CHAPTER 19
Horse Race at Straggle Horpe
Perhaps the triumphant capture of the escaped monkey had prompted the rise in Nicholas Griffon's humor, but Alix determined to tread lightly. One never knew when another change would transform his newfound buoyancy, and a lapse in her vigilance could quickly end in disaster. Still, she was grateful for his improved outlook as the merry company wended along the road to Stragglethorpe. Seeing him relaxed with his group of friends gave Alix hope that he might not be as terrifying as she had originally thought.
She took the opportunity to consider him as an individual separate from Lily, instead of frantically trying to outwit him with her tenuous act as his wife. It would not be long before they would be blood-related through Lily and Phillip's child. She had always thought that wavy hair on both sides of the family boded well for a baby's curls. Nicholas's high forehead denoted intelligence, his honed nose a solid character, but his stern eyebrows made a crease where they met that eased only when he laughed.
Otherwise, Alix could not detect any problems when he was eating and concluded that his teeth were sound. He was definitely tall and well built, free from physical abnormality, as his agile capture of the monkey had evidenced. The act marked an adequate capacity for planning and execution and exhibited fine reflexes, and from all indications, his family was decent stock. If Phillip shared the same traits, she supposed Lily's child would be healthy.
Alix poked thoughtfully at a carrot on her plate. Perhaps his brother was not as intelligent-after all, he had recklessly impregnated Lily-but then, Lily was her sister, so how could Alix hold that against him? The child should still have a chance to become its own person. She dared another covert look at Nicholas and wondered if he would help to give it one.
She ducked her eyes when his friend John noticed her looking at Nicholas, but it was too late. From his pensive pause, she knew he was about to address her. Defensively, she put the bite of carrot into her mouth.
"Don't you think so, Lily?"
Why did he stress the first syllable of her sister's name, so that it smacked of incredulity? Did John suspect something, or did Lily's husband tell all, as unwitting people sometimes did? Perhaps she should revise her estimation of Nicholas's innate capability, since he did evidence a lack of prudence by having married Lily. That alone was worthy a mark against his capacity for foresight; if it were the same as his brother's, then it might suggest a mental instability. In that case, the poor child could be doomed to an asylum, because Alix's complete loss of memory marked her own unfortunate tendency toward lunacy, which notoriously ran in families.
Without a clue about the topic of conversation, Alix chose a careful answer: "It remains to be seen."
Her response surprised the men, and the trio exchanged glances amid robust laughter. Alix looked to the other women for salvation, but Sarah was busy picking through the peas on her plate and Mary had eyes only for Sam. She hoped her equivocation was sufficiently artful to avoid notice, because Lily would never have shrunk from an opportunity to monopolize the conversation of a group of men.
John Wesley was not the type to ignore an opening, so he pressed on: "Really? How so?"
Alix had pulled a piece from her bread, but his question forced a response. Nicholas watched her expectantly, his cobalt eyes containing a curious light that was of no avail. Sarah and Mary continued to be oblivious, but how could Alix find an opinion without knowing the subject?
Again, she tried to be vague. "Why, on the outcome, of course."
For an extraordinary reason, Nicholas took an inordinate amount of pleasure in her answer. He chuckled as he sat back to drink from his beer cheerfully. "There you have it, Counselor."
The laughter finally pulled Sarah's attention away from her food. "Have what?"
John lifted his glass merrily. "We were discussing the worth of our horses, and Lily thinks we should put it to a test."
Alix felt her mouth drop open but quickly popped her bread into it. There was no need for a race to know that Midnight Star was a better horse than Wexford's Donny Boy.
"A race!" Sarah exclaimed with predictable excitement. "When?"
"Now, Sarah," John concluded, "it wouldn't be fair to race our horses while we're on the road."
In Alix's estimation, to make any race fair would require added weight on the saddle to handicap Midnight, but she hid her opinion in a slow drink of wine, awaiting their deliberation while Sarah clapped her hands, bouncing with anticipation. "Oh, what fun! We've something brilliant planned before we're even home!"
"Isn't that wonderful!" Mary added happily, blushing when Sam reached for her hand beneath the table.
"Lily, you've good luck picking horses! Who do you think'll win?" Sarah asked, reaching for Alix's hand.
John laughed. "Lily suggested a race for a reason, didn't she?"
Alix bit her tongue to keep from joining the ensuing debate, for whatever she added was certain to reveal too much. By the time they returned to the road, she found herself reconsidering her appraisal of Donny Boy. Not every horse made a good racer just because it had speed. Without a doubt, as long as Nicholas Griffon could manage to stay in his saddle, Midnight should win. It would not take long to find out: As they approached the Newton estate called South Hill, the contestants decided to let Sam choose the course and race on the morrow.
MAURICE THOUGHT QUENTON was bluffing and called his hand. The night guard smirked triumphantly as he pushed his tower of pennies into the middle of the pot between them. "All right, monsieur. Show me your cards."
"Be careful, Maury-you've mouths to feed at home," Quenton cautioned, unwilling to take the man's slender earnings with his royal flush, and then hesitated when Moises Benoit appeared in the open doorway. "Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed in disbelief. "Moises," he laughed, springing to his feet.
"My lord marquis, I've brought someone to meet you."
Maurice scrambled to retrieve the carbine he had put aside at the beginning of their poker game. "You can't just come in here," he protested. "Who the hell are you? Where's the bailiff ?" he added, rushing to the door suspiciously.
"This is my attorney, Maury," Quenton supplied gladly. "Moises Benoit, from Limoges."
"And this is Josef L'Argan, my colleague from Paris. Josef, this is the Marquis Saint-Descoteaux, as I promised."
"It's a pleasure, Marquis," the other responded, appearing thin and mousy beside the hearty Benoit as he shook Quenton's hand. After a brief inspection through his lorgnette, he looked to the guard. "The bailiff knows me. He'll be along shortly with paperwork to move the marquis to a more appropriate cell. He'll be released in the morning."
"What do you mean, he'll be along shortly? He's not allowed to let anyone in without a guard!"
"I assure you that he is on his way. In the meantime, Marquis, please allow us to collect your things."
"I've nothing but what you see-"
"Hey, you still haven't shown me your cards."
"I fold." Quenton quit easily, turning to grab up the strewn cards to hide the ones he still held in his hand.
"I warned you," Maurice chuckled cheerfully, eager to claim the meager pile of pennies.
Moises Benoit pulled Quenton aside. "Please forgive my seeming delay, milord. Your letter only just arrived, and . . ."
Quenton was so happy to see him that he could have shouted with relief. "The mail service in and out of this place is as fine as the rest of its accommodations."
Moises nodded knowingly. "Of course, but don't worry," he replied, lowering his voice further. "I thought I advised you to burn that letter. My friend Josef is at his finest with these types of political affairs. We've already filed a petition for immediate release, and they'll take you to a preferable cell until you're free."
"I readily concede that I was extremely foolhardy, Moises, but at this point, isn't retrospection rather futile?"
"Our problem is now the unfortunate result of unprecedented collaboration by an affidavit that was filed in Alpes- Maritimes."
Quenton's short-lived elation at seeing his attorney dissolved in disbelief. "A sworn statement?"
"Yes, a sighting of your brother in Naples. Assuming it false-"
Outraged, Quenton forgot about speaking quietly. "What do you mean, assuming?"
Moises stepped back cautiously. "Please keep calm, milord," his attorney advised, exchanging a quick look with his companion. "Due to the distance involved, we've not yet seen this affidavit for ourselves."
"For God's sake, Moises, what difference does it make if you've