Chapter 6

Julian entered the Royal Reform Club and began his usual round of greetings—a task that had begun to feel as dull and ordinary as old shoe leather, as the years went on—expecting to be bored to bits within the half minute.

Then it happened.

His gaze flicked left, and there she was.

Lady Tessa.

And the blood sparked alight in his veins.

His feet took one instinctive step and stopped.

She wasn't alone, for standing beside her at the Hazard table was a man…A man who looked to be a blackleg from the ostentatious style of his clothing and the diamond stud the size of a large pebble in his left ear. Legs liked to flaunt their newfound wealth.

A frown began to form about Julian's mouth before he remembered Lady Tessa ran a gaming hell. She would count such men as associates.

Except she and that man didn't have the look of mere associates. From the defensive, possibly acrimonious way they faced one another—the clench of her hand at her side; the tight pull of his jaw muscles—they weren't making idle conversation about the day's weather or Epsom's turf conditions. They were locked in intense conversation.

Her shoulders lifted and dropped, as if she'd heaved a great breath. Then from below the wide brim of her rather dashing straw hat tied with a blue ribbon, her gaze slid right and found his.

Julian understood he had a choice. He could tip his hat and continue making his way through the club, greeting one and all—or he could pursue the path his feet were already initiating toward her.

It wasn't much of a choice.

Even as he knew he shouldn't.

While it was true he'd struck a private wager with the woman, he didn't have the right to insert himself into her business. But neither could he leave it. If his presentiment was correct and the man beside her was a blackleg, that also meant despite his diamonds and fine clothing—or perhaps because of them—the man was a rogue.

An unexpected feeling reared up inside Julian—protectiveness.

Which was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Lady Tessa wasn't his to protect. The sum total of their acquaintance came down to three conversations.

Yet the feeling wouldn't be denied, and with every brief conversation with this or that lord or lady, his feet brought him closer—so close he might've picked up her crisp lemon scent.

He caught the instant she registered his presence. It was there in the way her shoulders squared with tension and how her gaze remained steadfastly fixed before her. When, at last, she realized the very large man at her side wasn't going anywhere and she would have to acknowledge him, her gaze shifted right and met his. Within her eyes blazed a hearty desire that he keep moving.

Too bad.

"Lady Tessa," he said, practiced smile tipping his mouth.

She swallowed, as if her throat had gone suddenly dry. "Lord Ormonde."

The other man lifted his eyebrows. "Lofty as all that, are we?"

The man was, indeed, an East End blackleg. It was there in his accent and the flinty glimmer in his eyes.

"Lord Ormonde," began Lady Tessa, "may I introduce Mr. Jagger to you?"

Jagger snorted. "And such a proper introduction, too." He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Julian gave the man a curt nod and directed his next words to Lady Tessa. "Are you finding the day to your satisfaction?"

Such a question was what one asked in a social setting, but it seemed to stall Lady Tessa. "I, erm, yes, it's a satisfactory day as days go."

Jagger let out a loud guffaw. "I always wondered how nobs talked to each other." It was clear he wasn't too impressed. "Proper titillating, it is, right down to the short scrofulous hairs of me nether?—"

"That will be enough," said Julian, low and firm.

A smile curled to one side of Jagger's mouth, even as he shut his mouth.

Lady Tessa was observing Julian with a slight cant of the head and a glint in her eyes—appreciation.

And the feeling it produced within him told him something about himself.

He liked being the object of this woman's appreciation.

It meant something.

Then she blinked, and the moment broke. "I…," she began, "I have other matters to attend."

Jagger sucked his teeth. "Oh, you go and attend those other matters, Lady Tessa. We'll be conversing again."

The words rang more threatening than conversational.

As Julian bent in a shallow bow, Lady Tessa swept around him, leaving him alone with this Jagger character, who appeared to be no piece of good news. Though he lacked Julian's bulk, the man reached the same height.

"You have business with Lady Tessa?"

Even as Julian asked, he understood she wouldn't appreciate him interfering with her affairs. As if he had the right…

As if their wager bound them in some way.

"More like parallel business interests," replied Jagger.

