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maggot into the crowd. I’m going to find out which horse is the best outsider for the Derby Stakes.’
    ‘Outsider? Are you sure?’
    ‘I like outsiders, Donal. I feel like one myself.’
    As Cora got near the runners’ and riders’ board, the two-thirty thundered past. Deafening, and when the winners were declared, the crowds went wild. It was a quarter of an hour before the boards were wiped clean and the Derby runners were chalked up. She read the list.
    Cash Book and Perifox were joint favourites at seven to one. After that, it was Le Ksar and Goya II at nine to one. Cora rolled their names on her tongue, waiting for the jolt that would tell her she’d pronounced the name of the winner. Her eye stopped at number ten: Mid-day Sun. She felt . . . not electricity, just an emotion, the roots of which she couldn’t find.
    Mid-day Sun was on at 100 to seven, as was a filly, Gainsborough Lass. Those were mile-long odds. She looked for Donal, but all she could see were men and women scanning their race cards. She’d have to make her own choice. Her eye kept going back to Mid-day Sun. One hundred to seven, if he won. For a stake of two pounds ten, she’d win . . . she felt her brain grinding . . . between thirty and forty pounds. That would get her away from her father and keep her while she found herself a more pleasant job. Cora, you can stop getting your hopes up , she admonished herself. The chance of Mid-day Sun winning the Derby was about the same as her dad coming home with a fish-and-chip supper and a big bunch of flowers. Even so, she couldn’t shift the fizzy-sick feeling in her stomach.
    A man in a group in front of her was saying that his choice, Perifox, came from Kentucky and that he liked the going firm. Kentucky . . . was that a posh name for Kent? Cora dug her heels into the grass. It felt pretty firm. What about Mid-day Sun? Did he like firm going? She stamped and a yowl filled her ear. She turned to see a man in full morning dress hopping in apparent agony. She moved towards him, ready to catch his top hat if it fell off. He glared at her. ‘Why the devil did you stamp on my foot?’
    ‘To know if the ground was hard or not.’
    ‘The heel of your shoe is, I promise you.’
    She was desperate to apologise, but all she managed was an inappropriate grin. He was ridiculously good-looking. Light-haired, brown eyes, with a glint of green. Hazel, a colour she’d always craved for herself. His mouth was long and firm with the promise of humour, though she’d have to wait for proof as his teeth were clenched. It said volumes about her background that she was admiring a man for being well-shaven and clean, but so it was. How often did she look at a man’s collar and find it pearly white, unless it had just come through Granny Flynn’s laundry? How often did she see a suit that fitted, none of the seams gasping for breath? A dark grey morning coat, top hat with a black band – good enough to be from Pettrew’s – and striped twill trousers advanced the impression of good breeding. The most striking thing about him was his beauty. Beauty. She’d never used that word about a man, ever. Suddenly, she had a feeling she’d seen him before.
    ‘There is something amusing about me?’ He spoke in the clipped way the Pettrew’s directors did when they stood up in their silk plush hats to address their workers.
    ‘Sorry, I was trying to pick a horse.’ It came out as ‘an ’orse’. You can take the girl out of Bermondsey . . . Her mother, whose finest hour had been playing Gwendolen Fairfax at the Prince of Wales Theatre, had taught her that to speak nicely, you must start by lifting your nose as if smelling a rose, and saying, ‘an egg’. Saying ‘an egg’ now would make her sound barmy. Just don’t say anything beginning with H , she told herself. ‘I didn’t realise anyone was behind me.’
    ‘Did you not think in a crowd there would be someone behind you?’
    ‘I was trying to picture the