Lightheaded with excitement, Ellie didn’t dare look back. Her arms and hands were numb. She had no idea if her boots were still in the stirrups. She shut her eyes and grabbed a lock of Manifesto’s mane. Please don’t fall off, she thought. Please, please. Not now.
A tremendous roar went up. Was it blood pounding in her ears? Was it the thunder of Manifesto’s hooves devouring the track? Ellie opened her eyes. Blurred with speed, she saw the crowd hammering the railing, betting sheets waving above their heads. Then in one mighty stride Manifesto flashed over the finish line.
• • •
A hoard broke past the railing, rushing onto the field toward them. Manifesto danced nervously as a stranger caught his bridle. “Great show, chap!” The man beamed.
Horse and rider were ringed with well-wishers. “The best race of my lifetime,” pronounced an old-timer.
“Mine too,” Ellie replied happily.
She scanned the faces of the crowd for Hugh. He wasn’t there.
A triumphant parade led Manifesto to the winner’s circle. Pushing through the bodies, an important-looking gentleman in tweed approached. He carried a silver trophy – a cup, doubled handled and smithed with a scene of Doncaster and a horse etched in relief against a backdrop of the stands.
Ellie smiled so wide her lips hurt. Manifesto did it, she thought. He did it!
People were clapping her on the knee, whooping and hollering, shouting “Brilliantly run!” and “Jolly good!”
Laughing and shaking hands, Ellie struggled with tears of joy, but where was Hugh? She searched the sea of faces. And then she saw a pair of eyes she recognized. Her smile vanished. Lank gleamed back at her.
Manifesto whinnied, sniffed the air, and turned in an agitated circle, sensing her fear. The crowd moved back. Her concentration went to calming the horse. When she looked again, Hugh had his arm around Lank’s neck in a vice grip. “Officer, officer!” Hugh shouted. “Arrest this man.”
Every face in the crowded winner’s circle turned to watch the commotion.
“The jockey’s a woman!” Lank screamed. “Look you fools, the jockey’s a woman! Fraud! Fraud!”
All eyes shifted back to Ellie. The elated crowd transformed into a mass of confusion. With a swift uppercut, a top-hatted character knocked Ellie’s cap off. Her white hair tumbled to her shoulders. The crowd gasped. “What difference does it make? I won it, didn’t I?” she cried. But her words were lost in the hubbub.
“Ya damn meddling wench, you’ve thrown off the betting sheets!” a man yelled.
“Aye, I’ve got The Duchess to win.”
“Reveler’s third. He placed, and I’m collecting.”
“Forfeit. The girl’s got to forfeit!”
“Nay, she ain’t. I got that horse placing. Twenty-to-one odds — I’m rich.”
Everyone started yelling, their faces blotched with rage. Terrified, Ellie looked for Hugh and then saw a flash of metal — Lank had his arm fully extended. The sack hook glinted in the sun as it started a vicious descent towards Hugh’s face. All sound stopped, all movement slowed. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. Inches from his brow Hugh blocked the blow with his forearm. He wrenched the hook free from Lank, and punched the man full in the face. Lank dropped beneath the bystanders and Hugh plunged out of sight. A moment later, the crowd parted like scattering leaves as Hugh barreled through the crush toward the winner’s circle.
Ellie’s heart clenched. Lank got away. He got away. Manifesto made a startled leap forward, and she lost her balance. Scrambling in the saddle, she saw Lank crawling through the cleared area behind the horse’s haunches. In the next second the stallion flattened his ears, threw his head down, and bucked hard. Hooves made contact with Lank’s body. Ellie was thrown onto the horse’s neck. From the corner of her eye, she saw the steward hurtling through the air. People ducked and screamed — a rush of humanity cleared behind Manifesto as Lank whumped down on the muddy track. Turning the stallion, Ellie got an unobstructed view of the man lying flat in the wet gook, his expensive coat in tatters, his white cravat caked in dirt, and his fancy top hat crushed beside him. He was gasping like a fish.
Hugh materialized from the crowd and grabbed Manifesto’s bridle. “Are you all right?”
“Are you all right?” Ellie blurted. “Did Lank hurt you? Did you see the race?”
“I did. You were marvelous. Wasn’t she marvelous?” he asked Manifesto, who threw his head. “If I can ever beat my heart back down from my throat, I’ll tell you how impressive your riding was.”
“How is Toby?”
“A doctor’s with him. Dixon sent me out to watch the race.”
Lank began to stir.
“Arrest that man!” Hugh shouted. “Don’t let him get away.”
The gentleman with the silver cup stepped forward. “On what charge?”
“Embezzlement, arson, horse thievery, and attempted murder.”
A murmur swept through the overwrought crowd. Eyes shifted from Ellie to Lank to Hugh.
“Arrest the girl,” a woman screeched. “I bet me house on this race!”
“Aye, take them all to the jailhouse,” said another.
