Chapter 13
While the social calendar rolled along steadily, there was another calendar in parallel with it.
With the disappointing revelation of the mystery of Captain Dashwood, Lucy turned her thoughts to the next full moon.
Spring was well in bloom, the nights becoming warmer and shorter.
Warm enough that, by the time she reached the clearing, Lucy almost felt her coat was too much.
Molly had come down with a light spring cold and had been convinced by wiser heads that she should stay in.
Thus Lucy had walked the path in silence that evening, wondering what excitement the night ahead might hold.
Three coaches had assembled by the time Lucy arrived.
Torres and his crew, Lord Rathbone, and a sleek-looking coach attended by a group of roughly dressed men she did not recognise.
She wondered, from their appearance and furtive behaviour, if they might be on the fringes of the law, but at the Night Races such questions were not to be asked aloud.
‘South-east coasters,’ came the Continental accent that could only belong to Dante Torres.
Lucy turned and acknowledged him with a nod.
‘Built for speed on the seaside routes,’ he added.
‘But not for durability,’ she mused.
The coach was finely tuned but had clearly seen better days. The wheels were new, but the frame and axles looked weathered. If it had seen serious coastal use, there would also be greater rust to contend with.
‘They’ve come out to the country in search of easy marks,’ Torres noted with a leery eye. He was a man who took in everything, but gave away little.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because that’s what we do.’ He smiled.
‘I trust the new moon has been well spent for you?’ Wherever Torres and his friends had been, she doubted it involved a life of balls and dressmaking.
‘We get by, Miss Elliot. We get by.’ He bowed and took his leave, neither offended nor surprised by her fishing remark.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves approaching, along with the rattle of wheels.
A fourth coach rode into the clearing, drawn by gleaming chestnut horses, calm and disciplined.
The coach itself was a surprisingly common affair, with little custom work to be seen.
Like the coasters, this model had seen much use, but had been better tended, with parts replaced as needed.
It was a coach built for utility as much as speed; one that might easily be seen on any road in the Empire.
She was in the midst of assessing the wheels and trying to determine what manner of road they were best suited for, when the driver dismounted, seeming to pause as if waiting for her attention.
Once she finally turned that attention to him, there was no mistaking Captain James Dashwood.
Lucy’s first reaction was to feel her sensibility offended.
For a gentleman who was a part of her social circle to show up at the Night Races felt like an invasion of her privacy.
This feeling was an absurd notion, she would readily admit; the Night Races no more belonged to her than they did to any other.
Yet somehow it felt to her improper, and impropriety vexed Lucy in a way few things did.
Her thoughts delayed her from turning away until the opportunity for stealthy retreat was well past.
‘Miss Elliot. What a surprise to see you here. Though I suppose one never knows who might turn up at the Night Races.’
‘You are familiar with the Night Races?’
‘Oh, yes. I myself am not a regular, but I enjoy the escapism of it from time to time. It is nice to put one’s profession into practice recreationally.’
‘Your profession?’ she asked, realising that beyond his rank and posting, she had given little thought to what the captain actually did in the army.
‘Cavalry. Messenger division.’
Her opinion of him, already on unsteady ground, lost another wheel. ‘Messenger? You’re an army … mail carrier?’
‘Ha. I suppose one might see it like that. But most mail carriers don’t work under cannon fire. I do hope your Night Races don’t run under cannon rules.’
‘Cannon rules!’ she exclaimed.
‘That was a joke.’ He smiled calmly. ‘Though every region has its own rules for this kind of thing. What can you tell me of them?’
Obliged through politeness and her attention to detail, Lucy realised she was likely the best person to explain things. She found herself expounding the local rules, of which she had gained a firm grasp over the years.
Dashwood swiftly revealed himself to be no fool on the subject, occasionally clarifying local slang, but engaging heartily in a manner that Lucy seldom got to enjoy.
She was on cordial terms with Torres and his team, but they were hardly the most conventional of people.
Torres was terse and studiously enigmatic, Hekili was less interested in the technical side of racing and Ulcha was functionally mute.
Lucy could likely have conversed with Elsa Reinhardt had not their characters ground against each other like a downhill slope and a coach with locked axles and possibly no wheels.
For Lucy to freely engage on the topic of coaches and racing with someone both as knowledgeable and interested as herself was the rarest of pleasures.
So engaged were they in conversation that only the preamble to the first race broke their focus.
Lord Rathbone and Dante Torres had agreed on a large wager, and there was excitement around the clearing, as it was commonly agreed that the two had the finest coaches in the district.
Rathbone and his messenger were already in place, his horses fresh and ready to go.
With a careful pace, Hekili led Torres’s horses and coach to the starting line, seeming to give the animals even more attention than usual.
Ulcha sat in silence, her eyes closed as they always were before the start of a race.
Lucy had once believed it might be some kind of meditation; her current theory was that it was more about adapting her eyes to the dark road that awaited her.
She was a strange girl but, like the rest of the team, she fitted into her role with precision.
Once the racers and the crowd were assembled, there was a brief pause, silent anticipation falling over the clearing.
The starter sounded and the race began.
