by Mary Nichols
‘Oh, most of them will hand over the reins if they know they’ll be given a handsome tip. It relieves the boredom of their occupation.’
‘And were you really held up by a highwayman?’ Ariadne asked.
He looked sheepish. ‘Well, there was a horseman riding hard by us, but we outran him.’
‘A coach cannot outrun a determined horseman,’ Theodore said disparagingly. ‘I’ll wager he was an ordinary rider going about his business.’
‘He was sinister enough to frighten the passengers.’
‘Gammon! It was more likely the passengers were terrified of being driven by a wild man. I have seen some of your driving.’
‘I am as good with the ribbons as you,’ Peter said, becoming heated. ‘I’ll wager a hundred guineas I can beat you in a race. You name the time and place. We find our own horses and vehicles.’
Theodore could not ignore the challenge. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Whetstone to Highgate on Sunday, driving a coach and four.’
‘Agreed.’ The men shook hands.
‘Why, here is the Duke,’ Ariadne said suddenly, making Sophie jump out of her skin which, in turn, made Amber prance. She pulled herself together to control her mount as Ariadne said, ‘Good morning, your Grace.’
He pulled up and inclined his head in their direction. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, good morning.’
‘We are well met, your Grace,’ Dorothy said. ‘Mr Buskin has just wagered he can beat Mr Poundell driving a coach and four from Whetstone to Highgate on Sunday. Who do you think will win?’
‘I think they will both break their necks,’ he answered laconically. ‘And probably the horses’ necks too.’
‘Then you will not bet on the outcome?’
‘Certainly not. It is foolhardy in the extreme.’
‘I have never yet reneged on a wager,’ Theodore said. ‘And I do not intend to start now. I will be there.’
“And so will I,’ Peter said. ‘It a matter of honour.’
‘Then I suggest you take the precaution of taking advice from my coachman,’ James said. ‘There is nothing Sadler does not know about driving a four-in-hand. Now, come, Sophie, Harriet will be made anxious by your absence.’
He turned his horse, waiting for her to follow, which she did half-reluctantly; she knew she was in for another roasting. They had been riding for perhaps two minutes when he said, ‘Where is Tom?’
‘I sent him home for his breakfast.’
‘You will not do that again. In the first place he should not have been taken from his work to escort you—’
‘I did not ask him to follow me.’
‘I am aware of that. Fortunately, Sadler knows I would never let you ride out alone. Nor will I. In future, if you wish to ride, you will ask me to accompany you.’
‘Then I will have to give up riding, for it is certain you will never have the time.’
‘I will try and make the time.’
‘I think a certain lady might have something to say about that.’
He turned towards her, his face like thunder, but then thought better of what he had been about to say. Instead he said, ‘That remark was unworthy of you, Sophie.’
Oh, she had been so right when she said one could achieve more with politeness than with anger. He had managed to put her down very successfully with his soft answer when what she had wanted was to have a blazing row with him, to tell him she knew about Lady Colway, to shout and rave, elicit some response. She looked down at her gloved hands on the reins and leaned forward to pat Amber’s neck. Horses could be trusted, men could not.
Chapter Seven
If James had intended to have more words with Sophie as soon as they were in the privacy of Belfont House, he was prevented from doing so because Lady Myers was ensconced in the drawing room, taking tea with Harriet. It was an ungodly hour for callers and he wondered what had brought her, as he stood in the doorway and bowed politely. Sophie left him there and went upstairs, no doubt relieved to escape. ‘Lady Myers, good morning. Please excuse my riding clothes. I will go and change.’
‘Oh, please do not trouble yourself on my account, your Grace. I will be on my way as soon as I have imparted the news I bring.’
‘News?’ he queried, perching himself on an upright chair just inside the room, uncomfortably aware that he should not be bringing the odour of horses into the drawing room.
‘A message from Lord Myers,’ she said. ‘He thought it best that I should be the bearer, considering I call frequently on Lady Harley and Miss Langford and no one will think anything of my coming to say goodbye before we leave for the country. Lord Myers intends to spend a week or two in the quiet of our Hertfordshire house, settling his affairs, before he takes up his new post in India. Where, naturally, I shall accompany him.’
This was of little interest to James, who listened politely and waited for her to come to the point.
‘Lord Myers, as you know, is acquainted with a great many people,’ she went on. ‘Some of them of doubtful character whom he has met on his travels. It behoves him as a diplomat to listen and observe…’
‘Indeed, I am sure the country is indebted to him.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘It has come to his ears that there is to be an attempt on Wellington’s life when he returns to this country.’
‘Whatever for?’ Harriet asked. ‘He is a hero, beloved of the whole country.’
‘Yes, he is.’ Lady Myers turned to answer her. ‘If he were to die the country would be plunged into mourning and would certainly not be prepared to repulse Bonaparte should he make an attempt to regain his throne. The French tyrant fears no one as much as Wellington and he would give anything to have him out of the way.’
‘Is the intelligence credible?’ James asked her.
‘Lord Myers thinks so, sufficiently to alert you. I collect you are responsible for the Duke’s safety during the celebrations.’
