Recklessly Yours (3 page)

Holly flicked a gaze to the high stone walls enclosing the paddock, and remembered the iron gates guarding the entrance of the mews. “Is that possible?” she asked the groom.

Color darkened William's leathery complexion. “If it happened in the park, then I'm afraid so, miss. A host of us went out the day before yesterday. Grooms, trainers, some of the younger lads as well. We brought a dozen horses, several of which hail from the Ashworth stud and look a great deal alike—dark bay with black points, the Ashworth star.” He brushed his thumb across the bold white mark between the animal's eyes.

“It was a scene of some confusion, then?”

“Not confusion, miss, but a good bustle of activity. Not all the horses were exercised at the same time. And I suppose it is possible—not easy, mind you, but possible—that someone might have stolen in through the trees and made the switch while her majesty's colt was awaiting his turn with the trainers.”

Holly was about to comment when Victoria said, “Thank you, William. That will be all for now.”

The groom bowed and led the colt away, and Victoria and Holly tramped back across the paddock and reentered the parlor. Victoria swept to the window that overlooked the enclosure and set her hands on her hips. “Oh, if that man weren't a duke's son, wouldn't I simply come right out and accuse him of horse thievery!”

Holly's mouth dropped open. “Surely you can't mean . . .”

“Indeed I do.” Turning back into the room, Victoria yanked off her gloves and slapped them against her palm. “Who better to understand the colt's potential than the man who bred him, the duke's own son? I realize Colin Ashworth has connections to your family, so I hope you will not be offended by the theory I've formed.”

As in the paddock, mere mention of the name raised a commotion inside Holly. She schooled her features carefully. “Dearest, you know you can speak freely with me.”

“I believe it is possible Colin Ashworth resented his father giving me the colt because he wanted the animal for himself. Who could blame him, really?” The queen tossed her gloves onto a nearby tabletop. “But I cannot accuse a peer's son of theft. Not without irrefutable evidence.”

Oh dear
. Dismay settled like a leaden shawl around Holly's shoulders, tempting her to drop into the nearest chair. However little regard Colin Ashworth had shown her during the months of their acquaintance, he was Simon's good friend and stood high in Ivy's esteem as well. And now Holly was to ascertain if the man had sunk as low as the lowest of vagabonds—a horse thief.

As if she of all people possessed the power to insinuate herself into his life, to become close enough to examine the state of his character. Other than his brief and unsuccessful inquiry into box hedges, he had hardly exchanged a handful of sentences with her during the entirety of their acquaintance.

She nearly laughed at the irony. Instead she tugged off her own gloves and used them to fan her suddenly overheated face. “Are you utterly convinced a crime has been committed? Did you call in the authorities?”

“The authorities—bah! They took notes and nodded and ever so cautiously insinuated that my head was full of stuff and nonsense. But I tell you,
my
colt, the one given to me by the Duke of Masterfield, can be compared to no other. I cannot explain the particulars; there is no outlining the differences between the two. It is a superiority one senses, but cannot accurately define. With your uncanny way with horses, I am certain that when you find my colt, you will know it beyond a doubt.”

Alarm shoved Holly a half step backward. When Her Majesty had called upon Laurel, it was to investigate a royal cousin whom Victoria had suspected of treason. When Ivy's turn came, she was charged with recovering an electromagnetic stone that had been stolen from the royal apartments at Buckingham Palace. In both cases, the cousin and the stone had been known to exist. They had been
seen
, not only by Victoria, but by others of her household and acquaintance as well.

But this colt! How could Holly be sure the head groom wasn't at this moment settling the animal back in its stall? Especially when William himself could not with any authority prove the colts were not one and the same?

She tried to choose her words carefully. “What if . . . just supposing . . . I am unable to find your colt?”

Victoria strode to her and seized her shoulders. “Oh, but you must. You see, I don't intend keeping him for myself. He is to be a gift to His Royal Highness, Prince Frederick of Prussia. The prince has already seen the colt and expects to take possession of him directly following the Royal Ascot a fortnight from now. Delivering any but the promised colt could be seen as an insult, a mockery, and could spark an international incident.”

