Each night she did her best to remain silent when the gentlemen were discussing subjects considered unsuitable for ladies. But every night she found herself sharing her own views, provoked beyond reason, quite often by Edward. If she did not know him to be the kindest man alive she would have thought he was deliberately goading her to be at loggerheads with his brother.
Fortunately the colonel was as assiduous in his avoidance tactics as she. He spent the days viewing suitable geldings and eventually purchased one. He sang its praises at dinner. The animal was, according to him, a prince among horses. Brutus was five years old and obedient to bit and heel, with powerful hindquarters and shoulders – ideal for him to take back to France with him. She got up early the next morning in order to examine this paragon for herself.
Undoing the loose box, she attached a lead rope and led the enormous horse into the yard where she tethered him to a metal ring. 'Well, old fellow, let's have a look at you. You're certainly a handsome one and well up to your master's weight.'
The gelding lowered his massive head and breathed noisily in her face. She took this opportunity to push back his lips and examine his mouth. As she was so doing, the man she'd hoped to avoid strolled into the yard.
'Miss Peterson, you've come to admire my animal, I see. I believe my guineas to be well spent.'
'And I know that they were not. This horse is not what you were told.' She braced herself to receive a pithy response. She was sure he had not yet forgiven her. However, she knew that the colonel had been taken in.
He drew himself to his full height, his mouth thinned and two spots of colour appeared like warning flags on his cheeks. 'Miss Peterson, I'm obliged to you for offering your opinion on my recent purchase. I pride myself on being an expert in this field, but, of course, I bow to your superior knowledge.'
His sarcasm was uncalled for. She had been about to apologize, to make light of her comment that the huge bay gelding was nearer fifteen years of age than five. However, his attitude goaded her into further comment.
'Colonel Westcott, have you ever heard the expression long in the tooth? This gelding has had his teeth filed. If you look closely at his gums you will observe the discrepancy. A horse, of the age you think this one is, would not have so much tooth showing.'
His hands clenched. He no doubt wished to berate her for having the temerity to offer a comment in an area that was strictly a gentleman's preserve. Her palm was resting gently on the neck of the animal and he detected her unease. Immediately his ears flattened. Before she could warn him, the aforementioned teeth buried themselves in Westcott's arm.
The resulting pandemonium allowed her to escape. Her ears were burning from his immoderate language. No doubt the gelding would be returned as unsound, but that would be unfair. The bay was a little past his prime but was obviously an intelligent animal and ideal for a soldier.
Without stopping to consider the possible consequences she spun, her blue-velvet riding habit swirling around her booted feet. He needed to be persuaded to keep the bay. Fortunately the swearing had ceased and the gentleman in question had hold of his horse. To her astonishment, he was rubbing the animal's nose with affection. Her lips curved; there was no need for further interference on her part.
Perhaps this man was not such an arrogant, objectionable creature as she had at first surmised if he could forgive his mount for savaging him.
*
Simon smiled ruefully as he rubbed his injured shoulder. 'Well, Brutus, I got my comeuppance from you, did I not?'
The horse lipped his hand in apology.
'I know. I must learn to curb my temper. But that young woman brings out the worst in me. She needs to learn her place and remain silent on subjects that do not concern her.'
If he was honest, it still rankled that she had thought to use the harness and one of the horses to pull her maid from the inside of the carriage. His breath hissed between his teeth. Good God! The wretched girl was correct. How could he have been so gullible? He'd taken a cursory glance at the bay's mouth and been fooled. He could legitimately return his purchase and demand a refund of his guineas.
No, the gelding might not be the youngster he'd imagined, but he was more than adequate for his needs and he liked the way the animal had protected the girl.
A slight movement in the archway attracted his attention. He glanced up to see her watching him. He hid his smile; he might dislike the chit intensely but he could not fault her courage. Few man would dare to return when he was in high dudgeon.
'Jenkins, fetch the tack. I shall take Brutus to the park for a gallop.'
As he waited for his groom, he considered the young woman who'd almost made him lose his temper. She was nothing like Edward's wife; Lady Grayson and Miss Peterson were as different as chalk is to cheese.
Ellen was dainty, with blue eyes and golden hair, and the sweetest nature one could wish for. Her younger sister was a veritable termagant. She did have remarkable green eyes and abundant nut brown tresses, but that was all there was to recommend her.
The girl was overly tall and her features nondescript; one wouldn't exactly call her bracket-faced, but she was no beauty, that was for sure. Small wonder the interfering baggage had not taken when she had come out several years ago.
Why should a man give up his freedom for a woman with a managing nature and a tongue like a whiplash? Possibly if she had been a substantial heiress some foolhardy gentleman might have offered for her. He had no wish to become caught in parson's mousetrap, he preferred to remain free of entanglements.
A wife had no place in a serving soldier's life. His accumulated wealth and impeccable pedigree meant he was much sought-after by the matchmaking matrons he encountered on the Continent. Being a soldier gave him the excuse of duty to his Country when he wished to remove himself from possible entrapment.
He swung into the saddle and clattered out of the yard, heading for Hyde Park. So early in the day there would be few people taking the air. Society frowned upon those who rode above a collected canter but if there was no one around he could please himself. Brutus pecked, almost losing purchase on the icy cobbles.
