Once in a Blue Moon (20 page)

But I love you.

Too bloody bad, Miss Letty. Because I don't love you.

"Since you ask, I was thinking I really ought to thank you for turning down my rash and thoughtless proposal of marriage all those years ago," she said with a bright, careless smile, although inside she was aching, aching. "It is amazing—is it not?—the mistakes one makes when one is young and foolish."

His face did not change expression; he didn't even blink. His eyes were empty, dark, and still as an underground pool. "But we must have a care," he said, "not to make the same mistake twice."

Whose mistake was he talking about? she wondered. Hers or his? She felt an unwanted tightening in her chest.

In that moment if there had been any softening in his eyes, any indication at all that he had cared for her that summer, even a little, she might have forgiven him everything.

But his gaze remained flat and impenetrable, and she had taken to heart the bitter lesson learned the day he had left her. That loving someone is not enough if he refuses to love you back.

The starting bell clanged. They both whipped around as a flag flashed beside the distant post, white like a gull's wing against the green turf, and suddenly the horses were off.

The screams of the spectators slammed against Jessalyn's ears like the roar of a hundred hungry lions. But she didn't even breathe. Her eyes were riveted on black and scarlet colors and Blue Moon's distinctive ungainly stride.

They were well in the back of the pack. For all his courage, Blue Moon had a disconcerting habit of trailing lazily along in the rear, waiting until the last possible second to put on his tremendous burst of speed. His crafty mind understood that to have his head in front was enough; he saw no point in exerting himself to win by a furlough when a whisker would do. But this made for some excruciatingly nerve-racking moments for those who had their hopes and their money riding on his blood bay hide.

Jessalyn swayed on her feet, as if the cheers of the crowd were buffeting her. The course was an undulating mile and a half long, twisted and cruel as the devil's heart. The horses' hooves flashed silver, tearing like scythes into the sloggy turf. The jockeys' bright taffetas wavered in and out of the driving mist, blurring into streaks of living fire.

A black gelding named Candy Dancer had quickly taken the lead and was holding it. Jessalyn reminded herself that the touts had Candy Dancer pegged as a fast starter that often had no pluck for the hard finish.

They were now at the far end of the course, where it curved sharply back around like a bent elbow. Shrouded by the rain, the horses were black shadows, indistinguishable.

Suddenly they burst out of the white mist like arrows shooting through a gauzy curtain. The man beside her stiffened as Rum Chaser emerged from the pack along the inside to challenge Candy Dancer.

Hooves pounded the turf like a thousand drums, vibrating the ground beneath Jessalyn's feet. She looked for Topper's black and red skullcap and spotted it, bobbing a full five lengths behind the leaders.
Too late,
she thought.
He's left it until too late.
Then, just when it seemed the race was lost, Blue Moon put on his flying speed, coming around the outside, gaining, gaining, gaining.... Five hundred yards stretched before them to the winning post, and the three Thoroughbreds, black and bay and chestnut, were now running stride for stride, straining every muscle and sinew toward victory.

As was the custom, many of the spectators on horseback galloped onto the course to join the runners. Without the bright colors of the jockeys' skullcaps it would now have been impossible to distinguish which horses were actually a part of the race. Jessalyn began bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She knew she was wriggling like a pilchard, but she didn't care.

"Come on, Blue Moon. Come on, come on..." she chanted, as if the words were an incantation, her voice rising to a crescendo along with her excitement.

She glanced at the man beside her. He watched with a controlled intensity, only the tight set of his mouth revealing how much he had invested in this race. She was lost a moment in looking at him, and so she missed seeing the beginning of what happened. Only the horrible finish.

The crowd's cheers of excitement shattered into screams as Rum Chaser went down in a tangle of white socks and hooves. Blue Moon swerved, his legs slipping sideways out from under him in the mud. He slid along on his belly, unable to collect his crazily skating feet, then overbalanced onto his nose...

And lay absolutely still.

