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Letty, all dimples and batting lashes, flirted shamelessly, and took possession of his arm while Freddy obliged with impeccable courtesy.

Joy’s annoyance rekindled. Why could Freddy not see the emptiness behind those wide blue eyes?

What had happened to their agreement to choose friends?

Colonel St. John appeared at the back of the booth just as the party lifted glasses in consolation for Banquet’s razor-thin loss.

His manner was oddly watchful as he offered courteous congratulations to Thornhill on “the finest second I have ever witnessed,” bowed to the ladies—lingering a heartbeat over Joy with a murmured hope of her continued good health—then, almost before anyone could frame a reply, excused himself and slipped down the stairway, vanishing once more into the milling throng.

Joy scanned the crowd but saw no further sign of Colonel St. John.

***

Freddy had spent the last two hours pretending to listen to Thornhill’s rapturous account of Banquet’s race while his mind rehearsed a far more troubling question: Why, in the name of common sense, did Joy appear so taken with Colonel St. John?

He was handsome, yes, being broad-shouldered, with a cavalryman’s skill in the saddle.

But when Freddy considered the man coolly, something didn’t ring true: a faint stiffness about the smile, a guardedness in the gaze.

It was a thought difficult to voice in mixed company, but circumstance spared him from immediate confession.

After the exciting day at the races, the party removed to Thornhill Lodge—a rambling Tudor place.

The ladies retired, citing fatigue, and at last, in that satisfied hush peculiar to country houses late on a successful sporting day, the gentlemen gathered in Thornhill’s study.

Freddy followed Carew, Stuart, and Thornhill into a room that proclaimed a man’s domain.

Stag antlers bestrode the mantel, and two vast leather sofas sprawled across Turkish carpets patterned in imperial reds and golds.

Above the hearth hung a portrait of a snorting chestnut—no doubt an ancestral winner—whilst between two windows glinted twin cavalry sabres crossed in silent salute.

Thornhill’s bulldog snored in a basket by the fire.

Thornhill passed around balloon-bellied glasses of brandy. The amber liquor caught the lamplight in cheerful flames, and for a moment camaraderie exhaled like a contented sigh.

Freddy set his shoulder to the mantelshelf, cradling his glass in one hand. “An incomparable day, Thornhill,” he said, nodding towards the bulldog. “Even Charlie has dreamt himself into victory.”

“To the next race,” Thornhill toasted, administering the dog a triumphant thump. “Banquet will make the rest look like coach horses.”

“He will prevail in the next Cup,” Carew put in, seated at a low table strewn with newspapers and betting lists.

Talk drifted through pedigrees and training regimens until Freddy’s patience frayed.

He lifted his glass, let lamplight flicker against the oily surface, and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen,” he began, striving for casualness, “did any of you happen to observe Colonel St. John’s… negotiations…this afternoon?”

Stuart lifted sleek brows. “I wondered which of us would breach the subject first.”

Thornhill’s merriment dimmed. “Negotiations?”

“Bookmaking,” Freddy clarified. “I saw him under the Grand Stand with a fellow who would make you cross the street and dart into an alley to avoid.”

“I saw as well,” Carew admitted, fingers drumming a muted cadence on blotter leather. “And I have laid enough wagers in my time to know there was nothing respectable about that bookmaker.”

Stuart swirled his brandy, watching the eddies. “From a distance the Colonel appeared in some agitation—no scandal there, most men flutter when money stands to vanish. Yet he returned to Miss Whitford smiling as though angels sang. The contrast intrigues.”

Thornhill bristled. “Do you suspect the man of being badly dipped, Cunningham?”

Freddy exhaled. “That is precisely the dread that nips me. I have never heard St. John boast of deep pockets. Rather the contrary: second son, older brother firmly installed in the country seat.”

“He served with honour,” Stuart conceded. “That much I know from the dispatches.”

“Honour seldom pays promissory notes.”

Stuart set down his glass. “Well. I can look into him. Military records are not inviolate.” He glanced round the circle, eyes sharpening. “If today’s venture went badly, he may grow desperate—better that we learn how deep he stands before matters progress.”

“Has she formed an attachment?”

Freddy angled his head in thought. “Joy—?” He broke off, searching for accuracy. “It is hard to say. She enjoys the attentions—who would not?—but I have heard no talk of affection. Flattery perhaps; no more is my guess.”

Carew drank, then set down his glass with a bark of decision. “If St. John is a hardened gambler drowning in debt, he must be kept beyond Joy’s reach.”

