Chapter 6
The sun rose high and unapologetic over Danebrook Park, gilding the green lawns and fluttering canvas pavilions of the racecourse. Grooms led sleek horses towards the paddock and bookmakers shouted their odds above the crowd.
It was the first truly fashionable meet of the Season, and Society had arrived accordingly: lords and ladies in smart carriages, cavalry officers pretending to inspect bloodlines, bored second sons eager to wager money they did not possess, and a great many gentlemen who had already mistaken brandy for breakfast. Beyond the stands, hooves struck turf in a rhythm that made Lottie Tolliver sit a little straighter.
“This is the most glorious day I have had since the Tolliver Christmas two years past,” she declared. “And that involved four puddings and Cousin Mortimer setting fire to a tablecloth.”
Theo, Earl of Langley, gave a long-suffering sigh. “I fail to see how that qualifies as glorious.”
“Oh, you are so dreadfully dull these days, Lord Langley,” she replied, peering through her parasol at the gathering crowd. “You do not properly appreciate chaos as you once did.”
“I appreciate surviving it,” he muttered, tugging his leather gloves tighter.
In fairness, Theo had never intended to bring her to the spring meeting at all.
He had merely called at Tolliver House that morning on some errand for Hetty, mentioned the races within Lottie’s hearing, and found himself outmanoeuvred before he had finished his tea.
Lady Tolliver, hearing there might be eligible gentlemen present, had surrendered almost at once.
Theo, remembering certain recent events in the country and looking uncomfortably guilty about them, had surrendered soon after.
Thus Lottie had been carried off to Danebrook Park under strict instructions to remain in the Langley box, speak to no unsuitable men, and avoid anything that might be described as “spirited.” She had, naturally, accepted these terms with no intention of keeping them.
The sponsor’s enclosure gleamed across the green, all white canvas, polished boots, and masculine privilege.
“You know,” Lottie said, angling her parasol, “you might enjoy yourself rather more if you joined the Morleighs in the sponsor’s tent.”
Theo did not look up from his racecard. “And abandon you to your own devices? I may as well toss a match into a powder keg and be done with it.”
“You wound me. But very well—if you are determined to suffer my company, why don’t I accompany you?”
“No.”
“But the Duchess of Morleigh is my sister.”
“No.”
She pouted. “Why not?”
He gave her a look of contrition. “It is not done, Charlotte, as you are perfectly aware. Enough of this nonsense. No.”
“Oh, come now, Theo. I should sit beside Georgie, drink lemonade, and offer not a single remark more scandalous than a compliment upon a bonnet. I swear upon it. Mama needn’t know.”
“That tent might have a few gentle ladies drinking lemonade,” Theo said flatly. “But it is filled with elderly gentlemen drinking brandy and making remarks not fit for mixed company.”
“And yet married women may hear such remarks?”
“They may,” Theo said stiffly, “because married women are presumed to be more established. They are shielded by their husbands.”
“Ah,” Lottie said, enlightenment dawning with theatrical force. “So matrimony provides armour against the ills of men?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How splendid. Once a woman’s virtue has been compromised under lawful supervision, she may hear anything she likes.”
Theo closed his eyes.
“It is quite ludicrous,” she continued. “Do you truly imagine there is anything in that tent I have not heard before?”
“That is not the point, Charlotte.”
“Then pray enlighten me—what is the point?”
“The point is how you are perceived.” His voice lowered. “And whether you like it or not, your reputation does not belong to you alone. It touches your family. Your younger sisters. Every future match you and they might hope to make.”
Lottie bit the inside of her cheek until the sharpness passed, before sighing. “Well. It is very tiresome being a young lady of noble birth.”
“It is infinitely more tiresome being responsible for one. I feel at any moment you shall jump the fence and gallop away with the nearest gentleman who so much as smiles at you.”
“Oh, do calm yourself,” she said sweetly. “I have no intention of galloping across the lawn. Not unless I am properly mounted.”
Theo choked outright upon his drink. “Charlotte.”
“What?”
“You know very well what.”
“Honestly, Theo. You know how exceedingly fond I am of a vigorous ride. A fine, spirited creature beneath one, a firm hand required to guide it, just enough wildness to make the effort worthwhile—“
“Good God, Lottie.”
“I am speaking of horses.”
“You are never only speaking of horses.”
