"A lot of the money is chasing Sir Edward's Golden Star," the colonel continued. "At this rate, he'll be the hot favourite by the time they go to post."
The duke sighed. "Lucky dog," he said enviously. "Nothing like winning the Derby, Sir Edward. Nothing at all." He turned to offer his arm to Emma. "On the turf, at least," he added with a knowing smile as Emma placed her fingers lightly on his sleeve. "Shall we stroll down to the rail, ma'am? You will have a better view from there." He placed his free hand over her gloved fingers and squeezed.
Emma had no choice but to agree. And to resist the urge to pull her hand away.
The crowd fell back respectfully as the royal party moved out. Emma was surprised to see Kit Stratton on foot, struggling to push his way through to them. He must have left his stallion by the carriage. Perhaps he had realised, at last, that such a beast was singularly ill-suited to Epsom on Derby day.
"Sir," said Sir Edward formally, "may I present Christopher Stratton, youngest son of the late Sir William Stratton, of Stratton Magna?"
The duke acknowledged Kit's elegant bow with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Knew your father, my boy," he said.
Kit bowed again. "Your Royal Highness, Lord Hardinge has charged me to say that he doubts that any other members of Sir Edward's party will be able to join you here. The carriages are hemmed in by the crowd and the risks of trying to bring the ladies across on foot are now too great, with all the world and his wife trying to get nearer the winning post. Lord Hardinge asked me to present his apologies, sir."
"Of course, of course," said the duke. "Not to be thought of. Can't take any risks with the ladies."
Emma thought she detected disappointment in his face but he said nothing more. Recognising that she would now be the only lady present, she resigned herself to being the focus of his attentions until the start of the race, at least. With luck, he would be so intent on watching his horse that he would forget she was there.
Colonel Forster had stationed himself immediately behind the duke. "Unusual name, Stratton," he said musingly, as if to himself, but loud enough to ensure he was heard. "Had problems with an officer of that name a few years ago, in the Peninsula. Heard he was killed at Waterloo." He turned to Kit, who was standing a few paces away, alongside Emma's Papa. "Any relation to Captain Stratton of the 95th?"
Kit coloured slightly and drew himself up extremely straight. He was almost a head taller than the colonel. Looking down at the older man with obvious distaste, Kit said, "My second brother, Major Hugo Stratton, acquitted himself with great courage on the field at Waterloo, sir, where he was severely wounded. I collect that you yourself were serving in London by then?"
The scathing sarcasm in Kit's voice was unmistakable. His easy charm had completely vanished. Emma was astonished that he should behave in such a manner before royalty, especially the commander-in-chief, and profoundly grateful that Major Stratton himself was escorting Aunt Augusta and was therefore nowhere near the royal marquee. There was clearly something very wrong between Colonel Forster and the Stratton brothers.
A sudden commotion by the rail distracted them. A small weather-beaten man in riding dress was desperately trying to push his way through. At the sight of the duke's well-known figure, he stopped in his tracks, clearly uncertain as to what he should do.
The Duke of York was well-versed in all matters of the turf. He might not have had dealings with Sir Edward Fitzwilliam's trainer, but he knew perfectly well who he was. And that only trouble would have led him to leave his runner at this stage of such a race. "Chifney, ain't it?" he said, beckoning the man forward. "Come through, man, come through. You need to speak to Sir Edward, I collect."
Mr Chifney removed his hat and bowed very low. Emma could see that the back of his neck had gone deep red.
"Your Royal Highness—" Mr Chifney stopped, clearly unsure of how to proceed.
The duke smiled at Mr Chifney's anxious face. "Never mind the protocol, man," he said genially. "Your errand is obviously urgent, so spit it out. Don't keep Sir Edward on tenterhooks."
"Thank you, sir," said Sir Edward quickly. "What's happened, Chifney? Is something wrong with Golden Star?"
Mr Chifney reddened features paled. "Your Royal Highness— Sir—" He cleared his throat. "Golden Star is dead lame, sir." The words came out in a rush.
"What?" exclaimed Sir Edward. Then, remembering where he was, he added, "I beg your pardon, sir, but the horse was in top form when I saw him barely an hour ago. I don't see how he can be lame now."
