Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  “I have never attempted a reading with my father in the room.” Raven stood and, taking only the gold ring, crossed the office. With her back to the three men, she sat in the chair in front of the dark hearth.

  “I need absolute silence,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

  Cupping the ring in her left hand, Raven placed her right hand over it. She closed her eyes, relaxing every muscle in her body.

  And then it happened.

  Fog rolled across her mind’s eye and slowly dissipated into a heavenly setting. Stars dotting a night sky served as background for a crescent moon. Draped across the moon was a black and green plaid with yellow pinstripes. A small dagger, the hilt’s insignia two laurel branches orle, lay on the plaid. And then the fog rolled in again and clouded the heavenly scene.

  Raven opened her eyes and rose from the chair. Crossing the office, she handed the constable the ring.

  “Do you need the wallet?” the constable asked her.

  “No.” Raven resumed her seat between Alexander and the constable.

  “Did you see a face?” Alexander asked her.

  Raven ignored his question. He should have learned by now that her visions appeared in symbols.

  “I saw a heavenly setting,” Raven told them. “Thousands of glittering stars accompanied a crescent moon. A small dagger lay on top of a plaid blanket draped across the moon.”

  “How curious,” the constable said.

  “No faces?” Alexander sounded disappointed.

  “Can you describe this blanket?” her father asked.

  “It had black and green squares with yellow pinstripes.”

  “Good God, that’s the MacArthur plaid,” the duke exclaimed.

  “MacArthur’s horse finished second to yours in every race last season,” Alexander said.

  “Money is an excellent motivation for murder,” the constable remarked.

  The idea of Ross MacArthur as a suspect troubled Raven. He did not need the prize money a first place would have brought him, and no sane man killed for glory.

  “I’ve known Ross since the day of his birth and cannot believe him capable of murder.” The Duke of Inverary looked at his daughter. “Tell us about the dagger.”

  “It was small,” Raven answered, “and its insignia was two laurel branches orle.”

  The duke leaned down to open the desk’s bottom drawer. He produced a dagger, asking, “Did it look like this?”

  Raven nodded. “The only difference is yours has a boar’s head insignia.”

  “The two laurel branches indicate the MacArthurs,” the duke told the constable, “but we Scots call this type of dagger a dirk. That means we should also consider Dirk Stanley a suspect.”

  “Dirk Stanley is MacArthur’s stepbrother,” Alexander told the constable.

  “Could they have conspired?” Amadeus Black asked.

  The Duke of Inverary chuckled. “Ross dislikes Dirk so there is no chance of conspiracy.”

  Raven doubted that Dirk Stanley was a murderer. She hadn’t felt any negativity emanating from the earl. He seemed almost too eager to please.

  “We need more information before suspecting either man,” Amadeus Black said. “Spying, especially at social events, would gain us more insight.”

  “How do we do that?” Raven asked. “Only close friends exchange confidences.”

  “If Raven and Alexander quarrel in public,” the constable said to her father, “then Raven can befriend Dirk Stanley.”

  “I can do that,” Raven agreed, and peeked her betrothed’s unhappy expression.

  “Alex, you befriend Dirk’s sister,” the Duke of Inverary said. “Amanda Stanley is a lovely blonde.”

  “I’ll do it.” Alexander smiled at Raven’s unhappy expression. “We can confer after social events.”

  Spying lost its appeal to Raven. She trusted Alexander, but not blondes.

  “Argue at the Jockey Club Ball next week,” the duke suggested. “Everyone will be attending.”

  “I doubt anyone will believe a serious rift,” Alexander speculated. “Who will spy on MacArthur?”

  “Trust me on this,” the Duke of Inverary said with a smile. Then, “Tinker.”

  The door opened instantly to reveal the majordomo. “I was passing by when I—”

  “Whatever you accidentally overheard must not be repeated,” the duke said. “That includes my wife.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.”

  “Tell Blaze I must speak with her immediately,” he instructed his man.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The Duke of Inverary looked at the others. “I want no interference dealing with my daughter.”

