The Honorable Nobody (Heroines on Horseback Book 2)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  There was something there, Peregrin thought, still rubbing at his nose as if it had been broken. There was something there.

  “Get up, would you?” William suggested pitilessly, interrupting his musings. “Someone will see you and I shall be embarrassed.”

  Peregrin shook his head, trying to clear his head of that pretty little fool; what was her name? Miss Dyson? Miss Diller? No matter, they were leaving London in a few days and he wouldn’t see her again. He looked at William and shook his head at his friend’s lack of compassion. As if he had never fallen off a horse! Hah, Peregrin knew better than that.

  “If anyone comes around that bend they’ll have seen my horse go by first. A fellow on the ground won’t come as any surprise.” But slowly, and with much groaning, Peregrin stood up. He was slapping the dust from his buckskins when a pair of horses trotted around the bend, pulling a fashionable little curricle, its high wheels gleaming in the morning sun. William’s dark chestnut horse whickered a greeting to the bright blood bays in their sparkling harness.

  “Good morning, Fawkes. I see you’ve come to grief!” the driver called, reining back the team with one sharp gesture.

  “Sutton,” Peregrin replied coolly. Then he let his eyes rove over the matched bays. He whistled in appreciation. “My God, those are the bays from Tattersall’s everyone has been talking about. They are magnificent.” And they truly were — dappled blood bays, chests deeply muscled, necks arching gracefully as a swan’s, fine smooth legs without fault or blemish. They looked as if they’d been raised in kid gloves and fed on milk and honey. He could scarcely bite back an incredulous query on their price, but he knew that Sutton must have spent an outrageous sum of money to procure them. These were horses suited for a ducal coach, not a marquess’s curricle.

  If Hadley knew what Peregrin was thinking, he paid it no mind. Instead, he jiggled the whip in its stand, making the spirited team prance against his tight hold on the reins. A glob of foam dripped from one’s mouth onto the gravel path. Soft mouths, Peregrin thought enviously. They were as carefully trained as they had been bred. Too bad ham-handed Sutton had their keeping now.

  “Saw your cavalry charger making for the docks,” Sutton continued with a chuckle. “Have you decided to join the war then? You will surely outrun the Corsican to his lair if you can but stay in the saddle.”

  “He’s a youngster,” Peregrin shrugged, as nonchalantly as possible. “He needs time.”

  “Time! He has made brilliant time today!” Sutton clucked at his horses and then pulled them up again sharply to make them dance in place, their ears swept back with frustration. Peregrin winced at the way they gaped their mouths against the tight hold. “Would you care for a ride anywhere? It may be some time before your groom returns with your mount.”

  Peregrin shook his head. “Kind of you, but I shall walk.” He had no interest in sitting beside Sutton and watching him rough up those gorgeous animals.

  Sutton nodded, a prodigious feat considering the staggering size of his neckcloth’s knot. “William,” he said with a wink. “You will have to keep a better eye on our friend here.”

  William shrugged and laughed. “What can I do? He will ride anything at all, whether I tell him it is dangerous or nay. You know he knows better than anyone else about a horse.”

  “Save only your wife,” Sutton replied cunningly. “Lady Archwood knows more than any of us.”

  “That’s true,” Peregrin said seriously. “She does. And she said the colt was a lovely horse. She approves of him utterly.”

  “But she isn’t actually volunteering to ride him.” Sutton grinned. “And I bet you didn’t ask her to, either?”

  “If he had, I’d have kicked him out of the house!” William laughed. “I try to keep my wife as far away from the demons Peregrin brings to the yard as I can.”

  “She rode tougher horses than this in Ireland,” Peregrin said defensively. He didn’t know which he felt was being slighted, his horse or Grainne, but either way he wasn’t enjoying the conversation. “She’s ridden tougher horses than any of us. She’s the finest horsewoman in the Empire.”

  “Say now!” Sutton eyed him with interest, his broad, handsome face suddenly serious. “Those are high words of praise for your oldest friend’s wife. William, did you know Fawkes was such an ardent admirer of Lady Archwood?”

