Simply Scandalous
Page 3
She forced her nerves to steady. Of course, Bernard would be with her to handle the exchanges at the turnpikes. He would be able to guide her to the finish.
She took her first look at Lord Swale, the man she hated above all else on earth. Her acquaintance with the Duke of Auckland ill-prepared her for the appearance of his son. The Marquess had the most exceptional hair she had ever seen, so exceptional, in fact, that she could not quite believe she was seeing it now. The fiery red stuff hung shaggy and unkempt almost to his shoulders, and, with equally red sideburns lining his cheeks, he looked rather like a cartoon of a lion, she thought. And his clothes-! Rumpled, ill fitting homespun unless she was mistaken. His coat was so dusty she could only guess at its color. Indeed, his general appearance might lead one to believe he had just finished the long, grueling race.
As she drew alongside him, he grinned at her. Despite the smile being lopsided and rather too full of crooked teeth, it was not without boyish charm.
At the sight of him, her courage, which could have withstood the fiery gaze of a mad monk or even the sneers of the most supercilious aristocrat, faltered in a manner inconsistent with the code of the Wayborns. Could this grinning mistake of Nature really be the sinister Lord Swale, mastermind of the cowardly attack upon her brother? It seemed impossible. The man looked like a country bumpkin!
But then she remembered her Shakespeare, as many an English soul does in a moment of crisis: "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face." Undoubtedly, Lord Swale had deceived many with his idiotic grin, but he would not deceive Miss Wayborn. Miss Wayborn's eye pierced the unprepossessing facade and saw the black soul of the man.
Stacy approached, crying indiscreetly, "Cary! Good God, man! "
Juliet put a finger to her lips. As he drew alongside the curricle on his roan, she was able to speak to him in a low voice. "Stacy, it is I, Juliet. Please don't give me away."
His pale eyes started from his head. `Juliet! Have you gone mad?" he gargled.
"Probably. Do not betray me," she pleaded, all the while attempting to appear shrug-shouldered and nonchalant. It was difficult as her stomach seemed ready to convulse at any minute. The tricorn, fixed to her head with no less than six hatpins, still felt wobbly to her, and she feared that at any moment it would fall, exposing her coiffure of tightly braided hair.
"You'll break your neck, you little fool," Stacy said through gritted teeth.
"If I do, remember me kindly," she said, laughing nervously.
"I was just on the verge of calling him out, you half-wit," he hissed at her.
"Well, it's done now!" she snapped back at him.
"It certainly is!"
"Quickly, Stacy," she whispered urgently, "you must tell me where-"
"Hurry! " he said. "The bells-the last toll of the bells is the signal!"
Stacy was absorbed by the excited crowd, and Juliet heard the boisterous voices counting all around her as the bells of a nearby church tolled the hour. "Four! Five! Six!"
Bernard suddenly jumped down from the back of the curricle, and the way before her magically cleared. Juliet's heart was in her mouth as she saw Lord Swale's groom jump down from his curricle as well. They were to race without grooms then, and she had no idea where they were going.
Incredibly, the abominable Lord Swale shouted to her, "Good luck, Wayborn!"
She gave him a curt nod and pushed the lavender spectacles back up the bridge of her nose.
"Seven!" roared the crowd, and Gary's chestnuts leaped forward, two lengths ahead of his lordship's grays, their eyes alight with love of the race. This would never do, Juliet quickly realized. With no idea of the race's destination, she would have no hope of choosing the correct road when they came to a crossing or a fork. She would have to amend her plan to win the race, she supposed. Lord Swale would have to take the lead so that she could follow him to the proper destination. She would have to lose, but, she reflected, as long as she acquitted herself creditably and got away without being discovered, Cary would not be disgraced.
It required all her strength to slow the chestnuts even a little. After the first shock, when they understood that they actually were being asked to slow down, they hardened their crests angrily and, it seemed to her, redoubled their speed. They, at least, had no intention of losing. Her muscles could not sustain the effort, and she was forced to give them their way. She would simply stay on the Colchester Road, she decided, until they reached a fork in the road, and then she would figure out what to do.