  Upstairs, Blaze sat alone on the chaise in front of the hearth in her bedchamber. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and focused on communicating with Pegasus.

  Visualizing her father’s stables, Blaze imagined herself standing at Pegasus’s stall. She gazed into the filly’s eyes, letting her love for the horse swell in her breast.

  Love Peg. Love Peg. Love Peg.

  No answer.

  Love Peg. Love Peg. Love Peg.

  No answer.

  Love Peg. Love—

  Out.

  Out?

  Blaze opened her eyes and giggled. Puddles sat in front of her, his tail swishing across the floor, and placed his paw on her leg.

  Leaning close, Blaze hugged her mastiff. “Let’s go out.”

  Puddles dashed across the chamber. Blaze followed him and opened the door.

  Tinker stood there, his hand in the air to knock. “His Grace requires your presence in his office.”

  An official summons. What had she done now?

  “Will you take Puddles outside?” Blaze asked him. When he hesitated, she added, “I will tell you everything later.”

  Tinker looked at the mastiff. “Come along, Master Puddles.”

  The majordomo and the dog hurried down the corridor in the direction of the servants’ stairs. Blaze walked at a slower pace in the opposite direction and then descended the main staircase.

  Without knocking, Blaze entered her father’s office. “You wanted to see—” She stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

  Her father sat behind his desk. Four chairs formed a semicircle around the front of the ducal desk. Raven, Alexander, and Constable Black occupied three chairs. One vacant chair sat between the constable and her sister.

  This had the look of the Spanish Inquisition. Had her father somehow learned about her plans for The Craven? If so, what had Constable Black to do with it? Was he arresting her for conspiring to impersonate a jockey?

  The Duke of Inverary beckoned her forward. “Sit there, daughter.”

  “We need your help with Charlie’s murder investigation,” Constable Black said without preamble. “We need a spy.”

  “My help?” His statement surprised Blaze, but subterfuge appealed to her sense of adventure. “I don’t understand.”

  Constable Black looked at the duke. “Your Grace, I think you should explain.”

  “Raven gave us a reading,” her father said. “Your sister saw a MacArthur plaid and a Scottish dirk, making Ross MacArthur and Dirk Stanley our prime suspects.”

  “Ross MacArthur would never even step on an ant,” Blaze leaped to his defense, her fingers crossed at the lie. “The bone sucker did it.” She looked at her sister. “Did you see the disgusting way he scraped the duck’s bone clean with his teeth?”

  “Bone sucker?” the constable echoed in confusion.

  Raven giggled, and Alexander Blake burst into laughter. The Duke of Inverary wore a satisfied smile.

  “I don’t give a fig about Dirk Stanley,” the duke said, “but I need your help eliminating Ross as suspect.”

  “How do I spy on the marquis?” she asked him.

  “Spend time with Ross,” he advised her, “and he will soon become comfortable sharing his thoughts.”

  Blaze lowered her gaze to her hands, folded on her lap, and c
onsidered the matter. Spying gave her a good reason to pass time with the marquis. They already shared the secret of racing Pegasus. Other secrets would follow.

  “James MacArthur is my best friend,” the duke said, “and I would appreciate your eliminating his son as a suspect. Not only will I purchase Juno but will send her to the breeding barn with Zeus.”

  “I’ll do it,” Blaze agreed, “but Her Grace will object because she favors Prince Lykos.”

  Her father smiled. “I can handle my own wife.”

  Chapter Five

  “Blast it, Blaze. What d’ye think yer doin’?”

  Blaze slipped off Pegasus, catching a glimpse of Rooney’s and Bender’s smiles in the early morning light. She would not allow her status to be diminished in front of the others.

  Ready for battle, Blaze advanced on the marquis. She wished he weren’t so big. She felt like a kitten challenging a lion.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Blaze challenged him, her hands on her hips.

  “Ye looked over yer shoulder,” Ross snapped, glaring at her. “Any blockhead can remember to crouch low over the horse.”

  Blaze heard the muffled chuckles from the watching men. Blood rushed to her face. “Do not speak to me like that,” she ordered, her finger jabbing his rock-solid chest.