Before he could scold her further, a familiar voice floated up from the steps below. “Langley,” it drawled. “You’ve brought the wild creature out of her cage, I see.”
Mr Jasper Deverell paused at the rail of their box, a glass of brandy in hand, sunlight catching at the rim. His gaze found Lottie’s with the certainty of a compass seeking north.
Lottie rested her chin against her gloved knuckles. “Mr Deverell. The fox arrives.”
Theo sighed heavily.
“What a delight to find you amongst the racing men,” she said. “Have you come to admire the horses or place outrageous bets?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Jasper, eyes gleaming. “Although I am told the fillies are particularly fine this year.”
Theo made a strangled sound. After a brief pause, he rose, gave Deverell a resigned look, and jerked his head.
Jasper took the invitation at once, helping himself to Theo’s seat beside Lottie. Theo grunted and moved to the right.
Below them, the horses were being brought towards the starting post, sleek and restless.
“I believe I shall place a wager,” Lottie said brightly.
Theo turned as though struck. “Miss Tolliver, you will do no such thing. Sit down at once.”
She blinked. “Heavens. It was only a jest.”
“Not an amusing one. Should you take one step towards the betting ring, I shall bundle you into the carriage and return you to Tolliver House.”
Lottie sighed and sank back into her chair, snapping open her fan. “Really. Can a young lady not have any fun at all? One would suppose I declared my intention to elope with a jockey.”
“Given your history,” Theo muttered, “I should be astonished if the thought had not crossed your mind.”
Lottie smiled and ignored him, lifting the opera glasses to study the field.
Deverell watched her. “Which horse has taken your fancy, Miss Tolliver?”
She pointed towards a dark bay colt near the far rail, tossing its head. “That one. He looks as though he might bolt straight through the finish and halfway to Somerset.”
“Reckless sort,” Deverell said. “Won’t hold the first bend. I favour the grey mare, second from the inside.”
“Well, I am quite content to wager upon the unlikely. Besides, I have a fondness for creatures who do not behave as instructed.”
“I cannot imagine why.”
Theo cleared his throat. “Miss Tolliver. You have already been warned not to place bets.”
“I would never dream of it,” she said. “Certainly not beneath your ever-vigilant supervision.”
“Pity,” Deverell murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “I had thought to test your instincts.”
Lottie did not look at him. “There are other ways to do so.”
“Charlotte,” Theo warned again, not looking up from his racecard.
“A perfectly innocent remark, Papa,” she said, knowing full well he was neither fooled by her sweetness, nor amused by the comparison to a watchful father.
Deverell dropped his voice a notch and leant in closer to Lottie’s ear. “Shall we make it a true wager?”
Lottie inclined her head, lowering her voice in turn. “Terms?”
“A favour,” he said. “Of my choosing.”
“Then I shall claim one in return, should I win.”
“Agreed.”
The trumpet rang out. Below, the field sprang forward in a sudden blur of colour and muscle.
“They’re off!” Lottie cried, snatching up her opera glasses.
Deverell’s grey mare broke sharply and went to the front almost at once, swift and eager beneath her rider.
“Come on,” he murmured under his breath. “That’s it. Settle her.”
Beside him, Lottie leant forward, searching the pack. Her dark bay colt was buried midway in the field, running keenly behind two larger horses, his head tossing as though offended by restraint. He was fast, she knew it. She held her breath as Deverell’s grey stretched her lead.
“Easy now,” Deverell said softly. “Steady… steady…”
Lottie dared a glance at him.
Mr Deverell’s expression had changed. His eyes—usually so full of mischief —were fixed and fierce upon the track, his jaw tight, one gloved hand gripping the rail. The wind lifted a curl against his temple, and the morning sun traced gold along the edge of his cheek.
“Hold her there,” he whispered. “That’s it, my girl.”
Lottie’s pulse skipped. It was perfectly ridiculous, for the man was speaking to a jockey and horse, and yet it sent an unexpected warmth creeping up the back of her neck.
Her colt began to move, slipping through a narrow opening between two tiring runners, and surging forward.
“Oh!” Lottie breathed, lowering her opera glasses.
But Deverell’s grey answered the challenge at once, lengthening her stride.
“Ah,” he said. “There she is. Keep the pace, my love.”
Lottie’s lips parted. He does not mean you, she told herself sternly.
“Good girl,” he breathed, and then louder, “Come along. Don’t give him the rail.”
