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in her mouth as she saw Lord Swale's
groom jump down from his curricle as well. They were
to race without grooms then, and she had no idea
where they were going.
    Incredibly, the abominable Lord Swale shouted to
her, "Good luck, Wayborn!"
    She gave him a curt nod and pushed the lavender
spectacles back up the bridge of her nose.
    "Seven!" roared the crowd, and Gary's chestnuts
leaped forward, two lengths ahead of his lordship's
grays, their eyes alight with love of the race. This
would never do, Juliet quickly realized. With no idea
of the race's destination, she would have no hope of
choosing the correct road when they came to a crossing or a fork. She would have to amend her plan to win the race, she supposed. Lord Swale would have
to take the lead so that she could follow him to the
proper destination. She would have to lose, but, she
reflected, as long as she acquitted herself creditably
and got away without being discovered, Cary would
not be disgraced.

    It required all her strength to slow the chestnuts
even a little. After the first shock, when they understood that they actually were being asked to slow
down, they hardened their crests angrily and, it
seemed to her, redoubled their speed. They, at least,
had no intention of losing. Her muscles could not sustain the effort, and she was forced to give them their
way. She would simply stay on the Colchester Road,
she decided, until they reached a fork in the road, and
then she would figure out what to do.
    She had often teased her brother about the mirrors
he had placed facing backwards on either side of his
curricle, but now she saw that they were actually
quite practical for racing. In them, she could see
that Lord Swale had pulled within a length of her and
that he was obviously maneuvering to pass. She could
take steps to prevent him or not, exactly as she chose.
She chose to prevent him. She would be forced to give
him the race in the end, but she saw no reason for him
to annihilate her. She would give him the lead at the
fork in the road. In the meantime, she would save her
strength-she would need every ounce of it to slow
the chestnuts enough to let his lordship pass.
    The wind battered her face, making her grateful for
the protection afforded her eyes by her brother's
lavender spectacles. Her mouth and nostrils were soon
caked with dust. Her back ached from the constant pull
of the reins. The prospect of continuing in this manner
for several miles did not appeal to her at all.

    Swale, on the other hand, was having the time of his
life. It seemed to him that every moment of his twentyfive years had been preparing him for this day. He was
racing the great Cary Wayborn on a beautiful morning late in March, and he was acquitting himself creditably. He even began to feel that he might surpass the
famed chestnuts if he could only find an advantage.
Wayborn moved continuously from one side of the
road to the other like a demon, anticipating his every
move and cutting him off mercilessly.
    Juliet had never known the chestnuts to go more
than six miles an hour, but now it seemed to her as
if they were going ten. One moment, they were leaving North London, and the next, or so it seemed to
her, they were nearing the great fork at Brentwood.
At this point, one might continue northeast to Colchester or turn right onto the Southend Road. It
suddenly occurred to her as she approached the fork
that Lord Swale almost certainly would attempt to gain
the inside advantage. If their destination was
Southend, he would try to shoot inside on her right;
if Colchester, he would veer to her left. She would be
able to see his move in the rear-facing mirrors.
    Wrapping the reins around her wrists, she bore
down with all her strength, nearly sitting on the floor
of the car. The chestnuts naturally objected, and one
of them forgot his manners to the extent that he
reared up and pawed the air before coming to his
senses. Juliet's arms