Read Chapter 13: Coals and Carriages

The grandstand at Newmarket thrummed with a low, excited hum, the crowd a patchwork of silks and muslins pressed shoulder to shoulder against the rails. Helena had positioned herself at the edge of Lord Aldersgate’s box, one gloved hand resting on the balustrade, her eyes fixed on the parade ring below where her father’s bay colt, Stormrider, was being walked in slow, deliberate circles.

He looked well. Bright-eyed. Alert.

She allowed herself a single, quiet breath of relief before the presence beside her registered—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing that faint, knowing smile that had become as familiar as the ache in her own chest.

“You’re staring at him as though he might bolt at any moment,” Julian murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

“He might,” she replied without looking at him. “He’s a horse. That’s what they do.”

“And yet you trust him with your family’s name.”

Helena’s jaw tightened. She turned to face him fully, taking in the cut of his dark blue coat, the crisp white of his cravat, the way his dark hair caught the pale October sun. He looked every inch the London investor today—composed, calculating, and entirely too aware of the effect he had on a room.

“I trust him more than I trust most men,” she said.

Julian’s smile widened. “A wise policy. Though I had hoped I might have earned a sliver of exception by now.”

She was about to deliver a retort when a commotion rippled through the crowd below. Heads turned. Voices rose. And Lord Eastman, red-faced and bristling, was striding across the turf toward the Aldersgate box with the singular purpose of a man who intended to make a scene.

Helena’s stomach dropped.

“Lady Helena Ashworth!” Eastman’s voice carried, pitched to reach the surrounding spectators. He stopped below the box, pointing up at her with a trembling finger. “You will answer for this—now, before witnesses!”

The chatter around them died. Even the horses in the parade ring seemed to still, as though the very turf were holding its breath.

Helena forced herself to smile, though her pulse hammered in her throat. “Lord Eastman, what a pleasure. I was not aware you had taken to addressing ladies from the mud. Has your horse thrown you already?”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, but Eastman’s color deepened to a dangerous purple.

“You dare mock me? You, who have conspired to cheat me of a fair race?” He turned to the assembled spectators, spreading his arms. “I have proof—proof that the Ashworth stable has been running a ringed horse in trials. A horse that was never properly registered with the Jockey Club. A horse bought under false pretenses to win wagers against honest men.”

Helena’s blood ran cold. Ringed. The accusation was catastrophic—if believed, it would cast doubt on every race her father had ever run.

“That is a lie,” she said, her voice steady despite the roaring in her ears. “Stormrider is bred and raised on Ashworth land. Every lineage paper is in order.”

“Papers can be forged,” Eastman shot back. “And I have a witness—a groom from your own stables—who will swear before the stewards that your father purchased a horse from Ireland under another name and has been passing it off as his own bloodstock for the past two seasons.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. Helena felt the ground tilt beneath her.

She had no witness. She had no papers with her. And her father was not here to defend himself.

“Lord Eastman.” The voice came from behind her—low, measured, and carrying an edge of steel that cut through the murmur like a blade. Julian stepped forward, coming to stand at Helena’s side. He did not touch her, but his presence steadied her more than a hand ever could. “You speak of proof. I would very much like to see it.”

Eastman sneered up at him. “And who are you to demand anything, Mr. Vale? A tradesman with pretensions. Your presence here is tolerated at Lady Aldersgate’s pleasure, nothing more.”

“Quite right,” Julian said, unruffled. “I am a tradesman. And tradesmen, my lord, are very good with numbers. Which is why I took the liberty of examining the Jockey Club’s registration rolls myself—this morning, in fact.”

Helena stared at him. He had said nothing of this.

Eastman’s sneer faltered. “You—you had no right. Those are private records.”

“They are public records,” Julian corrected mildly, “for any interested party with the correct credentials. And my credentials, as it happens, are impeccable.” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his coat and held it up. “A listing, my lord, dated three years past. The purchase of a bay colt by one Lord Eastman from a dealer in County Cork. The very same colt, if I am not mistaken, that you have been running under the name Regent’s Gambit.”

The crowd gasped. Helena’s breath caught.

Eastman’s face went from purple to white. “That is—that is a forgery!”

