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One
NEWMARKET,
SUFFOLKSHIRE, ENGLAND
APRIL 28, 1875
DIE, ALDRIDGE.
The painted words pierced Nicole’s soul like the fatal stab of a dagger.
Bloodred, they trickled down the stall’s rear wall, sending shards of terror streaking up her spine. Unconsciously, she gripped Oberon’s reins more tightly, unable to enter the thoroughbred’s quarters, equally unable to back away.
All semblance of the past hour’s reveling vanished in a heartbeat, the jubilant celebration spawned by her father’s victory in the 2,000 Guineas forgotten in lieu of this grotesque spectacle.
Die, Aldridge.
Nicole’s eyes squeezed shut—a futile gesture, for it could not erase the imprint of that pointed, sinister threat.
“Nickie?” From thirty feet away, Nicholas Aldridge sensed, rather than saw, his daughter’s reaction. Extricating himself from his fellow jockeys, he made his way through Newmarket’s stable to her side, patting Oberon affectionately as he passed. “What’s wrong?”
His question died in his throat as he followed Nicole’s gaze. “Damn,” he swore softly.
“Papa,” she managed, turning to face him. “What …?”
“It’s paint, Nickie. Only paint. Not blood.”
“I realize that.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “But its meaning is clear.” Violet blue eyes studied her father astutely. “It’s because of the race, isn’t it? Because you wouldn’t cooperate?”
Her father glanced furtively from side to side. “How did you know about that? Sullivan swore to me he wouldn’t say a word.”
“Sully told me nothing. He didn’t need to. I’m not blind, Papa. Nor am I deaf. I’ve heard you tossing about at night, just as I heard your hushed conversations with Sully. Thus, I know what pressure you’ve been suffering these past weeks. But I had no idea the consequences of your refusal could be as serious as—” Nicole broke off, her tormented stare returning to the ominous crimson letters. “Who painted that?” she demanded. “Exactly who are these horrible men? Are they capable of making that threat a reality?”
“The scum who painted that message are merely pawns, Nickie. They deliver messages with their fists.” Shoving back his cap, Nick dragged a forearm across his brow, then gulped at the bottle of ale he held. “As far as who issued their orders, I have no idea. But will he make sure they’re carried out? I fear—” His mouth snapped shut.
Nicole needed no further reply. Her chin came up, determination overriding panic. “Then we must act. Now. Before they have time to do so first.”
“Act?” Fatherly protectiveness surged to life in Nick’s eyes. “Nicole, you don’t understand what—who—we’re up against. These men are experts at coercion. There’s no way for me to escape. I knew that from the instant I was approached, just as I knew there’d be hell to pay if I didn’t throw this race. My visitors made that very clear.” His somber gaze returned to the painted message. “Consequences,” he muttered. “Pursuit. Harassment. Hell, even a beating. I expected all that. I also figured they’d try to blacklist me. None of it would have worked. I’m too damned tough to whip into submission and too damned good at what I do to be banned from the course. But murder?” His expression grew haunted, as if by uttering the word aloud he’d made the prospect all the more tangible.
“Let’s go, Papa.” Nicole was already in motion, having urged Oberon into his stall and untacked him with the skillful speed of a professional head lad. Snatching up a rag, she seized her father’s bottle of ale, dousing the wall and vigorously scrubbing until the warning was no more than a muted blur. “There. Now no one will know the reason we fled.”
“Fled?” Nick’s head jerked around. “I just finished telling you—”
“Hey, Nick!” Gordon Sullivan’s deep voice interrupted them. Seconds later he strode into Oberon’s stall. “We’re celebrating your victory. What’s keeping you and the elf?”
Unsmiling, Nick turned to his longtime friend and colleague. “They were here, Sully. They left their calling card.”
Sully’s grin vanished. “Dammit. I was afraid this might happen.” He broke off, his uncertain gaze flickering to Nicole.
“Say what you like,” Nick supplied. “My clever elf has figured it all out.”
An unsurprised nod. “What type of calling card?”
“A threat,” Nicole supplied, inserting herself between the men. “Painted in red. Bloodred. Sully, they mean to kill Papa. I’ve got to convince him to get out of here. Before it’s too late.”
“Kill him?” Sully echoed. “They used those words?”
“Their precise message was, ‘Die Aldridge.’ That’s terrifying enough for me.”
Beads of perspiration broke out on Sully’s brow. “Nick, something’s not right here. You know as well as I do that these bastards don’t kill. Pressure, thrash—yes. But kill? No.” A flicker of apprehension. “Unless they’re backed into a corner.”