A man, so large his arms strained his coat seams, tried to yank Ellie off Manifesto. Hugh’s fist hit a bull’s eye on the man’s nose. The assailant stumbled backward. “Get away!” Hugh bellowed, threatening anyone that came too close. “Judge for yourselves when you see what that man did to our jockey!” He pointed at Lank. “We had no choice but to put her aboard.”
“What’d he do?” asked the gentleman holding the cup.
“He drove a grain hook into Toby Coopersmith’s knee,” Ellie told him. “It will be a miracle if he walks again.”
A woman in the crowd gasped and fainted. “What’d she say?” someone asked. Word passed quickly, one to the next. “A grain hook,” they whispered.
Lank, still gulping for air, managed to prop himself up on one elbow. He watched the crowd, white fear in his eyes.
“We’re going to take you into custody for your own safety,” the gentleman with the cup told Lank. “You can see a doctor while we sort all this out.
“Guard.”
Two imposing men in uniform stepped forward. “Take this man immediately and watch him until I say otherwise.”
The officers each took one of Lank’s arms and half lifted, half dragged him out of sight. “Fraud,” Lank wheezed as they carried him off. “They perpetrated a fraud. Arrest her, too.”
The gentleman polished the silver cup with a handkerchief, and planted a cool gaze on Ellie and Hugh. “I must confer with the judges concerning the outcome of the race,” he said. “Off you go. A racetrack is no place for a lady.”
A narrow corridor opened in the ocean of hostile humanity. Hugh led Manifesto through it with Ellie aboard.
“A woman astride; disgraceful,” someone whispered as they passed.
“Keep your breath to cool your porridge,” another responded. “She rode a good race.”
“The wench’s parts are stretched so a man can have no pleasure with her,” another woman sniggered.
“And what man would have her?” snorted a fellow.
Hugh stopped the horse. “You are talking about my fiancée, and the next comment, be it from man or woman, they’ll wear their nose inside out.”
The man dipped his head and shuffled into the crowd.
Ellie wanted to disappear. She looked at no one, but the gawkers were quiet for the rest of the gauntlet.
• • •
At the barn, the doctor poured soapy water over Toby’s knee. The hook had been removed. Eyes closed, the jockey didn’t move. “It’s been a trial to clean the wound,” the doctor said, looking pale and exhausted. “We filled the poor man with spirits, but I pity him when he
wakes.”
Ellie studied Toby’s mangled leg. The doctor had done a good job of cleaning and straightening it. Claire always said keeping a wound clean was the most important step to a good recovery.
Ellie dipped a cloth in cool water and swabbed Toby’s pale brow.
Just then a shout went up outside, so loud it shook the barn.
“What’s happening?” Ellie asked.
Dixon Boyce roused himself from the corner of the stall and went outside. Hugh followed. A few minutes later, they returned. “They’ve declared The Duchess the winner,” Dixon announced.
“Oh,” said Ellie. How unbearable to see poor Toby, crumpled in agony, for all the nothing the race amounted to. Her throat clogged with unhappiness.
“It’s a disappointment, love,” said Hugh, lifting her from where she knelt at Toby’s side. “But there’s news to make up for it.”
“What’s that?” she asked dully.
With a magician’s flourish, Hugh reached into his pocket and teased out a string of very large pearls.
“That’s the Fitzcarry necklace,” she said, stunned.
“Your very intelligent mother gave them to me to ‘invest’ in Manifesto’s success. When I placed the bet, it was agreed the pearls would be valued at ten thousand pounds. At twenty-to-one odds, my darling fiancée, I am marrying into one of the wealthiest families in England.”
“But they gave the trophy to The Duchess.”
“Oh, you rich women are all alike,” Hugh teased. Before Ellie could dispute him, he turned to Dixon. “Tell her, would you?”
“Hugh didn’t bet with the track, he bet with me and a cartel I belong to,” Dixon explained.
“When you had to ride, I told Dixon all bets are off,” Hugh interrupted.
“But the cartel decided to go forward with the odds as they were,” Dixon continued. “The fools thought your sex would increase their chances of winning.”
The news swept Ellie’s mind like a zephyr, cool and impossible to grasp.
“Oh, I have to kiss those sweet, befuddled lips,” Hugh said, taking her into his arms. His strong hands caressed her back. “Let’s pretend it’s our wedding night,” he whispered. She smiled as his mouth met hers and she inhaled his sigh of utter happiness.
Epilogue
Ellie walked toward the Exeter Cathedral altar in a gown of flounced silver netting over a white satin slip. The hem, trimmed in pink satin roses and bouquets of living bluebells, mirrored the fields and hedgerows of Exeter on this beautiful spring morning. Around her neck gleamed the Fitzcarry pearls, and upon her head rode a crown of bluebells anchored by silver combs. The flowers had been picked at daybreak by her three sisters.
“Mama, she looks like a fairy princess,” breathed Snap as Ellie solemnly processed down the aisle. Lady Albright smiled and brushed a tear from her cheek before Snap could see it.
Ellie’s father squeezed her hand as he walked beside her, chin held high with pride.
