He and his father had discussed at length whether or not to tell the three stewards of the Jockey Club-the Committee who oversaw the running of the club and its regulations. Despite the risk, they decided against it; neither felt sure the three stewards could be counted on to keep their lips shut.
Not even for a few hours on the morning of the race.
The first day of the October meeting dawned fine and clear. The races on that day were showcase events for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds, followed by a series of privately sponsored challenges. With the weather cooperating, a carnival-like atmosphere prevailed. Dillon, the General, Flick, and Demon spent most of the day at the track. They were local identities, making their absence too notable to risk.
For that first day, Pris, Rus, and Patrick were strictly forbidden even the environs of Newmarket, the former two because, with the influx of visitors, many from London and also Ireland, the chance that someone might recognize them had escalated. Patrick was delegated to ensure that the wild and reckless duo didn’t conspire to egg each other on in some foolhardy scheme to join the crowds.
As the hours of Monday ticked by, there wasn’t one of their band who didn’t feel the spur of impatience, who wasn’t eager to see the next day dawn.
A slew of trophy races, including the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was scheduled to feature, were slated for the second day. The morning session would comprise five races, all with outstanding fields-all certain to generate considerable excitement among the hordes of gentlemen and the select group of ladies who had descended on Newmarket, home to the sport of kings.
At last, the sun went down, and the end of Monday was nigh. Night fell over Newmarket, leaving the town a bright sea of lamps as parties and dinners and all manner of entertainments kept the crowds amused. But beyond the town, beyond the houses, out around the track and all over the Heath, quiet darkness descended, and enveloped all.
The hour before dawn was the chilliest, and the darkest. On that Tuesday morning, the Cynster runners left their warm stable at the ungodly hour of four o’clock; watched over by Demon, with Flick mounted beside him, they started their slow, ambling walk to the holding stalls beside the track. Accustomed to early-morning track work, the horses were unperturbed, content enough to walk slowly along between the mounts of their stable lads, riding beside them, leading reins in hand.
As the cavalcade of six runners, their accompanying crew, and sundry other accompanying horses drew level with the Hillgate End gates, another pair of horses emerged from the shadows and became one with the larger group.
Lips tightening, Demon nodded to the slight figure atop one of Flick’s older hacks; disheveled, a cloth cap pulled low over her eyes, a woollen muffler wound about her throat and chin, Pris held Blistering Belle’s reins loosely in one hand. Slightly slouched, at first glance indistinguishable from the stable lads leading Demon’s and Flick’s runners, she led the horse all their hopes rode upon toward the track.
Her position in their plan had very nearly brought the whole undone. Dillon, Rus, Patrick, Barnaby, and Demon himself had all argued hotly against her taking the role of Blistering Belle’s “lad,” leading the horse to the track, then into the stable and performing the actual switch before leading the other black filly away. It was the most dangerous as well as the most vital role of all.
They’d ranted and raved, only to have the wind taken from their sails by Flick’s acerbic comment that Pris was the only one who could do what needed to be done. Acceptance of that truth had been painful, for Rus and Dillon most of all, but there’d been no other choice.
Blistering Belle had formed a close bond with Rus; she trusted him implicitly and would follow him anywhere. Unfortunately, she didn’t like Rus leaving her; every time he did, she whinnied, kicked her stall, did everything in her female equine repertoire to bring him back.
Rus couldn’t lead her into Figgs’s stable and switch her for the other filly. Belle wouldn’t stand for it-she’d create such a ruckus that everyone, led by Crom, would come running. However, as Rus couldn’t risk being seen by Harkness or Crom anyway, especially not with Belle or her look-alike, he hadn’t been a contender for the role.
Initially, no one had seen the problem looming, but when they’d tried to get Belle to allow one of Dillon’s grooms to lead her, they’d discovered she’d grown wary of being led by anyone she didn’t trust. She hadn’t liked being stuck in the isolated stable and was now not prepared to let just anyone lead her away.
They’d tried everyone, even Barnaby. The only one Belle would accept was Pris, almost certainly because she could lower her voice to an approximation of her twin’s, and the cadences of their speech as well as their accents were strikingly similar-even, it seemed, to equine ears.
Belle recognized Pris as a friend. She would happily walk with Pris leading her; most importantly, she would with perfect equanimity allow Pris to put her in a stall and leave her, even when Pris took out another horse instead.
Pris leaving her was acceptable; Rus leaving her was not.
The male mutterings such feminine perversity provoked had lasted for hours, but nothing could change the hard fact that Pris it had to be.
Last night, she’d remained at the stud, being coached by Demon, Flick, Rus, and Dillon as to what she might expect, how to behave in various situations. Eyeing her as they ambled along, Demon uttered a silent prayer that they’d covered all possible eventualities. He glanced at Flick riding beside him. Although it went against the grain, he would have preferred her in Pris’s position; Flick had grown up about Newmarket racetrack, knew everything there was to know about the stables and race mornings-she knew everything Pris didn’t.
The road reached the edge of the Heath; instead of continuing along the beaten surface, the cavalcade took to the turf, taking the most direct line to the track, the shortest distance for their runners to walk. The steady clop of iron-shod hooves changed to a muted thud.
Away from the trees, the air seemed colder, the wreathing mists damper, chillier. Demon lifted his head, scented the faint breeze, studied the clouds overhead. The day would be fine; once the sun rose, the mists would burn off. It would be another perfect day for racing.
He glanced again at Pris and saw her shiver. He was wearing a thick greatcoat; Flick was well wrapped in a warm pelisse. Pris wore a threadbare ancient jacket, not thick enough to keep the morning chill at bay, but she had to appear to be the stable lad she was emulating. Jaw setting, Demon forced himself to look away.
Pris wasn’t sure that the shivers that rippled through her had anything to do with the misty chill. She was so tense, it was a wonder her horse wasn’t jibbing and shifting and dancing with impatience. And nerves; hers were stretched tighter than they’d ever been.
Beside her, Belle plodded along, content to be among her kind again. Her head lifted now and again as she looked ahead, almost as if she could sense the track. While watching Rus train her over the last days, Pris had learned that some horses simply loved to run, and Belle was one; she seemed eager to race, to run, to win.
Everything hung on her doing so, but after the last days, that was the least of Pris’s worries. Getting Belle into the stable and the other horse out without Crom knowing, and without Rus doing anything to call attention to himself along the way, loomed as the biggest hurdle.
Other than the odd comment between the lads, the occasional breathy snort of a horse and the muted jangle of a harness, the cavalcade advanced in silence across the wide green sward.