Barbara Metzger (17 page)

“Yessir,” Henesley answered, “we’re waitin’ on the knackers’ cart. Misdoubt the beast could make it that far on’s own.”

They decided to get the wretched horse into a stall, as quickly as they could move it. Henesley brought a bucket of grain. “Least we can do is let ’im go with a full belly, sorry bastard. I’d like to have my hands on the devil what done this.”

“Have you any idea who it could have been, or why?”

“Talked to the night watch, just afore you came. He was goin’ off. Says he saw a tall, skinny gent leadin’ a horse, around three or so. Thought it was some nob whose horse’d cast a shoe.”

“A gentleman, you say?”

Henesley spat. “No gentleman did this. The watch says the swell was all over jewelry. Noted it particular, he says, ’cause the toff was lookin’ out for dark alleys ’n such.”

“And tall?”

“Real tall, he says, ’n skinny as a fireplace poker.”

Lem told Jacey that the shot she heard as they rode away was a rat in the hayloft Henesley’d been after. So big it was, it near ate the old tom.

*

Her floppy hat kept falling off. Lem would leave Baron’s side and chase after it, until Pen decided this was a new game.

“Leave the blasted hat, and come back to your place,” Claibourne called. “No one is going to come in anyway.” He was riding a gelding on Baron’s inner side, and he was exasperated.

Jacelyn didn’t even notice, having such a grand time in her britches and stockinged feet. She could go from her seat to a kneeling position easily now; Leigh only had to steady her arm once. She could rise to a standing position without much trouble, with Baron at a walk. It was the canter that was eluding her. She sat down, hard, on Baron’s bare back, doing neither of them much good. She did better the next time, standing for a few paces after Claibourne clucked Baron into the faster pace.

The earl caught her, grasping anything he could. For a second he had her feminine softness pressed all over him, till he could deposit her back on the stallion’s withers. Lord, he thought, if she didn’t manage to stand soon, he’d lay her down right there in the sand.

“Let’s try the whole thing at a canter, instead of changing gaits while you’re balancing,” he suggested, and it worked. He paced Baron around the ring, saying, “On, boy, steady there,” keeping the gelding as even as he could.

Jacey soon got the rhythm. She rose slowly until she was finally erect, her arms spread out, and a huge grin on her face.

“I did it! Now you back away.”

Claibourne pulled over a bit, so her glory was complete, until he called, “How are you going to get down?”

Disconcerted, she looked down, and found herself sailing over Baron’s rear end. She landed in a whoosh of sand and dirt. The earl was beside her in an instant, gathering her into his arms, cradling her.

“Are you hurt? Did you twist anything?”

“Is our time up, or can I try again?” she asked, hugging him back, proving the ground hadn’t knocked any sense into her.

That clinched it. Lifting her to her feet and brushing off the seat of her britches as delicately as he could, Leigh decided to forgo the ride to Richmond. He just didn’t feel right about going without Baron, without finding out what Percy was up to, without a cold bath—or whatever it took to get Miss Trevaine’s perfect little body off his mind.

“Nonsense, Jacelyn, of course you’ll go. His lordship’s note said he had urgent business. You have none. It’s much too late to cancel; Lord Farthingale would be offended, to say nothing of his mother, Lady Hockney. Oh dear, Lady Hockney. You simply must go, Jacelyn, I insist.”

Jacelyn did not want to ride out to Richmond, not without the earl. She couldn’t even take Pen, not having asked Lady Hockney. There was no reason to take Lem, and Pinkie didn’t ride. She would be all alone, just like on her first night in London, lonely in a crowd.

“What foolishness! Claibourne wrote that Arthur would take care of you.”

“Arthur? Aunt Amabel, Arthur couldn’t even take care of his toes, if they weren’t attached.” Jacey thought of asking Mr. Sprague, who was indoors so much he could use the ride. Except that he’d be tortured by Priscilla’s flirting all day. No, it was just Arthur, till they met the others at Hyde Park, then she’d be the odd, extra female. Blast.

“Come, Jacelyn. This isn’t like you. You’ll go, meet new friends. You don’t want to sit in the earl’s pocket, do you? He’s older, you know, and…and used to certain freedoms. I’m sure you’ll find it more convenient, after you’re married.” Lady Parkhurst blundered on: “If you don’t make mice-feet out of it now.”