The duke looked concerned. "I sympathise, Sir Edward. Especially as he was like to be the favourite. Perhaps your man will explain how it happened?"
Mr Chifney looked more than a little guilty. "Of course, Your Royal Highness," he said before lapsing into silence once more.
"Well?" said the duke testily.
Mr Chifney looked stricken. "He, Golden Star. He was kicked by–by one of the other horses. He's dead lame, Your Highness."
"You told us that before," said the duke. "I am sure that Sir Edward will want to know how it is that such an accident came about. I dare say that someone has been negligent in the care of him."
Mr Chifney tried to shake his head.
"And which of the other runners was responsible for this injury?" continued the duke without a pause. "Must be a bad-tempered brute, that's all I can say."
Mr Chifney seemed to shrink in his clothes. "It was—it was Prince Leopold, Your Royal Highness," he whispered. "Mr Lake's horse."
The duke reddened angrily. "You mean my horse," he barked. "You, of all people, know perfectly well that Lake is my master of horse and has entered Prince Leopold on my behalf. And now you tell me that my horse has lamed the favourite. Good God!"
Sir Edward intervened, placing his own bulk between the duke and the miserable trainer. "I am sure it must have been an accident, sir. We all know how unpredictable these highly strung thoroughbreds can be, especially on a race day. With your permission, I will go and see Golden Star's injury for myself. With proper care, there will be no lasting damage, I am sure." Sir Edward bowed in response to the duke's curt nod and made his way to the rail.
Emma saw that a relieved Mr Chifney was backing his way out of the royal presence, bowing so low that his nose was almost touching his knees. Beads of sweat were dripping from the poor man's forehead. With his vision restricted, Mr Chifney almost collided with Kit Stratton, who had retreated to the edge of the group, as far as possible from the duke and Colonel Forster. Kit's whole body seemed to be quivering with rage.
Deliberately drawing the duke's attention back to herself, she said, in the voice of a bewildered innocent, "Oh, dear. Poor Golden Star. And I had put almost all my pin money on him, too. May I prevail upon you to advise me, sir, on what I should do now?
The duke patted her hand consolingly, though he did look more than a little irritated. "Well," he began, "the favourite is like to be Nectar now, I fancy. He did win the Two Thousand Guineas, after all. One of these gentlemen would be delighted to place your money for you, I am sure."
Several of the gentlemen made to offer their services, but Colonel Forster was before them all. He immediately took a pace forward and bowed. Emma thought he leered at her, the moment his face was hidden from his royal master.
Emma produced a girlish giggle. "Oh, no," she cried blithely. "I have had enough of favourites. Since your outsider has made such a point of asserting himself, sir—" she looked up at the duke through her dark lashes, willing the last of his temper to disappear "—I shall put my money on him. Prince Leopold it shall be!"
CHAPTER NINE
The Duke of York was clearly finding it difficult to contain his excitement. His hand was squeezing Emma's fingers so tightly that she almost cried out in pain. "Sir. My hand—" she began, but it had no effect at all. His attention was all on his horse.
"By God, ma'am," he said vehemently, "I do believe he could win." Under his breath, he was muttering encouragement to his horse, but Emma coul
d not make out any of the words. At least the duke had enough consideration for the presence of a lady to moderate his language a trifle, she thought waspishly. The moment he relaxed his grip a fraction, she gently eased her hand away, grateful that he seemed to notice nothing.
But then she, too, was caught up in the excitement of the last few furlongs. Though the favourite, Nectar, had led from the start, two other runners were starting to overhaul him in the home straight. And one of them was the duke's outsider. For more than a furlong, the three horses battled it out. There was nothing to choose between them.
"Come on Prince Leopold," Emma breathed, balling her fingers into fists in her excitement. Beside her, the duke seemed like to burst out of his tight-fitting uniform. His neck was becoming almost purple.
Half a furlong from home, the third horse started to fall back a little, but Nectar and Prince Leopold were neck and neck.
"Use your whip, man," muttered the duke testily.
It was as if the jockey had heard his royal master, for he applied his whip with even more vigour than before. Prince Leopold increased his pace a fraction and started to pull away from his rival.
"Nectar must be finished now," the duke grunted through clenched teeth. "Never should have led from the off."
