“Lucinda?”
She looked up, blinking. Victoria was regarding her with a quizzical expression, and Lucinda did not want to guess at how many times her aunt had called out her name.
“Did you find the answer?” Victoria asked.
Lucinda shook her head. “I’m still looking,” she mumbled. On the same page. She’d been on the same page for forty minutes. She looked back down and tried to read.
Special care must be given to syndromes of the patella
.
She was pretty sure she’d read that already.
Bloody … stupid … If one of her horses had to be put down because of a knee injury, she was blaming Will. It was his fault she couldn’t concentrate on the text.
Will.
He was an awful man.
Truly, truly awful.
And he’d never said that he loved her.
Should she have suspected something sooner? Had she been a fool to believe he simply could not put into words what he felt for her?
Well, yes, obviously
.
She’d been a complete fool, but worse than that, she’d expressed her love for him, a man who was simply doing his job and nothing more.
It would be so easy to lose herself in anger, to blame him for taking advantage of her. To hate him for the emotions she’d believed he’d shared with her, all the while he was aware he was only playing a role.
But Lucinda was never one for taking the easy route. She preferred to do something right or not at all.
Years from now, she would look back on this as a lesson learned, she vowed. And for now, she would do what was necessary to keep herself and her family safe, even if it meant pretending that she was the woman she’d been before.
“Lucinda, dear,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Are you well this morning?”
Her question pulled Lucinda from her thoughts and she looked up. All three of her aunts watched her with varying expressions of concern, the expanse of the cluttered library table separating them.
Lucinda forced a smile. She and Charlotte had decided to keep the truth of Lucinda’s feelings for Will a secret from both Victoria and Bessie. The two had been so angry over being kept in the dark by the Corinthians that the revelation of Lucinda’s broken heart would surely have forced them over the edge.
“Yes,” Lucinda said, giving the beloved trio a reassuring smile. “Of course.”
It was not so hard, after all, to lie, Lucinda realized, turning back to her book.
Garenne would not leave anything to chance this time. The extreme discomfort he found in failure was a new and unappealing sensation and one not easily quelled. Even slitting the throat of a street urchin who had dared to cross his path that evening had done little to abate the vicelike grip that the pain currently held on his skull.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked the petite blonde sitting across from him, her cold green eyes taking in their surroundings with catlike precision.
“No,” she said simply, her beautiful face devoid of emotion.
He drained his tankard of ale and gestured for the serving girl. “Good.” He preferred to keep their conversation minimal. “You will succeed,” he told her. “Or you will die.”
She didn’t flinch only reached across the table and picked up the soft leather pouch, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her cape, then nodding. “You’ve no need for concern.”
And with that she was gone, silently making her way to the tavern’s door and disappearing into the night.
Garenne felt the pressure of the note in his breast pocket. Fouché was growing impatient, even going so far as to question Garenne’s abilities. The imbecile was lucky he was safely in France, with the width of the English Channel between him and death.
The woman came highly recommended.
She would succeed, or he would kill her himself.
A horse race of some importance, the Queen’s Cup took place in late April of every year. The ton made their way annually along the King’s Road to Camden, only a few miles outside London. The queen in question had been Anne, who had, upon delightedly discovering a large parcel of flat land during one of her riding expeditions, purchased the hundred acres in order to establish the yearly event.
The popularity of the race had grown over the years, and now the crowds nearly overflowed the grounds.
Will surveyed the noisy gathering from his station near the starting post and grimaced. He’d protested until he was hoarse with the effort, but Lucinda would not yield: She would attend the Queen’s Cup with or without him. Her love of horses, once endearing, was becoming downright irritating.
“You really must work on a less ferocious facial expression,” Northrop drawled, reining his bay gelding next to Sol and Will.
“But this one works so well in keeping
most
away,” Will said sarcastically to his friend.
The two observed the scene in silence. Excited Thoroughbreds pranced and snorted in anticipation, their owners preening over the prized equines while jockeys prepared themselves mentally for the race. The crowd milled about, enjoying the sun and festive frivolity.
