She wanted more. Much more.
She forced her attention from her sizzling reaction to Thomas’s nearness and watched Zachary. Her heart warmed at the sight of her son’s happy face and she realized how much Zac missed the open spaces at home. Unlike the situation in London, there was little danger for the children at Blackmore Manor, and Zachary was able to run free there. He climbed trees, waded in the pond, and chased for hours with the other little boys on the estate under Nurse Hawkins’s watchful eye. London was difficult for him, but Maggie had no choice now but to keep her family there.
She had done some computations, and knew it was going to take several months of attending social functions in order to acquire enough material for Mr. Brown’s caricatures. They’d agreed on two drawings a week for The Gazette, but even if she managed to sell one or two prints made from each drawing, it would be a long time before she had enough money to pay Julian’s debts and could return to Cambridgeshire.
“Thank you for this,” she said to Thomas. “Zachary will be talking about his pony ride for days.”
He took one of her hands in his and would have lifted it to his lips, but for Zachary’s happy shout.
“Mama! Do you see me?”
“Yes, I do!” she called out happily. “You are riding!”
“Mr. Garay said I am a very good rider,” he proclaimed proudly. Maggie smiled at the man who led the pony, and he grinned back. He was a small man, several inches shorter than Maggie, but many years older, the skin on his face as weathered as an old sailor’s. He handled the pony as well as any of the expert grooms her stepfather had employed.
“Look at all the horses,” Zac said, pointing to the herd in the paddock.
“Yes, I saw them.”
“Do you race them, Thorne?” Zachary asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Are they very fast?”
“Of course. They’re the best in Sabedoria.”
“Which one is the best?”
Thomas came up alongside Zachary and pointed toward the paddock. “See the chestnut with the white stocking?”
“Stocking?”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, smiling as he carefully placed Lily on the pony in front of Zachary. He kept his hold on her as they continued to walk with Maggie alongside him.
Lily’s eyes grew huge, but she pulled her thumb from her mouth and grabbed hold of the edges of the saddle as she rode.
“In Sabedoria, we call it a stocking when a horse’s leg is covered in white.”
Zachary frowned. “But there is only one.”
“True. Arrendo has only one, on his left rear leg.”
“That’s funny. I always wear two stockings!”
“So you do,” Thomas said with a laugh, and Maggie’s heart clutched in her chest. She could not recall ever having such a pleasant exchange with Julian and their children, and felt deeply offended that he’d avoided them to pursue his more stimulating pursuits in Town.
“Hello!” called Ambassador Beraza, coming out once again from the house. Maggie was surprised to see Shefford striding alongside him, rushing to match the pace of the longer-legged Beraza. He would not like that—feeling as though he had to hurry to catch up to another man.
She shielded her eyes against the bright, spring sunlight and watched her brother’s dark eyes take in every bit of their surroundings, from the barns and other outbuildings, to the horses in the paddock and the empty fields beyond. It was the same calculating look that Maggie had seen in him many times before. Her brother could be a very shrewd man, and Maggie knew he intended to orchestrate a race against Thomas’s horses. Somehow he would figure a way to ensure his own horse’s victory.
“Margaret,” he said when he reached her, “I had no idea you planned on visiting here today.” She heard an edge of admonishment in his voice. As though he had anything to say about her activities.
“Nor did I, Shefford,” she said, lying just a little bit. She hadn’t planned on coming out and visiting Thomas with the children, nor had she thought she would see her stepbrother there.
Shefford nodded toward a distant field. “You’re excavating?” he asked Thomas.
Only now did Maggie take notice of the men in the distance, working far afield with shovels. But it hardly mattered. The mood was ruined.
Tom nodded, then spoke sharply to Mr. Garay. “Take the horses inside, Ollie.” He seemed to be bothered by Shefford’s presence near the paddock.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Mr. Garay said.
