The Hunters. Kat Gordon

and began stamping his legs. My heart was hammering.

      ‘Be good now,’ Freddie said quietly. The horse breathed out loudly, then stopped stamping.

      ‘He’s a beauty,’ Freddie said. ‘Do you ride?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘Never?’ He looked back at me. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a city boy.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      Freddie laughed. ‘You’re very mysterious.’

      He turned to face the horse again. He looked so natural in these surroundings, but then he’d looked easy and confident wherever I’d come across him. I could picture him at school, mobs of admiring boys following him down the lane and laughing at his jokes. I felt a smile form on my face – I would never have got within five yards of him there, and here we were now, alone as friends.

      ‘Introduce yourself,’ Freddie said.

      I went to stand next to him, and ran my hand along the horse’s flank. I could feel his muscles trembling under his coat, and smell something coming off him that was almost bitter, like the taste in the back of my throat when my mother was on the warpath. The phrase, ‘His blood is up’, was circling my brain – this must be what that means, I told myself, and realised I was trembling too.

      I placed a finger on Wiley Scot’s nose, between his wet, dilated nostrils, and stroked downwards. He rolled his eyes until they were mostly white, then shook me off.

      ‘He’s nervy today,’ Freddie said. He pushed his hat back on his forehead, and I followed the bead of sweat that trickled down from his temple to his collarbone, until it disappeared beneath his shirt. I felt sweat start to form in sympathy on my upper lip, and brushed it away quickly with the back of my hand. ‘Let’s leave him to it.’

      As we were leaving the stables, a few jockeys were walking in our direction, and they greeted Freddie, slapping him on the back and nodding in my direction.

      ‘Better watch out, Freddie,’ one of them said. ‘You might have a contender here for the ladies in a few years. He makes you look as ugly as the rest of us.’ Little flecks of spit hit my face as he laughed.

      A second one prodded me in the stomach. ‘What sort of little gentleman are you then, sonny? Baron? Earl? Little lord?’

      ‘I’m not a gentleman.’

      ‘Good to hear it – a new order for a new world.’ He grinned at Freddie. ‘No one’s told the toffs yet, though.’

      ‘Don’t mind them,’ Freddie said to me. ‘All the jockeys out here are Englishmen, God save them, so they’re not very bright.’ He was smiling, but his voice was cold. I kept quiet, and the jockeys went on their way, cackling to themselves. When they’d gone Freddie looked me up and down. His expression made it seem as if he’d just thought of something unpleasant.

      ‘Have you seen enough yet?’ he asked eventually. ‘Not everyone gets to come back here, you know.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Freddie looked irritated, and I wondered if he’d started to find me dull. I was reminded again of school, and suddenly wanted to go back to the hotel and crawl into my bed.

      Freddie shrugged. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

      The race course was two miles in circumference, with a rickety grandstand near the finishing line, and a small, peeling bandstand in the middle. A band was already playing – the King’s African Rifles Band, Freddie told me – and people were mingling in front of them. As the morning wore on the air became increasingly damp and sticky. Small insects darted through the grass, biting whatever exposed flesh they could find, until I felt as if my ankles were on fire. Freddie found us two glasses of pink gin and I had to stop myself from pressing mine against my forehead to cool down. I was amazed that no one was passing out from the heat.

      We drank the gin as Freddie pointed out the officials – the timekeeper, the clerk of the scales and the clerk of the course. The drink was less refreshing than I’d hoped, and following what Freddie was saying became quite difficult. His good mood had disappeared completely, and his eyes were constantly scanning the crowds as if he were looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

      ‘There you are, Freddie,’ someone said after a particularly long silence between us. ‘Edie left – she said to tell you she was too hot and too pregnant.’

      A tall, blue-eyed man wearing a beautifully cut suit had appeared at Freddie’s elbow. He had a gentle face with slightly prominent ears and his voice was gentle too, with a hint of an accent.

      ‘Nicolas,’ Freddie said. ‘This is Theo Miller – I believe you’ve heard of him.’

      Nicolas bowed, and I wondered, sluggishly, why he would have heard of me.

      ‘And where’s your charming wife?’ Freddie asked.

      ‘Sylvie? She’s been captured by that brute, Carberry.’

      I had to look down at my feet to stop myself from staring wide-eyed at him; so this was the Comte de Croÿ, my fat, old Frenchman who spoke no English.

      ‘Another admirer?’ Freddie said. ‘Theo, you’ve got company.’

      My cheeks burned to hear how obvious I’d been. I wished I could laugh it off, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

      ‘More accurate to say we all do,’ Nicolas said.

      ‘You French are so damn philosophical.’

      Nicolas bowed again and I caught sight of Sylvie over his head.

      She was walking in our direction. A dark-haired couple were walking behind her, the man looking at Sylvie’s behind. I didn’t like his expression, or his skull-like face. His hairline was receding, and his eyes were small and close-set. The brunette with him had a rather large nose and pointy teeth, but nice eyes and an open smile, which she turned on me as they approached.

      ‘A word of warning,’ Nicolas said quietly to me, ‘John Carberry is the devil. Don’t listen to a word he says.’

      ‘Hello, boys,’ Sylvie said, and I got a wave of her perfume.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ Nicolas said.

      ‘Hello, trouble,’ Freddie said.

      Sylvie shook her head. ‘It’s hard to be troublesome when you’re sober.’

      ‘Surely not?’

      ‘Surely yes.’

      ‘Let me save you,’ Freddie said, but Nicolas held up his hand.

      ‘That’s my cue, Freddie. You stay here and look after Sylvie.’

      ‘Thank you, darling,’ Sylvie said.

      Nicolas gave the dark-haired couple a half-bow and left. I was sorry. Freddie and Sylvie were smiling at each other now in a way that felt exclusive, and when he kissed her hand I felt a shiver run along my neck.

      I looked over at the two strangers. The man had on a mocking smile.

      ‘Another husband bites the dust, Freddie?’ he said. His voice was flat and had an unusual accent.

      Freddie straightened up and Sylvie rolled her eyes. Neither of them looked at all embarrassed.

      ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Carberry,’ Freddie said, then turned to me. ‘John and Bubbles, this is Theo Miller.’

      ‘Maia Anderson,’ Carberry said. ‘Bubbles is a stupid name.’

      Sylvie turned away with an angry expression on her face, and I guessed she had the same reaction to Carberry that I had.

      ‘Where’s Roderigo?’ I asked her.

      ‘Edie took him to The Norfolk,’ she said, and smiled