Read Chapter 12: Aftermath

The morning light was thin and grey over the Whitbury downs, the kind of light that promised rain before noon. Helena had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flash of metal—the nail, wicked and deliberate, wedged into the shoe of her best hope. And she saw Julian Croft’s face as he read the note, the way his jaw had tightened before he handed it over.

She found him where she expected to: at the stables, running a hand along the flank of a bay gelding that was not his own. He turned at her footstep, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

“You came back,” he said.

“I never left.” Helena stopped a few feet short of him, arms crossed. “I want to see the note again.”

Julian’s eyebrow rose. “I showed it to you.”

“You showed it to me in the dark, for thirty seconds, while I was shaking. Show me again.”

He studied her for a long moment, and then reached into his waistcoat. The paper was creased, the ink smudged at the edges. Helena took it and held it to the light.

*The grey will not run. The mare is spoken for.*

“Spoken for by whom?” she said, more to herself than to him.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to determine.” Julian leaned against the stall door, arms folded. “The hand is not Croft’s. I know his writing. This is someone who wanted it to look like him.”

Helena looked up sharply. “Why would you know Croft’s writing?”

Julian’s expression did not flicker. “Because I paid him a great deal of money last spring, and he insisted on hand-written receipts.”

For a moment, Helena’s suspicion warred with curiosity. “For what?”

“For the Eclipse trophy, as I told you. The one that now sits in my study and has caused you no small amount of grief.” He said it without rancor, almost gently. “I did not know it belonged to your family when I bought it. Pettifer assured me it came from a bankrupt estate.”

“It did,” Helena said, her voice flat. “Mine.”

Julian had the grace to look away. “I am sorry for that. Truly.”

Helena folded the note and handed it back. “Sorry does not unbreak my father’s heart. Now, you said you had a lead on Ned Stokes. A groom at the Three Kings. I want to go.”

“Now?”

“The trials are over. The main race is in a week. If Ned is not found and mounted, I may as well sell the horses now and save everyone the trouble.” She walked past him, toward the yard. “You can either come or stay behind. I don’t much care which.”

She heard his boots in the gravel before he caught up to her. He was taller than she remembered, or perhaps she only noticed it now, in the grey morning, when there was no ballroom to distract her.

“You’ll not go alone,” he said.

“I’ve gone alone my whole life.”

“And look where it has landed you.”

She stopped so abruptly he nearly walked into her. “And where is that, Mr. Croft? Pray tell. I should love to hear your assessment.”

Julian’s face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—not mockery, not quite sympathy. “Standing in a stable yard at dawn, arguing with a man you do not trust, because you have no one else to argue with.”

The truth of it stung more than any insult. Helena opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came.

Julian gestured toward the lane. “The Three Kings is a mile down the coaching road. Shall we?”

The inn was ramshackle in the way of places that served only travelers who had nowhere better to be. A fire smoked in the grate, and two old men played cards in the corner, paying them no mind. Helena had learned long ago that a woman in breeches attracted less attention than a woman in skirts, and so she had dressed for the morning in her brother’s old habit, narrow trousers and a worn coat that smelled of hay. Julian had looked at her once and said nothing, which she supposed was its own kind of compliment.

The landlord directed them to a lad mucking out the stables out back—a boy of fourteen or so, with a face like a startled rabbit when they approached.

“You’re looking for Ned Stokes?” The boy wiped his hands on his trousers. “He was here Tuesday last. Paid his tab in silver and left a letter to be delivered to his sister.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Julian asked.

“North, I think. He kept watching the door, like he was waiting for someone to follow him.” The boy hesitated. “There was a man here that morning too. Didn’t talk to Ned, but he watched him. Dark coat, grey at the temples. I remember because he had the oddest habit of tapping his fingers on the bar, even when he wasn’t saying anything.”

Helena’s blood went cold. “Three taps, then two?”

The boy considered. “I didn’t count, miss.”

“Did he speak? Do you remember his voice?”

“Said only one word to the barman. ‘Waiting.’ And then he left.”

Helena turned and walked out of the stable, Julian close behind her. The morning wind had picked up, and she pulled her coat tighter.

“You know that man,” Julian said. It was not a question.

“Lord Eastman,” she said. “Taps his fingers in that rhythm before every business deal my father ever mentioned. He’s our neighbor. He has wanted the Ashworth land for a decade.”

Julian frowned. “Eastman is a peer, not a racing man.”

