Fourteen

"The winner‟s score is a combination of race time and the number of rings collected. If it takes the others too long to collect the rings, Mr. Timtree can win purely by crossing the finish line first."

Another few men caught on, including Benedict, who raced after Timtree, eager to emulate his strategy.

Caroline saw Deville‟s eyes follow Timtree and Benedict. Deville could follow.

It had been a rather brilliant move on Timtree‟s part. It was even possibly in Deville‟s best interests as he appeared to be a better rider. And Deville had two rings, so he‟d be ahead of Timtree, and all the others who had followed him, in the standings for sure.

Deville‟s type always settled for the easy way out.

He shifted in the direction of the finish line. "I knew it," she muttered. Then his horse‟s head swung toward the next thicket, and horse and rider flung themselves inside.

She stood shocked, her mouth parting. A gambler. Definitely a gambler.

"I told you."

Caroline kept her glasses up, ignoring Sarah‟s low-voiced whisper as she anxiously searched the trees for movement. A few of the other men, including Bateman, blindly followed Deville. Sloane chose his own path.

A few terse minutes later, Deville‟s horse burst into the open. Sloane and Bateman pounded after him, the others on their heels.

Eyes intent upon their prey. The race continued, up, down, and around the course. The lesser riders began to lag behind or decided to take the easy way out, cross the finish line, and put themselves in the middle of the standings.

The risk takers pushed ahead. When they reached the last two patches, which were near the spectators‟ area, Caroline cursed herself for becoming too predictable in where she had placed the rings. Deville seemed to zero in on them faster every time. She tried switching her eyes away from him, but couldn‟t.

He smoothly bent down and plucked another ring, shooting one of the other contestants a smirk as he cut in front, leaving the man swearing in his kicked dirt. He charged toward the next flag. Every line of his body at Roseford had shouted that he was a predator. Every press of his body to hers had proclaimed him a rogue. Every movement now confirmed both.

He leaned out from his horse, one long arm thrust out, and gripped another ring. His head flipped up as he regained his seat, long strands of hair arcing and settling messily across his face. Something hot and wild raced down her spine.

He leaned against his horse‟s neck, man and horse racing as one. A shake of his head in the wind whipped the strands back into place as he shot toward the finish.

He was the breed of man to which she was most susceptible. She swallowed heavily. That much was obvious.

Arrogant, dark, and dangerous. She needed to remove him from the competition and her life as quickly as possible.

Sebastien rounded the last corner.

Herakles‟s hooves beat at the dirt, spraying it to the sides. He leaned right and snatched the last ring from the branches. He‟d missed one when Bateman had shoved him for the third time. Bateman would pay for those tactics later.

Sebastien heard Sloane‟s mount at his side, but he didn‟t spare a glance as they raced to the finish line. Everly shot in from the right and Bateman cut across.

Bateman was too far outside to give chase. He‟d be third at best, if Timtree hadn‟t beaten them all, clever bastard. And Benedict had taken obvious advantage of the strategy, knowing he wasn‟t the best rider. If Benedict beat him in the first game…

Sloane and he were neck and neck for the finish. A fine piece of horseflesh there.

They crossed.

Cheers went up through the crowd.

Sebastien let Herakles slow and pulled around in an arc. He tossed the rings on the ground— seven. And saw Sloane do the same. Seven. Sloane gave him a grin, which he couldn‟t stop himself from returning, fire still running through his veins. Riding was one of the few things that reminded him that he was alive.

The older men all huddled together, fishwives clacking over their daily profits.

Tallying times, rings, and scores. Sebastien patted Herakles and dismounted, allowing one of the grooms to take the animal for a cool down.

The Tipping Seven seemed to arrive at a decision, as Cheevers turned to the waiting crowd.

"The first game, and why not end in a tie," Cheevers shouted. "Split the first and second place prize money and points. Well done, lads."

He shook Sloane‟s hand. First place, even shared, was perfectly fine. He‟d overtake Sloane on some of the later games, of that he had no doubt.

Timtree and the closest finisher behind him, Benedict, took third and fourth.

The top three finishers were all bastards—making the unofficial tally heavy to one side. He exchanged smirks with Timtree.

Timtree had almost beaten them all with his strategy. If Sebastien hadn‟t discerned the pattern in the way the rings had been placed—the most inaccessible locations that could be had—Timtree would have won. He knew Sloane had figured out the arrangement too. The others hadn‟t been as lucky, it seemed, merely following behind, hoping to catch one.

Everly and Bateman had each collected two rings—moving ahead of them about halfway through the course, before being overtaken again during a further search. They placed fifth and sixth.

