Her brow lifted with open skepticism. “Are you suggesting I bring Cumberbatch with me everywhere and let Destroyer of Worlds dispatch with the ruffians?”
Dev wasn’t giving up. “I’ll hire someone.”
Her eyes rolled skyward. “All so I can wear a ring?” She exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Mr. Deverill.”
A feeling stirred to life inside Dev. He rather liked the way his name sounded from her mouth. The woman was exasperated, but the note in her voice suggested she accepted him for who he was.
In the way of a friend.
“Call me Dev.”
Mischief sparked within her eyes. “Not Your Excellency Lord Devil?”
He snorted. “That blasted nickname. They’ve turned me into a fetish for ladies. Dev will do.” He asked the next question as a matter of course. “May I call you Bea?”
That pulled a smile from her. “Because of my sting?”
“Because Lady Beatrix is a mouthful, and we’re betrothed.” The last point should’ve been reason enough, but there was yet another… “And I like it.”
The final point was the entire truth.
The mischief faded from gray depths. “Why don’t we start with Beatrix?”
He nodded. It would have to do—for now.
“The ponies are lining up for the next race,” she said, changing the subject. “Shall we move closer for a better view?”
“Ponies?” he asked while they walked. “Actual ponies?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You’ve only attended the major races, where only Thoroughbreds are run.”
Actually, that reminded him of a question he’d always been too embarrassed to ask. “What makes a Thoroughbred, anyway?”
Surprise flickered within her eyes before she replied, “Thoroughbreds were produced when Arabian stallions were mated to native English mares. The shape of head is like that of an Arabian, finely sculptured. But the sturdy English stock makes them bigger than their Arabian grandsires. They stand at sixteen hands and more. Quick and elegant, you’ll have noticed, and built for stamina.”
“Ah.”
“On small courses like Hampstead,” she continued, “there is no oversight by the Jockey Club and therefore fewer rules. So, on any day, all types of races can be run. Thoroughbreds one day, ponies the next. Cocktails are gaining popularity.”
“Cocktails?”
“Half-bred horses,” she explained. “But those races are usually ruined when someone smuggles a Thoroughbred in.”
“Didn’t you just say Thoroughbreds are half bred?”
“Oh, not for decades. They’re an official breed now.” She cast her gaze toward the racecourse itself. “I don’t think the smaller courses like Hampstead will survive much longer.”
“It’s a convivial enough atmosphere, and it’s packed with race-goers.” Both facts were obvious, even to the casual observer.
“This is common land, which is the problem,” she explained. “The local gentry have started insisting on compensation for its use. Further, since the Jockey Club doesn’t oversee common-land races, they’re even more corrupt than the average corrupt horse race.”
Dev couldn’t deny it. He was impressed. Beatrix knew this world as well as she knew the back of her hand. Out of necessity, one could say. After all, her deep well of knowledge served her articles, which had put food on her table—for years, he suspected. But that didn’t account for the full extent of it… “You love it out here, don’t you?”
She tore her gaze from the track where the ponies were lining up for the blast of the starting gun. “I always have.”
The truth, her eyes told him, but a complicated one.
Her cheeks went bright with passion. “Racing has everything. Open spaces, beautiful animals, dastardly scoundrels, noble competitors, money changing hands too fast for honest accounting, greed, duplicity, and soaring triumph in the end. On any given afternoon, on any given racecourse, the hooves of Thoroughbreds, ponies, and any other four-legged animal on offer pound out a dozen Greek plays—some tragedies, others comedies. The drama of the sport is literally bred into it.” She shrugged. “Also, I need the money.”
