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by a monster like Swale.

    `Bloody cheat!" reiterated Lord Swale, shaking his
fist at the purple tricorn. "If there is so much as a
scratch on my grays, I shall rip your bloody arm off,
by God! So this is how you win your races, Wayborn!
I expect no one else has had the courage to accuse
you, but by God, I will!"
    "Dammit, Geoffrey," said Mr. Devize in a tight, embarrassed voice. "Pay the man his money and have
done. You are making an ass of yourself."
    Swale looked around. The crowd had fallen silent,
but here and there, he detected a lip curled in scorn.
The consensus seemed to be that he, Lord Swale, was
a poor loser!
    "Swale is right," said a lone voice.
    Swale, looking around for his supporter, was astounded to find that it was Wayborn himself.
    "I did cheat," said the figure in the purple greatcoat.
"Swale wins by default."
    A roar of shocked disbelief went up from the crowd.
    Swale turned dark red with embarrassment. "I say,
old man," he protested. "I never meant to say you
cheated-dammit, I never meant to say-that is,
rotten temper! Rotten temper, old man! There is no
denying I've got a rotten temper."
    Juliet coughed to clear her throat of dust. "Not at
all, old man," she croaked in her best imitation of a
man's voice. "Indeed, I owe your lordship five hundred pounds and a broken arm!" So saying, she flung
the purse containing five hundred pounds in the direction of the Duke's son. Her arm, weakened from
the strain of managing a pair of strong and willful horses, was inaccurate. Mr. Devize was struck in the
shoulder but did manage to catch the purse.

    He looked at her, his eyebrows raised almost to his
hairline.
    Swale's face was now the color and texture of blood
pudding. Recovered of his embarrassment, his lordship yielded again to rage. "You won the race, damn
you!" he roared. "Though I can't say I admire your
methods! "
    "I did win, didn't l?" she said clearly. "You were
beaten fairly, Swale, whatever you complain. But you
were not been beaten by Mr. Cary Wayborn. You were
beaten by his sister!"
    The return journey to London, despite the fact that
Juliet was resting comfortably in a well-sprung chaise
hired by Stacy Calverstock, proved more grueling to her
than the race to Southend. Every mounted swank in
Southend guessed at the chaise's interesting contents
and accompanied its progress with hoots, wild yells, and
occasionally, the ill-advised discharge of a pistol. Added
to this was the incessant drone of Mr. Eustace Calvetstock lecturing her on proper female behavior. He
seemed to think that no one would ever marry her now
and that he should be obliged to do it himself.
    "Don't be such a gudgeon, Stacy," she said irritably,
rubbing first one sore shoulder, then the other. "Really,
there is no need for you to make such a sacrifice.
You know I have no more than ten thousand pounds."
    "I assure you, my dear Juliet," he said gallantly, "it
is no sacrifice."
    "Then, pray do not make a cake of yourself!" she
snapped, for her head was aching.
    "You do not understand the way of the world," he told her sadly. "My dear girl, I am afraid this must put
you beyond the pale. No respectable lady of the Ton
will receive you now. That being so, you cannot hope
to make a respectable marriage."

    "You talk as though I'd eloped with an Italian dancing master or ... or tied my garter in public! Anyone
but an idiot can see I did exactly right, and I don't
choose to marry an idiot, I assure you."
    "How can you call it right," he objected, "when it
destroys all hope of a felicitous marriage?"
    "Then, if I were to marry you, it would not be felicitous?" she countered. "Perhaps you are right, and
it is well for me that I don't wish to marry you."
    "And you were such a favorite with the Patronesses
of Almack's," Stacy lamented. "Your name and reputation were such that other young ladies looked to
you for an example. What evils will proceed from this
childish stunt, I don't