Across the aisle Lady Davenport fished a handkerchief from her reticule as her tall, broad-shouldered son appeared on the altar. Hugh’s brown eyes met Ellie’s and a wide smile broadened his cheekbones. She grinned back at him.
When they said, “I do,” Mrs. Gower’s audible sob shook the nave.
Holding hands, husband and wife at last, Ellie and Hugh burst through the cathedral doors into the brilliant spring sunshine. He stopped her at the top of the stairs. Manifesto stood in the courtyard below. Bluebells adorned his mane and tail and he wore a matching blue saddle blanket. “Do you like him?” Hugh asked.
Ellie looked at her husband in confusion. “I love him. I’ve always loved him.”
“Then he’s my wedding present to you.”
Her limbs went weak. A buzzing rattled her brain. “You’re giving him to me?” she said, mouth open, shaking her head in disbelief. “But, but he cost so much money.”
Hugh threw his head back and laughed. He curled a hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her close. “Did you think your happiness is less valuable to me?” He leaned down and kissed her, his mouth closing over hers.
From miles away Ellie heard the stirrings of family around her. “They’re kissing.”
“Snap, stop staring.”
“Ah hem.”
When Ellie opened her eyes, the adults looked away – as if they’d been caught with a finger in the jam jar. Snap said with disgust, “Don’t do that, Ellie.”
Everyone laughed, including the new estate steward of Fairland, Toby Coopersmith, who, despite a peg leg, swooped down on Snap and lifted her high in the air. She screamed with excitement.
“Repeat after me,” he commanded, bouncing the little girl.
“Repeat after me!” Snap said, eyes bright with mischief.
“To the happy couple,” cried Toby.
“To the happy couple!” yelled Snap.
The rest of the company cheered and cheered until Hugh and Ellie fell back in each other’s arms and their lips met for another mighty draught of joy.
About the Author
Elf Ahearn — yes, that is her real name — lives in New York with her wonderful husband and a pesky (yet irresistible) cat. Learn more about her at elfahearn.com or friend her on Facebook.
More from This Author
Lord Monroe’s Dark Tower by Elf Ahern
The Glass Orchid
Emma Barron
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Emma Barron
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7120-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7120-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7121-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7121-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/DaydreamsGirl; sndr; sx70
For J & E
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
London, 1820
Rhys Camden swirled his brandy, watching the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass, slosh over the rim, and soak into the slightly worn carpet of the gambling club.
“I believe you are supposed to drink the brandy, Camden, not wash the floors with it. Though God knows Belford’s could use a thorough cleaning.”
Camden slowly brought his gaze up from his glass and tried to settle it on his friend, Drew Wittingham, but the man seemed intent on flittering around. Or perhaps it was just that Camden could no longer focus on anything after consuming so much brandy.
“Why did we decide to celebrate at Belford’s,” Wittingham continued, “instead of a more fashionable club? Surely Maven’s would have been a more suitable place.” Wittingham cast a red-rimmed eye around the club, a look of disdain etching his features as he took in the raucous crowd.
“Well, for one, we aren’t members at Maven’s.”
“Ah, yes. I like to forget that we are not of the highest echelons of society. Pity, really, that even with all
of your money you can’t just buy yourself a title and be done with it.”
“It isn’t my money,” Camden reminded his friend.
“Your money, your father’s money.” Wittingham dismissed the distinction with a wave of his hand. “It’s all the same. Especially since you are now twenty-one and joining the family business.”
“And that’s the other reason we are at Belford’s. Farber decided it was the most s-suitable place for the debauchery sure to occur at my birthday party.” Camden’s speech slurred and he swayed on his feet as he struggled to focus on his friend. “It’s the only place with a reputation worse than his.”
“Speaking of the devil, here come our friends now.” Wittingham gestured with his tumbler to the two approaching men. “Must have lost at hazard to be back so soon.”
Camden squinted. He would have to take Wittingham’s word that the approaching forms were their companions; he’d be damned if he could see anything. Then they came close enough that the single blurry shape resolved into Farber and Hollsworth.
“Lost your money so soon?” Wittingham asked.
“Every last shilling,” Hollsworth said with a grin.
“Good God, Camden, you look like hell,” Farber said loudly as he slapped Camden on the back, causing him to spill the rest of his brandy. “You’ll have to clean yourself up by tomorrow morning or your father won’t let you in the shipping office. He’d never let such a haggard-looking creature serve as the factotum of his precious business.”
“I have plenty of time to clean up before I must report to my father,” Camden said.
Hollsworth pulled out his watch. “You have four hours, to be exact.” He put the watch back in its pocket and then took in the appearance of his friend. “Not nearly enough time.”
“I can’t be all that bad.”
Farber laughed and slapped Camden on the back again. “Your clothes are stained and crumpled, your eyes are red and blurry, you’re looking a bit puffy about that pretty face of yours, and God knows where your cravat’s got off to. What an impression you will make on your first day.”
Time After Time Page 29