The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 8
Cameron saw no reason to own horses if he couldn’t be among them. He’d learned at a young age that he had a gift with the beasts. Not only could he bring out the best in each, but the horses followed him about the paddocks like dogs and came eagerly alert whenever he walked into a stable yard.
Jasmine was a dark brown filly with a coffee brown mane and tail, long of leg and sound of heart. She had the spirit and the speed, but Pierson had nearly destroyed her. He’d wanted to run her, as a three-year-old, in the most important flat races of the year: Epsom, Newmarket, Doncaster. Jasmine had fallen at Newmarket, but mercifully unhurt, had finished respectably, which was more to do with her jockey’s skill than her trainer’s care.
At Epsom, under a new trainer and new jockey, she’d flagged in the middle of the pack. Pierson, disgusted, had sacked that trainer and jockey and brought Jasmine to Cameron, saying that Cameron was his last hope. Pierson was damned sorry that his last hope was one of the bloody Scottish Mackenzies, but he had no other choice. Jasmine needed to win the St. Leger at Doncaster, and that was all there was to that.
Cameron would have told Pierson to fornicate himself, but one look at Jasmine’s sleek body and mischievous eye, and Cameron couldn’t turn her away. He knew there was something in the horse that he could bring out. He needed to rescue her from Pierson. So he agreed.
But Cam doubted she’d win Doncaster and told Pierson so, frankly. She was wrung out, tired, annoyed, and needed much care if she’d finish at all. Pierson didn’t like that, but too damn bad.
Jasmine at least ran well today, showing her potential, neck arching proudly when Angelo reached down to pat her. Some of Hart’s guests lined up beyond the field—keeping a safe distance as Cameron had instructed them all week.
Nowhere did he see a lady with a fine head of golden hair craning to watch, as much as Cameron looked for her while pretending to himself that he didn’t. Ainsley Douglas was likely helping Isabella and Beth organize something. Isabella had spent much time this week singing the praises of Mrs. Douglas’s gift for managing things.
Of course she had a gift. Criminals had to be organized, or they’d be caught. The crackling paper in Cameron’s pocket was a reminder of that.
Cameron’s son, Daniel, rode another racer, a more experienced horse to keep Jasmine paced. Cameron pulled his horse back to watch, noting with a tug of pride, as Daniel cantered side by side with Jasmine and Angelo, that his son had the touch with the horses. Danny would be a damned fine trainer if he chose to take up the sport.
Daniel’s lanky form had not only shot up to reach Cameron’s height over the summer, but his voice had deepened and his shoulders widened. He’d become a man when Cameron wasn’t looking, and Cameron wasn’t certain what to do about it. Daniel was turning out remarkably well, in spite of it all, which Cameron put down to his brothers’ help and his sisters-in-law’s influence.
Angelo and Daniel rode the horses around to where Cameron waited, the Romany Angelo smiling with pleasure. “She’s in fine form this morning,” Angelo said.
“Aye,” Daniel reached over and patted Jasmine’s neck with proprietary pride. “In spite of the trouble she causes us. Wish I could be a jockey and ride her to victory, but I’m already too big.”
“Jockeys have a hell of a life, son,” Cam said. He understood Daniel’s longing, but he wanted his son’s neck in one piece.
“Aye, all those horses and money and women must be a right trial,” Daniel said.
Angelo laughed, and Jasmine stretched her neck to Cameron. Cameron rubbed her nose. “You’re doing fine, lass. You’ve got heart, I know that.”
“She won’t win,” Angelo said. “Doncaster is in three weeks.”
“I know.”
“What about Pierson?”
“I’ll deal with Pierson. You stay away from him.”
Angelo laughed. “No fear there.”
Hart’s guests might be shocked to hear Angelo speaking so familiarly to Cameron, but the two men were more friends than servant and master. Cameron found Angelo refreshingly frank, and Angelo had decided that Cameron had good sense, for an Anglo. Besides, Cameron knew horses, and the two men had become fast friends over that.
Across the field, the guests were moving off, being herded by the redheaded Isabella up to the lawn.
“Now, what are they doing?” Cameron growled.
“Croquet match,” Angelo said. “To the death, I think.”
“Croquet is bloody boring,” Daniel said.
Cameron wasn’t listening. Another woman had come to join Isabella, one in a dull gray frock with hair the color of sunshine.
“Jasmine’s had enough this morning,” Cameron said. “Cool her down and take her in, Angelo.”
Angelo flashed another smile and turned Jasmine away. Daniel followed Angelo without a word. Cameron rode to the edge of the paddock to dismount his own horse, tossed his reins to a groom, and climbed the slope toward the house.
“Get me into this game, Izzy,” Cameron said when he reached Isabella at the edge of Hart’s well-groomed lawn. Pairs of ladies and gentlemen waited beyond, a few gentlemen swinging mallets and rolling shoulders to show off for the ladies.
Isabella turned to Cameron in surprise. “We’re playing croquet.”
