How To Marry a Rake

Matthew might have said more, but he was interrupted by a softly uttered, ‘Oh, bravo!’ from the chit he’d been talking with. He coloured once more and looked to Stephen.

‘Let’s go,’ Stephen said shortly. He gave Ryeton a last glare before gesturing to the crowd knotted around them. A path opened up, and he waited for his friend to set out before him.

But the evening held one last shock. Stephen stared as several footmen burst into the ballroom. Two pulled up just inside the door, but one had his head down and a dogged expression on his face. Guests shrieked, scattering before him. Drawing closer, Stephen saw the reason behind it all. Fleet as a frisky colt, a boy dodged and darted just ahead of the man—a grime-spattered boy who, cap in hand, caught sight of the cleared aisle and pelted down the centre of it. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the earl.

‘Lord Ryeton,’ he wheezed. He bent over to catch his breath. ‘There’s trouble in the stables. ‘Tis Pratchett, my lord!’

The crowd began to murmur. All the buzzing, gossiping people who had begun to turn away surged forwards again, eager to catch a glimpse of the new commotion.

Stephen noted that the high colour had drained from Ryeton’s face. ‘Well?’ he barked at the child. ‘Spit it out, boy! Pratchett, you say? What’s amiss with my best horse?’

‘He’s been stolen, my lord!’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Pratchett’s gone!’

Chapter Four

Back and forth Stephen paced, from sagging stall to weathered doorway. Lord Toswick’s stables were a hive of activity, nearly as busy as the house. This ancient hay barn, tucked at the edge of the stable block, looked as if he might knock it over with a good push, but it was redolent of sweet-smelling hay, just the right size for a good, agitated pace and wonderfully, blessedly quiet.

It might be the only peaceful place in Newmarket this morning, for the entire town was still abuzz with gossip from last night’s ball. Already London’s newspapermen and inveterate rumourmongers were descending on the town, eager to hear the latest details. Oh, and wasn’t there a good deal to hash over? A good bit of it centring around him. He sighed. It was familiar ground, performing as the meaty chunk in the centre of the scandalbroth.

Except he didn’t want to be there any longer. Leaning up against the corner stall, he deliberately breathed in straw-dusted air. He’d worked hard to leave the shrill boy he’d been, so hungry to be noticed, behind. Side by side he’d laboured with Fincote’s people, desperate to pay back some part of the debt he owed them, but just as intent on proving himself, too.

The old plough horse in the stall approached. Curious, she nudged him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be available to race for me, would you?’ He rubbed her cheek and stroked down her fine, strong neck, taking comfort in her simple affection.

Simple. This foray into Newmarket was supposed to be simple. Two notable horses to match up and draw racing’s elite to Fincote Park. Once there, they’d recognise the superiority of his challenging, well-maintained course. They’d experience the hospitality and eager gratitude of the local business owners and merchants and soon enough they’d all be on their way to becoming a well-known, much-frequented part of the racing circuit.

And he would, at long last, put the ghost of his mother’s neglect to rest.

But those plans lay in tatters now. And because it was natural to do so when his mind was full of chaos or destruction, he conjured up the image of Mae Halford as she’d been last night, challenging him from across the ballroom with that grin on her pretty face—the one that was both familiar and intriguingly new at the same time. She’d moved through the crowd with confidence and grace, as if fidgets and restless energy had never been her natural state.

Stephen had watched the candlelight ferret reddish highlights out of her golden curls and experienced a deep foreboding. She’d been a force of nature when he’d known her before. The thought of what she might be today—with full knowledge and possession of her power—defied description.

He experienced a profound sense of mortification, too, knowing that she’d witnessed the débâcle with Ryeton. Perhaps because it had been so spectacularly melodramatic. He rolled his eyes and left the horse to her clover-scented hay. The evening had possessed a taste of the theatrical, but Stephen wouldn’t take back a word. Ryeton was an arrogant, small-minded imbecile—but he had been perfect for his needs. The man sat on top of the racing world right now. His horses were well blooded, well trained and practically unbeatable.

And now, unobtainable. Stephen paused at the entry to the tack room and traced the horseshoe hung above the door for luck. He needed a new plan. A new patron. But Ryeton was influential. He had the ear of the Jockey Club stewards and most of racing’s important figures—and Stephen had mortally insulted him. There was damned little chance he could get back in the man’s good graces. Indeed, the earl could kill all of his dreams with just a word.

He set off again, thinking and pacing his way around and around the small open space—until the very path he walked sparked a sudden idea.

A hell of an idea. A thought so simple, so complicated and so brilliant all at once that it set his heart to pounding and his feet to travelling even faster. What if he could get around Ryeton? He could well imagine the state the man was in today. By all reports he was frantically following up every lead, trying to get Pratchett back in time to race the Guineas. But what if Stephen was the one to find the horse? He could return the thoroughbred to Ryeton with all due pomp and circumstance. It would create a sensation—one that he could use to benefit Fincote Park.

He’d thought himself past the need for the spotlight—but this time he could use it to accomplish all of his goals in one fell swoop. The racing crowd would go wild—and claim him as their hero. It would create the perfect opportunity to convince Ryeton to run Pratchett at Fincote. The earl would look like a fool were he to continue to hold a grudge in such circumstances. He would have to agree—and the racing world, so eager for a spectacle, would stumble over itself to witness it.

