Deene smiled at her, a private, challenging smile. A smile that said, “You can do this,” and even, “I know you can do this.”

He’d hatched up a daring plan, a crazy plan—and a plan that could work.

“Come, Aelfreth.” Deene’s voice was raised a little, to carry over the bustle in the barn. “Your horse and your adoring public await you.”

Eve checked the chinstrap on her cap and tried to swagger out to the yard like a jockey. Deene tossed her up on the little racing saddle, then climbed aboard a very sleepy Beast. Kesmore, on his black, came up on William’s other side, and they moved off toward the noise of the crowds at the starting line.

William was on a fine edge, bursting with the need to compete but still mindful of the rider on his back.

“Don’t override,” Kesmore muttered as they moved off, “but don’t underride either, lest the horse start taking matters into his own hands, except a horse hasn’t any hands.”

He sighed gustily and took another quick nip from his flask. “I’ve married into a family of lunatics, and now the Denning line must strengthen this deplorable tendency. I’m not having any children, and what children I do have aren’t going to be given any ponies. They shall ride pigs, see if they don’t.”

“Joseph.” Deene’s tone held banked humor. “You are excused. Find Louisa and try not to lose your composure entirely.”

“Louisa awaits us on the rise, the better to plan my commitment to Bedlam as this race unfolds.” He kneed his horse off to the right, leaving Eve riding beside her husband to the line that would mark the start of the race.

Dolan’s gray was dancing around beneath his jockey, looking barely sane, gorgeous, and quite put out with the idiot holding onto his bridle.

“Evie?” Deene halted Beast, who seemed content to come to a bleary-eyed stop amid all the mayhem and tension of the impending race.

“They’re waiting for us, Deene.”

“Let them. Turn William as if you’re letting him study the flags and pennants. Let him see the crowd as he’ll see it when he roars up to the finish.”

Not a detail. Eve had lectured herself at length not to forget this at the last minute, and here she’d gone…

“Listen to me, dearest, most precious wife, but pat the horse while you do, because Dolan is looking this way.”

Eve thumped William soundly on the neck, as a male jockey might.

“You will win this race not because we have money riding on the outcome. I assure you we can afford the loss, and we don’t honestly need the coin if we win. I promise you this. You will win this race not because it means we keep William—he’s already covered every mare I could possibly put him to. I promise you this as well.”

He wasn’t finished. Eve gathered up her reins just as Goblin started to prop in earnest, and the stewards started motioning her closer to the starting line.

“There is more I would say, my dear.” Deene reached over and stroked a hand down her shoulder, and Eve felt all manner of tension dissipating at just his touch. “You will win this race because it is yours to win, because this horse is yours to command. I have every faith in you, every faith. But if you don’t win, that hardly matters. I will love you for the rest of my days and beyond, because when I asked for your trust, you gave it to me.”

Another pat to her shoulder, and then he gathered up his reins and signaled to the steward that the horse and rider wearing the Denning colors were ready for the start.

Eve nudged William over to the starting line—the start was a dangerous, tricky moment—gathered up her reins, and crouched low over William’s glossy neck. Lucas Denning had just told her he loved her, he trusted her, and he would love her for all the rest of his days.

He believed she could win. He believed she would win. Eve tried to believe it too.

* * *

“Dolan is headed this way on a showy buckskin.” Kesmore passed his flask to Lady Louisa, who took a delicate sip and offered it to Deene.

“No, thank you.” Not for one instant would Deene take his eyes off the horses sprinting forward from the start. The start was a critical moment in any race—a dangerous moment—but Eve had taken up a position off Goblin’s left shoulder. She could pace Dolan’s stallion from there without being at risk for getting kicked or—inadvertently or otherwise—thwacked by the riding crop Goblin’s jockey held in his right hand.

Kesmore put his flask away and kept his voice down. “One hesitates to point out the obvious, Deene, but by every Jockey Club rule book in the known world, a female jockey’s ride will be disqualified.”

“One comprehends this.”

Lady Louisa’s horse shifted, as if Eve’s sister might not have been aware of this fact.

