The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Indeed.” The marquis had begun to sweat.

“Good. Then tomorrow will be soon enough for us to arrange a meeting. For now, I insist you sit right up front beside your wife. I shall take the empty chair beside Lady Daphne. And, in the unlikely event that I think of a matter too pressing to wait a day, I’ll simply call out to you between races. How would that be, Tragmore?” Pierce’s smile could melt an iceberg.

“Uh, fine. That would be fine, Thornton.”

“Excellent.” Pierce gestured for Tragmore and his wife to precede him. “After you, then.”

The marquis seized his wife’s elbow and steered her into the box.

“Lady Daphne?” Pierce extended his arm.

“Thank you.” Daphne paused, her quizzical glance swerving from her father to Pierce, where it lingered.

“Is everything all right, my lady?” Murmuring the question for Daphne’s ears alone, Pierce held her stare, deftly tucking her arm through his.

Her smile came slowly, an action rooted in some private emotion more fundamental than cordiality or amusement. “Yes, Mr. Thornton. I believe it is.”

“Good.” Pierce guided her to her seat. “Then let us get down to the serious task of selecting the winner.”

“Us?” Daphne looked startled.

“Certainly us. I did promise to assist you in this ardu

ous task, did I not?”

“Well, yes, but I know very little about—”

“Have you attended the races before?”

“Of course, many times. But—”

“Surely you must, on occasion, have had a feeling about the potential of a particular horse?”

“I suppose so. Still—”

“Trust your instincts, then.” Pierce gestured to where the horses and their jockeys were poised for the first race. “In your opinion who exudes an aura of success?”

Hesitantly, Daphne leaned forward to study the contenders. A moment later her eyes lit up, reluctance transforming to eagerness. “Why, Grand Profit is running today! She’s that magnificent chestnut mare whose jockey is in green. I’ve seen her race several times before. She’s fast as the wind and graceful and—”

“That has little to do with whether she’ll win or not, my insipid daughter,” Tragmore snapped over his shoulder. “Thornton, pay no attention to Daphne’s inane meanderings. She has her head in the clouds, with no knowledge of the rules of the turf.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Rumor has it that Profit’s jockey has instructions to fall behind in this race.”

“Really?” Pierce crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. “And have I your word on that, Tragmore?”

“You do.”

“How reassuring.” Pierce rose. “In that case I feel ready to place my wager.”

“My money is on Dark Storm,” the marquis hissed.

A mocking smile. “I’m pleased to know where your money is.” Pierce turned to Daphne. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.” Daphne’s nod was gracious, but the light in her eyes had gone out.

Swiftly, Pierce conducted his business, returning to his seat in time to see the horses speed around the first stretch.

“It appears Grand Profit has a considerable lead,” he commented.

“Yes.” Daphne sat up a little straighter, staring intently at the magnificent horse who was several yards ahead of the others.