“You are altogether too confident, Bentley. A champion one year might lug in at the next. It doesn’t do to toss all of one’s hopes on a single prospect.”
The two gentlemen, both influential members of England’s Jockey Club and personally responsible for many of the new rules governing the sport of horse racing, stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, chins tilted at forty-five-degree angles as they gazed up at the team of workmen three stories above them. Racing across the Ascot heath, a vigorous breeze shoved bright clouds across a wide blue sky. A swirling haze of dust rose from the track, prompting both men to grasp the brims of their beaver hats. The younger of the pair, Mr. Stuart Bentley, coughed and shielded his mouth and nose with his free hand.
Then he turned to bestow an indignant sneer upon his older companion. “Lug in? Lug in, did you say?”
Colin Ashworth stood a few yards away on the grassy verge between the racetrack and the newly erected grandstand. He had been paying scant attention to Bentley and the podgy Lord Kinnard, the queen’s Master of the Buck-hounds. Instead, he watched the construction crew use a system of ropes and pulleys to raise a ten-foot section of the iron and wooden balustrade to the stand’s third-story balcony.
Construction of the new building had begun nearly a year ago, though delays and setbacks had led Colin and his fellow Jockey Club members to despair of its completion in time for this year’s Royal Meeting. That only the balustrades still needed to be positioned came as a welcome relief. Since old King William had preferred to sit at home with his wife and his hounds rather than attend the races, Ascot had become sadly neglected during his reign. The attendance last year of his niece—young and fresh and promising to usher in a modern age—had brought a resurgence of racing enthusiasm not seen at this course in nearly two decades.
Colin stole a moment to scan the colonnaded building front. The tiered balconies alone would hold hundreds of spectators, never mind the drawing rooms, betting halls, and refreshment parlors inside. A new era for Ascot demanded new accommodations for the masses, both wealthy and poor, and the new stand promised to oblige those needs with modern efficiency and a fashionable flare.
A sudden screeching set his teeth on edge and jerked his attention back to the workmen. A corner of the railing had slipped from the ropes, and the section swayed precariously high above the ground. Colin’s limbs went rigid. The piece, consisting of heavy oak and adorned with intricate curls of wrought iron, weighed a good ten stone. It would surely break apart if it hit the ground.
As the section swung outward from the building, Colin lurched forward. “They’re going to drop it.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down, men. Steady those ropes.”
Bentley and Kinnard continued their debate of this year’s Gold Cup favorite, seemingly oblivious to the danger. Colin squinted against the sun’s glare and gritted his teeth. The remaining ropes seemed to be holding, but the railing swooped back and forth at its awkward angle, scraping the building’s fresh paint as the workers on the ground heaved to feed the ropes through the pulleys. The section nearly cleared the second story. Four carpenters peered down from the rooftop balcony, attempting to steady the apparatus from above.
“Damned fools,” Colin murmured, “in too much of a hurry.”
“For my part, I’ll set my money on Drayton’s mare, Satin Flower,” Kinnard said as if the outcome of the races, still a fortnight hence, were the only concern of the moment.
“Your money shall be wasted,” Bentley declared and pressed his lips together.
Colin had a particular interest in seeing the Royal Meeting begin—and, more important, end—on time, and it had little to do with the investments he and his fellow Jockey Club members had riding on the event.
He was about to walk closer to the building to instruct the workers to proceed with caution when high-pitched shouts prompted him and the other two men to pivot. Whether the cries were male or female, and signaled enjoyment or distress, Colin couldn’t be sure, but a warning shivered across his nape. He shaded his eyes with his hand and searched the flat heath stretching beyond the racecourse. In the distance, several trainers and jockeys were exercising their mounts; Colin saw nothing amiss among them.
To the west, however, a rising cloud heralded an open phaeton barreling along in a dervish of dust. As more cries echoed across the landscape, the driver steered his pair of bays straight toward the course.
The very same course that had recently seen considerable sums in renovations and resurfacing in preparation for the coming meeting.
