Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HAMPSTEAD, TWO DAYS LATER

D ev hadn’t planned on spending his afternoon at the horse races.

It was the middle of the week, and a man had work.

But a man also had a pretend fiancée to keep track of.

So, on his way up to Camden this morning, he’d directed his coachman to Little Stanhope Street to see how the new servants were faring and, most importantly, if he still even had a pretend fiancée after…

The kiss.

That kiss had kept him awake these last two nights.

For a very simple reason.

The kiss between him and Lady Beatrix…

It had been her first.

And the part contributing to his restless nights was clear.

The kiss had its origin in pretense.

Which didn’t sit easily inside him.

No one’s first kiss should be for others.

It should be real.

Yet…there had been a sliver of a moment when he’d felt the glide of a soft, tentative tongue and an inclination toward surrender.

Within her…possibly, within himself.

It was within surrender that a kiss became real.

Right.

When he’d arrived at Little Stanhope Street, however, he’d found her gone.

“It’s Wednesday, of course,” her ancient servant Cumberbatch had informed him.

“Of course.” Dev nodded slowly—and uncomprehendingly. “If you could just refresh my memory…”

“She’ll be at the race meeting in Hampstead.”

Of course .

Cumberbatch squared his sizeable, long-limbed form in the doorway. “You’re not out to make Lady Beatrix your side bit of trifle, are you?”

Dev noted the clench of Destroyer of Worlds at the old valet’s side. Arthritic or not, that fist was ready to defend Lady Beatrix’s honor.

After assuring Cumberbatch of the purity of his intentions, Dev had set off for Hampstead by way of Camden first. He and Shaw had established their factory there, as it was on the Grand Junction Canal. England’s canal system gave them water transport access to Birmingham to the north and the Thames to the south, making it an excellent logistical location for the receiving of supplies and the export of the finished product.

After having walked the factory floor, covered a few items of finance, and shared a new idea with Shaw, Dev set out again. But he hadn’t proceeded to Primrose Park, the grand estate he’d purchased for a multitude of reasons—its proximity to Camden, its vast grounds, and fine stables for keeping Little Wicked and everything and everyone that accompanied the keeping of a Thoroughbred—which included, but wasn’t limited to: trainer, grooms, stable lads, and even other horses.

No, he’d directed his coachman to Hampstead. It was only a couple of miles farther north, and Dev was curious.

In his investigation into London’s turf rags, no writer by the name of Beatrix St. Vincent had turned up.

However, one Lady Godiva Gallop did.

After he’d finished laughing—and still yet, the name produced a chuckle—he’d read her every article. She was a good writer, thorough and knowledgeable on all matters related to horse and turf.

Today, he intended to see her in action.

Hampstead was a small racecourse—if it could be even called a racecourse, for no railing ran along the track. Only a few posts marked furlongs from point to point in a large field that was filled with a different class of race-goer than would be found at Epsom Downs or Newmarket.

It certainly wasn’t the sort of racing course where one was likely to find a lady.

Unless that lady was Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

Or Lady Godiva Gallop, as it were.

Not that she needed this work any longer. With the ￡2,500 she’d already received and the ￡7,500 she would pocket once the terms of their arrangement had been met—terms Dev was aware he hadn’t made entirely clear to either her or himself—she could live any sort of life she wanted.

Which would require her spending some of that money.

Which she had no intention of doing.

I don’t want to be ruined… I might want to marry someday.

Lady Beatrix was saving her pennies, shillings, crowns, and pounds for a chance at marriage.

In the moment, he’d been surprised by the admission, but upon reflection, it made sense.

Didn’t everyone have ambitions and dreams that they carried in their heart, but didn’t wear on their sleeve?

Yet…the idea that he was providing a dowry for her to marry another man when all society was under the impression she was to marry him produced a strange, unsettled feeling—one he had no interest in exploring.

At Hampstead, the day wasn’t a beautiful one—the clouds that hovered above could go one way or the other—but an afternoon’s races provided no small amount of entertainment for the all-manner-of-folk constituting the crowd. There were the horses, jockeys, trainers, grooms, and lads weaving through, either having finished a race or making their way toward the starting line. Then there were all the others who found themselves at a Hampstead race meeting on a Wednesday afternoon—the race-goers themselves and the gamesters who profited off them, the blacklegs and touts shouting odds around the betting post drawing the largest crowd.

Though Dev owned a Thoroughbred, he had no experience of a race meeting of this loose variety. It was after a particularly raucous group of soldiers strode past, laughing and jeering and already deep in their cups, that he spotted her— Lady Beatrix , standing in the shadow of a lean-to, pencil in one hand, journal in the other, scrawling notes, half an eye on the racecourse as horses warmed up for the next race.

Already a small woman, she possessed an uncanny ability to shrink not only her body, but somehow her entire personage into near invisibility. If one wasn’t expressly looking for her, one wouldn’t see her.

Another detail struck him. She wasn’t wearing a single stitch of her recently acquired wardrobe, but rather was dressed in attire years out of fashion.

He supposed it was all part of her desire to remain inconspicuous, but it annoyed him—mightily.

He took a step to communicate precisely that, but wasn’t quick enough, for another man approached her from the opposite direction. Tall and rangy, dressed impeccably but flamboyantly with a bold chartreuse paisley waistcoat, and an ostentatious diamond stud winking in his left ear, Dev would’ve put the man near five and twenty.

Dev didn’t like the look of him.

With that cocksure tilt of the mouth and the bold glint in his eye, the man was a blackleg.

What business could such a man have with Lady Beatrix St. Vincent?

