Unbefitting a Lady (21 page)

Phaedra shook her head. ‘Warbourne needs me. I wouldn’t be able
to sleep anyway.’ The colt’s pulse was calming but Phaedra thought a lavender
massage would help that process along.

‘Then we’ll keep watch together,’ Bram murmured against her
ear.

Together
. She thought of Matt’s
brief words and her hopes soared. Maybe there was a chance, after all. She’d
tamed enough horses, though, to know she couldn’t
make
Bram stay any more than she could make a colt do anything he
didn’t want to do. A green colt had to want to be trained. Perhaps Bram would
decide for himself that he wanted to stay. Perhaps she should let him. After
all, there had to be a great deal of good in a man who loved horses so well.

Phaedra turned in his arms. He had to know she’d welcome him
staying. ‘Win or lose, Bram, I don’t want it to be over tomorrow.’ She looked up
into his face, trying to read it for signs of acceptance.

Bram reached for her hair, smoothing back an errant tendril.
‘Honey, I have nothing to offer you. I’ll never be anything but trouble to any
woman. I think we both know I’m better off as a fond remembrance. You can look
back in your dotage and say, “At least we had Epsom.”’ He gave a sensual laugh.
‘I know that’s what I’ll tell myself.’

He wasn’t saying no. He was trying to save her from making a
mistake. Phaedra smiled and moved against him lightly. ‘We could have so much
more than Epsom, Bram. We could have the Castonbury Stud and a lifetime of
Epsoms, and Newmarkets and St Legers. This is only the beginning.’ And she
wanted him there for the rest of it. If she’d doubted her feelings or his,
tonight had confirmed it. He’d stood beside her in a time of near-tragedy. He’d
been a complete partner. And it hadn’t only been tonight.

He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Sometimes
the things we say in the night sound different in the light of day.’ Bram
shrugged out of his evening jacket. Like her dress, it would be ruined by dawn.
Already it was showing signs of barn wear. ‘Take my coat.’ He draped it about
her shoulders. ‘Since I’ve known you, you’ve never brought a coat to the
stables.’

Phaedra protested. He’d be cold without it. ‘No worries, my
love.’ Bram winked and settled against the stall wall. ‘I sent Bevins for coffee
and sandwiches and a blanket or two. We shall survive the night quite
nicely.’

They did survive it. During the long hours of the night, Bram
told her what he’d learned of the potential culprits. One was tall, the other
stocky. Both with Derbyshire accents. ‘We might have better luck catching them
at home than finding them here,’ Bram said, but he was only half joking.

‘You think Sir Nathan arranged for them?’ Phaedra said with a
shudder. The idea that she’d been tracked sat poorly with her.

‘It’s possible. Nobbling is a criminal offense. Sir Nathan
wouldn’t dare try it directly. If these men point their fingers his direction,
he can use his rank and deny it. There’s little chance of pinning this on him
directly.’

Just as there was little chance of finding two men in the race
crowds. Sixty thousand were expected for the Derby. It would literally be a
needle in a haystack search.

‘I still don’t understand how they got the salt into the
water.’ Phaedra yawned. Warbourne was sleeping. She was envious but not willing
to give in.

‘I do,’ Bevins said quietly. ‘Early in the afternoon, I stepped
out to use the loo. Matt was gone and I was on my own nearly all day. It was
just a few minutes. There were two fellows hanging about the barn that meet the
description. I don’t know them. I didn’t recognise them from home but that’s not
saying much. I haven’t been in the area long and most of my time is at the
estate. They must have done it while I was outside. I am sorry.’ He looked on
the verge of tears.

‘It’s all right.’ Phaedra wanted to do more than offer the boy
words of comfort but, with Bram there, it would probably embarrass Bevins to be
hugged in front of his hero. ‘Everything’s ended well. We didn’t lose the
colt.’

By the time the barn began to bustle with race-day activity,
Warbourne seemed outwardly restored and the colour had returned to Somerset’s
face. The real tests would be internal, however. There was no way to know what
kind of toll the ordeal had taken on Warbourne’s reserves. Would he have the
stamina to race the mile-and-a-half course? Would Somerset have the strength to
help him?

Word of Warbourne’s close call had spread. Pheadra was grateful
for Bram’s efforts. He spent most of the morning shooing away people who’d come
to look at the colt, most of them odds makers. Convinced Warbourne wouldn’t be
able to race capably, the odds on the colt had soared.

‘Sixty to one against,’ Bram said after his latest foray
through the barn for news. ‘That’s more than the odds on Azor and Young Wizard.’
He plopped down on a bale of hay, his attire completely dishevelled. ‘By the
way, Payne and Wilson are livid over their odds.’ They owned Azor and Young
Wizard, respectively. ‘Payne feels he should be the favourite.’

