“I have heard that they are called ‘Greencoats’ due to the fact that their velvet coats are made from leftover material from the curtains that hang in Windsor Castle,” he continued, feeling somewhat desperate that he had not been able to put her at ease. “Although that has never been proven.”

“I-I must get some fresh air, I think.” Lady Wells had put one hand to her mouth, clearly feeling nauseous. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I had not thought I would react in such a way.”

He put one hand on her shoulder, sympathy rising in his chest. “Of course. Come. It is quite normal to feel so nervous, I believe, so you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” She was gone before he was finished speaking, obviously desperate to get the fresh air she needed. A small smile crossed his face as he ambled out after her, feeling sorry for her but knowing that she would do an excellent job regardless of how ill she felt. He had no doubt that she would be able to ride Beauchamp with all the skill she had done before, proving to both herself and to him that she had every right to be there.

“If only the ton could see it that way,” he muttered, ambling out slowly after her, his frustrations growing. Looking all about for her, he caught sight of her leaning heavily against one of the closed stalls that held another of the competitor’s horses, one hand clamped about her waist whilst a grim expression crossed her face. Making to go after her, he was suddenly caught by his name being shouted from somewhere behind him.

Turning, Matthew chuckled broadly at the sight of Lord Brighton and Lord Richardson, each waving a bit of paper in the air.

“You see?” Lord Richardson said with an injured air. “We have decided to bet on your horse after all. And you doubted that I would do so!”

Matthew grinned and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I am very glad you have chosen to do so,” he replied, as Lord Brighton chuckled. “Although I have only this afternoon told my jockey that he is to do his level best and that if he does not come out victorious, then that does not particularly matter.”

Lord Richardson’s face fell, his eyes widening with astonishment. “What? I have put a large sum on Beauchamp winning, Blackwell! You cannot–”

“I believe Blackwell has discovered that there are some things that are a little more important than merely winning a race,” Lord Brighton said, his eyes searching Matthew’s face, his voice and expression calm. “Has all turned out well then?”

“Yes, very well,” Matthew replied, as Lord Richardson mumbled under his breath that he had no idea whatsoever about what they were talking of. “I hope to have a definite answer from her soon, but thus far, all appears to be just as I had hoped.” He grinned, his heart lifting in his chest. “It seems that pursuing her in the very same way as I once pursued winning the Gold Cup did, in its own way, make things turn out aright.”

Lord Brighton nodded, smiling. “I am very glad to hear it,” he replied. “Although I must say that I too hope that Beauchamp does well.” He waved his piece of paper in Matthew’s face. “It is not often that I make such a large bet.”

“Although, if that is your jockey, then might I suggest you go to their aid at once?” Lord Richardson said, pointing to something over Matthew’s left shoulder. “Goodness! That is a wiry lad and no mistake.”

Turning, Matthew was horrified to see that Lady Wells was now having to defend herself against not one but three other lads. One of them pushed her back, hard, making her stumble, whilst another advanced towards her, his fists held high.

“Rigby!” Matthew shouted, seeing the third fellow grin horribly as Matthew drew near, his heart in his mouth as he did so. “Stay away from her!”

Rigby merely laughed and proceeded to launch himself at Lady Wells, knocking her to the ground and slamming one fist into her face. Lady Wells screamed and kicked, her cap and then her wig falling to the ground, betraying her disguise. With barely any time to think, Matthew launched himself at Rigby, grasping him by the collar and forcing him off Lady Wells, throwing him backwards against the stalls.

“Get away,” Matthew roared, his anger burning hot and running all through him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Rigby, his face going a deep scarlet, made to say something, only for his eyes to go back to Lady Wells, his mouth rounding to a circle of surprise. Matthew, not caring what Rigby thought, turned to help Lady Wells to her feet, seeing how some of her pins had tugged from her head and were now loosening her tresses from her head.

“A woman!” Rigby shouted, as Lady Wells leaned into Matthew, her eyes closed tight against the pain that must now be coursing through her cheek. “You have a woman as your jockey.”

“I do!” Matthew retorted, glaring at Rigby and not caring whether or not such a thing was known by everyone. “The rules state that anyone can race, do they not?” He saw Rigby’s dark smile falter, his eyes beginning to narrow. “Then why are you surprised that I have someone smaller, lighter, and better than any one of you here?”

“She will not be permitted,” Rigby repeated, his expression growing ugly. “You will fail again, Your Grace.” This was said with such sarcasm, such clear disdain, that it was all Matthew could do to remain precisely where he was and not, instead, plant Rigby a facer, as he dearly longed to do.

“Consider your own fortunes, Rigby,” he told the fellow, seeing how the smug smile on Rigby’s face began to fade. “You have just struck a woman to the ground. You are the one responsible for the damage to her face. What will people think of you now?”

This seemed to strike Rigby with a good deal more severity than anything Matthew had said before, for the man’s face went white, his eyes losing their anger, and the arrogant smile fading from his mouth. Matthew did not wait to say more but rather drew Lady Wells to his side, one arm about her shoulders and, turning, made their way back to Beauchamp and to the blessed cover of the roofed stall. No one would see her within, and he would have a few minutes to ensure she was not badly injured and shaken before making his way to find the officials of the Gold Cup race. No doubt the news would soon be all around Ascot Heath that he had a woman as his jockey. He would have to argue his case, of course, but he would do so with all fervor.

“I am fine. Truly,” Lady Wells murmured, as he let her go and bent down to look at her face. “I am not injured.”

Matthew winced, his eyes on the deep red mark to he

r cheekbone. Rigby had caught her rather well, unfortunately. “I am sorry such a thing has occurred, Lady Wells.”

“It is not your doing,” she replied softly, although he could see the hope fading in her eyes. “I do not think I shall be allowed to race now.”

He caught her chin and lifted it gently so that she was looking up into his eyes. “Do not give up hope yet, my dear,” he murmured, aware of how she softened under his gaze. “I will argue for you and pray that they will listen. Will you wait here?”

She nodded, reaching up to brush her fingers against his as he made to drop his hand. They held together for a moment, feeling the same sense of certainness that no matter what else occurred, they would have each other to turn to. The lightness in her eyes brought him joy, his smile growing steadily as she squeezed his fingers. On instinct, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the tips of them, feeling how she trembled.

“I must go before the rumors become too great,” he told her with regret. “If you will wait here?”

“Of course.” Their hands separated, and Matthew felt the loss of her touch like a sharp sting to his heart.

Tags: Lucy Adams London Season Matchmaker Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net