*
Lydia waited until the colonel had left the yard before hurrying back. She always went out at this time and had no idea he would be there this morning with the same intention. She was tempted to forget, to return to her chamber and not risk a second confrontation. However, that would not be fair to Pegasus; her mare was in need of the exercise. Like her, the animal disliked being cooped up and preferred the freedom of the countryside to life in Town.
How could anyone prefer the noise, the smell and restriction of the city? Even when Ellen and her family retreated to their country estate in Hertfordshire, her sister filled the house with guests. Such a frenetic life would not suit her. The tranquillity of her estate in Essex, where she was surrounded by horses, could dress in breeches and boots and ride astride, was heaven to her. Making inane small talk to overperfumed strangers was a pastime she abhorred.
Billy grinned at her over the loose box. 'Take care this morning, miss. Them cobbles will be a mite slippery until the sun's up.' He'd obviously been keeping out of harm's way whilst her altercation with the colonel had been taking place. He gave her a leg up.
'Thank you, Billy. I shall come to no harm. Peg's as surefooted as a mountain goat. I'll take it slowly through the streets and not allow her to trot until we're on the grass.'
She guided the mare expertly through the archway that led to the street. Her sister would be horrified if she knew there was no groom accompanying her. But as Ellen never rose before noon, and avoided the stable yard at all times, she was unlikely to hear about her breach of etiquette.
The railings outside the house were coated in frost and the trees similarly adorned. How beautiful everything looked in the early-morning sunlight. The pavements were empty apart from servants on errands. This area of London was mercifully free from street traders and hawkers, and none of the residents of these grand
houses would dream of being seen abroad so early.
Pegasus knew her way to the park; they took the same route every morning they were in Town. Lydia held her reins loosely, giving her mount the freedom to pick her own path. They entered without having met another rider. She paused on the grass, gazing in delight at the trees. Everything appeared as if covered in diamonds. What a beautiful morning; too good to be cooped up in London.
Even in the park the air was tainted, the smell of coal smoke never far away. Imagine what the East End must be like, where poor folk teemed in dwellings she would not house an animal in. She stared across the empty landscape. How could there be anything wrong in this enchanted world?
Her horse shifted beneath her, shaking her head impatiently, eager to be off. 'Yes, Peg, I know. You want to stretch your legs. However, sweetheart, we shall take it steady until I know how hard the ground is.'
She touched the mare's flank with her heel, settled into the saddle, and enjoyed the smooth canter. She knew even the lightest touch would push her mount into a headlong gallop.
There was no sign of the colonel ahead. He must have ridden in the other direction. She cantered up the avenue of trees into the open land. She could not resist the temptation; the going was good, ideal for her purpose. She shortened the reins and gave her mare a signal.
Tears whipped from her eyes; the speed was exhilarating and the way in front clear for another mile. Pegasus lived up to her name, flying across the ground, head outstretched, ears forward, enjoying the race as much as she.
Lydia was aware the lake was just ahead. Time to slow down, her five minutes of freedom were over. She settled in the saddle, pulling gently on the reins to remind Peg to reduce her speed, when, from nowhere, a horse thundered alongside and an arm reached out and snatched her from the saddle.
Good grief! She was being abducted. Ellen had warned her many times not to ride alone, that there were dangerous men lurking in the isolated areas of the park. She had only one chance to save herself, if she struggled she might fall to her death. But if she could dislodge the man who was holding her across his pommel it would be he who suffered not her.
Thanking God for the hours she'd spent perfecting her riding skills, she buried her hands in the wiry black mane of her abductor's horse. With the agility of a circus performer she pressed down, whilst swinging her weight sideways. Her hips thumped into the villain, unbalancing him. She pushed backwards and the arm around her waist was gone; she was free.
Her heart was thundering as loudly as the hooves on the hard ground. Could she twist herself into the saddle without falling? This action would have been impossible were she not wearing a habit with a divided skirt. Flinging herself backwards, releasing her grip on the mane, she managed to bring her left leg across the horse's withers. Gripping hard with her knees, she regained her balance and was upright in the saddle.
'Steady boy, steady.' The horse responded to her soothing voice and the mad gallop became a smooth extended canter. She was riding without reins or stirrups, but was confident the animal was responding to her voice and the pressure of her legs.
'Good lad, good boy, the race is over. It's time to walk.' She patted the animal's lathered neck and grabbed the flapping reins. She pulled firmly and her mount responded. A sudden rhythmic pounding alongside made the horse shy. This time she was not so fortunate and tumbled from the saddle.
Her world upended and the breath was knocked from her lungs. She lay still, waiting for her head to stop spinning. Had she broken any limbs? Would her abductor recover first and reach her before she could escape?
She must make an effort.
She opened her eyes to discover she was lying between eight equine legs, four grey and four brown. Using her own mount to brace herself she slowly regained her feet. She collapsed against the neck of the bay, shock making her incapable of thought. Her composure returned and she began to take stock. Surely this horse was known to her? It was Brutus, Colonel Westcott's new mount. Sick with dread, she stumbled forward to peer between the two animals. Her worst fears were realized; the colonel was spread-eagled on the ground several hundred yards away.
