Page 12 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER SIX

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

T hough Bran ostensibly stood on the central platform of Endcliffe Grange’s training track, calling out commands to Radish’s jockey, Lafferty, what he was doing in reality was keeping a too-close eye on his pocket watch.

Noon.

The hour Lady Artemis said she would be here.

His plan was simple—to be in the thick of the training session when she arrived. That way, she could observe her fill and leave him be.

Again, he checked his pocket watch. Five minutes shy of noon.

He returned his attention to Radish and Lafferty.

The jockey was good, but Bran had detected something out of balance between him and the colt.

Today, he was determined to right it. “All right, Lafferty,” he called out.

“I’ll give the command at the next post.” When horse and rider reached the track’s next straight, he called out, “Can-ter,” the first syllable lower than the second.

Radish immediately responded and picked up his pace.

Bran had always found deep satisfaction in this—taking a talented horse in hand and guiding them toward their best.

And there was no doubting Radish’s potential.

Further, there was no doubting that Endcliffe Grange was the place to help him reach it.

A sprawling, well-tended estate, its practice track was no different, with its even, close-clipped turf, freshly whitewashed fencing, and lack of a single hole or divot on its smooth surface.

He knew because he’d sent five lads ahead to inspect every inch before he’d allowed Radish to step hoof on it.

In truth, the turf was middling soggy today, for a heavy soaking rain shower had rolled through two hours ago, leaving behind a thick blanket of clouds and an unseasonal chill in the air.

It was actually perfect.

Doncaster had a reputation for throwing bad weather at the horses on race day, so it was important for Radish to train under these conditions. And what had become clear in the last hour was the colt liked running in the slop.

Radish was a mudder.

Bran had taken note of a few other dominant qualities, as well.

He was aggressive, like many Thoroughbreds, but not overly so.

Rather, he was assertive in the business-like manner of one who had a job to do and wasn’t about to let anyone stand in his path.

Focused. Further, Radish was intent on having his own way, as if he understood the sport of racing better than any human of his acquaintance.

All Radish wanted to do was run.

Bran experienced a niggle that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in two years—or longer, truth told.

Hope.

Taking first at the St. Leger was a steep hill to climb. After all, there would be a field of other talented Thoroughbreds to beat. It wasn’t enough for the owner or the trainer or the jockey or the lad at the betting post to want it. The horse had to want it, too.

And Radish wanted it.

Bran was becoming certain of the fact.

Yet only four weeks remained until the St. Leger, and of those four weeks, only two of them could be used for strict training, as Radish would be walked to Doncaster and then rested in the final week before the race.

If by some miracle Radish won—Bran was hopeful about his chances, but not unrealistic—then it would be only three more weeks until the Race of the Century.

Simply, there wasn’t much time to work out Radish’s eccentricities and test his mettle.

He put a hand to his mouth and called out, “And trot.” This time, the first word was high and the second low.

Once Radish slowed, Bran pursed his mouth and emitted a short shrill whistle. Radish came to a stop. The colt might’ve been intent on having his own way, but he was trainable.

Again, that unreliable feeling— hope .

Bran signaled to one of the stable lads he’d brought with him from the Roost. “Let’s remove the stirrups.”

Lafferty’s eyebrows crashed together in confusion. “ Remove the stirrups? Won’t I be needing those?” The last was said with a nervous laugh.

Bran had never been a leader who demanded blind obedience. He was willing to explain his reasoning. “You’re pumping in the saddle, and as a result, Radish is starting to ignore you. Have you noticed?”

“Now that you mention it, aye.”

“You need to reach an accord. So, we’ll remove the stirrups so you can gain an independent seat, and you two can tune a rhythm with each other. Let’s try it, shall we?”

Lafferty nodded. “Aye, that could work.”

“Good man.”

Movement caught the corner of Bran’s eye. In the distance, through a white cloud of mist, a horse and rider had appeared.

He didn’t need to check his pocket watch.

It would read noon— sharp .

From where Lady Artemis had stopped, she would have a perfect view of the training session she was so keen to observe.

Perhaps she would stay where she was.

The instant the perhaps crossed his mind, she squeezed her knees and urged her chestnut bay into a walk. When had Lady Artemis Keating ever heeded any but her own inclinations?

Dressed in an aubergine riding habit that complemented her sable hair and olive complexion, she cut a dashing figure on her mount as she caught every eye on the course.

Not that she would notice.

She never had.

Bran remembered that about her.

Though she wasn’t a traditional English beauty—she was too tall …

her figure too robust … her nose too aquiline …

her skin a few shades too dark—she was, indeed, a beauty.

Ten years ago, he’d told her as much, and she’d always laughed.

A laughter that sounded less like delight than a deflective shield.

He’d never thought to ask then, but he wondered now.

What had she been protecting herself from?

From his place on the platform, he held her in the corner of his eye as she approached. At last, she came to a stop beside the stand, but remained mounted and silent. It was a tetchy silence—a loud silence—one that announced her presence without a word.

It wouldn’t hold, of that he was certain.

In the distance, the lad gave Bran a thumbs up, his task complete, while Lafferty remounted Radish. “Now,” Bran called out. “Walk Radish around the curve, and I’ll signal at the post.”

