Read Chapter 8: The Missing Jockey

The note from Ashworth House arrived before Helena had finished her breakfast chocolate. She read it standing at the window, the London drizzle beading the glass, and felt the toast turn to lead in her stomach.

*Stokes has not returned from his evening pass. Three days before the Newmarket Stakes, and no word. I would not trouble you, my lady, but I think you should know.*

Three days.

Helena crumpled the note in her fist and was halfway to the door before she remembered her gloves. By the time she reached the stables at the edge of the city where her father's horses were quartered—cramped, inadequate lodgings that made her chest ache with shame—Old Tom was waiting for her at the gate, his face creased with worry beneath the years of sun and racing wind.

"Tell me everything," she said, not bothering with greetings.

Tom pulled at his cap. "Ned took his leave Tuesday evening. Said he had business at the Cock and Bottle in Cheapside. Never came back to his lodgings. His sister's been by twice looking for him."

"His sister? I didn't know he had family in London."

"Came up from Newmarket last month. Girl named Molly, works as a seamstress. Ned's been supporting her since their mother passed." Tom hesitated. "He were in good spirits when he left, my lady. Said he'd be back before dawn, that he'd found a way to make things right."

"Make what things right?"

Tom shifted his weight. "You know Ned. Always fretting about his sister. Said she'd found some trouble—owed money to the wrong sort."

Helena's blood went cold. "The wrong sort meaning Croft?"

"I couldn't say, my lady. But Ned was worried. Proper worried."

She paced the length of the stable yard, her boots squelching in the mud. The Stakes were everything. If Eclipse ran without her best jockey, without the man who knew the horse's every quirk and temper, her chance at the purse—and at proving herself to Lady Aldersgate—could evaporate like morning mist.

"I'll take the carriage to his sister's lodging. What's the address?"

Tom gave it to her, a cramped street off Drury Lane. She was climbing into the carriage when a familiar voice stopped her.

"Going somewhere, Lady Helena?"

Julian Ashford stood in the stable-yard entrance, immaculate despite the drizzle, regarding her with that infuriating half-smile she had come to know too well.

"You followed me."

"I happened to be passing." His tone suggested he had done no such thing. "I saw you leave Marsden House at a pace that suggested fire or flood. Given your history with both, I thought I might offer assistance."

"I need no assistance."

"The matter concerns the Stakes, I collect." He nodded toward the stable. "Your head groom looks like a man who has lost his best jockey."

Helena's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about it."

"I know that Ned Stokes is the finest lightweight rider in England, and that he was seen drinking at the Cock and Bottle three nights ago. I also know he never left." Julian's voice lost some of its teasing edge. "I can help you find him, Helena."

"No." The word came out harder than she intended. "I have no wish to owe you anything further."

"Your father already owes thirty thousand pounds. I hardly think—"

"Leave my father out of this."

Julian was silent for a moment, studying her. "You think I had something to do with Stokes's disappearance."

"I think you have been remarkably well-informed about every misfortune that has befallen my family. Forgive me if I do not trust the timing of your concern."

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or anger. She could not tell which. He inclined his head stiffly. "Then I wish you luck, Lady Helena. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the rain with her suspicions and her dread.

---

Ned Stokes's sister Molly lived in two rooms above a chandler's shop, the stairs so narrow Helena had to turn sideways to climb them. The girl who opened the door was small and pale, with the same wiry frame as her brother, the same watchful dark eyes.

"You're Lady Helena?" Molly looked her up and down. "Ned's spoke of you. Says you're the only one at that stable who knows a horse's arse from its elbow."

"High praise indeed." Helena stepped inside. The room was tidy but spare; a sewing basket sat by the window, a half-finished waistcoat draped over a chair. "Your brother is missing. I mean to find him."

"You and me both." Molly crossed her arms. "The constables won't touch it. Man disappears in Cheapside, could be anything—drink, debts, the river. But Ned weren't a drinker, and he weren't a gambling man. Not like that."

"Like what?"

Molly hesitated, then dropped her voice. "He come to me Tuesday before he went out. Said he'd found a way to clear my debts. That some gentleman had offered him a deal—a ride in the Stakes for a different stable, a better purse. He said it weren't what he wanted, but he'd do what he had to."

