The Duke’s Secret Wager: London Season Matchmaker Book Four

by Adams, Lucy

  “But that no longer holds significance for me, not in the way it once did,” he replied fervently. “My only desire is for you, Catherine. I want you to have the chance to achieve something you have long sought after, and for that, all I wish for is your enjoyment and your happiness. Ride Beauchamp in the knowledge that I care nothing for what position you finish in. I shall be content even if you are last! It is your happiness that I want more than anything else in this world, Catherine. Believe me. The desire for the Gold Cup and for the accolades and prestige that come with it are no longer in my consideration.”

  Lady Wells blinked rapidly, clearly a little confused and struggling to accept this, but Matthew simply held her hands and her gaze until that disappeared and the smallest of smiles appeared on her lips, relief a little evident in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Your Grace, you–”

  “Blackwell,” he interrupted, letting go of her hands as the carriage began to slow. “You must call me Blackwell, Catherine.” He smiled as she blushed and looked away. “I insist upon it.”

  “Then I shall obey,” she replied, with a sparkle in her eyes. “And thank you for all that you have done, Blackwell. I did not ever imagine that when I came to see Beauchamp that evening that this would be the result.”

  “Nor did I,” he agreed, as the sounds of Ascot Heath began to make their way towards them both. “But I am very glad that they did.”

  * * *

  It was a little over an hour later by the time Matthew had both Beauchamp and Lady Wells prepared. Lady Wells was clad in his jockey’s colors of dark blue and scarlet, with flashes of the same on Beauchamp. Lady Wells was rather pale although the air of determination had not left her.

  “I see the Greencoats are doing an excellent job of containing the crowd, as usual,” Matthew remarked, trying to find something to say that would remove some of Lady Wells’ fear. “Their prickers do tend to be quite effective.” He chuckled, recalling how he had often seen a young lad jerking with surprise as the long, spiked stick had caught him in the thigh, forcing him away from the edge of the races. “No one shall come too near to you, Lady Wells, have no fear.”

  Lady Wells nodded and gave him a tight smile before beginning to pace up and down.

  “I have heard that they are called ‘Greencoats’ due to the fact that their velvet coats are made from leftover material from the curtains that hang in Windsor Castle,” he continued, feeling somewhat desperate that he had not been able to put her at ease. “Although that has never been proven.”

  “I-I must get some fresh air, I think.” Lady Wells had put one hand to her mouth, clearly feeling nauseous. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I had not thought I would react in such a way.”

  He put one hand on her shoulder, sympathy rising in his chest. “Of course. Come. It is quite normal to feel so nervous, I believe, so you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” She was gone before he was finished speaking, obviously desperate to get the fresh air she needed. A small smile crossed his face as he ambled out after her, feeling sorry for her but knowing that she would do an excellent job regardless of how ill she felt. He had no doubt that she would be able to ride Beauchamp with all the skill she had done before, proving to both herself and to him that she had every right to be there.

  “If only the ton could see it that way,” he muttered, ambling out slowly after her, his frustrations growing. Looking all about for her, he caught sight of her leaning heavily against one of the closed stalls that held another of the competitor’s horses, one hand clamped about her waist whilst a grim expression crossed her face. Making to go after her, he was suddenly caught by his name being shouted from somewhere behind him.

  Turning, Matthew chuckled broadly at the sight of Lord Brighton and Lord Richardson, each waving a bit of paper in the air.

  “You see?” Lord Richardson said with an injured air. “We have decided to bet on your horse after all. And you doubted that I would do so!”

  Matthew grinned and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I am very glad you have chosen to do so,” he replied, as Lord Brighton chuckled. “Although I have only this afternoon told my jockey that he is to do his level best and that if he does not come out victorious, then that does not particularly matter.”

  Lord Richardson’s face fell, his eyes widening with astonishment. “What? I have put a large sum on Beauchamp winning, Blackwell! You cannot–”

  “I believe Blackwell has discovered that there are some things that are a little more important than merely winning a race,” Lord Brighton said, his eyes searching Matthew’s face, his voice and expression calm. “Has all turned out well then?”

