A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper

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      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Epilogue

      One

      Monday, January 5

      “It’s no good,” Brent Preston said sharply at his brother’s entrance. “I’ve hit a wall in this investigation.”

      “That bad?” Andrew inquired. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the marble counter in the middle of the family’s country kitchen.

      Brent had gone over everything in his mind and on paper a hundred times, and still he came up without answers that made sense.

      He swept a hand over his face and turned to his brother. “Dammit, I don’t know what the hell went wrong. That breeding went like scores of others I’ve arranged and supervised.”

      Andrew regarded him sympathetically. “No one’s blaming you.”

      Like hell they’re not. And even if they aren’t, I am. I was in charge.

      Last spring, three-year-old Leopold’s Legacy had become the star racehorse at the family’s Quest Stables, winning the Kentucky Derby, as well as the Preakness. The stallion appeared to be on his way to taking the Belmont Stakes and the Triple Crown, as well, but even without the Triple Crown, Leopold’s Legacy would garner enormous stud fees. Then a computer glitch at the Jockey Association prompted a call for a certain group of Thoroughbreds to have their DNA resubmitted.

      No big deal.

      Until the results came back. Then all hell broke loose.

      According to the new DNA test, Apollo’s Ice was not the sire of Leopold’s Legacy, as the registration papers stated. Even worse, no one knew who the sire was, since the DNA didn’t match that of any stud in the Thoroughbred file.

      The Jockey Association wasn’t interested in how the mix-up had occurred; their sole concern was that the provenance of the horse was not what it was purported to be. Leopold’s Legacy was pulled from the Belmont Stakes and Quest Stables was given three months to solve the discrepancy. When they were unable to do so, all Thoroughbreds majority-owned by Quest were banned by local and regional racing commissions from competing in North America. An international ban soon followed.

      Almost overnight, revenue dropped by half as owners pulled their horses from the stables.

      Andrew idly stirred his cup. “Listen, Brent, most of our clients will come back.”

      “Maybe,” his brother allowed, “if this DNA debacle can be solved soon, and if it’s cleared up without prejudice. But a prolonged investigation or proven fault on the part of Quest, and on me…” He let the words fade as he gazed toward the wall of windows looking out on the winter garden. Its bleakness matched his mood. “If there’s no resolution at all, it’ll be the end of Quest.” He let out a long breath. “When I think about what Granddad has created, all his hard work, his love, his passion—when I think of it being wiped out in his own lifetime because I was too damn blind to know when I was being taken— I’m the head breeder. I witnessed the live cover. What are people supposed to think?”

      “Look,” Andrew said. “As manager of this place, I can tell you we’re not going to fold. It’s just a matter of time before we get a break.”

      He was being optimistic. Stables had gone out of business for less. He was also being generous in not mentioning how the situation was impacting his personal ambitions. Andrew had been planning to run for president of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation someday. Brent had hoped when that happened he’d be able to take over as general manager of Quest. None of that would happen now—or maybe ever—with this scandal haunting Quest’s reputation.

      “I’ve decided to go to England,” Brent announced tersely.

      “England? In January?” His mother, Jenna, walked into the kitchen and hooked her favorite mug, already set out on the counter. “Dress warmly, dear.”

      “Why England?” his father, Thomas, asked, trailing closely behind her.

      “Nolan Hunter, of course,” Jenna declared, before her son could respond.

      Brent almost smiled. Not much got past his mother. He had attended the Gulf Classic in Florida on New Year’s Day and had run into Nolan Hunter, the owner of Apollo’s Ice. Nolan had entered Sterling Pass in one of the races but was beaten in a photo finish by Brent’s sister, Melanie, riding Something to Talk About. Brent had invited the Englishman to spend a few days relaxing with the family at Quest Stables in Kentucky before returning home, hoping he might learn more from him about the debacle that was threatening his family. He had, but not in the expected way.

      “I’m having second thoughts about Nolan,” Brent admitted.

      “I thought you might be,” his mother said, as she poured coffee for her husband and herself. “The man is charming and sophisticated, but there’s something about him that sets my teeth on edge.”

      Brent nodded. “Yesterday, just before he left for the airport, I overheard him talking on his cell phone. I don’t normally listen in on other people’s conversations, but the tone he was using was unlike the polished English gentleman. More like a street thug.”

      “What was he discussing?” Andrew asked.

      “I didn’t get all of it. He was angry, no question about that, insisted he had things here well in hand, that there was no reason to worry. He kept referring to some third person—he didn’t specify who—and said the guy couldn’t do anything because he had no proof.”

      “Any idea who he was talking to?” his father asked.

      “Someone named Camberg. The name mean anything to any of you?”

      Everybody shook their heads.

      “You heard only one side of this exchange,” Andrew reminded him. “Isn’t it possible you’re misinterpreting what—”

      “Of course it’s possible,” Brent snapped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And this conversation may not have had anything to do with Apollo’s Ice or Leopold’s Legacy. Nolan didn’t mention horses. But I didn’t mistake the guy’s tone. There’s a side to the Right Honorable, the Viscount Kestler, that we haven’t seen before. And I’d bet good money it’s not one his peers would approve of.”

      Andrew took a sip of his coffee. “Nolan Hunter has social position, considerable wealth and an impeccable reputation. Why would he risk all that?”

      “How the hell do I know?” Brent retorted. “But he is the owner of Apollo’s Ice, and until we find out who’s behind the СКАЧАТЬ