Lady Artemis’s head tipped to the side, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “Your jockey doesn’t have stirrups.”

As greetings went, Bran had been the recipient of worse. “Aye.”

When Lafferty reached the post, he called out, “And trot,” from low to high. As Radish increased his pace, Bran kept his attention on Lafferty’s center. Already, he was more balanced in the seat, and Radish looked more at ease in his shoulders. Good.

He felt eyes on the side of his face. “Lord Branwell?”

Lady Artemis was on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed it. If they were to spend any amount of time together over the next few weeks, he must say something. “Bran.”

Her brow crinkled. “Pardon?”

“Just call me Bran.”

She looked no small bit displeased. “And I suppose you’ll be calling me Artemis?”

“I can call you whatever you like. But you can call me Bran.”

Annoyance glittered in her dark eyes. At last, she said, “I give you liberty to call me Artemis.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

The thing was, what they were doing now almost felt like flirting. And perhaps to the outside observer, it would be taken as such.

But it wasn’t.

It was a skirmish.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Sir Abstrupus is an old family friend.” The answer held some truth.

“He’s your godfather, I believe?”

Bran lifted his brow in silent question, despite his intent to maintain a level neutrality for the duration of this exchange.

Artemis didn’t keep him waiting. “My cook makes it her business to know everything about everyone around here. She remembers the Roost receiving a few visits from the Earl of Stoke and his two lads many years ago.”

Of course, those childhood visits with Father and Edward were etched into Bran’s memory.

The Roost had been so exotic and exciting then—Sir Abstrupus had peacocks strutting around the estate, along with a herd of ibex goats.

And Sir Abstrupus himself had been nothing short of a force of a man, and not unlike the Roost’s peacocks on the estate with his flair for dressing in the mode of an Arabian sultan, a phase that had thankfully passed.

Looking back as an adult, Bran had come to understand the purpose of those visits with Father—to secure loans.

Sir Abstrupus had hinted as much, and Bran saw no reason to doubt him.

Father hadn’t been a gambler or wastrel, but there had been a string of bad-luck occurrences through Bran’s childhood involving drought, fire, and failing crops—likely darkness and locusts, too.

But Father had managed to keep everything afloat for those who depended on him until his heart had given out one sunny afternoon, and the matter had fallen to Edward—who had set about squandering any meager gains with immediate effect.

The extent of which Bran hadn’t realized until his return to England.

His evasion of a meaningful response produced a decided dissatisfaction about Artemis. “Why are you here now ?”

The urgency contained within that last word snapped Bran to attention. “To do precisely what I’m doing.” He indicated Radish and Lafferty in the distance.

It was the truth.

A facet of it, at least.

She shook her head slowly. “You weren’t a racehorse trainer in the Light Dragoons. You were a soldier.”

Bran’s back teeth ground together.

You were a soldier.

“If you tell me your true reason,” she continued, “I’ll leave you be.”

As tempting as the offer was, Bran didn’t believe her.

His snort told her as much.

And still she didn’t let up. “Are you here for …” Two vertical lines formed between her eyebrows. “I mean, did you learn that I was Sir Abstrupus’s neighbor and think?—”

“No,” he said, firmly and without equivocation. No version of reality existed in which he could allow her to finish that question. “ No ,” he repeated for good measure.

The fact was it wasn’t the truth.

Further, even if it were—and it wasn’t—he couldn’t allow her to leave here believing it.

“My sister,” he ground out by way of an answer. Truly, he’d become unsettlingly inept at forming complete sentences.

“Lady Gwyneth?”

He gave a curt nod. As much as he wanted to leave it at that, he saw from the expectation on Artemis’s face that he wouldn’t be able to. “She’s a lady of nineteen years.”

Artemis blinked. “And?”

“She needs a London season.”

“What does that have to do with?—”

He saw no way out of this conversation other than through. “Sir Abstrupus has promised me the St. Leger purse if Radish wins.”

“Oh?” Her mouth turned down, and Bran’s gaze lingered there a little too long. “He doesn’t want the winnings for himself?”

Bran cleared his throat. “I believe bragging rights are what he’s after.”

Artemis nodded slowly, taking in his words and testing their veracity. “So, money.”

“ Money? ”

“That’s why you’re here.”

Actually, money wasn’t why he was here. He was here for Gwyneth—to see her future secured. Money’s only use, as far as he was concerned, was a means to that end.

But his reasons and motivations were none of Artemis’s concern.

They hadn’t been in years—ten, to be exact.

So, he allowed a partial lie to form in his mouth and said, “Yes.”

She snorted and shook her head. “It’s always about the money with you, no?”

He folded his arms across his chest and assessed the woman before him, as his military training had taught him to do in the face of a fierce adversary. “What do you mean?”

Nothing in his life had ever been about money. He’d never given a single toss for the accumulation of it. Which was why he’d sent the majority of his earnings home to family all those years—for his brother to gamble away and expose them all to the winds of ruin.

The furrow of Artemis’s eyebrows only deepened. “You know what I’m talking about."

Strangely, Bran wished he did.

But the fact remained … “I don’t.”