“Then why in blazes,” Kesmore went on in a rasped whisper, “would you put your wife at risk for injury or worse, much less scandal, if no matter how well she rides, the results cannot inure to your benefit?”

“Yes,” Louisa echoed, her tone truculent. “Why in blazes?”

The horses cleared the first fence almost as a unit, clipping along at a terrific pace.

“On this course, on that horse, my wife is as safe as Lady Louisa is perched on that pretty, docile mare. And as for the rest of it, I know exactly what hangs in the balance. There will be some talk, of course, but weathering a bit of gossip is almost a Windham marital tradition.”

He fell silent, lest he part with a few other things he knew.

For example, because he knew his horse and jockey so well, Deene saw Eve subtly check William as they approached the shadowed jump. The horse did not slow, but rather focused his attention more carefully on the upcoming obstacle. They cleared it a half stride behind Goblin—who’d chipped, taking a short, ungainly stride for his takeoff—and landed in perfect rhythm.

“Whatever else is true,” Kesmore said quietly, “that is one hell of a rider on your colt.”

One hell of a rider, indeed, and one hell of a colt. Aware of Dolan approaching on his showy mount, Deene did not share what else he knew of that rider, which included the fact that in all the weeks of their marriage, she had not been burdened with the female indisposition even once.

* * *

Three strides away from the start, Eve had known she wasn’t on some flighty two-year-old. William knew his job, relished his job, and intended to see to the matter of trouncing Goblin without a great deal of interference from Eve.

She had been tempted to use the first fence to disabuse the colt of his arrogant notions, to use a safe, easy fence to insist on a little submission from three-quarter ton of muscle and speed—except William’s pacing was perfect, his takeoff flawless, and his landing so light Eve merely murmured some encouragement to him.

Where an argument might have started, she instead complimented the horse, and so when she had to point out to him that a fence lay in the upcoming shadows, he was attentive to her aids and cleared the thing in the same perfect rhythm.

Goblin’s jockey hadn’t fared quite as well, the big gray being more intent on maintaining the lead than listening to his rider. Because of their bickering, they took off too close to the jump again, while Eve kept William a few feet off Goblin’s shoulder and snugged herself down to the colt’s back. The brush fence was coming up, and brush had been known to reach up and pluck an unwary rider from the saddle merely by getting tangled between boots, stirrup leathers, horse, and rider.

* * *

“Lady Kesmore, Kesmore.” Dolan spoke from the back of his golden gelding. “Deene. Your colt is giving a good account of himself.”

Deene nodded, not trusting himself to speak to a man who would stoop to drugging either horse or jockey, much less both.

The crowd roared as the horses, neck and neck, thundered up to the water… the goddamned water, with the goddamned mud that scared Evie so.

“Holy Christ.” Dolan’s oath underscored Deene’s own prayers. Whether William had taken the initiative or Eve had cued the horse, the colt soared high over the water, jumping bank to bank in a mighty, heaving leap, landing clear on the other side but losing ground to the other horse merely by spending so much time in the air.

“Your colt is a formidable jumper,” Dolan said, frowning. “Though perhaps not in the hands of the most prudent rider.”

* * *

“Good boy.” Eve didn’t risk patting William again, but the horse flicked his ears as if listening for her voice. Their decision at the water had been justified when Goblin had landed closer to the far bank and had to scramble for footing. The instant’s loss of forward momentum by the gray had William surging forward, claiming the lead. The horse would have widened the gap even farther, except Eve countermanded his wishes. Too much of the race lay ahead to be using up reserves of speed that would be needed for the long straightaway at the end, and much could happen between one jump and the next.

* * *

“I hate this fence.”

Deene didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Dolan nodded. “It sits up there on that small rise, an oasis amid boggy ground, tempting the unwary to overjump, and all manner of mayhem can ensue when the horses are running this closely.”

As Eve and William galloped headlong toward the fourteenth fence, Deene was aware of resentment that, of all the thousands of people gathered around the racecourse that morning, he and Dolan were sharing a particular bond exclusive to the two of them. Maybe it was what he’d sought—some acknowledgement of their familial connection—but watching Eve put herself on the line, jump after jump, it was hard not to hate Georgie’s father.