Harry Hastings, the fourth and last Marquis of Hastings, was dead broke and dead of dissipation complicated by a classic case of Unrequited Spite at the age of twenty-six. The author warns in his Foreword that Hastings exerts a strong attraction and polarizes reader interest. Certainly, Lady Florence, the Pocket Venus of the title, extracts no sympathy. She ran off with Hastings after the announcement of her betrothal to Henry Chaplin, the object of Hastings' obsessive competition. It was the only time he ever really ruffled Chaplin, who had ignored him at Oxford, was friendly but remote before the elopement, forgave Hastings afterward and continued to beat Hastings' time as a gentleman, a race horse owner and an intimate of the Prince of Wales. It was all over by 1868. Hastings, however, did make a sort of racing history. He set the mode for losing a huge fortune in excessive betting with apparent aplomb. He wanted most to win the Derby. He didn't, but Chaplin did. Hastings' last words were about Chaplin's victory. The author doesn't psych this strange triangle into its unequal parts and does do a marvelous job with period horse training, racing and gambling customs. An interesting, if inessential, fragment of Victorian history.