Fifty yards to go. Twenty.
A great shout went up from the crowd. Prince Leopold had reached the winning post half a length ahead of the favourite. The royal outsider had won the Derby.
The Duke of York's beaming smile encompassed everyone around him. "Dashed good show, what?" he said. "Never would have thought he'd show such a turn of speed." The duke's entourage crowded round to congratulate him. Emma's father joined in, too, though his disappointment was evident on his face. Someone called for three cheers, which rang out lustily. In the crush, Emma felt sure that a hand brushed across her breast. She whipped round to find Colonel Forster at her side, with a knowing look in his eye. She shuddered in disgust.
Unfortunately for Emma, the duke had no intention of letting her go immediately. He soon had her hand back on his arm. "Well, ma'am," he said, patting her fingers even more forcefully than before, "I congratulate you on your choice of runner. Splendid judgement, if you will allow me to say so. Much better than all these frippery fellows here. You will have made quite a tidy sum from today's business, I'll warrant. Good odds, eh?"
At the duke's elbow, Colonel Forster nodded. "Twenty to one, sir. Shall I collect Miss Fitzwilliam's winnings?"
"Do," replied the duke. "I'm sure Miss Fitzwilliam would be grateful. You will find us all with the winner when you return."
"Thank you, Colonel," Emma said. "You are most kind." For a while, at least, Emma would be spared the sight of him leering at her, or worse. As soon as she had received her winnings, she could try to make her escape. Kit Stratton was surely broad-shouldered enough to clear a path through the crowd for Emma and her father. And Emma would welcome any opportunity to probe the reasons for that outburst against Colonel Forster. She was even beginning to feel some softening in her feelings towards Kit. He had, she decided, shown admirable readiness to defend his brother.
Glancing quickly at the young man, she saw that his fury had abated only a little. His face was now a picture of anger overlaid with chagrin. Emma decided that it would be wise to remove him from the vicinity of Colonel Forster, lest their quarrel flare up once more. The duke had not noticed the earlier altercation, or so it had seemed. But any repetition could only spell danger for Kit. And perhaps for Hugo, too.
The duke patted Emma's hand and invited her to accompany him to the winner's enclosure. She responded graciously—what choice did she have?—but her quick mind was already trying to think of acceptable ways for the Fitzwilliam party to make their excuses. Since the duke had never before had a Derby winner, the celebrations were likely to become very rowdy, very soon. Emma had no wish to be a spectator of drunken revels, even royal ones.
"Well!" the countess said gaily. "Whoever would have thought it? Clearly all you betting men underestimated the duke's colt."
"Mmm," her husband agreed ruefully. "His Royal Highness will be celebrating for a se'enight, I dare say. I shall take care to keep out of his way. I put my blunt on the favourite. And look where it got me. What about you, Hugo?"
Hugo, now sitting opposite the Hardinges, raised a knowing eyebrow. He had willingly accepted Lady Hardinge's invitation to join them in the barouche, since the Hardinges were considerably more congenial than the company in the other carriage. Mrs Warenne's non-stop chatter was more than a little trying. And the two young ladies in her charge simpered unbearably, even with him. They would certainly be much more at home with the dashing blade who had so readily taken his place. "I am heartily sorry for Sir Edward. I might have backed Golden Star, too, but after he was scratched, I decided the game was not worth the candle. So I still have my guineas in my pocket. Unlike you, Richard, it would seem," he added with a twitch of the lips.
"Hugo—"
"Major, I congratulate you," said the countess. "Perhaps I might prevail on you to give my husband lessons in self-restraint? He—"
Richard grinned and laid a gentle hand on his wife's arm. "Look," he said, pointing, "Kit has finally escaped from the royal clutches. And now that the crowd is thinning out a little, he should be able to reach us without having the coat ripped from his back in the process."
Hugo followed Richard's pointing finger. Kit was shouldering his way through the good-humoured crowd, his unusual height ensuring that his progress was easily followed. Behind him, in the space Kit had cleared, came Emma and her father. Even at a distance, Hugo could see that Emma was a little flushed. And her father looked decidedly irritated. Hugo was not altogether surprised. Sir Edward had every right to be cross at losing his fancied runner. And, no doubt, the royal duke had been up to his usual tricks. Emma would do much better to keep away from such a man, however much it might increase her consequence to be seen in his company.
