Ellie squeezed between the packed tailcoats and coveralls to a spot against the rope surrounding the auction block.

A familiar whinny rang imperiously over the auctioneer’s patter. Manifesto was up next. Jimmy James struggled to calm the horse, who circled the groom, muscles taught beneath his dappled coat. God, how she loved that horse. From his intelligent black eyes to the ovals decorating his rump, no other animal was half as beautiful. Her chest ached with pride.

Manifesto pranced into the ring, each step loaded with such power and grace he seemed to float on air.

“Gentlemen, we have a very special animal here today: Manifesto, from the late Sebastian Albright’s stables. He’s a direct descendant of Eclipse, and he’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve yet to auction.”

Men surged to the ring shoving Ellie hard against the ropes. On the other side of the auction block she saw Hugh Davenport. The determined look of him made her blood boil.

“We’re going to start the bidding at five hundred pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear five-hundred for this magnificent animal?”

Clasping her hands and praying, Ellie wished for something to stop the sale. A whirlwind, a cyclone, anything, but within minutes a cadre of men had the bidding up to four-thousand pounds. The crowd murmured with excitement. No one had heard of a horse selling for so much.

“Do I hear four-thousand-fifty?” the auctioneer asked. Hugh raised his hand.

“How about four-thousand-one-hundred?” continued the auctioneer.

Silence. No one moved. Ellie thought she’d explode. Her limbs went numb.

A smile lit Hugh’s face as the last competitor shook his head and walked away.

“We have four-thousand one hundred pounds!” the auctioneer shouted triumphantly. “Going once. Going twice”¦” Then Lank bullied a path through the crowd, followed by a small, pale man in immaculate dress. Waving a white gloved hand, the man raised a gold-tipped cane, bidding four-thousand-two.

“Who’s that bloke?” Ellie asked a tweedy looking fellow standing next to her.

“He’s that wealthy gent what just got the fifty-thousand acres down here from the Prince Regent. Wadsworth is the name. Baron Wadsworth.”

A sheath of ice encased her heart. Lank was working for the Baron, and now the worst and the worst of all were bidding against each other for her horse.

“Can I hear four-thousand-three?” sang the auctioneer. There were a few indignant cries. The assembly wanted local boy Hugh Davenport to win the steed.

Hugh raised his hand.

“Four-thousand-three, gentlemen!” the auctioneer cried. “Will you give me four-thousand-four?” Wadworth’s hand went up again.

A rumble of displeasure passed through the men. All eyes fixed on Hugh. Even across the ring, Ellie saw sweat bead on his brow. His hand went up. “I bid four-thousand-four-fifty,” he said.

“If we can make it four-thousand five, it will be the highest price ever paid for a horse in England,” the auctioneer urged.

As if it were a trifle, Baron Wadsworth lifted his gloved fingers. “I’ve always enjoyed breaking records.” He smiled at the crowd. No one smiled back.

Hugh closed his eyes and lifted his hand as the auctioneer sang, “Do I hear four-thousand-six?”

Ellie shivered. Give me a miracle, she prayed. Don’t let Davenport or Wadsworth get my Manifesto, please. But the tips of Baron Wadsworth’s fingers waggled, and with a delighted cry the auctioneer registered the bid at four-thousand-six-hundred pounds. The crowd grumbled ““ a sound laced with menace.

“How about four-thousand seven? Lord Davenport, are you willing to go to four-thousand seven?”

Use the Fitzcarry pearls and bid! Before Ellie knew what she was doing, her hand waved in the air.

“Eh, auctioneer!” the tweedy man yelled. “The wee lad wants to buy the horse!” A shout of laughter erupted from the crowd. Her neighbor gave Ellie a kick on the rump that sent her sprawling into the ring. She grabbed her hat before anyone could see her long hair, but got a mouthful of dust for her trouble. Humiliated and angry, she dove back into the crowd. Men cuffed her ears, and called her “the forty-seven-hundred pound lad.” She fought to keep her place ringside, but they pushed her back. “Go on, out with ye,” they said. “This is serious business.”

On the outskirts of the gathering, Ellie heard Hugh shout, “I bid four-thousand seven!” The assembly forgot the forty-seven-hundred pound lad and applauded like wild things.

Ellie pressed her temples, worry pounding her brain. Circling the crush of men, her mind thrummed with one question: What can I do? What can I do? She dove back into the throng and prayed no one would notice her.

