“Lord Charles is staying at Hardaway House, on the left side of Wellington Street, just off the High Street. The house has a green door, behind a brick gateway. Go there, and give this envelope to his lordship. If he isn’t in, you must wait for him.” She frowned. “No, it might be very late when he comes, and your return here would attract attention. Best to give the note to Mrs. Hardaway, the landlady, and ask her to keep it for Lord Charles. On no account should she give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes, m’lady,” Amelia said eagerly, pleased to be entrusted with this important mission.

Lady Charles stood, went to her purse, and took out a coin which she pressed into Amelia’s hand. “Give Mrs. Hardaway this to ensure that she does as you say.” She found another coin. “And use this to hire a hansom to bring you back. If you are asked where you’ve been, say that I sent you to the chemist for lavender water.” She added a third coin. “You may keep the lavender water for yourself, for your trouble.”

“Oh yes, m’lady!” Amelia exclaimed, now struck almost breathless by the prospect of being involved in such fascinating intrigue, and by the anticipation of the lavender water.

“Very well, then,” her ladyship said. “Put on your hat and go. And do hurry, my dear! His lordship must have that envelope as soon as possible.”

When Patrick woke at five on Tuesday morning, he was tired and still shaken by his adventure of the previous night. But he got through morning stables in good order, none of the other lads having noticed that he had been absent from his bed until past midnight. And when Pinkie Duncan told them at breakfast that Badger the bookmaker had been murdered, Patrick looked down at his plate and pretended to know nothing at all about it. He noticed, however, that despite Pinkie’s efforts to conceal his true feelings, his satisfaction showed on his face. Clearly, the dead man had not been one of Pinkie’s friends, although Patrick could not guess why. Patrick did not like Pinkie any the more for this secret gloating. It was not that he had cared very much for the bookmaker, whom he knew only from seeing at the racecourse. But it did not seem right that one man should gloat over another man’s death, however unpleasant their association might have been.

Gladiator was exercised with the afternoon string, so Patrick readied his other horse, a two-year-old filly named Starling. The morning sky was lightening in the east when he took her out with the other lads. They walked their horses around the paddock’s cinder path under the watchful eye of Mr. Angus Duncan, who was making the daily exercise assignments: the more experienced lads to the more difficult or valuable horses, the less experienced to the horses least likely to give trouble. The inexperienced were left behind in the yard to walk the unfit horses.

Patrick was extraordinarily pleased when he was put up on Constant, a promising seventeen-hand bay with a great deal of sparkle, for the match suggested that Mr. Angus might be testing his abilities, as well as those of the horse. Constant was a stable favorite, usually exercised by Arch Adams, another apprentice jockey who had already ridden in several races at Newmarket. Arch and his friend Jim gave Patrick a disgruntled look as he shortened the stirrup leathers (Patrick rode short, in the style of the American Tod Sloan) and when he went into the saddle, Jim muttered something derogatory under his breath. But Patrick did his best to ignore them and concentrated on settling onto the horse, which danced and fidgeted under him.

When all the lads were mounted, the string departed for the gallops on the west side of Newmarket at Southfields, not far from the racecourse. They crossed the Bury Road and went behind the other stables and right through the town, taking the High Street. This was the regular route to the Heath taken by all the stables, and often they encountered other strings on their way to exercise. But they were early this morning, and when Southfields came into view, it was empty.

It was full light now, but cloudy and gray, with a slight drizzle. The air was cool, the ground soft but not slippery, the breeze quiet-the very best sort of morning to exercise horses. Mr. Angus began immediately with the canters, watching carefully to make an assessment of the individual horse’s capabilities. As always, the touts and tipsters had arrived early, too. They watched from their distant stations up the hill and along the road, peering through their field glasses, collecting tidbits of information on the health and performance of one horse or another to pass along to the bookmakers and racing papers. There was nothing that could be done about this peering and prying, and the stables had learned how to turn it to best advantage by showcasing some horses and concealing others, thereby influencing the odds.

Canters completed, the string rode back through the town to the stable, where Patrick unsaddled Constant, rubbed him down, washed the dirt out of his hooves, rugged him up, and carried water and oats to his box. Then it was time for more chores, lunch, and then the afternoon string-and here it was that the gray day became suddenly much brighter, for while Mr. Angus was making assignments, his nephew Pinkie came out to join him. There was a hurried conference, Mr. Angus shaking his head and Pinkie gesturing emphatically, and Patrick was put up on Gladiator.

Then, while the head lad marshaled the string and headed off to Southfields, Patrick rode Gladiator behind Mr. Angus and Mr. Pinkie to the trial ground beyond the Limekilns, accompanied by Arch Adams on a four-year-old colt named Rag who had won well the previous year, and Jim on Cannon, a promising, eager chestnut, another stable favorite. No one said a word, but Patrick knew that they were going to run a full-scale trial to see how well Rag would do against Cannon, and whether Cannon had as much promise as he seemed to have. He leaned over and patted Gladiator’s neck, hoping that the horse would run well. He thought briefly of Johnny’s fair, bright face and smiling optimism, and felt a stab of sadness. But he had to put that out of his mind, for Johnny was gone now. And if he felt any fear that Gladiator might suddenly turn savage, as he had at the Derby, Patrick put it away too. What had happened in that race happened because of the doping, and today Gladiator was as calm as could be, and perhaps even a little lethargic.

The mist was clearing and the sun breaking through the silver clouds when the group reached the trial ground. Three men on horseback were watching from the brow of the hill through field glasses as Mr. Angus rode on to the end of the course and reined in where he could observe. After a few moments, the watchers were joined by several more. Mr. Pinkie stayed with the three runners, giving them brief instructions.

“Don’t ride ’em into the ground,” he said. “We don’t want any injuries. If there’s faltering, ease off.” He looked at Arch Adams. “But let ’im run ’ard if ’e wants,” he said.