‘If he allows it,’ he said. ‘I am informed he makes little of the risk. He has been heard to comment that he has survived worse in the Peninsula than a crowd of his own countrymen and women bent on enjoying themselves and he will not be hedged in by petty restrictions.’
‘And there, according to my husband, lies his danger.’
‘Does Lord Myers know more? Names, times, places?’
‘No, only that the plot is in the making and probably led by a foreigner, here as part of the celebrations.’
‘I see.’ Why had his mind suddenly flown to Count Cariotti? He had no possible grounds for suspecting him. It was simply that the man had been so much in his head because of Sophie; it was jealousy on his part, the desire to be rid of him, to have Sophie for himself. His honour and sense of fair play made him discount the idea almost immediately, but the news was worrying.
The Regent was due to hold a reception at Carlton House in honour of the Duke and had commissioned a huge hall 136 feet in diameter to be built in the garden, connected to a series of supper tents by covered walkways. The builders were already at work and James was heavily involved, something Lord Myers and half of London already knew. He would have to step up security measures and that meant even less time at home. His inbred sense of duty battled with his desire to be with Sophie, to prove he was not the ogre she thought him to be, to make her see how much she meant to him. Duty won. ‘Please thank Lord Myers for the information,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I know I can rely on you not to pass on what you have told me. We do not want to alert the culprits that we are on to them.’
‘No, indeed not. You may trust me, your Grace. And it goes without saying Lord Myers will say nothing. If we hear more, we will find a way of letting you know.’
He bowed and left the room to hurry upstairs to change and go out again.
He met Sophie on the stairs. She had changed into a light morning gown and was coming down to pay her respects to Lady Myers. She looked tired; there were dark rings around her eyes, but she seemed to have regained her self-assurance. She p
aused as he approached her, waited but did not speak.
‘I regret I have to leave you again,’ he said, stepping on to the same stair but, as the stairs were wide, there was at least three feet between them. It might as well have been a chasm.
‘Of course, you must not neglect your duty, your Grace.’ And with that she went on down, leaving him feeling somewhat dissatisfied and wondering whether there was a touch of irony in the way she had spoken.
The Duke was not the only one to feel dissatisfied. Sophie was also cast down. His Grace had simply looked down his haughty nose at her as if she had so far displeased him he had given up even trying to reason with her. In the absence of love, or even friendship, between them, she had perversely been looking forward to a good wrangle, a war of words in which she could let fly all her frustration and make him angry. She could cope with his anger, or at least she thought she could, but not his silent reproach. And now he was going out again and he would probably not come home for days, preferring the company of his mistress.
She went on down the stairs and joined Harriet and Lady Myers, who offered no explanation as to why his Grace had gone out again so soon, but chatted inconsequentially about the latest on dit, the weather and what Lord Myers might expect to find in India, all of which drove Sophie to distraction. What did his Grace say to you? she wanted to ask. Why has he gone out again? Why do I make him so angry? Why can’t he love me just a little? Can’t he see that it is because of the way he treats me that I keep saying and doing the wrong thing and getting into a coil? If only he would love me, I would do anything, anything at all to please him.
Of course she said none of these things, but sipped the cup of tea Harriet had handed her, expressed an interest in everything that was being said and, having done her polite duty as she saw it, excused herself and retreated to her room where she pulled out her manuscript and set determinedly to work.
She was right about the Duke not returning home, an absence that did not seem to bother Harriet. Sophie spent some of her time keeping her cousin company and listening to her plans for her come-out ball, for which she could rouse no enthusiasm, though she hid it bravely, and the rest working on her book until Mrs Jefferson and Ariadne called on Friday afternoon to ask if the two ladies would like to join the party she was organising to go out to Highgate on the following Sunday to witness the end of the carriage race.
‘We are going to take our barouche and there will be ample room for you and Miss Langford,’ Mrs Jefferson told Harriet. ‘That is, if the Duke is not to take you.’
‘I think he will be too busy,’ Harriet said, then to Sophie. ‘Should you like to go, Sophie?’
‘Yes, if you go.’
‘Then we will.’
They completed the arrangements regarding the time they would set out, the contribution each would make to the picnic they meant to have while waiting for the protagonists to appear, and talking about who else would be going—that seemed to be half the population of London. Word had gone round and what had started as a mere wager between two hot-headed young men was turning into a grand occasion. And according to those who prided themselves on predicting such things, the weather was set to be fair.
The predictions were right and even at the early hour they set out, the sun was hot. Sophie wore her coolest muslin, a pale lemon with white spots, a wide neckline and tiny sleeves. Her hair was pinned up under a wide-brimmed straw hat. In one hand she carried a fan and in the other a parasol. Her reticule, which hung on a cord from her wrist, contained nothing but a handkerchief and a phial of violet water.
Their road, already packed with other vehicles, took them out to Islington Spa, a charming village with a pond beside a green dappled by the shadow of several tall elms. They paused here to take a drink and allow the gentlemen who were riding beside the coaches to rest their horses, then were on their way again. When they breasted the hill at the top of Holloway Road and looked back, they had a fine view of London spread out before them. Sophie remembered that aspect from when her parents had first brought her to London. She had been innocently excited, a child travelling to a new place, unaware that travelling was to be her lot for the next ten years and more, that the simple life she was leaving behind was to be lost to her for ever. She looked back and tried to recall how she had felt, but growing up and the years in between got in the way.