“Is it?” Julian’s voice was calm, almost pleasant. “I wonder. Shall we ask the stewards to examine the handwriting? I have several letters from your own hand, my lord, for comparison—courtesy of Lady Aldersgate’s correspondence files. You are a regular correspondent, I believe, regarding her late husband’s estate.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

And then the dowager herself rose from her chair. Lady Aldersgate had been watching the exchange with an expression of careful neutrality, but now she moved to stand beside Julian and Helena, her cane tapping against the wooden floor of the box with each deliberate step.

“Lord Eastman.” Her voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the grandstand. “You have come before me and my guests with accusations of cheating. It appears the cheating was yours all along. I will not have my races—or my box—besmirched by such conduct.”

Eastman opened his mouth, but the dowager raised one hand.

“You are dismissed. I will speak with the stewards regarding your registration. I suggest you leave Newmarket before I am forced to make my displeasure more… public.”

For a moment, Eastman stood frozen, his face working. Then he turned and stalked away through the crowd, which parted before him like water before a ship’s prow.

The murmur rose again behind him, but it was different now—curious, excited, scandalized in a far more pleasant way.

Lady Aldersgate turned to Helena and Julian. Her eyes moved between them, sharp and assessing.

“Well,” she said. “It seems you two are more useful together than either of you is alone. I shall have to think on what that means.”

She returned to her chair without another word.

Helena found she could not speak. Her throat was tight, her hands trembling with the aftermath of the confrontation. She turned to Julian, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

“You had the papers,” she finally managed. “You knew about Eastman’s horse. You knew he would try something today.”

“I suspected,” Julian said. “He has been watching your stable too closely. A man who watches that closely is usually looking for an angle.” He tucked the paper back into his coat. “It was not difficult to find the truth once I knew where to look.”

Helena’s mind raced. He had known. He had come prepared. And he had not told her.

“You could have let me fall,” she said slowly. “You could have watched me fail before Lady Aldersgate. It would have suited your purposes.”

Julian’s expression shifted, something flickering in his dark eyes. “Would it?”

“You said yourself—you are here for business. For the races. For whatever profit the Ashworth estate represents.” She took a step closer, searching his face. “What do you want, Julian?”

For a long moment, he simply looked at her. The noise of the crowd faded; the horses paraded on below, unaware of the battle that had just been fought above them.

“I want,” Julian said slowly, “to see this season through. And I want to see you cross the finish line with your name intact.” A slight pause. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

Helena held his gaze. She wanted to believe it. That was the trouble.

And she had already learned that wanting was not the same as having.

“I do not know what to believe,” she said quietly. “I only know that I owe you now. Again. And I have nothing left to repay you with except gratitude—and I suspect that is not a currency you accept.”

Julian’s smile returned, but it was softer now. Less sure.

“Perhaps I am learning to accept it,” he said. “Though I would prefer it if you would stop almost throwing yourself off horses. My heart can only take so much.”

Before she could respond, a liveried footman appeared at Lady Aldersgate’s side. The dowager listened to his whispered message, her expression shifting to something sharp and pleased. She looked over at Helena.

“Lady Ashworth,” she called. “It seems the stewards have completed a preliminary review of the registration records. Lord Eastman’s horse has been scratched from all remaining races this season. Your father’s colt has been cleared—and the stewards extend their apologies for any distress caused.”

The words washed over Helena like cool water. She inclined her head, so full of relief she feared she might cry.

“I am grateful, my lady. Please convey my thanks to the stewards.”

The dowager nodded, and then her gaze moved to Julian. Something passed between them—a look Helena could not read.

“Mr. Vale,” the dowager said. “Attend me in my carriage after the third race. There are matters I wish to discuss with you.”

Julian bowed. “Of course, my lady.”

Helena watched him straighten, watched the easy mask settle back over his features, and felt the familiar unease twist in her chest.

He had saved her. He had saved her father’s name. And still, she knew, there were pieces of him she could not see.

She turned back to the parade ring, where Stormrider had been led away to the saddling enclosure. The race would go on. The season would go on. And somewhere in the shadows, she suspected, Lord Eastman was not the only enemy she had to fear.