At Hampstead, the day wasn’t a beautiful one—the clouds that hovered above could go one way or the other—but an afternoon’s races provided no small amount of entertainment for the all-manner-of-folk constituting the crowd. There were the horses, jockeys, trainers, grooms, and lads weaving through, either having finished a race or making their way toward the starting line. Then there were all the others who found themselves at a Hampstead race meeting on a Wednesday afternoon—the race-goers themselves and the gamesters who profited off them, the blacklegs and touts shouting odds around the betting post drawing the largest crowd.
Though Dev owned a Thoroughbred, he had no experience of a race meeting of this loose variety. It was after a particularly raucous group of soldiers strode past, laughing and jeering and already deep in their cups, that he spotted her—Lady Beatrix, standing in the shadow of a lean-to, pencil in one hand, journal in the other, scrawling notes, half an eye on the racecourse as horses warmed up for the next race.
Already a small woman, she possessed an uncanny ability to shrink not only her body, but somehow her entire personage into near invisibility. If one wasn’t expressly looking for her, one wouldn’t see her.
Another detail struck him. She wasn’t wearing a single stitch of her recently acquired wardrobe, but rather was dressed in attire years out of fashion.
He supposed it was all part of her desire to remain inconspicuous, but it annoyed him—mightily.
He took a step to communicate precisely that, but wasn’t quick enough, for another man approached her from theopposite direction. Tall and rangy, dressed impeccably but flamboyantly with a bold chartreuse paisley waistcoat, and an ostentatious diamond stud winking in his left ear, Dev would’ve put the man near five and twenty.
Dev didn’t like the look of him.
With that cocksure tilt of the mouth and the bold glint in his eye, the man was a blackleg.
What business could such a man have with Lady Beatrix St. Vincent?
Before he could question his right to do so, Dev was in motion with swift, determined strides. Lady Beatrix caught the movement, and her eyebrows crashed together in both shock and consternation. He suspected he was scowling and attempted to relax the muscles of his face.
The blackleg crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance as he watched Dev approach, the rogue displaying an appropriate amount of wariness and an unspoken amount of readiness. Here was a man accustomed to unpredictable situations and ready to meet any eventuality.
When he reached Lady Beatrix’s side, Dev didn’t hesitate to slip his hand around hers and lift it to his mouth. “I hope you weren’t waiting very long, my sweet.”
She blinked. “I,erm,” she managed. “No.”
Dev wasn’t sure why he’d done it.
Claimed her, that was.
Except, actually, he did.
As of two nights ago, the world thought her his, and if that were actually true, he wouldn’t stand for some East End ruffian harassing her.
In fact, it wasn’t strictly true—and he still wasn’tstanding for it.
Hardened to a point, his gaze cut toward the blackleg. “And you are?”
It hadn’t escaped his attention that he yet held Lady Beatrix’s hand—and found his fingers twining through hers.
“Blaze Jagger,” she answered for the blackleg, as she subtly reclaimed her hand.
Jagger’s brow lifted with surprise. “You know who I am, Lady Beatrix?”
“Everyone associated with horse racing knows who you are, Mr. Jagger.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I’m not sure you should be.”
That pulled a hearty laugh from the rogue—which Lady Beatrix didn’t join.
“And your business with my fiancée?” Dev asked—demanded.
He might’ve been taking this claiming too far.
Jagger appeared unbothered. “As I was standing at my stretch of betting post and gazing upon the world around me—as a man does on the oddish occasion—a question smacked me solid on the head.” He didn’t wait for them to inquire. “Why doesn’t Lady Beatrix St. Vincent ever place bets on the ponies with me?”
She gave an unbothered, one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t bet on the ponies with anyone.”
