Knowing it would do no good to argue, she simply smiled. "The betting post is just over there." She pointed in that direction and let him lead her toward their destination.
The day was warm and sunny, the sky an azure blue with just a few wispy clouds floating above the racecourse. As Mondale guided her across the grass to place her wager, Vermillion's gaze strayed toward the horse barns. The first of the Thoroughbreds entered in the sweepstakes were being led out of their stalls and into the sunlight. Her gaze went in search of Noir and she spotted his gleaming black coat emerging through the wide double doors, prancing along beside his trainer.
The horse shied once, but Tanner spoke to him softly and Noir settled back down. Lee watched Tanner control the powerful horse with a skill she had rarely seen, saw the way his big hands slid so gently along the stallion's neck, and her stomach fluttered oddly. Vermillion fixed her eyes on Noir and stood rigidly next to Mondale as trainer and stallion approached.
For an instant, Tanner's dark gaze sliced to Lord Andrew before returning to her, and an expression of disdain appeared on the hard, handsome planes of his face.
"He is really quite something," Mondale said. "Prime horseflesh and no doubt." He reached out to pet the horse's nose. Noir snorted, tossed his beautiful head, and tried to back away.
"Easy, boy," Tanner said in a voice as soft and smooth as honey left out in the sun. He flicked a glance at Lord Andrew. "The color of your coat hurts his eyes. Maybe you'd better not get too close."
Though Mondale's features tightened, Vermillion fought down a laugh. She tried to be offended in Andrew's behalf, but the saffron yellow coat was atrocious. The amazing thing was that Tanner had the audacity to point it out.
"As Lord Andrew was, until now, unaware of Noir's taste in men's fashion," she said, "I'm sure the color of his tailcoat can be overlooked just this once."
The corner of Tanner's mouth edged up.
Andrew fixed the trainer with a warning glare, then returned his attention to her. "Your stallion looks in fine form, pet. I daresay, he's a rare galloper. I think he has a very good chance of winning."
"Chance has little to do with it," Tanner put in from a few feet away. "Noir has by far the best breeding. He's the fastest of the lot and the best prepared."
Andrew's face began to turn red. He wasn't used to receiving setdowns from the servants. Vermillion cast Tanner a look that told him he had better remember his place and stepped into the breach.
"He is definitely facing a difficult field of competitors," she said to Lord Andrew, "but Noir loves to race and he's going to win. Which is why we must hurry, my lord, and get our bets in place before the race begins."
Mondale cast a last disdainful glance at Tanner. "Exactly so." He extended his arm. "Come, my beauty."
Lee felt Tanner's eyes on her the moment she took Andrew's arm. She didn't miss the disapproval on his face as they walked away. She tried to smile, but it wasn't that easy to do.
Noir won the race, beating the next two horses, both top competitors in the field, by more than three lengths. Caleb kept his job and even received a faintly grudging compliment from the stallion's pretty owner, who hadn't spoken to him since.
By day he continued his work with the horses. As the youngest son of the Earl of Selhurst, he had been raised at the family estate in York. At Selhurst Manor, his father owned and bred some of the finest racing stock in England. Love of horses and racing were the two things he and his father had in common.
Horses had led him to a commission in the cavalry and a decision to make the service his career. Now, in a strange, unexpected way, he was enjoying his simple day's work in the stable, enjoying the thrill of seeing an animal he had worked with pit itself against a field of the very best livestock—and win.
It was the nights that left him tense and edgy, frustrated with the lack of progress he was making in his assignment.
On top of that, watching Vermillion with her endless string of wilting admirers left a bad taste in his mouth. At Epsom, she had spent most of her time with Mondale. Having lived only briefly in London and rarely moving about in Society, Caleb had never met the man, but gossip about him was rampant. Mondale was one of the most notorious rakes in London.
Caleb couldn't imagine what Vermillion saw in the simpering fop. He was a swaggering boor, as far as Caleb was concerned, and just thinking about the two of them together made a knot form in his stomach. He tried not to think of the man's pale hands on Vermillion's luscious breasts, tried not to imagine him lying next to her in bed. Determinedly he shoved the unwelcome image away and forced himself to concentrate on the job he had come there to do.
It was almost midnight. Darkness had settled over the fields and meadows around the house and quiet enveloped the landscape. Caleb moved away from the window at the rear of the mansion. With a dense growth of leafy foliage surrounding the mullioned panes, it was a safe place to view the drawing room and the stairwell leading to the second floor. The house was quiet tonight—an unusual occurrence—the Durant women retired upstairs to their respective bedchambers.
Earlier, he had seen Lord Claymont arrive, an imposing man in his late forties, and watched him make his way to the rear of the mansion to a private entrance heavily overgrown with ivy. There was a staircase just inside the door, Caleb saw, presumably to the room occupied by his mistress, Gabriella Durant.
Word was, for the past four years, Gabriella had forsaken her other lovers in favor of a long-term liaison with Claymont. From Caleb's observations thus far, the gossip appeared to be true. The woman was getting older, her looks very subtly beginning to fade. Perhaps she felt it was time to fix her interest on an individual. Whatever the reason, Gabriella was in bed with her lover and Vermillion had gone upstairs as well, and as she had done each night since his arrival, she had retired alone.
Caleb still wasn't certain what that meant. During the briefing he had received on his arrival in London, Colonel Cox had relayed a rumor that Vermillion meant to end her string of affairs. On the occasion of her birthday, she had vowed to choose a protector from one of her current lovers. Perhaps she had decided to remain celibate until then.
Whatever the reason, there was little he could discover tonight. Caleb turned away from the house and made his way across the courtyard to the stable, determined to get some long-overdue sleep. Expecting the barn to be dark, he slowed when he noticed the glow of a lantern burning in one of the stalls and heard the soft sound of straw being shuffled about.
Entering quietly, Caleb approached the stall. It was the empty one, he saw, the one the fat yellow cat had commandeered for herself. The animal was stretched out on a bed of fresh hay, her insides heaving in and out as if she had just finished a race. Five tiny yellow kittens lay beside her, and stroking the cat's striped fur, Vermillion bent over, giving Caleb a glimpse of her thick red braid. Dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, she looked more like a servant than an occupant of the house.
He must have made some sound. Her head jerked up and her gaze turned toward him. He saw that her face was free of paint. Her expression was bleak, her aqua eyes luminous with tears. This woman was Lee, not Vermillion, and her obvious distress bothered him in a way he hadn't expected.
"What's wrong?" His stride lengthened as he walked toward her. "What's happened?"
She swallowed, shook her head. "It's Muffin. I came out to check on her and found her in labor. It must have been going on for hours. She's had five kittens so far, but there's still one more. It think it may be breached or something. She can't push it out. I think she's dying."