by Lucy Adams
“You there, hurry up!”
The new jockey was waiting for her, his eyes flashing as he gestured for her to bring in Beauchamp. “I saw you out there, riding Beauchamp. How dare you?” Pulling his hand back, he made to slap her across the face, making Catherine stumble back, one hand raised in defense. The hand came crashing down hard, catching her and leaving a sharp sting in its wake.
“The duke permitted me to do so,” she protested, rubbing at her cheek and seeing the jockey glare at her. “I did nothing wrong.”
“Lies!” the jockey hissed, his brows low over his small grey eyes. “You think you are better than me, giving His Grace suggestions about what I can do to improve? You know nothing! Nothing!” Without warning, he slapped her again and Catherine cried out in pain. “Do I make myself clear?”
Catherine could barely speak, her anger and her pain burning hotly within her. She had never been treated as such, and did not know what to do. The jockey descended on her again, only for Mr. Griggs to come out of the stables and shout aloud, catching the jockey’s attention.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, giving the jockey a dark look as he walked over to them both. “The lad’s not upsetting you, I hope, Mr. Healy?”
The jockey laughed harshly. “Not now that he knows his place,” he replied harshly. “He won’t be taking liberties with the duke’s horses again, that’s for sure.” He sniffed haughtily and looked back at Mr. Griggs. “And who might you be?”
“Griggs,” Mr. Griggs replied, his eyes darting across to Catherine as she felt blood begin to trickle from her nose and made to stop it with her sleeve. “I look after the duke’s stables…and those who work for him.” He lowered his voice, his expression darkening. “And that lad, Leighton, gets to ride Beauchamp whenever the duke says, Mr. Healy. There isn’t a bad bone in that boy’s frame. He works hard, and he speaks the truth.”
Mr. Healy made to scoff at this but was prevented by a sharp finger being dug into his chest.
“You keep your hands off him, sir,” Mr. Griggs finished, his voice low and threatening. “Else I’ll be speaking to the duke himself about what you’ve been up to, and he’s much more inclined to believe someone who’s been here for years than someone who’s only just turned up in the last day or so. Do you understand me?”
Catherine winced as she dabbed at her nose, relieved that Mr. Griggs had stood up for her in such a way. Refusing to be cowed, she looked back at Mr. Healy as he glared at her, although a good deal of bravado was gone from his expression.
“Very well,” the jockey muttered, lifting his chin and turning away. “But I don’t want any more advice from that lad. I don’t need any. That horse knows what to do and just doesn’t like doing it. He’ll come around soon enough.” A dark smile glittered across his face, sending nausea instantly into Catherine’s stomach. “They always do.” And with that, he turned around and left Catherine and Mr. Griggs standing by the stables, leaving Catherine feeling more certain than ever that the Duke of Blackwell was making a terrible mistake in hiring Mr. Healy as his jockey.
Chapter Seven
“I hear you have a new jockey!”
Matthew grimaced, not really wanting to talk about the failure that appeared to be Mr. Healy.
“What was wrong with Mr. Riley?” asked another of his friends.
“Rigby,” the first corrected with a roll of his eyes. “It was Rigby, was it not?”
“Yes,” Matthew interrupted before the discussion could continue any further about what the correct name of his former jockey was. “It was Rigby.” He shrugged, not wanting to go into particulars. “He became a little too sure of himself. Wouldn’t take a telling.”
The first of his friends, Lord Brighton, nodded understandingly. “That’s never a good sign. You did right to let him go if he was turning into that sort of arrogant chap.”
“And how is this new jockey of yours doing then?” asked the other, Lord Richardson. “Healy is known to have a good seat, at the very least.”
Matthew considered this for a moment, remembering how Mr. Healy had managed to keep his seat as Beauchamp had reared up, fighting against the bit that Healy was so determined to use with every ounce of his strength. He winced, hating how Beauchamp had reacted and becoming quickly aware that what Miss Leighton had said was quite true. He had brought an end to that session very quickly and had asked Miss Leighton to allow Beauchamp a short gallop across his land before returning him to the stables, as he had done every time Healy had taken the horse out. She had nodded and done as he had asked, and within a few minutes, he had seen her thundering across the grounds. To everyone else, it just looked like the stable hand had been granted a boon by the duke, with a few commenting that the lad could ride very well, whilst he himself knew that it was not a boy that rode Beauchamp but a young lady. A young lady whom he had been trying and testing for over a fortnight now.
