Page 26

J oy awoke well before the maid tapped at her door, buoyed by a delighted certainty that, for at least one day, London’s stuffy drawing rooms lay far behind.

By seven o’clock, two travelling carriages waited in Westwood’s forecourt.

Lord Carew, Grace, and Maeve were to ride in the first, Patience and Ashley with Joy in the second.

Freddy had gone down the previous afternoon with Thornhill in the curricle, so the gentlemen might see to his thoroughbred, Banquet, which would face the favourite, T.A.

Fraser’s Champignon, in the The Gold Cup.

To complete the party, Thornhill had generously offered places in his booth to Miss Letty Partridge and Miss Arabella Finch, a merry dark-haired girl fresh from the schoolroom.

The extra guests, Grace assured Joy, would remove any hint of preference from one particular lady.

Joy privately doubted whether preference could be disguised when Freddy spent half his waking hours dangling after Letty like sugar plums before a child at Christmas.

Still, Ascot was horses and the country.

She resolved to enjoy every moment, even if it meant sharing the vantage with Miss Partridge’s insipid sighs.

By the time Ascot Heath shimmered on the horizon, Joy was near to bursting.

Carriages four abreast jammed the approach; grooms shouted; footmen established impromptu hierarchies of precedence; gentlemen in morning coats and beaver hats swarmed in the middle distance as the Grand Stand towered over a sea of parasols.

Their party alighted near Selwood Park, where a liveried steward ushered them towards the towering booth Thornhill had had built for the occasion.

Joy, trailing after the others, felt her pulse quicken as she took it all in: a famous jockey weighing out, someone haggling over odds with a dapper bookmaker, a merry band blaring, vendors hawking souvenirs, and the smell of crushed turf mingling with roasted meat.

Inside the booth the view commanded the whole straight run to the winning post. Joy dashed to the railing, spectacles catching sunlight, and drank in the scene—shimmering rails, horses in colours, green-coated officials clearing the track, the expectant roar of thousands of spectators.

Miss Partridge soon joined them, a vision in palest jonquil muslin, escorted by her mama. “How delightfully energetic it all seems!” she cooed, executing a curtsy of studied delicacy for Freddy.

Freddy bowed low. “The exact tint of your gown matches the June sun, Miss Partridge—who could ask the weather for better company?”

Letty’s eyelashes fluttered whilst Joy tried not to laugh.

Barely had the party adjusted its formation before Miss Arabella Finch bounded up like a spring tide, curls escaping a chip-straw bonnet festooned with pink flowers.

“I declare I am giddy with anticipation of trumpets and the thunder of hooves!” she cried, nearly tripping over her sprigged muslin.

Trumpets? Without ceremony the girl linked arms with Joy—whom she had met but once—and confided that she had placed a shilling on Banquet.

Below, Thornhill’s bay circled, his coat gleaming like new mahogany. Joy seized the field glasses and whistled. “He moves like Pegasus, missing only wings.”

“You must not lean so perilously,” Letty fussed, edging closer.

Freddy produced a programme, pointing out the rival colours—Thornhill’s scarlet-and-white; Petersfield’s purple-and-gold—and bent to explain the odds, his shoulder almost brushing Joy’s.

She pretended not to notice the small prickle between her ribs.

Thornhill arrived, wreathed in confidence. “Back him at five to one, Cunningham, and I shall double your stake myself.”

Joy laid a modest wager, causing Letty to gasp, “Ladies never wager!” but, coaxed by Freddy’s low assurances that it was only chicken stakes, surrendered a half-crown to him. Miss Finch flourished her shilling like a banner.

While Joy was absorbing everything, she noticed Colonel St. John in the throng below.

She made to wave at him, but he slipped between two booths, and merged with a stranger whose dark coat and slouched hat obscured his face.

Their heads bent close—heated words, perhaps?

The exchange ended inside a minute. St. John emerged, felt Joy’s stare, and waved with airy cheer before making for the stairs.

Unease tingled along Joy’s spine, but she kept her own counsel.

St. John then made an appearance, immaculate in blue superfine and buff breeches, his boots scarcely dusted by the turf.

He mounted the steps to pay his respects, offered Joy a bow and congratulated Thornhill on the “fine goer” his Banquet was.

