When they arrived at Hampstead Heath, Meg couldn’t help but notice Lady Eugenia. The woman wore a pretty lavender-colored gown. Her light hair was hidden beneath her obviously costly bonnet, and she stood at Hart’s side with a sunny smile on her face. Meg narrowed her eyes when the woman put her hand on Hart’s arm and laughed at something he said. Harlot. Obviously.
“I’ll jot off with Derek to set up the starting point,” Lucy said.
Sarah turned to Meg. “I’ll distract Lady Eugenia. You go greet Hart.”
Meg turned to do just that, but Sir Winford came bustling up to them, leading his horse behind him.
“Miss Timmons, there you are. I was hoping you would come,” the knight said, a wide smile on his face. He looked relieved to see her.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Lucy replied, her expression pitying.
After they all greeted one another, Meg eyed Sir Winford’s horse. Lucy was right: The animal, while quite fine, was no match for Goliath. “Are you feeling confident?” Meg asked him, after Lucy and Sarah excused themselves and trotted off across the field in different directions.
“Yes, indeed.” Sir Winford patting his horse’s flank. “Though I’ve heard Highgate can be reckless,” he continued with a disapproving look on his face.
“Oh, he’s not reckless, he’s—” Meg stopped and coughed into her glove. It was better to leave off the rest of that sentence. Why should she defend Hart to Sir Winford?
“Will you give me a token, Miss Timmons? Something I can take with me during the race, to know I have your support?” Sir Winford began to reach for her hand but stopped himself.
Now probably wouldn’t be the time to mention that Lucy had fifty quid riding on Hart. She glanced up into Sir Winford’s bright blue eyes. The knight seemed so sincere, so kindhearted. Meg mentally kicked herself for the hundredth time. Why, oh why, couldn’t she love someone as simple to love as Sir Winford would be? No, she had to love the most complicated man in the kingdom.
Meg glanced toward Hart only to see Lady Eugenia tying a lavender scarf to his sleeve. Meg clenched her jaw. “Yes, of course. I’ll give you a token.” She pulled her own dark blue scarf from her bonnet and tied it around Sir Winford’s sleeve. “There. There you are.”
Sir Winford smiled broadly, bowed to her, mounted his horse, and took off at a clip toward the starting point.
Meg tried not to look in Hart’s direction again, pacing back and forth along the uneven ground. She was just about to go back and sit in the coach until the race began when the sound of horse hooves came trotting toward her.
She looked up to see Hart halt Goliath next to her. He wore tight riding breeches, black top boots, and a dark gray coat, and looked as if he’d been born to ride the magnificent steed.
He tipped his hat to her. “I wasn’t certain I’d see you here today.”
“Why is that?” She desperately hoped she sounded nonchalant. Why did the man have to look so good in riding breeches? Why hadn’t she taken note of what Sir Winford was wearing?
“You mentioned something about needing to pack for your move.”
“Oh yes. That.” That was nonchalant, wasn’t it?
“Are you still leaving?” he asked next.
She reached out and patted the horse’s neck. “My father is leaving. I am obliged to go with him.”
“Does that mean Sir Winford hasn’t offered for you?”
That stung. Meg squared her shoulders. “Not yet,” she flung back at him. She raised her chin. Lucy would be proud, but Meg only felt sick.
“You gave your scarf to him, though?” Hart’s voice was tight. Why did he say it in a way that made her feel guilty?
Meg pushed her nose in the air. “You accepted Lady Eugenia’s scarf.”
“So I did.” Hart’s voice was curt and short. “May the best man win.”
“Indeed.”
Hart galloped off, leaving Meg thoroughly confused. Had they just had a jealous exchange? She stared at his retreating form, blinking and wondering what to make of it.
Lucy and Sarah joined her soon after and the three of them locked arms and watched as the riders met. The two men gave each other short nods and spoke briefly, no doubt wishing each other luck. Derek Hunt stood to their far right, a pistol in his hand, ready to fire a shot in the air to indicate the start of the race.
“Where are they riding to?” Meg asked, biting at her lip. Her belly was filled with butterflies.
“Across the field, down the valley, around the church, and back,” Lucy said.
Derek called to the riders to determine if they were ready. They both nodded. The duke raised the pistol aloft and fired. The riders’ heels dug into the horses’ sides and both animals took off at breakneck speed.