“Blackwell?”
Matthew jerked in his seat, realizing all too quickly that he had been distracted by his own thoughts. “My apologies,” he muttered, a little embarrassed. “The jockey has a good seat, yes, but I am not yet certain that he is the correct jockey when it comes to Beauchamp.”
Lord Richardson grinned, his eyes alight with good humor. “This is the horse you believe will win the Gold Cup,” he said, as Lord Brighton nodded firmly, as though to reassure Lord Richardson that he was correct. “Finally, after all your years of trying, you will be able to have the acclaim that you have been seeking.”
Matthew grunted, his hopes slowly beginning to sink within him as he recalled just how Beauchamp had fought against Healy’s firm hand. “I have wanted to win that Gold Cup for the last few years and have never even come close to having the winning horse,” he agreed, shaking his head. “But with Beauchamp…” He trailed off, wanting to say that he felt as though he had the opportunity to win but feeling that to do so would only lift his friends’ expectations.
“Beauchamp is a magnificent creature by all accounts,” Lord Brighton interrupted, looking at Matthew in surprise. “Is something the matter with him?”
“No, no,” Matthew muttered, running one hand through his hair. “It is not the horse.”
A slight pause hung over his head before one of his friends finished the sentence for him.
“Then it is the jockey,” Lord Richardson said, as Matthew let out a long breath. “Listen, Blackwell, there is no shame in allowing a second jockey to go from your employ if you do not believe him to be the right fellow for the job. He will find new work almost immediately, given the time of year, so you need not feel any guilt over the matter.”
Matthew nodded, sighed, and ran one hand down over his face before looking speculatively at his two friends. “The truth is,” he admitted, “that I believe I have found a jockey that is more suitable by half than either Healy or Rigby. However, the person in question has never ridden in a race before.”
Lord Richardson’s face fell at this, although Lord Brighton continued to look hopeful.
“Why should that matter?” Lord Brighton asked with a shrug. “All jockeys have to have a first race. If they do better with Beauchamp than the other two jockeys then why is there any problem?”
Matthew hesitated, biting his words back before he could tell Lord Brighton the truth.
“I suppose Lord Brighton is correct,” Lord Richardson added slowly, his expression changing to one that held a little more hope. “But if he is inexperienced, that is certainly not to your advantage.”
Nodding, Matthew hesitated again before spreading his hands. “I have a dilemma, gentleman,” he said, glancing around Whites but seeing no one present that could overhear him. “Either I put a brand new jockey in the race for the Gold Cup, or I put my experienced jockey in the race. The first is better with Beauchamp than the latter, for it is as though he understands Beauchamp in a way Healy does not.” Shrugging, he let another sigh issue from his mouth. “I do not want to make the wrong decision.”
&n
bsp; There came a few moments of quiet as his two friends considered this, with Matthew looking from one to the other in the hope that they might make the decision for him.
“I believe you already know what the right decision would be, Blackwell,” Lord Brighton said eventually, tipping his head to one side and frowning in Matthew’s direction. “But for some reason, something is holding you back from it. Is that not so?”
Closing his eyes, Matthew let out a long breath and found himself a little irritated that his friend could see his struggle so well. “I suppose that might be true,” he admitted heavily, wishing he could say more and express the truth about Miss Leighton. “The inexperienced jockey it is then.”
Lord Richardson grinned. “And I might have to reconsider betting on you to win,” he chortled, making Matthew wince ruefully. “With Healy, I thought it almost a certainty, but now…” He clicked his tongue and shook his head, although a grin curved his mouth at the same time.
