“Imogen?” Beatrix found herself asking—as if she had the right.
She never could resist a pursuit when her curiosity was stirred.
Deverill gave his head a curt shake, the glint in his eye warning her off.
His mother, however, would heed no such warning. “She would be the Imogen who was the daughter of Baron Whitsby. The Imogen who Blake grew up alongside.” She sniffed. “The Imogen who ended up acountess.”
“Mama,” said Deverill, “Lady Beatrix is the daughter of a marquess.”
Mrs. Deverill fixed Beatrix with a look of sympathy. “None of us can help the accident of our birth, can we, love?”
Beatrix gathered she might’ve just been insulted and further gathered she didn’t mind very much. In fact, a laugh bubbled upand spilled over. She didn’t laugh very often and was a bit out of practice, which was the only explanation she could find for how long it went on.
Mr. Deverill gave a bemused shake of the head, while Mrs. Deverill gave an approving nod. Their son settled back and watched, his expression unreadable.
At long last, Beatrix swiped a tear from her cheek. “Are we speaking of the Countess of Bridgewater?”
“Know her, do you?” asked Mrs. Deverill. It was clear she wouldn’t count such an acquaintance in Beatrix’s favor.
“All nobs know each other,” said Mr. Deverill. “There’s only so many of them.”
Before Beatrix could assure them how very correct an observation that was, Deverill pushed back from the table and shot to his feet. “Would you like to meet Little Wicked, Lady Beatrix?”
“Oh, Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill, “let the lady finish her meal.” She met Beatrix’s eye. “Would you care for a second portion, love?”
Beatrix thought it better to place her fork down. The stormy expression in Deverill’s eyes said he wasn’t truly asking. “I’ve quite taken my fill, Mrs. Deverill. I’ve never encountered a tastier shepherd’s pie, I can assure you.”
Then she was following Deverill through the house, one corridor after another, and through the kitchens, which filled with sudden quiet at the unexpected presence of the master of the house. In the boot room, before they stepped outside, she was handed an aged greatcoat to ward off the rain. The violence of the weather had abated to a steady downpour, so it was a quick dash across the grounds to the stables, which were a hive of activity, even at this evening hour, as lads and grooms scrambled about, attempting to soothe high-spirited horses still spooked from the storm.
In her time, Beatrix had seen all manner of stables, from the shabby and inexpertly run to the tip-top fitted out with only the best. Deverill’s stable fell into the latter category with its spacious stalls, high, airy ceiling, and general air of cleanliness. He might have known nothing about horses or the world of racing, but he was a conscientious owner, one who did right by his stable. He’d hired the best to maintain it. Beatrix could only admire the resolve.
When they reached the last and roomiest box at the end of the central aisle, Deverill broke his silence. “Here’s our best girl.”
A chestnut beauty at sixteen hands high, Little Wicked was being groomed with steady smooth strokes by a lad humming a soothingtune, though the filly had no look of wildness in her eyes. If anything, she was basking in the attention.
“I’ve only seen her on the racecourse. Never this close,” said Beatrix, her voice low, so as not to disturb the quieting atmosphere. “She’s a beauty.”
“Isn’t she?”
“And you take good care of her.”
Deverill snorted. “Coddle and spoil her, more like.”
“Thoroughbreds are bred to be spoiled.”
He dug into a pocket and came up with a lump of sugar. The filly stretched her neck and gentle lips took it off his extended palm as he stroked the velvet of her nose with his other hand.
“Is Little Wicked a one-off for you?” The question had been at the back of Beatrix’s mind for some time. “Or are you out to establish a bloodline of racers?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He appeared content to leave it at that.
She had another observation to make. “The field is almost set for the Race of the Century.”
“Aye.”
“The competition will be fierce.” She was aware her voice had taken on the tone she used for extracting information for her articles.
Deverill cast her a knowing glance. He’d detected the tone. “Aye.”
