Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DONCASTER RACECOURSE, TWO WEEKS LATER
The St. Leger horse race had a fearsome reputation for being cold and rainy and utterly miserable, and Saskia had traveled north prepared for such an eventuality.
But morning had blossomed into an absolute beauty of an autumn afternoon—crystalline blue skies…
air just crisp enough to put a spring into the step of human and horse alike… not even the whisper of a breeze.
“Perfect race conditions,” stated the Duke of Rakesley from his seat down the row.
“Aye,” returned Lord Branwell, the war-hero husband of Rakesley’s sister, Lady Artemis. “A mudder won’t take it today.”
Variations on this exact conversation had been swirling around Saskia all day. Of course, as she was seated in the top section of the grandstand where owners and various interested, aristocratic parties of the horse racing world had their boxes, the weather would’ve been a popular topic.
Twelve days ago, Saskia hadn’t yet broached the topic of the St. Leger with Viveca when a letter had arrived in the post—an invitation.
Actually, two invitations. The first invited her and her family to stay at Endcliffe Grange as the guests of Lord and Lady Branwell Mallory.
A quick think caught the connection to Liam.
Lady Branwell was also known as Lady Artemis, who was the sister of the Duke of Rakesley, who was the husband of the Duchess, Gemma, who was the twin sister of Liam.
After a wretched two hours of deliberation, Saskia had accepted the invitation.
The second invitation had arrived a day later.
She and her party were cordially invited to attend Sir Abstrupus Bottomley’s 1st Annual St. Leger Soirée.
A consultation with Debrett’s had led her to the, ahem, bottom of that invitation.
As it happened, Sir Abstrupus Bottomley was the neighbor of Lord and Lady Branwell.
Thus, Saskia found herself at Doncaster Racecourse on the day of the St. Leger, sitting with her family to her left—Gabriel and Celia; Tessa and Julian, who also happened to be bosom friends with the Duke of Rakesley; and Viveca and Blaze—and Liam’s family and friends to her right.
The Duke and Duchess of Rakesley—the duchess bore such a similarity of appearance to Liam that Saskia couldn’t look at her without thinking of him…
which led her down entire rabbit warrens of contemplation—Lady Artemis and Lord Branwell; Lady Artemis’s bosom friend, Lady Beatrix, and her husband Mr. Blake Deverill, known to the ton as Lord Devil for obvious reasons related to his dashing dark handsomeness and incredible wealth, and for less obvious reasons that an outside observer could only guess at, but that Lady Beatrix would certainly know very intimately.
The two contingents talked amongst themselves and over Saskia, who felt like the only still point in all Doncaster.
“This will be a two-horse race, mark my words,” stated Lady Beatrix. “Morningstar and Lady Midnight.”
“Odds are favoring Morningstar, I reckon,” chimed Blaze.
“And why do you reckon that?” asked Celia with a bit more fire than was strictly necessary. She could get fiery about her horses.
Blaze didn’t rise to the flash of temper. “He took the Derby, didn’t he?”
“And the Two Thousand Guineas,” said Rakesley over Saskia’s head.
“And you got Liam Cassidy—oh, right, the Earl of Bolton—riding him.” Blaze shrugged. “He won the Race of the Century five years back. He’ll be the favorite.”
“On race day, however, anything can happen,” observed Julian. Saskia’s brother by law was ever the diplomat. “And Lady Midnight thrives on the longer courses.”
“Aye,” said Lady Artemis, “my money’s on the lady.” She turned to her brother. “Sorry, Rake.”
The duke grunted. “Your disloyalty has been duly noted, sister.”
“Lady Artemis,” said Saskia, catching the lady’s attention, “I must thank you for so generously having us stay at Endcliffe Grange.”
Lady Artemis and Lord Branwell had already left for Doncaster by the time Saskia had arrived with Viveca and Blaze. Tessa and Julian had arrived a few days before them.
“And you received the invitation to Sir Abstrupus’s soirée?” asked Lady Artemis.
“I did.”
“Sir Abstrupus doesn’t leave the Roost, so we must go to him.” She shook her head as if helpless against facts beyond her control. “And the man loves to host a grand gala. Still, you’ll find Sir Abstrupus’s hospitality to be slightly unusual.”
Saskia’s brow lifted. “Oh?”
“The old rascal’s hospitality is guided by his whims, which are myriad and unpredictable,” groused Lord Branwell.
With the scar that bisected his right cheekbone, he was as ruggedly handsome as any war hero in a novel ever was.
Saskia wondered if it would be rude to pull her journal and pencil from her reticule so she could jot down a few notes.