“You have not seen Healy with Beauchamp,” Matthew replied grimly. “If you had, then you might already be considering removing your bet for the Gold Cup at Ascot.” He shook his head, hearing Lord Richardson’s shout of laughter. “It is only a few weeks away. I suppose I should return to the estate and begin to prepare the new jockey for what is to be their first race.” And the last, he told himself firmly, for if the new jockey won the Gold Cup then that would be a fulfillment of both her dream and his. Even if she did not win, Matthew did not think that he could continue to risk having a woman ride in the races. Once would be more than enough, and the only reason he was willing to allow it for the Gold Cup was simply because of his hope that he might, in fact, win.
“We will see you back at Whites soon, I hope,” Lord Brighton said, getting to his feet as Matthew rose. “I know it is some distance away, but it has been some time and the Season–”
“The Season does very little to interest me, as you know.” Matthew grinned. “Much to the chagrin of my mother!”
Lord Richardson chuckled. “Where is your mother at the present?” he asked, knowing how Matthew disliked having his mother’s continued urgings to go through all of society and find himself a bride. “Was she satisfied with the ball?”
“Very,” Matthew replied with a small smile. “She is returned to the Dower House, safe in the knowledge that I am still particularly eligible and still manage to garner a good deal of attention.” He sighed in exasperation, wishing his mother could understand that it was not a vapid young debutante that he wanted for a wife but rather someone who held something of the same passions as he. “She may insist that I go into society a little more the next time she comes to visit, but for the time being, I am safe.”
“That is a relief then,” Lord Richardson grinned, getting up to shake Matthew’s hand. “Although if I ever come across a young lady with just as much as a passion for horseflesh as you, then I shall immediately send her to your estate with a note that states you must marry her immediately!”
Lord Brighton and Lord Richardson laughed aloud at this, and whilst Matthew tried to join in, a sudden thought crept into his mind. The thought was of none other than Miss Leighton, whom he knew came from a respectable family. She clearly had a deep, overwhelming passion for horses and was yet unmarried. A memory of how she had looked when the wig had fallen from her head came back to his mind with startling accuracy, reminding him of her vivid green eyes and dark tresses. Her oval face and slender neck had made him immediately realize that she was a young lady, his heart quickening at the recollection.
“Blackwell?”
Giving himself a slight shake, Matthew grinned and shrugged. “I was just thinking of how little chance such a thing has of ever occurring,” he stated, making his friends laugh. “But yes, I must return to the estate. It is growing late.” Making his farewells and promising to return soon, Matthew quickly made his way out of Whites and back towards his awaiting carriage. The return journey to his estate would take an hour at the very least, although possibly more in the dark, but he did not feel any desire to stay in London. He could easily go to his townhouse and reside there overnight, but now that his mind was made up, now that he had decided that he would risk allowing Miss Leighton to ride, he wanted nothing more than to tell her of his decision immediately.
It would mean asking Mr. Healy to leave his employment also, but Matthew found no particular qualm with such a thought. The fellow was much too brutal with Beauchamp and fought against the horse constantly instead of working with him, as Miss Leighton had suggested. It was yet another example of how the arrogant jockey believed that he had no need to accept advice from anyone for his way was the best and the only way.
Rolling his eyes, Matthew stepped into the carriage and rapped on the roof, settling back against the squabs as the carriage began to roll away. He would be home soon, and now that he had made his decision, his mind seemed to be a good deal more at ease. Miss Leighton would ride Beauchamp in the Gold Cup. He could hardly wait to tell her.
It was not until early the following morning that Matthew found himself able to go in search of Miss Leighton. They had arrived home much too late for such a thing to occur last evening, for most of the staff had already gone to their beds and were sound asleep. The butler and one or two of the footmen had been waiting for his arrival, and Matthew had sent them to their beds almost at once, stating that he could very easily take care of himself. He had found it difficult to sleep well unfortunately, and he had tossed and turned until he could take it no longer and had risen from his bed.
Now, bright and early and feeling a good deal of confidence in his decision to hire Miss Leighton as his jockey, Matthew approached the stables and walked inside – only to discover Mr. Healy slumped in the corner. His eyes were closed, his mouth ajar and a loud snore emanated from him. Matthew frowned and took a few steps closer, immediately able to surmise what was wrong with the jockey.