"A different stable?" Helena's mind raced. "Who approached him?"

"He didn't say. Only that the man had offered him a hundred guineas to ride for someone else. And that if he refused, there would be trouble." Molly's voice cracked. "I told him not to go. I told him money weren't worth it. But he said he couldn't let them hurt me."

"Who is 'them'? Molly, I need you to think. Did Ned mention any names? Any places?"

Molly shook her head, then stopped. "Wait. He said something strange. Said if anything happened to him, I should tell you to look for a man who drinks Madeira but smells of gin."

Helena frowned. "That's all?"

"That's all. Swore me to silence, told me not to tell a soul but you." Molly's eyes searched Helena's face. "Do you know what it means?"

"No." But something tugged at the edge of her memory. A man who drinks Madeira but smells of gin. She had heard that phrase before—years ago, as a child, overhearing her father's whispers with his stable master.

*Croft was a wine merchant before he became a money-lender. Can't shake the trade. Drinks Madeira by the bottle but still stinks of the gin he was raised on.*

Croft.

Helena pressed a coin into Molly's hand. "If your brother contacts you, send word to Marsden House. Do not speak of this to anyone else."

"Where will you go?"

"To see a man about his drinking habits."

---

The money-lender's shop sat in a narrow lane off Lombard Street, its windows dark despite the hour. Helena had changed into her plainest gown, a practical grey wool that would not attract attention, but her hands shook as she approached the door. She had told herself she would investigate Croft's involvement in her father's ruin. Now she was about to walk into the lion's den itself.

The door was locked. She knocked anyway.

A moment passed. Then the door cracked open, revealing a sliver of face—thin, sallow, with the sharp eyes of a man who had spent decades counting other people's desperation.

"Shop's closed."

"I'm not here to borrow." Helena held his gaze. "I'm here about Ned Stokes."

The eyes narrowed. "Don't know the name."

"You know his employer. You know his sister's debts." Helena pressed forward, heart hammering. "The man drinks Madeira but smells of gin. I believe you know exactly what I'm talking about."

A long pause. Then the door opened wider, and Helena stepped into the dark.

Croft's office was exactly as she had imagined: cluttered with ledgers and trinkets, the walls lined with shelves of confiscated goods—a silver snuffbox here, a porcelain shepherdess there. She forced herself not to scan for the Eclipse trophy. If it was here, she could not afford to betray her interest.

"Lady Helena Ashworth." Croft's voice was smooth, almost pleasant. "Your father's debt is a matter of record. I don't recall you being listed as a cosignatory."

"My father's debts are my concern."

"Indeed." Croft settled behind his desk, gesturing to a chair. "And young Stokes? Also your concern?"

"He is employed by my family. His disappearance threatens our entry in the Stakes."

"Ah, the Stakes." Croft smiled, and Helena saw the gin-soaked truth beneath the Madeira polish. "A great deal of money rests on that race. A great deal of money, and a great deal of pride. Some men would do anything to ensure their horse crosses the line first."

"And some men would do anything to ensure another's horse never runs at all."

Croft's smile didn't waver. "A dangerous accusation, my lady. I would be careful where you throw such stones."

"Where is he?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Croft stood, the interview clearly over. "But I will give you a piece of advice, Lady Helena, free of charge. The Stakes are not the only race being run this season. Some wagers are made in drawing rooms, not on turf. And some losers"—his voice dropped—"never see the finish line."

He opened the door for her. "Good day, my lady. Do give my regards to Lord Ashworth. And to Mr. Ashford, when next you see him."

Helena walked out into the rain, her heart pounding, his final words echoing in her ears. Croft knew about Julian. About his interest in her. About everything.

And if Croft knew about Julian, then Julian's motives were not as opaque as she had believed.

She was halfway down the lane when a boy in a messenger's coat caught up with her, pressing a folded note into her hand before darting away. She opened it in the shelter of a doorway.

*Find the groom at the Three Kings, Smithfield. He knows where Stokes has gone. He will not speak to a woman alone. —A friend.*

No signature. But Helena knew that hand—she had seen it enough times in wagers and accusations.

Julian.

She crumpled the note, then smoothed it out again. Whatever his game, he had given her a path forward. Whether she trusted him was another matter entirely.

She turned toward Smithfield.