They continued through the village of Highgate and drew up on the outskirts of Finchley Common, where a grassy area made a grand viewing arena. It was already lined with open carriages from which the occupants hoped to witness the end of the race. Some enterprising salesmen had set up their stalls and were selling favours and trinkets, currant buns, ale and lemonade, and others were taking wagers, shouting the odds. As they arrived Sophie heard one shouting. ‘Three to one on The Winged Chariot.’
‘Which one is that?’ she asked Ariadne who sat beside her.
‘Mr Buskin’s. Mr Poundell has called his equipage The Yellow Peril. Shall you risk a wager?’
‘No, certainly not. I abhor gambling.’
‘Oh, surely there can be no harm in putting a little of one’s pin money on the outcome? It adds to the excitement.’
‘I think it is exciting enough, when either or both men could be killed or injured.’ She could not condone gambling, however innocent it appeared. She had seen where it could lead. That first small wager was the harbinger of untold misery.
‘Fustian! I am going to put five guineas on Mr Poundell.’
‘Five guineas! Surely you do not carry so much about with you?’
‘I do today. I have double that in here.’ And she lifted the hand from which hung her reticule.
Sophie was shocked at the amount. She could and often did keep house in Italy for a month on its equivalent, and a great deal less in that last year when her father’s luck, never good, had run out altogether. Thinking of that time, she was sharply reminded of her confrontation with Count Cariotti at Lady Myers’s ball and quickly thrust it from her. She did not want to remember. ‘And if you lose it?’
‘Oh, Papa will ring a peal over me, but I can soon turn him round my thumb and he will give me some more.’
The difference between Ariadne and herself could not have been better illustrated. The Duke had paid for her to be as well dressed as her friend and had made sure she had enough to eat, but it seemed not to have occurred to him that she might need money, a few coins in her reticule to spend on fripperies, though not gambling, definitely not on gambling. Knowing herself as well as she did, she knew her pride would have made her refuse even if he had offered, but she was painfully aware that the little money she had brought from Italy and changed into English coins had all but run out and the sooner she earned her own living the better. She should have stayed at home and continued her writing instead of coming out to enjoy herself. The pleasure of the day was fading fast.
They stopped the coach at the end of the line where they had a good view of the road leading to the finish and nothing would do but Ariadne must get down and put her bet on. ‘Come with me,’ she begged Sophie.
Harriet and Mrs Jefferson were content to sit and talk, so the two girls left them and strolled, arm in arm, to the man who was shouting the odds. He took Ariadne’s money and wrote her name in his book, after which they decided to see who, among their friends, had arrived. They all seemed to be there and they stood about talking to them, speculating on who might win.
‘Mr Poundell has the most experience,’ Ariadne said. ‘He often takes over the ribbons on stage journeys and the passengers do not know if he is driving or the regular driver.’
‘Yes, but his vehicle is an old stagecoach he borrowed from William Chapman who took it out of service some time ago, and Mr Buskin is using his father’s new travelling coach…’
‘Then I think Sir Henry is a bigger fool than his son to indulge him,’ Sophie put in.
‘Not only that, he has wagered a thousand guineas on his darling son and heir coming in victorious,’ some
one else added, ignoring Sophie’s remark.
This was too much for Sophie and she turned away to watch a troupe of acrobats who were entertaining the waiting crowds.
‘Why, if it isn’t the little blue stocking.’
Sophie, struck by the strident voice, turned to face the speaker, only to find herself being scrutinised by Lady Colway. From beneath a large silk parasol, her brown eyes raked Sophie from head to toe. ‘Who would have thought such pretty nothingness could harbour such a vitriolic spreader of tales…’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, it is not my pardon, you should beg, but his Grace’s. You have done nothing but humiliate and embarrass him from the minute you arrived. Why did you come? Was it to see how much you could squeeze out of him?’ She stood in front of Sophie, blocking her way back to the carriage.
‘No, certainly not. Please let me pass.’
The woman ignored the request. ‘No, I had forgot, you are going to make a name for yourself as a writer of scandal. But let me warn you of the dangers. You will lay yourself open to litigation if you mention me and the Duke of Belfont.’
‘Indeed? Is truth not the perfect defence in law?’ It was said sweetly; she refused to raise her voice, but it was evidently an answer her ladyship had not been expecting.
‘Truth needs proving.’
‘Oh, I do not think I shall have any trouble in that direction.’
She tried to push past, but Lady Colway seized her arm in a painful grip. ‘You will ruin yourself by that, if you have not already done so. When I am the Duchess of Belfont, you may be sure I shall take care you are never received in polite society. You will sink to the level you evidently aspire to, unrecognised except by purveyors of illiterate rubbish and their ignorant readers.’
‘When you are Duchess of Belfont, you may do as you please.’
‘Oh, I shall be, never fear. Clarence cannot last much longer and James and I have a long-standing arrangement. It will take more than a silly little fortune hunter to come between us.’