"Is it the devil we're running from, then?"
The question, uttered in the mildest of tones, made Harry
Lester wince. "Worse," he threw over his shoulder at his
groom and general henchman, Dawlish. "The matchmaking
mamas — in league with the dragons of the ton." Harry
edged back on the reins, feathering a curve at speed. He
saw no reason to ease the wicked pace. His match greys,
sleek and powerful, were quite content to keep the bits
between their teeth. His curricle rushed along in their
wake; Newmarket lay ahead. "And we're not running — it's
called a strategic retreat."
"Is that so? Well, can't say I blame you," came in
Dawlish's dour accents. "Who'd ever have thought to see
Master Jack landed — and without much of a fight, if
Pinkerton's on the up. Right taken aback, is Pinkerton."
When this information elicited no response, Dawlish
added, "Considering his position, he is."
Harry snorted. "Nothing will part Pinkerton from Jack —
not even a wife. He'll swallow the pill when the time
comes."
"Aye — p'raps. Still, can't say I'd relish the prospect of
answering to a missus — not after all these years."
Harry's lips quirked. Realising that Dawlish, riding on
the box behind him, couldn't see it, he gave into the urge
to smile. Dawlish had been with him forever, having, as a
fifteen-year-old groom, attached himself to the second son
of the Lester household the instant said son had been put
atop a pony. Their old cook had maintained it was a clear
case of like to like; Dawlish's life was horses — he had
recognised a master in the making and had followed
doggedly in his wake. "You needn't worry, you old
curmudgeon. I can assure you I've no intention, willingly
or otherwise, of succumbing to any siren's lures."
"All very well to say so," Dawlish grumbled. "But when
these things happen, seems like there's no gainsaying
them. Just look at Master Jack."
"I'd rather not," Harry curtly replied. Dwelling on his
elder brother's rapid descent into matrimony was an
exercise guaranteed to shake his confidence.With only two
years separating them, he and Jack had led much the same
lives. They'd come on the town together more than ten
years ago. Admittedly, Jack had less reason than he to
question love's worth, nevertheless, his brother had been,
as Dawlish had observed, a most willing conquest. The fact
made him edgy.
"You planning on keeping from London for the rest of yore
life?"
"I sincerely hope it won't come to that." Harry checked
the greys for a slight descent. The heath lay before them,
a haven free of matchmakers and dragons alike. "Doubtless
my uninterest will be duly noted. With any luck, if I lay
low, they'll have forgotten me by next Season."
"Wouldn't have thought, with all the energy you've put
into raising a reputation like you have, that they'd be so
keen."
Harry's lip curled. "Money, Dawlish, will serve to excuse
any number of sins."
He waited, expecting Dawlish to cap the comment with some
gloomy pronouncement to the effect that if the madams of
society could overlook his transgressions then no one was
safe. But no comment came; his gaze fixed unseeing on his
leader's ears, Harry grudgingly reflected that the wealth
with which he and his brothers, Gerald as well as Jack,
had recently been blessed, was indeed sufficient to excuse
a lifetime of social sins.
His illusions were few — he knew who and what he was — a
rake, one of the wolves of the ton, a hellion, a
Corinthian, a superlative rider and exceptional breeder of
quality horseflesh, an amateur boxer of note, an excellent
shot, a keen and successful huntsman on the field and off.
For the past ten and more years, Society had been his
playing field. Capitalising on natural talents, and the
position his birth had bestowed, he had spent the years in
hedonistic pleasure, sampling women much as he had the
wines. There'd been none to gainsay him, none to stand in
his path and challenge his profligate ways.
Now, of course, with a positively disgusting fortune at
his back, they'd be lining up to do so.
Harry snorted and refocused on the road. The sweet damsels
of the ton could offer until they were blue in the face —
he wasn't about to buy.
The junction with the road to Cambridge loomed ahead.
Harry checked his team, still sprightly despite their dash
from London. He'd nursed them along the main road, only
letting them have their heads once they'd passed Great
Chesterford and picked up the less-frequented Newmarket
road. They'd passed a few slower-moving carriages; most of
the gentlemen intent on the week's racing would already be
in Newmarket.
About them, the heath lay flat and largely featureless,
with only a few stands of trees, windbreaks and the odd
coppice to lend relief. There were no carriages
approaching on the Cambridge road; Harry swung his team
onto the hard surface and flicked the leader's ear.
Newmarket — and the comfort of his regular rooms at the
Barbican Arms — lay but a few miles on.
"To y'r left."
Dawlish's warning growl came over his shoulder in the same
instant Harry glimpsed movement in the stand of trees
bordering the road ahead. He flicked both horses' withers;
as the lash softly swooshed back up the whip-handle, he
slackened the reins, transferring them to his left hand.
With his right, he reached for the loaded pistol he kept
under the seat, just behind his right boot.
As his fingers closed about the chased butt, he registered
the incongruity of the scene.
Dawlish put it into words, a heavy horse pistol in his
hands. "On the king's highway in broad daylight — never-
you-mind! What's the world a-coming to, I asks you?"
The curricle sped on.
Harry wasn't entirely surprised when the men milling in
the trees made no attempt to halt them. They were mounted
but, even so, would have had the devil of a time hauling
in the flying greys. He counted at least five as they
flashed past, all in frieze and heavily muffled. The sound
of stifled cursing dwindled behind them.