Yet even as he spoke his gaze roamed the crowd, searching.

After exchanging the barest pleasantries with those present, he excused himself on the pretext of finding an acquaintance and slipped away down the stairs, vanishing into the press of onlookers and bookmakers before anyone could force him to stay.

Then all was forgotten as a bell rang and horses pranced to the Royal Stand. Joy’s heart hammered while Freddy pressed against the rail beside her and grinned like a schoolboy escaped from lessons.

“Look how he settles,” Joy breathed as Banquet danced into place. “Head low, ears flicking—he knows.”

“Better seat than any,” Freddy said of the jockey, nodding his agreement.

Their shoulders touched as they gripped the edge of the balcony.

The starter waved his hand. A thunderclap of hooves tore along the course.

Joy forgot decorum and leaned forward, spectacles clenched, the field a blur—scarlet-and-black, purple-and-gold, green, blue.

At halfway Banquet lay third. At the wooden distance-post he edged to second alongside Champignon.

Joy’s pulse matched each stride. Freddy shouted encouragement, waving his hat aloft.

Letty squeaked with excitement, and the Grand Stand roared as horses flashed past like coloured lightning.

With three furlongs to run, Banquet’s rider slipped an inch of rein. The bay lengthened—a beautiful, loping surge that sent a tremor through the crowd. Champignon clung inside, his jockey low, purple cap bobbing.

“Come on, lad—pick him up!” Freddy yelled, voice raw.

Maeve clasped her gloved hands to her mouth, whilst Miss Finch bounced on her toes. Letty then shrank from the rail, murmuring that the pounding hooves made her faint.

Joy could hear nothing now but wind and thunder. In her left eye the two leaders blended, red sleeve against purple, moving as one. She willed Banquet forward, palms burning on the rail.

Inside the final furlong the duel tightened. Banquet gained a neck then Champignon answered, the great chestnut stretching with killer resolve. Fifty yards out, they were nose to nose. A collective gasp rolled through the booth.

“Touch him with the whip, man!” Thornhill shouted.

The jockey gave Banquet a single flick. The bay flattened—then drifted fractionally towards the rope. In that breath, Champignon seized the gap, thrust his head ahead, and they flashed past the winning post and the judge. A hush, a susurration, then the announcer’s bell.

“First—Champignon—by a short head!”

Groans, cheers, the rustle of losing tickets. Joy exhaled a breath she had not known she held. Her knees trembled. Beside her, Freddy closed his eyes, his jaw tight.

“Gallant as St. George, yet beaten,” he said.

Joy turned, laying a hand on his sleeve. “A finer race I never saw.”

He met her gaze; disappointment warred with admiration. “Nor I. Thornhill’s fellow can be proud.”

Joy turned to look behind them to where Maeve comforted her crestfallen beau. Letty fluttered that at least the horses looked very pretty when they ran fast, which earned her a sharp stare from Joy.

Thornhill managed a rueful smile for his friends. “We shall have him at the next one.”

Freddy clapped his shoulder. “Good show! He wants only luck—and a post six inches nearer.”

Joy felt the crowd’s energy shift from tension to convivial chatter.

Bets were settled, hampers opened; champagne corks flew in popping salvoes like the King’s birthday salute.

Yet under the clamour her unease about St. John returned.

Twice she scanned the environs but there was no sign of the Colonel or his mysterious companion.

Thornhill’s servants poured champagne, though not quite for the celebration they’d hoped. Freddy carried a glass to Letty, bowing with an extravagant flourish. Joy watched, an unfamiliar throb tugging beneath her breastbone. Letty’s answering simper set her teeth on edge.

Turning away, she fixed her attention on Banquet walking back, sweat darkening his shining coat. “You will win next time, brave fellow,” she murmured.

Freddy rejoined her while the others picked over strawberries and lobster patties. For a moment they stood alone, looking onto the course where Champignon once again paraded past the Royal Stand.

“There is no thrill like it,” Freddy said, his voice pitched low for her ears alone.

“None,” Joy agreed, daring a sidelong glance. His profile looked stern, almost wistful.

Before the conversation could take shape, a footman appeared to inform Freddy that Miss Partridge desired Mr. Cunningham’s presence. Freddy glanced at Joy, apology in his eyes, and went.