  “Yes, very well,” Matthew replied, as Lord Richardson mumbled under his breath that he had no idea whatsoever about what they were talking of. “I hope to have a definite answer from her soon, but thus far, all appears to be just as I had hoped.” He grinned, his heart lifting in his chest. “It seems that pursuing her in the very same way as I once pursued winning the Gold Cup did, in its own way, make things turn out aright.”

  Lord Brighton nodded, smiling. “I am very glad to hear it,” he replied. “Although I must say that I too hope that Beauchamp does well.” He waved his piece of paper in Matthew’s face. “It is not often that I make such a large bet.”

  “Although, if that is your jockey, then might I suggest you go to their aid at once?” Lord Richardson said, pointing to something over Matthew’s left shoulder. “Goodness! That is a wiry lad and no mistake.”

  Turning, Matthew was horrified to see that Lady Wells was now having to defend herself against not one but three other lads. One of them pushed her back, hard, making her stumble, whilst another advanced towards her, his fists held high.

  “Rigby!” Matthew shouted, seeing the third fellow grin horribly as Matthew drew near, his heart in his mouth as he did so. “Stay away from her!”

  Rigby merely laughed and proceeded to launch himself at Lady Wells, knocking her to the ground and slamming one fist into her face. Lady Wells screamed and kicked, her cap and then her wig falling to the ground, betraying her disguise. With barely any time to think, Matthew launched himself at Rigby, grasping him by the collar and forcing him off Lady Wells, throwing him backwards against the stalls.

  “Get away,” Matthew roared, his anger burning hot and running all through him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Rigby, his face going a deep scarlet, made to say something, only for his eyes to go back to Lady Wells, his mouth rounding to a circle of surprise. Matthew, not caring what Rigby thought, turned to help Lady Wells to her feet, seeing how some of her pins had tugged from her head and were now loosening her tresses from her head.

  “A woman!” Rigby shouted, as Lady Wells leaned into Matthew, her eyes closed tight against the pain that must now be coursing through her cheek. “You have a woman as your jockey.”

  “I do!” Matthew retorted, glaring at Rigby and not caring whether or not such a thing was known by everyone. “The rules state that anyone can race, do they not?” He saw Rigby’s dark smile falter, his eyes beginning to narrow. “Then why are you surprised that I have someone smaller, lighter, and better than any one of you here?”

  “She will not be permitted,” Rigby repeated, his expression growing ugly. “You will fail again, Your Grace.” This was said with such sarcasm, such clear disdain, that it was all Matthew could do to remain precisely where he was and not, instead, plant Rigby a facer, as he dearly longed to do.

  “Consider your own fortunes, Rigby,” he told the fellow, seeing how the smug smile on Rigby’s face began to fade. “You have just struck a woman to the ground. You are the one responsible for the damage to her face. What will people think of you now?”

  This seemed to strike Rigby with a good deal more severity than anything Matthew had said before, for the man’s face went white, his eyes losing their anger, and the arrogant smile fading from his mouth. Matthew did not wait to say more but rather drew Lady Wells to his side, on
e arm about her shoulders and, turning, made their way back to Beauchamp and to the blessed cover of the roofed stall. No one would see her within, and he would have a few minutes to ensure she was not badly injured and shaken before making his way to find the officials of the Gold Cup race. No doubt the news would soon be all around Ascot Heath that he had a woman as his jockey. He would have to argue his case, of course, but he would do so with all fervor.

  “I am fine. Truly,” Lady Wells murmured, as he let her go and bent down to look at her face. “I am not injured.”

  Matthew winced, his eyes on the deep red mark to her cheekbone. Rigby had caught her rather well, unfortunately. “I am sorry such a thing has occurred, Lady Wells.”