“Utter chaos,” Northrop remarked.
Will nodded in agreement.
“You should have told me.”
Will gave him a quizzical look. “You’ve attended the Queen’s Cup before, surely.”
“Not about the race, Clairemont,” his friend replied, “about Lady Lucinda.”
Will scowled. Carmichael had enlisted Northrop’s help despite Will’s protests, making the already complicated situation even more so.
“You didn’t really believe I’d reformed, did you?” Will kept his tone light, careless.
“You should have told me.”
“You know very well I couldn’t, so there’s no point in belaboring the point, is there?” Will shot back, but he could hear his voice changing, his carelessness unraveling to reveal a darker emotion.
Northrop heeded the warning and broke their stare, turning to look over his shoulder at his wife, who stood chatting with Lucinda and her aunts. “Amelia fears that Lady Lucinda has a tendre for you.”
Will kept his eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “What good does it do to discuss this?”
“And you? Do you love her?”
Will stiffened, hands tightening on the reins. Sol shifted uneasily; he tossed his head and whinnied. “I have a duty to perform, and it doesn’t include love.”
A chorus of horns signaled the imminent beginning of the race.
Northrop turned his mount toward the women, pausing to look once more at Will. “I wasn’t aware that with one you couldn’t have the other.”
Will reined in Sol and they fell into step next to Northrop and his gelding, the two picking their way across the flattened grass and churned-up ground to join the ladies.
Amelia greeted Northrop with such love in her eyes that Will felt a sudden stab of jealousy slice mercilessly through his already fractured heart.
Lucinda’s look was pleasant enough, but the stark contrast between the two left Will cold.
The Furies, however, quickly brought him back to reality. The duchess pinned him with a vengeful glare, while the marchioness haughtily turned away with a huff. Lady Charlotte maintained an air of politeness, acknowledging him with a nod of her head. “Your Grace, a lovely day for a race, wouldn’t you agree?”
Will dismounted, Sol’s reins held loosely in his hand. “Indeed, Lady Charlotte, it is.”
“One might wonder how you could possibly enjoy the race, burdened with what must surely be an unbearably heavy conscience,” the dower duchess interjected, walking around to face Sol.
The entire group turned to stare at her, their eyes wide with shock.
She returned their stares with composure.
“Surely I’m not the only one to question the sanity of a man who would keep a horse such as King Solomon’s Mine from his destiny?” the woman queried, stroking Sol’s silky mane.
“Why would one assume Sol wants to race simply because he is fast?” Will countered, barely maintaining his composure.
“He is a Thoroughbred, Your Grace.” She shot Will a look of utter disgust. “And not just any Thoroughbred, but the son of Triton’s Tyranny. Racing is in his blood. It is what he was bred and born to do.”
Will had to admit that Sol’s quickness had everything to do with why Will found him invaluable. The stallion’s speed was absolutely essential to Will’s success as a Corinthian. Still, he could hardly point out such a thing, not with Lady Northrop present.
“He appears perfectly happy to me,” Will answered, standing back to eye Sol critically.
Lucinda joined her aunt, her affection and admiration for the horse obvious as she reached out to caress his velvety nose. “Look in his eyes, Your Grace.”
Will walked forward and stared directly into the large, black eyes. They flickered with curiosity and excitement. He’d heard tell of a horse having a kind eye, the relaxed, open nature of the expression speaking to the horse’s state of mind. But this was something different. Sol exhibited an eagerness that was nearly palpable as he looked away from Will and chose instead to watch the ebb and flow of the noisy crowd and the horses.
“Do you see it?” Lucinda asked quietly.
“Bloody hell,” Will said under his breath, stepping back. Did Sol have the same fire in his eyes when racing through the streets of London on Corinthian business?
“Never fear, Your Grace,” the dower duchess said, lovingly patting Sol on the neck. “You may have denied him his first love, but I would bet my carriage and matching grays that he’ll take to his new job with even greater enthusiasm.”
