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Chapter 12
“God’s wounds! What a horse,” Marcus said as he and Mr Blake stepped away from the racetrack.
“I do not understand how that horse won,” Mr Blake said, shaking his head. “As thin and as scrawny as my valet is, how on earth did he move so fast?”
“You are simply upset because I put money on that horse and won, and you did not,” Marcus pointed out, earning laughter from his friend.
“Ha! Perhaps so,” Mr Blake said as they stepped into the pavilion building nearby, moving between other gentlemen in search of a drink.
It had been five days since Marcus had first met Mr Blake and he was beginning to wonder what life would be like without this young man’s good humour in his life. Soon, he might well have to go back home to the stuffiness of preparing to be Marquess someday, working too hard and giving himself migraines. What then? Someone like Mr Blake would certainly be pleasant to have around to offer some lightness to the proceedings.
The last few days had hardly been the relaxing time that Walter intended for Marcus to have, but Marcus had loved them all the same. Not a day had passed by where he and Mr Blake were not doing some activity. On the third day, they had rented boats and gone sailing on the Thames, even racing their own dinghies, a race that Mr Blake won by a country mile.
On the fourth day, they had stayed mostly at the club, playing billiards and other such games. Today though, they were at the horse races, intent on more activity and amusement.
As Mr Blake bought the two of them drinks, Marcus saw Mr Blake’s valet trying his best to make it through the crowd in the pavilion toward them. His own valet had come with him on the trip but was nowhere near as fussy and stayed back at the club. It seemed Mr Blake’s valet was far more attentive.
“Your valet seems rather insistent to see you,” Marcus said, taking the glass of sparkling wine from Mr Blake’s hand.
“Whatever for?” Mr Blake said, looking round with more than a little worry.
“He is a most attentive valet that I have noticed,” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes at the approaching Sherborne. Every day Sherborne was whispering something in Mr Blake’s ear or urging something that made Mr Blake’s eyes widen. It piqued Marcus’ curiosity, the strange behaviour between the two of them, though he could not for the life of him figure out what the reason was. “I shall find us some seats,” Marcus said, leaving Mr Blake alone with the valet for a minute.
He walked through the area reserved strictly for gentlemen, labelled the smoking room, and took up a table that looked out perfectly over the racecourse, yet instead of looking at the horses, his gaze turned back toward Mr Blake and Sherborne. Whatever the valet was saying appeared to upset Mr Blake, who hurried to reset the long shirt sleeves he was wearing around his wrists. After a second, he pulled the tailcoat he had flung over his shoulder back over his body as well, as though hiding from view.
“How odd,” Marcus muttered to himself. It was as though the valet had told him to cover up. Before Marcus could think any more on it, another race began, and his eyes turned to the horses. They had not bet on this race, but he loved watching the horses regardless, seeing the way their ears pricked forward in delight as they romped home along the finishing line.
A second later, the chair was disturbed opposite him, and Mr Blake sat down in his seat, looking more than a little put out.
“Is something wrong?” Marcus asked, looking at his friend.
“Nothing,” Mr Blake said, but he fussed with his shirt sleeves for a second, pulling them further down over his wrists.
“Are you not too warm like that?” Marcus asked, frowning. He himself had taken off his jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves up, for the heat of the day was strong.
“I am fine,” Mr Blake said. Marcus decided to ask no more about it, though it all seemed a little odd to him.
“Right, who should we bet on next?” Marcus said, clapping his hands together and pushing the race card toward Mr Blake, who smiled and looked down at the horses.
“Who’s your pick?”
“I rather like the look of Trojan,” he said and pointed out of the window. “He is in the parade ring now.” Mr Blake turned his head to look at the grey horse before his face turned stoic.
“Thunder and turf!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“What is wrong?” Marcus said, frowning.
“I…” Mr Blake said no more, though his green eyes were fixed on someone in the crowd around the parade ring of horses.
“What is it?”
Mr Blake looked down at where they were sat then jumped to his feet, making the table budge slightly across the floor.
“Mr Blake, what has happened?” Marcus said, moving to his feet too.
“I cannot stay here,” he said hurriedly, and walked toward the exit of the pavilion. Marcus rushed to follow, aware that Sherborne was doing the same thing. The three of them managed to make it outside before Mr Blake squealed in a kind of panic and ran round Marcus, practically hiding behind him. Marcus had to try his best not to laugh. It had been such a high-pitched squeal.
“I take it you are hiding from someone?” Marcus asked.