Lydia could scarcely grasp the enormity of the tragedy. 'Brutus, he was a brave soldier, he did not deserve to end so ignominiously. How am I going to tell Edward that I have murdered his brother?'
What fustian! He might be alive, hadn't she survived the fall, why should he not have done the same? After all, was he not a battle scarred veteran? She must ride back, not stand here procrastinating. There was little point in remounting, she would lead both horses. However her legs refused to obey her command. She was trembling like a blanc-mange, doubtful she could travel even that short distance without collapsing.
By lengthening the stirrup leather she managed to scramble into her mare's saddle. She leant across and pulled the reins over the gelding's head. 'Come along, Brutus, we must see if we can help your master.'
Then, to her astonishment, what she had taken to be a corpse rolled over and stood up. Relief flooded through her – he was unharmed. Thank God for that. Then her relief turned to fear. If he had been angry earlier that day, what might be his reaction now?
She would not wait to discover. She would leave whilst his back was turned, flee to the safety of her apartment and remain there until he had calmed down. Dropping the gelding's reins in front of him, she raced away, expecting to hear a roar of rage behind her.
In her desire to put as much distance between herself and the colonel, she had not stopped to consider that maybe Brutus was not trained to stand when his reins were dropped. When she halted at the park gates she realized his horse had accompanied her.
If he had been enraged before, now he would be incandescent.
Chapter Three
Lydia hesitated for a second. Despite his bewildering actions and the fact that it was his own fault he was injured, she could hardly expect him to walk home. She leant across to gather up the trailing reins.
'You're a silly boy, Brutus. Have you no shame? It's your duty to stay with your master at all times.' The horse whickered, nudging her knee and leaving a trail of slobber. 'Come along, we must go back and help the colonel. He has an irascible temper, but I'm sure he will do me no physical harm.'
She ached in every bone and twice almost slipped from her mount. This would not do; if she fell a second time she might not be so lucky. She pulled the gelding closer, kicked her boot from the single stirrup of her side saddle and prepared to transfer to the other horse. This was a trick she'd accomplished many times before, but always in the safety of her own paddock and not when she was recovering from a thumping fall. Would Brutus remain still until she was safely installed?
With one hand braced on the withers of her mare she swung her right leg out, dropping safely astride the colonel's horse. There was no need to shorten the leathers, she could push her boots into the loops above the irons. His legs were longer by several inches; she might not like the man but she was forced to admit he was the first gentleman she'd encountered who did not make her feel gauche and clumsy.
It was lucky that there were no early risers to see her behaving so immodestly. She could collect him and be back in her own saddle before anyone else was abroad.
There was no need to lead her mare; the animal would follow her anywhere. Brutus was a massive beast but this did not bother her. She urged him into a canter toward the open ground where she'd last seen the gentleman. She expected to meet him striding in her direction.
Where was the wretched man? The park was deserted, the landscape empty.
He had vanished into thin air. She scanned the ground. Had she mistaken the spot? Her hands clenched. Here was evidence indeed. The grass was flattened, the frost melted from his body heat, but what was worse, there were splashes of red amongst the white.
*
Simon was a soldier, he'd suffered worse injuries in the past and continued to wield his sword. He couldn't run, but he could jog. If he walked twenty paces and then
jogged he would arrive soon enough. No point in being too exhausted to effect a rescue. His head was fuzzy, the pain behind his eyes making it hard to concentrate. He would never forgive himself if any harm had come to that young woman.
Despite his discomfort, his lips twitched. He loved the way her eyes flashed when she was enraged. Somehow he arrived at the slope that led down to the lake. His stomach twisted. There was no sign of either horse or rider. He was too late. He stumbled a few steps down the slope to collapse in despair.
Moments later, he recovered his wits. The ice on the surface of the water was unbroken. No drowning had taken place here. His spirits soared, the girl was safe. He hadn't caused her death by his foolhardy attempt to rescue her. Flopping back on the ground he let the dizziness take him. His many caped riding coat was warm enough; it could do no harm to rest until he regained his strength. His eyes closed and he slipped into oblivion.
*
Lydia stood up in the stirrups, surveying the horizon. There was only one place he could be—the lake. She kicked Brutus on, her heart racing. Had he staggered in a daze to the edge and tumbled down the slope to meet his death in the freezing water?
Reining in, she flung herself to the ground, the impact sending waves of pain shooting up her legs. She clung to the saddle to steady herself. 'Colonel Wescott. It is I, Miss Peterson, where are you?'
She peered down the slope and saw him lying, eyes closed, a blood-soaked cloth roughly tied around his forehead. He was unconscious.
Forgetting her former animosity, she half ran, half fell, to his side. Dropping to her knees, she placed her fingers under his chin, feeling for a pulse. Thank God! It was weak, but regular. She had no petticoats to tear to stop the flow of blood from his wound and was at a loss to know how to proceed. He was too heavy to lift so she must rouse him. She slithered to the edge of the water and rubbed the hem of her habit across the ice. This might help to wake him.
Miss Peterson & The Colonel Page 2