A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (35 page)

As the troublemakers found their way back to the line Manifesto chewed his bit.
Good sign
, thought Ellie.
He’s concentrating
.

The jockey on Reveler shouted at her, “You’re new, eh, captain?”

Ellie looked at him, and the pistol fired. The black horse streaked in front of Manifesto spoiling the magnificent leap they’d taught him at the break. Instantly, they were caught in a sea of horses. Mud slapped her face, hooves threatened to clip Manifesto. She wanted to curse for being such a distracted little fool.

The field settled into a steady pace and Ellie accessed her position. Manifesto was far from the lead, but he wasn’t at the back either. Reveler’s haunches churned just ahead of them and they were hemmed in by chestnuts on either side.
Oh, bloody hell, there’s no way out.

At the first turn, she spied the great jockey Bill Arnull, ahead of the pack on Nectar. No one offered a challenge to the game little horse that took the Two Thousand Guineas that spring.

And then it happened, the miracle Ellie had been waiting for — a tiny hole opened between the black and the inside rail. Pressing her heels to Manifesto’s sides, the stallion responded with a rush of speed. Lank’s jockey tried to force them back, using his whip near Manifesto’s face. Ellie pushed her horse harder until Reveler gave way and they were past the jockey and his switch. She nearly shouted with joy.

A row of horses galloped ahead and then a large gap with Nectar leading the field. Ellie gave Manifesto his head. He surged forward, gaining speed with each stride. She wasn’t about to steer him into another squeeze, so she took him toward the outside rail to pass the pack.

Out of nowhere, one of the chestnut horses appeared, coming up fast on the right. The animal blocked Manifesto’s charge. She clenched her teeth in frustration.

Down the track they thundered, rain and mud splattering until Ellie’s vision blurred. Terrified to move her hands on the reins, she blinked rapidly and tried to shake her head without losing balance.

Directly in front of them galloped a large bay. The animal was tiring, slowing, blocking Manifesto into another pocket.

Way off ahead, Ellie saw Nectar round the corner at the one mile mark. The horse gained ground with each stride.

Six furlongs and one hundred thirty two yards to go, Ellie calculated. Manifesto couldn’t catch up, but she’d give him a chance for a good showing.

Brandishing her whip, she forced the chestnut to give ground as she urged Manifesto to the outside. One, two, three horses fell behind as the stallion lengthened his stride heading into the final curve of the pear-shaped Doncaster track.

Up ahead only Nectar held the field, and in second, a big roan called The Duchess.

Ellie rejoiced. Third place was a good showing for an upcoming champion. The stands were full of breeders who’d be anxious for her stallion.

Whether The Duchess was starting to flag or Manifesto picked up the pace, she wasn’t sure, but the two horses were suddenly neck and neck — Nectar still far in the lead and heading down the home stretch.

Then, to Ellie’s horror, Nectar’s leg went out in a slide. He’d been caught in the slick mud. The horse pitched forward, slammed into the rail and went down. The Duchess swerved, but Manifesto had nowhere to go. In less than a second, her horse was in the midst of the crash and The Duchess had taken the lead.

Instead of shying, Ellie felt Manifesto gather to jump. He left the ground on stride, sailing over Nectar’s thrashing hooves and Bill Arnull as the jockey rolled for safety. In perfect steeplechase form, Manifesto landed a half-length ahead of The Duchess.

“Run, run like the wind,” Ellie cried. She leaned low to Manifesto’s neck and gave him all the rein he could want. The stallion accelerated. The Duchess disappeared from view.

Lightheaded with excitement, Ellie didn’t dare look back. Her arms and hands were numb. She had no idea if her boots were still in the stirrups. She shut her eyes and grabbed a lock of Manifesto’s mane.
Please don’t fall off,
she thought.
Please, please. Not now.

A tremendous roar went up. Was it blood pounding in her ears? Was it the thunder of Manifesto’s hooves devouring the track? Ellie opened her eyes. Blurred with speed, she saw the crowd hammering the railing, betting sheets waving above their heads. Then in one mighty stride Manifesto flashed over the finish line.

• • •

A hoard broke past the railing, rushing onto the field toward them. Manifesto danced nervously as a stranger caught his bridle. “Great show, chap!” The man beamed.

Horse and rider were ringed with well-wishers. “The best race of my lifetime,” pronounced an old-timer.

“Mine too,” Ellie replied happily.

She scanned the faces of the crowd for Hugh. He wasn’t there.

