Chapter Seven

“This is a travesty.” As he approached the mews, Spencer swore quietly into the late-morning fog.

Osiris, the greatest racehorse of a generation—champion at Newmarket, Doncaster, Epsom Downs—was stabled here, amongst common carriage horses?

The barn was dark and dank as a cave inside. A blizzard of dust motes whirled in the lone shaft of light penetrating the gloom. The horses’ stalls were cramped, as they always were in Town. Spencer’s nose wrinkled at a trough of stale, fetid water—in Cambridgeshire, his grooms drew fresh water twice daily from the stream.

At his order, the groom opened the door of the stallion’s stall and released him into the small yard. The horse shook himself, nostrils flared and head swinging from side to side. The groom jerked roughly on the halter, and Spencer’s jaw clenched with anger. Had the man been in his employ, that one move would have cost him his post.

“How is he exercised?”

“We turn ’im out twice a day. Sometimes a walk about the yard on a lead. Don’t like to be saddled no more, this one. Touchy with the grooming, too.”

“So you’re letting him tell you what to do, instead of the other way around?”

Tsking softly, Spencer circled the horse. His dark bay coat was in dire need of a brisk raking with a currycomb. Gray hairs mingled with the ebony, giving a hoarfrost look to his forelock, a sign of the stallion’s advancing age. He’d worn a bald patch on his right flank, likely from chafing against the stable wall. Despite the deplorable state of his grooming, however, Osiris remained an impressive example of horseflesh. His high, taut haunches and long, arched neck displayed his Arabian ancestry.

Spencer circled to the front again, standing slightly to the horse’s side, allowing the animal plenty of space to see him, and several snorting breaths to investigate his scent. The look he saw in the stallion’s large, dark-fringed eye pleased him, as did the haughty head toss that yanked the groom off-balance. There was spirit there, and fierce arrogance. That look said, I’m better than this.

“Most certainly,” Spencer agreed. The horse was spoiled as the devil and would need a great deal of retraining with an expert handler, but at least his spirit hadn’t been broken.

He removed his gloves and tucked them beneath one arm, murmuring gently as he approached. After extending his hand palm-down for the stallion to nose and inspect, he laid it against the horse’s withers.

“Far better than this,” he said, giving the horse a brisk rub. The horse turned and nosed his palm, displaying the narrow blaze of white that ran the length of his nose, with the look of a lightning bolt.

Spencer was tempted to saddle the beast and ride him straight out of the mews. But as it was, he already stood accused of murder. It would seem unwise to add horse theft, another hanging offense, to Julian Bellamy’s list of suspicions.

“Holy Christ.”

Spencer’s gaze jerked to the entrance.

Ashworth strode into the barn, chasing the fog of his breath with a low whistle of admiration. “That is one magnificent animal.”

Spencer’s opinion of the man took a small leap in favorability. No matter their history as youths, there was something to be said for a man who recognized quality horseflesh when he saw it. Or, for that matter, a man who recognized a baseless accusation when he heard one.

“That he is,” Spencer said, pride enriching his voice. “His grandsire was Eclipse; his dam’s line goes back to the Godolphin Arabian, with several champions in between. No finer pedigree to be found in English horseflesh.” He took the stallion’s halter himself, dismissing the groom with a glance.

Ashworth tilted his head to examine the horse further. “Had a gelding once from the Darley line. Red chestnut, white markings. Fast as a demon, with a temperament to match. I must have pushed that horse over every moor in Devonshire. Perfect mount for an angry, overgrown youth.”

Spencer wouldn’t have said it aloud, but he too had spent more hours of his youth in the saddle than in the schoolroom. “What’s happened to him now?”

“Dead.”

“In battle?”

“No.”

Ashworth paced idly toward the rear of the yard, and Spencer sensed that he didn’t want to speak of the matter. Strange, that the man would so easily discuss the deaths of his fellow soldiers, only to fall silent when the deceased was a red chestnut gelding.

Or not so strange, perhaps.

“So why are we here?” Ashworth said.

“I’m wondering that myself.” Julian Bellamy swaggered into the yard, turned out in a suit of rumpled cobalt velvet that looked like he’d slept in it. Or not slept in it. His hair always appeared slept-upon; that much was no surprise. Why a man would go to such meticulous effort to cultivate a slapdash appearance, Spencer couldn’t imagine. But then, neither could he fathom why anyone would stable a priceless racehorse in this place.

“We’re here to discuss the investigation of Harcliffe’s murder,” Spencer said. “But first, these boarding conditions are unacceptable.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

He ticked off the list on his fingers. “Fetid water. Rotting hay. Inexpert grooms. Poor ventilation. Cramped stalls. And I haven’t even started in on the lack of proper exerci—”

“Enough already.” Bellamy flashed an open palm. “To my eye, looks no different from the stabling of most Mayfair gents’ cattle.”