“Oh, I cannot watch.” Meg extracted her arms from her friends’ and lowered her head to stare at her slippers, which were partially hidden in the tall grass. The butterflies had not stopped their flight in her stomach. They made her queasy.
“I can’t, either,” Sarah said, her voice filled with worry. “At least I don’t want to.”
“Are you jesting? I’m going to watch the entire thing,” Lucy nearly shouted with glee.
The party turned to watch as the riders galloped across the wide expanse of the moor and down the hill.
“What’s happening?” Meg asked, still biting her lip and staring at the ground.
“Hart’s horse is in the lead by at least one length,” Lucy replied, clapping.
“I’d say two,” Sarah added in an obviously proud voice.
“Oh dear.” Meg wrung her hands. She dared a glance up. The riders had gone down the hill. She couldn’t see them. “He’s going to kill himself,” Meg breathed, wrapping her shaking arms around her middle.
“Who?” Lucy asked. “Hart or Winford?”
“Hart, of course,” Meg replied.
“Seems to me Lord Winford is the less skilled rider,” Lucy replied.
“Hart loves that horse,” Sarah added. “I just hope Goliath keeps him alive.”
Many minutes later, the thundering of hooves signaled the riders’ return. Meg dared another glance. The two men came over the hill toward the finish line. Hart was in the lead by at least three lengths. The horses’ hooves thundered across the moor, kicking up bits of grass and mud as they went. As they topped the hill, a shocked cry shot through the small crowd. Meg held her breath and watched as Hart came riding hell-for-leather toward the finish with Sir Winford’s riderless horse behind him. The knight had been thrown.
“Oh no!” Lucy exclaimed, her hand on her mouth.
Meg gasped. “Sir Winford!”
“Come with me,” Sarah ordered. She grabbed Meg’s hand and they rushed down the hill to find Sir Winford. Hart, who had looked back when he heard the crowd’s gasps, was already slowing his mount. He turned in a wide circle and galloped back toward the fallen man. He reached him before Sarah and Meg did. Hart dismounted quickly and ran over to where Sir Winford lay. Hart knelt next to the knight, clearly checking for a pulse in his neck.
“He’s alive,” Hart called to the crowd, wiping mud from Sir Winford’s face.
A relieved sigh murmured through the group. Winford’s horse had slowed and Derek Hunt rounded him up.
Sarah and Meg rushed to Hart and Sir Winford. Out of breath from her run across the moor, Meg dropped to her knees, hovering over the knight. The man’s leg was bent at an unnatural angle and he had a nasty bleeding bruise on the side of his forehead, but his eyes were open and he was blinking.
“Sir Winford, are you all right?” Meg searched his face. He was a dear man and she felt entirely responsible for this.
“I believe so. I just need to … rest a bit.” The knight closed his eyes.
“Of course. Of course.” Meg reached out and brushed the hair from Sir Winford’s eyes. His hat had flown from his head and was lying on its side several paces away. Meg scrambled over to fetch it.
“Can we get you anything, Sir Winford?” Sarah asked.
Lucy came running up behind them. “Sir Winford, Derek has your horse and has given him to one of the grooms. He’s bringing the coach around. We’ll take you to the nearest doctor.”
Meg came back slowly, turning the knight’s hat over and over in her hands. She’d never forgive herself if Sir Winford was seriously injured.
“Thank you kindly, Your Grace,” Sir Winford said, his eyes still closed. Ever the gentleman, even when his neck might be broken. Meg swallowed a cry. He looked so still and pale lying on the grass. She glanced at Hart, who was still bent over the knight.
“Can you feel your arms and legs?” Hart asked Sir Winford.
Sir Winford’s boots moved and his fingers did, too. “I believe so.” He winced as if he was in a great deal of pain.
Meg knelt next to the knight and untied her scarf from Sir Winford’s sleeve. She pressed it to his forehead to stop the bleeding. “There, there.” Her gaze met Hart’s over Sir Winford’s prone body. Hart looked … guilty.
Moments later Lucy’s coach pulled to a stop nearby and all of the men, including Hart, Derek, and the grooms lifted Sir Winford carefully and placed him inside the coach. Meg and Sarah were helped in after him. Derek climbed atop to sit with the coachman and the conveyance headed for the doctor’s house. As the coach rumbled over the heath, Meg fervently prayed for Sir Winford’s health.