“You’ll do well to heed Bran’s advice regarding Sir Abstrupus,” chimed Lady Artemis. “The old troublemaker is his godparent.”
Truly, England was a small island.
Lord Branwell held up a finger. “Just don’t drink any of the teas he offers you.”
Saskia felt her brow gather. “All right,” she said, slowly.
“You’ll have to trust us on this.”
The conversation continued around them as Lady Beatrix caught Blaze’s attention. “You don’t know something the rest of us don’t, do you, Blaze?”
Cheating. She was asking if Blaze had caught wind of any turf skullduggery.
And, of course, Lady Beatrix had every right to ask Blaze such a question for, though it wasn’t widely known in society, everyone in this group knew that she and Blaze shared a father and were half-siblings from opposite sides of the blanket.
A small island, indeed.
Suddenly, Saskia began paying closer attention to the conversation.
Any underhandedness would impact Liam, grievously, for those were the stakes of horse racing.
She could hardly stand it. While she could sympathize with Liam’s love of the sport, she couldn’t help feeling relieved this was his final race.
Still, he had to make it through the race.
While Saskia still knew little about horse racing, she understood this: before this perfect day had dawned, Morningstar hadn’t been favored to win—and now the elements appeared to be conspiring in his favor.
She wasn’t sure which was better—near-certain loss or an in-the-thick-of-it win.
Each outcome carried its own dangers and uncertainties.
To separate herself from the anxiety gnawing at her, she attempted to view the day through the lens of Harriet LaPlume, which served both to store vital details that would go into Liam’s memoir and to keep her at an emotional remove.
“Ah, now, I’ve been clear of the turf rumormongering business these last three years, Lady Bea.
” The mischievous glint in Blaze’s eye suggested otherwise.
“I’m a respectable gent these days, didn’t you hear?
” Amused silence met his question. “Or as respectable as the majority owner of a gaming hell can be.”
This got an equal amount of laughs and snorts. Incorrigible. That was the word for Blaze.
“Well, a duke and a marchioness are your business partners,” allowed Lady Beatrix.
Saskia had always rather liked Lady Beatrix, as she always seemed to know just a little more than anyone else on any topic of conversation.
“See?” Blaze spread his hands wide and grinned. “Proper respectable.”
Through this conversation and others happening all around—everyone seemed to be engaged in two or three discussions at once—people came and went, and it was only now that Saskia realized that to her right sat a new neighbor.
The Duchess of Rakesley regarded Saskia with what could only be characterized as interest in gold-flecked green eyes that precisely matched her brother’s. “Do you enjoy the sport of horse racing, Lady Saskia?”
Saskia exhaled a nervous laugh. “Until this year, I didn’t know the first thing about it—or even horses, for that matter.”
The duchess’s gaze remained unflinching and direct. “And how are you enjoying your riding lessons?”
The breath caught in Saskia’s throat. Of course. Of course, the duchess knew about the riding lessons. The lad, Joe, who was instructing her came from the duke and duchess’s stables.
My sister trained her herself.
Those had been Liam’s exact words regarding Peony, and the duchess was Liam’s only sister.
And all these weeks, she’d thought she and Liam were a secret.
The duchess’s eyes suggested it was the worst kept secret in the history of secrets.
“I’m so grateful for the use of Peony, Your Grace.” Good manners never went amiss. “She is a wonderful horse.”
This pulled a genuine smile from the duchess. Her smile lacked the raw charm of Liam’s, but held all its sincerity. “Please call me Gemma.” Her smile brightened, as Saskia suspected it always did when she spoke of her horses. “Peony is a gentle soul, isn’t she? Please keep her as yours.”
A shocked laugh startled from Saskia. “Oh, I couldn’t accept such a gift. Where would I stable her?”
“You can, and you shall,” said Gemma. “The excellent Cross Street Mews is located a block behind Sloane Street. You shall stable her there.”
Gemma had been a duchess for five or so years, but it appeared she’d rather taken to the having-her-way part.
That would’ve been the duke rubbing off on his wife.
“Liam was most adamant that you should learn to ride. And the thing about my brother is he doesn’t typically become adamant about anything not related to horse racing.
Yet…” Her eyes narrowed, a subtle question therein. “He’s adamant about you.”
Only on the rare occasion did Saskia go speechless—and now was one such rare occasion.
“I thought you might want to know.”
“Oh, well, thank you.”
The thing was Saskia did want to know—and didn’t.
What was she supposed to do with such knowledge? Knowledge that warmed her… Knowledge that quaked, shook, and rattled her to her boots.
Rakesley’s hand slipped into his wife’s, claiming her attention. “They’re assembled at the starting line.”