lord!’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Pratchett’s gone!’
Chapter Four
B ack and forth Stephen paced, from sagging stall to weathered doorway. Lord Toswick’s stables were a hive of activity, nearly as busy as the house. This ancient hay barn, tucked at the edge of the stable block, looked as if he might knock it over with a good push, but it was redolent of sweet-smelling hay, just the right size for a good, agitated pace and wonderfully, blessedly quiet.
It might be the only peaceful place in Newmarket this morning, for the entire town was still abuzz with gossip from last night’s ball. Already London’s newspapermen and inveterate rumourmongers were descending on the town, eager to hear the latest details. Oh, and wasn’t there a good deal to hash over? A good bit of it centring around him. He sighed. It was familiar ground, performing as the meaty chunk in the centre of the scandalbroth.
Except he didn’t want to be there any longer. Leaning up against the corner stall, he deliberately breathed in straw-dusted air. He’d worked hard to leave the shrillboy he’d been, so hungry to be noticed, behind. Side by side he’d laboured with Fincote’s people, desperate to pay back some part of the debt he owed them, but just as intent on proving himself, too.
The old plough horse in the stall approached. Curious, she nudged him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be available to race for me, would you?’ He rubbed her cheek and stroked down her fine, strong neck, taking comfort in her simple affection.
Simple. This foray into Newmarket was supposed to be simple. Two notable horses to match up and draw racing’s elite to Fincote Park. Once there, they’d recognise the superiority of his challenging, well-maintained course. They’d experience the hospitality and eager gratitude of the local business owners and merchants and soon enough they’d all be on their way to becoming a well-known, much-frequented part of the racing circuit.
And he would, at long last, put the ghost of his mother’s neglect to rest.
But those plans lay in tatters now. And because it was natural to do so when his mind was full of chaos or destruction, he conjured up the image of Mae Halford as she’d been last night, challenging him from across the ballroom with that grin on her pretty face—the one that was both familiar and intriguingly new at the same time. She’d moved through the crowd with confidence and grace, as if fidgets and restless energy had never been her natural state.
Stephen had watched the candlelight ferret reddish highlights out of her golden curls and experienced a deep foreboding. She’d been a force of nature whenhe’d known her before. The thought of what she might be today—with full knowledge and possession of her power—defied description.
He experienced a profound sense of mortification, too, knowing that she’d witnessed the débâcle with Ryeton. Perhaps because it had been so spectacularly melodramatic. He rolled his eyes and left the horse to her clover-scented hay. The evening had possessed a taste of the theatrical, but Stephen wouldn’t take back a word. Ryeton was an arrogant, small-minded imbecile—but he had been perfect for his needs. The man sat on top of the racing world right now. His horses were well blooded, well trained and practically unbeatable.
And now, unobtainable. Stephen paused at the entry to the tack room and traced the horseshoe hung above the door for luck. He needed a new plan. A new patron. But Ryeton was influential. He had the ear of the Jockey Club stewards and most of racing’s important figures—and Stephen had mortally insulted him. There was damned little chance he could get back in the man’s good graces. Indeed, the earl could kill all of his dreams with just a word.
He set off again, thinking and pacing his way around and around the small open space—until the very path he walked sparked a sudden idea.
A hell of an idea. A thought so simple, so complicated
Chapter Four
B ack and forth Stephen paced, from sagging stall to weathered doorway. Lord Toswick’s stables were a hive of activity, nearly as busy as the house. This ancient hay barn, tucked at the edge of the stable block, looked as if he might knock it over with a good push, but it was redolent of sweet-smelling hay, just the right size for a good, agitated pace and wonderfully, blessedly quiet.
It might be the only peaceful place in Newmarket this morning, for the entire town was still abuzz with gossip from last night’s ball. Already London’s newspapermen and inveterate rumourmongers were descending on the town, eager to hear the latest details. Oh, and wasn’t there a good deal to hash over? A good bit of it centring around him. He sighed. It was familiar ground, performing as the meaty chunk in the centre of the scandalbroth.
Except he didn’t want to be there any longer. Leaning up against the corner stall, he deliberately breathed in straw-dusted air. He’d worked hard to leave the shrillboy he’d been, so hungry to be noticed, behind. Side by side he’d laboured with Fincote’s people, desperate to pay back some part of the debt he owed them, but just as intent on proving himself, too.
The old plough horse in the stall approached. Curious, she nudged him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be available to race for me, would you?’ He rubbed her cheek and stroked down her fine, strong neck, taking comfort in her simple affection.
Simple. This foray into Newmarket was supposed to be simple. Two notable horses to match up and draw racing’s elite to Fincote Park. Once there, they’d recognise the superiority of his challenging, well-maintained course. They’d experience the hospitality and eager gratitude of the local business owners and merchants and soon enough they’d all be on their way to becoming a well-known, much-frequented part of the racing circuit.
And he would, at long last, put the ghost of his mother’s neglect to rest.
But those plans lay in tatters now. And because it was natural to do so when his mind was full of chaos or destruction, he conjured up the image of Mae Halford as she’d been last night, challenging him from across the ballroom with that grin on her pretty face—the one that was both familiar and intriguingly new at the same time. She’d moved through the crowd with confidence and grace, as if fidgets and restless energy had never been her natural state.
Stephen had watched the candlelight ferret reddish highlights out of her golden curls and experienced a deep foreboding. She’d been a force of nature whenhe’d known her before. The thought of what she might be today—with full knowledge and possession of her power—defied description.
He experienced a profound sense of mortification, too, knowing that she’d witnessed the débâcle with Ryeton. Perhaps because it had been so spectacularly melodramatic. He rolled his eyes and left the horse to her clover-scented hay. The evening had possessed a taste of the theatrical, but Stephen wouldn’t take back a word. Ryeton was an arrogant, small-minded imbecile—but he had been perfect for his needs. The man sat on top of the racing world right now. His horses were well blooded, well trained and practically unbeatable.
And now, unobtainable. Stephen paused at the entry to the tack room and traced the horseshoe hung above the door for luck. He needed a new plan. A new patron. But Ryeton was influential. He had the ear of the Jockey Club stewards and most of racing’s important figures—and Stephen had mortally insulted him. There was damned little chance he could get back in the man’s good graces. Indeed, the earl could kill all of his dreams with just a word.
He set off again, thinking and pacing his way around and around the small open space—until the very path he walked sparked a sudden idea.
A hell of an idea. A thought so simple, so complicated
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