"Lady Carrington—" he started, his hand moving to his reddening cheek, shock clear in his eyes.
But Penelope was already moving, dropping the book of sonnets back onto the table and striding toward the tent's exit. She could feel tears burning behind her eyes and absolutely refused to let him see them fall.
"Lady Carrington, I can explain!" His voice followed her, desperate now. "Please, if you would just—"
She ignored him, pushing through the tent flap and back into the crowd. Her heart was pounding, her face flushed with anger. Behind her, she heard Calliope's bewildered voice: "Wait, who was that? Penelope, slow down!"
Then another voice, a male this time: "Lady Carrington!"
Frederick Ellington appeared through the crowd, smiling broadly. He was dressed impeccably for the races in a dove-gray coat and matching waistcoat, his brown hair neatly combed for once.
Penelope forced her features into something resembling a smile. "Lord Ellington. Hello."
"It is good to see you, Lady Carrington. Which horse are you betting on for the first race?" he asked cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to her distress. "I'm torn between Thunderstrike and Golden Dawn."
"Midnight Runner," Penelope said automatically, grateful for the mundane conversation. "The jockey has an excellent record."
Calliope caught up to them, slightly breathless. Penelope made hasty introductions. "Lord Ellington, may I present my cousin, Lady Calliope Langley. Callie, this is Frederick Ellington, Earl of Greymoor."
"A pleasure," Frederick said, bowing. Calliope curtsied, her eyes dancing with curiosity.
"Shall we return to the boxes?" Frederick offered his arm to Penelope. "I believe the first race is about to begin."
They made their way back to the viewing area, Frederick chattering amiably about horses and odds and racing strategy. Penelope tried to focus on his words, tried to engage with the conversation, but her mind kept drifting.
She could still feel the sting in her palm from where she had struck Lord Ashmore. Could still see the shock in his gray eyes.
Thief, she reminded herself firmly. He stole from Father. He can't be trusted.
But a small, traitorous part of her mind whispered: Then why did he look so genuinely confused when you called him that?
They took their seats just as the starting bell rang. The horses exploded from the gates, a thunder of hooves and flying dirt. The crowd roared, everyone on their feet, shouting for their chosen horse.
Penelope found herself screaming along with them as Midnight Runner pulled ahead in the final stretch. "Come on! Come on!"
The horse crossed the finish line a full length ahead of the competition.
"YES!" Penelope shrieked, jumping up and down in a manner that was decidedly unladylike.
"Penelope!" The Duchess looked like she might faint. "You are a lady! Compose yourself!"
But Penelope barely heard her mother's scandalized voice. The thrill of victory, the rush of being right about the horse, it felt good. Overwhemingly good!
Frederick was laughing too, caught up in the excitement. "Well predicted, Lady Carrington! How did you know?"
Before Penelope could answer, Frederick's attention was caught by something across the track. His expression changed, softening with an emotion Penelope recognized all too well.
She followed his gaze and spotted Lady Genevieve Kingsley in a box several rows down. The brunette was looking directly at Frederick, her hand raised slightly as if about to wave. Captain Huxley sat beside her, oblivious to the exchange.
Frederick's hand started to rise in response.
"Don't wave back," Penelope said quickly, grabbing his arm.
"What? Why not?"
"Just nod and smile, then turn your attention back to me," Penelope instructed. "Make her work for your attention."
"Isn't that rude?" Frederick looked genuinely distressed at the thought.
Penelope groaned. "My word. Just do as I say. Trust me."
Frederick did as instructed, a single nod, a brief smile, then he turned back to Penelope and continued their conversation about racing strategy. When Penelope dared to glance back at Lady Genevieve, she was satisfied to see a small frown creasing the woman's forehead. She had turned back to Captain Huxley, but her attention was clearly elsewhere.
Perfect.
The second race began, then the third. The afternoon wore on in a blur of horses and betting and polite conversation. The Duchess was in fine form, gossiping with other ladies about who was courting whom and which engagements might be announced soon.
"Oh!" she gasped suddenly, her hand flying to her chest. "I nearly forgot! The Queen's Ball is next week. We must ensure your gown is perfect, Penelope. Her Majesty will be watching you."
Penelope barely suppressed an eye roll. "Hmm."
"Your mind seems far away, sister," Edmund observed from his seat beside her. He had given up his debate with Raphael about horses and was now watching Penelope with that too-perceptive gaze he sometimes employed. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes," Penelope said quickly. "I'm fine."
But she wasn't fine. She turned to look out over the crowd, needing a moment away from her family's concerned stares...
And immediately locked eyes with Lord Dorian Ashmore.
He was standing perhaps twenty feet away, partially hidden by a group of other spectators. But he was looking directly at her. When their eyes met, he didn't look away.
Penelope turned her face away sharply, anger flaring hot in her chest.
Thief.
She wouldn't think about the way her palm still tingled from slapping him. She wouldn't wonder why he had looked so confused, so genuinely shocked by her accusation. She wouldn't let herself remember the sound of his voice calling after her: I can explain.
Because there was nothing to explain. Anthony had told her the truth. Lord Ashmore had stolen from their family. That was all she needed to know.
Even if a small, stubborn part of her desperately wanted to hear his side of the story.
"Penelope?" Frederick touched her arm gently. "Are you certain you're alright? You look rather pale."
"I am fine," Penelope repeated, forcing brightness into her voice. "Just the excitement of the races. Shall we place our bets for the final race?"
But as they discussed odds and horses and strategies, Penelope could feel Lord Ashmore's gaze on her.
And she absolutely refused to look back.