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“No. On his forearm. Lots of them.” Alberts shuddered. “It wasn’t pretty. Neither was he. He was hard as hell looking, like he’d just as soon kill you as not. The kind you don’t want to meet on London Bridge after midnight.” Renewed fear slashed across his face. “The kind you don’t want to cross. Understand?”
Dustin lunged forward and grasped Alberts’s shirt, dragging him up off the seat. “I understand. Now, it’s time you did the same. I want you to tell me every bloody detail you remember about this scarred man. Then I want you to get on a ship and take an extended holiday. Not only because you’re terrified of this scoundrel who, if he learns you’ve been talking to me, will take you apart piece by piece, but because your already floundering career will be over if you remain. Why? Because I’ll report you to the Jockey Club and ensure that your license is revoked and that you don’t work another day for the rest of your life. So, I’d suggest you take that vacation.” Dustin slid one hand into his pocket and extracted some bills. “I’ll give you two thousand pounds. Disappear until the fall meeting. Maybe by then those ruffians will have forgotten you, and, if I’m in a generous mood, I might help you get another retainer, albeit small. Maybe. And that’s only if I feel confident that you never intend to act unlawfully again.” Dustin dangled the money before Alberts’s ashen features. “Well? Have we a deal?”
“Yeah.” The jockey snatched the money. “He’s tall, maybe a little bit shorter than you. He’s got a thin nose and light brown hair. His build is only average, not real powerful or anything. But he’s scary looking—it’s something in his eyes. They’re like chips of ice. Blue ice. Also, it’s the way he moves. Like a cat about to spring for its supper.”
“How was he dressed?”
A shrug. “Same as me. Only not in racing colors. He looked like a regular stable hand. He’s not a blue blood, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.” Dustin searched Alberts’s face, then flung him away. “I’m going to make sure no one is about who might ask questions. When I announce that it’s safe, I want you to get out and walk away. Don’t repeat this conversation to anyone and don’t show your face in England until September. Now, do you understand?”
Nervously, Alberts nodded.
“Good.” Dustin eased from the carriage and stretched, glancing idly about. Other than Lanston, who was chatting a short distance away with several other owners, the area was clear. Dustin leaned into the carriage, muttering, “On your way, Alberts.”
The wiry man was out and gone in a flash.
“Did things go to your liking, my lord?” Saxon inquired, strolling around from the other side of the carriage.
“Yes. Finally, I learned something I didn’t already know.” Dustin’s eyes narrowed. “But before I divulge the details, how the hell did you know who Alberts was, much less that I wanted to detain him?”
Saxon’s lips curved. “Unearthing information is what you pay me to do, sir. While you’ve been probing for clues, I’ve been listening outside the stands. One of the benefits of being a driver is that in the eyes of the aristocracy you’re invisible. Two of the Jockey Club Stewards wandered by me, engaged in conversation. When I heard your name mentioned, my ears perked up. They were discussing Alberts and his failing career. One of them brought up the fact that you’d dismissed him. I found myself wondering if he could be one of the jockeys you intended to interrogate. An hour later, Parker—who I believe was the first rider I saw you question and who, incidentally, was the pathetic lad who’d intended to throw a race and share the profits with Alberts—waylaid a man as he arrived at Newmarket. He called the fellow Alberts, informed him that their ‘arrangement’ was off, and suggested that he leave, given that you were grilling those you suspected of throwing races. As luck would have it, you were, at that moment, making your way from the course. I saw you. So did Parker and Alberts. Parker darted off. Alberts prepared to flee. I couldn’t allow that to happen. So, at the right instant, I modified his plans. It was simply a matter of timing.”
Dustin shook his head in amazement. “Your uncle was right. You are extraordinary.”
“Just doing my job, sir. But, thank you.” Saxon inclined his head. “I assume you were on your way to advise me that we’ll be leaving Newmarket?”
“Definitely. I have one stop to make in Suffolk. Then, it’s home to Surrey.”
“Dustin?” Lanston strolled over, a perplexed look on his face. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, why?”
“I saw Alberts leap from your carriage and bolt. I thought perhaps you’d had words.”
“We did.”
“About last fall?”
“About the differences that prompted my discharging him, which I hope I’ve now resolved.” Dismissing the subject, Dustin clapped Lanston on the arm. “In any case, I was about to come looking for you to congratulate you again on your victories and to say good-bye. I must be heading back to Tyreham. My Derby preparations await. Will I see you at Epsom?”
The earl gave an adamant nod. “I wouldn’t miss it. I look forward to witnessing this phenomenon of yours, this Stoddard fellow, racing Dagger.” A challenging lift of his brows. “Who knows? Perhaps I’ll offer you some healthy competition during the remainder of the meeting.”
“Perhaps.” With a broad grin, Dustin climbed into the carriage. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“You can’t count on anything. That’s the most important lesson I can teach you.”
Nick Aldridge paced about the cottage sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration as he instructed Nicole.
“I know that, Papa.” She perched on the edge of the sofa. “After all these years of watching you, I’ve learned that one can rely only upon one’s wits.”
“Good girl. Because you can’t control the weather, the conditions of the grounds at Epsom that day, or any unplanned complications that might occur during the race. All you can do is know that bloody course like the back of your hand and size up the other jockeys to the best of your ability.” Halting, Nick leveled his gaze at Nicole. “We’ll deal with how to handle the other jockeys—averting their various maneuvers to crowd you out, identifying the best ways to thread through their midst, and a host of other techniques—next week. But for now, let’s deal with you. To begin, where would you ideally be situated if you had your pick of the lots drawn?”
“At the rail, of course.”
“What if you weren’t?”
“Then I’d look for the first opportunity to squeeze by and get there.” She grinned, holding up her palm to ward off her father’s oncoming admonishment. “‘Look’ is the wrong choice of words. Sense. I wouldn’t spend an extra minute watching the other jockeys. I’d only give them an occasional glimpse to assess their respective positions. To avert my head would be distracting to Dagger and detrimental to our speed.”