  The marquis stood his ground. “I’ll speak to ye however I please.”

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I’m in charge,” he told her.

  “I own Pegasus which means—”

  “Yer the jockey,” Ross interrupted her, “and I’m the boss. If ye dinna want to win enough to follow my instructions, I’ll sleep late in the mornin’s.”

  Blaze dropped her gaze to the fog swirling around her ankles. The marquis had backed her into a corner.

  She wanted to win. She needed to win. She could not win without him.

  Blaze gave him a curt nod. “Tell me what I did wrong.”

  “I apologize for yellin’ at ye,” Ross said in a quiet tone, “but ye forgot to crouch low over yer horse.”

  “I wanted to see how far back Rooney and Bender were,” Blaze said.

  “Look with yer eyes, lass, not with yer head.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, my lord, I do not have eyes on the back of my head.”

  Ross smiled at her sarcasm. “I did notice the location of yer bonny blue eyes, but there’s a way to see behind ye without turnin’ and breakin’ pace.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Rooney, show her how to look back,” Ross ordered. “Jeez, man, ye stink to high heaven.”

  The jockey grinned. “Nobody will come near me with the Stinking Billy in my pockets.”

  Ross gave Rooney a leg up on Pegasus and explained as the jockey demonstrated. “Yer crouchin’ low over the horse for maximum speed. Yer head is down, yer eyes are lookin’ straight ahead, and yer arms are up holdin’ the reins. Are ye with me, lass?”

  Blaze nodded. She already knew these things.

  “If ye need to look back, drop yer head lower and peek under yer arm,” Ross explained. “Dinna raise yer head until ye pass the finish line.” He turned to the jockey. “Show her on the track.”

  Crouching low over the horse, Rooney and Pegasus raced down track. He dropped his head and peeked under his right arm.

  “Is that clear?” Ross asked her.

  “Clearer than crystal.”

  “The expression is clearer than glass,” he corrected her.

  “Her Grace does not allow common glasses on her table,” Blaze said, making him smile. “I left drinking from common glasses behind in Soho.”

  “Soho?”

  “We lived in Soho until Papa acknowledged us,” Blaze told him. “You did know that my parents never married?”

  “I amna a complete blockhead.”

  Blaze gave him her sweetest smile. “Not a complete blockhead, no.”

  “Very funny. I’ll give ye a leg up on Peg.” Ross helped her mount and then ordered, “Show me the proper way to look behind ye.”

  “I’ll demonstrate on track,” she said, “after Peg passes through the hole.”

  Ross gestured the others to the start line. Her lips were moving in silent communication with her filly before reaching the line.

  Blaze Flambeau was bonny and brave. No other lady of his acquaintance had the courage to race a thoroughbred. He admired her challenging his autocratic attitude and her good grace to stand down when she was wrong.

  “Are you daydreaming, MacArthur?” Bender called.

  “I was plannin’ strategy. One, two, three, go.” Ross watched Rooney and Bender gallop down track. “Go, lass.”

  Blaze and Pegasus gave chase, her lips still moving in silent chant. The filly flew through the hole between the horses. Several furlongs ahead of the two riders, Blaze dropped her head to peek under her right arm.

  “Excellent,” Ross said when she returned. “Do ye want to try yer distance communication?”

  “I’m practicing from the house,” Blaze answered. “I’ll know Peg’s ready when she answers my call.”

  “Dinna forget, lass, this scheme can only work at Newmarket,” Ross warned her. “Epsom and Doncaster dinna have the same conditions.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I want to settle the plans for race day,” Ross said, beckoning the trainer and the jockey. “Bender, ye escort Pegasus to the paddock and stay with the filly.”

  Ross turned to the jockey. “Rooney, ye weigh in with the saddle as usual. Afterwards, meet me on the far side of the training grounds. Ye’ll switch places there.”

  Finally, Ross looked at Blaze. “Ye’ll take Rooney’s place in the paddock just before mountin’ time. When the bell sounds, Bender will give ye a leg up and escort ye onto the track. From that moment, ye and Peg are on yer own. Will yer courage hold?”