"Parallel business interests?" What in the blazes was that supposed to mean?

"Just seeing if they're going to intersect." Jagger smirked. The younger man certainly possessed an abundance of swagger—perhaps more than his years warranted. "It's simple—" Dark eyebrows crinkled. "What's the maths that's all lines and angles?"

"Geometry?"

Jagger snapped his fingers. "That's the one. It's simple geometry."

With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode away, leaving Julian contemplating the space left not by him, but by Lady Tessa.

A jolly "Ormonde!" cut through the din, and Julian suppressed a reflexive flinch. Even as he engaged in greetings on the surface, his thoughts remained latched onto the encounter just finished. What sort of parallel and possibly intersecting business interests did Lady Tessa have with a man like Jagger?

No lawful business interests, that was certain.

A woman who didn't have a man in her house—who, in fact, opened her front door to men she hardly knew, as he'd learned firsthand only a few days ago—had somehow made an enemy of this Jagger ruffian.

It was all Julian could do to keep his feet planted and not hie after her and demand a full accounting—and that she hire a butler who happened to be handy with fists, knives, and firearms.

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Two o'clock. An hour until the start of the race. He made his way to the stables for one last conversation with his jockey, Smithwick, about the race plan for Filthy Habit before the weigh-in. The Thoroughbred had a tendency to become bored and distracted during a race—a habit known as daisy cutting—and he wanted to make sure Smithwick was clear on the trainer's strategies for eliminating it.

After a quick conversation that did a fair bit to alleviate Julian's concerns, he was exiting the stable when a shock of auburn hair in the last stall caught his eye. He recognized the man—Liam Cassidy, an up-and-coming jockey whose sister, Gemma, was the very same woman his best friend, the Duke of Rakesley, had run off with and married only a week ago. News that Julian hadn't enjoyed delivering to the Duchess of Acaster earlier today. Though she and Rake hadn't been officially betrothed, there had been an understanding that Rake would soon propose marriage.

As for Gemma, she'd been one outstanding jockey, riding Hannibal—a horse deemed unrideable by all but her—to victory in the Two Thousand Guineas, the first race of the season.

Her brother was just as good. Cassidy had steady hands—light and sensitive, yet strong—and a loose, but firm demeanor that didn't let one into his thoughts or intentions. Liam Cassidy would be crowned the best jockey of his generation. It wasn't a matter of if, but when. Within five years, Julian guessed.

Of course, Julian knew he shouldn't be fraternizing with another man's jockey, but he stopped anyway. After all, Cassidy's sister had just married Julian's best friend. He should greet the man.

"Good Sir Longshanks is a fine goer," he called out.

Cassidy glanced up from the magnificent black Thoroughbred whose saddle strap he'd been tightening. Instant recognition glinted in Cassidy's hazel eyes before he straightened and ran a soothing hand along the horse's withers. "Aye."

"Will you be staying with him after today?"

"I committed to him through the Derby," said Cassidy, wary.

"Few jockeys exhibit that sort of loyalty."

An understatement.

Horse racing was like a game of shuffle with jockeys and trainers jumping from one stable to another, depending on whose purse paid more.

"I like to follow through."

"If you're looking for a new opportunity, my stables at Nonsuch Castle would have a place for you."

Cassidy smiled and snorted. "I've been wanting to give Hannibal a ride."

Of course.

The refusal was polite, but firm. After the Derby, Cassidy would switch his allegiance to Rake's stables at Somerton, like a loyal brother should.

Instead of beating about the bush, Julian decided to sweep any awkwardness out of the way. "How does it feel to have a duchess for a sister?"

Cassidy chuckled. "Gemma's been a duchess all our lives, so no great surprise there."

Julian joined in the laugh, even as an unexpected feeling ribboned through him. A pang of loss for his own sister—Clarissa. Perhaps he would've joked about her just so.

Something the universe had denied him.

He swallowed back the sudden surge of bitterness.

"Gemma seems like a salt-of-the-earth sort to me."

At least, that had been Julian's impression from the few times he'd met her. An unexpected sort of woman…a woman Rake hadn't seen coming. Of course, that would be the only sort of woman who could bring Rake to his knees and make him defy society to have her.

