Isabella looked over Beth’s shoulder. “How about this one? Lady Day. I like that name.”
“Wrong color,” Ian said.
Isabella threw him a perplexed look. “Ian, the horse won’t win the race because she’s bay instead of chestnut.”
“I mean her jockey. Colors aren’t right.”
Lady Day’s jockey wore blue with green stripes. Mac himself had no clue what Ian was talking about, but when Ian made a pronouncement, Mac knew better than to waste breath arguing with him. Ian was usually correct.
“He’s convinced me,” Mac said. “Choose another.”
“I think you’re both mad,” Isabella said. “Lady Day to win. Beth?”
Beth shrugged. “Unless my husband has another choice?” She waited for Ian’s reaction, but he was staring stoically down at the paddocks, no longer paying attention. Mac grinned, touched his hat to them, and left the box.
“Back again, my lord?” the bookmaker asked him when Mac reached the stand.
“Again? What are you talking about?”
The bookmaker, a little man everyone called Steady Ron, narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you come to place a bet with Gabe over there?” He jerked his chin at the next booth. “Not a half hour ago? I was that hurt. Mackenzies always do business with Steady Ron.”
“I’ve just arrived, and I’ve been up in my box with my wife. She says she’s a firm believer in Lady Day.”
“Good choice. Excellent horseflesh, odds seven to two. Win, place, or post?”
“To win, she says.” Mac placed the rest of the bets, taking the slips from Ron.
“Could have sworn it was you, me lord,” Ron finished. “Same face, same easy manner. Not much mistaking you.”
“Well, you were mistaken this time. Tell you what, if you see me again, make certain it’s me before you get your feelings hurt.”
Ron grinned. “Right you are, yer lordship. Enjoy the races.”
Ron’s mistake made Mac uneasy, especially in light of what Crane had told him about the man who’d brought him the paintings to sell, not to mention the fire. Mac’s footman had declared that no one but Mac had gone in and out of the house that day, but the man must have gotten in somehow. If the footman had been in the back hall, or down the road a few houses speaking to another footman—or even more distracting, a pretty maid —he might have mistaken the other man for Mac.
Then again, the crowd today was thick. A sea of men in nearly identical black coats and top hats stretched to all corners. Ron could have made a mistake. Gentlemen looked pretty much alike these days, English male fashion being rather monotonous.
Mac’s logic tried to comfort him with such thoughts, but Mac felt an itch between his shoulder blades. He didn’t like the coincidence.
Back in the box, Isabella and Beth were on their feet, waiting for the race to begin. Ian stood close to Beth, his hand straying to the small of her back. Mac felt a twinge of envy. At one time he’d had the privilege to stand so with Isabella.
A roar rose from the crowd as the horses leapt forward. Beth and Isabella bounced on their toes, peering through opera glasses, growing more and more excited as the horses charged past the stands. The two shouted encouragement to Lady Day, who was running for all she was worth.
“She’s going to do it.” Isabella turned her laughing face to Mac. “I knew I could pick a winner.” She excitedly grabbed Mac’s hand, squeezed it, and turned back to the race.
The gesture hadn’t been a grand one. Just a little touch, a pressure of the fingers. But the imprint of Isabella’s hand lingered, the warmth of it more precious than the most treasured gem. Isabella, un-self-conscious, had touched Mac as she’d done when they’d been friends and lovers. As though nothing terrible had ever happened between them.
Mac savored the moment, memorized it, this small thing even more cherished than what they’d done in the drawing room in London. Satiation couldn’t compare to the casual, trusting touch of two people who loved each other.
Well, Mac would prefer both kinds of touching, but the fact that Isabella had turned to share her excitement with him made his heart swell.
He was so fixed on Isabella that he didn’t notice the horses pulling ahead of Lady Day. Mac only saw the light go out of Isabella’s eyes. She’d looked at Mac like that in times past, her vibrancy fading, and Mac, bloody stupid idiot that he’d been, hadn’t paused to figure out why.
Lady Day came in sixth. Her jockey patted her as she dropped from gallop to canter to trot, as though reassuring her that he didn’t love her less for losing. Mac wanted to lean into Isabella’s neck and comfort her.
Isabella turned to Ian in exasperation. “All right, Ian. How on earth did you know that Lady Day would lose based on the jockey’s colors?”
Ian didn’t answer. He was watching the horses trot along the far side of the field, lost in contemplation.
“He means that the horse was recently sold,” Hart said from behind Mac. “Lord Powell bought her a few months ago. It’s likely she hasn’t adjusted to her new surroundings, new routines, new jockey. They shouldn’t have put her in the race today. She had no heart for it.”
“You couldn’t have explained this to me earlier, Hart Mackenzie?” Isabella demanded. Then she softened. “The poor darling. They shouldn’t have made her race.” If anyone knew about the bewilderment of a young woman ripped from the bosom of her family and deposited among strangers, it was Isabella.
Hart’s stern mouth relaxed into a smile. “I didn’t want to spoil your fun. And it serves you right for not listening to Ian.”
Isabella put her tongue out at Hart then turned back to Ian. “I beg your pardon, Ian. I should know better than to doubt you.”
Ian gave her a quick look, and Mac saw Ian’s hand tighten on Beth’s waist, seeking comfort in her. Ian couldn’t always follow the teasing and banter common in his family, words flying about before Ian could catch and understand them. He’d listen with a distracted air before cutting through their gibberish with a pointed remark. It was easy to think Ian simpleminded, but Mac had come to learn that his brother was an amazingly complex man with vast intelligence. Beth had recognized that from the start, and Mac loved her for it.
Cameron’s horses did run in the next two races, winning each time. Isabella’s excitement returned, and she and Beth cheered on the family’s pride. Cameron remained down at the rail, watching like a worried father as his horses galloped to the finish line.
Daniel, on the other hand, capered and danced about, probably rubbing the noses of everyone near in the fact that Mackenzie horses were the very best. Cam would be more interested in the horses’ well-being, but Daniel loved to win.
“An excellent showing,” Isabella said happily after the third race. “Now then, Beth, let us retire to the tea tent and positively gorge ourselves.”
“Aren’t there more races?” Beth asked.
“We will return and watch later, but part of the St. Leger is to wander about and be seen by everyone. Why else would we have spent so much time on these hats?”
Beth laughed, and the two ladies left the box arm in arm. Ian opened the door for them, falling into step behind them.
Mac prepared to leave after Ian, but Hart’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“Not in the mood for a lecture right now, old man,” Mac said, impatient as he watched Beth and Isabella disappear down the stairs. “Once I have clasped Isabella to my bosom again—for good—then you can browbeat me. But not just now.”
“I was going to say, it’s good to see you with her again,” Hart answered dryly. “It will take you a long time to win back Isabella’s trust, but the fact that she is speaking to you at all gives me hope.”
Mac turned to him in surprise. Hart and he were the same height, Cameron being the tallest Mackenzie, and Mac could look straight into Hart’s golden eyes. Mac saw in them the weight of the dukedom, the responsibility for his brothers, and his own unhappy past, but also a thread of relief. He hadn’t realized that the strain between Mac and Isabella worried Hart so much.
