At midday when the king went to the race-course all Newmarket streamed out at his heels, from the highest peers and greatest courtiers to the pickpockets of London; from my Lord of Devonshire to Captain Dick the horse jockey; from an orange girl of Drury Lane to the Princess of Denmark; the high and the low, the rich man and the cutpurse, all were there, and in that mass of many-colored costumes, like a bed of King William’s tulips at Loo, there were a thousand emotions,—hopes, fears, hatreds, and ambitions. Money flowed like water, and wagers ran high; fortunes were made and unmade, and the faces of men and women had often the tense expression of the gambler. But whatever evil was there—and much there was—was hidden under an air of jollity, and the setting of the scene was as variegated as a rainbow.
The long course was cleared for the horses, and on either side, and especially about the pavilion of the king, the crowd was packed close, palpitating and murmuring in the sunshine, white and pink, blue and crimson, green and gold, ribbon upon ribbon of color, men and women vying with each other in the brilliant beauty and richness of apparel; and behind, the great emblazoned coaches—drawn usually by Flanders horses—stood tier upon tier, sometimes empty, when their owners were promenading, sometimes brimful of lovely smiling faces and fluttering fans; and beyond these, the farmers and teamsters, gypsies and tipsters, honest men and thieves. Meanwhile the jockeys rode their horses out upon the turf for exercise and inspection; no people loved a fine horse better than the English, and it put the throng in an excellent humor.
In the midst of the satins and velvets, gold lace and jewels, one small man was plainly dressed in dark colors with a star upon his breast,—a man with a pale, dark face and sparkling dark eyes. Every head was bared before him, and every great dame there courtesied almost to the ground, and the trumpets sounded as King William took his place. The warm September air was filled with the hum of many voices, the trampling of horses, the blare of military music, and the great races began when the king quietly waved his hand.
Lady Sunderland kept her seat in her own carriage, and all the old beaux of the court came there to pay their compliments and exchange rare morsels of gossip with her ladyship, whose wit was keen as her tongue was merciless. But Lady Clancarty was not of this party. She had left her seat in the gorgeously emblazoned coach, and escorted by my Lord of Devonshire himself, she made her way nearer to the scene of action. Though she had lived much at Althorpe, Lady Clancarty was not unknown, and she was greeted on every hand as she passed. Her beauty, her winning address, the place her father occupied in the king’s favor, made her at once the cynosure of all eyes. Old beaux and young ones crowded forward for an introduction. Devonshire stood near her, Ormond and Bedford joined her coterie; in fact, in two hours Lady Betty was the belle of Newmarket. She looked about her smiling, roguish, keenly amused, and everywhere she read approbation and admiration, not only in the faces that she knew, but in the strange ones. Everywhere men paid her homage; over there the courtiers of the Princess Anne were thinning out; the circle of my Lady Marlborough grew narrower, but Lady Betty’s extended like a whirlpool. In the midst of her little triumph, she saw a tall man coming toward her, singling her out amidst all the others; his dress was plain and his periwig was of a different fashion, but she could not mistake that eye or that bearing; she had seen both in the woods of Althorpe. In a moment more he was bowing before her, and Ormond introduced him.
“My dear Lady Betty, let me present another admirer, Mr. Richard Trevor; an Irishman as I would have your ladyship know,” the duke added in her ear, with a laugh.
Lady Clancarty courtesied, casting a roguish look at the stranger.
“Faith, we have met before, my lord,” she said, and laughed softly.
“Twice before, my lady,” corrected Mr. Trevor, smiling into her eyes.
Betty stared. “Once, sir,” she said.
“As you will, Lady Clancarty,” he replied, and smiled again, the dare-devil leaping up in his gray eyes—and Betty blushed.