Leigh would dislike a wispy, weak clinging vine above all things, Jacelyn silently agreed as she left her aunt’s bedchamber and trudged to her own room for a much needed bath. Sitting in a hard saddle didn’t seem like a pleasure right now, whatever the company, but yes, she would attend. She’d go to be polite, and to show the earl that she could manage without him, no matter how precious his companionship was becoming to her, whenever he tired of debutante do’s. Urgent business, in a pig’s eye! But, and it was a very big but, she’d thought they were friends. She wouldn’t have let one of her friends down this way.

Pinkie wasn’t any help. “At least you’ll get to wear your pretty new habit,” she said, lifting the heavy brown velvet over Jacey’s head. “It’s a pity his lordship won’t be there to see it.” The new outfit had baby-blue braid, and a full, shorter skirt instead of an awkward train. When she sat in the saddle a bit of her ankle would show, an ankle encased in a sturdy black leather riding boot. If that scandalised Lady Hockney, so be it. It would be better than tripping all over. The waist was tightly fitted, but the sleeves were loose, giving her freedom of movement. On her head she wore a brown hat shaped like a man’s, with a brim to protect her face from the sun. Its masculine severity was broken by a wisp of a blue gauze veil, held on with a nosegay of silk forget-me-nots. Jacey agreed with her maid: the outfit was pretty. And it was wasted.

*

There were more people waiting at the park than she could remember the names and faces of, and more than a few she’d rather forget. As they rode out behind Lady Hockney and her companion in the carriage, the group split into twos and threes. When they left the city traffic and reached country roads, a strange quadrille began. Riders kept shifting positions, partners, even steps—in this case gaits. Some would gallop ahead in a private race, others would drop back to chat with stragglers, or jog up to reintroduce themselves to strangers. The rules of this dance seemed to include talking with every member of the party.

Lord Farthingale rode up to her and Arthur. He was enthusiastic about Jacelyn’s mare, wanting to know her parentage, her times on the flat, if Miss Trevaine would care to try her paces against his gelding while they were still fresh. Arthur moved away to join Miss Chadwick and Captain Highet. He didn’t stay there long, riding ahead to the next pairing. Priscilla Ponsonby, meanwhile, joined Farthingale and Jacelyn before they could determine the length of their gallop. Jacelyn had the pattern of the peculiar dance, but not the protocol. Was she supposed to ride off, or was Priscilla? Or even Farthingale?

Priscilla hadn’t improved with daylight, time, or closer acquaintance. In fact, Jacelyn reflected, Priscilla would only improve with distance, so Jacey set her mare to a gallop. As she rode she recalled her father’s estimation of Napoleon: he was one of the few men of all time who could so benefit the world―by leaving it. Jacey wanted to let the mare out; Farthingale wanted to look good in her eyes, so met her challenge and took off after her; Priscilla wanted Farthingale and knew she’d never catch them. She therefore made a remark about how unbecoming hot, dusty females looked.

Happier after the race, which she graciously conceded to the viscount, since she had had a head start, Jacey decided to avoid his company if she could. She just wasn’t comfortable with Farthingale’s high-flown praise of everything she said or did, especially without Claibourne there to smile at the absurdity. She had no desire to speak with Priscilla, Chadwick/Highet, or—Lords, was that Humboldt from Squire’s house party? It must be; he was staring at her all goggle-eyed. No, not him either.

Two blonde ladies, sisters or twins, she couldn’t tell, rode with a blushing young man who wore yellow breeches, a green jacket, and a large red rose in his buttonhole. Lord Tayson, he stammered. The ladies were Miss Brynne and Miss Beryl Roth, but Tayson’s nervous stutter did not make clear which was which. The sisters made no effort to help him. They did, however, ask if Jacelyn had been at the last Devonshire House ball. Jacey moved on.

Oops, Lord Anton-Fredricks was part of the next couple. If Farthingale’s compliments were effusive, at least they seemed sincere. Anton-Fredricks proceeded to declaim his joy at riding with two such heavenly examples of feminine grace. Jacelyn immediately decided she liked the older woman riding with him when that lady’s first words were: “Poppycock, sir. Save your breath to cool your soup.” In truth, the kindest thing one could say about the lady’s looks was that her horse wasn’t
much
prettier. Anton-Fredricks tipped his hat and rode away, affronted. The lady grinned, held out her hand for a firm grasp, and said, “Smarmy caper-merchant. I’m Riva Montmorency. We met earlier, in the crowd.”

“I’m Jacelyn Trevaine, Miss Montmorency, and I
do
like your style!”

