Jem Salter was lighting a second lantern from the one that hung from a nail on one of the tent’s poles. The added light illuminated Sir Oswald Broxley’s face, which wore what must be a habitual scowl. “Well?” he said harshly.

  “Give her a minute, will you?” Jem Salter handed him the lantern he’d lit and lifted something from a wicker hamper in the corner of the tent. It appeared to be a large linen sheet with ribbons tacked to its corners. He turned to the third occupant of the tent, a skittish-looking Maharahnee who was restlessly shifting her feet, and tied the sheet around her neck by the ribbons so that it hung before her, apron-like.

  “There you go, miss,” he said gently, unfastening her halter and removing it.

  “Ah,” Maria breathed, and grasped Annabel’s arm.

  Annabel was grateful for the bite of Maria’s fingernails into her skin, for it kept her from gasping out loud when Maharahnee was suddenly no longer there. In her place stood a small, brown-haired woman somewhere in her thirties, clutching the sheet to her. She stood blinking for a moment as if to catch her breath. “Thank you, Jem,” she said in a low, throaty voice, then coughed. “Thank you,” she repeated, less hoarsely.

  “I left a damned promising card game to be here.” Sir Oswald was tapping the riding crop he habitually seemed to carry on one booted toe. “Whatever you have to say, dear sister, it had better be worth my while.”

  Sister! Annabel looked quickly between the red-faced man and the pale but straight-backed woman. Yes, the resemblance was there—but what was going on? Why was Sir Oswald’s sister—a shape-shifter!—posing as a racehorse for him?

  “You drink this before you try to talk any more, Miss Charlotte.” Jem Salter handed the woman a leathern tankard. “You don’t want to strain your throat.”

  Charlotte took the tankard with a nod and drank its contents while Sir Oswald stood and fumed. When she’d finished drinking, she lowered the tankard and fixed him with a fearful, wide-eyed stare. “We must stop this masquerade at once!”

  “Now, miss—” Jem Salter began soothingly, reaching to pat her shoulder as if she were still a horse.

  “We must stop nothing,” Sir Oswald said from between gritted teeth. “What is this bilge you’re talking?”

  “It is not bilge!” Charlotte stamped her foot. “We have been discovered!” She turned away from him, her shoulders hunched. “I should never have allowed you to convince me. Were it not for Florian—”

  “What’s going on, Miss Charlotte?” Jem Salter glared at Sir Oswald, who had made an exasperated noise.

  “Last night—I don’t know when—a mouse ran into the tent. I paid it no mind—they often do that, looking for dropped oats—but this mouse stopped and looked up at me—and then it—she—”

  “What?” Sir Oswald exploded.

  “She turned into a goat,” Charlotte whispered. “And she tried to talk to me.”

  Sir Oswald, who had been about to speak, closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes.

  “Tried to talk to you?” Jem Salter had paled too. “What did it say?”

  “She told me that she was my friend and that she wanted to help me.” Charlotte shivered. “I could not answer her—I dared not! I—I panicked, and the goat changed back into a mouse and escaped the way she had come in.” She clasped her hands before her. “Don’t you see? Someone knows. Someone has figured out what we are doing. Oswald, I can no longer maintain this ruse. Please, may we go home? I’ll take Florian and find a cottage somewhere for us. I have mother’s bequest—we shan’t be a burden on you—”

  “The devil you will.” Sir Oswald grabbed her wrist, twisting it as he yanked her toward him until they were practically nose to nose. “We are not going home. You will run on Saturday, and you will win, and win well—very well.” His voice dropped to a malevolent silkiness. “You will win if you ever want to see that boy again.”

  Charlotte gasped. “Oswald! What do you intend?”

  He smirked at her, then turned on his heel and stalked from the tent.