Rake was braver than Julian. That was the truth of it. Rake had the courage to follow such feelings where they led.

Julian wished his friend well, but what Rake had, he never could.

"Oh, she is," said Cassidy, "but my sister does as she pleases, always has. She'll make a fine duchess."

Julian caught something in Cassidy's voice he hadn't noticed before. He didn't speak like a lad who grew up in stables. His intonation was decidedly schooled. There was something more to Gemma and Liam Cassidy than what showed on the surface. A story Rake would know.

A story that was none of Julian's business.

Right.

Julian inclined his head. "Best of luck with your ride today," he spoke in farewell. "But not too much luck."

Cassidy's laugh echoed down the central aisle after Julian as he exited the stable and was immediately conscripted into the dense and raucous party that was Derby Day. One couldn't fight it. One's only choice was to enter the jubilant flow and give over. He'd once heard the Derby described as all wild hordes and chaos, and he couldn't think of a more fitting description for Epsom Downs on this day—all hedonism and excess.

And though Julian was part of the day, he wasn't truly. He didn't gather with the masses at the betting post or play the odds or enter a rooster into the ever-popular cockfights or play Loo, Brag, Gleek, or Quinze. He didn't drink the plonk or punch thrust into his hands. He was a man who had defined his boundaries and never strayed from those confines.

Except…was that quite true?

Lady Tessa…

The wager.

As a gentleman, he should pray for Filthy Habit to lose the race—and thus lose him this wager. Then he could return to his well-defined life and leave the moment of madness that had him proposing one night in his bed well behind him.

For that was what it had been—madness.

Yet he couldn't quite utter that prayer.

He wanted to win.

Perhaps more than he'd ever wanted to win in his life.

The promise of Lady Tessa in his bed for one night did something to his blood—pushed it hot through his veins.

"Ormonde!" came a jolly shout.

Julian looked up to find a group of lords waving him over to their place outside the periphery of the crowd. When he found two footmen shedding their coats, he knew what was afoot.

"Houghton reckons his man Smith can best my Foley," said a young earl.

Julian smiled. Though the horses were the official draw on Derby Day, here was yet another sport popular amongst lords: The pitting of their footmen against one another in a race to see whose was fleetest of foot. The side betting had already commenced as the servants pulled off their boots, shed their cravats, and rolled up their sleeves. Both men were young and lean as whippets. It would be a close contest.

"Since you're not a betting man," began the earl, "would you declare the winner at the finish line?"

Julian smiled and agreed—as everyone had known he would.

In the end, Houghton had been proven right. His man Smith had bested Foley by a clear yard.

Riding a wave of good humor following his footman's win, Houghton called out, "Ormonde, come and watch the race with us in Prinny's stand."

"You have access?" asked Julian. It had been years since King George's voracious appetite for the races had cooled and his famed viewing stand centered inside the racing course had remained empty—after the Escape Affair, specifically.

Decades ago—in the previous century, in fact—when the King had still been the Prince of Wales, he'd become embroiled in a horse racing scandal that yet lived on in infamy. The prince's horse, Escape, started as the heavy favorite in the first day's race at Newmarket—and came in dead last. The next day, the odds on Escape were lengthened to five-to-one, and the horse won easily, even beating two of the horses from the previous day's race.

The scandal lay in the fact that Escape's jockey, Sam Chifney, didn't bet on Escape on the first day, but bet heavily on him on the second day—and walked away with a small fortune.

As did the Prince of Wales.

The Jockey Club banned Chifney from the sport with immediate effect. Meanwhile, all the papers endlessly mocked and lampooned the Prince of Wales. His reputation, such as it was, never quite recovered from his close association with a known cheat—neither did his appetite for horse racing. He did, however, publicly stand by Chifney and even granted him a pension of ￡200 per year for the remainder of his days—a gesture which likely stemmed more from self-serving impulse to protect his reputation rather than loyalty in his heart.

"Prinny and Papa were old carousing mates when they were young," said Houghton.

