Read Chapter 25: The Curve in the Track

The morning mist clung to the Whitbury training grounds like a second skin, and Helena welcomed it—it kept prying eyes from the paddock where she and Julian put Smoke through his paces. Three weeks until the Stakes. Three weeks of dawn rides and whispered strategy, of Julian's shoulder brushing hers as they adjusted tack, of pretending her heart did not stutter each time he caught her gaze.

"Again," she called, circling Smoke to the left. "He's favoring his off-fore on the turns."

Julian leaned from his mount, a borrowed bay gelding Ned had produced from somewhere, and studied the colt's gait. "You're right. The farrier—"

"The farrier was here Tuesday. Ned checked the shoes himself." Helena pulled Smoke up, frowning. "It's the track. The ground's too soft on the inside rail after the rain. He's compensating."

"Then we work him outside." Julian wheeled the bay around. "Wider turns, harder surface. Build the muscle memory."

She almost smiled. Two weeks ago, he would have argued with her diagnosis. Now he simply trusted it. The thought warmed her more than it should.

They worked the horses for another hour, until the sun burned through the mist and the sounds of the estate woke around them. Helena had just dismounted to check Smoke's legs when Ned Stokes appeared at the paddock gate, his face gray as ash.

"My lady." He pulled off his cap, twisting it between weathered hands. "You'd best come to the stables."

Her blood chilled. "What is it?"

"Not the horses, my lady. It's—" He swallowed. "Someone's been in the feed room. There's a sack of oats gone, and I found this in its place."

He held out a scrap of paper. She took it, her fingers trembling, and read the single line scrawled in an unfamiliar hand:

*Colts run faster on empty stomachs.*

"What does that mean?" Julian had dismounted, reading over her shoulder. His jaw tightened. "Poison."

"Or something worse." Helena crumpled the note, rage hot and bright in her chest. "Eastman."

"We don't know that."

"Who else would sabotage a racehorse?" She stalked toward the stables, Julian matching her stride. "He learned of the training. He knows the dowager is sponsoring us—"

"Or he knows you're racing at all and wants to ensure his engagement proceeds undisturbed." Julian's voice was flat. "Either way, he's made his move."

Ned had followed them, his face still pale. "The horses are fine, my lady. I checked every stall before I came to you. But whoever did this knew our routine. Knew which sack was Smoke's feed."

Helena stopped at the stable door, her hand on the worn wood. "How would he know that?"

"Perhaps he doesn't need to." Julian's eyes swept the yard. "Ned, who's been about the grounds this week? Any new faces?"

Ned scratched his chin. "There was a groom come 'round Monday, said he was looking for work. I sent him off—we've enough hands. But I saw him talking to one of the lads near the feed store before I chased him."

"Description?"

"Tall, dark-haired. Riding coat too fine for a groom, now that I think on it. Had a scar above his left brow."

A memory surfaced, sharp and bitter. The ballroom at Eastman's townhouse, a servant delivering champagne, his face half-shadowed—but that scar, she'd noticed it then for its ugliness against his otherwise even features.

"I know him," she said slowly. "He works for Eastman. I saw him at the engagement ball."

Julian's expression darkened. "Then we know our enemy. The question is how to counter him."

The answer came to her in a flash of cold clarity. "We don't. We let him think he's won."

"Helena—"

"Listen." She turned to face him fully. "Eastman expects us to panic. To pull Smoke from training, to move him somewhere safe. That's what he wants—for us to lose days we can't afford." She gestured at the stables. "Instead, we keep Smoke exactly where he is. We double the guards, we taste every feed before it touches their buckets, and we let Eastman believe his warning frightened us into hiding."

Julian studied her for a long moment. "And when he tries something worse?"

"Then we'll be ready." She met his gaze, letting him see the steel beneath her silk. "I've spent my life defending these stables, Julian. Against debt collectors, against my own family's ruin, against men like Eastman who think a woman's fortune is theirs for the taking because she rides a horse better than they do." She took a breath. "I will not lose Smoke to a coward with a sack of poisoned oats."

Something shifted in his face—warmth, maybe, or respect. "You truly trust no one."

"I trust action. I trust proof." She hesitated. "And lately, I've begun to trust you."

The words hung between them. Julian's hand found hers, rough and warm, his fingers curling around her knuckles.

"I won't let him touch your horses," he said quietly. "Or you."

She should pull away. They were partners, not lovers—the dowager had made that clear. But his grip felt like an anchor, and she found she had no desire to break it.

"Then we're agreed." Her voice came out softer than she intended. "We stay the course. We watch the feed, we watch the horses, and we watch each other's backs."

"The course." A smile ghosted across his lips. "There's a curve in the track before the final stretch. Sharp one, bends hard to the left. Eastman's horse favors its right lead. If we can hold the inside through that curve—"

"We'll have him." She finished the thought, understanding blooming. "Smoke hugs the rail. He's trained for it."

"Then that's our strategy." Julian released her hand, and the loss of his warmth was almost physical. "We let Eastman exhaust himself trying to sabotage us, and we win on the strength of our partnership."

"His horse against ours," Helena said, a fierce grin tugging at her mouth. "I like those odds."

They spent the next hour securing the stables—Ned would sleep in the feed room, two trusted grooms would rotate night watches, and Helena would personally inspect every bucket before the horses ate. By the time they finished, the sun had climbed high, and the estate was waking to the ordinary rhythms of the day.

As she walked back toward the house, Julian fell into step beside her.

"One thing," he said. "The note. Whoever delivered it knew we were training here. That means Eastman's eyes are on this estate."

"Then let them watch." Helena lifted her chin. "Let them see us working together. Let them wonder what else we've planned."

"You're not afraid of what he'll do when he realizes the dowager is behind the race?"

"I'm more afraid of what he'll do when he realizes she's not the only one who's been playing him." She paused at the garden gate, turning to face him. "He thinks he's trapped me with that false engagement. He thinks the scandal of a broken betrothal will ruin me."

"Won't it?"

"Perhaps." She allowed herself a small, dangerous smile. "But he doesn't know the dowager burned his blackmail letters. He doesn't know we have nothing to lose by exposing him." She stepped through the gate, then looked back over her shoulder. "And he doesn't know that the woman he tried to silence has been training to beat him at the one thing he values most."

Julian's laugh was low and admiring. "You're terrifying, Lady Helena."

"I prefer *formidable*."

She walked up the path to the house, feeling his gaze on her back. The curve in the track lay ahead, sharp and unforgiving. But for the first time since her father's death, she did not feel alone in navigating it.