Colin strode across the track and onto the sprawling lawn at its center. With growing consternation he watched the phaeton speeding toward him like a steam engine hugging its rails. Frenetic laughter bounced along with the shouts. He perceived two figures huddled on the box—one wearing dark, masculine clothing, the other in a bright, fluttering gown that billowed and surged like a sail at full wind.
Anger rose up as he recognized the bays, the phaeton, and the pair of lunatics apparently intent on destroying the newly resurfaced track, not to mention putting two perfectly good carriage horses at risk with such a madcap pace.
He stared across the distance and clung to the hope that the approaching phaeton would turn and swerve away, that the driver would poke fun at him with a mocking wave before she guided the team back across the heath.
The passing seconds only brought the carriage closer, and Colin’s hopes sank.
“Damn you, Sabrina,” he muttered. “And you, too, Geoffrey. You both know better.”
“Isn’t that your brother and sister?” Lord Kinnard stood now at Colin’s right shoulder, gaping.
Bentley came up at his other side. “Have they lost their wits?”
“No,” Colin replied with a frustrated sigh, “they cannot have lost what they never possessed.” And yet even as he spoke, he knew the words were not quite true. Sabrina in particular could be rash and rebellious, but she never put horses at risk.
Never.
“Oh dear . . . Good heavens . . .” Kinnard stumbled backward as the phaeton bucked and skittered ever closer, as it became clear that Colin’s sister had no intention of stopping before she reached the track. “The new surface—they’ll gouge it dreadfully,” Kinnard mumbled.
“Never mind the track,” Colin said with false outer calm as inside, frustration swiftly congealed to a solid lump of fear. He raised his arms, waving them in a desperate attempt to warn Sabrina to change direction.
Could she maneuver the track’s sharp western curve? Or would the horses trample pell-mell across the turf and up onto the inner verge, which might very well send the team careening and the carriage tumbling?
Bentley’s and Lord Kinnard’s arms went up as well; the three of them must have looked like broken windmills. Their efforts did nothing, however, to attract his sister’s attention and halt the stormy momentum of the bays.
Colin’s breath froze in his lungs as the carriage left the uncultivated heath with a jolt that sent the vehicle airborne. As the horses scrambled for their footing, the carriage arced awkwardly across the swale and bounced with what must have been a teeth-jarring crash onto the turf. His heart seized as the skidding wheels spit plumes of dirt into the air. His blood iced as he perceived the faces of his brother and sister, both still laughing, blissfully and infuriatingly unaware of the danger should the carriage roll.
The phaeton neared the western curve, and Sabrina allowed the team their heads. Foolish girl! Why didn’t she slowly rein them in, check their momentum?
Make the turn, make the turn . . .
A roar from the grandstand broke Colin’s concentration. Were the workers cheering Sabrina and Geoffrey on? But no, those were not cheers but shouts of dismay. Colin didn’t dare turn around to view the fate of the balustrade. He could not have turned his head if he wished to. His neck muscles had locked in place.
The phaeton entered the curve—damn the Jockey Club for not insisting upon widening that dastar
dly bend. But it had been designed for skilled jockeys on horseback, not out-of-control carriages. The bays stretched out their necks and pressed their ears flat. Even from the distance, Colin could see the panic glazing their eyes and flaring their nostrils. Turf flew in chunks behind them. The carriage rumbled and creaked; the wheels howled against the ground. Suddenly Sabrina’s wide silk bonnet took flight like an exotic bird winging skyward before it lost the wind currents and bounced on the track behind the carriage.
Bentley clutched his lapels and whistled between his teeth.
Kinnard held up the flats of his meaty hands. “By God, they’re going to tip.”
The prediction sent ripples of dread up Colin’s spine and a cold sweat dripping down his sides. The carriage had reached the apex of the curve, and in horror he saw the right-hand wheels lift from the track and spin uselessly in the air. The horses apparently felt the shift in the vehicle’s center of balance. Their stride broke, became choppy, treacherously haphazard. Sabrina slid on the seat and fell against Geoffrey’s shoulder, and for an instant the two of them formed a knot of reins and limbs and flurrying hems. Their squeals—of laughter, or had they finally recognized their peril?—blended with the terrified shrieks of the bays. The phaeton tipped farther, then farther still, until every muscle in Colin’s body braced for the impact. His legs were coiled to run—run and disengage his brother and sister from the twisted, shattered wreckage. . . .