‘Against Manfred?’ Phaedra warmed to the conversation. ‘Manfred
just won the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket. People are looking to him to
win.’

‘He’s got good odds at four-to-one,’ Bram affirmed. ‘He’s the
favourite actually. No one’s got better.’

‘But favourites don’t win, is that what you’re thinking?’
Phaedra chided.

Bram winked. ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m also
thinking, this isn’t a flat race like Newmarket. A horse has to do more than
just run a straight line as fast as it can from start to finish.’

Bram didn’t have to complete his thought. Phaedra nodded.
Manfred was a bay colt with a redoubtable sire in Election but small. The Derby
course would take a more powerful horse and perhaps a better rider. Azor on the
other hand was a chestnut colt with the reputable Jem Robinson on board. It
would come down to what mattered most: the rider or the horse. Jem Robinson had
captained plenty of mounts to victory and it wouldn’t be his first Derby.

‘Sixty-to-one?’ Phaedra eyed her colt. ‘And the favourite never
wins?’

‘Never.’ Bram grinned, his eyes lighting up with laughter.

‘Sounds like perfect odds to me.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

P
haedra had left the stables long enough to
change and look presentable for the Derby. The worst was over. When she
returned, Bevins had groomed the horse to gleaming perfection and Matt Somerset
had the situation well in hand, which was saying something. Warbourne was in
high spirits as if he knew exactly what was going on today. And well he might.
This was not his first time to race. But it would be his first successful
completion, of that she had no doubts.

Phaedra ran her hands over Warbourne’s legs, checking for heat,
the standard sign of lameness or strain from his bout with dehydration the night
before. She’d found none.

‘Phaedra, we have to go,’ Bram said quietly at her side. He,
too, had found time to change. In fresh clothes, the night hadn’t left a mark on
him.

‘Just a moment.’ Phaedra took off her hat, a wide-brimmed
confection with ribbon to match her violet-sprigged dress. She pressed her head
to the colt’s. She closed her eyes, her hand resting along the length of his
neck, and she listened, listened to the steady throb of his pulse, the strong
beat of his heart, listened to the life force coursing through him, and was
reassured.

She murmured a few words to the horse and stepped back,
returning her hat to her head. ‘I’m ready now.’ The sleepless night was taking
its toll on her. She wanted to cry but that was utter silliness. ‘I wish Edward
was here,’ she said softly.

‘Come on, Phaedra, let’s find our seats.’ Bram gently urged her
out into the aisle way. ‘Matt will take things from here.’ Matt had just come
from the pre-race weigh-in with the clerk of scales, weighing in at precisely
eight stone including his saddle. He was smiling and looking well, all things
considered.

‘He’s ready for you, Matt,’ Phaedra said with a smile. ‘He told
me so himself.’ She wished she felt as ready. A minute and forty seconds would
decide her future.

* * *

They had the same seats as yesterday. Only today, people
recognised them and stopped by to enquire about Warbourne. The Duke of Rutland
sent his condolences over the incident via a bottle of champagne. ‘Maybe we
should send it back with our condolences when Warbourne beats Sylvanus,’ Bram
whispered naughtily at her ear, making her laugh in spite of her nerves.

‘You do know what this means?’ Bram gestured towards the
champagne. ‘It means you’ve already won. Even if Warbourne doesn’t win, you
already have. You charmed them last night at the ball and shown them you’re
worth taking seriously. The mere fact that Warbourne is here cannot be
discounted. His breeding lines are impeccable. He might not be a race-winner
but, chances are, he’ll beget winners. You just had to remind people of that.’
But Phaedra knew she hadn’t won alone. Rogue or not, people liked Bram and he’d
paved the way with a little of his charm. It was one more thing he’d done for
her without her asking.

The bugler sounded the call to post, the traditional cavalry
tune—
‘Boots and Saddles’
—as the horses stepped
onto the track. The horses would parade by the grandstand and then disappear for
the start, which was behind them.

‘There he is!’ Phaedra cried in a loud whisper. Warbourne stood
out brilliantly, the only black horse in a race populated by four chestnuts, and
four browns with five bays. Matt’s silks showing the Rothermere colours of red
and gold sent a surge of pride through her.

There were fourteen horses in all. A large field to be sure,
but not as large as years past. It wouldn’t have been unusual to have twenty
horses racing. Still, fourteen would be a challenge. Matt would have to navigate
with skill in order to avoid being trapped in the middle.