Julian usually spent Derby Day in the company of Rake and Artemis, Rake's younger sister. However, since Rake had eloped with his jockey and Artemis had fled to her Yorkshire estate after the loss of her most beloved Thoroughbred, he found himself at loose ends and saying, "Lead the way."

Unlike Newmarket and Doncaster, Epsom Downs didn't yet have a grandstand, so Prinny's stand was the only elevated place from which to view the race, with three sides offering unimpeded views of the horseshoe-shaped course from start to finish. Julian navigated the room in his usual manner, smiling and offering greetings to one and all. Though a few were here for the race itself—and the outcome of bets placed—most came for the socializing and brandishing about of wealth and status.

Still, no one was immune to the vibrancy that enlivened the air and made the blood sparkle through the veins as Thoroughbreds began to assemble at the starting line, jockeys bedecked in an array of colorful silks.

While Julian experienced all those feelings of anticipation, it was another reason, one entirely novel and slightly troubling, that had his blood pumping hot and hard.

Lady Tessa.

This anticipation had to do with possibility.

Given the structure of his life and the same few hundred lords and ladies populated within it, it had been years since he met someone who offered the unknown…Someone who offered possibility beyond what he could predict.

Where was she, anyway?

He stepped to the wide balcony overlooking the starting line. Somewhere, amid the ten-thousand-strong scrum of Derby Day attendees, she was out there—to watch the race…to know her fate.

To find her in that massive horde was another matter. It wasn't only aristocrats who enjoyed the pleasures of Derby Day, but any Londoner who could make their way from Town to Epsom—by carriage, horse cart, foot, or any other conveyance at hand—for the event that was known as the Londoners' Day Out.

He made his way to the middle balcony with its view of the course's turns, including the infamous Tattenham Corner.

No sign of Lady Tessa there, either.

It wasn't until he stepped to the third balcony with its view of the finish line that his eye caught upon a wide-brimmed straw hat with its fluttery blue ribbon, escaped red-gold tendrils waving in the breeze…

Lady Tessa.

He leaned forward, squinting against the sun-bright day. It was definitely her, side pressed against the white railing, conversing in a tight bunch with three ladies. One of the ladies, Julian knew. Mrs. Fairfax, a widow and a popular figure in society. He'd never met the other two ladies who were of a height with Lady Tessa, one even sharing the same red-gold hair. They were clearly her two younger sisters. Even from this distance he could see they were beauties—like their sister, as well.

He noticed something more. How Lady Tessa behaved with her sisters—attentive…smiling without tension…protective…

Nurturing.

That word again.

Memory stole in—of how she'd served him tea.

How natural it had been for her.

Beneath her mannish mode of dress and forbidding exterior beat the heart of woman softer than she wanted the world to know.

And here was another word returning to him—possibility.

What possibilities lay within the enigma that was Lady Tessa.

"Your Filthy Habit is looking in fine form, I'll say," came a voice behind Julian.

Julian tore his gaze away from Lady Tessa and pivoted. "Aye, that he is."

Along with the rest of the stand's occupants, he gravitated to the window overlooking the starting line. Jockeys shuffled, shouldered, jostled, and muscled their horses into their preferred starting positions. There were Good Bottom, Squirrel, and Old Bugger. All three fine goers, but all three lacking the nonspecific magic required to win a major race. Filthy Habit possessed that magic, but so too did a few others. Good Sir Longshanks could tear up the turf, and with Liam Cassidy as his jockey, he might do just that. And the Duchess of Acaster's Devil's Spawn held a competitive glint in his eyes that spoke of grit. But it was a filly who possessed the most magic on today's turf.

Little Wicked.

Upon her foaling, she'd been declared the best of her year—finely sculptured head that spoke of her Arabian lineage…long legs…sound hindquarters…silky coat…But beyond those not-so-unique physical characteristics, she held an additional special something—a brightness. Though horses couldn't smile, one would think Little Wicked was ever smiling.

She'd been lost in a card game by that wastrel Lord Clifford to a man named Blake Deverill. Many in society viewed Deverill as a chancer and interloper who was using his newfound wealth to muscle his way into the ton—a man who had no business owning a serious racehorse like Little Wicked.