A triumphant parade led Manifesto to the winner’s circle. Pushing through the bodies, an important-looking gentleman in tweed approached. He carried a silver trophy – a cup, doubled handled and smithed with a scene of Doncaster and a horse etched in relief against a backdrop of the stands.

Ellie smiled so wide her lips hurt.
Manifesto did it,
she thought.
He did it!

People were clapping her on the knee, whooping and hollering, shouting “Brilliantly run!” and “Jolly good!”

Laughing and shaking hands, Ellie struggled with tears of joy, but where was Hugh? She searched the sea of faces. And then she saw a pair of eyes she recognized. Her smile vanished. Lank gleamed back at her.

Manifesto whinnied, sniffed the air, and turned in an agitated circle, sensing her fear. The crowd moved back. Her concentration went to calming the horse. When she looked again, Hugh had his arm around Lank’s neck in a vice grip. “Officer, officer!” Hugh shouted. “Arrest this man.”

Every face in the crowded winner’s circle turned to watch the commotion.

“The jockey’s a woman!” Lank screamed. “Look you fools, the jockey’s a woman! Fraud! Fraud!”

All eyes shifted back to Ellie. The elated crowd transformed into a mass of confusion. With a swift uppercut, a top-hatted character knocked Ellie’s cap off. Her white hair tumbled to her shoulders. The crowd gasped. “What difference does it make? I won it, didn’t I?” she cried. But her words were lost in the hubbub.

“Ya damn meddling wench, you’ve thrown off the betting sheets!” a man yelled.

“Aye, I’ve got The Duchess to win.”

“Reveler’s third. He placed, and I’m collecting.”

“Forfeit. The girl’s got to forfeit!”

“Nay, she ain’t. I got that horse placing. Twenty-to-one odds — I’m rich.”

Everyone started yelling, their faces blotched with rage. Terrified, Ellie looked for Hugh and then saw a flash of metal — Lank had his arm fully extended. The sack hook glinted in the sun as it started a vicious descent towards Hugh’s face. All sound stopped, all movement slowed. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. Inches from his brow Hugh blocked the blow with his forearm. He wrenched the hook free from Lank, and punched the man full in the face. Lank dropped beneath the bystanders and Hugh plunged out of sight. A moment later, the crowd parted like scattering leaves as Hugh barreled through the crush toward the winner’s circle.

Ellie’s heart clenched.
Lank got away. He got away.
Manifesto made a startled leap forward, and she lost her balance. Scrambling in the saddle, she saw Lank crawling through the cleared area behind the horse’s haunches. In the next second the stallion flattened his ears, threw his head down, and bucked hard. Hooves made contact with Lank’s body. Ellie was thrown onto the horse’s neck. From the corner of her eye, she saw the steward hurtling through the air. People ducked and screamed — a rush of humanity cleared behind Manifesto as Lank whumped down on the muddy track. Turning the stallion, Ellie got an unobstructed view of the man lying flat in the wet gook, his expensive coat in tatters, his white cravat caked in dirt, and his fancy top hat crushed beside him. He was gasping like a fish.

Hugh materialized from the crowd and grabbed Manifesto’s bridle. “Are you all right?”

“Are
you
all right?” Ellie blurted. “Did Lank hurt you? Did you see the race?”

“I did. You were marvelous. Wasn’t she marvelous?” he asked Manifesto, who threw his head. “If I can ever beat my heart back down from my throat, I’ll tell you how impressive your riding was.”

“How is Toby?”

“A doctor’s with him. Dixon sent me out to watch the race.”

Lank began to stir.

“Arrest that man!” Hugh shouted. “Don’t let him get away.”

The gentleman with the silver cup stepped forward. “On what charge?”

“Embezzlement, arson, horse thievery, and attempted murder.”

A murmur swept through the overwrought crowd. Eyes shifted from Ellie to Lank to Hugh.

“Arrest the girl,” a woman screeched. “I bet me house on this race!”

“Aye, take them all to the jailhouse,” said another.

A man, so large his arms strained his coat seams, tried to yank Ellie off Manifesto. Hugh’s fist hit a bull’s eye on the man’s nose. The assailant stumbled backward. “Get away!” Hugh bellowed, threatening anyone that came too close. “Judge for yourselves when you see what that man did to our jockey!” He pointed at Lank. “We had no choice but to put her aboard.”

“What’d he do?” asked the gentleman holding the cup.

“He drove a grain hook into Toby Coopersmith’s knee,” Ellie told him. “It will be a miracle if he walks again.”