Matt looked up into the crowd and saluted with his crop before
the horses dropped out of sight. Phaedra’s stomach was a tight ball of nerves.
Warbourne looked ready and Phaedra felt her chest tighten with pride. Her eyes
threatened to mist. This had been her dream, and Edward’s dream, for as long as
she could remember. It was her dream alone now. She had no illusions that she
was doing this for Edward and the past. This was for her and for the future. It
all begins here, she thought.

‘There’s still time to place a bet,’ Bram offered, rising in
his seat.

‘Are you going to bet?’ Phaedra looked up quizzically. She was
confident but she didn’t want Bram losing money on Warbourne. She wasn’t sure he
had funds to lose.

‘Absolutely.’ Bram was grinning. ‘I’m going to bet it all on
the biggest long shot there is.’ With that wicked grin, she couldn’t tell if he
was joking.

Bram came back still grinning. Phaedra wished she could be so
sanguine. She could see the course in her mind. She’d walked it thoroughly with
Matt Somerset, talking through each turn, each rise and fall. The course was a
horseshoe full of tricks for the unsuspecting horse and rider. Not only that, it
was a left-hand course, making it what some called ‘the supreme test’ for a
racehorse. Most courses were right-handed.

‘Here.’ Bram passed her a set of binoculars. ‘Now you don’t
have to guess where your horse is at.’ He chuckled. ‘Handy little inventions,
don’t you think?’ Around them, others raised their binoculars to their faces. It
must be nearly time. Phaedra followed suit.

She could just make out the start. ‘The flag is up, Bram. I see
him. Matt’s holding him well. He’s prancing a little. Now he’s still.’ The
outriders that had escorted the horses to the starting line were drawing back.
But Phaedra knew they’d remain until the race had started. It was their job to
pick up any horses that became riderless, like Warbourne had been last year.

The starter flipped the flag in a figure-eight gesture and they
were off. Phaedra bit her lip. Matt surged with the rest of the pack. Warbourne
had passed the first test: his rider had stayed on. The next test began right
away. There was a right-hand bend and a slow uphill climb that would tax a
horse’s stamina for the first half of the race.

Nearly up the hill, the pack began to separate, Manfred the
favourite with Student, Azor and Young Wizard starting to surge away from the
pack with Warbourne moving with them. A few rows behind them, Phaedra heard the
Duke of Rutland curse as Sylvanus remained with the pack.

The five started the downhill slope, Matt using the descent to
propel Warbourne forward. The downhill swept towards Tattenham Corner and
another thirty-four-foot drop in elevation. Warbourne was pushing Student now,
forcing the horse to give way while Warbourne ate up ground. Manfred faltered,
unable to keep up with the longer-legged horses. The pack was nothing now. They
were running steadily behind but there would be no catching the leaders.

Phaedra held her breath. Coming out of Tattenham Corner, it was
Azor and Warbourne vying for position against Young Wizard. The crowd in the
stands rose in anticipation of a close finish.

Phaedra’s hands were white on the binoculars where she gripped
them.
Do something, Matt
,
she thought. A tie would mean a run-off. After his illness, Warbourne wouldn’t
win a second race. Foam flecked Warbourne’s dark coat. Matt Somerset was
whipping away in encouragement on the horse’s right side.

The last three furlongs were a straight away. Matt crouched low
over Warbourne’s neck, keeping his weight out of the saddle, giving Warbourne
every freedom. Warbourne would need it. The last one hundred feet was a final
rise before the finish. Student fell off, vying with Manfred who made a last but
futile surge. Azor and Young Wizard began to show signs of tiring, the last one
hundred becoming a challenge for which they had little energy left.

It was Warbourne by half a head, then Young Wizard with Azor
not giving in. In front of them, Mr Payne was nearly standing on his seat in
excitement.
Faster
, Phaedra wished in her head. Just
a little faster, just a little farther. She looked desperately through the
lenses. In a sudden move, Matt Somerset switched his crop to his left hand,
whipping away on Warbourne’s other side. Warbourne surged! ‘Bram, do you see
it?’ Phaedra yelled to be heard.

‘I see it, he’s got it, Phaedra, he’s got it!’ Bram’s
excitement was as genuine as hers.

Warbourne crossed the finish a half-length ahead of Azor with
Young Wizard following close behind. They had won. There was still the stewards’
official announcement but the race had been clean and the finish, while close,
had been obvious.

She was in Bram’s arms, and he was kissing her, uncaring who
saw. Amid the excitement, no one would mind about the propriety of such a
display. There was no better feeling than this. Exclamations erupted all around
her, disbelief, excitement, disappointment. Warbourne had been a long shot,
after all. Those who had won had made extraordinarily good money but they’d won
at the expense of others who’d made safer, statistically wiser bets. It
shouldn’t have happened. But it did. Her horse had won the Derby.