As the little trio made its way slowly towards the Fitzwilliam barouche, Emma took Kit's arm, forsaking her father's. Moments later, the pair were conversing with real animation. Hugo was mightily surprised. Although Kit was a good fellow at heart, Emma seemed to have taken against him, from the moment they met. Hugo had been at a loss to account for it, since Kit usually had all the ladies almost falling at his feet. But then, Emma was not just any lady.
Hugo climbed awkwardly down from his place in the barouche so that Emma and her father would be able to rejoin the Hardinges. Now that the main event of the day was concluded, the whole Fitzwilliam party would wish to return to the house to enjoy a relaxing dinner. If some of the young men had their way, there would be many tales of wagers won and lost over the port tonight, and much commiseration with Sir Edward over his appalling luck. He was a genial host and would indulge them, for a while, but, even in his disappointment, he would not forget his duties to the ladies of the party. The gentlemen would be delivered to the drawing room in reasonable time, and not too much the worse for wear.
Emma was laughing gently when she reached the barouche. She looked, Hugo decided, absolutely radiant. Her earlier flush—had it been anger?—had subsided into most becoming colour and her golden hair was glinting under an elegant confection of silk and feathers. Most of all, her beautiful eyes were sparkling with mischievous good humour. For the first time in his life, Hugo found himself envying his brother. Kit seemed to have added Emma's name to his long list of conquests.
Kit was forced to relinquish Emma's hand when they reached the barouche, for Hugo had ensured he was standing ready to hand her up. Touching her might bring him pain, but he was drawn to her as to no woman he had ever known. He smiled down into her beautiful face. "Allow me, ma'am," he said quietly, trying to ensure that he sounded as normal as possible. He might be haunted by that outrageous kiss and by the feel of her in his arms, but he was determined that she would never know. He prayed that she might have put it from her mind.
Hugo was perver
sely glad that Emma's gloved hand barely touched his as she stepped up into the barouche. She was as light as a piece of thistledown, he decided, though nothing like as fragile. There was nothing fragile about a lady who could ride her high-couraged horses for hour upon hour without the least sign of fatigue.
Behind him, Kit murmured softly, "Prettily done indeed. Couldn't have done it better m'self." Hugo could hear the smile in Kit's voice, but it vanished suddenly as he added, "A word in your ear, brother."
Taking her seat once more, Emma covered her burning fingers with her free hand. She could not tell whether she was trying to conceal her shaking or to preserve the warmth that had suddenly pervaded her fingers. Good God, she had barely touched him. If she could have done so without giving offence, she would have sprung up into the barouche without any assistance at all. But he was standing there, clearly waiting for her, and he had looked so…so…
She was at a loss for words. There had been something in his face, but she could not describe it, even to herself. And she certainly did not begin to understand it.
Sir Edward's voice broke into Emma's ravelled thoughts. He was telling Richard about his horse. "The duke was bent on making amends for the injury to Golden Star, though it was quite unnecessary. The accident was no one's fault. Prince Leopold is a thoroughly bad-tempered brute, but he won fair and square. I doubt my colt would have had the beating of him, even on his best form."
Richard nodded absently; something seemed to have distracted him. "What on earth can Kit have said to Hugo?" Richard nodded in the direction of the two brothers, who had moved out of earshot. "He's got a face like thunder all of a sudden. He doesn't usually allow young Kit to get under his skin."
Emma knew that an explanation was due, however awkward it might prove, but she was saved by her father's intervention. "I doubt that young Kit is the cause, Richard. There's something havey-cavey going on with one of York's hangers-on, a Colonel Forster. Do you know him?" When Richard shook his head, Sir Edward continued, "Forster made some very disparaging remarks about Major Stratton's time in the Peninsula and Kit naturally took umbrage. Seemed to me that Forster was baiting him deliberately. Don't know if the duke heard what was said, but if Forster was repeating rumours from Horse Guards, the commander-in-chief is bound to know. Very awkward. Very." He smiled lovingly at Emma. "I was glad Emma extricated us so quickly from that little gathering. It could have become quite ugly, especially as the duke was on the point of breaking out the champagne."
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 8