"The prankster responsible for the blankets, saddles, and the rings…yes, good show, good show, but I will remind everyone that tampering with the games is an offense punishable by expulsion." There was a bite of steel beneath the earl‟s words. "The same goes for the unfortunate events this morning."

Harriet Noke‟s hand wound around Sebastien‟s shoulder and down his arm.

"Congratulations."

"Not going to offer your congratulations to Sloane?"

"Mmm. Maybe later. I‟ve always been more interested in dark than light."

"Yes, I seem to recall."

"Good. I hope your memory is as long as I remember it to be."

Harriet was a consummate woman of the world—one who knew how to maximize pleasure while taking precautions. And Benedict had fancied her for years—so any dalliance with her served multiple purposes. So why then was he utterly uninterested?

A flit of blonde drew his attention. The beautiful woman from Roseford stood to the side, hands on her hips, tart and sweet like the deceptively sugary confection she was.

His blood still raced from the ride. From the hunt. Fueled by the promise of more hunting on a different playing field, it was a small wonder why the woman hanging on his arm held so little of his interest.

Lady Sarah whispered something to the blonde.

"Darling, don‟t pay the little bride any mind. No need to woo anyone in that quarter." Harriet pulled a long nail down his coat.

He shot her a look, half in amusement, half in irritation. Another woman came over, sizing up the competition. The increasing feeling of apathy crept over his skin.

Then the blonde looked directly at him. Blue eyes piercing him, straight nose sniffing to the side as she looked away. Not making moon eyes at him, not simpering and clinging, instead challenging him to walk over there and wipe that supercilious expression from her face. To make her pant and moan again, beneath him this time instead.

The hunting instinct, deep, fierce, and predatory, overtook him. His apathy pushed aside—no room for it to remain.

Her identity tickled his skin. He scratched the back of his hand as the two women in front of him squabble over something ridiculous.

There was little to satisfy these days. Revenge, satisfaction, power…

The hunt.

Yes, the delicious hunt.

A dozen servants hurried along a path in front of Caroline and Sarah. They split ranks at the maze, half heading toward the stables, half heading toward the village. Another three or four dozen milled about, fetching items and bringing refreshments to the guests who had spilled onto the back lawn of Meadowbrook. And still she would be hard-pressed to say there were enough.

The earl had hired a hundred more staff to help with the two-month tournament. Caroline had peeked into the estate ledgers and nearly swallowed her tongue at the expense column for the past week. And there were to be seven more?

Caroline walked with Sarah among the guests who were outside enjoying the day and taking advantage of the opportunity to curry favor with members of society who might just be moving up in the world. Some of the more serious contestants had retired to prepare, while others frolicked among their admirers.

It was hard to discern what was more the spectacle at the moment; the anticipation of the next game—a fencing competition that would take place in a couple of hours, with the contestants lapsing from boastful to nervous—or the social game being played in the halls and on the grounds.

A furious cricket match raged on the small pitch, with pall mall, quoits, and lawn bowl events taking place on the sides. A small minority of the women had joined in the latter three games, while a larger group cheered the cricket players.

Others gossiped, sewed, painted, or put themselves on display. The remaining gentlemen were interspersed among them, exclaiming over art or the exquisite bearing and apple cheeks of a particularly attractive specimen.

"The house is fairly bursting," Caroline said. "I wonder when the earl will start putting guests in the cottage or the stables."

Sarah laughed, hand tucked into Caroline‟s arm. "Or double them up. Can you imagine?"

"No. I heard Mr. Tenwatty is renting rooms to reporters from the Times . Mrs. Tenwatty will drain the gossip mongers dry."

Sarah laughed. "I daresay you are correct." She tipped her head suddenly.

"What?"

"Oh. I thought Mr. Deville was looking this way."

Caroline‟s heart sped up and she stepped forward a beat out of sync with Sarah. "Is that remarkable?"

"When he is wearing an expression like that, yes."

"What expression?" she asked with as little concern as she could muster.

"One like a cat devouring a canary."

She waved, trying to keep her face from showing any of her unease. "Probably watching Mrs. Noke."

"But Mrs. Noke retired ten minutes ago in order to change."

Caroline looked up at the windows seeking inspiration. A curtain blowing in an open window gave her none.

"Oh, there he is looking again," Sarah said, craning her head to find the source. "It‟s enough to make a heart leap."

Caroline determinedly kept her eyes forward. "Let‟s take a turn around the cricket match."

Sarah gave her a startled look—they‟d just come from that direction—but let Caroline lead her forth again.

And there was Sebastien Deville, in their direct path, idly pretending to watch the match.

She switched directions, tugging Sarah around. "We should talk to Mr. Copley."

Sarah blinked, but followed.