Fortune's Son (26 page)

Philip was astounded. “You would risk four plate-winning horses for a thousand guineas? Four horses of this caliber are worth twice your wager. Mayhap your mind is disordered after all.”

Lord March answered heatedly, “It's the principle of the thing, Hastings! Besides, the odds are posted at four to one against me, which means I stand to gain a huge sum in secondary wagers, but the money has become inconsequential. Hell, I'm seven hundred pounds invested already and as like to treble that amount before all is said and done. But I'll see it through, by God.”

“That would answer,” Philip replied. “My hat is off to you, March. You are truly one calculating devil. But if you lose any more horses in the training runs, how do you propose to win?”

“I only need four to race, Hastings. I propose to retain a stable of
six
plate winners as a contingency. I'm saving the best of the lot for last, and won't set the date until I deem the equipage fit, and the horses fitter.” March's lips curved up at the corners. “I race only to win.”

“That is very fortunate, my lord, given your luck at cards.” Philip smirked and revealed his match once again, declaring, “The bank wins.”

“So you do,” March replied in resignation.

“Where do you propose to make this run?” Philip asked.

“Once I acquire the horses I seek, we'll begin training at the Beacon Course, Newmarket.”

“You still seek your runners?” Philip asked, a plan now taking root in this wager. “As it happens I retain a number of exceptional blood horses. Notwithstanding one lamentable loss, there are several that would admirably suit your purpose.”

“Your racing stud is at Cheveley, is it not?”

“With all the advantages of being a stone's throw from the exercise heath. March,” Philip asked, “might I propose a partnership? If you can truly produce such a vehicle, I will venture half the couch stakes and half the horseflesh.”

Philip swept the pile of gold he had won into his purse and with a renewed gleam, mentally began the calculations. At four to one odds, he would see this novel racing chaise.

Philip's measures to raise some instant capital had borne fruit, even without resorting to dice. He left White's with the added confidence that he'd bolstered his good credit—premeditated measures that he knew would serve him in good stead. He had two thousand from the sale of the mares, and was now still heavier in the pocket.

“Where to, my lord?” the hackney jarvey asked.

“East End. Stepney,” said Lord Hastings.

“Ain't that the Jews quarter?”

“I trust you've no objection?” Lord Hastings's imperious look silenced the driver.

The hackney set out across the new Westminster Bridge, through London proper, toward Whitechapel. Continuing on Whitechapel Road, they passed King John's Gate and the fourteenth-century St. Dunstan's Church.

The street vendors' cries, in peculiar dialects of mixed Spanish and Portuguese, told Philip they'd arrived in the East End, a thriving community of merchants and shopkeepers dating back to the Commonwealth when Cromwell had allowed sanctuary to the Sephardic Jews seeking refuge from the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions.

The hired carriage pulled up under the portico of the largest home on the street. It was, however, a modest abode for one of the wealthiest men in England when compared to the grand mansions of Mayfair and Grosvenor Square.

When Philip presented his card to the answering footman, he was led with especial deference to the master of the house, who sat at his desk nearly buried behind a mountain of papers. The grizzled gentleman frowned over his spectacles at the interruption, but his expression warmed with recognition. He came from behind the desk to offer a perfunctory bow.

He extended his hand to indicate a chair. Mr. Gideon beckoned to the manservant. “Would you care for refreshment?” When Philip declined, Gideon impatiently waved the servant away and then asked, “To what do I owe the honor, my Lord Hastings?”

Philip knew this man well enough to deliver a straightforward explanation. “I find myself in some difficulty. There was no question of evading you, so I came directly.”

Gideon nodded. “I had indeed heard of your… misfortune. And given my knowledge of your finances, I could not help speculating that you would be tempted to leave the country. I am happy to see it is not so.”

“How is it you come to be so swiftly appraised of my circumstances?” Philip asked. “It is scarce two days.”

“I employ many eyes and ears, my lord. A man in my position must maintain a most diligent watch over his investments.”

“I should have known as much. Your so-called eyes and ears were better informed than the king's own generals during the Pretender's late invasion.”

“I shan't deny it, and my diligence saved the Banks of England from complete collapse. Have you heard the story of old Thomas Snow?”

Philip shook his head with a quizzical look.

“Ah. I must then relate to you this tale. You will find it much diverting. Mr. Snow, a principal of the bank on the Strand, had loaned to me twenty thousand pounds for an agreed term of three months, but shortly thereafter the Pretender advanced on Derby. Panic ensued in the city, and Snow, with all the spirit of an old woman, demanded immediate repayment.