  “It is not your doing,” she replied softly, although he could see the hope fading in her eyes. “I do not think I shall be allowed to race now.”

  He caught her chin and lifted it gently so that she was looking up into his eyes. “Do not give up hope yet, my dear,” he murmured, aware of how she softened under his gaze. “I will argue for you and pray that they will listen. Will you wait here?”

  She nodded, reaching up to brush her fingers against his as he made to drop his hand. They held together for a moment, feeling the same sense of certainness that no matter what else occurred, they would have each other to turn to. The lightness in her eyes brought him joy, his smile growing steadily as she squeezed his fingers. On instinct, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the tips of them, feeling how she trembled.

  “I must go before the rumors become too great,” he told her with regret. “If you will wait here?”

  “Of course.” Their hands separated, and Matthew felt the loss of her touch like a sharp sting to his heart.

  “We will wait with her if you like.”

  Turning, Matthew saw Lord Richardson and Lord Brighton walk inside, although Lord Brighton was smiling but Lord Richardson appeared a little upset.

  “You’d best hurry,” Lord Brighton continued, with an easy smile in Lady Wells’ direction. “That dratted Rigby is already doing all he can to spread word about your new jockey.” He gave Lord Richardson a nudge, before rolling his eyes. “Richardson is a little surprised, but we will make sure that no one comes near to your jockey and disturbs her further.”

  “Thank you,” Matthew replied fervently, giving Lady Wells one last look before turning on his heel and hurrying back outside. He had to argue for Lady Wells, had to find a way to get the first woman in all of England to compete in the Gold Cup. Had not the late monarch Queen Anne given these grounds specifically for the racing of horses? If a woman had been able to give the grounds out of a love for riding and for races, then why should not a woman be permitted to compete? With the words of his argument already ringing around his head, Matthew hurried towards the officials tent, praying that they would, at the very least, listen to him. He could not imagine Lady Wells’ disappointment if they refused her, not when she had worked so hard and given so much.

  “I will not let you down,” he whispered aloud, not seeing a wide-eyed, white-faced young lady staring at him as he passed. “No, Lady Wells, I refuse to be the one to let your dreams shatter. I will find a way, no matter how much it takes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As much as she did not want to admit it, the pain from where Rigby had punched her was sending waves of agony all through her face and into her head where it seemed to collect, filling her head with a throbbing ache that would not go away. Sitting down on a small wooden bench that one of the two gentlemen had procured for her and drinking the glass of water that the other had brought for her so that she might recover herself somewhat, as he had put it, Catherine leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

  So, everyone would know now that she was a woman. Rigby would make sure of it, for the gleam in his eye as he had spotted her hair told her that nothing she could say would make any difference. He had come here with the sole intention of ruining the duke’s chances of winning the Gold Cup – mayhap with the intention of beating her so hard until she could barely stand up or the like – but had instead managed to prevent her from doing so by revealing the truth of her sex. There was, from what she could hear, a fairly large crowd beginning to grow outside the covered stall, making her glad that she had been able to hide herself away in the corner. Beauchamp was busy nosing at her now and again, clearly undisturbed by the noise outside but perhaps wondering what she was doing sitting right at the back of the stall. As he lowered his head again, Catherine could not help but laugh, rubbing at his nose gently and murmuring that everything was going to be quite all right.

  “You are an excellent jockey from what I hear.”

  Catherine glanced up at the first gentleman, who was smiling broadly at her. His face was kind, his eyes lingering on the mark on her face.

  “I ride well, yes,” Catherine admitted, although not in a boastful manner. “It is just unfortunate that, as a lady, I am barred from doing so in a competitive manner.”

  The gentleman inclined his head. “I can see your frustration,” he said, his tone suggesting to her that he truly was trying to understand. “Lord Richardson, I think, is slowly beginning to consider the matter in a better light. You must understand, he has placed a large bet and has therefore been quite shocked to discover the truth.” He chuckled, and Catherine could not help but smile, realizing that this gentleman must be Lord Brighton, if the other gentleman, who was pacing up and down, was Lord Richardson.

