Page 83 of The Trouble with Anna

Anna skewered Marby with her gaze. “Tell me you didn’t bet on Byrne?”

He offered a weak smile. “I believe the majority of the young ladies are betting on you, Lady Anna.”

“Why, you rat! You feebleminded, lily-livered little—”

“I’ve never seen you race!” Marby returned hotly. “I’ve seen Saltram, though, and a better chest on a—”

There was a clatter in the front hall and Charlotte shushed them. “Quiet, both of you. Gran’s back and she has ears like a bat.”

The Dowager did in fact hear everything, which was why she’d known about the race since the previous Sunday.

“Yes, Maggie, the odds are ten to one,” she whispered to her dear friend Dame Margaret FitzHerbert that night at the Wexford rout. “I ought to scotch the whole endeavor, but Lady Cardiff ran through the numbers with me the other night and—well! You can’t imagine the bills for my new orangerie. If I lose, I’ll sell a brooch and no one will be the wiser, but if I win—the glazing I could pay for then!”

Dame FitzHerbert fixed her friend with a look. “But can the girl ride?”

“Like the wind, or so Julian says.”

“Hmm.” Dame FitzHerbert considered. “And does she have the courage for it?”

Lady Alice snorted. “She survived ten years under Lord Barton’s care. If that doesn’t speak to courage, what does?”

Dame FitzHerbert clapped her hands. “Oh, Alice! Think of the money we’ll make!”

“If only Julian doesn’t find out.”

“If only,” Dame FitzHerbert agreed fervently.

Lord Ramsay, had the Dowager but known it, was at that moment pressed against a dark wall in an even darker alley, trying his hardest to retain his ignorance.

It was not, Julian was aware, his most dignified moment. The long, illustrious line of Ramsay earls before him were surely turning up their noses, if not at him then at the foul mix of rubbish and rat droppings at his feet. Yet here he was, his pride in tatters, his back pressed against grimy brick, and the immaculate black of his coat sullied by a dusting of crumbled mortar.

“Ramsay!” called a drunken voice. “Ramsay, where’ve you gone? I swear I saw him, Chumley. I’d bet my life!”

“Shouldn’t bet your life, not as drunk as you are,” the one called Chumley responded, sounding more than a little pickled himself. “P’haps a few guineas. What do you say?”

“Say to what?”

“A bet. Five guineas?”

“Chumley, you blister, what bet?”

“A bet on Ramsay.”

“Could have sworn I just saw him. Been missing all week!”There was a faint thrashing sound, as if someone was throttling a bush. “Wanted to ask him—”

“You won’t find him in the shrubbery!”

Julian shut his eyes and strained for patience. Was this what his life had come to? All because of one small, tart-mouthed, and decidedly wrongheaded woman who—

There was a faint sound from the inky depths of the alley, and Julian whipped around.

A man lounged carelessly up against the wall, the light tipping his tawny hair gold and catching the smirking gleam of the lion’s head atop his walking stick. Even the polished black buttons of his greatcoat shone with what Julian took to be mockery. The man straightened to his full, considerable height and stepped forward, his eyes unholy with glee.

“The great Lord Ramsay, grubbing in an alley? How you surprise me.”

“Shut up, Warrick!”

Warrick lifted his eyebrows. “What a greeting! The striplings are much too soused to hear us. Besides, they’re moving on.”

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