The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

The bright moonlight glinted off the white wooden fence that, along with the oaks, lined the drive from the main road to the big house itself. The Warfield Stud and Racing Stable was huge, profitable, and well run. James admired it and prayed Marathon would one day be as successful. He particularly liked all that white fence that went on and on until it disappeared beyond a stand of oak trees into the darkness. He could only imagine what it would cost to keep that damned fence painted white.

When James pulled Sober John up in front of the stables, a young black slave dashed forward to take his reins. “Rub him down good, Jemmy,” James said, and tossed the boy a coin.

“Sell me Sober John.”

“Forget it, Oliver.” He stretched out his hand and shook the older man’s. His hair was redder than the brat’s, though unlike hers it was threaded with gray and was as grizzled as James’s hairbrush. His eyes were a faded blue, unlike the brat’s which were a wet-looking green, the color of the damp moss beside a pool of dirty water in the middle of a swamp. “You had four winners in the races today, all of them Friar Tuck’s get. That two-year-old filly—Miss Louise—she’s going to keep you winning for years, barring accidents. You don’t need Sober John.”

“If I had Sober John I’d put you right out of business, boy.”

“I hope the thought keeps you awake at night.”

Oliver sighed deeply. “I’m getting old. Aches and pains keep me up enough at night. Oh hell, if I were your age again, I’d steal Sober John, challenge you to a duel, and put a bullet through your gullet. Now I’m too old to do anything but whine and bark like an old dog.”

“An old dog that likes claret.”

Oliver Warfield grinned, showing a darkened tooth in the front of his mouth that would have to be pulled soon. “You had three winners—not bad for a young fellow with a dash of skill. You would have had more if your jockey, Redcoat, hadn’t broken his leg.”

“He wouldn’t have broken it if that lout from the Richmond Rye stable hadn’t tried to slash him apart with his riding crop, sending him into a tree.”

“So give your jockeys pistols, James—some owners do, you know. Come inside, my boy. I want my claret. I want to gloat. Jessie told me to do it up right since you tried to do her in today.”

“I don’t think it’s possible.”

“What?”

“Doing in Jessie. I think she puts glue on the seat of her pants. I’d have to pry off her saddle, too.”

James followed Oliver Warfield into the large office he’d added onto one end of the huge stable. It was lit with four lamps. The air was redolent of the smells of leather, horse, hay, and linseed oil. James breathed in deeply. He loved the smells, had all his life. Oliver waved him to a deep black leather chair. He took the bottle, opened it, and poured both of them a liberal glass.

“To your victory,” James said, hating those particular words. Oliver knew it, too, the old bastard.

“My victory.” He clicked his glass to James’s, then sat back and drank deep. “Were there many at the races today? I had to leave early. This damned gout of mine gets nastier by the year.”

“I’m sure Dr. Dancy Hoolahan would tell you the claret doesn’t help.”

“Then you should try to win more often.”

“Hell, so it’s my fault that you have gout?”

“Well, it’s your bloody claret. All I have to do is win and you’re here to pour it down my throat.”

“The very best bloody claret.”

Oliver Warfield grinned, raising his glass again. “Here’s to my bloody gout and your damned excellent claret. Now, my boy, were there a goodly number of folk at the races throughout the day?”

“A good number. A lot of ladies, which is a good sign. The Puritans are trying their best to get racing outlawed, but I don’t think it’ll work here. We’re all too big a bunch of sinners.”

“You’re right about that. Ah, it’s fun to gloat. It always makes me feel better. A warm, sunny day never hurts attendance. I wish I could have been there for all of it.”

“There were assorted broken bones to liven things up. Look, Oliver, I just nudged Jessie,” James said, sitting forward, cupping his wine glass in his hands, “I didn’t really try to toss her off. I just wanted to wipe the grin off her face.”

“That’s not what she says, but she’s always ready to look at you cross-eyed, James. I don’t know why the girl can’t abide you. It’s not that she’s a little prude, not my Jessie. But she hasn’t liked you since she met you—what was it? At least six years ago. She was just a little tyke then.”

“She’s never been little in her life. When she was fourteen, she was all legs and a big mouth.”

“Well, maybe that’s true about her mouth,” Oliver said. “She beat you soundly, James.”

James poured them more claret. “To your victory,” he said again, knowing the words would be a litany before the evening was over. The good Lord knew James would need a lot of claret to see him through the evening.