“Yes, I know what the devil it is. Give me a damned mallet.”
“But you hate croquet.” Isabella continued to blink green eyes at him.
Jasmine was a dark brown filly with a coffee brown mane and tail, long of leg and sound of heart. She had the spirit and the speed, but Pierson had nearly destroyed her. He’d wanted to run her, as a three-year-old, in the most important flat races of the year: Epsom, Newmarket, Doncaster. Jasmine had fallen at Newmarket, but mercifully unhurt, had finished respectably, which was more to do with her jockey’s skill than her trainer’s care.
At Epsom, under a new trainer and new jockey, she’d flagged in the middle of the pack. Pierson, disgusted, had sacked that trainer and jockey and brought Jasmine to Cameron, saying that Cameron was his last hope. Pierson was damned sorry that his last hope was one of the bloody Scottish Mackenzies, but he had no other choice. Jasmine needed to win the St. Leger at Doncaster, and that was all there was to that.
Cameron would have told Pierson to fornicate himself, but one look at Jasmine’s sleek body and mischievous eye, and Cameron couldn’t turn her away. He knew there was something in the horse that he could bring out. He needed to rescue her from Pierson. So he agreed.
But Cam doubted she’d win Doncaster and told Pierson so, frankly. She was wrung out, tired, annoyed, and needed much care if she’d finish at all. Pierson didn’t like that, but too damn bad.
Jasmine at least ran well today, showing her potential, neck arching proudly when Angelo reached down to pat her. Some of Hart’s guests lined up beyond the field—keeping a safe distance as Cameron had instructed them all week.
Nowhere did he see a lady with a fine head of golden hair craning to watch, as much as Cameron looked for her while pretending to himself that he didn’t. Ainsley Douglas was likely helping Isabella and Beth organize something. Isabella had spent much time this week singing the praises of Mrs. Douglas’s gift for managing things.
Of course she had a gift. Criminals had to be organized, or they’d be caught. The crackling paper in Cameron’s pocket was a reminder of that.
Cameron’s son, Daniel, rode another racer, a more experienced horse to keep Jasmine paced. Cameron pulled his horse back to watch, noting with a tug of pride, as Daniel cantered side by side with Jasmine and Angelo, that his son had the touch with the horses. Danny would be a damned fine trainer if he chose to take up the sport.
Daniel’s lanky form had not only shot up to reach Cameron’s height over the summer, but his voice had deepened and his shoulders widened. He’d become a man when Cameron wasn’t looking, and Cameron wasn’t certain what to do about it. Daniel was turning out remarkably well, in spite of it all, which Cameron put down to his brothers’ help and his sisters-in-law’s influence.
Angelo and Daniel rode the horses around to where Cameron waited, the Romany Angelo smiling with pleasure. “She’s in fine form this morning,” Angelo said.
“Aye,” Daniel reached over and patted Jasmine’s neck with proprietary pride. “In spite of the trouble she causes us. Wish I could be a jockey and ride her to victory, but I’m already too big.”
“Jockeys have a hell of a life, son,” Cam said. He understood Daniel’s longing, but he wanted his son’s neck in one piece.
“Aye, all those horses and money and women must be a right trial,” Daniel said.
Angelo laughed, and Jasmine stretched her neck to Cameron. Cameron rubbed her nose. “You’re doing fine, lass. You’ve got heart, I know that.”
“She won’t win,” Angelo said. “Doncaster is in three weeks.”
“I know.”
“What about Pierson?”
“I’ll deal with Pierson. You stay away from him.”
Angelo laughed. “No fear there.”
Hart’s guests might be shocked to hear Angelo speaking so familiarly to Cameron, but the two men were more friends than servant and master. Cameron found Angelo refreshingly frank, and Angelo had decided that Cameron had good sense, for an Anglo. Besides, Cameron knew horses, and the two men had become fast friends over that.
Across the field, the guests were moving off, being herded by the redheaded Isabella up to the lawn.
“Now, what are they doing?” Cameron growled.
“Croquet match,” Angelo said. “To the death, I think.”
“Croquet is bloody boring,” Daniel said.
Cameron wasn’t listening. Another woman had come to join Isabella, one in a dull gray frock with hair the color of sunshine.
“Jasmine’s had enough this morning,” Cameron said. “Cool her down and take her in, Angelo.”
Angelo flashed another smile and turned Jasmine away. Daniel followed Angelo without a word. Cameron rode to the edge of the paddock to dismount his own horse, tossed his reins to a groom, and climbed the slope toward the house.
“Get me into this game, Izzy,” Cameron said when he reached Isabella at the edge of Hart’s well-groomed lawn. Pairs of ladies and gentlemen waited beyond, a few gentlemen swinging mallets and rolling shoulders to show off for the ladies.
Isabella turned to Cameron in surprise. “We’re playing croquet.”
“Yes, I know what the devil it is. Give me a damned mallet.”
“But you hate croquet.” Isabella continued to blink green eyes at him.
