The earl countered by directing his team to the right.

After a quick glance over his shoulder, the Duke of Hilton immediately blocked Dermott's attempt to pass on the right, and a continuing shift from left to right and back again ensued for the next several miles-at tearing speeds. Dermott watched Hilton's Yorkshire chestnuts for signs of fatigue, aware of Hilton's rough hands, his habit of hauling on the reins playing havoc with his horses' mouths and confidence. He could see Hilton's team jostle against each other several times, their momentary distress evident. And then suddenly Dermott saw his chance, the shoulder of the road ahead widening for perhaps a hundred yards. With boldness he swung his team over, forcing them into the meager space.

At times like this, nerve alone prevailed. Either Hilton or Dermott would have to give way. Dermott's grays valiantly obeyed his command, plunging forward as if they had the open downs before them instead of an impossibly narrow passage.

When the duke realized Dermott's intent, he held his ground, although his gloved hands nervously tightened on the reins and his mouth narrowed into a grim line.

"Get out of the way!" Exhilaration resonated in Dermott's cry, and a madcap triumph that overlooked all but the thrill of winning. The grays responded with a surge of power, mud flying from their pounding hooves, their courage and heart surmounting the foul weather and wicked footing.

The phaeton wheels inched closer and closer as Dermott began drawing even with the duke, disaster only a hairbreadth away now, the possibility of slipping sideways in the treacherous mire not only real but likely. It was a moment when a prudent man might contemplate whether such a race was worth one's life.

A second passed, two, then three, the racing horses neck and neck, the phaeton wheels slicing through the soft roadbed, the drivers so close, they could have touched whips.

The vehicles careened over the crest of a hill and the dangerous, infamous Danner curve suddenly loomed.