“This isn’t a carriage horse, nor a gelding for the occasional prance down Rotten Row. Osiris is a former racehorse, from the most noble of bloodlines.” Spencer gave him a cutting look. “I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand.”

Julian Bellamy’s cheeks blazed a very satisfying shade of red. And the red contrasted most pleasingly with the purpling bruise on his left jaw. The man was simply too easy to provoke, once one discovered that raw, tender gash of bitter jealousy.

“I see,” Bellamy said hotly. “Only the purebred nobleman can truly understand the purebred horse, is that it?”

Spencer shrugged. His own breeding had nothing to do with it, but he definitely knew what was best for this horse. “Proper handling of a horse like this is no simple matter. He was trained to race, from birth. Not only to race, but to be the best. Once a champion, he was spoiled with attention and permissive handling. Add to that, he’s an ungelded male, with a strong natural mating drive. It all adds up to a horse with a mile-wide streak of arrogance, bloody bored out of his mind. Without proper exercise and opportunities to mate, all that aggressive energy festers. He becomes moody, intractable, withdrawn, destructive.”

Ashworth raised an eyebrow at Bellamy. “Is it just me, or is this conversation becoming uncomfortably personal?”

Spencer fumed. “I’m not referring to myself, you ass.”

Suddenly Ashworth was all wide-eyed mock innocence. “Oh, of course you aren’t, Your Grace.” He slyly added, “But it would explain a few things if you were.”

“It would indeed,” Bellamy said. “Like this.” He indicated his bruised jaw.

“I was thinking more of His Grace’s hasty nuptials,” Ashworth said. “Though by that logic, his temper ought to improve markedly tomorrow morning.”

“Enough.” Spencer’s jaw tensed with the effort of self-restraint. “Make all the fun you like. You won’t think it so humorous when Osiris meets with an early death.”

Now that earned the two men’s attention.

Bellamy gave a low whistle through his teeth. “You are a violent one, aren’t you?”

“For God’s sake, it wasn’t a threat,” Spencer said impatiently. “All issues of breeding and training aside, this horse requires superior accommodations by sheer virtue of his value. Personally, I wouldn’t stable a draft horse here, let alone a priceless racehorse. The risk is too great.”

“He’s kept in the most secure stall,” Bellamy said. “The grooms watch in shifts, and the gate is chained and locked at all times.”

“The locks are part of the problem. Look at the condition of this barn.” Spencer swept a gesture toward the cobwebbed rafters. “Dust everywhere, loft crammed with dry hay. It’s a firetrap. One spark would turn this whole structure into an inferno, and all your chains and locks would simply seal the horse’s fate.”

“On that point he’s right,” Ashworth said, all hint of humor gone from his voice. “Stable fires are a nasty business.” He looked to Spencer. “If the two of you want to move him, I’ll take no issue with it.”

“Would you be interested in selling out your share?” Spencer asked. “I’d be generous.”

Ashworth fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the offer. Excellent. If he’d been forced to sell out his commission to pay his estate’s creditors, the man had to be short on funds.

“He can’t sell out his share,” Bellamy protested. “The tokens can only be won or lost in a game of chance.”

“Something of that nature could be arranged,” Spencer said. “Fancy a game of cards, Ashworth?”

Ashworth began to respond, but Bellamy interrupted with a forceful, “No!”

The stallion’s head jerked, and Spencer adjusted his grip on the halter, muttering a litany of soft, soothing imprecations that Bellamy was all too welcome to overhear.

“I won’t allow it,” Bellamy said. “Leo devised this club. He laid down the rules of membership and the code of conduct. Now the man’s dead. The least you can do to honor his memory is to respect the spirit of fraternity this club represents.”

“Some spirit of fraternity,” Spencer said. “Interrupting a man’s wedding with unfounded accusations of murder? Listen, the both of you. I’ll forfeit all interest in the remaining tokens, on one condition. That Osiris be stabled at my estate in Cambridgeshire.”

Bellamy shook his head vigorously.

“Just hear me out,” Spencer said. “The rules remain the same. Any member of the Club may send mares to be mated—”

“All the way to Cambridgeshire?” Bellamy snorted.

“My stables are the finest in the country, and I include the Royal Mews in that assessment. Large stalls, enclosed pasture. My stable master and grooms are the most capable to be had, anywhere. I also keep an expert veterinarian on my staff. At Braxton Hall, this stallion will be among his equals in lineage and ability. Fed properly. Exercised properly. Bred properly.” He reached up to smooth Osiris’s jet-black mane. “This horse belongs with me.”

“You mean the horse belongs to you.” Barely bothering to turn his head, Bellamy spat in the straw. “You believe you’re entitled to this beast, just as you believe you’re entitled to everything. What makes you so much better than the two of us? Your title? The remarkable accomplishment of being born to a noblewoman instead of your father’s favorite chambermaid?”

