It took a great deal to humble Spencer, but his bride—his wife—had just managed to do it.

Lily came forward next. She took the quill and signed in one of the two spaces marked “Witness” before extending the pen to Bellamy. “I think you should sign it, Julian. You know what an amiable sort Leo was. When he conceived of the Stud Club …” She paused. “Forgive me, I still can’t say that without wanting to laugh. Anyhow, he began it with the purpose of making new friends. This was why he decreed membership should be dependent on chance—he wanted to draw together people from different classes, form unlikely alliances. Don’t let his death tear that apart.” She pushed the quill at him. “Please. Do it for Leo. Or if not him, then—”

Cursing, Bellamy ruffled his hair. “Don’t ask it, Lily.”

“Then do it for me.”

With a strangled groan, he snatched the pen from her grip and bent as if he would sign. At the last moment, however, he cast the quill away. “I can’t do it. Even if I believed …” He swore. “I just can’t.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’ll do it,” said Ashworth. The battle-scarred warrior elbowed his way past Spencer. “There’s your unlikely alliance, my lady.”

Unlikely indeed. “You don’t think me a murderer, then?” Spencer asked. Strange, that Ashworth should become his defender. In his entire life, Spencer had only come remotely close to killing one man, and it was him.

“No.” As he bent to scrawl his name across the register page, Ashworth spared him a cryptic glance. “You don’t have it in you.”

The tone of his remark hardly made it a ringing endorsement of Spencer’s character. Then again, Spencer didn’t really care. “Meet me at the mews,” he told the men. “One hour.”

Chapter Seven

“This is a travesty.” As he approached the mews, Spencer swore quietly into the late-morning fog.

Osiris, the greatest racehorse of a generation—champion at Newmarket, Doncaster, Epsom Downs—was stabled here, amongst common carriage horses?

The barn was dark and dank as a cave inside. A blizzard of dust motes whirled in the lone shaft of light penetrating the gloom. The horses’ stalls were cramped, as they always were in Town. Spencer’s nose wrinkled at a trough of stale, fetid water—in Cambridgeshire, his grooms drew fresh water twice daily from the stream.

At his order, the groom opened the door of the stallion’s stall and released him into the small yard. The horse shook himself, nostrils flared and head swinging from side to side. The groom jerked roughly on the halter, and Spencer’s jaw clenched with anger. Had the man been in his employ, that one move would have cost him his post.

“How is he exercised?”

“We turn ’im out twice a day. Sometimes a walk about the yard on a lead. Don’t like to be saddled no more, this one. Touchy with the grooming, too.”

“So you’re letting him tell you what to do, instead of the other way around?”

Tsking softly, Spencer circled the horse. His dark bay coat was in dire need of a brisk raking with a currycomb. Gray hairs mingled with the ebony, giving a hoarfrost look to his forelock, a sign of the stallion’s advancing age. He’d worn a bald patch on his right flank, likely from chafing against the stable wall. Despite the deplorable state of his grooming, however, Osiris remained an impressive example of horseflesh. His high, taut haunches and long, arched neck displayed his Arabian ancestry.

Spencer circled to the front again, standing slightly to the horse’s side, allowing the animal plenty of space to see him, and several snorting breaths to investigate his scent. The look he saw in the stallion’s large, dark-fringed eye pleased him, as did the haughty head toss that yanked the groom off-balance. There was spirit there, and fierce arrogance. That look said, I’m better than this.

“Most certainly,” Spencer agreed. The horse was spoiled as the devil and would need a great deal of retraining with an expert handler, but at least his spirit hadn’t been broken.

He removed his gloves and tucked them beneath one arm, murmuring gently as he approached. After extending his hand palm-down for the stallion to nose and inspect, he laid it against the horse’s withers.

“Far better than this,” he said, giving the horse a brisk rub. The horse turned and nosed his palm, displaying the narrow blaze of white that ran the length of his nose, with the look of a lightning bolt.

Spencer was tempted to saddle the beast and ride him straight out of the mews. But as it was, he already stood accused of murder. It would seem unwise to add horse theft, another hanging offense, to Julian Bellamy’s list of suspicions.

“Holy Christ.”

Spencer’s gaze jerked to the entrance.

Ashworth strode into the barn, chasing the fog of his breath with a low whistle of admiration. “That is one magnificent animal.”

Spencer’s opinion of the man took a small leap in favorability. No matter their history as youths, there was something to be said for a man who recognized quality horseflesh when he saw it. Or, for that matter, a man who recognized a baseless accusation when he heard one.

“That he is,” Spencer said, pride enriching his voice. “His grandsire was Eclipse; his dam’s line goes back to the Godolphin Arabian, with several champions in between. No finer pedigree to be found in English horseflesh.” He took the stallion’s halter himself, dismissing the groom with a glance.

Ashworth tilted his head to examine the horse further. “Had a gelding once from the Darley line. Red chestnut, white markings. Fast as a demon, with a temperament to match. I must have pushed that horse over every moor in Devonshire. Perfect mount for an angry, overgrown youth.”

Spencer wouldn’t have said it aloud, but he too had spent more hours of his youth in the saddle than in the schoolroom. “What’s happened to him now?”

