“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.

“Darla please.”

“Right away, Lord Rochester.”

A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”

“Of course.”

Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”

“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”

“That’s great. So are they back?”

“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”

“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.

“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asked, remembering Darla singing the praises of Yvette Gaston from the French embassy only last week.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Darla with clear enthusiasm.

“Yes. Well. So will Grandmother.”

“And you?” Darla probed.

“How could I go wrong?”

“How, indeed. A beautiful hostess improves any party.”

Harrison’s stomach protested once again. But he supposed being his hostess was exactly what he was asking Brittany to do. “Millions to Spare won, you say?” He redirected Darla.

There was a trace of laughter in her voice when she answered. “The purse was six figures.”

“Tell Nuri to give that boy some oats.”

“Mr. Nuri!” The teenager’s round dark eyes fixed disbelievingly on Julia where she stood frozen in the corner of the horse trailer.