“That may prove difficult,” Thornhill said quietly from his perch by the window. “A man on the edge clings to any lifeline—especially a dowry rumoured to be as handsome as Miss Whitford’s.”

“Curse my brother for voicing that aloud.” Stuart scowled.

Carew’s eyes narrowed. “Does the Colonel possess any solid prospects?”

Freddy shook his head. “Not that I am aware.”

“I will look into that as well. I am surprised my brother has not done so,” Stuart admitted. “He seems much too old for her.”

“Twelve years, the same as me,” Freddy remarked.

“But he has been to war,” Stuart pointed out. It did not need to be said what war could do to a man.

“True,” Freddy admitted, “and I have not spent nine of those twelve campaigning in Spain and France.”

“War alters a man. Joy’s innocence is easy to covet.”

The bulldog snorted, and for a heartbeat only the ticking of a clock intruded on thought.

Carew tapped the arm of the chair. “We must determine two points: the state of the Colonel’s purse and the sincerity of his suit. The first Stuart undertakes; the second…Cunningham, you know Joy best.”

“So you would have me interrogate her?” Freddy gave a half laugh.

Stuart’s smile was thin. “’Twould be better to approach through her sisters. I will ask Patience. She, in particular, is quite shrewd.”

Freddy acknowledged the stratagem. “I shall attempt gentle enquiry. If Joy nurtures only mild interest we may yet avert entanglement.”

Carew folded his arms across his broad chest. “All of us will keep watch on St. John henceforth. Gamblers undone today may double their stakes tomorrow. If he loses again, his desperation will surface. I have some connections in the industry I can call upon. If he is under the hatches, they will find out.”

Freddy nodded and tossed off the last of his brandy. Heat chased doubt down his throat. “He will not drag Joy into ruin. That much I swear.”

They all agreed on that point. Carew leaned back and trained that too-perceptive gaze upon Freddy.

“And what of your own campaign, Cunningham? London wagers a tidy sum on the moment you cry off your bachelor’s freedom in favour of Miss Partridge’s blue eyes.

” Thornhill chuckled, while Stuart raised a brow.

Freddy found himself swirling the dregs of his brandy.

“‘Campaign’ gives the matter a military grandeur it does not deserve. I have paid court, danced attendance, fetched shawls, and taken her driving…yet every time prudence urges me to advance to the sticking point, the words turn to dust.” He managed a rueful smile.

“Miss Partridge is amiable, certainly, but when I picture a lifetime of conversation I hear only polite weather and agreement with my opinion. I fear a lifetime of no other topic.”

Thornhill gave a bark of laughter, and Stuart’s expression softened to a shade approaching sympathy. Carew said simply, “Then do not propose.” The simple advice settled in the room like a verdict, and Freddy felt its truth root deep.

When at last Freddy took himself off to bed, his candle flame danced, casting long bough shadows upon timbered walls. Freddy paused outside a mullioned window that overlooked the lawn sloping towards Ascot Heath. Under a crescent moon the course shimmered faint silver.

Why should Joy’s admiration for St. John vex him so?

Friendship, he told himself wishfully, but jealousy, raw and unvarnished, was the crux of it.

He had spent weeks pretending Letty Partridge’s docility pleased him.

One fichu-wrecking kitten had proved the futility of that experiment.

Instead, Joy, with her spectacles and frank opinions, gales of laughter, and untamed heart, had twined herself around his thoughts.

And now a soldier with polished boots and empty pockets threatened his dearest Joy.

Freddy dared not delude himself that St. John would tolerate Joy’s and his friendship.

Though, if St. John left on campaign, he would not be there to object, would he?

one devil in his head reasoned. But your own wife might not tolerate Joy having free run of the house, as it were, the devil continued his unwanted commentary.

Freddy set his brow to the cool pane. If St. John truly needed money, Joy’s dowry would beckon like harbour light to a storm-tossed sailor.

The Colonel’s war-forged charm might lure even a wary girl, but Joy was not cunning in subterfuge.

If someone like him asked for her hand, she might accept, believing it an adventure.

And afterward—he flinched at the possibilities: creditors knocking at Westwood’s door, years alone while the Colonel’s regiment campaigned, Joy’s bright spirit dulled by disillusion.

Though St. John did seem taken with Joy.

Did he, perhaps, do the man a disservice?

Freddy straightened, resolve forming firm as stone. Tomorrow he would watch and listen, and, if need be, act. Friendship sanctioned it, but something deeper demanded it. He just couldn’t quite put a finger on what that was.