Thomas took Lily down from the pony and Mr. Garay lifted Zachary down. He took the horse’s lead and trotted toward the paddock, as though it was imperative that he get the horses into the stable, and out of sight.
Thomas turned to Shefford. “We’re merely smoothing out a patch of turf out there.”
“For racing?” Shefford asked.
“Aye. I do not travel without my horses, and they need their exercise.”
“Did you know that we have a racing tradition here in England?” Shefford asked.
“Do you.” Thomas’s words came out like a statement, rather than a question, and Maggie felt a distinct change in his mood. He became cold and distant, and seemed displeased by Shefford’s arrival. It was clear that he had not wanted her brother to see the horses.
“Our racers are Thoroughbreds and are registered with a very stringent organization that oversees races. The Jockey Club.” Maggie cringed at Shefford’s superior tone.
She felt an underlying sense of rivalry at play, a kind of competition that seemed to occur often among men, though she’d known a fair number of women who engaged in the same kind of foolishness. Yet Shefford was the guest here, of a man whose wealth and station was far above her brother’s. He should not be spouting off like a boastful schoolboy.
“It sounds very official, indeed,” Ambassador Beraza remarked. “We would not care to break any English laws while we’re here, would we, Your Highness.”
“No,” Thomas said, frowning. “We will not be doing any racing. We just wanted the horses to have a reasonably clear course to avoid suffering any injuries when they exercise.”
“Seems a shame,” said Shefford. “You have some fine-looking horseflesh.”
Thomas looked pensively toward the paddock, where Mr. Garay was herding the horses back to the stable.
“Your big chestnut looks promising,” said Shefford.
A muscle in Thomas’s jaw flexed. “Why don’t we go back to the house?”
“I was thinking,” said Shefford, standing still, “that you might be interested in running a few races—unsanctioned, of course—English style. You can try your beasts against some fine English runners. See how they match up.”
Thomas could not have asked for a more willing subject than Shefford. The man’s arrogance prevented him from entertaining even the vaguest possibility that he had been manipulated and was about to be duped.
He’d picked up Lily again, and found the weight of her small body against his chest strangely calming. She melded into his hard angles, the shy little girl who had become surprisingly accustomed to him, trusting him completely to hold her safe.
If things had been different, Tom might have had his own little daughter by now, or maybe a few sons. He restrained the urge to slip an arm around Maggie’s waist and pull her close, as though the three of them were family. It would be a huge mistake to allow his emotions to become involved here.
Maggie was just a means to an end, and her presence that afternoon had served exactly the purpose he’d hoped for. Shefford had come running, just as Tom and Nate had anticipated.
“You’ve got a few that would give my Thoroughbreds a run for the money,” said Shefford, watching carefully as the horses returned to the stable, one by one.
“No doubt.” He set Lily on her feet next to her mother and Maggie took the little girl’s hand in her own. She appeared perplexed, as well she should be. Tom’s attitude had shifted completely, his attention entirely focused on t
he marquess and the horses. All was going as planned, and he could almost hear the machinations going on in Shefford’s mind.
Bringing Maggie and her children out here had succeeded in getting Shefford to come, without directly inviting him. Racing against Tom’s horses had to be his own idea, and the way Tom planned it, Shefford was going to have to talk him into racing.
Zachary pulled on Tom’s coat. “Have you any dogs?” he asked, distracting Tom from the cunning light in Shefford’s eyes.
“No, Zachary. Sorry. No dogs.” He noticed that Shefford kept his eye on the paddock until the last horse was inside.
“Why not?” Zachary asked.
“That’s enough questions, Zachary. It’s rude to pry.”
“But I like dogs,” the boy said. “I miss Bloom.”
Maggie sighed and glanced apologetically at Tom. “Most of our neighbors in Cambridgeshire have dogs.”
“But not you? Who—what—is Bloom?” he asked. Anything to demonstrate a disinterest in racing.