And then, by some improbable miracle, the carriage made it around the bend and righted itself. The previously lolling wheels slapped the course and engaged the traction of the turf. The horses regained their footing and their stride smoothed. Sabrina shoved herself back into position and slowly, with heart-pounding precision, brought the carriage to a halt directly in front of the royal enclosure, some two dozen yards from where Colin, Bentley, and Lord Kinnard stood.
For several seconds Colin couldn’t move, could barely draw air in and out of his quivering lungs. His anger frothed, but deep beneath it churned the terror of having nearly lost two members of his family.
A fresh burst of laughter from the phaeton snapped him out of his stupor. Geoffrey’s and Sabrina’s voices rang out in strident harmony, making Colin’s temples throb and setting his feet in motion.
“Get down from there,” he shouted before he’d covered half the distance to them. “Both of you. Get down this instant.”
Though the order immediately stifled their laughter, neither moved to comply. When Colin reached them, whatever his features conveyed sent Geoffrey scrambling down from his side of the carriage. In his haste he missed the step, half slid, half tumbled from the seat and barely landed on his feet. His flailing hands managed to latch on to the side of the footboard, thus preventing him from falling to the turf on his rear.
Sabrina suppressed a giggle, her bravado slipping as she wrapped shaky fingers around Colin’s stiffly offered arm. Once on the ground, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and regarded him from beneath her lashes. Yet she rallied quickly enough and lifted her chin. “Really, Colin, would it pain you very much to develop a sense of humor? Must you always be so frightfully grim?”
On the other side of the phaeton, Geoffrey let go a squeak, though whether of laughter or fear, Colin couldn’t say.
He flicked a glance at his brother, at the horses’ shivering flanks, at the newly gouged furrows scarring the track for some fifty yards in the carriage’s wake. His gaze narrowing on Sabrina’s haughty expression, he drew breath to deliver a dressing down sure to scrub the arrogance clean off her face.
Chapter 4
“Willow? What are youdoing here?”
The look those words produced on her younger sister’s face made Holly immediately regret them. According to the plan she and Victoria had formed, she had expected Ivy, only Ivy, to join her here at the Robson Hotel in the tiny village of Ascot. As a married sister, Ivy was to serve as her chaperone to prevent tongues from wagging. Willow’s presence, on the other hand, was sure to complicate an already difficult task.
A burly porter begged their pardon and lumbered through the doorway to deposit two armfuls of bags in the suite’s sitting room. At the same time, Willow exchanged a disconcerted glance with Ivy, then lifted her chin with wounded dignity. “Is that any way to greet your sisters? No welcome? No how do you do? We arose at the first glimmer of dawn, you realize, to make the journey here.”
Willow needn’t have elaborated. Having made the journey herself, Holly was well aware of the unconventional traveling arrangements one endured at the queen’s request. But it was the fatigue blanching Ivy’s complexion that raised her concern and reminded her of her manners.
“I’m so sorry. Please come inside. Ivy, are you feeling unwell?”
Ivy pressed a hand to her belly, then quickly let it drop when the porter straightened from his task and turned toward them. “I shall be fine after a little rest,” she whispered. “And perhaps a cup of tea.”
“Now do you see why I had to come along?” Willow threaded an arm around Ivy’s waist and flashed Holly a significant look. Once the porter had closed the door behind him, she added, “I couldn’t very well let Ivy travel alone, not in her delicate condition.”
Holly sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you could.”
That afternoon Ivy napped while Holly and Willow unpacked and settled into their lodgings. The Robson Hotel on High Street was a brick and stucco edifice that stood four stories tall; the suite Holly and her sisters shared looked out over the north side of the village and across a stretch of heath to the racecourse. Holly presently stood in front of the open armoire with a dress draped over each arm. “Do you suppose, Willow, that you might have left me a tiny bit of space?”