Jessalyn stood frozen in horror as men and horses surged around her, spilling onto the track. She took one stumbling step, and then another. It felt as if she were in a nightmare, running through the boggy turf and getting nowhere. Blue Moon still lay on the ground, unmoving.
God, oh, God, he's dead,
Jessalyn thought. Topper was crawling through the mud toward the horse, his mouth open in a shout that Jessalyn couldn't hear over the shrieks and the pounding of hooves, over the pounding of her own heart.

Suddenly Blue Moon jerked into movement, struggling back onto his feet. Jessalyn sobbed with relief. He'd only had the wind knocked out of him by the fall. But Rum Chaser still rolled on the ground, thrashing and neighing in pain. His jockey, bright green and yellow taffeta now smeared with mud, swayed groggily to his feet. The earl of Caerhays stood stiff and still beside him, his head bent beneath the pelting rain.

The clang of the referee's bell rent the wet air, announcing Candy Dancer the winner. Followed seconds later by a flapping noise, like sheets in the wind, of the pigeons carrying the results to London.

Someone handed McCady a pistol.

"No!" Jessalyn cried, stumbling toward him.

He swung around to her, and she recoiled from the killing rage that blazed in his eyes.

His hand lashed out, his fingers biting deep into her arm. "Come here, damn you," he snarled, hauling her roughly up against him. "You started it, so you may as well see the bloody end of it."

The great Thoroughbred's cannon was broken so badly the jagged edge of the bone had torn through the thin flesh. He was screaming from the pain. "Oh, God," Jessalyn cried, turning her head aside.

McCady put the barrel of the pistol against her cheek and forced her head back around. He brought his face close to hers. His breath washed over her, hot as a caress, but his voice was like shards of ice. "You watch, dammit."

For one suspended moment he kept the pistol pressed hard against her cheek. Her whole face felt stiff and cold. Rum Chaser's screams faded until she heard only a rushing in her ears, like the surf at End Cottage. Oddly the smells she breathed in were homey ones, of horse sweat and crushed grass.

He turned and pointed the gun at Rum Chaser's head and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the shot smacked against her. Jessalyn flinched, but she didn't cry out. The chestnut's big body jerked and was still. The air stank of sulfur. She lifted her gaze to McCady's face. She could see his fury in every hardened line of his body; she could feel it radiating from him in waves, like heat from a Midsummer's Eve bonfire. But she couldn't understand why it was directed at her.

His voice slashed through the air like a dueling blade. "How much did you win?"

"Win! We lost a hundred and twenty-five pounds, plus the race stake. We lost."

"I don't believe you lost a bloody farthing." His grip tightened, squeezing so tightly she had to set her jaw to keep from whimpering. "Either your jockey was got at or you paid him yourself to crimp the race, because you had your blunt riding on Candy Dancer instead. You probably planned to lose the easy way by running a dog race, but when Rum Chaser entered at the last minute, you had to take more drastic measures. And
this
is the result." He flung the pistol to the ground, next to his dead horse.

Jessalyn stared up at him, her eyes wide and blank with shock. He was a peer, and thus his status would carry weight with the Jockey Club, the awesome body that regulated the English racing scene. If the club were to put any credence into his accusation, she and Gram could be warned off Newmarket Heath, even permanently barred from the Turf altogether.

"No!" she protested. "I didn't... I would never—"

He flung his head back and then with a vicious jerk brought her crashing against his chest. His eyes flared, and his gaze fell on her mouth. His head dipped down, and she had the strangest thought that he was about to kiss her. But then he thrust her away as if touching her disgusted him. He spun around and strode through the crowd.

She had to run to catch up with him. Grasping his arm, she pulled him around to face her. "How dare you accuse me of such a hateful thing! I am not to blame if you were such a fool as to wager a thousand pounds on a horse that wasn't fit."

He pried her fingers loose from his sleeve, then dropped her hand. "I know what I saw, and that collision was deliberate."