  Charlotte stared after him, rubbing her arm where he’d twisted it, then turned to Jem Salter. “Oh, Jem! What am I to do? What will happen to us if we are caught? And where has Oswald hidden my poor brother? This is—I cannot think—there’s too much—”

  “Now, Miss Charlotte.” The older man patted her shoulder again, awkwardly. “I ’spect we’ll get through this—”

  “Yes, until it’s time to run the next race, and the one after that. Oswald has so many debts that there will be no end to this until I am too old to run, and then what? And if someone has discovered us, what will we do? Will they want money from Oswald to keep our secret as well?” She grasped his arm. “You must help me put a stop to this. Please, help me find Florian—we’ll all escape from Oswald together. Or you could go and work for someone else. I know any of Oswald’s acquaintances would hire you at once—Sir Thomas Bettany or Lord Runston—”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” Annabel noticed that Jem Salter would not meet her eyes. “We’ll get through this race an’ go home, and then we’ll talk. It’s only another day or two—you’re worrying yerself sick over naught. And ye’d best think ‘bout changing back now—too long in yer natural shape’ll make you too stiff to run. I’ve got a nice fresh pot of my liniment here—”

  “Jem—”

  “After Saturday,” he said firmly. “I promise you, we’ll talk after Saturday.”

  Maria tugged on Annabel’s arm. “Enough,” she mouthed when Annabel looked at her.

  Annabel nodded, and they tiptoed away under cover of her shadow. Only when they were well away from the tent city and close to the Horse and Oak did either of them speak.

  “It’s as I suspected,” Maria finally murmured. “She’s a shape-shifter. That explains so many things—the running of races at far-apart location, and Hermes’ odd reaction to her.”

  “He’s forcing his own sister to pose as one of his racehorses!” Annabel was incensed. “And has done something dreadful to their own brother.”

  “I did some judicious asking about this afternoon among Lord Derby’s guests,” Maria said. “It seems that Sir Oswald’s father remarried after the death of his first wife—that would be the mother of Sir Oswald and Charlotte Broxley. There’s a younger brother from that second marriage.” She hesitated. “It seems the boy’s a bit of an invalid. He was blinded after an attack of the measles.”

  “Good God!” Sir Oswald was even more of a villain than he appeared, then. “We must do something to help them.”

  “And to prevent Miss Broxley from racing on Saturday. That would be wrong for many reasons.” Maria stopped; they were at the inn’s front door, which they’d wedged open when they left. Maria was going to spend the rest of the night with Georgiana—or early morning, for the eastern sky was already brightening. “We shall have breakfast as planned at nine with Georgiana so that the three of us can discuss what we learned tonight. Get what sleep you can; I suspect this will be a monstrously busy day.”

  A few hours later, Annabel shut the door to Georgiana’s chamber and leaned against the wall next to it in order to give a jaw-cracking yawn before making her way back to her room. She’d managed to snatch about three hours of sleep last night—or this morning, rather—before Winters came in to dress her—an unfortunately highly observant Winters who took one look at her and asked, “Did you not sleep well, my lady?”

  “What? Oh, no, I slept very well, thank you.” Annabel tried to smile brightly at her maid. It was evidently unconvincing; Winters pursed her lips and did not reply. Annabel was seized by a sudden conviction that Winters must have looked in on her for some reason and found her bed empty. Did she think that her mistress had been visiting someone else’s bed?

  But Winters said nothing further as she helped Annabel dress and did her hair. Annabel was grateful to be able to escape to Georgiana’s chamber after her maid’s chilly silence.

  Not that she and Maria and Georgiana had had much to discuss. After relating the conversation, she and Maria had eavesdropped on to Georgiana over a pot of Mrs. Bunwich’s excellent coffee and a plate of rolls, they decided that one of them must find the earliest opportunity to speak with Maharahnee/Miss Broxley and offer their help. Since she wasn’t, strictly speaking, a horse, any of them (not only Maria) should be able to speak to her and be understood.