  Peregrin stiffened, watching William warily, but his friend just shook his head, chuckling. “Come now Sutton, why do you try to wreck our happy little home? We roll along beautifully together, as you would know if you ever accepted one of my invitations to come stay with us at Tivington. But no — you are too happy in London, I think. You’re a city boy — admit it!”

  Peregrin admired the way William had turned the conversation, but he did not like the implied invitation to Tivington. And why did William feel the need to invite him at all? He had never understood William’s friendship with the man — Lord Sutton was one person Peregrin thought he could gladly live without.

  But William and Sutton had always had a friendly relationship that he could not quite fathom.

  And now, dear God, what was Sutton saying?

  “Perhaps I will take you up on that offer, if only to prove you wrong!” Sutton was laughing. His horses jigged and he snatched at the reins to whoa them. Peregrin winced and Sutton saw it. “We’ll see who is the better rider then, won’t we boys? A race perhaps — all of us! Lady Archwood as well!”

  William’s face lit up. “A splendid idea! I must warn you, Lady Archwood’s mare has trounced us all soundly time and time again. The two of them are deadly together.”

  “Hah! We shall see!” Sutton looked ‘round at Peregrin again, and his face creased into a mocking grin. “And perhaps you will show me your wild new racehorse’s paces. If you ever catch him, that is.”

  Peregrin was all prepared to come back with a biting retort — as soon as he thought of one — but Sutton didn’t give him the opportunity, shaking out the reins at last and letting his blood bays burst into a rollicking trot. Peregrin watched their shining haunches disappear around the next curve. Then he turned back to William, his face accusing. “You invited that man to Tivington?”

  William shrugged and walked his horse in a slow circle, warming up his muscles in anticipation of Peregrin’s horse being returned so that they could ride home. “I’ve invited him several times. We are old friends. Not so close as you and I, of course, but a man can have more than one friend, Perry. There’s no reason to be jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous,” Peregrin snapped. He already regretted his loss of temper, but there it was. “What d’ya take me for, a woman? I just don’t see what you like about that man. He’s smug and self-righteous. And he has hands like two bricks. I hope you don’t let him ride any of our horses. He’ll ruin their mouths.”

  William was quiet, his face closed. Peregrin watched him for a few moments, circling his horse in silence, and then it dawned on him what he had said. Our horses…

  He and William had been thick as thieves since they were boys at Eton together. Peregrin, a lonely orphan who lived with unpleasant cousins, had been invited back to Tivington even in those school days. Not nearly often enough for Peregrin, who would rather stay at the empty school than go back to his relatives and their sneers for the boy who lived on their charity. But often enough that he had sometimes imagined himself an honorary Archwood, a younger son.

  But he’d never said it aloud.

  “I didn’t mean… I misspoke.” His voice was faltering. What must William think of him?

  But William just shook his head, and then he cast Peregrin a sad smile. “I understand, Perry. It’s nothing, really. And you’re right — the man does have deplorable hands. I shall have to insist he brings his own horses, or Grainne will have a fit and drag him out of the saddle.” He paused. “I’m not sure that your horse is coming back. Shall we start home?”

  Peregrin nodded, thankful. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone too f
ar in his words. The gap between their finances was never spoken of; William simply treated Peregrin as a member of the family, and Peregrin accepted it without thinking of it as charity — it was merely friendship, the bonds of a shared childhood, a brotherhood. But if he suspected for a moment that Peregrin was jealous of him — of his title, of his wealth, of his house, of his horses…

  … Of his wife…

  Peregrin shook away the thought. He wasn’t jealous of William. Maybe, every now and then, there was a twinge of… just a little envy.

  But it wasn’t enough to come between the two men. He would just have to be more careful. Especially now, he thought, with Sutton in the picture. Frederick Sutton had been trying to bring him low since they were boys, and Peregrin thought he could already see what new game his old nemesis was planning on playing.