The rooms had proved small and inadequate, but little wonder, for Victoria had planned for only two of them. Holly’s first impulse had been to take one of the two bedrooms for herself—this was her mission after all. But it had soon become apparent that the slightest exertion weighed heavily on poor Ivy, and she would need a room of her own if she was to get her proper rest.
Without a word, Willow went to the armoire and shoved her gowns to one side. A few minutes later as she attempted to squeeze between Holly and the clothespress, she bumped Holly’s elbow and sent the stack of chemises she had been about to place in a drawer tumbling to the floor.
“Oh, sorry,” they said in unison, both bending to pick up the bundle. Their heads clunked together.
“Ow!” Willow was the first to straighten, rubbing her temple. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry again.”
Holly massaged her forehead and felt the beginnings of a small lump just below her hairline. “Never mind. It’s all right.”
“No, Holly, it isn’t. It isn’t at all.” Tears sprang to Willow’s eyes.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“Oh . . . everything!” Willow went to the bed and sank onto the edge. “Nothing is as it should be, and I—I miss the way things were. I miss having my sisters always around me. I miss Thorn Grove and our little Readers’ Emporium. I miss the life we used to lead, and . . .”
Holly sat beside her and slid an arm around her waist. “What is it? You can tell me.”
For a moment Willow said nothing, but leaned her cheek on Holly’s shoulder and returned her embrace. Then she straightened and scrubbed away the single tear that had spilled over. “Everything is changing, and I fear I’m being left behind. When Victoria first came to the emporium seeking Laurel’s help, I thought how exciting it all was. How important the four of us had become. Finally, oh, finally, we were no longer children but women of independent means who mattered, who meant something, albeit secretly, to their queen and their country.”
“Yes, and all that is still true.”
“Perhaps, but for how much longer? Laurel and Ivy are both married and soon to be mothers. With each mission I have lost a sister.”
“You haven’t lost them, Willow. They are still our sisters, and we are almost as often to
gether as we ever were. Why, here you are with me and Ivy both. How can that signify losing anyone?”
“But a married sister isn’t the same. Don’t you see? Laurel and Ivy are no longer Sutherlands. Their hearts, their loyalties, the greater share of their very lives now belong to their husbands, and soon to their children. Here we are embarking on a third mission, and beyond a doubt there will soon be a third husband. And I . . .” Her eyes misted again and she hiccupped a quiet sob. “I shall be the only Sutherland left. Oh, still a sister, but alone, an outsider in each of your homes.”
Holly stroked Willow’s coppery gold hair and smoothed the bittersweet smile dawning on her own lips. “First of all, you seem in a dreadful hurry to marry me off, when in fact I have no prospects I care to acknowledge.”
How true. Laurel’s and Ivy’s marriages had left Holly the next eligible sister, and she had seen no dearth of suitors eager to attach themselves to her wealthy brothers-in-law, an earl and a marquess respectively. With a moue of distaste she considered the middle-aged and miserly Sir Robert Hodges, and the handsome and thoroughly conceited Lord Padstone. And then there was the awkward and sweaty-palmed Emerson Stoke-Brandish, who never let her forget that he would someday inherit ten thousand a year.
That was to name only a few of the hopefuls who had recently vied for Holly’s hand, none of whom could have named her favorite book or pastime or even venture an opinion as to the color of her eyes.
“You are wrong, Holly, utterly mistaken. With each mission comes a husband. That is how it works.”
“Don’t be silly.” But Holly’s conviction drained from her voice by the last syllable. How could she dissuade Willow of such a notion when she herself had come to believe that that was indeed how it worked, it being the magic that seemed intertwined with these secret missions for the queen?
For it was true that after their missions, Laurel and Ivy had married—gloriously—each finding love with a man who in turn adored his new wife, not for her wealth or position, of which the Sutherland sisters had none, but for themselves.
Recklessly Yours Page 3