“He is patient,” Helena said. “And he knows that ruin can be accomplished many ways. Poach my jockey. Spook my horse. Spread word that the Ashworth stables are cursed.” She looked at him sharply. “And if it were known that I was desperate enough to accept a false engagement with him, he might push for terms I cannot refuse.”

Julian’s face went very still. “Your engagement to Eastman—that was his proposal?”

“His ‘arrangement,’ he called it. A way to save face while my father’s debts were quietly assumed. He did not ask me to love him. He only asked me to sign.”

“And you refused.”

“I told him I would sooner marry my horse.” Helena smiled grimly. “He did not find it amusing.”

They walked in silence down the lane back toward the main road. Helena’s mind was churning. Eastman at the inn. Eastman who had circled her father for years with offers of loans and quiet acquisitions. Eastman who had appeared at Lady Aldersgate’s soiree with a smile that never reached his eyes, pressing her hand a moment too long.

“He knows Ned’s sister is in debt,” she said, thinking aloud. “He would use that. He has no shame.”

“Then we find the sister,” Julian said. “Before he does more damage.”

Helena stopped and turned to face him. “Why do you care?”

Julian looked at her for a long moment. The wind had picked up, and a few loose strands of his hair had escaped their binding. He did not answer at once.

“Because your father’s horses deserve better than to die in ignominy,” he said finally. “And because I have a stake in this race that I have not fully explained.”

“Explain it.”

“Not yet.”

Helena felt the familiar surge of frustration, but there was something else beneath it now—a curiosity she did not want to name. “You are the most infuriating man in England.”

“I have been called worse.”

They resumed walking. The sky had shifted, the grey thinning in patches to a watery yellow where the sun strained to break through. Helena found herself matching his stride without meaning to, her shorter legs working to keep pace.

“I still do not trust you,” she said.

“That is wise.”

“And if I find that you had any hand in the sabotage, I will see you ruined.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

She glanced at him sidelong. Julian’s face was composed, but there was the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It was not the mocking grin of their first encounters. It was something quieter, more real.

They reached the crest of the hill where the road split—one branch leading back to the inn, the other toward the Ashworth estate. Far below, she could see the white rails of the Whitbury course, empty now, waiting.

“The main races are Saturday,” Julian said.

“I know.”

“You will ride?”

“I will race,” Helena corrected. “Whether my horse runs true is another matter.”

Julian looked at her, and something in his expression shifted—softened, perhaps, though she could not be certain. “I have acquaintances who understand horses. If you will permit me, I would like to send a man to examine your stable. Unbiased eyes.”

Helena considered refusing out of principle. But the morning had worn away some of her edges, and pride was a luxury she could no longer afford.

“Fine,” she said. “But if he touches my tack, I will shoot him.”

“I will relay the threat.”

They stood for a moment longer in the cold, and Helena was suddenly aware of how near they were—a foot apart, perhaps less. The wind carried the scent of him, wood smoke and something sharp and clean.

“I should go,” she said.

“Yes.”

Neither moved.

“Lady Helena,” Julian said, and she looked up. His eyes were dark, intent. “Whatever you think of me, I want you to know that I would not harm a horse. Not yours, not any. Whatever else I am, I am not that.”

Helena held his gaze. The words lodged somewhere in her chest, unexpected.

“I believe you,” she said, and was surprised to find that she meant it. A little.

The dowager’s carriage arrived at the Ashworth gates at noon, bearing an invitation on thick cream paper sealed with the Fanshawe crest. It was addressed to both of them—Lady Helena Ashworth and Mr. Julian Croft—and requested the pleasure of their company in the dowager’s box at the Whitbury races, Saturday next.

Helena read it twice, then a third time.

“She invites us together,” she said to the butler.

“Indeed, my lady. The footman said the countess was most particular that both parties attend.”

Helena turned the card over in her hands. It was not an accident, she was certain of that. Lady Fanshawe had seen them at the trials, seen Julian pull her from the path of disaster, seen them disappear together to search for the cause. The dowager was no fool.

She folded the invitation carefully and tucked it into her pocket. She did not know what game the countess was playing, but she knew she would be at that race, with Julian at her side, whether she trusted him or not.

The world narrowed to this: the race, the proof, the impossible hope of saving everything her father had built.

And, perhaps, the unsettling warmth she had felt watching Julian Croft walk beside her in the morning light, a man who kept his own counsel and yet had somehow found his way into hers.