Stephen could barely contain his excitement. It was perfect. It would work—if only he could locate the missing racehorse first.

The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. That was the complicated bit, wasn’t it? Though Ryeton had put on a convincing show of shock and bewilderment, he had to have an idea of what motivated such a bizarre incident. And knowledge would give him an advantage that would make him hard to beat.

Stephen started moving again. Society being what it was, someone else might have a hint at what lay behind it, too. Surely someone, a trainer, groom, the earl’s friends—or enemies—knew something. It would be a race to ferret out information and connect the pieces before Ryeton did.

He nodded. It could be done. He could search out the truth. But the job was too big for one man. He would stand a better chance if he had help.

Silently, he considered his prospects.

Toswick, perhaps? Quickly, he discarded the notion. His host was an upstanding gentleman, too honourable to chose between his acquaintances in such a manner. Landry, then? With a stab of disappointment, Stephen recalled the viscount’s tirade against Ryeton. Landry was unlikely to help with any scheme that helped the earl get Pratchett back, even if it aided Stephen at the same time.

No, he needed someone uninvolved. Someone with a quick mind and a sense of discretion. His mind raced. Owner, trainer, black leg and groom—every man-jack involved in racing was knee deep in speculation right now. Yet gossip was likely thickening the air in Newmarket’s social circles as well as in her barns and training courses. Ryeton’s name would be whispered over every teacup, the man’s history and his every social gaffe dug up, dissected and served up alongside the cucumber sandwiches. The information he needed could come from anywhere.

Stephen needed a partner—someone who could help him cover ground, explore every avenue and then come together to sort, sift and piece answers together. Surely he knew someone not averse to a bit of adventure and ready to embrace a good scheme …

He stopped short once more. The answer was at once obvious and frightening. It floated, a red-gold beacon in his mind.

What he needed was Mae Halford.

No! He exploded into motion again, moving faster than ever and setting the old mare to prancing nervously as well. It was an absurd notion—too foolish to be contemplated. And yet he could think of no one better suited for the job. Mae had been an ally once. Hell, they’d cut their milk teeth on more outrageous schemes. But that was before he’d turned her into an opponent—and she made a formidable foe, indeed. He’d far rather confront Ryeton than her.

Last night she’d insisted that she no longer carried a torch for him. It was not difficult to believe—he doubted her tender feelings could have survived their last encounter. But Mae was nothing if not tenacious. If she did still harbour yearnings for him, he’d be granting her a prime opportunity to catch him in a leg-shackle. If not—well, he’d already hurt her once. That knowledge was one of his heaviest burdens—could he risk adding to it?

And what of her father? She’d indicated that Barty Halford did not wish her to continue their association. The man was nearly as influential in the racing community as Ryeton. If crossed, he could crush Stephen’s plans just as easily as the earl.

No.

Stephen closed his eyes and experienced again the burning need to make Fincote a success. The goal loomed ever larger in his mind—a holy grail that he could not stop chasing. He would never rest easy until it was done.

He groaned and leaned back against the tack-room door, gazing up at the horseshoe above him. He was going to need all the luck he could get. Could he truly be considering this? And the question remained—even if he convinced himself, how on earth was he to convince Mae?

* * *

‘Mademoiselle!’

Mae blinked. Her maid’s tone was sharp, the hairpin she’d just jabbed at her skull sharper yet. Still, it took a heroic effort to focus on Josette’s exasperated face in the mirror.

‘Almost I can see the very busy turnings of the wheels in your mind, but three times I have asked if you prefer the plain comb or the pearls.’ Josette wagged a finger at her reflection.

‘I’m sorry, Josette.’

‘Do not be sorry. Only pay attention, just for a moment. You can go back to your scheming once we have you ready for the day.’

Mae stared at her image. Good heavens, but her shoulders were drawn tight up around her ears. Deliberately, she relaxed and reminded herself that she liked what she saw in the mirror.

Yet thoughts of Stephen and his friend from last evening continued to trouble her. Mr Grange, who likely did not enjoy his reflection any more—but with whom she felt a kinship, none the less. He was an outsider, just like her. They were each undeniably different from the people about them—only Mr Grange wore his differences on the outside.

She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Josette, are we doing the right thing?’

‘What?’ the startled maid asked. ‘The pearls?’

‘No, no. The pearls are fine.’ Turning around in her seat, Mae let the words rush out. ‘The campaign. I know we’ve laid our plans and devised our strategies, but I’m beginning to wonder if it is a mistake to hide my … foibles.’ She paused. ‘From the gentlemen I am meeting, I mean.’

Josette clucked and turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘Do you know what you are, mademoiselle? You are like a banquet prepared by the greatest chefs of my country, rich with ingredients and fascinating layers. But these Englishmen! Bah!’ She tucked in a curl and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Too long have they lived on bland, tasteless fare. They do not know enough to know what is best. You must give them a small taste at a time. Slowly they will become accustomed to the many delicious flavours that make you who you are. Only then will they discover it is too late to go back to their plain English misses.’

Mae laughed. ‘Bad enough my father puts me in the same category as his fillies, now you make me feel like a cassoulet.’