Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

Lorry Dale, head jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm—indeed the only jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm—proudly wore a shiny new livery of gold and white, sewn by Angela, his black boots shined by Mrs. Sherbrooke herself using her own special recipe. He stood, speaking low to Dodger, who stomped and waved his head, doubtless agreeing with what Lorry said, obviously ready to run his heart out. Dodger, Jason said, was at his very best when he was racing or mating. Or one followed by the other. An uncommon combination, Jason admitted, but then again, Dodger wasn’t a common horse. Jason nodded toward Charles Grandison, who was running his Arabian bay gelding, Ganymede, then frowned at Elgin Sloane, who stood beside him, a young lady on his arm, the young lady’s father standing next to her, obviously pleased with Elgin.

“His heiress?” Hallie said behind her hand to Jason.

“So it would appear. Her father, Mr. Blaystock, owns a large stud near Maidenstone. See that brute of a horse trying to kill his jockey? It’s fittin

g that his name is Brutus. Brutus belongs to Mr. Blaystock. It looks like your father is right. He said Elgin was a man who learned from his mistakes, said you would probably be his first and last big one. It’s true that his coming to Lyon’s Gate to try to regain your affections was indeed a miscalculation, but it didn’t cost him anything but his time.”

“I wonder if the poor girl knows his first wife died not a year after he married her,” Hallie said. “You don’t think he killed his first wife, do you, Jason?”

“No, I don’t.”

“That Brutus does look vicious. It’s the shape and size of his head, the way his eyes roll around. I wouldn’t want to be around him.”

“He’d be a handful. He’s a beauty, though, isn’t he? That white star is perfectly formed. Elgin is eyeing that stallion with a good deal of possessiveness if I don’t miss my guess.”

Hallie said something rude beneath her breath, then pointed to Lord and Lady Grimsby, who had just moved to stand next to Lord Renfrew. “They all appear to be here together.”

Charles Grandison waved at Jason, but made no move to come over. Lord Renfrew looked over and laughed too loudly. As for Lord and Lady Grimsby, they smiled at Jason and Hallie because they lived in the neighborhood, mingled socially, and Jason’s father was the earl of Northcliffe.

Included in the hundred-some people at the Beckshire race were a dozen Sherbrookes, all there to yell their heads off for Dodger. “We must be very careful of Dodger,” Jason had said to Henry.

“Like you, Master Jason,” Henry said, “I’ve put the word out that any attempt to harm Dodger or our jockey will lead to unpleasant consequences.”

“At the very least.”

Henry grinned. “I heard ye were more specific than that when you put out the warning, Master Jason.”

“Yes, a bit more. We will see if anyone is foolish enough to test me. Keep your eyes sharp, Henry.” Jason looked out now over the dozen horses coming up to the starting line, most of them bucking and rearing.

Charles Grandison’s Ganymede stamped his right front hoof over and over again. Ganymede was favored to win the race, which pleased both Hallie and Jason, as they stood to make a good deal of money with a victory, what with the four-to-one odds the bookies had set. And all because Dodger was an unknown. He’d had made his name in Baltimore, not here in England.

Ganymede, two horses down the line from Dodger, continued his stamping. Jason watched Dodger’s ears flick back and forth. It didn’t appear to make him uneasy, unlike the big gelding between Dodger and Ganymede who was rolling his eyes, his jockey trying to calm him and failing. That was it, Jason thought, the hoof-stamping was to intimidate.

Lamplighter, Lord Grimsby’s huge bay Thoroughbred, was snorting so loudly the horse beside him tried to back away.

At last, the moment of truth. Lorry sent Hallie and Jason a salute with his whip, hugged himself to Dodger’s neck, held him steady and calm, stroking his neck, speaking quietly to him, until Mr. Wesley shouted, “Go!”

Then he stretched himself out, kicked Dodger lightly in the ribs, touched his whip to Dodger’s ears. The dozen horses kicked and bucked and heaved forward. Whips slashed down, horses slammed into each other, trying to take over space, jockeys shoved and kicked out at other jockeys. The ground was dry, and dust flew thick in the air. Lorry, prepared, pulled his handkerchief up over his nose.

Dodger, as was his wont, kept his head down, all his attention on covering that track. Lorry, coached by Jason for hours, continued to hold himself low over Dodger’s neck—“eating his sweat”—and ignored the other horses.

“Keep his head down, Lorry,” Jason said over and over again. “Yes, that’s it.” He was squeezing Hallie’s hand hard. Suddenly Jason saw a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, not twenty feet away, off to his left, from the copse of oak trees beside the track. He’d seen it before at the Hinckley racetrack outside Baltimore—it was the silver of a gun stock glinting off the sun when the man brought it up to fire. Jason yelled to Henry, but he didn’t hear him, his eyes on Dodger. Jason picked up a good-sized rock, prayed, and hurled it. He didn’t hear anything over the crowd noise, in fact, none of the people standing near him even noticed what he’d done, but the gun stock suddenly disappeared.

“That was an excellent throw,” Hallie said, holding his arm tightly. “I wonder which jockey the poltroon was going to shoot?”

Horace, one of the stable lads, sixty years old, hoary and seamed and agile as a mountain goat, yelled, “Ye got ’im! I’ll see to the blighter, Master Jason!”

“Dodger’s gaining on Lamplighter,” Hallie yelled. “He’s going to get him, I know it. Lamplighter is fast, damn his eyes. Run, Dodger, run!”

Lamplighter, the big muscled bay Thoroughbred from Lord Grimsby’s stable, had taken the lead from the start.

Hallie grabbed Jason’s hand, yelling, “Dodger, come on, Dodger,” over and over again.

“It’s the fourth lap. Dodger will make his break, any second now,” Jason said, and held his breath. The field was close, the horses nearly on top of one another the track was so narrow at this point. Nothing but yelling, louder and louder, but Jason didn’t hear them. He was concentrating on Dodger and on Lorry Dale riding so low on his neck they almost looked like one. It was time. Break, Dodger, break now. It was as if Lorry snapped a spring. Dodger leapt forward—exactly like a racing cat, Tysen Sherbrooke was to tell everyone later—and in the space of three seconds there wasn’t more than three inches between him and Lamplighter. He was gaining, gaining, nearly there. Soon Dodger and Lamplighter were nose-to-nose.

Charles Grandison’s Ganymede was moving up on Dodger’s left side. Unless Dodger could get past Lamplighter, he’d be trapped between the two horses, a favorite ploy.

“You’ve got to move up, Dodger. Run.”