Oh, now Spencer was thoroughly angered. Whatever clashes they’d had in Spencer’s adolescence, his father had been a decent, honorable man. “Just because you know nothing of your own father,” he warned, “do not pretend to know something of mine.”

Hatred burned in Bellamy’s eyes. “It’s naught but luck. Simple, dumb, blue-blooded luck is all that separates a man like you from a man like me. Leo understood it. He never thought himself the better of anyone. That’s why he created this Club, made its membership contingent on the kind of good fortune that comes after one’s birth, not before it.” His glare alternated between Spencer and Ashworth. “I’ll be damned if I’ll allow the two of you to destroy that. I’ll fight you to my last breath if you try to take this horse from London.”

“You’ll lose.” Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Mark my words, those tokens will be mine, in time. This horse will be mine, in time. And if you think all that separates the two of us is simple, dumb luck …” He shook his head in contempt. “One wonders why you spend such time and effort courting the favor of people you claim to despise.”

Before Bellamy could recover, Spencer changed the subject. “What do we know about Leo’s death?”

“Seems like I should be asking you that question.”

Spencer shrugged off the implicit accusation. “Has the prostitute been found yet? The driver of the hack?”

Bellamy shook his head warily. “Spent all night combing the louse-ridden pig’s arse that is Whitechapel. I’ll be headed straight back when we’re through here. Don’t suppose Your Grace cares to come along?”

“Not particularly.” Spencer beckoned the groom with a nod, then passed him the stallion’s lead. Reaching into his breast pocket, he withdrew an envelope sealed with the Morland crest and extended it to Bellamy.

The man stared at it with resentment. “What’s that?”

“The reason you’re here.” He pushed the envelope into Bellamy’s hand. “Guard it well. Inside, you’ll find the bank draft for twenty thousand pounds.”

Bellamy stared at the letter, his sneer fading.

“Use it to hire every runner and investigator in London. Search every seedy tavern and grimy hole; question every prostitute and footpad. Perhaps you’ll discover some long-lost relations in the process, but you’ll find nothing connecting me to Harcliffe’s death.”

“We’ll see about that.” Bellamy grasped a corner of the envelope and tugged.

Spencer kept his grip on the other edge. “When the killers are found, the remainder goes to Lily. The token comes to me.”

He let go, and Bellamy accepted the envelope with a begrudging nod.

Ashworth spoke up. “I don’t have that kind of coin, but when it’s muscle you need, send for me. If it’s a court trial you’re wanting, though”—his neck cracked menacingly—“I can’t promise there’ll be much left but scraps to stand before the magistrate.”

“Duly warned,” Bellamy said warily. “I thought you barely knew Leo. You’d kill for him?”

The soldier shrugged. “I’ve killed for less.”

Right. Impatient to end this, Spencer said, “If you refuse to allow me to move Osiris, I insist on sending one of my own grooms to oversee his care. I’m for Cambridgeshire tomorrow. Keep me apprised of any and all developments. For that kind of money, I expect a daily express.”

“Fleeing Town rather speedily, aren’t you?” Bellamy asked.

“I am not fleeing anything. I’ve business at my estate.”

“Honeymoon business, I’d wager,” Ashworth said. “A series of pressing engagements with the ducal mattress?”

As the two others exchanged looks, Spencer blew out an impatient breath. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really did just need a good tumble. All the more reason to end this meeting and return home to Amelia, who had both the good sense to disregard these ridiculous accusations, and the lush body to make him forget them completely.

“I still say it’s suspicious,” Bellamy said. “All of it. That hasty wedding, your leaving Town so soon.”

The already-fragile thread of Spencer’s patience snapped. “And if I remained in Town, you would accuse me of tampering in the investigation and impeding justice. Nothing I say will convince you of my innocence, because all you can see is your own culpability. You were supposed to be with your friend that night; instead you were out whoring. Now the guilt’s eating you alive, and until Leo’s killers are found, you’re going to make my life miserable. So much is clear.” He jerked on his gloves. “I don’t care what the devil you think of me. Just find the killers. I want to see them brought to justice every bit as much as you do.”

And I want that token more than you could possibly understand.

“Find them,” he repeated, staring Bellamy down. “Find the token. And then we’ll meet to discuss the future of this club.”

A low rumble of laughter dispersed the angry tension in the air.

“Sorry,” Ashworth said, still chuckling, “It’s just amusing, don’t you think? The three of us, comprising the membership of any club.”

Julian scowled. “It’s absurd, is what it is.”

“Yes, well.” Spencer brushed the dust from his sleeves and motioned to the groom for his mount. “You did say Leo loved a good joke. This one seems to be on us.”