Maggie licked her lips before she replied, and Tom’s breath quickened. “Our old sheepdog died last winter.” She patted Zachary’s shoulder. “She was big and furry, but the most well-behaved canine in all of Cambridgeshire. Zac and Bloom were inseparable.”
The boy’s expression darkened, but he scampered away and climbed up a few of the rungs on the paddock fence to look at the pony that Garay had left outside. Tom refused to be touched by the boy’s loss. It was nothing compared to the harm the boy’s father had cost Tom.
“It’s been diffic—” Maggie began, but Shefford interrupted her.
“I believe I could get a few good English Thoroughbreds out here for a friendly race or two.”
Thomas clenched his teeth at the man’s rudeness toward his sister, disliking the marquess more than before, if that could even be possible. In spite of his disgust, he acknowledged that things were progressing exactly as he’d planned.
Slowly and deliberately, he turned his attention from Zachary and looked at Shefford dubiously, playing his part in the farce. He shrugged with feigned indifference. “Even if I agree to race them, they won’t be ready for at least six weeks. What do you think, Beraza?”
Nate rubbed the back of his neck, as though mulling it over, although they’d already discussed the way they would handle this question. “No. It will be two full months. The horses have been inactive onboard ship for months—except for a few breaks at our ports of call. And we’ll have no easy time finding qualified riders.”
“I don’t mind waiting until you’re ready. Shall we arrange for a meet?” Shefford asked.
“Perhaps,” Thomas said, appearing reluctant. He’d brought some of his best American racers, but to an untrained eye, they did not appear as refined as the horses his father bred up in Suffolk, not even his champion, Arrendo. It seemed that the difference was going to be enough to fool Shefford and his friends into thinking they could be bested on the track.
Ted Careaga had already told Tom he would have the horses ready in three weeks. They’d been in top racing form when they departed New York and he believed it wouldn’t take long to get them back in shape. Since Careaga had trained horses before his conviction and transportation, he knew horses well.
For further insurance, Tom had his ringer.
Arrendo was the fastest race horse Tom had ever seen, and his look-alike, Sarria, was the big chestnut with the white stocking that Zachary had noted before Shefford’s arrival. The two horses were identical, down to the marking on their left rear legs. They had the same ginger mane and tail, both lacking any cornets or heel markings, although Sarria had a small nick behind his left ear. It was the only way to tell them apart, but only the closest inspection would reveal the difference. Shefford would never know he’d been duped when they put Arrendo in Sarria’s place and raced him instead.
All of Tom’s American horses were great competitors, but Arrendo had never lost a race. As fast as Sarria was, his “twin” could beat him.
There were a great many variables in Tom’s plan for Shefford’s destruction, but he’d tried to anticipate every possibility, down to keeping Arrendo in his own barn. But it was almost laughable, how easy it was to deceive such an arrogant man. Shefford never guessed that he was about to be swindled out of his last pound and pressed to desperation to win a horse race.
“How do you feel about a wager?” Shefford asked.
Thomas looked away. “Lord Shefford, I’m not certain I care to race my horses. It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”
“You’re going to run them on that new track, are you not?” Shefford coaxed. “Why not make some sport of ’em?”
Beraza spoke up. “I don’t think you want to race your horses against our Sabedorians.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Shefford said, hiding a confident smile under his thick mustache. “In fact, I would wager money against the sweet bloods you’ve got here. As fine as they look, I know of a pair of stallions that can outrun anything.”
Tom believed he was talking about his own Palmer’s Gold and Paragon.
“All right, you’re on,” said Beraza, appearing to be answering impulsively, although Thomas knew that was not the case. They’d gone over several possible ways that this conversation might go. “Ten thousand pounds on Arrendo against any British horse you name.”
Shefford’s complexion paled, but there was no other indication of a loss of composure. Tom guessed he was considering when the best time would be to sell the shares he’d just bought in the Manchester Canal, and what his net profit might be, based on the lies he’d been told by Saret’s men. “Arrendo?”