“By this time, however, I'd already been apprised of the Pretender's lack of reinforcements, but since my colleague was so near to hysteria I withdrew twenty one thousand pound notes and used them to wrap a bottle of hartshorn for his nerves.” The gentleman chuckled.

“And by all accounts, the near-run invasion paid you very handsomely.”

“I don't deny it. When the Exchange nearly went to pieces and everyone sold, sold, sold, I liquefied everything I owned to buy, buy, buy. When the country recovered, I had quadrupled my investment. Not to mention the political capital earned from our ministers for preventing economic collapse.”

“A government's appreciation can be a priceless return,” said Philip.

“Nevertheless, I am still denied the full rights of English citizenship. Though I become the richest man in England, as a Jew I may never own a title, a landed estate, nor may my son attend university,” Gideon lamented.

“When a man passes from this earth, posterity does not remember the numbers in his bank account. A sad state of affairs.” Gideon sighed. “But it is not
my
state of affairs which brings you here.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in a listening posture.

“Regrettably not,” Philip said. “As you are already aware, Mr. Gideon, a grave error in judgment has put me at a considerable pass. I come to seek renegotiation of the loan.”

“But the terms were more than fair, with the interest half a percent below the customary rate, as you assured me the funds would be used to restore your estates and to sow your fields. Instead, you've hazarded my investment on a horse race.” His expression was grim. “I am deeply aggrieved by this breach of trust.”

Philip colored. “I have no intention of defaulting on the loan. I simply need more time.” He retrieved his purse and placed it on the desk with a heavy clink.

“What is this?” Gideon reached for the bag and raised it, as if weighing the gold.

“Two thousand toward the principal, and another two hundred in interest due. There will be more upon full dispersal of the racing stud.” Philip regarded Gideon intently.

“But what of the remaining principal?” the bespectacled gent asked. “The balance is well past due.” He spoke gently, but his black gaze was penetrating. “While I appreciate the show of good faith, you, my lord, have proven a poor risk indeed. You are much prone to thoughtless risk-taking, and now your prospects of ever coming into your inheritance seem to have evaporated as well.”

“Given time, you'll be repaid in full. Until then, you have my bond that I'll continue the interest payments.”

Samson Gideon pulled the loan agreement from his desk and pointed. “Your signature is your bond, is it not? Now it appears worthless as well, my Lord Hastings.”

Philip winced. The observation was salt in the wound of painful truth.

“I count myself a reasonable man, but I have not the patience of Job,” said the older man.

“My circumstances are no secret to you.” Gideon already knew all—the wager, the elopement, his full disgrace. “I can only appeal for your continued leniency.” Philip's thumb worried the ring on the little finger of his right hand as he spoke.

The nervous gesture having attracted Gideon's attention, he regarded Philip with a perplexed expression. “How curious is that ring. Might I see it?”

Philip pulled the band from his finger and handed it to Gideon, who pushed up his spectacles and turned it slowly between his fingers in an attempt to decipher the worn inscription.

“Where did you come by this?” His question was almost a demand.

“It is a maternal heirloom.”

“Impossible!” Gideon exclaimed. “The inscription, ‘
Ani
L'Dodi V'Dodi Li
,' it is Hebrew. You can't mean your mother was a Jew?”

“My mother was an Englishwoman from Middlesex, raised in the Anglican church.
Her
mother
, however, was a Jewess married to a Dutch merchant who followed William and Mary to England at the beginning of the century.”

“Then you carry Jewish blood.” The statement emerged more as an accusation.

Philip shrugged. “While I don't embrace my maternal heritage in the spiritual sense, I don't deny it either.”

Gideon considered the irony. While he had not denied his faith by adopting Christianity in the interest of furthering his ambitions, he had ensured his children were raised Anglican. Nevertheless, their Jewish roots would ever be a social stigma. Gideon handed the ring back and tapped his steepled fingers to his lips, studying Philip in thoughtful silence.

“This places matters in quite another light. Perhaps there is another solution, one in which both of our difficulties might be resolved.”

Philip regarded the man intently. “I don't follow you.”

“I have a daughter who will soon come of age to marry. My Elizabeth is a sweet and demure girl, raised in the Christian faith in your own Anglican Church.”

“What has this to do with me?” Philip asked, his disquiet mounting by the second.

“I propose that you might wed my daughter.”

“That's unfeasible,” Philip said, his heart racing.

“Not at all, my lord. The church would fully sanction the union.”