  ***

  William was thoughtful enough to offer Peregrin the opportunity to sit behind the saddle and ride back to the townhouse with him thusly. Although he hadn’t bothered to dismount and check to see if Peregrin was actually alive or dead after his fall — William swore that Tommy had done it before giving chase to the colt, but Peregrin had his doubts — Peregrin acknowledged that sharing his horse was a kind gesture. And then he refused the invitation. Bald Nick was a big strapping animal and more than up the task, especially considering Peregrin’s slightness of build, but Peregrin was rather conscious of just how foolish he would look to all London, riding pillion like a lady with his arm around William’s waist. And he saw no dishonor in taking a tumble from a two-year-old colt, especially one with as much promise as the chestnut. He would walk on his own two feet.

  So William, in a show of courtesy and a disdain for shouted conversation between a man walking ahead on horseback and a man falling behind on foot, dismounted and walked along beside him, leading his horse, while the Quality gradually climbed out of their lazy beds and turned out to enjoy the sunny morning. By the time they had turned out of the gates of Hyde Park, the streets and paths were a welter of horseflesh and humanity. More than one gentleman pointed a whip at the dirty stain on the seat of Peregrin’s buckskins. Peregrin was annoyed by the attention to his ensemble, partially because he hadn’t realized they were so badly marked and he was very fond of these particular trousers.

  “As if not having a horse was not evidence enough I’d taken a spill, they must look me over for damage,” he muttered petulantly. But it was hardly the first time he had come to grief in public. Between growing up hunting and his recent mania for horse racing, Peregrin had spent plenty of time getting thrown off of high-mettled blood-horses.

  Still, it never looked good in front of all London. He wondered if the Miss Dylan or the Miss Dodger or whatever her name was might see him, and silently prayed she was still abed, or drinking her chocolate with the papers, instead of out taking the air with seemingly everyone in the ton.

  Tommy came clattering over the cobbles with a foamy-necked chestnut, still pulling viciously at the leading rein, just as they entered the street. The horse did not seem to have suffered any ill effects of his gallop across the park, at least not in spirit. In body, however, he was tired: his sides were heaving, his body was dark with sweat, his hide was white with foam where the leather reins and girth had rubbed the perspiration. But his wide rolling eyes gave away his inability to settle. Despite all this, the colt was still drawing admiring glances from gentlemen, and wilting terror from young ladies.

  “He’s magnificent,” Peregrin told William, watching the colt cavort and kick out at Lord Berles, who had gotten a little too close. William only smiled. He didn’t think enough of any horse that wasn’t being ridden by his lovely bride, that’s what Peregrin thought. But how could he blame him? Grainne was lovely, especially on a horse.

  And speak of the devil, here she was. Trotting up on her pretty dark mare, Grainne was smiling to see them. Not them, Peregrin reminded himself. William. He was just a friend. A well-loved friend, perhaps, but he had better just keep that in mind.

  In the end both men, and more than a few of the gentlemen milling about the chestnut colt, had transferred their attention to the beautiful young Countess of Tivington, and Peregrin couldn’t blame them anymore than he could blame William. In her dark blue habit with its military epaulets, and with a charming cockaded cap set upon her dark curls, Grainne looked quite able to charm the very saber from Napoleon’s belt. The gentlemen of the ton were no match for her charms.

  She rode up to the two men on foot and smiled brilliant down at them. Peregrin could not help his breath catching in his throat. She was so perfect. He wondered, fleetingly, if Miss Dodson rode. She would make a beautiful partner to Grainne, with that floating golden hair.

  “William, darling, I see you are as gallant as ever, coming home on foot when your riding partner loses his mount. It is all to the good: Nick looks fresh and sprightly as if he only just left the stable, and I was hoping you would ride out with me through the park.” She cast her smile upon Peregrin next. “Poor Perry! But is he everything you hoped for?”

  His heart surged — she understood him as few men and no woman ever had. “He is everything and more, madam,” Peregrin said warmly. “Though he wants a fair amount of schooling.”

