-dozen elegant pavilions serving as provisional banquet and concert halls.
Farther down the field, countless grooms and jockeys frantically hustled about to ready their mounts.
Growing edgier with each passing minute, Sir Garfield rapped impatiently on the roof, but his signal
went unheeded by the coachman, who had already alighted—for the third time this day—to assess the
extent of their plight.
With increasing agitation and with much greater power than intended, Sir Garfield forced open the
coach door. Leaning out to bark his orders, he unbalanced himself and nearly toppled into the mire,
saving himself only at the last by grasping onto the top of the coach door. Although he had narrowly
escaped a disastrous tumble into the muck, this unfortunate gentleman found himself suspended, one
leg in the carriage and the other dangling in midair outside, with his heft balanced precariously in
between.
Charles Wallace, seated on the side opposite, moved with dispatch to aid his father, but his way was
blocked by his sister, cousin, and mother, who wailed ineffectually and clutched at the gentleman’s
coat skirts.
Charles, now half-lying over the women, called out to his father as he reached, “If you will just let
loose one hand…”
“Not another bloody word, Charles!” Sir Garfield blustered.
Rescue for the gent appeared from an unlikely quarter, as a young officer of the King’s Horse stopped
to observe the spectacle. “A true predicament, upon my word!” he exclaimed with a chuckle. He deftly
dismounted in reckless disregard of the six inches of mud and then tethered his horse to the coach.
“Captain Philip Drake, at your service,” he said, concealing his mirth with a flourishing bow. “Need I
ask, sir, whether you desire to be inside or outside of the coach?”
“I bloody well shan’t attend the races looking like a pig come from the sty!” the portly gent retorted.
Fighting to suppress an outright guffaw at the mental picture, the officer mastered himself enough to
reply, “Then, sir, I shall do my humble best to lend my aid.”
By this time, the bemired coachman had returned from beneath the rear of the vehicle, and betwixt
them, the officer and the coachman pushed against the gentleman’s significant bulk and closed the
coach door sufficiently for his son to pull him back into the relative safety of his seat.
“Such a chivalrous officer! Don’t you think, Mama?” gushed a sweet and breathy voice, which
immediately piqued the trooper’s interest. He stepped closer to peer at the other occupants within the
vehicle. To his pleasure, an angelic face did indeed complement the voice.
Red-faced and disconcerted in his struggle for composure, the portly gentleman offered gruffly: “My
gratitude for your timely intervention, Captain Drake.”
“If your desire is to attend the races, sir—”
“Wallace. Sir Garfield Wallace,” the gentleman interjected.
“Might I suggest, Sir Garfield, that with your carriage thus entrenched, the labor of dislodging it from
the mire might be greatly lessened by the removal of its occupants.”
“Indeed, sir,” piped up the coachman. “’Twould be a good deal easier empty if’n we must push it out
again.”
“And just how do you propose to proceed, Captain?” Sir Garfield glowered at the mud below.
“The coachman and I might, by crossing our arms, form a chair of sorts to convey you beyond the
danger, from whence you might safely proceed to the nearest pavilion. Otherwise, I fear the races may
be well underway before the coach is extracted.”
“The races underway!” Sir Garfield exclaimed.
“Is the hour as far advanced as that?” Charles Wallace inquired anxiously. “I am to ride the first race,
and on a filly sure to win, you know!”
As he glanced up at the noonday sun, the officer considered the question. “I fear they may have
already commenced.”
“Hell and damnation! We must proceed to the grounds at once!”
Charles had already alighted out of the door opposite, landing in ankle-deep mud. He remorsefully
inspected his new riding boots before dashing off in the general direction of the paddocks in a
desperate search of his groom and mount.
“Curse it all!” Sir Garfield swore again. “Four years and one-hundred-guineas entry fee to put my
horse in this blasted race, only to miss it!”
“Then might I suggest we conduct your remaining party thither without further delay,” said Captain
Drake.
Forming the human chair, the two men strained to carry Sir Garfield the ten paces to the grassy
heath. They followed with Lady Felicia, another sizeable burden, then returned for the two final and
much lighter occupants.
Reaching the coach first, Drake hoisted the seraphic beauty into his arms. Well disposed to this
notion, she wrapped her own arms tightly about his neck as he carried her.
“So very gallant, Captain Drake,” she cooed while gazing dreamily into his eyes.
“Mayhap we shall become better acquainted these two days, my lady?” he suggested.