Gideon rang a bell. When the servant appeared, Gideon said, “Tell my son I wish to see him.” He smiled at Philip. “I beg your indulgence.”

A preadolescent boy entered the study, removing his tricorne and making his obeisance to his father and their guest with obvious trepidation.

“A good Christian boy is my son Samson. You'll see,” Gideon said to Philip and then addressed his son. “Samson, who made thee?”

The boy's gaze flitted from his father to the stranger.

“God?” he answered.

“Indeed.” Gideon nodded in encouragement. “Now, Samson, who redeemed thee?”

“Jesus Christ,” the boy responded with growing confidence.

Gideon nodded to Philip again, and turning to the boy to answer the remaining catechism, his mind went blank. The boy regarded his father and clutched his hat in nervous expectation. Frustrated with the elusive question, Gideon finally blurted, “Who… who… gave you that hat?”

With a broad smile, the boy responded by rote. “The Holy Ghost.”

His father's face lit with paternal pride. “You are dismissed my son, and may go to the cook for a sweetmeat.”

The grinning lad departed.

“You see, my lord? A good Christian boy. And the same is my Elizabeth. There is no impediment to a marriage.”

Philip was astounded. “No impediment? Are you not aware that I am already wed?”

“But your wife, she has abandoned you in an act of adultery and desertion. Such actions justify divorce in both of our faiths. I know that you have already moved for such a petition. Given my influence with the Ministry and your rank as a peer, neither Parliament nor the church should have any compunction in granting your request.”

Remembering the similar coercion that had led to his unhappy marriage to Charlotte, Philip's palms grew damp and his heart raced. It was as if the trap were beginning to close about him all over again.

“As I said, my lord, the arrangement solves both of our troubles. My Elizabeth will attain a title and entry into a society that otherwise would hold her in disdain, and the connection can only help to advance my son.”

“There must be other men,” Philip protested. “And I am twice her age.”

Gideon's look challenged. “Age is of no consequence. As to the second issue, while another of your station might be pleased to take her dowry, I fear he might also hold her in contempt. Given your own heritage, I have no reason to believe you would do so. We have time,” Gideon continued. “Elizabeth is yet tender in years. We may defer the marriage until her eighteenth birthday. For now we need only agree to the betrothal.”

Philip had indeed intended to press for divorce and finally make his life with the only woman he'd ever loved, but backed into a corner as he was by his own actions, he was finding it difficult to demur.

“Why should I consent to this?” he asked. “Are you saying you intend to forgive my debt if I wed your daughter?”

“But I am remiss!” Gideon slapped his forehead. “Pray forgive an old man. Did I not state that my Elizabeth's dowry is fifty thousand pounds?”

Philip's breathing stilled. His chest constricted. And the trap snapped shut.

***

With Gideon beaming in pleasure and already writing instructions to his solicitor, Philip departed. Blind to his surrounds and deaf to the street hawkers' jumble of tongues, he set out on foot with no particular direction or destination.

In less than seventy-two hours, he had successively lost a wager and a wife. His title and estate had unexpectedly come into dispute. Compounding this, he'd just acquired a new betrothed before he was even divorced. The staggering chain of events threatened to addle his wits.

His head pounded, a dull incessant throb. Suffocating inside, he tore at his cravat as if it were a hangman's noose, but found no relief. His steps quickened in an echoing staccato and his eyes bulged wildly like a madman, causing people to scatter from his path. He broke into a run, shoving through the pedestrians and crashing through the vendor stalls as if the devil himself were on his heels.

Oblivious to the dangers of the squalid alleyways overrun with scurrying rats and fetid with the refuse of chamber pots emptied from the windows above, Philip ran as if to escape his own life—the distress, disappointments, duplicity, and disenchantments.

His estrangement from a cold and calculating father. His mother's broken heart and lonely death. The petty deceptions and selfish desires that drove him to betray his best friend. The coerced marriage to Charlotte, who would forever despise him for it. Two unacknowledged bastard children by two different women. His reckless wagering.

The resentment and regrets of his life threatened to crush him, but far worse was his remorse for the pain he would cause Sukey, and the brutal penalty he feared he might suffer for it.

When his chest felt like exploding from the exertion of breathing, he staggered to the nearest building, clutching the cold hard stone edifice for support. At length he looked up to recognize the thirteenth-century chapel of ease at St. Mary Matfelon.

Dropping to his knees on the stone steps, he cried out, “Dear Christ! Must I pay for all my sins at once?”