Octavius left before he could lose his temper. Coming to cuffs with Newingham wouldn’t further his ends, and anyway, he knew exactly what carrot to dangle in front of the viscount’s disobliging nose.
If there was one thing Newingham loved it was horses. In particular, blood bays. But the best team of blood bays in London belonged to Francis Pruitt, from whom Newingham had once stolen a mistress. Octavius knew for a fact that Newingham had offered to buy the horses—had offered Pruitt twice what the man had paid for them—but Pruitt had refused, because he was almost as much of a prick as Baron Rumpole was and he enjoyed flaunting those bays in front of his rival.
But if there was bad blood between Newingham and Pruitt, there was no bad blood between Octavius and Pruitt, so he visited Franc