“Dead.”

“In battle?”

“No.”

Ashworth paced idly toward the rear of the yard, and Spencer sensed that he didn’t want to speak of the matter. Strange, that the man would so easily discuss the deaths of his fellow soldiers, only to fall silent when the deceased was a red chestnut gelding.

Or not so strange, perhaps.

“So why are we here?” Ashworth said.

“I’m wondering that myself.” Julian Bellamy swaggered into the yard, turned out in a suit of rumpled cobalt velvet that looked like he’d slept in it. Or not slept in it. His hair always appeared slept-upon; that much was no surprise. Why a man would go to such meticulous effort to cultivate a slapdash appearance, Spencer couldn’t imagine. But then, neither could he fathom why anyone would stable a priceless racehorse in this place.

“We’re here to discuss the investigation of Harcliffe’s murder,” Spencer said. “But first, these boarding conditions are unacceptable.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

He ticked off the list on his fingers. “Fetid water. Rotting hay. Inexpert grooms. Poor ventilation. Cramped stalls. And I haven’t even started in on the lack of proper exerci—”

“Enough already.” Bellamy flashed an open palm. “To my eye, looks no different from the stabling of most Mayfair gents’ cattle.”

“This isn’t a carriage horse, nor a gelding for the occasional prance down Rotten Row. Osiris is a former racehorse, from the most noble of bloodlines.” Spencer gave him a cutting look. “I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand.”

Julian Bellamy’s cheeks blazed a very satisfying shade of red. And the red contrasted most pleasingly with the purpling bruise on his left jaw. The man was simply too easy to provoke, once one discovered that raw, tender gash of bitter jealousy.

“I see,” Bellamy said hotly. “Only the purebred nobleman can truly understand the purebred horse, is that it?”

Spencer shrugged. His own breeding had nothing to do with it, but he definitely knew what was best for this horse. “Proper handling of a horse like this is no simple matter. He was trained to race, from birth. Not only to race, but to be the best. Once a champion, he was spoiled with attention and permissive handling. Add to that, he’s an ungelded male, with a strong natural mating drive. It all adds up to a horse with a mile-wide streak of arrogance, bloody bored out of his mind. Without proper exercise and opportunities to mate, all that aggressive energy festers. He becomes moody, intractable, withdrawn, destructive.”

Ashworth raised an eyebrow at Bellamy. “Is it just me, or is this conversation becoming uncomfortably personal?”

Spencer fumed. “I’m not referring to myself, you ass.”

Suddenly Ashworth was all wide-eyed mock innocence. “Oh, of course you aren’t, Your Grace.” He slyly added, “But it would explain a few things if you were.”

“It would indeed,” Bellamy said. “Like this.” He indicated his bruised jaw.

“I was thinking more of His Grace’s hasty nuptials,” Ashworth said. “Though by that logic, his temper ought to improve markedly tomorrow morning.”

“Enough.” Spencer’s jaw tensed with the effort of self-restraint. “Make all the fun you like. You won’t think it so humorous when Osiris meets with an early death.”

Now that earned the two men’s attention.

Bellamy gave a low whistle through his teeth. “You are a violent one, aren’t you?”

“For God’s sake, it wasn’t a threat,” Spencer said impatiently. “All issues of breeding and training aside, this horse requires superior accommodations by sheer virtue of his value. Personally, I wouldn’t stable a draft horse here, let alone a priceless racehorse. The risk is too great.”

“He’s kept in the most secure stall,” Bellamy said. “The grooms watch in shifts, and the gate is chained and locked at all times.”

“The locks are part of the problem. Look at the condition of this barn.” Spencer swept a gesture toward the cobwebbed rafters. “Dust everywhere, loft crammed with dry hay. It’s a firetrap. One spark would turn this whole structure into an inferno, and all your chains and locks would simply seal the horse’s fate.”

“On that point he’s right,” Ashworth said, all hint of humor gone from his voice. “Stable fires are a nasty business.” He looked to Spencer. “If the two of you want to move him, I’ll take no issue with it.”

“Would you be interested in selling out your share?” Spencer asked. “I’d be generous.”

Ashworth fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the offer. Excellent. If he’d been forced to sell out his commission to pay his estate’s creditors, the man had to be short on funds.

“He can’t sell out his share,” Bellamy protested. “The tokens can only be won or lost in a game of chance.”

“Something of that nature could be arranged,” Spencer said. “Fancy a game of cards, Ashworth?”

Ashworth began to respond, but Bellamy interrupted with a forceful, “No!”

The stallion’s head jerked, and Spencer adjusted his grip on the halter, muttering a litany of soft, soothing imprecations that Bellamy was all too welcome to overhear.

“I won’t allow it,” Bellamy said. “Leo devised this club. He laid down the rules of membership and the code of conduct. Now the man’s dead. The least you can do to honor his memory is to respect the spirit of fraternity this club represents.”

“Some spirit of fraternity,” Spencer said. “Interrupting a man’s wedding with unfounded accusations of murder? Listen, the both of you. I’ll forfeit all interest in the remaining tokens, on one condition. That Osiris be stabled at my estate in Cambridgeshire.”