Quarter past eleven in the evening
“What did youfind out?” George, his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, stood on his right foot in a corner of the gaming floor of the Lyon’s Den. He held out his left leg before him, a scuttle of coal dangling from his ankle. The longer he held it, the more the bets around him grew.
“What do you know about Clydesdales?”
His foot wavered and George almost lost balance, but he persevered. A snarl of dissatisfaction moved through the cluster of men around, but the bets continued. “I know that anything out of Scotland is dodgy.”
“That’s rather bigoted of you.”
“Have you ever been to Scotland? Everything north of Manchester is suspicious.”
“I thought your father had mills in Leeds. And an estate between them.”
“Exactly my point. You haven’t been. I have. Dodgy, the lot of them.”
“They are workhorses. A recent breed, apparently. Bred from Flemish stallions. Larger than most.”
George’s balance wavered again, but he caught himself. “And exactly why are we discussing workhorses?”
“Lady Mary’s brother, the duke, bought two for their estate. She is quite enamored of them. Of their beauty and power.”
“Lovely. She likes horses. Does she smell like hay and manure?”
“Hardly. She smells like lemon water and rosemary.”
“What’s the time?”
Thad looked down at his pocket watch, with which he had been timing George’s bet. “Fifteen minutes.”
“This is starting to hurt like the devil. What was the bet on seventeen minutes?”
“Fifty pounds for anything over fifteen. Next bet is at eighteen.”
With a deep sigh, George set down the scuttle and motioned to the men around them. “That’s the call. Anyone who had less than fifteen, pay up. Over fifteen, collect your winnings.”
Thad shook his head, as George collected and distributed the money, taking in more than three hundred fifty pounds from the men betting against him, paying out only one hundred to those who had wagered George could hold the scuttle longer than fifteen minutes.
Unlike his attempts to balance steins of ale on his head, George had worked the scuttle of coal wager many times before. There were always men on the floor who had not witnessed it, had no clue that as an avid rider, George had legs like steel braces. He also waited until late in the evening to run it, with all the men were well into their cups, eager to lose money on unusual bets, the odder, the better. George’s specialty.
George set the scuttle next to the wall and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. He pointed to a nearby table and waved a server over and snagged two pints of the tray. He set one in front of Thad as they dropped into chairs. “So your perfect angel likes fruits, herbs, and big horses? Sounds promising for the bed play.”
“Crude. She is remarkably clever, possibly more so than Lydia.”
“She is not Lydia. Did you discover any other deep secrets? Other than the horse thing.”
Thad drank, trying to decide how to phrase what he had learned from Lady Mary in the park. After he had summarized their conversation, George leaned back, studying his friend.
“Do you believe her to be truthful?”
“The women did treat her with disdain. I cannot imagine her making up such rumors. Why? What are you thinking?”
George sipped his ale. “That perhaps there is truth to the rumor. She would hardly be the first young lady of thetonto slip, to have a child reared by relatives as their own. It would explain why they turned to the Lyon for help. And it makes more sense than her brother wanting her married so that he can traipse off to India and leave her behind.”
“I do not see why that could not be a legitimate concern. He and his wifearegoing to India. Their home is already littered with packing crates.”
“Yes, but there are alternatives to marrying her off. She could go with them. She could return to her mother and wait until next season. She could move in with his wife’s family, which I happen to know is large with several big houses, and any number of women who enjoy balls and other feminine folderol. There are options.”
“‘Feminine folderol.’ You are never getting married.”
