Part 8 (2/2)

”I'll see you in the morning, m'dear.”

Lucinda left her hostess staring into the fire. Ten minutes later, her head pillowed in down, Lucinda closed her eyes--only to find Harry Lester on her mind.

Tired, adrift, her memories of the day replayed, her interactions with him claiming centre stage. Until she came to their parting--which left one question to plague her. How would it feel to waltz with Harry Lester?

A mile away, in the tap of the Barbican Arms, Harry sat elegantly sprawled behind a corner table, moodily surveying the room. A smoky haze wreathed a forest of shoulders; gentlemen mingled freely with grooms and stable men tipsters wrangled with bookmakers. The tap was all business this evening; the first races, those for non-blood stock would commence the next day. A barmaid came up, hips swaying. She set a tankard of the inn's finest on the table, smiling coyly, one brow rising as Harry flipped a coin onto her tray.

Harry caught her eye; his lips curved but he shook his head.

Disappointed, the girl turned away. Harry lifted the foaming tankard and took a long sip. He'd abandoned the snug, his habitual refuge, where only the cognescenti were permitted, driven forth by the all-but incessant questioning as to his delectable companion of the afternoon.

It seemed as if all in Newmarket had seen them. Certainly all his friends and acquaintances were keen to learn her name. And her direction.

He'd given them neither, steadfastly returning their bright-eyed enquiries with a blank look and the information that the lady was an acquaintance of his aunt's he'd simply been escorting to her door.

Those facts proved sufficient to dampen the interest of most; the majority who frequented Newmarket knew of his aunt.

But he was definitely tired of covering the lovely Mrs Babbacombe's tracks, particularly as he was trying his d.a.m.nedest to forget her. And her loveliness. With an inward growl, Harry immersed himself in his tankard and tried to focus his mind on his horses-- usually an enthralling subject.

”There you are! Been looking all over. What're you doing out here?”

Dawlish slumped into the chair beside him.

”Don't ask,” Harry advised. He waited while the barmaid, with a fine show of indifference, served Dawlish before asking,

”What's the verdict?” Dawlish shot him a glance over the rim of his tankard.

”Odd,” came mumbling from behind it.

Brows lifting, Harry turned his head to stare at his henchman.

”Odd?”

Dawiish had gone with the coachman, Joshua, to fetch the wainwright to the carriage. The , Joshua and the wainwright all thinks the same. ”

Dawlish set down his tankard and wiped the froth from his lip.

”Thought as how you should know.”

”Know what?”

”That the cotter-pin on that wheel was tampered with--half-sawed through, it was--before the accident.

And the spokes had been got at, too. ”

Harry frowned.

”Why?”

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