Farthingale interrupted. As usual in his presence, talk turned to horseflesh. Miss Montmorency was knowledgeable and interested. Jacey excused herself and galloped briefly toward Arthur, who was riding with the last unknown member of the group. She was a tall, handsome woman with a superb seat, and the two seemed engrossed in their conversation. Jacelyn hesitated about approaching them, and was even considering revising her plans for Arthur and Rhodine when she noticed that Arthur was doing no talking, only nodding his head. He looked relieved to see Jacey.

“Miss Kinbeck was telling me about a book you might find interesting, Jacelyn. Miss Trevaine’s father is quite a scholar, Miss Kinbeck, I’m sure he’s heard of it:
Indication of the Rights of Women
.” He rode off as quickly as he could when both women corrected him to
Vindication
.

“Were you really discussing Miss Wollstonecraft’s book with Lord Ponsonby, Miss Kinbeck?”

The other woman was indignant. “Why not? All women should be well-informed and well-read.”

“Of course. I meant Arthur!”

*

So it went until they finally reached the gardens at Richmond, where servants in blue and gold Hockney livery were waiting to take the horses and lead the party to refreshments. Jacelyn’s idea of a picnic was what she’d experienced at Treverly: Cook packed some bread and some fruit and whatever was left from last night’s dinner, you found a comfortable spot, put down a cloth, and opened the hamper. The only thing similar here was the comfortable spot.

Tables, chairs, blankets, cushions were laid out under some trees overlooking the ornamental lake. Two tables held the huge buffet, and uniformed footmen served. They also poured from a selection of wines, fruit drinks, and even hot tea.

“What,” Jacey asked Miss Montmorency, with whom she was quickly on such terms, “no finger bowls?”

The ride may have been merely an excuse to overeat in pretty scenery, but Jacelyn had been looking forward to seeing the topiary gardens and the famous man-high yew-hedge maze. Most of the party, though, seemed content to relax on the cushions after the heavy luncheon. The ladies fanned themselves, if they couldn’t find a flunky like Highet to do it for them. Arthur had a cloth over his face and was wuffling into it. Miss Montmorency assured Jacey it was permissible to wander about, since this was a very informal party, but Jacey wasn’t sure the other woman could be accounted a proper social arbiter, not with her outspoken views. She was relieved, therefore, some minutes later, when Farthingale asked to escort her to the maze. Other groups were taking his lead and bestirring themselves to stroll around the lake or through the formal gardens. Priscilla looked as if she’d eaten a bad oyster, hearing Farthingale’s offer, and drafted Lord Humboldt to show her the rose gardens.

“Arthur,” Jacelyn gently prodded, “I’m going to the maze with Lord Farthingale. I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

“What’s that? What in blazes do I care what—Oh.” He remembered his sworn obligation, and Claibourne’s handy fives. “Quite all right, I’ll be there in a moment. Meet you at the centre.” He nodded off again, confident it would take her awhile to find her way in. He, of course, would purchase a guide from the maze keeper.

“You needn’t worry about getting lost, my dear Miss Trevaine,” the viscount was saying as they approached the entrance. “I have the route by heart.”

“But, my lord, one is supposed to get lost in a maze! That’s why they let the shrubbery get so high, to make it harder!”

The silly pup was so proud of his cleverness, Jacelyn couldn’t give him the set-down he deserved. It was her own fault, she acknowledged, for forgetting her resolve to avoid him. He only wanted to coddle her, but, “I must insist on going in alone, my lord. You are much too downy, but I think I’ll enjoy the challenge.”

Crestfallen, he asked, “May I at least wait in the centre for you?”

“Oh no, the fun is trying to remember the way out, once you’re in! Here come the Misses Roth. I’m sure they’d be delighted to find the heart of the maze without all the effort. I’ll just wait here a moment so your voices don’t give me any clues, and don’t worry, if I get too lost, I can always call out.”

The maze’s interior was like tall green corridors, very hushed, cool, and shaded. Some of the blind alleys ended in pocket-sized flower gardens, or rosebushes, or benches. Some other paths just wound back on themselves till Jacey had to giggle, passing the same birdbath the third time—unless the maze’s designers were so diabolical as to repeat landmarks. She didn’t think that was the case, just that she’d missed a turning. The next path had a lot of gaps leading to other alleys, whose ends she couldn’t see. She decided to try the straight course first, then backtrack to each corridor in turn, if need be. Her way ended at a small dolphin fountain, just like the one at Treverly. She could hear Farthingale’s proud voice on the other side of the hedge, so she must be close to the centre, even if she couldn’t get to it from here. She stayed at the fountain, listening to its quiet babble for a few moments till the voices faded, and she missed her father and her home all over again.