A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper
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sorry I deceived you, Devon. Maybe after I’ve explained what’s happened—”
She swallowed a sarcastic reply and folded her arms across her chest.
“My grandfather, Hugh Preston, came to the United States from Ireland more than sixty years ago,” Brent said. “He worked hard, saved his money, invested in a few promising ponies, did well and eventually married my grandmother. Together they bought a thousand acres of prime Kentucky farmland and started Quest Stables.”
He took a sip of his water and put the glass back down next to her sweet sherry on an end table.
“It’s done well over the years. We’re not the biggest horse farm in Kentucky anymore, much less the country, but we’re not exactly small, either. We have… We had an average daily horse population of five hundred and a permanent staff of nearly seventy-five employees.
“Granddad retired from active management of the business after my grandmother passed away a few years back, leaving day-to-day operations to my father, who more recently has turned over details of the business to my brother and me. Andrew is the general manager. I’m in charge of breeding.”
She listened without interrupting or showing emotion. Rising, he went to the drinks table and splashed more Scotch into the whisky glass he’d abandoned. Remaining by the window, he leaned against the sill, facing her.
“Four years ago, when I learned Apollo’s Ice was going to be standing stud at Angelina Stud Farm about fifty miles from us, I booked one of our premium mares, Courtin’ Cristy, to be bred to him. The results were outstanding. Last year the foal, Leopold’s Legacy, won the Kentucky Derby as well as the Preakness and appeared to be on his way to taking the Belmont Stakes and the Triple Crown.”
He swallowed some of his drink and made a face. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to the taste of this stuff.” He put it aside.
Devon waited, knowing the comment was a delaying tactic. She was having a hard time reading his face. Anger, yes, but there was something more complex there, as if he couldn’t figure out who or what he was angry at.
“Then came a computer glitch at the Jockey Association. A small group of DNA files were lost or corrupted, so the association requested that the owners of the affected horses draw new blood samples.” He took a deep breath. “A simple enough procedure. No problem, right?”
He gulped the remainder of his whisky. “Except according to the results, Apollo’s Ice was not the sire of Leopold’s Legacy. Overnight we were branded as frauds.”
Now his anger spilled over.
“Do you have any idea what impact that accusation had?” he demanded.
She shook her head, unwilling to speak.
“No,” he snapped, “I don’t suppose you do. So let me tell you.”
He began to pace, his head lowered, his expression fierce. “A major source of our income is from boarding and training fees. Breeding brings in big money, too, but it’s only for three months a year. Because all Thoroughbreds officially have their birthdays on January first, no one wants a foal born late in the year. When the question of Leopold’s Legacy’s provenance came up, he was banned from further competition until the discrepancy is corrected, and three months later, when we have no resolution, all Thoroughbreds majority-owned by Quest Stables were banned from competing in North America. An international ban followed in October.”
That didn’t seem unreasonable, she wanted to argue, given they had proof. The DNA. But she said nothing.
“As a result,” he continued, “owners immediately began removing their racehorses from Quest. Horses that were there for training were taken away, as well. Breeding contracts dried up overnight, and suddenly we were faced with big cash-flow problems.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Employees who depended on us for their livelihoods—grooms, trainers, exercisers, stall muckers, groundskeepers, farmers, maintenance crews—had to be let go. All because I bred a mare to a stallion your brother claimed to be Apollo’s Ice but wasn’t.”
“Surely there was something you could do to prove the accusation wrong.”
He laughed without humor. “I had the test repeated, but the results were the same. I talked to everyone who had come in contact with the stallion and the mare. I even flew over here and talked with your brother. He helped all he could, even let me draw new blood and hair samples from Apollo’s Ice for testing, but it did no good. Apollo’s Ice was not the sire we paid for. Your brother claimed to have no idea what could have happened. He pointed out that he hadn’t even been in the States at the time of the breeding, whereas I had had complete and uninterrupted custody of the mare.”
“I don’t understand,” Devon said. “It sounds like Nolan cooperated with you in every way possible, so why are you here? Why are you accusing him of wrongdoing?”
Brent refreshed his drink, taking only half of what he had earlier, then gazed at its amber glow in the glass and put it down. He retrieved his Evian and drank that instead.
“In spite of what he said, I think your brother was involved in this fraud. I spent today reviewing records, files, newspaper articles—you have excellent research facilities here at Oxford. I was trying to learn everything I could about your brother’s equestrian interests. There have been other frauds involving Apollo’s Ice. I’ll say this, too. Nolan has covered his tracks very well.”
She stared at him for a long minute, her lips pursed, then she rose from her chair.
“I’ll tell you what it sounds like to me, Mr. Preston. I think you have made a cock-up of your breeding business and now you’re looking for a scapegoat.”
Seven
“No, Devon, I’m not looking for a scapegoat.” Brent ran a hand through his hair, ready to vent his anger, but she was so young and pretty, and the innocence he saw in her soft brown eyes made him feel instant regret for any doubts he’d harbored that she might be involved with her brother. “I’m looking for the culprit.” He finished the sentence more gently than he’d started. “And I have good reason to think it’s your brother.”
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