  But Maria had engagements that day with her host, Lord Derby, and Georgiana would remain in her room that day, according to Nettles; therefore, it was up to Annabel to find an opportunity to speak to Miss Broxley. Winters had probably already finished setting her room to rights and gone down to the kitchens for her own breakfast, so Annabel could go back there to fetch her hat and gloves and spencer and make her way down to stand watch at Maharahnee’s tent. With any luck she’d have a chance to relay their message of help—which would no doubt lead to another three-in-the-morning meeting, alas!—and be back here by noon for a nap. A blissful, at least two-hour nap, with her stays loosened and her hair unpinned—

  She rounded the corner—her and Georgiana’s chambers were at different ends of the L-shaped inn—and was arrested by the sight of a male figure standing in the doorway of her room, his back to her and one arm resting high on the doorframe. Below his arm she could see Winters, her demeanor wary but polite.

  “Gone already? And here I had hoped to coax your mistress into breakfast before going for a drive with me,” the man was saying.

  Lord Glenrick! The last thing she had time for today was parrying his advances. Oh, why did everything have to be so complicated?

  Without hesitation, she scooped a handful of shadow from a fold of her skirt and cast it over her. She would wait at the corner of the passage until Lord Glenrick had gone downstairs and then retrieve her hat and gloves, telling Winters that she would be spending the day with Maria. Complication solved.

  “Please tell Lady Fellbridge that I had hoped to see her today,” Lord Glenrick was saying. “Perhaps she would do me the honor of dining with me this evening in the parlour downstairs. You will tell her that I was looking for her?”

  Winters must have replied in the affirmative, for he said “good girl” and produced a coin from his pocket before turning and going to the staircase. Annabel listened as he descended them, then commenced counting to three hundred to ensure he did not return and to allow at least a brief pause between his departure and her arrival to her chamber. As for dining with him—heaven knew where she would be at that time. She would have Winters politely decline for her if Lord Glenrick returned while she was on duty at Maharahnee’s tent.

  She whisked off her shadow and walked down the hall in as natural a manner as possible, and breezily opened the door. The offhand greeting she had planned to say to Winters died on her lips as she crossed the threshold.

  Winters was not bustling around the room in her usual diligent fashion. Instead, she was seated on the edge of Annabel’s bed, her hands clutching each other in her lap and her face as pale as if she’d caught sight of the proverbial ghost. She stared up at Annabel with an almost fearful look on her usually placid, round face.

  “Why, Winters! What is it?” Annabel dropped to her knees before her and took one of her hands. “Are you ill?”

  Winters opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. With a visible effort, she finally managed to speak. “I…saw you. You were there, and then…you weren’t.”

  Oh. Annabel sat back on her heels. Oh dear.

  “I saw you—behind Lord Glenrick when he was here a few moments ago. You…you were down the hall,” Winters was saying. “You had just come around the—the corner in the passage and you stopped, and then…then you raised your hand and—” She looked at Annabel plaintively. “Did I really see you do that?”

  Annabel thoughts whirled. Whilst she had always been as careful as possible, she had on occasion been caught in the midst of concealing or un-concealing herself. On each of these occasions, the person who had seen her had been easy to convince—no, been eager to be convinced—that their eyes had played tricks on them and that she certainly had not appeared before them from nowhere. Most people did not want to know that there was much more to the world than what they saw and knew every day. So she could, very easily, pat Winters’ hand and say no, of course she hadn’t seen Annabel disappear into thin air—it was all a trick of the dazzling morning light—and that perhaps she was overtired and needed a good cup of tea and a bit of a lie-down…

  But this was Winters, whom she’d known most of her life and whose judgment she trusted and good opinion she valued. Did she want to alter that by lying to her?

  Or should she continue to trust Winters by telling her the truth? Georgiana had confided in Nettles; she could not think that Winters wasn’t worthy of the same consideration.

  She sat down on the bed next to Winters. “I…that is…” She took a breath and met Winters’ gaze. “Yes, you did.”

  Winters’ eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no sound came forth.

  “It’s something I’ve always been able to do, ever since I was small. I don’t know why I can, but watch.” She rose, swept a handful of shadow from under the edge of the bed, and draped it over her head.

  Winters recoiled. “Dear God in heaven!”