  Blaze felt a chill of excitement. “I fear nothing.”

  “If ye win,” Ross said, “keep ridin’ into the copse of trees where Rooney and ye can make the switch. I’ll get ye back to the winner’s circle with no one the wiser.”

  Ross looked at the trainer and the jockey. “Any questions or concerns?”

  “She’ll need to drink my shot of whisky,” Rooney said. “The boy brings me a shot to steady my nerves before mounting.”

  Ross looked at the trainer. “Bender, any concerns?”

  “I have many concerns,” the trainer said, “but you’re the cause of all my worries.”

  “Bobby, ye need to enjoy the intrigue,” Ross said, smiling, and gestured them off. “Blaze, I want ye to ride with me to the Rowley Mile so I can explain the track strategy.”

  Blaze yawned. “Can we go this afternoon?”

  Ross shook his head. “No one will be millin’ aboot at this hour.”

  Blaze glanced over her shoulder. Bender was already leading his horse toward the path to the stables. Rooney and Pegasus followed the trainer.

  “Do you want me to walk?”

  “We’ll share my horse.” Ross mounted first. “Put yer foot in the stirrup and climb up behind me.”

  “I’ll topple off.”

  “Trust me, lass.” Ross held his hand out. “I willna let ye fall.”

  Blaze placed her left foot in the stirrup. Grabbing his hand, she hoisted herself up and swung her right leg over the saddle.

  “Wrap yer arms around me,” he told her.

  Blaze did as instructed, wrapping her arms around his chest, and blushed when she realized her breasts and belly were pressing against his back. Sitting this close was indecent and arousing.

  She caught his mountain heather scent, mingling with oiled leather and musky horse. The heat of his body warmed her, and she could not resist the urge to lean her cheek against his back.

  “Dinna fall asleep.”

  “I won’t.” Sleep had never been farther from her mind.

  Leaving the Inverary practice track, they rode down Snailwell Road to Fordham Road. A private lane off F
ordham would bring them to Newmarket Heath and the Rowley Mile.

  The whole area was deserted, and Blaze suffered the uncanny feeling they were the only two people in the world. She knew, though, every stable and yard was a beehive of drowsy activity at that hour.

  Daily chores were well underway. Boys were mucking out stalls, riders were saddling the horses for morning exercise, and stablehands were preparing breakfast for the horses.

  Blaze decided this was an auspicious moment to begin spying. Engaging the marquis in casual conversation was the best way to discover information.

  Guilt spread through her at the idea of spying. She knew the marquis could not have murdered Charlie. The bone sucker did it.

  As agreed, she would ask questions. Reporting what she learned was an entirely different matter.

  “Constable Black and Alexander Blake conferred with my father about the murder,” Blaze said, hoping she sounded casual.

  “Is that so?”

  Blaze wished she could see his expression. On the other hand, she could feel his body respond. That arousing thought tinted her cheeks pink.

  “Did you know Charlie?”

  “Newmarket is a small town, lass.”

  No help there. Was he evading an answer or simply uninterested?

  Blaze felt no tension in his body. She would try another angle. “What did you think about your horse placing second to my father’s?”

  “I thought my horse placed second.”

  “I meant, what did you feel?”

  “Feel?” Ross echoed. “What d’ye mean?”

  “Were you disappointed? Angry? Bitter?”

  “I didna have any feelin’s.”

  His lack of response frustrated her. Was he hiding something? Or was lack of emotion typical of men?

  Blaze tried again. “Everyone feels something.”

  “If yer determined to play at thoroughbred racin’, ye must keep a cool head.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes ye win,” Ross told her. “Sometimes ye lose, and sometimes ye scratch yer horse.”

  “I don’t understand scratch,” Blaze admitted.

  “It’s good to hear ye dinna know everythin‘,” Ross teased her. “Scratch means ye drop yer horse out of the race for one reason or another.”

  They reached the Rowley Mile. The track was deserted, but Blaze knew that the scene would be alive with excited activity in less than a week.