She had often teased her brother about the mirrors he had placed facing backwards on either side of his curricle, but now she saw that they were actually quite practical for racing. In them, she could see that Lord Swale had pulled within a length of her and that he was obviously maneuvering to pass. She could take steps to prevent him or not, exactly as she chose. She chose to prevent him. She would be forced to give him the race in the end, but she saw no reason for him to annihilate her. She would give him the lead at the fork in the road. In the meantime, she would save her strength-she would need every ounce of it to slow the chestnuts enough to let his lordship pass.
The wind battered her face, making her grateful for the protection afforded her eyes by her brother's lavender spectacles. Her mouth and nostrils were soon caked with dust. Her back ached from the constant pull of the reins. The prospect of continuing in this manner for several miles did not appeal to her at all.
Swale, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. It seemed to him that every moment of his twentyfive years had been preparing him for this day. He was racing the great Cary Wayborn on a beautiful morning late in March, and he was acquitting himself creditably. He even began to feel that he might surpass the famed chestnuts if he could only find an advantage. Wayborn moved continuously from one side of the road to the other like a demon, anticipating his every move and cutting him off mercilessly.
Juliet had never known the chestnuts to go more than six miles an hour, but now it seemed to her as if they were going ten. One moment, they were leaving North London, and the next, or so it seemed to her, they were nearing the great fork at Brentwood. At this point, one might continue northeast to Colchester or turn right onto the Southend Road. It suddenly occurred to her as she approached the fork that Lord Swale almost certainly would attempt to gain the inside advantage. If their destination was Southend, he would try to shoot inside on her right; if Colchester, he would veer to her left. She would be able to see his move in the rear-facing mirrors.
Wrapping the reins around her wrists, she bore down with all her strength, nearly sitting on the floor of the car. The chestnuts naturally objected, and one of them forgot his manners to the extent that he reared up and pawed the air before coming to his senses. Juliet's arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets, but the chestnuts skidded to a stop. One twisted its neck around to look at her reproachfully. The other snorted and pawed the ground.
Swale could not believe his good fortune. He had once shot and killed a six-point stag at a distance of thirty yards, an impossible shot everyone in the hunting-box that year had agreed, but pulling ahead of Cary Wayborn's chestnuts on the road to Southend would undoubtedly surpass even that sublime moment. He drew a deep breath, a man on the brink of history, and urged his horses to the right, the better to take the inside of the turn.
Juliet saw the move and instantly released the chestnuts, turning them onto the Southend Road and cutting off Swale's advantage so swiftly that Swale, who was in danger of driving off the road entirely, overcompensated to the left, grazed her back wheels, and nearly overturned.
The curricle righted itself, and Swale, cursing vociferously, backed his grays and turned them toward Southend. But there was now no chance of him overtaking the chestnuts, let alone passing them. All that could be seen of Wayborn and his chestnuts was a cloud of dust. It was to his credit that he arrived in Southend only five minutes after Juliet did.
Her back was aching, and her throat was full of d
That would come later. What mattered now was that she not be dragged bodily from the curricle and carried away upon the shoulders of a half-dozen admiring young men to the nearest tavern, as several in the crowd were threatening to do. The moment the curricle was opened, her skirts would be seen, and her secret would be out. On the whole, she preferred to expose herself in a more dignified manner.
Lord Swale himself provided her with the opportunity. Upon arriving in Southend, his lordship leaped from his curricle, screaming, "You, sir, ought to be horsewhipped! You damned near killed my horses, you bloody cheat! "
The favorable impression he had made before the race was gone entirely. Here, she thought smugly, is the real Lord ,Swale. No friendly lion, no simple country lad with a lopsided, innocent smile. Rather, an ugly, villainous barbarian-a Viking raider, in fact, hell-bent on mayhem and bloody slaughter for all the world to see.
Alexander Devize tried to hold him back, but Swale could not be held. His green eyes were blazing, and his complexion, always ruddy, now appeared to be covered with a particularly nasty case of nettlerash.