A woman in the crowd gasped and fainted. “What’d she say?” someone asked. Word passed quickly, one to the next. “A grain hook,” they whispered.

Lank, still gulping for air, managed to prop himself up on one elbow. He watched the crowd, white fear in his eyes.

“We’re going to take you into custody for your own safety,” the gentleman with the cup told Lank. “You can see a doctor while we sort all this out.

“Guard.”

Two imposing men in uniform stepped forward. “Take this man immediately and watch him until I say otherwise.”

The officers each took one of Lank’s arms and half lifted, half dragged him out of sight. “Fraud,” Lank wheezed as they carried him off. “They perpetrated a fraud. Arrest her, too.”

The gentleman polished the silver cup with a handkerchief, and planted a cool gaze on Ellie and Hugh. “I must confer with the judges concerning the outcome of the race,” he said. “Off you go. A racetrack is no place for a lady.”

A narrow corridor opened in the ocean of hostile humanity. Hugh led Manifesto through it with Ellie aboard.

“A woman astride; disgraceful,” someone whispered as they passed.

“Keep your breath to cool your porridge,” another responded. “She rode a good race.”

“The wench’s parts are stretched so a man can have no pleasure with her,” another woman sniggered.

“And what man would have her?” snorted a fellow.

Hugh stopped the horse. “You are talking about my fiancée, and the next comment, be it from man or woman, they’ll wear their nose inside out.”

The man dipped his head and shuffled into the crowd.

Ellie wanted to disappear. She looked at no one, but the gawkers were quiet for the rest of the gauntlet.

• • •

At the barn, the doctor poured soapy water over Toby’s knee. The hook had been removed. Eyes closed, the jockey didn’t move. “It’s been a trial to clean the wound,” the doctor said, looking pale and exhausted. “We filled the poor man with spirits, but I pity him when he wakes.”

Ellie studied Toby’s mangled leg. The doctor had done a good job of cleaning and straightening it. Claire always said keeping a wound clean was the most important step to a good recovery.

Ellie dipped a cloth in cool water and swabbed Toby’s pale brow.

Just then a shout went up outside, so loud it shook the barn.

“What’s happening?” Ellie asked.

Dixon Boyce roused himself from the corner of the stall and went outside. Hugh followed. A few minutes later, they returned. “They’ve declared The Duchess the winner,” Dixon announced.

“Oh,” said Ellie. How unbearable to see poor Toby, crumpled in agony, for all the nothing the race amounted to. Her throat clogged with unhappiness.

“It’s a disappointment, love,” said Hugh, lifting her from where she knelt at Toby’s side. “But there’s news to make up for it.”

“What’s that?” she asked dully.

With a magician’s flourish, Hugh reached into his pocket and teased out a string of very large pearls.

“That’s the Fitzcarry necklace,” she said, stunned.

“Your very intelligent mother gave them to me to ‘invest’ in Manifesto’s success. When I placed the bet, it was agreed the pearls would be valued at ten thousand pounds. At twenty-to-one odds, my darling fiancée, I am marrying into one of the wealthiest families in England.”

“But they gave the trophy to The Duchess.”

“Oh, you rich women are all alike,” Hugh teased. Before Ellie could dispute him, he turned to Dixon. “Tell her, would you?”

“Hugh didn’t bet with the track, he bet with me and a cartel I belong to,” Dixon explained.

“When you had to ride, I told Dixon all bets are off,” Hugh interrupted.

“But the cartel decided to go forward with the odds as they were,” Dixon continued. “The fools thought your sex would increase their chances of winning.”

The news swept Ellie’s mind like a zephyr, cool and impossible to grasp.

“Oh, I have to kiss those sweet, befuddled lips,” Hugh said, taking her into his arms. His strong hands caressed her back. “Let’s pretend it’s our wedding night,” he whispered. She smiled as his mouth met hers and she inhaled his sigh of utter happiness.

Ellie walked toward the Exeter Cathedral altar in a gown of flounced silver netting over a white satin slip. The hem, trimmed in pink satin roses and bouquets of living bluebells, mirrored the fields and hedgerows of Exeter on this beautiful spring morning. Around her neck gleamed the Fitzcarry pearls, and upon her head rode a crown of bluebells anchored by silver combs. The flowers had been picked at daybreak by her three sisters.

“Mama, she looks like a fairy princess,” breathed Snap as Ellie solemnly processed down the aisle. Lady Albright smiled and brushed a tear from her cheek before Snap could see it.