“But Oscar Wilde has also said,” Kate replied thoughtfully, “that ‘one should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.’ ”

Lillie looked vexed. “Oscar is nothing if not inconsistent,” she said. She pushed away her empty dessert dish and fastened her eyes on her guest’s face. Her glance seemed to lay claim to Kate’s most precious secrets. “Now that I’ve told you everything there is to know about me, dear Beryl, you must tell me about yourself. I do so want to be friends.”

Kate opened her mouth to speak, but Lillie went on.

“I know that you’re an American, that your novels and stories are amazingly popular, and that you and Lord Sheridan don’t much like to go about in Society. But I’m sure there’s more-much more, hidden away inside your heart.”

“I’m afraid that you’ve already learned all there is to know about me,” Kate said with a small smile. “My life is an open book.”

Lillie threw back her head and laughed gaily. “An open book!” she exclaimed, much amused. “How very clever! But of course, it is your literary work that I most want to talk about. I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of staging ‘The Duchess.’ I know the production will have an enormous dramatic appeal, especially if you agree to the few changes I have in mind. I’m absolutely dying to-”

But at that moment, Williams appeared with a folded note on a silver salver. Lillie read it with a displeased frown and threw it back on the tray, letting out an irritated puff of breath.

“It seems that I have an unexpected caller, Beryl, and after that, I fear I must attend to some business. You and I shall have to continue our conversation at tea.” The butler pulled back Lillie’s chair as she stood. “Meanwhile, I’m sure you would like to look at the house and grounds so that you can tell your readers all about Regal Lodge in your article. Please do ask Williams if you find yourself in need of anything.”

It was some little time later, while Kate was exploring the rose garden within earshot of the drawing-room windows, that she overheard Lillie Langtry’s angry interchange with her caller.

When Charles and Bradford arrived at the Grange House Stable that morning, they discovered that Bradford ’s introduction would not be necessary. After a few minutes’ conversation, it emerged that Angus Duncan had known the two previous Barons of Somersworth and was willing to be persuaded to undertake the training of the two-year-old colt and the filly that the present Lord Somersworth (obviously a foppish fool of a man with more money than sense) proposed to place in his care.

“They’re the last of my brother’s stable,” Charles lisped, affecting an exaggerated, upper-class tone, “and so I’m anxious to do well by them.” He leaned on his gold-headed cane and remarked, “Afraid I’m not a racing man, haven’t an ounce of brain when it comes to horses. My brother was quite proud of the line, but my stableman insists that both horses are bone-lazy and ought to be sold.” He took out a white silk handkerchief and flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his morning coat. “But my brother, bless him, wouldn’t’ve wanted that. I’m anxious to see them well trained and give them a chance to run, if they’re fit for it. Of course, I’ll pay the tariff, whatever it is,” he added expansively.

Bradford, with the demeanor of a cautious adviser, gave him a slight shake of the head. “Your lordship ought to have a look around the stables before making a final decision on the matter. There are, after all, other stables at Newmarket.”

“Oh, quite,” Charles said, smiling fatuously. He made a fluttering gesture. “Oh, indeed. A look around, to be sure.”

Angus Duncan frowned. “Don’t like to have owners around horses,” he said brusquely. “Don’t do horses no good, nor owners neither.” He glanced at his lordship, who was stroking his mustache appreciatively, and seemed to conclude that this particular owner was too dim-witted to be dangerous, although the adviser bore watching. “But a quick look shouldn’t do harm,” he said, relenting. “Pinkie’ll take you round.”

As Pinkie was being summoned, two other men appeared, one a jaunty waist-coated and bowler-hatted gentleman, the other distinctly not a gentleman, dressed in tweed knickers and rakish tweed cap, a brown-paper cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Reggie, old chap!” Bradford said, and thrust out his hand to the man in the bowler hat. “I say, dear boy, it really was too bad about that horse of yours last week-Gladiator, I mean. Looked like being a winner before that little scrimmage at the corner.” Deferentially, he turned to Charles. “Should like you to meet Lord Charles Somersworth, who is considering stabling a pair of fine horses here.” He glanced at Angus Duncan. “Very fine horses,” he said emphatically.

Reginald Hunt greeted Bradford warmly, acknowledged Charles with a small bow, and introduced his companion, Jesse Clark. Charles recognized the man as the American trainer who, together with Enoch Wishard, was said to have made horse doping into an art. Clark was a small man, in his forties, with a dry, leathery skin and a mocking twist to his mouth.

“So you’re Clark,” Bradford said genially, giving the American’s hand a vigorous shake. “Been hearing about your successes with Mr. Wishard. Quite a string of wins you’ve had there. Tearing up the Turf, as they say.”

Hunt brightened. “Oh, Jesse’s a great one, all right. A real wizard, I must say. We weren’t having all that much luck with Gladiator-were we, Angus?-until Jesse came along and offered to help get him ready for the Derby. I don’t know what he did, but as you saw, he worked a miracle. The horse showed more life than I’d ever seen in him.”

Charles saw out of the corner of his eye that Angus Duncan had shifted from one foot to the other.

“Do you have a stable here at Newmarket, Mr. Clark?” Bradford inquired amiably.

Angus Duncan made a noise deep in his throat.

Clark stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “Enoch Wishard and I train a few horses at the Red House Stable,” he said in a broad American drawl. “But mostly I do what you might call consultin’.” He hooked his thumbs in his leather belt and grinned at Angus Duncan. “Ain’t that right, Angus? Jes’ lendin’ a hand where it’s needed t’ bring a lazy horse up to snuff.”

Angus Duncan said nothing. His face was dark and his jaw muscle was working.

Charles opened both eyes wide in an expression of surprise and delight. “Well, well, Mr. Clark, this is a lucky meeting. I shall have need of your services, I daresay, for it seems that I have two lazy horses.” He turned to Angus Duncan. “Mr. Duncan, when the horses arrive, please be so kind as to arrange with Mr. Clark to consult with you about them. I should like him to suggest how they might be”-he stroked his mustache-“brought up to snuff, as it were.”

Without replying, Angus Duncan threw a murderous look at Clark and clenched his fists. It was clear that he hated the American and didn’t care who knew it. Charles was aware that most trainers were obsessively proprietary when it came to determining how a horse should be handled, and they were careful to keep strangers out of the yard for fear they would steal racing secrets or worse yet, interfere with the horses. If Angus Duncan didn’t want Clark hanging about, why did he tolerate it? Why didn’t he simply order him off his property, and drop any owner who offered to do business with him?