"Wayborn! What the devil do you mean by coming to a full stop in the middle of the road like bloody Balaam's ass?" he roared. "I call it devious and underhanded, and by God, sir, you will bloody well answer for it!"
At first shocked to hear such language, Juliet was fortified by the sudden appearance of Bernard and Mr. Calverstock, who had both ridden hard from London, arriving just behind Lord Swale. Both men gathered around her protectively. "How dare you, sir?" Stacy shrieked back, and, despite the fact that he sounded a bit like her aunt, Lady Elkins, Juliet was quite proud of him.
Lord Swale seemed ready to drag Stacy Calverstock from his horse and beat him with his fists, but Mr. Devize intervened. `Just give Wayborn his money, old man," he said reasonably, and it pained Juliet to see that such a fine young gentleman from such an impeccable old Suffolk family had been so completely taken in by a monster like Swale.
`Bloody cheat!" reiterated Lord Swale, shaking his fist at the purple tricorn. "If there is so much as a scratch on my grays, I shall rip your bloody arm off, by God! So this is how you win your races, Wayborn! I expect no one else has had the courage to accuse you, but by God, I will!"
"Dammit, Geoffrey," said Mr. Devize in a tight, embarrassed voice. "Pay the man his money and have done. You are making an ass of yourself."
Swale looked around. The crowd had fallen silent, but here and there, he detected a lip curled in scorn. The consensus seemed to be that he, Lord Swale, was a poor loser!
"Swale is right," said a lone voice.
Swale, looking around for his supporter, was astounded to find that it was Wayborn himself.
"I did cheat," said the figure in the purple greatcoat. "Swale wins by default."
A roar of shocked disbelief went up from the crowd.
Swale turned dark red with embarrassment. "I say, old man," he protested. "I never meant to say you cheated-dammit, I never meant to say-that is, rotten temper! Rotten temper, old man! There is no denying I've got a rotten temper."
Juliet coughed to clear her throat of dust. "Not at all, old man," she croaked in her best imitation of a man's voice. "Indeed, I owe your lordship five hundred pounds and a broken arm!" So saying, she flung the purse containing five hundred pounds in the direction of the Duke's son. Her arm, weakened from the strain of managing a pair of strong and willful horses, was inaccurate. Mr. Devize was struck in the shoulder but did manage to catch the purse.
He looked at her, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.
Swale's face was now the color and texture of blood pudding. Recovered of his embarrassment, his lordship yielded again to rage. "You won the race, damn you!" he roared. "Though I can't say I admire your methods! "
"I did win, didn't l?" she said clearly. "You were beaten fairly, Swale, whatever you complain. But you were not been beaten by Mr. Cary Wayborn. You were beaten by his sister!"
The return journey to London, despite the fact that Juliet was resting comfortably in a well-sprung chaise hired by Stacy Calverstock, proved more grueling to her than the race to Southend. Every mounted swank in Southend guessed at the chaise's interesting contents and accompanied its progress with hoots, wild yells, and occasionally, the ill-advised discharge of a pistol. Added to this was the incessant drone of Mr. Eustace Calvetstock lecturing her on proper female behavior. He seemed to think that no one would ever marry her now and that he should be obliged to do it himself.
"Don't be such a gudgeon, Stacy," she said irritably, rubbing first one sore shoulder, then the other. "Really, there is no need for you to make such a sacrifice. You know I have no more than ten thousand pounds."
"I assure you, my dear Juliet," he said gallantly, "it is no sacrifice."
"Then, pray do not make a cake of yourself!" she snapped, for her head was aching.
"You do not understand the way of the world," he told her sadly. "My dear girl, I am afraid this must put you beyond the pale. No respectable lady of the Ton will receive you now. That being so, you cannot hope to make a respectable marriage."
"You talk as though I'd eloped with an Italian dancing master or ... or tied my garter in public! Anyone but an idiot can see I did exactly right, and I don't choose to marry an idiot, I assure you."
"How can you call it right," he objected, "when it destroys all hope of a felicitous marriage?"
"Then, if I were to marry you, it would not be felicitous?" she countered. "Perhaps you are right, and it is well for me that I don't wish to marry you."