Lottie stood, quite without thought, and so did Deverell. They were shoulder to shoulder now, both leaning over the box’s rail as though the outcome of the race might be urged on through sheer will.
The grey faltered slightly at the bend, and the colt came on.
“Come on,” Lottie hissed. “Just a little more.”
“Push, sweetheart,” Deverell growled beside her. “Come now. Take it.”
The roar of hooves drowned the rest, thundering through the air like distant artillery. The two horses drew level, running neck and neck in one great heaving thunder of muscle and will.
“Now!” Deverell barked, striking the rail. “Take it now, my girl. Take it!”
“Go!” Lottie cried. “Go on—yes!”
With a final burst of speed, her wild, beautiful, untameable colt flew across the post. The crowd roared around them.
Lottie gasped through her laughter, one hand clutching the rail, the other holding the opera glasses flat to her bodice as though they might still her heart. Her bonnet hung crooked and her cheeks flushed with excitement.
“Well,” she said breathlessly. “That was… most invigorating.”
Mr Deverell was staring at her. For once, the man reputed across England for his wicked tongue had not a single clever word to say.
“That horse ought not to have finished at all,” Theo said dryly.
Lottie blinked, almost startled to remember him. “Well, he did. And rather magnificently, I might add. You ought to have allowed me to put my pin money on it. We might all have retired comfortably to Brighton by Tuesday.”
Jasper exhaled slowly and sat, adjusting his gloves. “It appears I owe you a favour, Miss Tolliver.”
Theo’s head turned. “You owe her what, precisely?”
Lottie gave him a placid smile. “Nothing improper, I assure you. A small, personal forfeit.”
Theo’s brows rose so high they nearly disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “A personal forfeit?”
Mr Deverell, to his credit, became very absorbed in the stitching of his cuff. “It was, ah… rather impulsive, Langley.”
“A friendly wager,” Lottie supplied. “Mr Deverell promised me a favour should my horse win. And as it happens…”
“It did,” Deverell said, his eyes now on her.
Theo looked between them. “I trust any such favours exchanged will remain entirely above reproach.”
“Of course,” Lottie said. “Do you truly suppose I would make a scandalous wager?”
“Yes,” Theo said flatly. “That is precisely what I suppose.”
She considered this. “You ought to give me a little more credit. I am perfectly capable of making a scandal without a wager.”
Deverell choked into his glove.
The fifth race had concluded when Lottie rose, brushing imaginary crumbs from her skirt and lifting her parasol. “Lord Langley, I must beg your pardon. I find myself in need of the ladies’ retiring tent.”
Theo looked up warily. “You cannot go alone.”
“Oh,” she said with wide eyes. “Then perhaps you intend to escort me yourself?”
He recoiled. “Good God, no.”
“Quite so,” she said gravely.
Theo dragged a hand down his face. “One of the footmen shall accompany you as far as the entrance. He will wait outside. I ought to have insisted upon bringing a maid from the house, but—“
“Oh, but how could you have thought of such a thing?” she interrupted, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Men never do. It is all so terribly unmentionable, is it not?”
“Lord grant me strength,” Theo muttered under his breath, gazing briefly heavenwards, “for I am daily beset by Tollivers.”
Lottie smiled demurely, and then turned her head just so, lifting her fan to shield her face from the sun—or so it would have appeared.
In truth, the gesture was perfectly calculated to catch Jasper Deverell’s eye.
She gave the barest tilt of her head and the barest lift of her brow; it was a summons, as clear as any spoken word.
“I do believe,” Lottie continued, affecting mild concern, “that I spy Georgiana’s maid near the pavilion. Your footman might fetch her as I arrive at the tent. I should feel far more at ease assisted by someone I know.”
Theo narrowed his eyes. “Five minutes.”
“More than sufficient.”
A footman appeared and bowed. “May I escort you to the retiring tent, miss?”
“You may.”
The footman fell into step a respectful distance behind as she descended the wooden stairs and crossed the green, the spring sun warm upon her skin.
The ladies’ tent stood beyond the refreshment marquees, discreetly screened by trellis and hedge.
Lottie halted at the entrance and turned to the footman with her most helpless expression. “I should be grateful if you would now summon the Morleigh maid. One never knows how dire such feminine matters may become.”
The young man coloured to the roots of his hair. “Yes, miss. At once.”
Lottie watched him flee. “Men,” she murmured.