"Indeed?" She lifted her chin. "Go ahead and make your accusation then. But after I have proven you wrong, I shall expect a public apology for the slur you have cast upon the Letty name with your smearing lies." Her lower lip curled into a sneer. "Or is
honor
a concept too far beyond a Trelawny's understanding? My
lord."

His face whitened, and a muscle bunched along his jaw. He stared back at her with eyes as stony black as the granite cliffs of Cornwall. Then he spun around on his heel and walked away. She watching him go, feeling battered and bruised inside, but this time she had matched him blow for blow.
You are silly Miss Letty no longer,
she thought, feeling proud of her woman's self.

The Sarn't Major had taken charge of Blue Moon, putting a hood over his head to calm him, layering rugs over his sweating back. Jessalyn ran up as the trainer was about to lead the Thoroughbred off to the thatched lean-tos where the horses were temporarily stabled on race day. The bay's left hind leg was curled up beneath his belly, the big splayed hoof only skimming the ground.

She searched the Sarn't Major's grim face, appealing to him mutely with her eyes to tell her that the injury wasn't serious.

He shook his head. "Got a badly twisted hock," he stated in his usual terse manner.

Jessalyn ran her hand over the swollen joint. She was shocked at the heat that radiated from the horse's flesh; it was like holding out her palm to a coal fire.

"He'll not be racin' anymore this year," the Sarn't Major said. "Tes a proper question whether or no he'll ever be fit t' run again."

Jessalyn pressed her face into Blue Moon's neck, rubbing her cheek against the rough wool of the rug. As if sensing her despair, the horse turned his head and looked at her, his great intelligent eyes staring calmly at her out of the black hood. Jessalyn blinked hard against a rush of tears.

She asked the Sarn't Major if he had seen the accident.

"Aye," he said.

"Do you think... did it look to you as if it were deliberate?"

"Aye," he said again. "It had the look of bein' a crimp race."

"But Topper wouldn't—"

"Nay. Not Topper. I said it had the look of bein* a crimp race. I didn't say 'twere one."

Jessalyn bought a meat pie and rice pudding wrapped in paper, paying a boy a shilling to carry the food and a message to Lady Letty. She went with the Sarn't Major to see Blue Moon safely settled in his box with a bag of oats and a nourishing dram of canary wine. Then she went looking for Topper.

She spotted him talking with the winning jockey beside the gibbetlike weighing scales. He had already changed out of his colorful riding taffeta, but his small, wiry body was still clothed as flamboyantly as a costermonger in an orange shirt, blue-checked waistcoat, yellow breeches, and purple neckerchief. A red felt hat, sporting a pheasant feather, covered his snow blond hair.

Jessalyn thought Topper loved such flashy togs because so much of his early life had been spent in a world of gray and black. The youth was one of Lady Letty's strays. One day four years ago, shortly after they had moved into the London house that Jessalyn inherited from her mother, the parlor chimney had caught on fire and they'd had to hire a man to put it out. The chimney sweep had brought a climbing boy along with him to send up the narrow flue. The child was naked and emaciated, caked with soot and grime. His hideously callused knees and elbows were scraped raw and bleeding; his enormous blue eyes filled with fear and a dull acceptance. Lady Letty had taken one look and bought the boy off the sweep for two guineas. They had thought his hair was black until they'd given him a bath.

They had also thought him about six or seven—he was so small—but he told them he was sure that he was at least thirteen. He had vague memories of another life, a cottage in the country and a white pony. He didn't know his name, but the sweep had called him Topper. It was the Sarn't Major who had first put Topper on a horse and had discovered the boy's natural balance and sensitive hands.

Jessalyn caught Topper's eye now and waved. He bade good-bye to the other jockey with a jaunty salute, walking around the weighing scales. Jessalyn came from the other side to meet him, almost planting her half boot in a pile of steaming horse dung.

"Ere now, watch yer step, Miss Jessalyn," he said in thick accents that revealed his rookery childhood. As he reached out to assist her, a grimace of pain twisted his elfin face.