Dawlish muttered darkly, rummaging about re-stowing his
pistols. "Stap me, but they even had a wagon backed up in
them trees. Right confident of their haul they must be."
Harry frowned.
The road curved ahead; he regathered the slack reins and
checked the greys fractionally.
They rounded the curve — Harry's eyes flew wide. He hauled
back on the reins with all his strength, slewing the greys
across the road. They came to a snorting, stamping halt,
their noses all but in the low hedge. The curricle rocked
perilously, then settled back on its springs.
Curses turned the air about his ears blue.
Harry paid no attention; Dawlish was still up behind him,
not in the ditch. Before him, on the other hand, was a
scene of disaster.
A travelling carriage lay on its side, not in the ditch
but blocking most of the road. It looked as if one of the
back wheels had disintegrated; the ponderous contraption,
top-heavy with luggage, had toppled sideways. The accident
had only just occurred — the upper wheels of the carriage
were still slowly rotating. Harry blinked. A young lad, a
groom presumably, was struggling to haul a hysterical girl
from the ditch. An older man, the coachman from his
attire, was hovering anxiously over a thin grey-haired
woman, laid out on the ground.
The coach team was in a flat panic.
Without a word, Harry and Dawlish leapt to the ground and
ran to calm the horses.
It took a good five minutes to soothe the brutes, good,
strong coach horses with the full stubbornness and dim
wits of their breed. With the traces finally untangled,
Harry left the team in Dawlish's hands; the young groom
was still helplessly pleading with the tearful girl while
the coachman dithered over the older woman, clearly caught
between duty and a wish to lend succour, if he only knew
how.
The woman groaned as Harry walked up. Her eyes were
closed; she lay straight and rigid on the ground, her
hands crossed over her flat chest.
"My ankle — !" A spasm of pain twisted her angular
features, tight under an iron-grey bun. "Damn you, Joshua —
when I get back on my feet I'll have your hide for a
footstool, I will." She drew her breath in in a painful
hiss. "If I ever get back on my feet."
Harry blinked; the woman's tones were startlingly
reminiscent of Dawlish in complaining mode. He raised his
brows as the coachman lumbered to his feet and touched his
forehead. "Is there anyone in the carriage?"
The coachman's face blanked in shock. "Oh my God!" Her
eyes snapping open, the woman sat bolt upright. "The
mistress and Miss Heather!" Her startled gaze fell on the
carriage. "Damn you, Joshua — what are you doing, mooning
over me when the mistress is likely lying in a heap?"
Frantically, she hit at the coach-man's legs, pushing him
towards the carriage.
"Don't panic."
The injunction floated up out of the carriage, calm and
assured.
"We're perfectly all right — just a bit shaken." The
clear, very feminine voice paused before adding, a touch
hesitantly, "But we can't get out."
With a muttered curse, Harry strode to the carriage,
pausing only to shrug out of his greatcoat and fling it
into the curricle. Reaching up to the back wheel, he
hauled himself onto the body. Standing on the coach's now
horizontal side, he bent and, grasping the handle, hauled
the door open.
Planting one booted foot on either side of the coach step,
he looked down into the dimness within.
And blinked.
The sight that met his eyes was momentarily dazzling. A
woman stood in the shaft of sunshine pouring through the
doorway. Her face, upturned, was heart-shaped; a broad
forehead was set beneath dark hair pulled severely back.
Her features were well defined; a straight nose and full,
well-curved lips above a delicate but determined chin.
Her skin was the palest ivory, the colour of priceless
pearls; beyond his control, Harry's gaze skimmed her
cheeks and the graceful curve of her slender neck before
coming to rest on the ripe swell of her breasts. Standing
over her as he was, they were amply exposed to his sight
even though her modish carriage dress was in no way
indecorous.
Harry's palms tingled.
Large blue eyes fringed with long black lashes blinked up
at him.
For an instant, Lucinda Babbacombe was not entirely sure
she hadn't sustained a blow on the head — what else could
excuse this vision, conjured from her deepest dreams?
Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, he towered
above her, long, sleekly muscled legs braced on either
side of the door. Sunlight haloed his golden locks; with
the light behind him she could not make out his features
yet she sensed the tension that held him.
Lucinda blinked rapidly. A light blush tinged her cheeks;
she looked away — but not before she registered the
subdued elegance of his garments — the tightly-fitting
grey coat, superbly cut, style in every line, worn over
clinging ivory inexpressibles, which clearly revealed the
long muscles of his thighs. His calves were encased in
gleaming Hessians; his linen was crisp and white. There
were, she noted, no fobs or seals hanging at his waist,
only a single gold pin in his cravat.
Prevailing opinion suggested such severe attire should
render a gentleman uninteresting. Unremarkable. Prevailing
opinion was wrong.
He shifted — and a large, long-fingered, extremely elegant
hand reached down to her.
"Take my hand — I'll pull you up. One of the wheels is
shattered — it's impossible to right the carriage."
His voice was deep, drawling, an undercurrent Lucinda
couldn't identify sliding beneath the silken tones. She
glanced up through her lashes. He had moved to the side of
the door and had gone down on one knee. The light now
reached his face, illuminating features that seemed to
harden as her gaze touched them. His hand moved
impatiently; a black sapphire set in a gold signet
glimmered darkly. He would need to be very strong to lift
her out with one arm. Subduing the thought that her rescue
might well prove a greater threat than her plight, Lucinda
reached for his hand.