Torres was the first to gain the lead, his deft horsemanship weaving him into an advantage. Both coaches were large, meaning less margin for error as they moved side by side, hoof beats racing into the night.
Torres was pushing forward hard, with a pace he seldom used this early in a race. Despite their speed, he was forced to slow slightly on the corners, the dual-spring axle system still in place. Rathbone used this to gain ground on his rival, his coach steadier on the turns.
Lucy took a moment to glance to the side to the sight of Captain Dashwood tracking the action through a sturdy spyglass.
There was a faint glimmer of excitement on his face amongst his stern concentration.
He observed the race with an analytical eye, the way a scout might scan across the field of battle.
This was no mere race to be enjoyed. This was reconnaissance.
Lucy wondered whether her features might display such an expression when she was engaged with a race, assessing and contemplating every shift and turn.
‘Torres is driving his horses damn hard,’ Dashwood noted. ‘He’ll be overtaken in the last stretch.’
‘I don’t believe he shall,’ she replied with a confident pride.
‘You think so? Care to wager?’
Her mind shot back to the card game at St Martins Hall, and the tale of the downfall that had forced the man homeward under false pretences.
‘It is not proper to wager on a race already underway,’ she offered politely. She almost left it there, but something prompted her to push further. ‘And I have heard that you are not always the safest man to wager with.’
‘Have you indeed? Why not a forfeit then? No coin need change hand.’
‘Very well. If I am correct … then you owe me a ride in your coach.’
‘I am quite certain that can be arranged.’
‘And if you are correct, Captain Dashwood?’ asked Lucy, uncertain what to expect.
‘Then you must tell me who informed you of my proclivity for playing fate and fortune.’
This suggestion caught her quite off guard. However, as she considered it, she saw no real harm in it. She was confident of her success and willing to pay the price of failure.
‘Agreed.’
Without another word, they returned their attention to the race.
As Dashwood had anticipated, Rathbone had drawn closer with each turn; the last arc left Torres with the slimmest of margins.
They were now in the final straight, a race to the line and a battle of nerves.
By most measures, Rathbone should have been able to gain the lead, and there seemed little doubt he was moving up on Torres.
From their observation point in the clearing, at their angle, it was difficult to say which of the moonlit coaches was closer.
Only when they finally crossed the line, the horses slowing and the coaches rolling to a gradual stop, was it clear that Torres had held off his competitor by the slimmest of margins.
As the lord’s groom took his horses, and Hekili and Ulcha took away theirs, a hearty laugh escaped from Rathbone, his cheeks flushed as he gradually relinquished his grip on the reins.
His excitement seemed a world away from Torres and his collected swagger, though there were matching smiles on both their faces.
The two men dismounted, faced each other and shook hands.
Rathbone passed over a purse, the sum within likely meaning little to him but much to Torres and his team.
Lucy wondered if they lived on the proceeds of racing.
It was hard to imagine any of them making a living in other work.
‘It would seem,’ said Dashwood, ‘you have me at a disadvantage.’
‘It would indeed.’ She smiled.
‘What is your secret?’
‘A somewhat unfair one,’ she explained. ‘Local knowledge that you could not possibly have possessed. Last month Lord Rathbone overworked his horses. He took this on board from his groom. Torres knew this and played into it. He raced hard at the start, knowing that on the final stretch His Lordship would be unlikely to repeat overtaxing them.’
‘Noli equum praetercurrere, sed hominem.’
‘Race not the horse, but the man?’
‘A saying. Your Senor Torres is quite a canny driver.’
‘He is. I sometimes wonder if we are graced with the finest race team in the Isles.’
‘Certainly the most curious. Quite the motley crew he has assembled. But there is no denying talent.’ Dashwood seemed to contemplate something as he watched Torres heading back towards his team.
He abruptly stepped forward, intercepting Torres as he walked.
‘Well raced, sir. You have a remarkable ease at the reins.’
‘Thank you. You must be Captain Dashwood.’
‘It seems my reputation precedes me.’
‘A man of your history comes to the county and racers talk.’
Lucy wondered what Torres meant by this exchange.
‘Stories tend to be exaggerated,’ said Dashwood.
‘Stories like the emergency orders at the Battle of Rolica.’
Dashwood stiffened slightly, then resumed his smile. ‘That story would, of course, be a classified military matter.’
‘Of course.’ Torres returned the smile slyly. ‘You know the best thing about the Night Races? They have their own rules of standing. A racer is a racer, no matter what. The only wagers that matter are the ones you honour here.’
The intimation was clear enough. Torres knew about the gambling and hinted at a good deal more. But there was an earnest respect in his words.
‘Thank you, senor. I quite agree that the skills of a racer should be commended by moonlight though they may be condemned beneath the chandelier. Some of the most impressive feats will never be written in the history books.’ Dashwood paused, letting the moment hang before following up. ‘Such as the Flight of Lisbon perhaps?’
This time it was the turn of Torres to tense. It seemed he was not the only one with sources of intelligence.
‘Good racing,’ the Spaniard answered, cooler than before. ‘If you make it past the start line.’ With an enigmatic smile, he bowed his head then glided away.