The riders nodded, the horses danced eagerly, and Mr. Pinkie dropped a red handkerchief to signal the start. They were off quicker and faster than Patrick expected, accelerating in a hard run, Rag opening up a strong lead, Cannon running second. Loping lazily, Gladiator did not seem compelled to keep up until Patrick, seeing the distance to Cannon open to ten lengths, loosened the rein, crouched forward on the horse’s withers, and whispered urgently, “For Johnny, boy, go! Go!”

At this, Gladiator pricked his ears, gathered his strength, and shot forward, making up length on length against Cannon and then pulling past, working up close behind Rag, and then flying past him too, and passing Mr. Angus in a strong finish, neck stretched out. The other two horses slowed to a canter immediately, but Gladiator continued to run as if he were enjoying the pleasure of it, until Patrick gradually pulled him up and circled back to the others.

“Well,” Mr. Angus said, as if he were surprised. Frowning, he looked at Patrick, then at Gladiator, who was prancing and shaking his head, exactly as if he were proud of his win. “Decided to try at last, did he?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “The start was faster than I expected and I had a tight rein, so I might have held him up some, just from not knowing. But he moved up fast when he was asked.” He wanted to add, proudly, He’s the best horse in the world, but he held his tongue and contented himself with a pat on Gladiator’s sweat-flecked neck.

While Patrick and the other riders let their horses cool, Mr. Pinkie rode up, frowning, as if he were not entirely pleased with the outcome of the trial. He and Mr. Angus pulled off to one side for a brief discussion, Mr. Pinkie speaking with unusual animation. Mr. Angus looked irritated at first, then angry, but finally gave a vexed shrug and seemed to give in, though his look was dark. Mr. Pinkie then turned to the watchers on the hill, who’d had their glasses trained on the entire event, and made some sort of signal. Mr. Angus rode back to the group.

“That’s it for the afternoon, lads,” he said gruffly, not looking at Patrick. “Let’s take ’em back to the stable.”

As they started off, Pinkie motioned to Patrick to ride behind with him.

“That was Lord Hunt up on the hill, watching the trial,” he said. “He wants you up on Gladiator for the ten-furlong handicap on Friday.”

Patrick stared at him, almost uncomprehending. It was what he’d been longing to hear, yet couldn’t quite believe. His first ride as a jockey-not in a trial, but in a real race, and on Gladiator, the best horse in the world!

“Thank you,” he managed at last. “I’ll do my best to win, Mr. Pinkie. And Gladiator will too, I know it.” He thought briefly of the Derby, and swallowed hard. They wouldn’t try to dope the horse again, would they? But now that they’d seen how fast Gladiator could run if he were asked, they had to know that the dope wouldn’t be needed. He could run just as fast, and with a lot more control, without it. And he would watch Gladiator like a hawk before the race. No one would put anything into his horse. If they tried, they would have to contend with him.

But there was an expression on Pinkie’s leathery face that Patrick couldn’t quite decipher. They rode in silence for a moment; then the man said, “There’s a condition to yer riding, boy. Ye’re to promise to ride exactly as yer told on the day of the race. Ye will follow instructions-or ye’ll not ride again, for this stable or any other. Is that understood?”

“A condition?” Patrick stared at him, at the steely eyes, the hard mouth. He began to comprehend what was being asked of him.

“We don’t need to go into the details now,” Pinkie said roughly. “Let’s just have yer promise, shall we?”

“I don’t-” Patrick swallowed. He could stop worrying about Gladiator being doped, for he understood all too well what his instructions for the race would be: to stop Gladiator from doing his best, to hold him back so that another horse might win. Those men on the hill with Lord Hunt must have been tipsters. They’d seen the horse run well, and they’d carry the message back to the bookies. Gladiator would be short odds. Lord Hunt would bet against him, and would win by losing.

“Speak up, boy,” Pinkie snapped. His eyes were narrowed and dark. “Say it now, or ’is lordship’ll give the ride to Arch Adams. Arch does as ’e’s told.”

Patrick took a deep breath. “I… promise,” he said numbly. He had to. If he didn’t, he’d lose any chance he might have to keep Gladiator safe.

Pinkie grinned and leaned over to clap him hard on the shoulder. “Well, then, buck up, lad! It ain’t every day that an apprentice jockey goes up on a ’orse that nearly won the Derby, is it?”

Patrick nodded. That much, at least, was true.

It was well past teatime and growing dark when Charles returned to Newmarket that evening and dropped Jack Murray off at the Stag Hotel. If they had returned an hour earlier, he would have gone back to Hardaway House to change, and hence would have discovered and read Kate’s urgent note. But the hour was late and he was expected for dinner at the home of Bradford ’s fiancée’s parents, so he drove straight on to Wolford Lodge.

Edith Hill’s mother and stepfather lived in a small, newly built Tudor-style plaster-and-timber house, behind an iron fence some distance off the Cambridge Road. Charles gave his hired horse into the care of a ragged boy who came out to greet him. Edith herself answered his knock and led him into the sitting room, where Edith’s mother and stepfather were chatting with Bradford. A fire blazed cheerfully beneath a mantel ornately draped with a tassled red-velvet flounce, and after the cool out-of-doors, the room seemed stifling. It seemed small, as well, because it was crowded with large pots of green foliage and a dozen oddly shaped tables decorated with exotic-looking souvenirs, many carved of ivory. On the walls were displayed foreign-looking tapestries and hangings, as well as several large paintings of elephants and peacocks and a gilt-framed photograph of the Taj Mahal. A tiger-skin rug was artfully draped over a large bamboo chair with an arched back, beside which stood a trunk inlaid with many colorful woods. It appeared that the Hogsworths had spent some time in India.

“So sorry to be late,” Charles said apologetically, when Edith had introduced him to Colonel and Mrs. Harry Hogsworth, who was a small woman with gray hair, dressed in a stiff purple poplin and old-fashioned beaded dolman. “I drove out to Snailwell this afternoon, and the errand took longer than I expected. I didn’t take time to dress, I fear. Please forgive me.”

“No matter about the dress,” Colonel Hogsworth boomed. “We’re quite informal here.” He was a large, loud-voiced man with gray side-whiskers, heavy jowls, and an air of outspoken jovialty better suited to the Guards’ noisy clubroom than his wife’s small parlor. “Snailwell, eh? Not to be forward, but what was your lordship doing out there? Nothing but sheep and cattle and miserable little cottages overrun with dirty children.”

“Edith,” murmured her mother, “do be a good girl and fetch his lordship a brandy.” To Charles, she explained delicately: “After so long a stay in Bombay, I fear that we find English butlers arrogant and clumsy. The colonel has promised to turn up an Indian for us. Until then, we have vowed to do without, even if it means answering our own door.”