with an uphill finish. New stables, accommodations, everything.’
‘By God, you’re serious!’
‘I am. The town’s merchants put together a cup and we held a local meet to test the waters. It went off smooth as silk. Fincote is ready and waiting, and now I need to catch the attention of the racing world. It’s why I’m here.’
Landry stared as if he’d never seen him before. ‘Passion, purpose and planning. My God, it truly is the end of an era.’ His mouth twisted into a grin. ‘But what do the signs tell you?’
Stephen laughed. ‘Rest easy—I haven’t changed that much. I kept my eye open for portents every step of the way here—you’ll be happy to know that they were all favourable.’
‘Well, that is a relief. I confess I would have been distraught had you given up your superstitions entirely.’ Landry chuckled. ‘And gaining attention was always your strong suit. Have you a plan?’
Stephen lowered his voice. ‘What I need is to arrange a truly remarkable private match. A spectacular race that will launch Fincote with a noise heard throughout racing, gain the attention of the Jockey Club and bring every owner, trainer, spectator and stable boy flocking to our doors.’ He ran an eye over the shifting crowd before them. ‘That’s why, even as you are angling after your heiress, I will be angling after an introduction to the Earl of Ryeton.’
Landry’s mobile face went perilously still. ‘Ryeton?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Enough to warn you away from the man.’ Even Landry’s voice had gone cold and flat.
Stephen stared at his friend. ‘Why?’
Landry shook his head. ‘I cannot elaborate. Only believe that I mean this as a friend—you’d do best to stay far away from the man.’
‘That’s not an option.’ He frowned. ‘The earl is the reigning king of the turf. His string of winning horses is a mile long. The depth of his stables is amazing. But, most importantly—he owns the most talked-about racehorse since Eclipse.’
‘Pratchett.’ Landry nearly chocked on the horse’s name.
‘Yes, Pratchett. That horse is why I’m here. He’s incredible. If I can convince Ryeton to race him at Fincote, our success will be assured. People will flock from every corner of the kingdom to see that thoroughbred run, no matter who he’s matched against.’
Landry snorted. ‘It’s a sound enough idea. Unfortunately, Ryeton’s not likely to go along with it.’
Stephen bristled. ‘Why not?’
‘The man’s an elitist. A racing snob. Some of the old guard is like that, you know—if you haven’t been breeding and racing since the time of Charles II, then you are nothing. And Ryeton’s the worst. He decries the entrance of the nouveau riche or even the newly interested into his snug little world.’ He made another dismissive sound. ‘Although he’s not above taking their money.’
Stephen’s jaw tightened in determination. ‘I have to try. This plan is the best and quickest way to Fincote’s success.’
‘Try, then.’ Landry sighed. ‘But you would do best not to hint at an association with me. It won’t do you any good in Ryeton’s eyes.’
‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ The viscount stood tall and smoothed his coat. A footman sidled by, heading into the ballroom with a full tray of champagne flutes, and Landry reached out and snagged two as he passed. He handed one to Stephen and held his aloft. ‘Success to us both,’ he toasted.
‘And my thanks for the advice.’ Stephen took a sip and watched as Landry drained his in one long drink.
‘Ah, the music begins again.’ Landry handed his empty glass to a footman positioned just outside the ballroom door. The poor man looked at him and at it in bemusement. ‘It is our call to the start, Manning.’ He tossed a last cheeky grin as he moved forwards to melt into the crowd. ‘And we’re off.’
Stephen laughed, then he squared his shoulders and slid into the crowd in another direction. The race had indeed begun. And he did not mean to lose.
Miss Mae Halford hovered at the entrance to Lord Toswick’s ballroom, a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth, a sense of anticipatory excitement swelling in her breast. Tension stretched tight across her shoulders and settled into the valley between, but she welcomed it. She was a soldier, and the glittering battlefield lay before her.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ her mother said at her elbow. ‘Your father has promised not to abandon us until we’ve mingled a bit and made the acquaintance of the right sort of people.’
Mae patted her mother’s hand. ‘I’m not worried a bit, Mama,’ she said reassuringly. But she couldn’t fault her mother’s anxiety. Anyone looking from the outside would judge that the pair had plenty to worry about.
Despite his promises, her father had already spotted his cronies and surged ahead. In less than thirty seconds they’d all be up to their haunches in horse talk. He’d be useless this evening, even as Mae prepared to attempt the impossible.
After a rocky entry into young womanhood and a subsequent two years abroad, Mae Halford was about to worm her way back into the stifling and rarified atmosphere of English society. And she was going to do it without the benefit of a title or family connections. Her father was a vastly successful businessman, a man whose two abiding passions—making money and spending it on thoroughbred racing horses—left precious little time or attention for aught else. Her mother, the daughter of a shopkeeper, had caught Barty Halford before he became richer than Croesus. Even after all these years she still had not reconciled herself to her role as a wealthy man’s wife, or become comfortable socialising with those she still considered her betters.
But all was not doom and dire gloom. After all, Mae’s father was not just wealthy, he was obscenely wealthy, and that fact was bound to open a door or two. Her personal assets were not totally lacking either. Wit came easily to her and immersion in European salons had taught her how to temper it into charm. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes, blond hair with a hint of a strawberry tint and a bosom that her knowing French maid assured her was just large enough without straying into vulgarity.
Without a doubt, though, Mae knew that her biggest asset lay between her ears, not inside her bodice. Her father called her a thinker and bemoaned the fact that she had not been born a son. She had been born a planner, an organiser and a strategist. They were characteristics that would indeed have been ideally suited to her father’s son, but which had so far proven largely lamentable in a daughter. She meant to put them to good use now. For she stood on the verge of her greatest project, her most important scheme—her Marriage Campaign.
‘Mrs Halford, I’m so glad you decided to come down and join us.’ Their hostess approached with a smile. ‘You can hardly have recovered your land legs, so soon from your voyage, but I promise that you shall enjoy yourself. I know several ladies who are interested in hearing about your travels.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ Mae’s mother relaxed a bit under the countess’s kind attention.
‘I see your husband