Before he could question his right to do so, Dev was in motion with swift, determined strides. Lady Beatrix caught the movement, and her eyebrows crashed together in both shock and consternation. He suspected he was scowling and attempted to relax the muscles of his face.

The blackleg crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance as he watched Dev approach, the rogue displaying an appropriate amount of wariness and an unspoken amount of readiness. Here was a man accustomed to unpredictable situations and ready to meet any eventuality.

When he reached Lady Beatrix’s side, Dev didn’t hesitate to slip his hand around hers and lift it to his mouth. “I hope you weren’t waiting very long, my sweet.”

She blinked. “I, erm ,” she managed. “No.”

Dev wasn’t sure why he’d done it.

Claimed her, that was.

Except, actually, he did.

As of two nights ago, the world thought her his, and if that were actually true, he wouldn’t stand for some East End ruffian harassing her.

In fact, it wasn’t strictly true—and he still wasn’tstanding for it.

Hardened to a point, his gaze cut toward the blackleg. “And you are?”

It hadn’t escaped his attention that he yet held Lady Beatrix’s hand—and found his fingers twining through hers.

“Blaze Jagger,” she answered for the blackleg, as she subtly reclaimed her hand.

Jagger’s brow lifted with surprise. “You know who I am, Lady Beatrix?”

“Everyone associated with horse racing knows who you are, Mr. Jagger.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m not sure you should be.”

That pulled a hearty laugh from the rogue—which Lady Beatrix didn’t join.

“And your business with my fiancée?” Dev asked— demanded .

He might’ve been taking this claiming too far.

Jagger appeared unbothered. “As I was standing at my stretch of betting post and gazing upon the world around me—as a man does on the oddish occasion—a question smacked me solid on the head.” He didn’t wait for them to inquire. “Why doesn’t Lady Beatrix St. Vincent ever place bets on the ponies with me?”

She gave an unbothered, one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t bet on the ponies with anyone.”

Jagger let the words sink in, then nodded his acceptance of them, before reaching into an interior pocket and pulling out a pair of calling cards. He handed them each one.

Dev gave the contents a quick scan and felt his brow reaching for the sky. “ The Archangel? That’s Gabriel Siren’s—” He corrected himself. “The Duke of Acaster runs The Archangel.”

“And don’t forget his sister, Lady Tessa,” said Jagger.

Dev waited. He wouldn’t be baited.

“Now, a duke’s a busy man,” continued Jagger. “And he’ll like his hands clean. So, he and his sister cut me in to run the place.”

The logic held. A duke wouldn’t be managing the floor of a gaming hell on a nightly basis. Dev slid a glance toward Lady Beatrix. Her mind was plainly awhirl and storing this information for not-so-future use, perhaps as Lady Godiva Gallop.

Jagger continued to address her. “You could drop by if you fancy a roll of the Hazard dice or spin of the Roulette wheel sometime.” A beat. “Or even a nice, little chat.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I fancy neither Hazard nor Roulette, and I don’t have nice, little chats.”

A beat of time ticked past where Jagger contemplated Lady Beatrix.

“And there you have it,” said Dev. Enough was enough. “Good day, Mr. Jagger.”

The moment teetered on the head of a pin as Jagger appeared on the verge of saying something more. Instead, he tipped his hat in farewell and pivoted on his heel. In a matter of seconds, he’d disappeared into the dense crowd.

Dev shifted his gaze and found inquisitive gray eyes fixed upon him. “Why are you here?”

Not one to beat about the bush, Lady Beatrix.

“I was in the area.” A version of the truth.

Her head canted. “Oh?”

“My factory is located in Camden.”

“Camden is south of Hampstead,” she pointed out.

“Well, not in the area.” He reached for a point that would appease her stubborn adherence to logic. “Can we agree it’s in the vicinity of the area?”

One skeptical eyebrow dropped; the other remained lifted.

Progress, he supposed.

“Can’t a man enjoy a day at the races with his fiancée?”

“I suppose he could.”

She wasn’t buying it, and Dev couldn’t say he blamed her. A change of subject would be the better part of wisdom… “Should I run Little Wicked at the smaller courses like Hampstead?”

Suddenly, she was regarding him like he was the biggest dolt in London. “Most definitely not. A horse of her standing should only run in the major races of the season. Will you be running her at Doncaster for the St. Leger?”

“Will my answer be published in the Turf Times by one Lady Godiva Gallop?”

Her mouth twitched, but no smile broke through. “She makes no promises.”

“What do you think?” He truly wanted to know. “Should I run her?”

She considered the question. “It’s clear the filly loves to run. But, no, I don’t think you should.”

“Because it’s a longer course?” he asked. “I’ve heard the conditions can get rough.”

She shook her head. “Little Wicked is already in the Race of the Century. You would be exposing her to unnecessary risk. The problem is she’s too fast.”

“ Too fast? ” That was a new one on Dev.

“She will have caught the attention of the blacklegs, and you’re not in league with them as far as I know.”

“I’m not.”

“Unless they’re backing her, she’s at risk. In truth, you’ve been reckless with her already by racing her on back-to-back days. Do you have a man to keep watch over her?”

“As his occupation?”

“Horse racing is a dirty sport, and you don’t want to learn that lesson at the cost of Little Wicked.”

Dev knew the voice of experience when he heard it. “I’ll see to it.”

“She’s an intrepid filly,” said Lady Beatrix. “Hold her back until the Race of the Century in September.”

Dev usually had to take time to consider advice, but he found he trusted Lady Beatrix.

One beat of silence expanded into another, longer one.

They seemed to have run out of things to say.

Except they hadn’t.

Dev knew what needed to be said—or rather, acknowledged.

“Do we need to talk about the other night?”