“Aye, our best racer,” said Beraza. “He’s the big chestnut with the left rear stocking.”
Shefford narrowed his eyes as he looked at Beraza, likely calculating the time factor, and making a mental evaluation of the horses he’d just seen before they were hustled away into the stable. “I know of—In fact, I own a stallion that will give him a good run. Shall we double your ten thousand?”
Tom heard Maggie’s gasp, but could not acknowledge it. All was going according to plan. “Hold, Beraza. I have not given you leave.”
“What harm will it do, Your Highness?” Nate asked. “Arrendo thrives on a good contest.”
Tom shook his head. “I have no interest in having to shoot my favorite horse when he breaks a leg in a foolish race.”
“He won’t fall, I’m sure!” Nate entreated. “I think you should give him a go.”
Thomas paused, obviously considering Beraza’s words. He finally shrugged. “Very well. But I hold you responsible for the good health of that horse.”
“Of course!” Beraza gave Tom a quick bow, then turned back to Shefford. “Twenty thousand pounds? How paltry. Shall we say forty?”
Shefford cleared his throat. “Only if we can move the race up to…shall we say, four weeks?”
Tom swallowed his satisfaction. It was exactly what they’d hoped Shefford would say.
Especially since they knew the marquess did not have nearly enough ready cash to cover the bet. He was going to have to buy into Roarke’s tobacco smuggling scheme and turn a quick profit in order to back up his foolish, foolish wager.
Chapter 7
“Forty thousand pounds!” Maggie hissed after they’d climbed into Shefford’s carriage. “What can you possibly be thinking?”
Shefford lowered his eyelids to slits and allowed the hint of a smile to brush his lips. “That I will soon be a very rich man, indeed.”
Maggie was taken aback. If he had such enormous wealth, he should have offered to resolve Julian’s debts. Or at least, helped Maggie deal with them. “You have that kind of money?”
“Of course not. But my estates are worth far more than forty thousand.”
“Are you saying you would mortgage them?” she asked, appalled. Good heavens, he was as bad as Julian.
“I won’t need to.”
Maggie didn’t know anything about raci
ng. She’d had very little contact with horses after her accident, only riding in her small gig at home, or in her carriage in London. But she knew that Shefford bought and sold horses as though they were corn.
“You have a horse that can win, then?”
His smile broadened. “I can beat any one of those cows with Palmer’s Gold. Or Paragon.”
Maggie gave him a questioning glance.
He shuttered his gaze as he spoke. “Bought them both last year. Either one can outrun any of those Sabedorian horses.”
“You hope.”
He made a disparaging noise, and Maggie felt her brows crease. This was the worst side of Shefford, one he usually managed to hide. But she had witnessed enough of his underhanded exploits in years past, when he’d gotten the better of some poor prey, through means both underhanded and dishonest. She wondered what he was thinking now.
“As I mentioned last night, the Sabedorian prince is obviously your particular friend,” he remarked with an ugly sneer. “I don’t see why we cannot profit by it.”
“How absurd. There is nothing I can do to help you win this preposterous race.”
Shefford looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed the way he looks at you, Margaret. As though he cannot wait to toss your skirts up around your ears.”
“Hush, Shefford!” Maggie felt her face color, and turned away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he’d flustered her. Glancing at Zachary, she saw that her son was occupied with counting light posts as they drove through the streets toward Hanover Square. He did not appear to have heard his uncle’s crass remark. “Anyway, don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s hardly ridiculous, Margaret. Any number of women would—”
“I thought you wanted me to marry some wealthy friend of yours.”
He smiled and his expression called to mind a sly dog, slinking away with a stolen treat. “This is so much better. There is no need to shackle yourself to this foreign prince, but he seems to have no end of blunt. Even that demned ambassador of his is rolling in it. You can get all the information I need about his stables while you…earn a few valuable gifts. If you play it right, you’ll be able to pay off Julian’s debts by the time the upstart sails back to Sabedoria.”
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