Today I'd like to welcome guest author, Emery Lee back to History Undressed. She previously visited us in
April 2010 with the release of her debut novel,
The Highest Stakes. She is back with us now to talk about March's Madness and her new release,
Fortune's Son. Leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Ms. Lee's novel,
Fortune's Son. (1 winner, US and Canada only)
MARCH’S MADNESS
by
Emery Lee
To those who have my
read my novels to date, my love (read
obsession) with the Georgian era is clearly evident. For those of you who
have not, I invite you to open the pages and immerse yourself in a fascinating
paradox that is nowhere better represented than in the lives of Georgian
aristocrats - many of whom adopted an outward veneer to hide the sin within.
In my first novel,
THE HIGHEST STAKES, I delved deeply into the obsessive world of horseracing and
arranged marriages, where nothing was sacred and an individual’s happiness
(particularly if one happened to be female) was easily laid aside to advance a
family’s political or social agenda.
In
FORTUNE’S SON I further
explore the gaming world and it often served as more than a mere
diversion,
but as a last resort for those
with reduced circumstances whose social position did not allow any manner of
gaining a more honest income.
Compelled
to wager, many faced financial devastation and social ruin, while occasionally
(and incomprehensibly), Fortune seemed to smile on particular individuals for
no particular reason.
One such colorful example
(whom I delighted in bringing to life as a secondary character in
FORTUNE’S
SON) was
William Douglas - third Earl March and Ruglen, later the Fourth Duke of Queensbury, nicknamed “Old
Q”.
Although many young, aristocrats lacking more worthy
pursuits, squandered their days at race tracks, cockpits, or over the green
baize tables, Lord March’s exploits and love of a wager are legendary even for
the gaming Georgians. His most infamous
wager has come to be known over the ages as Lord March’s “race against time”
and plays a significant role in FORTUNE’S SON.
(Excerpt from FORTUNE’S SON chapter 39)
March signaled a lackey for a new
pack of cards to replace those he’d swept off the table to join the mounds
scattered about the floor. “One can do
very well on credit,” said March. “By way of example, I have no fewer than
three carriage makers, and four cartwrights, currently engineering a contraption
for my upcoming wager with Taaffe and Sprowle.”
“Are you still about that madness,
March?” George Selwyn asked.
“What madness is this?” Philip inquired,
laying down fifty guineas, and hoping his careless manner belied the near-emptiness
of his pockets. March and Selwyn matched his stakes, and he absently dealt the
first two cards, face-up to his immediate left.
“A bloody chariot race,” said George.
“As a fellow turf man, you’ll doubtless find the fellow’s scheme most
diverting.”
“I daresay Hastings has had his fill of racing
wagers.” Lord March’s jibe at Philip’s recent loss hit home.
“Not at all, my lord,” Philip replied
coolly. “When one plays, one must expect eventually to pay.”
Lord March regarded Philip speculatively.
“I never begrudge a man who wins from me fairly.”
“Then I remind you ’tis now past
noon, and our friend Hastings is alive, hale, and in present company,” said
George, referring to their earlier wager.
Lord March carelessly unfolded a
fifty-pound bank note from a wad of bills in his pocket, and handed it to
George, whilst continuing his narrative. “The chariot wager was made some six-month
past when Count Taaffe, that damnable upstart Irishman, boasted of having the
fastest chaise and four in the country. When challenged to prove the claim, he asserted
he’d clocked them at twelve miles in an hour. ‘Twelve miles?’ says I. ‘Why I’ll
lay you a thousand guineas, I can produce a chaise and team half again as fast.’
Believing me out of my head, Taaffe readily accepted my wage.”
Philip replied with a chuckle, “You are out
of your head, March! Eighteen miles in an hour? An impossible feat. The fastest
coach pulled by a team of six doesn’t exceed ten miles per hour.”
March broke into a slow, sly smile. “A
carriage is quite an ambiguous thing is it not?” March said. “Since the terms
of the wager did not specify a body be fitted to the carriage, our passenger
will be slung on leather straps between the two hind wheels. While united the
back carriage to the fore in the usual manner, to reduce weight, we used cords
and springs, and the pole and bars are of thin wood reinforced with supporting
wire. As to the harness, an optimal lightness was achieved by constructing the
traces from silk, and the breechings, of whalebone.”
“Silk and whalebone? Do you wish to
harness your horses or to corset them?” Philip chuckled. “And you think to
drive this deathtrap at eighteen miles per hour?”
“A ridiculous notion, Hastings! You
think I’d take such a risk when I employ any number of competent grooms to
drive the contraption?”
“Dare I ask how many have perished in
the trials?”
“Why none have suffered worse than a
few broken limbs,” March replied indignantly, but then confessed that he had
lost half a dozen horses, explaining, “They were only second-rate runners. For
the true trials I require nothing less than four plate winners.”
Philip was astounded. “You would risk
four plate-winning horses for a thousand guineas? 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. “After
all, I race only to win.” - ( End of excerpt)
LORD MARCH’S FAMOUS RACING
CHAISE
True to form
until the very end, gambling, horses, and women continued to be Old Q’s life passions until his death at the ripe old
age of eighty five.
*~*~*~*
Emery Lee is a true
romantic and self-professed “Georgian
Junkie.” She is also the moderator for
Goodreads Romantic Historical Fiction Lovers.