"Oh, Topper. Were you hurt in the fall?"

"I got me a gammy arm, but I reckon I'll live." His mobile mouth split into a wide grin, revealing the gap in his front teeth that had been lost to the butt end of a whip during his first race. Missing teeth were a badge of honor among the knights of the pigskin. "Don't tell Becka about it, ye mind. She'll dose me up with one of them boluses she's always tryin' to force down me throat." He pulled a face. "Gawblimey, some of that stuff tastes worse'n rat bane. Ye got a frown on ye down t' yer knees, Miss Jessalyn. Blue Moon's got a gimp hock, 'tis true, but he's a game un. He'll run again, ye'll see."

She forced a smile. "Topper, Rum Chaser's owner is accusing you of deliberately causing that accident in order to throw the race."

Topper turned his head aside and spit through the hole in his teeth like a coachman. "Too risky, by half. If I was to crimp a race, see, I'd nobble me horse with a physic afore-hand. Duck shot made up with putty or opium balls ud do the trick. To ride foul is bleedin' crazy, not t' mention dangerous to me 'ealth."

He squinted at her through his pale lashes and wrinkled his sharp nose. "I ride honest, and ye can say as much to his bleedin' lordship. It was his knight what caused the bust-up, not me. It was his man what was boozed so deep he was lolling in the saddle like a walleyed dog right before the off. Mebbe it was his high and mighty lordship who had a bit laid off on the nag what won."

Jessalyn closed her eyes, picturing the scene. Rum

Chaser's jockey had certainly looked dazed. He could have been drunk, but he also could have simply been concussed from the fall. And McCady—Lord Caerhays... there was no doubting that his fury was genuine, a fury born of despair. He had behaved like a man badly dipped, who had wagered more than he could afford to lose.

A sheet of wind-driven rain slapped her face, and she rocked on her feet, shivering. For the first time she realized how wet and cold she was.

Topper's voice came to her as if from the bottom of a mine pit, and she opened her eyes. "... I promised me mates I'd meet 'em at the Laughing Footman for a tot or two of the wet stuff."

She remembered suddenly that Topper's share of the winning purse would have been ten pounds, and she fumbled with her reticule. "I have a few shillings with me."

He stilled her hand. "Never ye mind, Miss Jessalyn. I've plenty of tin."

With a final grin he sauntered away, whistling through his broken teeth. Frowning, Jessalyn watched him go. Topper could never have deliberately sent Blue Moon crashing into Rum Chaser. He loved the horse too much to risk hurting him.

No, Topper couldn't have crimped the race. Angry and disgusted with herself for allowing McCady—Lord Caerhays to plant the ugly suspicion in her mind, she hurried to where Gram waited for her in their shabby rented cabriolet.

A lone man leaned against the betting post, deserted now in murky twilight. At the sight of him, her step slowed. Shadows darkened the hollows beneath his flaring cheekbones, and his eyes glittered at her, black and empty. He had looked like that the first time she had seen him. A fallen angel.

Clarence Tiltwell could never enter Brooks's without feeling immense satisfaction. It was as if his membership in the exclusive men's club had become a symbol of all that he had accomplished. He would stand inside the marbled entrance hall and breathe deeply of the odor of beeswax, scented candles, and old money. And he would think of his father. Or rather, of the man who was nominally his father.

It pleased him, oh, how it pleased him, to know that Henry Tiltwell—with his rough country accent and tutworker's hands—would never be allowed through the club's hallowed front door.

That evening Clarence's thoughts did not dwell long on Henry but moved inevitably to the other man who might have been his father. The first thing he had done upon becoming a member was to search for the earl's name in the betting book. It appeared many times, along with those of his three sons. The Trelawnys were profligate gamblers to a man. Why, just this afternoon, or so he had heard, the twelfth earl of Caerhays had hazarded an incredible one thousand pounds on a horse that had not even managed to cross the finishing post.