She smiled at Bram, tears glistening on her cheeks, emotions
swamping her. After two years of deaths and disappointments, she’d found the
light. She had emerged.

‘You did it,’ Bram was whispering against her ear. ‘You
believed that colt could be saved and you saved him.’ Bram swung her about in a
tight circle, her body pressed close to his. ‘Let’s head down to the winner’s
circle and see how old Matt is doing with his new-found success.’

It was all noise and light, a blur of sensations and emotions
in the winner’s circle. People were shaking her hand, and asking questions.
Phaedra could hardly follow most of what was being said. She just kept repeating
herself, conscious of Bram’s bulk quietly behind her, supporting her. ‘Yes, this
is Warbourne by Noble Bourne and Warrioress.’ And ‘Yes, I trained him at the
Castonbury stables. Yes, I plan to begin a stud in earnest come next
spring.’

The crowd eventually ebbed away, lured by the prospect of the
other races that afternoon—the Durdan Stakes and the Denbies would follow. There
would be parties that night and she would need to attend to solidify her
new-found fame. The Duke of Rutland had already invited them out to his home in
the Epsom countryside, the Durdans, the stakes’ namesake, for supper and dancing
that evening. But there was a moment’s peace for now.

They needed to go and check on Matt and Warbourne back at the
stables but there was something she needed to say to Bram first. She drew him
aside in a rare quiet corner. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’ Bram smiled, trying to tease but she wanted to be
serious.

‘Don’t shrug this off, Bram. Thank you for everything. For
helping, for coming after me, for finding me Matt Somerset. I know I didn’t do
this alone.’
For being my family when I had none, for
making sure I didn’t have to celebrate alone.

He rewarded her with solemnity of his own. ‘You’re welcome,
Phaedra. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’

‘I know.’ Phaedra furrowed her brow. ‘I mean, I know it cost
you everything. I don’t suppose your father
won’t
hear about this.
’

Bram shook his head, his hands resting lightly on her waist.
‘No, I’m sure by this time tomorrow he’ll know, if he doesn’t already.’

‘What will you do?’

‘For starters, I’m going to collect my winnings and then I’m
going to take the victorious Lady Phaedra to the Durdans and bask in her
success.’ Bram laughed as if nothing else mattered. What had Matt said? That
Bram liked the adventure of living?

‘Our success,’ Phaedra corrected.

‘That’s very generous of you. But tonight, I’d rather it be
your
success.’

* * *

Bram pocketed his winnings. They were substantial. He
hadn’t been joking when he’d told Phaedra he’d bet every cent and pound he’d had
on the long shot. His winnings wouldn’t support him for ever, but he didn’t want
that. He wanted enough to buy a ring at the discreet jewellers on South Street.
Tonight, he was going to bet on something far more important than a race.

He knocked on Phaedra’s door shortly before eight o’clock and
escorted her to the curricle he’d rented for the short drive to the Durdans. The
evening was clear, stars twinkled overhead and the weather was mild, a perfect
night for a drive, a perfect night for deciding his future.

Phaedra sat beside him, stunningly beautiful in a gown of deep
red crêpe over a satin slip of palest gold. ‘Rothermere colours?’ He noted
wryly.

She tossed him a smug little smile. ‘Rothermere colours
indeed.’

The Durdans was located on the North Downs and the drive was
short. The stately house with its Palladian columns glowed with lights,
carriages lining the drive. This would be a dinner party extraordinaire
featuring the crème of the racing world.

Bram bided his time and waited for his moment. If Phaedra had
been nervous for the Derby, he was having his share of nerves now. He waited
through the seven-course dinner and countless glasses of wine. He waited through
dances until it was time to claim his own. Everything preceding it was an
especial kind of torture designed to heighten his wanting.

She’d been dazzling at dinner, beautiful and refined, and
knowledgeable. She hadn’t hesitated to speak her mind. It set his teeth on edge
to know every man in the room wanted her. Who wouldn’t?

Finally they could dance, although Bram thought it hardly
should qualify as one of the two dances he was limited to. It was a country
dance that required he rotate through different partners. It barely counted as a
dance ‘with’ Phaedra. But it was afterwards he was looking forward to.

The set ended and he escorted Phaedra out onto the terrace. The
house was beautifully set, making the most of the serene countryside. He had no
qualms about doing it here. Others might quail at the propriety of proposing at
a ball, but he didn’t. No matter where he did it, it would be between him and
Phaedra regardless of who was around. And he had to do it tonight, before their
proverbial clock struck midnight, before their Epsom escape came to an end.