"No, I haven't," she lied, pulling her hood closer in the frigid air. The scent of smoke from street fires mingled with the odors of the show. "I understand that they are said to be certified?"

"It's what the paper claims," he admitted, his breath frosting in the cold. "Has there been no progress in locating the Shelford bull?"

She shook her head. Everyone spoke of Hubert as belonging to Shelford, though it was common knowl edge that Colonel Davenport now owned him. Mr. Downie harrumphed. "It's a bad business, my lady," he said. "A sorry day when your father passed away, God rest him. This wouldn't have happened if the earl had been alive."

Callie could agree with that in all honesty. She listened to the rumors as more agricultural people gathered at the Shelford pens, pausing to greet her kindly and regale themselves on mince pies and steaming cider. The most common gossip suggested that Hubert had been taken swiftly from the vicinity and either moved by some old abandoned drovers' road to the north, or already baited and slaughtered, never to be seen again. She hated both notions and had to keep reminding herself that he was lying in a well-kept pen not fifteen yards away. The edge of a thick bed of straw overf lowed from under the Malempré tarps, and she could see a big hoof tip and the smooth black lock of his tail just under the canvas. A baker's sack, presumably full of Bath buns, sat on the Malempré herdsman's enameled green show box.

Colonel Davenport himself arrived, his cheeks f lushed with cold and bluster. He accosted Callie immediately, demanding to know if she had heard of this havey-cavey Belgian business. He was of the dark opinion that Hubert had been made off with, probably by this Malempré fellow himself. The whole thing had the strong smell of criminal activity. He did not mean to frighten her, but he was a magis trate. He had long experience of rogues and rascals, and they were not all of the lowest classes. He very much doubted that Monsieur Malempré was what he represented himself to be. Colonel Davenport didn't suppose for one moment that Malempré was an honest gentleman, and it was unconscionable for the Agricultural Society to give him any countenance when he had stolen Hubert.

"No, I believe it was your fence," Callie said quietly, finally lifting her face at this. "I saw the break myself. You don't keep secure fences, I'm sorry to have to say, Colonel Davenport. No one stole Hubert-he simply pushed through your fence and got out."

A silence greeted her pronouncement. Every herdsman and farmer who had been standing about eating mince pies and listening to the colonel-and there were many-looked at Callie in something like awe. She had never said so much in public before.

As the representative of the late Earl of Shelford, who remained in everyone's mind the proper owner of the bull, her opinion of the matter carried considerable weight. When her drover chimed in, muttering that he'd seen the break too, and there weren't no way such a rupture in the wood had been made by the hand of man, the weight of judgment began to go against Colonel Davenport's theory. He was a little put out, defending his fence and trying to argue with her, but Callie found that she had more friends than she knew: Mr. Downie and Farmer Lewis, her drover and her herdsman and the cottager with the fat pig, several other cowmen and farmers, and the wife of the Shelford butcher-even Mr. Price stopped as he was passing and took up Callie's point with vigor. A great discussion erupted over the usual sounds of clucking and lowing, filling Broad Street with the echo of voices in loud dispute. Callie could imagine Trev's wicked enjoyment as he observed the scene from whatever place he had chosen to conceal himself. He had told her that he would be watching.

Monsieur Malempré's reputation gained consider ably in respect when some bystander said he'd spoke to the banker, and the five hundred guineas were deposited under seal, good as gold, and if no bull met the challenge, they were to be donated to the society itself to be used for improvement of the local breeds. The big fellow who imparted this stunning information was a stranger to Callie, but his size and diction-there was a strong f lavor of Charles's rough style to his speech-made her suspect he was no random passerby.

Mr. Price turned round at this, expressing astonish ment and gratification at the news. He demanded to know why the officials of the society had not been apprised of this aspect of the challenge.

"Dunno nothin' more of it." The stranger shrugged. "I'm just a stockyard man myself, from up Bristol. Guess he don't want some swindle," he suggested innocently, pulling a straw out of his mouth. "Like them society fellows might shuff le off the biggest bull here roundabouts if they knew they'd get them guineas themselves. Dunno what them aggi-culture coves might do, eh?"

"The society hide him? By God, we'd never-"

Colonel Davenport cut him off. "Mr. Price! How long has the society been aware of the Malempré Challenge?" he demanded.

"Why, we just found it out yesterday!" Mr. Price cried. "And precisely what are you implying, Colonel, by asking me such a question?"

The colonel seemed to realize he had crossed the line to insult, and held himself up stiff ly. "I merely inquired," he said. He gave a small bow. "I beg your pardon, sir. I meant no offense."

The secretary of the society relaxed a little but kept his brows raised. "No offense taken. I comprehend your upset, Colonel. It's an unfortunate situation for you, no doubt, to have misplaced the Shelford animal at this juncture."

Colonel Davenport drew in a sharp breath as if he might give an angry retort, but then he seemed to crumple under the weight of the secretary's words. "I cannot comprehend it," he said in despair. "How that bull could have disappeared so suddenly, under my very nose! Gone without a trace! A week before the show-and now this… this… Belgian! Five hundred guineas, I say! What would you think?"

"Dark doings," Mr. Price agreed. "We've had seven animals measured since yesterday, but none approaches the dimensions of this imported animal." He glanced toward Callie. "My lady, I beg your pardon, did your father ever have Hubert's measure taken?"

"He was measured last year at the Bromyard show," she said promptly. "After he took the premium for Best Bull under Four Years," she added, to remind them of Hubert's value. "But he's grown since. I daresay he's larger now."

Colonel Davenport gave a faint moan. "Egad, what an animal," he said miserably. "And I've lost him!"

"You've no leads at all?" Mr. Price inquired.

"I'm having all the yards searched from here to London," the colonel said. "I've sent letters to the shorthorn breeders and the society secretaries in ten counties, in case someone attempts to sell him or show him. I've even alerted Bow Street, should he be taken to the Home Counties. Gave 'em a description of that shady fellow who tried to buy him of me. And that French rascal who attacked poor Sturgeon-he's still abroad! I dare swear he's mixed up in it too."

"Perhaps he pulled down your fence," Callie murmured.

"It was a perfectly sufficient fence!" the colonel declared, glaring at her.

"We always keep our largest stock behind stone walls," she said modestly.

"There's a frost break in my stone," he grumbled. "That's why I had to put him in the wood paddock."

Farmer Lewis cleared his throat meaningfully and took a bite of mince pie. Several of the herdsmen chuckled. Callie felt her point about the condition of the colonel's fences had been made. A new bystander, muff led up to his eyes against the cold, winked at her.

She glanced quickly away, blushing at this impor tunity from a stranger. Then she looked back at him, suddenly suspicious. He tossed the ragged woolen scarf over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets, a nondescript working man in a shabby drover's jacket and fingerless mitts. He met her look with a directness that no common herdsman would ever dare. Callie felt her cheeks f lame, growing hot even in the chill.