“Healy,” he said loudly, his voice filling the stables and making some of the horses whinny and stamp their feet in surprise. “I say, Healy!”
It took a few minutes and a sharp stab of Matthew’s booted toes into Mr. Healy’s side before the fellow opened his eyes. Matthew looked down at the man grimly, his frustration growing all the more. He had done the right thing in deciding to let Mr. Healy go from his employ, it seemed. The jockey should already be awake and preparing for his day’s work, but instead he was draped across the corner of the stable, clearly trying to remove himself from the fog of drunkenness that surrounded him even still.
“Get up,” Matthew said loudly, seeing Mr. Healy struggle to his feet, swaying slightly as he did so. “Healy, you are to leave this house this day. I will have no man in my employ behave in such a fashion.” He turned, only for Mr. Healy’s wheedling voice to reach him.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Healy whined, taking a stumbling step forward as Matthew turned back to look at him with a dark frown. “It was just a mistake. One night of revelry, that’s all.”
Matthew sniffed coldly. “I hardly think you will be fit to ride Beauchamp today, Healy,” he stated, seeing how the man staggered back. “Therefore, that is a day gone where I shall have to pay you wages whilst you do nothing to earn them!” He shook his head, his decision made. “No, you are to leave my employ this very day. If you go by this evening, then I shall make certain to write you a decent reference.” He turned away, making to walk to the door, only for something heavy to hit him hard right between the shoulder blades.
Something that left a dank and disgusting odor all about him like a cloud. Horrified, Matthew turned around sharply, only for Healy to throw yet another clod of horse manure towards him. This one splattered against the front of his coat, the residue making Matthew’s stomach twist.
“How dare you!” he shouted, as Healy reached for another clod; his aim surprisingly accurate for one so lost in liquor. “Healy, if you dare throw another then I shall—”
The man ignored him, throwing yet more which Matthew h
ad to dodge. Making for the door, he almost bumped into Mr. Griggs who, with one look at Matthew, seemed to know precisely what was going on. He hurried into the stables and grabbed Healy, marching him to the door with one hand pressed up behind his back. Matthew, still shocked by what had just occurred, could only lean heavily against the stable wall, watching as Mr. Griggs handed Mr. Healy over to two other stable hands, giving them quick instructions as to what they were to do.
“I presumed he was to leave this property, Your Grace,” Mr. Griggs commented, hurrying back towards Matthew. “I did not do wrong, did I?”
“No, indeed you did not,” Matthew replied, pulling off his coat and giving it a small shake, fearing that it was entirely ruined. “Healy is no longer employed here.” He watched Mr. Griggs closely, seeing how a tiny quirk of his lips betrayed his apparent agreement. “You did not care for Mr. Healy?”
Mr. Griggs, who was always a fairly staid chap, turned to Matthew and, as he often did, spoke without hinderance.
“No, I did not like him, Your Grace,” he stated, firmly. “He didn’t treat other folk well at all. I had to pull him away from the stable hand only a few days ago. Left that lad’s face as red as could be.” Shaking his head, he stretched out his hand for Matthew’s coat. “Should I take that inside for you, Your Grace?”
Matthew blinked rapidly, a stone settling in his stomach and immediately weighing him down. “You say that Healy hit the lad?” he asked, handing the coat to Mr. Griggs. “On what account?”
Mr. Griggs shrugged. “Didn’t much like how the lad knew more about Beauchamp than he did,” he replied with a quick jerk of his head. “I know you asked me to keep an eye out for the lad, Your Grace, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
Matthew shook his head, not wanting Mr. Griggs to feel any guilt whatsoever. “It is not your fault, Griggs,” he told him, slowly becoming aware of just how smelly he now must be. Sighing, he gestured to his coat. “Might you take that indoors? And ask a bath to be prepared, if you please. I must find Mr. Leighton and then shall return inside.” He let a small smile touch his lips as he caught sight of Miss Leighton making her way from the house towards the stables, her head bowed low. “Leighton is to be the new jockey.”
