The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“Candytuft is what I was admiring in my own garden when you first came to Mulberry House! Oh, goodness, Ro-han, this will be such fun. I hope my candytuft is still flourishing.”

“Possibly not. It requires a lot of care. If you like, you can oversee its planting yourself. Do you think our children will take after my parents or after us?”

“Maybe, my lord,” she said, kissing his chin, “if we are very lucky, they will be a little of both. Oh, Rohan, shall we try some running myrtle? I never had a bit of luck with it, but perhaps at Lord Dackery’s estate—”

“If not, we will try to see if the myrtle will run at Mountvale House. If not, we’ll try devil’s guts—now there’s a dandy flower.”

She hugged him close and said against his chin, “I wonder how Charlotte is faring with Augustus.”

“With any luck at all, he’s not dead of exhaustion yet.”

36

The Monthly Cat Races

The McCaulty Racetrack, near Eastbourne

A bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, August 1811

GILLY STRAINED TO BREAK FREE OF SUSANNAH’S ARMS. SHE kissed the top of his head, whispering, “No, no, not just yet, not just yet. Be patient. Soon you can run your paws off.”

Squire Bittle, next to her, had his cat, Ornery, on a leash. The calico looked bored. Squire Bittle looked worried. “He’s been a mite off his feed,” the squire said to Susannah, who looked properly saddened, but was, in fact, quite pleased with this news.

Mrs. Lovelace, owner of the Pride of the Valley Inn, as broad as she was tall, had tucked her gray tom, Louis, between her immense breasts. Susannah wondered how the poor cat could breathe. Mrs. Lovelace was humming to her cat.

Horatio Blummer, the local butcher, his huge middle straining against his waistcoat, held Glenda, muscled, black, and spitting, close to his leg, his hand around her neck.

Mr. Goodgame, who traced his ancestors back directly to William the Conqueror, was whistling as loud as he could to Horace, to distract him, Susannah supposed. Horace was a long, skinny white cat that looked more like a cannon than a cat. Horace was ready to run.

The Harker brothers were more worried about Horace than any of the others.

“A lot of experience ’as old ’orace,” Ozzy said, shaking his head. “Fast littil bugger.”

“Aye, but ’e’s got this funny nose. Always smelling things, and can’t stand not to find out wot’s causing the smell. Always sends ’im off track. Leastwise it usually does.”

“At least Blinker won’t be racing today,” Ozzy said. “Ole boy’s got a sprained back leg. Too much training Grimsby gave ’im, the ass. I told ’im long time ago no more than ten laps a day with Blinker. ’Is legs be too short.”

“Gilly will take all of them,” Toby said. “Just wait. We have a Secret Weapon.”

Both Harker brothers raised bushy eyebrows. Secret Weapon? What was this? They had overseen Gilly’s training. What was this about a Secret Weapon? Toby just grinned at them, saying nothing.

The track was a third of a mile in length and very wide—a good ten feet—because the cats tended to rove back and forth a bit when they ran. There was a larger than usual crowd today since this was Gilly’s first race, representing the Mountvale mews, and there was heavy betting. The Harker brothers, it got out, had personally trained the cat. The ladies held parasols over their heads to protect themselves from the sun; the gentlemen laid wagers, smoked cheroots, and discussed the finer points of each racing cat. Everyone was looking forward to the first race.

It was said that occasionally there were corruption and cheating at the racetrack. The Harker brothers kept even a keener eye on the proceedings when this nasty rumor got out, ready to rout out any malefactors. To date the only miscreant they had caught cheating was old Mr. Babble, who’d tried to feed one of the racing cats fresh bass, so he would be too bloated to run fast. This was six months previous.

Lady Dauntry presided up on a narrow dais. She had been the Lady of Ceremonies for five years now, never missing a cat race, even in inclement weather. The cat racing season ran from April to October.

Lady Dauntry bellowed at the top of her lungs—which was not at all difficult for her—“Everyone ready!”

Every trainer or owner readied his cat.

“Everyone set!”

Cats pulled and heaved. Trainers and owners were tensed, ready for action.

“Free the cats!”

The race was on.