“Good.” Guy turned back to the bookies’ stand. “Can you let me have a piece of paper?” The man tore a piece out of a notebook.

“’Ere y’are, guv.”

“Thanks.” Guy borrowed the stub of a chewed pencil and scribbled on the paper. “Is there a lad who can take this for me to the box over there? The one with the blue and white flag.” He gestured to the box, which flew the colors of Kimberley Diamond’s stables, setting half a crown down with the note.

“Our Diccon’ll do it.” The man pocketed the coin before yelling something incomprehensible over his shoulder and a grimy boy of about ten appeared at a run. He took the note, listened to instructions, and dived into the crowd.

“What did you say?” Petra asked.

“Just that something urgent had come up and we needed to leave, and that you would explain everything when you saw them. Was that all right? I didn’t see a need for an elaborate fabrication.”

“No, that was fine. I’m not in the habit of lying to my friends.”

“And there’s no reason to in this instance, is there?”

“No, of course not.” Petra laughed suddenly. “There’s so much to talk about. Where shall we go?”

“Berkeley Square?”

“Yes, let’s take an early train home. We can get away before the crowds. I think Diana and Rupert’s party are planning to stay for the singsong around the bandstand after the last race, so no one will be back in London until much later.”

The communal singsong at the end of every race day during Royal Ascot was a long-held tradition, but Petra was perfectly happy to skip the ritual this time and Guy made no demur, guiding their steps to the field where the hired hackneys awaited travelers for the station.

As luck would have it a London train steamed into the station five minutes after they arrived on the platform, and Guy half lifted Petra up the steep step into a deserted first-class carriage, stepping up behind her.

She sat down on the plush bench seat, resting her head against a starched antimacassar, her head turned to the window as the train whistled shrilly and began to chug out of the station and into the countryside. The wondrous excitement she had felt earlier seeped back, filling her with a delicious sensual anticipation. Her toes curled in her elegant kid shoes, and her blood seemed to run fast through her veins. She looked across the small space to where Guy sat, arms folded, on the opposite bench, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“What are you thinking, Petra?” he asked, his voice smooth as cream, a deep note of something wonderfully wicked beneath the question.

For answer, she stood up and pulled down the blinds at the carriage window, shutting out the passing world. Guy reached across the space, taking her hands and pulling her toward him. “Lift your skirt.”