"And you were such a favorite with the Patronesses of Almack's," Stacy lamented. "Your name and reputation were such that other young ladies looked to you for an example. What evils will proceed from this childish stunt, I don't know."
"Perhaps curricle races will become the fashion," Juliet said, laughing it off.
"I assure you, it is not in the least comical!" he snapped. "What will Cary say?"
"Cary will understand that at times, one must be a Wayborn first and a female second!" she answered smartly. "If I were a man, you would not be talking such fustian to me!"
"Well, you're not a man," he said sharply. "And it is not fustian! You'll see that soon enough when you are given the cut! It will be bitter for you, Juliet. You were so well liked before. Your manners were admired! But this dreadful, unladylike behavior-what will Sir Benedict say to this?"
Juliet, who had reason to dread her older brother's reaction, remained silent, hoping Stacy would do the same. But, no, he buried her beneath the weight of a thousand sermons on feminine decorum, and, by the time the chaise reached Park Lane, Juliet was so richly annoyed with him that she did not even thank him for his excellent generalship in extricating her from Southend.
Lady Elkins was in the Apricot Salon wringing her hands. "Oh, my dearest love," she cried weakly at the sight of Juliet. "I have been so worried. I was so frightened you had eloped!"
Juliet responded with a scorn unworthy of her. "Elope!" she scoffed, flinging her brother's tricorn onto a table. "I? After what I have seen today, Aunt Elinor, there is not a man in England that an Act of Parliament could induce me to marry!"
Her ladyship, already naturally pale, became ashen. "Why, my love?" she wailed. "Why, what have you seen? Why are you wearing my nephew's coat? Why are you so dusty? What has happened? Mr. Calverstock, what has happened?"
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Elinor!" Juliet cried, giving her excitable aunt a quick, reassuring kiss. "I've the most dreadful headache, that's all. Will you entertain Mr. Calverstock while I go and wash?"
As Juliet faded from the room, Stacy bowed correctly over his hostess's hand. "Mr. Calverstock!" Lady Elkins said fondly. "If my niece was in your care, I have no more worries."
Stacy was scarcely gratified by the compliment.
"I won't ask you to sit," Lady Elkins said nervously. "Indeed, I must ask you not to sit. Parker informs me that my nephew's clothes left a black mark on one of the sofas. No one must sit until I have heard from Mr. Soho. Pray, don't be angry."
Stacy smiled warmly. "Indeed, my lady, I prefer to stand."
"He was brought home last night in a state of collapse!" cried her ladyship.
"Mr. Soho?" Stacy asked hopefully.
"My nephew! My poor, dear Cary. But you are not to worry-I know you are his friend, but you are not to worry. Mr. Norton tells me it is only a touch of influenza."
"Ah," said Stacy.
"Do you think it will be necessary for us to remove to the country?" her ladyship inquired anxiously. "Mr. Norton tells me it is a very mild case-very mild. But I am no longer young, you know, and even a mild case of influenza might carry me off. I had better retire to Surrey. Still, I do hate to take Juliet away from London at the top of the Season. Did she tell you she danced twice with the Duke of Auckland?" A spark of vicarious ecstasy entered Lady Elkins's watery eye. "The Duke of Auckland!Only think if his Grace were to marry my niece!"
Stacy thought but found the notion unpalatable. "Perhaps," he said cautiously, "it would be a very good thing for Miss Juliet to accompany your ladyship to Wayborn Hall."
"I will ask my nephew when he comes. Dear Sir Benedict always knows what is right and best." Stacy swallowed hard. "Is Sir Benedict coming here, Lady Elkins?"
"Why yes," she replied innocently. "He is coming tomorrow. He will know what to do about dear Juliet. I shall put it to him."
Juliet, still smarting from Stacy's reproaches, had crept into her brother's room, and dismissing the nurse, she availed herself of his sympathetic ear. Cary did not open his eyes once throughout her version of the morning's events, but she would swear his eyelids fluttered and a smile touched his pale lips as she related Lord Swale's humiliation.
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