“What does he look like?”
The lad snarled. “Black as the devil’s riding boots.”
Bugger.
“No star on his forehead or white stockings?”
“Nah. Jus’ a white snip betwixt his evil nostrils.”
Double bugger.Not Sir Oswald then.
Ernest spun a coin into the air to be caught by an adept grubby hand.
Setting forth once more, he passed the other competitors’ barns and joined the roped-off track that led through the paddocks. Owners strutted alongside their entrants, geldings in their prime and fillies with fine bones, while the mounted jockeys in their colours of white, blue, green and yellow nervously fiddled with bridles and stirrups.
A few spectated from the rope, debating who to wager upon, but most mingled with the owners, running a palm down withers and nodding sagely.
Ernest made for the racecourse but a flash of silver amongst the milling paddock attendees caught his eye.
A woman with her back to him in silver-grey skirts and slate-hued spencer jacket. She stroked down a horse’s nose, bonnet covering her hair, and how it could be so, he had no idea, yet he knew with every fibre of his being who the enchanting lady was.
Ducking beneath the rope, he noted Mrs Cassell and Sir Henry chatting to her side, and then Hebe’s laughter reached him as the mare attempted to eat a flower pinned to her bonnet.
“Ladies, Sir Henry. Good day.”
Hebe twisted, a bloom to her cheeks that made his chest slam. Her hair was in a plait that crested her bosom and nigh stretched to her waist.
They all did the pretty, exclaiming over the crowds and the forthcoming races, and as the ladies cooed over Sir Henry’s mare, who was a fine specimen indeed, Ernest turned to him.
“I heard quite a ruckus in your barn earlier.”
The man scowled. “I’d hoped to ride him but he’s too excitable for this year. Needs time to settle down.”
Ernest narrowed his eyes. “You said you’d no new stock at the masquerade.”
“I took a chance on one,” he retorted. “Not that it’s any of your business. But have no fear, Lord Ernest, I’ll still beat your entrant hands down, even on my second choice.”
They shook hands – tight – and now that the pleasantries were over… “Ladies, would you care to inspect Lord Jack before he’s tacked?”
Hebe swivelled to gaze upon him, lips parted, and his chest slammed once more.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “That would be splendid.”
“Not me, dear.” Mrs Cassell stepped forward and grabbed Sir Henry’s arm with such force, he flinched. “Our finest trainer in the land has promised to show me his entrant in the Hunters’ Plate Race.”
“Did I?”
“But of course. I’m sure he’s a sight to behold and quite as virile as his owner.”
Sir Henry slowly nodded. “True.” And he was dragged to the gate, Mrs Cassell glancing back over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes and a wink.
Hebe shook her bonneted blond locks and laughed, eyes glittering like a becalmed summer sea, and Ernest proffered an arm.
“Well, Mrs Locke, shall we?”
“BLOODY LOR,”Daniel snarled as he tumbled from Lord Jack’s stall and onto his arse, water gushing from the bucket. “The sooner this one tups Lady Mary good and proper, the sooner us can all get some–”
“Ahem.”