  Annabel quickly brushed it off. Had she miscalculated in her decision to tell Winters? “Don’t be alarmed! I’m still here—and I promise you, this…thing I can do is not anything God would disapprove of, even if I do wonder why he saw fit to bestow it on me. It is nothing bad or evil…it simply is. Well, perhaps I have been a little bad, when I was small. I used to use it to escape from my old nurse—you must remember her from when you were employed at Belsever Magna! Now that I think about it, even then I think her eyesight was poor enough that I didn’t need my shadows to fool her.”

  Winters laughed shakily. “No, likely not.”

  Annabel drew more shadow from under the bed and draped it over a pair of her slippers on the floor. “But I don’t use it to hide myself or anything else for idle reasons.”

  Winters contemplated the seemingly empty place where her slippers lay hidden. “If I may ask—was there a—a particular reason you wished to avoid Lord Glenrick?”

  “Yes, as it happens.” Here was the tricky part. “We did not come to Epsom merely for amusement. I am here to assist in the conduct of an investigation.”

  “A—an investigation? What—that is, I expect it’s none of my business, ma’am.” But the interest in her expression said otherwise.

  “On the contrary, I would greatly value your help. As I said, I am here to assist—others.”

  Winters digested this. “Such as—Lady Sefton? And Lady Bathurst? What could they possibly—” She stopped abruptly, reddening.

  Annabel couldn’t suppress a grin. “They might surprise you. I’m not the only one with an unusual gift.”

  “They too…? Do they do things such as you do with—” She gestured toward Annabel’s hidden slippers.

  “Not quite. They have their own talents. Some of us have taken it upon ourselves”—no need to bring the Lady Patronesses and Almack’s into it yet; poor Winters had had enough shocks for today— “to…ah…take care of situations that involve the unusual.” She paused—would Winters be able to believe her? “Right now, we’re investigating someone running a horse in races who also happens to be his sister.”

  Winters’ eyes grew round. “His sister?”

  “Yes.” It did sound odd when phrased that way, didn’t it? “She has the ability to take the shape of a horse—a very fast and clever one. They’ve been winning races left and right, but we’ve discovered that she’s not a willing participant in the scheme, and we’re trying to find a way to help her. I must go this morning to observe her—yes, hidden—and to find a way to speak with her. That is why I hid from Lord Glenrick just now. I would never have been able to get away if he had seen me.”

  She sat and again took Winters’ hand. “I hope you comprehend that I have told you all this because I trust your discretion completely. Not only for my sake, but for the sake of the work the—er, my friends and I do. Stopping a cheat may not seem to be much, but we are doing what we can to make the world—or at least our small part of it—a better place.”

  Winters returned the pressure of her hand with a firm squeeze. “I…well, I can’t say that I understand, my lady, because I don’t understand that.” She gestured toward Annabel’s invisible slippers. “But about doing what you can—that I understand. It’s not often a female can do anything much. The men want to keep that sort of thing to themselves.”

  “That’s an astute observation,” Annabel said. If she were for some reason to tell Lord Glenrick what she was doing in Epsom, he would undoubtedly tell her not to trouble herself over the matter, that he would resolve it (most probably by going directly to Sir Oswald.) Quin, on the other hand…oh, if only he were here instead of Lord Glenrick! She would ask him to draw Sir Oswald and Jem Salter aside to talk horses and be in to talk to Maharahnee in a trice… She shook her head.

  “There’s something else, Winters,” she said. “Lady Bathurst’s Nettles knows all about her mistress’s—er, work and is a great help to her. If you were inclined, you could be of similar help to me…but I know that might be asking too much of you. If all of this is more than you—that is, if you would prefer to find employment with a more conventional employer, I promise that I will gladly give you the highest recommendation. But I ask that you’ll keep my secret—or try to forget this ever happened—”

  “No, my lady.” The fierceness in Winters’ voice surprised Annabel. “I don’t want to leave you and work for anyone else. If you can do good for the world, I can help you—and be doing some good, too.”

 

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