Victoria spoke in a desperate rush that left her breathless and flushing bright crimson. Holly pressed a hand to her cheek. “Do calm yourself. Of course I shall help you. Let us make ourselves comfortable on the settee, and you can explain everything.”

Only slightly more composed, Victoria plucked at her skirts as she settled on the cushions, then found Holly's hand and clung to it. “Prussia's king is infirm and aging, and it is only a matter of time before the younger Frederick assumes the crown. Lord Melbourne feels the prince provides us with the perfect opportunity to strengthen our ties with Prussia, for if the wars with Napoleon taught us anything, it is the benefit of strong allies.”

“Yes, of course.” Holly's brows drew inward. “And you wish to give Prince Frederick the colt as a gesture of goodwill.”

“Exactly. The prince greatly admired the colt when he was here last week. He's traveling now, but he fully expects to claim the colt at the closing of the Royal Ascot. I even named the animal Prince's Pride, and though he is too young to race in this year's meeting, my intention was to show him off and create a bit of a stir in the racing world, thus adding value to Frederick's gift. He's quite a horseman himself and a racing enthusiast.”

“I see. But . . .” Holly patted the back of Victoria's hand as she quickly debated the wisdom of repeating her doubts. She concluded that with such a tenuous mission, she owed it to her monarch to be honest. “In the event the original colt cannot be found—”

“You
must
find him.” Victoria released Holly's hand and sprang to her feet, beginning an erratic circuit of the room. “My reign so far has been . . . less than smooth. There are those who say I have made mistakes. . . .”

Victoria's voice trailed off and Holly thought of the recent headlines. Earlier this spring, Victoria had publicly but wrongly accused one of her ladies-in-waiting, Flora Hastings, of being with child. Lady Flora had proved chaste but gravely ill, and the queen's behavior over the incident had caused a dreadful scandal. The wave of disapproval had barely died down when Lord Melbourne had temporarily fallen from power, and Victoria had refused to honor the request of her new prime minister, Sir Robert Peele, that she replace her Whig ladies-in-waiting with those from Tory families. Her stubborn denial had resulted in another political turnover, with Peele stepping down and Lord Melbourne returning to office.

There had been whispers that the queen and Lord Melbourne had plotted together to circumvent the will of the people. Others had accused Her Majesty of being a spoiled child, unfit to wear the crown.

Holly believed neither of these allegations, but she understood that Victoria could ill afford another embarrassing incident. She came to her feet. “The majority of the people adore you. They understand you are young and these things—”

Victoria silenced her with a vigorous shake of her head. “The opposition to the monarchy, and to my reign especially, grows daily. Not mere whispers, mind you, but rumbles capable of toppling a thousand years of English tradition.”

The possibility rendered Holly's throat dry. They had spoken of such rumblings before, when Victoria had first reestablished ties with the Sutherlands and asked Laurel to investigate her cousin. The crumbling of the monarchy seemed far-fetched—impossible—yet in recent times, more and more people rejected the notion of the divine right of kings. The French, for a time. The Americans . . .

“Holly, these negotiations with Prussia provide me with a chance to regain the people's confidence and admiration. If I can be seen as instrumental in forging a strengthened alliance . . .”

“I understand. And do not worry.” She reached for her friend's hands and gave them a squeeze. For at that moment, with her eyes opened wide and her brow furrowed tight, England's queen appeared young and vulnerable and very much in need of a friend's reassurance—however much that friend lacked certainty in her own ability to fulfill the promise she was about to make. “I will find your colt.”

The tension drained from Victoria's youthful features. “Thank you, my dear friend. I knew I could count on you.”