“One may always hope,” she replied à la coquette. Their arrival on solid ground ended any further
private discourse.
The coachman arrived, carrying the last occupant, Charlotte Wallace, and Sir Garfield offered another
thanks but, having witnessed his daughter in the officer’s arms, with less enthusiasm.
The party now safely assembled on the far side of the road, Drake bowed his departure, crossed the
mucky path for the final time, and remounted. Without a backward glance, he waved down a fellow
officer in the near distance and spurred his horse toward the racing paddocks.
His every motion was followed by Beatrix’s intent gaze.
***
Robert Devington found he could barely squeeze into Charles’s racing silks. He was now more than a
bit worried about making the ten-stone weight for this class. Since attaining the age of twenty, his
form had matured, and his added muscle had limited his rides to those assigning weight by inches or
by the age of the horse. He didn’t know if he would make the cutoff, reckoning now that he must
outweigh the younger and slighter Charles Wallace by a good half stone.
His second worry, if he made the weight, was that this race was sanctioned only for gentlemen
jockeys. Although Robert had ridden as a groom for nearly six years, these events had allowed grooms
and hired riders. This was not such a race. He approached the weighing station with pounding heart.
“Name?” inquired the clerk of the scales.
“Wall…,” he began but hesitated. Charles might very well be known to these gents. Much better to
take his chances with the truth.
“Name,” the clerk repeated.
“Devington. Robert Devington. The horse is White Rose. Owner, Sir Garfield Wallace.”
“I don’t show a Devington on White Rose. Charles Wallace is to be up.”
“Charles Wallace was unpredictably detained. I ride in his stead. Devington, Robert Devington,” he
repeated.
“This is a sanctioned race, Mr. Devington.” The clerk spoke accusingly. “No grooms allowed.
Gentleman jockeys only. Unless you are a kinsman, the race is forfeit.”
“I am not in Sir Garfield’s employ,” Devington said, dissembling, and nonchalantly sat upon the scales.
“I am betrothed to the gentleman’s niece and therefore a kinsman.”
The scales swung in the balance.
“Nine stone, twelve and one-half pounds, ” the attendant announced with raised brows.
Having made the weight by the skin of his teeth, Robert slowly exhaled. He was uncertain if he was
relieved or not. Had he not made weight, he would have had a valid excuse not to go through with an
act he would surely live to regret.
“Sign the register, then proceed with your mount.” The clerk’s voice was a no-nonsense monotone.
“Next rider.”
As he signed, Devington scanned the book for the other entries in his race. Nine had been slated to
run, but strangely, six were now struck from the register: Merry Andrew, Traveler, Miss Romp, Cupid,
Phantom, and Othello. All good horses. Curious why they should have withdrawn, Devington
continued down the list.
The first name that had not forfeited was Lord Gower’s own Slug, whom Devington knew to be a
respectable runner but certainly not one to scare off the competition. Lastly appeared Hastings’s
Hawke, Lord Edmund Drake, Viscount Uxeter up.
The horse, Hawke, was said to be unbeatable in his class, and Viscount Uxeter was a man preceded
by a foul reputation. He was a villainous rider with a passion for high-spirited but ill-tempered horses
and would bloody his mount’s flanks before suffering defeat. He had proven as much last spring with
Spanking Roger, son of the famed Flying Childers, and a superlative runner.
The horse had lived up to expectations by running four seasons undefeated in all but one race—the
one in which he had viciously tossed his rider. Spanking Roger’s name thereafter became synonymous
with malevolence, and Lord Uxeter had relished the challenge of owning and racing him. In the
end, however, the fiery steed proved unequal to his rider, who pushed him to his very death in a
match race. The combination of names answered the riddle, and a chill of foreboding accompanied
Robert to the starting post.
Robert’s own mount, a mare affectionately called Rosie, was the first out of Sir Garfield’s racing stud to
show any real running potential. She was a scrawny foal and Charlotte’s pet from the start. Truth be
told, though none would ever confess it, Charlotte had trained the mare to run. Although Rosie came
to this event green, Robert knew Charlotte had made her as fit as any horse on the Whittington
Heath. But how game was she?
The young mare carried champion blood. She was by a Darley son, out of a Darley granddaughter,
Amoret. With the noted stallion twice her grandsire, she had the blood of a runner, but did she have
the heart to go with it? This was the remaining question to which he would soon have an answer.
