“Aye, madam. The finish line is already too packed, I’m afraid, but ’tis only half a furlong or so to the right, so yer should get a glimpse at the winners.”
Hebe wrapped arms around herself in happiness as the coachman expertly manoeuvred their barouche side-on for the best view.
“The grandstand,” he added, “can become quite raucous so I’d advise staying well clear, but if yer fancy a gander at the racehorses in the paddock, there’s a roped-off path for spectators on foot as all these carriages and horses can get a touch perilous. Take Cripps here. Lord Ernest’s orders.”
“Mrs Locke? Mrs Cassell? Why, what a pleasure.”
Hebe turned in her seat. “Sir Henry? Why, what a…surprise.”
Without doubt, the scoundrel portrayed a stylish picture of a gentleman at his favoured sport. He sat his horse with ease, a fine dark bay with black-tipped ears, and she wondered if Sir Henry had chosen it to match his own fine coat with black cuffs. He removed his hat and bowed from the waist, green eyes trickling over her pale dress.
“A fine day, is it not, ladies? And with my favoured filly here too, what more could a man ask for?”
Hebe blinked.Surely he didn’t mean…
“I myself,” he continued, “am riding in the Burford Sweepstakes and then this afternoon, I’ve a mare entered in the Bibury Plate Race. One assumes one can count upon your support?”
Not likely.
“You can count upon–”
“I wonder, Sir Henry,” interrupted Aunt with a dig to Hebe’s ribs, “could you perhaps escort us to view your horses in the paddock? I’m told your mare is the finest in the land.”
“Indeed she is and it would be a pleasure.” With a wide grin, he clasped the pommel, dismounted, and after tying his horse to the barouche’s back plate, strode for their door. He twisted the handle and held out both arms. “Come, I shall look after you both. Indeed, I care for my ladies like my horses – with a strict but fond hand.”
Eugh.
Hebe glared at her aunt.
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth, dear,” she whispered with a wink.
ERNEST CLOSEDthe door on the barn he’d hired for the race meet and then paused to sniff his coat.
Eau de horsewafted with an undertone of hay, but then he had spent an hour endeavouring to calm Lord Jack with his favoured snack of raisins, some firm strokes and a man-to-stallion discussion on the benefits of patience where the ladies were concerned.
Now he set off in search of Hebe and Mrs Cassell, though with the racecourse being packed to the blue skies, he was unsure whether they’d be safely in the barouche or inspecting horses in the paddocks with Cripps.
A commotion in Sir Henry’s barn opposite halted his step: the stamp of hooves and neigh of an enraged animal. As was the case with most of the barns, the doors were shut up tight to thwart prying eyes and underhand tactics from fellow competitors – feeding a rival horse laudanum or placing burs beneath their saddles an all too real threat.
But all at once, the door flew open and a stable lad hurtled through, slammed it shut behind him, leaned back and puffed out his cheeks, shirt torn.
Ernest caught the lad’s eye and beckoned him over.
With gaze darting left, then right, the lad ambled across the way to where Ernest stood.
“Is that one of Sir Henry’s entrants causing all the trouble?”
“Wot’s it worth?”
Ernest rolled his eyes. “There’s a shilling in it for you.”
“Aye, it was but…” A mucky brow was wiped with mucky hand. “He’s too mortal wild to run so he’s staying in the barn.”
He?
“A new stallion?”
“Aye, that he be.”