All eyes were on Wadsworth now. Men coiled close around him. Wadsworth stumbled. Someone must have shoved him from behind. The baron whirled, brandishing the gold-tipped cane. He shook with a series of twitches. “How dare you!”

A threatening chuckle answered from a few farmers standing nearby. ” “E’s all spastic,” one of them said.

Lank rushed the crowd with his whip. Dangerous and resentful, the farmers stepped back.

“Going to Lord Davenport for four-thousand-seven-hundred pounds ““ once, twice”¦”

“Not today, Davenport,” shouted Wadsworth. “I raise my bid to four-thousand eight.”

Several men near Wadsworth and Lank cursed. Lank whipped them back. “Shut it, knaves,” he snarled.

 “Going once! Going twice! “¦” Hugh’s hand shot up. The crowd gasped. Ellie shoved her way back to the ringside rope.

“I raise my bid to four-thousand-nine,” Hugh yelled. A tremendous roar went up. Men whooped, hollered, and tossed handkerchiefs in the air. Manifesto reared and danced at the end of his lead.

“I’ll bid four-thousand nine-fifty!” Wadsworth countered.

The crowd started to yell. “Leave the horse alone, rotter!” “Coming in and takin’ our Devon horse. Get out of town!”

“Five-thousand pounds,” Hugh roared above the din. As word spread of the bid, the crowd hooted, laughed, and stomped their feet in joy.

A miracle, Ellie prayed. Please, please don’t let that rogue take Manifesto.

“Going once, going twice”¦ One last chance, Baron Wadsworth”¦” Ellie saw Lank speaking furiously to Wadsworth. Then a farmer snatched Lank’s whip from him while others closed in. “Speakin’ on behalf of ol’ Wadsworth here,” an enormous fellow said, “he don’t want to bid no higher.”

“Sold to Lord Hugh Davenport!” the auctioneer shouted.

The crowd went crazy. Men danced the jig. They slapped each other’s backs. They hugged, and the dust swirled and rose, thickening the air to a dirty film.

Manifesto stood trembling in the center of the ring, his eyes white-ringed with terror. He let out a heartbreaking whinny. Then Ellie felt her body move forward, duck between the ropes, and run to her horse. She snatched the lead from Jimmy James and threw herself onto Manifesto’s bare back. Digging her heels into the stallion’s sides, she pointed him straight at the ring rope. He lunged forward, and the crowd parted in panic. In two strides Manifesto flew over the flimsy barrier and onto the fairgrounds.

No one reacted at first. Ellie gripped Manifesto’s sides with her knees and tried to steer the horse toward the fairground’s gate, but he shied and bolted, giving two boys time to slam shut the wrought iron barrier. A man shouted, “Grab the horse!” Another, “Drag the boy off.” The mob closed in, and then Manifesto turned his powerful haunches, kicking sharp and deadly, driving them back. Hugh stepped from the throng and flapped his hat in Manifesto’s face. The stallion backed toward the canvas wall of a tent. “Hup horse,” he said. “Get on.”

“Get back!” Ellie shouted. She struggled to force her mount toward the crowd but with only the single lead, the stallion couldn’t be managed. “Leave the horse be,” she cried, but the mass circled closer.

A man leaped at them, snatching for the halter. Manifesto reared and struck at him, then cut through the humanity, cantering flush against the tent wall. A groomsman, swinging a rope, forced the stallion through the tent entrance, and a roar of triumph rose from every throat. In the next second, a wall of men blocked all exits.

Ears flat back, Manifesto trotted between tables stacked with harness, miracle grains, and grooming supplies. More and more men pressed inside the tent, cursing and shouting directions.

Hugh stepped to the fore. “Slow down now, lad. You don’t want to hang for stealing the most expensive horse in England, do you?”

 “Stay away,” Ellie shouted. “Stay away from us.”

Hugh stopped a few feet from the stallion’s head. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he crooned. “We can talk this over”¦”

Manifesto snorted and backed behind a table filled with blacksmith tools. Ellie spied a razor sharp hoof knife. She grabbed it and in one quick movement, slashed a flap in the tent wall. Pulling on the lead with all her might, she turned Manifesto toward the hole and kicked hard. He plunged through the gap and bolted straight for the fairground wall.