Recklessly Yours Read Online Free Page B

Gold Cup again this I year. There is no other can touch him in the two mile flat.”
    â€œYou are altogether too confident, Bentley. A champion one year might lug in at the next. It doesn’t do to toss all of one’s hopes on a single prospect.”
    The two gentlemen, both influential members of England’s Jockey Club and personally responsible for many of the new rules governing the sport of horse racing, stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, chins tilted at forty-five-degree angles as they gazed up at the team of workmen three stories above them. Racing across the Ascot heath, a vigorous breeze shoved bright clouds across a wide blue sky. A swirling haze of dust rose from the track, prompting both men to grasp the brims of their beaver hats. The younger of the pair, Mr. Stuart Bentley, coughed and shielded his mouth and nose with his free hand.
    Then he turned to bestow an indignant sneer upon his older companion. “Lug in? Lug in , did you say?”
    Colin Ashworth stood a few yards away on the grassy verge between the racetrack and the newly erected grandstand. He had been paying scant attention to Bentley and the podgy Lord Kinnard, the queen’s Master of the Buck-hounds. Instead, he watched the construction crew use a system of ropes and pulleys to raise a ten-foot section of the iron and wooden balustrade to the stand’s third-story balcony.
    Construction of the new building had begun nearly a year ago, though delays and setbacks had led Colin and his fellow Jockey Club members to despair of its completion in time for this year’s Royal Meeting. That only the balustrades still needed to be positioned came as a welcome relief. Since old King William had preferred to sit at home with his wife and his hounds rather than attend the races, Ascot had become sadly neglected during his reign. The attendance last year of his niece—young and fresh and promising to usher in a modern age—had brought a resurgence of racing enthusiasm not seen at this course in nearly two decades.
    Colin stole a moment to scan the colonnaded building front. The tiered balconies alone would hold hundreds of spectators, never mind the drawing rooms, betting halls, and refreshment parlors inside. A new era for Ascot demanded new accommodations for the masses, both wealthy and poor, and the new stand promised to oblige those needs with modern efficiency and a fashionable flare.
    A sudden screeching set his teeth on edge and jerked his attention back to the workmen. A corner of the railing had slipped from the ropes, and the section swayed precariously high above the ground. Colin’s limbs went rigid. The piece, consisting of heavy oak and adorned with intricate curls of wrought iron, weighed a good ten stone. It would surely break apart if it hit the ground.
    As the section swung outward from the building, Colin lurched forward. “They’re going to drop it.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down, men. Steady those ropes.”
    Bentley and Kinnard continued their debate of this year’s Gold Cup favorite, seemingly oblivious to the danger. Colin squinted against the sun’s glare and gritted his teeth. The remaining ropes seemed to be holding, but the railing swooped back and forth at its awkward angle, scraping the building’s fresh paint as the workers on the ground heaved to feed the ropes through the pulleys. The section nearly cleared the second story. Four carpenters peered down from the rooftop balcony, attempting to steady the apparatus from above.
    â€œDamned fools,” Colin murmured, “in too much of a hurry.”
    â€œFor my part, I’ll set my money on Drayton’s mare, Satin Flower,” Kinnard said as if the outcome of the races, still a fortnight hence, were the only concern of the moment.
    â€œYour money shall be wasted,” Bentley declared and pressed his lips together.
    Colin had a particular interest in