you’re much prettier than she.”
Claire smiled. “You are prejudiced. Besides, if that is true—which I doubt—everyone will suppose that I got better looking as I fully matured. The duchess is thirty-three, an age when most women are at the top of their form, are they not?”
“You don’t look thirty-three, child. More like twenty-three.”
The twenty-seven-year-old Claire smiled again and said, “Well of course I look young. We noble ladies take good care of ourselves.” She laughed then and, impulsively sinking to her knees before the seated Olivia, took the older woman’s frail hands in hers, squeezed them affectionately, and said, “Oh, Olivia, I know what I’m planning to do is wrong, even unforgivable. But I just don’t care. I’ve made up my mind. I am going to be happy! I’m going to have a gay time and enjoy every minute of every day. I’m going to have pretty clothes and do just as I please as if I were the real duchess.”
“But how, Claire? We haven’t the money to—”
“We will have,” Claire again squeezed Olivia’s hands, then released them and shot to her feet. She looked about to make sure Walker was nowhere in sight. Then she grinned impishly as she lifted her skirts and unpinned the purple velvet bag concealed in her petticoats. Sinking again to her knees, she poured out the bag’s contents onto the veranda’s smooth wooden floor.
Olivia rocked forward and her pale gray eyes widened. Flashing and glittering in the fading sunlight were several pieces of valuable jewelry. Claire lifted an exquisite emerald-and-diamond necklace and handed it to the stunned Olivia.
The necklace resting in her palm, Olivia asked, eyebrows raised, “Claire Orwell, the baron’s…?”
“No, I did not steal the jewels. They were my mother’s. I have no idea where they came from, who gave them to her. I do know that my father could never have afforded the jewels and that my mother never once wore any of these exquisite pieces in our presence. I didn’t know she had them until she died. On her deathbed she whispered in my ear, directed me to the purple velvet bag. It was taped beneath her vanity. There was a sweet note to me inside saying she wanted me to have the jewels. I believe they are worth a tidy sum, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but you can’t be considering…”
“Ah, but I can. We will pawn the precious stones to finance our little adventure. There’s only one piece that I will not let go.” From the mound of flashing stones Claire carefully untangled a delicate golden chain. Suspended from the chain was a one-inch medallion cut from mother-of-pearl with a gold figure of a woman’s profile embossed on the front. The woman was Claire’s mother. Claire draped the chain around her neck and fastened it. Touching the medallion where it rested warmly between her breasts, she said, “There.”
The older woman was familiar with the unique medallion. Knew something of its prominence. But she kept her mouth shut.
“This piece I will keep,” Claire said. “The rest will provide us with some much-needed cash for our royal venture.”
Olivia’s eyes were now flashing like the jewels that were spread out before her. She said, “If you’ll trust me with some of the proceeds the jewels will bring, I’ll make our stash quickly grow.”
Taking the diamond-and-emerald necklace from Olivia and gathering up the glittering treasures, Claire began to smile knowingly. “Aha, so you’re a gambler?”
“And a good one, Your Grace.”
Both women laughed.
A band was playing an afternoon concert in the gardens behind his cottage when Hank went into the hallway with its row of bells used for summoning the chambermaid, waiter and valet. He rang for the valet, instructed the man to unpack and left.
He didn’t call for a carriage, but walked the short distance to the Saratoga racetrack. He was whistling merrily when he skirted the grandstands and went straight to the rows of stables behind.
The place was alive with activity. Owners, trainers and jockeys were gathered around the many stalls of the prized Thoroughbreds. Hank stopped to shake hands with some of the gentlemen. These men liked racing. They liked to win. They liked the competition. They particularly liked new owners to come to Saratoga and offer a challenge.
Hank was no exception.
“Why, if it isn’t Hank Cassidy, the Silver King,” said Logan B. Bristow, a real estate magnate from New Jersey and a proud Thoroughbred owner. The round-faced, short-of-stature Bristow laughed and teased, “You really think that gray nag of yours has a chance of beating my best three-year-old in the Travers Stakes?” He stepped forward and slapped Hank on the back.
“How you been, L.B.?” Hank smiled easily and shook Bristow’s hand. Before the other man could reply, Hank said, “I sure hate to see you lose your money, but that’s what’s going to happen if you pin your hopes on that badly outclassed plow horse you’re entering.” He inclined his head toward the sleek sorrel stallion in the stall directly behind Bristow.
Bristow laughed loudly as Hank walked on through the alley between the stalls, shaking hands here, exchanging pleasantries there, having a look at the competition.
A slimly built, silver-haired man stepped out of a hay-filled stall near the end of the lane. Seeing Hank, he began to smile broadly.
Hank hurried forward.
He caught the older man up in a bear hug and warmly embraced him. The sixty-two-year-old Fox Connor was more to Hank than simply the most talented horse trainer in America. He was that all right, but he was also a trusted friend and confidant, the man who knew Hank better than anyone else.
Wise, loyal, never judgmental, Fox Connor had been with Hank since the day Hank had bought his first racehorse a decade ago. The two had come to regard each other as family. Fox Connor had no family of his own. He hadn’t married and therefore had no children. Hank was like the son he’d never had. Fox took pride in Hank’s triumphs, found joy in sharing the young man’s life, looked forward eagerly to the day Hank married and had children who would hopefully call him Granddad.
“When did you get in?” Fox asked when Hank released him.
“An hour ago,” Hank said. “How did they make the trip?” he asked, referring to the dozen valuable Thoroughbreds Fox had escorted up from Kentucky.
“Black Satin has a sore muscle, but he should be fine in a couple of days. Red Eye Gravy wouldn’t eat any oats this morning, was listless, but he’s already feeling better. Tempest, Eastern Dancer, and the rest seem to be in excellent shape. All had good workouts this morning.”
“Silver Dollar’s okay?” Hank inquired about the big silver-coated speedster he hoped would take the Travers Stakes.
“He was in fine form for this morning’s exercise,” Fox assured Hank. “Ran the mile in one-fifty.”
Pleased, Hank stepped into the stall where Silver Dollar was stabled. The stallion nickered a greeting. Hank wrapped a long arm around the big Thoroughbred’s sleek neck and patted him affectionately.
“You gonna win the Travers Stakes for me, pal of mine?” he asked and the Thoroughbred pricked his ears and shook its great head. Hank laughed and pressed his cheek to the beast’s left jaw. “Yes, sir, you’re going to make me proud.
