She shrugged a shoulder. “I might do. Will you pay me the same as I make on my piecework?”
“I expect I’ll pay you more.”
“More?”
“With an added benefit.”
She laughed. “As if the money ain’t enough!”
“In addition to the money, you’ll have the satisfaction of having helped to secure my future. All of our futures if things go according to plan.”
“What’s that mean?” she asked. “All of our futures?”
“If enough people see my designs—see them and want to order gowns of their own . . . By the end of the season, I’ll be in a position to open my own shop.”
Her weary eyes lit with understanding. “You’ll be needing good seamstresses.”
He smiled. “That I will.”
* * *
The next day, as dawn broke over the city, Evelyn entered the park on Hephaestus, Lewis not far behind her. Fog billowed over the rolling landscape, swirling about the shrubbery and clinging to the branches of the trees. It was cold and damp, but the grayness was fading quickly, burned away by shafts of brilliant sunlight piercing through the clouds above.
Evelyn glanced up at the brightening sky with a feeling of relief. There was no trace of the scattered thundershowers that had prevented her from riding the previous afternoon.
She prayed the rain wouldn’t return. She couldn’t afford to lose any more days of riding. Not when her entire plan depended on her making a showing during the fashionable hour.
Hephaestus pranced beneath her, chomping on his bit. “Easy, boy,” she murmured, reaching to scratch his neck.
“He’s full of himself this morning,” Lewis remarked. “Take care he don’t try nothing, what with a mare nearby.”
“What mare?”
“That one,” Lewis said.
Evelyn followed his gaze.
Across the grass, Stella Hobhouse came into view, perched atop an imposing silvery-white mare. Despite her size, the mare’s features were refined, with an elegantly dished face and wide-set eyes. She arched her neck and tail in the manner of a highly strung Arabian.
Stella managed the spirited creature beautifully, her hands quiet and her seat impeccable, even as the mare danced and shied.
Evelyn couldn’t help but be impressed. Keeping a firm grip on Hephaestus’s reins, she rode toward her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Stella said. “Are we the first ones here?”
“It appears that way.” Evelyn held Hephaestus to a walk. “I hope Julia is equal to riding this morning.”
“She will be.” Stella brought her mare alongside Hephaestus. A gentle wind ruffled the veil on her riding hat. Made of black net, it all but covered her gray hair. “Anne went to fetch her herself.”
“In that case,” Evelyn said, “shall we go ahead to Rotten Row?”
“I think we’d better. Locket can’t think straight until she’s had a good gallop.”
“Locket? Is that what you call her?” It seemed a sweet name for a sweetly beautiful horse. “Anne said she was a Thoroughbred cross.”
Stella nodded. “She’s by Stockwell.”
Evelyn was familiar with the name. Stockwell was one of England’s leading Thoroughbred sires. “And her dam?”
“A crossbreed mare. Half-Arab and half-who-knows-what. Apparently, the mare’s owner thought it would result in a mount with greater endurance. Instead, all he got was a horse so skittish she was bound for the knackers when I found her.”
Evelyn was incredulous. “But if Stockwell is her sire—”
“Quite so. She might still have been used as a broodmare. Unfortunately, she nearly killed her last rider, the silly beast. The son of an earl, too. He believed himself to be something of a horseman.” Stella smiled wryly. “I’m afraid the experience rather bruised his tender masculine feelings.”
“It’s fortunate you came along.”
“Exceedingly fortunate. Locket was being led to a stockyard outside my village when I first saw her. I bought her from the man on the spot. Quite irresponsible of him, really, selling her to a young lady. Or so my older brother claimed. He was fairly up in arms.” Stella paused, explaining, “He’s my guardian, and a very strict one. He only approves of my riding because he considers it a wholesome pursuit. One his congregation can’t object to.”
“Your brother is a clergyman?”
“He is. A very severe one.” A troubled frown passed over Stella’s face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a look of droll humor. “You can imagine what my first season was like under his watchful eye.”
“Was it very hard?”
“It was miserable. I was teased awfully over my gray hair. One gentleman even composed a rude verse about it. People were giggling at it for months.”
“How dreadful.”
“It was, frankly.” Stella adjusted her reins. “The only good thing to come out of last year was meeting Anne and Julia. It was they who convinced me to come back for a second season. If not for them—and for Locket—I fear I’d lose my nerve.”
“You ride her very well,” Evelyn said as they entered Rotten Row.
“I know her very well. She wants tiring out, that’s all. Her energy and mischief get the better of her otherwise.” At that, Stella kicked Locket into a canter. “Shall we?”
Hephaestus snorted and shook his heavy black mane. He knew how to behave himself around mares, but he was still a stallion. His muscles were coiled tight and there was an added spring in his step. It wouldn’t take much for him to bolt.
Evelyn made sure her seat was firm and her hands steady on the reins as she urged him forward, first into an extended canter and then into a thundering gallop.
Wind whipped at her face and whistled in her ears, the skirts of her dark green habit flying behind her. She felt as if she were riding in a horse race. The St. Leger or the Newmarket Stakes.
Hephaestus was bigger and more powerful, but Locket had a longer stride. Each time he surged ahead of her, she swiftly caught him up, her ears flattened and her velvet-gray nose outstretched as if seeking an imaginary finish line.
“She’s determined no stallion will ever master her,” Stella said, laughing, as she brought Locket back down to a canter. “Even a handsome devil like yours.”
Evelyn kept pace with her, their two horses matching each other stride for stride. “It must be her racehorse blood.”