His new job? What the devil was she talking about? Will opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but just then, the crowd around them roared to life as the racehorses lined up at the starting post. The Furies joined the crush of humans, pushing their way through with well-aimed pokes of umbrellas. Northrop took his wife’s arm and guided her safely on toward a spot midway down the circular track.
Sol pawed at the ground with his front hooves, his knicker of excitement growing louder. Head up, hooves dancing, ears pricked forward.
“He’s too excitable,” Will told Lucinda as he tightened his grip on the reins. “I can’t allow him any closer to the crowd. If you like, Weston or Talbot would happily escort you to a more suitable viewing spot.”
Lucinda didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and clasped the saddle. “Lift me up,” she demanded.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve not come all this way to miss the race,” she answered, irritation growing in her voice. “The ideal spot for viewing is on the back of this horse. Now, assist me or I shall be forced to ask one of your men.”
Will reluctantly placed his hands about Lucinda’s waist and lifted her into the saddle. He waited to release her until she found her balance in the seat, sitting sideways in a man’s saddle no easy feat. She straightened her pelisse and held out her hand for the reins, silently demanding he give them to her. “Absolutely not,” Will said in no uncertain terms.
Lucinda stared at him with a stony gaze before she shrugged, conceding. “Very well.”
Horns trumpeted and the race began. The ground rumbled beneath the pounding of fifteen sets of thundering hooves. Will felt the rhythm reverberating through his boots and on up through his body. He looked at Lucinda atop Sol and found her focused on the race, shading her eyes with one gloved hand to take in the progress.
“Do you have a favorite?” he called to her over the shouts from the crowd.
“Number four, Braveheart,” she replied, her head turning as she followed the horses.
Will surveyed the pack of five horses that led the way and located Braveheart, a giant chestnut with amazing speed. “He’s fast.” He watched as Braveheart broke from the pack, his long, powerful stride eating up the dirt track. “And if I’m not mistaken, it looks as though he’s about to win.”
Lucinda let out an unladylike shriek of approval. “Run, Braveheart, run!” she yelled, belatedly checking her unabashed enthusiasm with a palm over her mouth.
Will was riveted by Lucinda as she followed the race, her breath quickening with each stride the giant chestnut took, her arms rising in the air, her hands clenched into fists. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself smiling despite the realization that this time with her, when he was allowed to see her for who she truly was, would be short indeed.
He longed to place his hands around Garenne’s neck and put an end to his threat. But Will knew that day would be the last he’d spend in Lucinda’s company. There would be censure following their broken courtship. But he could bear that. Being blackened in polite society was nothing new to him.
But to be denied the pleasure of Lucinda’s company? That, he did not know how he would survive.
Will stared at Lucinda’s profile as she braced her hands on the saddle leather and stretched taller, her head turning to follow the horses as they rounded the last turn. Will watched the final furlong, Braveheart crossing the finish line some three strides in front of the other horses. The crowd erupted with cheers, men slapping one another on the back and women hopping up and down with joy.
“My first Queen’s Cup win!” Lucinda exclaimed, sliding down from her perch atop Sol.
“I’m sorry?” Will queried. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. His lips tightened as he looked down at her, annoyed that she hadn’t waited for his assistance.
Lucinda straightened her pelisse and gown, brushing Sol’s black hairs off her skirt. “There is a certain confidentiality between you agents and their assigned protectees, is there not?”
“Of course,” he replied, still not entirely sure what Lucinda was getting at.
“Excellent. Then there is no danger in sharing our plans with you.” She finished brushing her gown and turned to await the arrival of the rest of their party. “For some time now, my aunts and I have been building a breeding stable. Braveheart is the sire of Winnie’s foal.” She looked up, smiling brilliantly at the approaching party. “And now that he’s won the right to race in the Ascot, that foal is substantially more valuable.”
Will began to piece together tidbits of conversations he’d overheard while in Brampton. The odd comment by Lucinda’s aunt concerning Sol’s impending enthusiasm for an unnamed employment putting everything into focus.