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Chapter Twenty-Three

In the end Hermes pulled away from the pack, finding his pace, something clicking in his brain about the speed he possessed, a surge of the joy of running, a need to lead the pack, not follow. The outside position had been a lucky draw for him. He was never boxed in, and he pounded down the final stretch, moving easily.

Cassie looked up to find her grandmother beaming down on her as she headed to the winner’s enclosure. It was vain to hope that she would see Raven, but she looked anyway. Nowhere in the crowd could she spot him. They owed this moment to him, and she had not thanked him. Jay and Dick led Hermes into the winner’s enclosure. Lester Oakley jumped down and did a couple of handsprings before removing Hermes’s saddle. Cassie accepted congratulations from the duke who told her he hoped they would see more of Hermes. Hermes himself appeared cool and composed under the attention. He and Dick had a moment of closeness, Dick communicating with the horse by touch, and Hermes nudging the youth.

Once Lester was weighed and the victory confirmed they returned to the stables and everyone fussed over Hermes, washing him down, giving him a nibble of grass, telling him how well he did, until Grandmama called a halt.

“Stop fawning over that horse. He did what he trained to do. I won’t have him spoiled.”

Dick stubbornly refused to leave the horse, telling Jay with agitated hands that he feared some retribution from Hugh. Jay told him that Hugh was locked up, but Dick remained adamant about not leaving.

Grandmama demanded to be told what was going on. Cassie related the details of the fight not leaving out Raven’s role. Grandmama sought out Jennings, questioned him about the likelihood of Hugh’s release, and secured his assurance that two stable hands would share a night watch over the horse. She strode off for her carriage. In the carriage, she fumed, her eyes snapping, declaring her intent to write to the authorities, including the duke and the local magistrate, with her expectation that whatever decision was made regarding Hugh’s behavior utterly unbefitting either a gentleman or a sporting man, he would be kept away from her granddaughter’s horse. And, she told them, she would write to Ramsbury himself about his disgraceful offspring. With a final flourish of energy, she told Cassie to find and thank Sir Adrian.

At the house on St. Martin’s Square, Grandmama retired to write her letters, sending Pindock scurrying for pens and paper.

Cassie turned to Honoria in the entry as her aunt untied her bonnet. “Fancy an outing?”

Honoria looked confused. “Now? Aren’t you tired?”

“I am, but didn’t you have somewhere you wanted to show me? What was it?”

“Oh.” Honoria brightened, resettling the bonnet on her head. “Well, if you’re not too tired. The house where the poet John Keats wrote The Eve of St. Agnes is hereabouts.”

“Excellent. Let’s go, shall we? And then I’ve one more errand for us to do.”

At Eastgate Square they stood in the twilight, a little awed at being close to a bit of history. Cassie was content to stand as long as Honoria wanted. Honoria had been dragged from London, plunged in crowds, and rather ignored for two days. The plain brick house, its only ornamentation a pedimented door flanked by two white columns, had none of the poem’s medieval atmosphere, but Cassie figured that was a testament to the poet’s imagination, and to the strength of his feeling about the woman from whom he had been parted. Honoria recited a passage from the poem and sighed.

“I do think Keats captured the atmosphere of the town,” she said. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Glad to. Are you ready for another errand?” Cassie asked.

With one more sigh, Honoria turned away. “Where are we going?”

“To the Anchor.”

“What’s there?”

“I hope to find Sir Adrian to thank him.” She did not know where the Ramsbury party had taken rooms, but she would start with the best-known inn in town.

The Anchor was the newer of a pair of rivals well-established in the town, and crowded in the aftermath of the day’s races. It took some time to gain even a minute of the proprietor’s attention. Cassie inquired directly after Sir Adrian. The man looked at her suspiciously, and she explained that she was Lady Cassandra Lavenham, and that Sir Adrian was her tenant at Verwood Hall.

The name Verwood seemed to relieve his suspicions, but the proprietor only shook his head. “He’s left for London, I believe. Paid handsomely for the nights he won’t be staying. Not like the rest of the party.”

“The rest of the party?” Cassie asked.

“The Ramsbury party. They made a special request for rooms, and then up and left without paying the full shot.”

“The Ramsburys have left?”

“All gone, my lady, and good riddance to ’em.”

He was summoned by one of his waiters. “Your pardon, my lady.”

“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.”

Cassie stood in the midst of the noise and confusion with a single thought in mind—how to interpret Raven’s abrupt departure in the middle of the race meeting, which still had two days to go.

“So, he’s gone,” said Honoria. “How strange. And to London, the man said?”