But Julian viewed Deverill differently. He'd made a success of himself through ingenuity and hard work with his steam engine enterprise. How many members of the ton had achieved their status in life through their own grit, intelligence, and determination?

Certainly not Julian—or anyone else in this royal, elevated room.

The fact was, though he'd never met the man, Julian felt a respect for Deverill. Upon acquiring Little Wicked, he'd sent for the best trainer in France to take her in hand for the three-year-old racing season, which was the most important season in the career of a Thoroughbred. Deverill had also used a king's ransom to lure away the Duke of Richmond's favorite jockey, which the duke was still grousing about.

But that was horse racing. The rules were few and far between, and even then, good luck to anyone trying to enforce them.

Julian leaned forward and gripped the balcony rail, his gaze locked on the anxious line of horses and riders now ready for the firing of the starting gun.

He should want Little Wicked to win.

As a gentleman.

But as only he knew, his wanting knew no limits.

And this wanting—the wanting of Lady Tessa—respected no boundaries.

He wanted to win…

He wanted her.

Barring any false starts, he would know in less than three minutes if he was to have her.

Though he couldn't see her from this side of the stand, he knew she would be watching as intently as he—and for the same reason.

At last, the starter lifted the gun into the air. The crowd fell as silent as ten or so thousand people could. The trigger pulled, and the shot cracked through the air an instant later. Impelled by their jockeys, the horses lurched forward and were off.

Little Wicked jumped to the fastest start, taking the lead by a nose, for Filthy Habit was right there with her. Working him through his paces before the race had taken effect, for the Thoroughbred was more focused than Julian had ever seen him. For all his defense of Filthy Habit, he'd harbored a few doubts. But now as the horse thundered up the slight ascent of Epsom's first furlong, he believed with every cell of his being.

Filthy Habit could win the Derby.

As the horses made the first turn, Julian and everyone else moved left with the action to the next balcony. Several horses, including Squirrel and Old Bugger, got their legs tangled and fell, but Julian's gaze didn't linger there. Rather, it held steady on the leaders—Filthy Habit and Little Wicked. The Derby was now the two-horse race Julian had hoped it would be.

Here, in the middle portion of the racecourse, it was essential to hold the lead position before the sharp, precarious turn of Tattenham Corner, where many a horse fell every year. Filthy Habit and Little Wicked approached the corner, and Julian's heart pounded as hard as their hooves on the turf, their bodies brushing against one another, each angling for the tightest line around the curve. Then they were around without incident, leaving the remainder of the field to their fates.

Now, the race was gaining heat, for the final stretch was downhill, as the jockeys all leaned forward and allowed their mounts to stretch out and have their head. Filthy Habit's turnover picked up, as did his speed. So, too, did Little Wicked's.

As Julian moved to the third balcony overlooking the finish line, his gaze cut away from the action and found Lady Tessa, her gloved hands gripping the white railing, her full lips pressed into a straight, firm line. The elation of the crowd had no effect on her as the horses blazed toward her, the finish line now in their sights. In fact, the nearer the horses sped, the more pinched her expression. The possibility—nay, probability—that Filthy Habit was going to win this race and she would be left with a debt to pay was writ plain there.

One night in his bed.

Still, perhaps a sliver of hope remained, for Little Wicked, with her smile and clear joy of racing, wasn't ceding ground. The filly refused to lose.

Filthy Habit would have to win it.

Then he stretched at the right moment at the finish line and did precisely that.

Slaps on the back and cheers of congratulation began pouring Julian's way, but it was fast upon Lady Tessa that his gaze remained.

In a jubilant crowd of thousands, she alone remained the only still figure, staring sightlessly where the horses had crossed the finish. Even from this distance, he could see she'd gone pale as a sheet—a siren's hopes dashed against the rocks.

As he became swept away by the ensuing celebrations—a failed attempt had even been made to lift him into the air—Julian understood he should call off the bet and let Lady Tessa off the hook.

It was what a gentleman would do.

But the blood rushing hot through his veins felt decidedly ungentlemanly.

That blood wouldn't hear of it.

To claim his win—to claim his one night—was the worst thing he could do.

And he couldn't not do it.