Meggie shouted, "Mr. Cork, I'll give you three strips of bacon if you beat out old Lummley!"

Old Lummley was a champion. He knew his business, and needed only to see his mistress, Mrs. Foe, standing at the finish line, her arms crossed over her mighty bosom whistling the same tune over and over, to ran straight and fast. He'd gotten a touch of arthritis over the last year and the experts predicted it would soon slow him down.

Four-year-old Rory Sherbrooke loved Cleopatra, although she twitched her tail and ran away from him whenever he was close enough to try to grab her. Rory waved frantically as he sat atop his father's shoulders, yelled until his father believed he would surely go deaf.

Meggie patted Rory's leg, then saw Mr. Cork suddenly pull away from Cleopatra, who'd just landed short on one of her leaps. There was a moan and a cheer from the crowd who lined the racetrack.

Cheering intensified. Five cats remained, running as hard as they could, all in splendid shape, all wanting to win. Four of them were grouped together-Cleopatra, Blinker II, Old Lummley, and Mr. Cork. They were moving fast, faster still. Candace, just behind them, her head down, was looking neither right nor left, just running hard out to catch the pack.

Suddenly, from the back came Tiny Tom, leaping over racers in front of him. His leap was a bit like Cleopatra's but with an added corkscrew flair just before he landed. The crowd held its breath as the small cat leapt over Horace, barely skimming the proud flag flying off that fat tail. Then, in the next moment, Tiny Tom landed, by awful accident, on Blinker II's back, causing the racer to twist about, bite Tiny Tom's ear, sending them both howling and spitting off the track and into Mrs. Blanchard, eighty years old and deaf, and tangle in her long skirts as she hit at them with her parasol.

Pandemonium broke out when Mr. Cork, in a final surge of power, flew over the finish line, beating Cleopatra by three whiskers. Old Lummley and Candace tumbled over each other vying for third place. Blinker II trotted back to the track, realized he'd lost and walked over the finish line, tail stiff, nose in the air. Horace followed behind him, his tail flag dragging in the dirt. There would be no re-illuminating this day. As for Tiny Tom, he was exhausted. He lay on his side at the edge of the track, licking his paws.

When Lady Dauntry, in a voice that carried all the way to Eastbourne, announced that Mr. Cork had won, Max hefted him up and carried him, draped over his shoulder, in state, to the winner's circle, Alec walking proudly beside him. Max was panting by the time he got there, as Mr. Cork wasn't a lightweight. When Mr. Cork saw Meggie, he automatically opened his mouth and let out a mighty MEOW. She dutifully pulled a piece of bacon wrapped in a pristine napkin from her pocket and fed it to him, telling him he was a beautiful boy and a splendid racer.

Mr. Cork consumed his bacon, licked Meggie's hand, and laid his head back on Max's shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself.

Cleopatra knew she'd lost. She wasn't happy about it. Unfortunately, good sportsmanship was something trainers couldn't seem to teach the racers, and so when Leo carried her too close to Mr. Cork, she reached out a paw and swiped his head. He opened one eye, tossed one hiss her way, then fell back to sleep, undisturbed by her bad manners.

"Next time, Cleo," Leo said, stroking his hand down her sleek back, "you'll get the orange giant next time, you'll see. You need some more takeoff training, more power in your hind legs, and Alec and I have come up with just the way to do it."

Alec nuzzled her head even as his fingertips lightly touched her ears. Then he whispered something in her small ear, and everyone would swear that she was listening to him. He kissed the top of her head. She forgot her snit and purred madly.

Mr. Grimsby saw this, and nodded wisely. "A cat whisperer," he said to his wife, who looked profoundly awed. "Yes, Alec is a budding cat whisperer."

There was one more race that afternoon, this one just for the three-year-olds, no others, as this age was the most aggressive, the most untrainable. There always seemed to be cat free-for-alls, fur flying all over the track from yowling cat fights. Many times not a single racer crossed the finish line, and today was no exception.

"Kitters will be kitters," Ozzie Harker said, shaking his head as he carried off Monroe, a wicked three-year-old tabby with a mangled ear.

Meggie patted both Mr. Cork and Cleo, kissing their faces until they both drew back from her, wondering where the food was.

"An excellent day," Meggie said, and hugged her father. "Now that Alec is focusing on Cleo, I would wager she'll begin beating Mr. Cork."

"The boy is amazing, isn't he, Meggie?"

His daughter heard the love in her father's voice for his son, and hugged him. "Both he and Rory are wonderful. You and Mary Rose have done very well." She grinned. "And just as I promised, I have taught them what's what."

Tysen laughed, just couldn't help himself as he remembered that long-ago sermon that had ended in not only a good deal of laughter but profound acceptance.

Meggie said, "I wish Susannah and Rohan Carrington could have been here. I'm just glad they let the Harker brothers attend to scout out the competition. It's always more exciting when the Mountvale mews are represented."

Tysen said, "They'll be here in May. They're in Paris, Rohan wrote me, looking at all the new crop of beautiful gardens. You know Rohan and his gardens-he will return with a dozen new designs."

"It was a good day," Max said, still carrying Mr. Cork, no longer panting so heavily now.

"Yes," his father agreed, "it was."

"Papa, can I carry Mr. Cork?"

Tysen looked up at his four-year-old Rory, mentally added Mr. Cork's additional weight, and sighed. "Hand him up, Max."

Sherbrooke town house Putnam Place, London One week later

THE SHERBROOKE TOWN house, on the corner of Putnam Place, was a three-story Georgian mansion built in the middle of the last century by an earl of Northcliffe with far more money than good taste, or bon gout, as he was wont to shout out when he took his pleasure at Madame Orly's brothel. He was also the same earl who had filled the Northcliffe gardens with all the coupling Greek statuary. Sherbrooke children, adults, guests, servants, and the occasional tradesman had, for the past sixty-five years, spent hours staring at the naked marble men and women, all in the throes of physical endeavors. Meggie wished she could have met that earl. Neither Leo nor Max had ever let fall to their vicar father that their cousins, Uncle Douglas's boys, had quickly shown them the statues in the hidden part of the Northcliffe gardens, and how all four boys had gawked and made lewd remarks and studied the statues in great giggling detail for hours on end. None of them was stupid.

Meggie was just down the hall from her aunt Alex's bedchamber that adjoined to Uncle Douglas's in a lovely airy room that was all shades of peach and cream. She'd stayed in this same room since she'd been eight years old.

There came a light tap on the door.

"Enter," Meggie called out.

It was her aunt Alex, looking tussled and windblown and as happy as the spring sunshine because she'd been out riding early with Uncle Douglas in Hyde Park. They'd doubtless galloped to their heart's content because no one was about that early to see and remark upon such eccentric behavior. She was wearing a dark green riding habit that Uncle Douglas had presented her on her birthday. Her rich red hair had tumbled out of her stylish riding hat and was in curls and tangles down her back.

She looked flushed and happy and in high spirits. "I love to be back in London," she said as she stripped off her York tan riding gloves, the leather incredibly soft. "It's ever so when we first arrive. Everything is fresh and new again. Now, it's your first Season, Meggie, and I am so pleased that Tysen gave you over into our care. What fun we shall have. I've come to tell you that Douglas will be taking you to Madame Jordan's this morning."