Page 149 of The Lord Meets His Lady

The Prussian marched ahead, the indenture contract dangling in his grip. Marcus followed Herr Wolf, a careful eye on the indenture. Had he overplayed his hand? The giant had acquiesced too easily.

“Mrs. Grey, would you and the gentlemen here witness a wager between Herr Wolf and myself? I have a peculiar requirement.”

She smiled brightly as the breeze stirred an artful curl against her temple. “Of course, Bowles. Peculiar requirements add to the excitement.”

“Herr Wolf and I require two papers held by you. No one may read them. They’re of a confidential nature.”

The wind carried her soft, knowing exhale. Keen eyes widened a fraction on both men. “I’m honored to have your trust, gentlemen.”

Herr Wolf set the indenture in her silk-gloved hand, the foolscap folded from prying eyes. Pulse threading hard, Marcus gave over his thrice-folded paper.

She rolled them tightly together and tucked the roll in her cleavage, under Samuel’s thunderous glare. “I expect you want me to hand over both documents to the winner.”

“You are as lovely as you are astute,” Marcus said, touching his hat in deference. “Perfect for the task.”

“Mr. Beckworth’s disapproving glower suggests otherwise.”

Samuel hooked his thumb in his waistband and turned his glower to the starting line. “Your brother is a baron. I would hope you’d have some regard for decorum.”

“Now you’re concerned for my decorum? A moment ago you grumbled about the dangers of a woman around excitable horses.” Her fingers tickled Khan’s muzzle. “Lady Bowles seems to be handling herself well. I think I can too.”

“Lord Bowles, if you please,” Baron Atal called impatiently from the starting line.

“There’s one more wager,” she called back to her brother and laughed. “You men…always in a rush. Anticipation is half the fun.” Mrs. Grey snapped her fingers for the footman keeping the book. “Hanley, come record a wager so we can commence this rough outing of ours.”

Genevieve stood quietly next to Samuel, nibbling her bottom lip and checking the ruffians idling by Barnard’s carriage.

The footman trotted over. He listened, his lead stick scratching the page. “Very good, milord, Herr Wolf.”

“Repeat it,” Wolf ordered.

Shoulders back, young Hanley read the wager aloud. “If Lord Bowles wins the horse race, both documents held in trust with Mrs. Grey belong to Lord Bowles. If Lord Bowles comes in second or third place, said documents held by Mrs. Grey become the property of Herr Wolf.”

Wolf crossed his arms, a cold smile playing on his mouth. “This is acceptable.”

“I say, Bowles, quit dragging your feet.” Lord Halliburton plucked a macaroon from the table. “I’m here for a race, not conversation.” He shivered, his limp wrist batting the air. “All this nature is positively dreadful.”

Samuel gave Marcus a leg up. Blood pounded in Marcus’s ears. His throat dried, but not with the craving. It was fear. All the pieces had to fall in place. Samuel patted Khan, his close-lipped smile tense. Sweat sheened on Samuel’s forehead. The moment of truth had come.

Marcus leaned toward Samuel, speaking for his ears alone. “Did you give my note to Atal?”

“I did. Care to tell me its contents?”

“After the race.”

Marcus sat up, taking note of Herr Avo Thade with Barnard by the trees. He glanced at Barnard’s footmen by the road. One of the men was cleaning his nails with the tip of a nasty blade, not bothering with the farce of playing a footman.

Samuel followed his sight line. “Do you think they’ll try to snatch Genevieve here?”

“I don’t know. Watch over Genevieve,” Marcus cautioned. “Guard her with your life.”

“I will.”

“Lord Bowles.” Atal waved a flintlock, beckoning him to the starting line. “To your post, if you will. I’m about to announce the course.”

Marcus trotted the gray to the posts. Chill winds drowned Atal’s voice. Marcus already knew the way. Race west around a stone where a footman held the ancient Atal pennant, and race back for all he was worth. This meadow was the battlefield, the horse and riders the combatants.

“Milord!” Genevieve ran toward him, skirts clutched. “I want to wish you good luck.”