10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [36]
“I call it an étagère these days,” Amy said sadly. “But still nobody wants it. I don’t suppose you ... ?”
“No,” I said. And nor did I want any of the silver spoons or children’s toys or secondhand clothes neatly and cleanly arranged to do good.
I retrieved the Range Rover from its safe haven, picked up my father and (following Mervyn’s ungracious directions) found Polly’s unexpectedly grand house in the woods. She sat on the rear seat for our journey to the races, and with a touch of glee, detailed a few telephone calls she had made; a touch of persuasion here, a dangle of carrot there.
“Mr. Anonymous Lover Wyvern,” she said, “received a lovely last-minute invitation to play golf in the county’s top pro-am event of the year, an offer he’d have to have been ice to refuse. So off he was due to go with his precious clubs, and that was him out of the way.”
“How did you manage it?” my father asked admiringly.
“Inducements,” she said darkly. “And, shortly af terwards, Orinda got invited to the stewards’ box at the races....”
“That’s where we’re going too!” exclaimed my father.
“You don’t say!” Polly teased him. “Benedict,” she admonished me, “I’m giving you Orinda without the lover, so don’t waste the day.”
“But what can he do?” my father protested. “He knows,” Polly said. “How he’ll do it, I can’t tell, but trust your son.” She switched her attention back to me. “Orinda knows bugger all about racing. She’s going today for the snob value of a duke, who’s one of the stewards. You’ll have to contend with that. Think you can do it?”
I said a bit helplessly, “I don’t know.” Polly’s forthright language always disconcerted me, although everyday lurid stable talk passed my ears unnoticed.
“Go for shit,” she said.
Orinda was already into lobster mousse with diced cucumber when we reached the stewards’ luncheon room, and although she looked outraged at our arrival she could do little but choke and recover with sips of wine, patted delicately on the back by the duke at her side.
The duke rose and gave Polly a conspiratorial kiss on the cheek, and I saw how Orinda had been hooked and reeled in.
Orinda wore a white linen suit with a green silk scarf tied and floating from a black lizard handbag that swung from the back of her chair. Sleek, matte-skinned, her presence easily eclipsed every other woman in the room, especially Polly, who had dressed as usual, as if not sure of the event or the season.
My father shook hands all around, his innate, unmistakable power turning every head his way, even in a roomful of powerful men. Orinda hated him.
“My son, Benedict,” he said, introducing me: but it was he who claimed their eyes.
The duke, hesitantly, said to me, “Haven’t I met you before? Haven’t you ridden against my son Edward?”
“Yes, sir. At Towcester last Easter. He won.” The duke had a remembering smile. “You finished third! It was Eddie’s birthday. We had an impromptu party to celebrate. You were there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nothing like racing, is there? Best thing on earth, Eddie says.”
My father looked sharply at my face.
“Best thing,” I said.
“Mind you,” the duke said to my father, “for all these young men, it’s only a hobby. Amateurs can’t make a living at it. The best amateurs used to be able to turn pro but for some reason it’s hardly ever done these days. Eddie needs a job. Amateurs can’t ride forever. I expect your Benedict knows all that. A good fellow, your Benedict, Eddie says. Sit down, Mr. Juliard. It’s an excellent lunch.”
He seated my father on the other side of him from Orinda, whose enjoyment of the day had waned to twilight, even though the sun outside shone brightly. She pushed away her unfinished mousse as if she could no longer taste it and had difficulty, with rigid facial muscles, in smiling at her host.
A stocky man of perhaps sixty, the duke looked less patrician than industrious, a worldly-wise business-man, a managing director