  She laughed. “We all come from the country rough. It takes time to learn town’s manners.”

  Peregrin could only nod. She had learned town’s manners, to be sure — but the wild huntsman’s daughter was still there beneath her cool veneer and her measured tones.

  Grainne was peering at him now. “I think you should hurry home and ask Cook for a beefsteak for that eye.”

  “Yes, yes,” he was agreeing, eager for her attention, but she was already turned back to her husband. William had swung into Bald Nick’s saddle and she spared him only a distracted wave as they rode back into the park. Peregrin watched them go: his closest friend and his friend’s beautiful wife, her seat gracefully swaying in the side-saddle.

  You’d never know she hated the bloody thing, Peregrin thought ruefully. She rode just as exquisitely aside as she did astride. She was perfect. He thought again of the young lady from last night. Miss Dean, that was it! She would look delicious in a side-saddle, he knew. Thoughts full of two women on horseback, quite at a loss for which one had a greater hold on his heart, Peregrin turned away to look for his horse.

  He went trudging across the cobbles to where Tommy still circled the hot young blood-horse, acknowledging both greetings and friendly jeers with a half-smile and a wearily raised hand. Tommy looked down nervously from his bob-tailed cob. “Will you be riding this ‘un back?” he asked apprehensively. “He’s hot, but he ain’t winded.”

  Peregrin studied the rattled chestnut. He didn’t like the look of that rolling eye. This was a worried, dangerous horse. A young frightened horse in Mayfair’s crowded mid-morning streets was a recipe for disaster. “Walk him home, Tommy,” Peregrin decided. “He can wait for the country to work again. The city is no place for a horse with such hot blood.”

  Tommy nodded and set off at once, the cob making a stately progression while the chestnut skidded and shied across the cobbles. Peregrin hoped he made his way back to the stables undamaged — the horse was too spooky by half.

  “Aye, Peregrin, a ride home?”

  He looked around — it was Martin Halfbush, a fellow from his club, brandishing a whip from the box of a light curricle. Two matched grays, both beauties though not the like of Hadley’s exquisite pair, waited patiently for a signal. Halfbush was a decent man, not too given to excess, not too given to Puritanism, and though Peregrin was not in the best of moods, he thought he could stand Halfbush’s companionship. Especially if it meant he didn’t have to trudge home with his aching back and his swollen eye. He clambered up beside Halfbush, who grinned and clucked his horses on.

  “Rough morning?” Halfbush asked after a few moments had passed in silence.

  “What gave it away?” Peregrin managed a grin.

  “Well, the s
tain on your trousers and the dust on your boots, for one. And the way you looked at Lady Archwood, for another.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peregrin said lightly, but he felt a fist clenching at his heart.

  “Neither does most of town, friend Perry, but that could change. I’ve known you since what — since Eton, my God! There with you and William. And I can read you like a book. You were gazing at her like she was a plum pudding.” Halfbush shook his head mournfully; his mustachios wiggled. “You can’t do that, man. She’s only a year wed and there’s no sign of an heir, for starters. She’s your best friend’s wife, second. You would have to be far more discreet than this: mooning over her in public will give you both away. And with her reputation already as shaky as it is, the ton just won’t stand for it.”

  “There’s nothing to give away!” Peregrin sputtered. “We’re not having an affair, for God’s sake. I can’t believe you’d even insinuate such a thing.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Halfbush replied solemnly. “But will all of town believe you?”

  Peregrin watched the shining haunches of the horses, willing himself not to explode with anger. “I would never behave so badly to my friends,” he said tightly. “I am disgusted that you would even think it, and I will call out any other man who says otherwise.”

  Halfbush only wagged his head again. He was a practical man, not easily offended; a man accused of a peccadillo with his best friend’s wife would, naturally, react strongly. “Then find yourself another woman, either an honest one to court or a not-so-honest one to play with. But stop staring at Lady Archwood in public, for all to see, because someone else will see what I did, and they will not be so delicate as to tell you first.”