Now less than five minutes to start, the bugler sounded the final call. Robert mounted the frisky mare
and proceeded at a brisk trot to the starting post, where Slug’s rider waited patiently astride the
gelding, and Viscount Uxeter spurred his horse, Hawke, into a dancing frenzy.
The starter gave the command for the trio to line up and wait for all to settle before raising the flag,
but Hawke, worked up to a nervous lather, broke forward in a false start. Lord Uxeter, realizing the
error, jerked his horse to a hard halt and wrenched him back around to the starting post. Their
horses now jigging in heightened anticipation, Devington and Gower had to circle for some minutes to
resettle their excited mounts.
For the second time, the starter raised the flag. As it descended, the trio broke forth in a flurry of legs,
lunging forward for a single heat, four-and-a-half-mile test of endurance, by a three-time
circumnavigation of the track.
Devington knew his mare was up to the distance. Her daily routine for the past six months had
included a spirited five-mile gallop on similar turf, but the day prior had been soggy, saturating the
ground. The spongy turf pulled at her feet with every stride, but the going was as good as it was going
to get.
Devington consoled himself that they at least had the advantage of the first race, before the track
became completely pockmarked with hoofprints. The last riders would suffer the most disadvantage,
as the now green surface became degraded by day’s end to pure muck. With each lap of the track, the
running would get slower and harder and try to suck the horses in.
It paid the rider to understand how turf conditions affect performance and how to manage even those
things beyond a jockey’s normal control. It was even more vital to understand how best to manage
both the strengths and limitations of one’s mount, even under adverse conditions.
The most superior jockeys were not always on the most superior horses, but were always the ones
who knew how to ride smart rather than just hard. Devington was such a rider. He had acquired years
of such equine wisdom under two of the best tutors: first his father and later Jeffries, the stable
master at Heathstead Hall. In his relatively short career, Devington had ridden a hundred horses if he
had ridden one, and he knew how to read them.
Keeping his mare well in hand, he studied the pair with whom he shared the field. Slug, he mused,
was aptly named. He was the lazy sort. The type of horse with talent, but with a stubborn lethargy,
having the inherent speed within him, but requiring the incessant driving of his rider to bring it out.
This kind of horse required constant attention.
Devington knew this would serve him later. They would hang back just a notch and await the precise
moment when Slug’s rider would be too worried about driving acceleration to be aware of his
competition. This is when they would grab the inside.
That Hawke was another case altogether from Slug was evident from the very outset, the moment he
broke for a false start. He was a tightly strung stallion with a fine-tuned flight impulse, needing no
encouragement from his rider to run. A horse of his kind ran with a frantic fear, as if his very life
depended upon it, burning up excess energy that he could ill afford to lose on a field with worthy
competition. Pushing a horse like Hawke with injudicious whip and spur would prove
counterproductive, serving only to increase his stress and rarely inciting any willing or renewed effort
to the fore.
The third type of runner, well represented by Rosie, the sprightly mare on whom Devington was
mounted, was the willing partner. This kind was eager to please and attuned at every moment to its
rider, anticipating and responding to the slightest cue of hand, voice, or leg. This was an honest
runner, one rarely needing encouragement to perform, a horse to be trusted to run its own race to the
best of its ability, simply guided by the intelligent rider.
Devington relaxed almost imperceptibly, trusting Rosie to pace herself for a while. As long as she didn’
t drop back or lag more than a length or two, he wouldn’t drive her. Instead, he kept his eyes focused
on the competition, reading every sign, developing his plan, seeking his advantage, riding this race
to the peak of his horse’s ability.
Either of the other two horses could be managed and run successfully, but success would depend
completely on the skill and management of the rider, and Devington could clearly ascertain by the end
of the second lap that Slug was decidedly undermanaged by his indolent jockey, and the high-strung
Hawke was incontrovertibly terrorized by his.
By the start of the third lap, Devington was crouched low over the mare, well pleased and encouraged
that Rosie was up in the bridle, holding her own, and keeping good pace with the two taller, longer-
legged horses. Lord Uxeter was already plying the spur into the first bend, but Rosie, keenly aware of
her rider, required little urging, voluntarily lengthening her stride to maintain her position.
By the end of the final lap of the arduous run, Lord Uxeter had completely used up his horse, and
Slug had completely used up his rider!
Grinning with satisfaction, Devington seized the moment to claim the lead, murmuring low to Rosie,
“It would appear, my lovely girl, the race is ours.”