What he would think of her if he knew that she was the daughter of Lady Whitehaven and had escaped from her life in London, she could barely imagine! Most likely, he would be horrified, for whilst he knew she came from a respectable family, he would not think her to be from one of nobility.
As Beauchamp slowed to a trot, Catherine sighed heavily to herself. She would not have much time left here. Sooner or later, the duke would come to her and state that he had decided she could not be his jockey and would send her on her way. She would have to return home, would have to sneak back into the house and change before her mother saw her. Quite what her mother would say at her return, Catherine could not imagine, for Lady Whitehaven would be somewhere between anger and relief. A stab of guilt pierced her heart as she thought of how worried Lady Whitehaven would be. Perhaps she ought to find a way to write to her mother, to assure her that she was safe and untainted by scandal.
“You there, hurry up!”
The new jockey was waiting for her, his eyes flashing as he gestured for her to bring in Beauchamp. “I saw you out there, riding Beauchamp. How dare you?” Pulling his hand back, he made to slap her across the face, making Catherine stumble back, one hand raised in defense. The hand came crashing down hard, catching her and leaving a sharp sting in its wake.
“The duke permitted me to do so,” she protested, rubbing at her cheek and seeing the jockey glare at her. “I did nothing wrong.”
“Lies!” the jockey hissed, his brows low over his small grey eyes. “You think you are better than me, giving His Grace suggestions about what I can do to improve? You know nothing! Nothing!” Without warning, he slapped her again and Catherine cried out in pain. “Do I make myself clear?”
Catherine could barely speak, her anger and her pain burning hotly within her. She had never been treated as such, and did not know what to do. The jockey descended on her again, only for Mr. Griggs to come out of the stables and shout aloud, catching the jockey’s attention.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, giving the jockey a dark look as he walked over to them both. “The lad’s not upsetting you, I hope, Mr. Healy?”
The jockey laughed harshly. “Not now that he knows his place,” he replied harshly. “He won’t be taking liberties with the duke’s horses again, that’s for sure.” He sniffed haughtily and looked back at Mr. Griggs. “And who might you be?”
“Griggs,” Mr. Griggs replied, his eyes darting across to Catherine as she felt blood begin to trickle from her nose and made to stop it with her sleeve. “I look after the duke’s stables…and those who work for him.” He lowered his voice, his expression darkening. “And that lad, Leighton, gets to ride Beauchamp whenever the duke says, Mr. Healy. There isn’t a bad bone in that boy’s frame. He works hard, and he speaks the truth.”
Mr. Healy made to scoff at this but was prevented by a sharp finger being dug into his chest.
“You keep your hands off him, sir,” Mr. Griggs finished, his voice low and threatening. “Else I’ll be speaking to the duke himself about what you’ve been up to, and he’s much more inclined to believe someone who’s been here for years than someone who’s only just turned up in the last day or so. Do you understand me?”
Catherine winced as she dabbed at her nose, relieved that Mr. Griggs had stood up for her in such a way. Refusing to be cowed, she looked back at Mr. Healy as he glared at her, although a good deal of bravado was gone from his expression.
“Very well,” the jockey muttered, lifting his chin and turning away. “But I don’t want any more advice from that lad. I don’t need any. That horse knows what to do and just doesn’t like doing it. He’ll come around soon enough.” A dark smile
glittered across his face, sending nausea instantly into Catherine’s stomach. “They always do.” And with that, he turned around and left Catherine and Mr. Griggs standing by the stables, leaving Catherine feeling more certain than ever that the Duke of Blackwell was making a terrible mistake in hiring Mr. Healy as his jockey.
Chapter Seven
“I hear you have a new jockey!”
Matthew grimaced, not really wanting to talk about the failure that appeared to be Mr. Healy.
“What was wrong with Mr. Riley?” asked another of his friends.
“Rigby,” the first corrected with a roll of his eyes. “It was Rigby, was it not?”
“Yes,” Matthew interrupted before the discussion could continue any further about what the correct name of his former jockey was. “It was Rigby.” He shrugged, not wanting to go into particulars. “He became a little too sure of himself. Wouldn’t take a telling.”
The first of his friends, Lord Brighton, nodded understandingly. “That’s never a good sign. You did right to let him go if he was turning into that sort of arrogant chap.”
“And how is this new jockey of yours doing then?” asked the other, Lord Richardson. “Healy is known to have a good seat, at the very least.”
Matthew considered this for a moment, remembering how Mr. Healy had managed to keep his seat as Beauchamp had reared up, fighting against the bit that Healy was so determined to use with every ounce of his strength. He winced, hating how Beauchamp had reacted and becoming quickly aware that what Miss Leighton had said was quite true. He had brought an end to that session very quickly and had asked Miss Leighton to allow Beauchamp a short gallop across his land before returning him to the stables, as he had done every time Healy had taken the horse out. She had nodded and done as he had asked, and within a few minutes, he had seen her thundering across the grounds. To everyone else, it just looked like the stable hand had been granted a boon by the duke, with a few commenting that the lad could ride very well, whilst he himself knew that it was not a boy that rode Beauchamp but a young lady. A young lady whom he had been trying and testing for over a fortnight now.
“Blackwell?”
Matthew jerked in his seat, realizing all too quickly that he had been distracted by his own thoughts. “My apologies,” he muttered, a little embarrassed. “The jockey has a good seat, yes, but I am not yet certain that he is the correct jockey when it comes to Beauchamp.”
Lord Richardson grinned, his eyes alight with good humor. “This is the horse you believe will win the Gold Cup,” he said, as Lord Brighton nodded firmly, as though to reassure Lord Richardson that he was correct. “Finally, after all your years of trying, you will be able to have the acclaim that you have been seeking.”
Matthew grunted, his hopes slowly beginning to sink within him as he recalled just how Beauchamp had fought against Healy’s firm hand. “I have wanted to win that Gold Cup for the last few years and have never even come close to having the winning horse,” he agreed, shaking his head. “But with Beauchamp…” He trailed off, wanting to say that he felt as though he had the opportunity to win but feeling that to do so would only lift his friends’ expectations.
“Beauchamp is a magnificent creature by all accounts,” Lord Brighton interrupted, looking at Matthew in surprise. “Is something the matter with him?”
“No, no,” Matthew muttered, running one hand through his hair. “It is not the horse.”