Victoria threw her arms around Holly, and as they hugged, a realization prompted Holly to pull back from Victoria's embrace. “There is one matter we haven't considered. My disguise. Laurel used an alias during her mission, and Ivy disguised herself by wearing trousers and posing as a young man. But the Ashworths
know
me. How shall I—”

The queen waved a dismissive hand. “That has become a moot point. Since your sisters' marriages, you have been out in society.
Everyone
knows who you are. You'll simply investigate Colin Ashworth as yourself.”

“But . . .” Holly could raise no valid argument, but if she had been doubtful about this mission so far, she was doubly so now. Laurel and Ivy had both attested to using their masquerades as shields; being someone else had armed them with confidence and a sense of invulnerability they would not have otherwise possessed.

Holly would have no such advantage. Her name, her reputation, her very future, would be at risk.

But she had long ago taken a vow, and she had no choice. When she nodded her acquiescence, Victoria pressed her hands together. “Now, you'll need a cover story, and a chaperone, of course. . . .”

Victoria's enthusiasm burgeoned in direct proportion to Holly's growing qualms. Once their plan had been laid out, she expressed one final misgiving, this time having nothing to do with herself, but with the man she was being sent, possibly, to apprehend, whose life she might very well destroy. “Do we in this country . . . still hang horse thieves?”

Victoria raised a haughty eyebrow. “We do not. Unfortunately. For, although I am no great proponent of the death penalty, I should very much like to make an exception in this case, were I able.”

Holly's relief proved short-lived as Victoria added, “The culprit is perhaps even now sniggering behind his hand, believing he has got away with his perfidy. That, I tell you, is something the Queen of England shall not abide. Mark my words: he will pay, and pay dearly.”

“I
tell you, Grey Momus will take the Gold Cup again this I year. There is no other can touch him in the two mile flat.”

“You are altogether too confident, Bentley. A champion one year might lug in at the next. It doesn't do to toss all of one's hopes on a single prospect.”

The two gentlemen, both influential members of England's Jockey Club and personally responsible for many of the new rules governing the sport of horse racing, stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, chins tilted at forty-five-degree angles as they gazed up at the team of workmen three stories above them. Racing across the Ascot heath, a vigorous breeze shoved bright clouds across a wide blue sky. A swirling haze of dust rose from the track, prompting both men to grasp the brims of their beaver hats. The younger of the pair, Mr. Stuart Bentley, coughed and shielded his mouth and nose with his free hand.

Then he turned to bestow an indignant sneer upon his older companion. “Lug in?
Lug in
, did you say?”

Colin Ashworth stood a few yards away on the grassy verge between the racetrack and the newly erected grandstand. He had been paying scant attention to Bentley and the podgy Lord Kinnard, the queen's Master of the Buck-hounds. Instead, he watched the construction crew use a system of ropes and pulleys to raise a ten-foot section of the iron and wooden balustrade to the stand's third-story balcony.

Construction of the new building had begun nearly a year ago, though delays and setbacks had led Colin and his fellow Jockey Club members to despair of its completion in time for this year's Royal Meeting. That only the balustrades still needed to be positioned came as a welcome relief. Since old King William had preferred to sit at home with his wife and his hounds rather than attend the races, Ascot had become sadly neglected during his reign. The attendance last year of his niece—young and fresh and promising to usher in a modern age—had brought a resurgence of racing enthusiasm not seen at this course in nearly two decades.

Colin stole a moment to scan the colonnaded building front. The tiered balconies alone would hold hundreds of spectators, never mind the drawing rooms, betting halls, and refreshment parlors inside. A new era for Ascot demanded new accommodations for the masses, both wealthy and poor, and the new stand promised to oblige those needs with modern efficiency and a fashionable flare.

A sudden screeching set his teeth on edge and jerked his attention back to the workmen. A corner of the railing had slipped from the ropes, and the section swayed precariously high above the ground. Colin's limbs went rigid. The piece, consisting of heavy oak and adorned with intricate curls of wrought iron, weighed a good ten stone. It would surely break apart if it hit the ground.

As the section swung outward from the building, Colin lurched forward. “They're going to drop it.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down, men. Steady those ropes.”