  “I would make to win the race if I could be allowed to compete,” she told Lord Brighton, her confidence growing in a way it had not done before. It was as though, in being told that she might not be allowed to race, her nerves had gone completely and were now slowly being replaced with a firm assurance. “I am not certain that I shall be permitted however.”

  Lord Brighton shrugged, looking hopeful. “A mere child raced last year,” he reminded her. “The rules state that anyone can compete.”

  “Anyone who is of the correct gender,” she corrected him. “It is not written there, but that is what is implied.”

  “Do not lose hope yet, Lady Wells,” Lord Brighton replied firmly. “The duke will make his feelings on the matter known in the most determined of fashions, and he does bear a good deal of influence.” A small laugh escaped from the corner of his mouth. “One of the benefits that comes with being so highly titled, I think!”

  “Indeed,” Catherine murmured, rubbing her hands together and feeling tension run through her. The duke did have a good deal of influence, yes, but what if he still could not convince the officials? She would have to return home, would have to leave his estate and never again be allowed to ride nor race Beauchamp.

  He wants to marry you, Catherine.

  A small, quiet voice thrust up into her mind, reminding her of all the words of tenderness and affection that the duke had spoken. In her sorrow and frustration, she had forgotten that he had spoken to her in such a way, had forgotten his desperate and obvious fondness that had been held out to her as a gift, waiting for her to accept. Her heart had turned over on itself, sending both astonishment and flurries of happiness ricocheting through her. Despite her worry that she would not be allowed to compete, Catherine felt her heart rise up in her chest, pulled there by nothing more than sheer happiness. She had, at the first, thought to refuse him again, aware that she was not the sort of lady a duke needed for a wife – but he had done all that he could to prove to her that he did not care what the ton nor what his mother said of her. He wanted to give her as much as he could by way of fulfilling her dreams. Most likely, he would let her ride whenever she wished, had promised that she might even come to Tattersall with him – although she might have to improve her disguise somewhat! She had not been certain what to do, had not been sure of what to say, only to look into his eyes and to see that there was a fierce, unrelenting love burning in his eyes. Every word he had said, every promise he had made was, she knew, the complete truth. He had, as he had s
aid, fallen in love with her. His affection was genuine, his promises committed. How could she turn from that? Her heart began to fill all the more with a deep abiding affection that she knew, deep within herself, was the very first strains of love. She had come here in the hope of being able to race but instead had found something a good deal more precious. The duke’s heart was hers and, in return, she gave him her own. Their bond was growing stronger with every day that passed, and Catherine knew that her love for him would only continue to blossom.

  “Catherine?”

  She started violently, her head slamming into the wooden wall as she twisted in her seat, hearing her cousin’s voice.

  “No one is permitted within,” Lord Richardson said, making to shoo Dinah away, but Catherine was on her feet before he could say more

  “No, wait. Please,” she called, coming closer and seeing Dinah staring at her with wide eyes. Behind her stood Catherine’s sister, Merry, who had gone sheet white as Catherine emerged.

  “Dinah,” Catherine breathed, beckoning Dinah forward. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Much to Catherine’s surprise, Dinah let out a strangled sob and threw her arms around Catherine’s shoulders. Merry, coming inside, shook her head as Dinah began to cry in earnest, her displeasure evident.

  “We have been looking all over for you,” Merry told her, as Dinah stepped back. “I had only just come to London when I received a note from Mother, begging for my help in finding you, Catherine!”

  A flush of guilt crept up Catherine’s spine. “I am sorry for that, Merry, but as you can see, I am quite well.”

  Merry nodded slowly, her eyes dropping to the floor. “You are dressed as a gentleman, Catherine,” she murmured, clearly a little embarrassed to be talking to her sister about such a thing. “So, you are the jockey that the Duke of Blackwell is trying to convince everyone to accept.”