Pamela would escape, at least for an hour. Maybe then she could stand the rest of the day, the intolerable morass of boredom her life had become. And so she slunk down the stairs, boots in hand, disreputable cap jammed over her riotous curls, in breeches that even the maid she and Rachel shared didn’t know she had brought to London. At the bottom of the staircase, she sat on the last step and pulled on her riding boots, then made her way down the long passage to the back of the house, down some stairs and out a service door that her sister probably didn’t even know existed in their London residence.
The walled-in garden was damp and dank, no sun reaching it this early in the morning. But Pamela’s spirits lifted, even as she noted the dew sparkling on a straggly plum tree that was just beginning to blossom weakly in the unclean London air. She shivered, not having anything but an old short jacket of her brother’s to wear over her disreputable costume, but she trotted briskly through the gate and toward the stable, knowing Tassie, her bay mare, was waiting for her. That was the one thing she had held firm about; she was going to have her own mount in London.
After some resistance from the stable groom, surmounted when she put on her most haughty air and told him he would be sacked if he did not obey the viscount’s favorite sister, Pamela was free, free at last. She wouldn’t think of doing this at the fashionable hour—she knew how it would ruin her family’s reputation if the daughter of the house was seen this way—but it was so very early. The park would likely have only grooms exercising their masters’ mounts and other servants cutting through on errands for their employers. Surely she would be taken for one of the grooms, with her slight, boyish frame and short-cropped hair tucked up under the cap.
Mounted astride, using a groom’s saddle, she trotted south to Curzon Street, past costermongers and drays delivering produce and coal, and thence to the park, entering at a canter, her anxious mount seeing green space ahead. She leaned over Tassie’s shoulder and whispered, “And now, my lovely, for a good gallop!”
It was a heavenly half hour. The landscape whipped past, and she jumped hillocks and raced over sloping green swards. It wasn’t as good as Yorkshire, but it was better than nothing at all. Her courage and confidence waxed. If she could just do this every couple of days, perhaps she could get through the awful Season and get home to Colin, to show him how changed she was, and how mature. With any luck, Rachel would be married and he would learn to forget her and come to realize his best chance at happiness lay with his old friend, Pamela.
Then they could marry and she could move to Corleigh, his estate near Haven Court, and live in jolly happily-ever-afterdom with Colin and his delightfully eccentric sister, Andromeda. Lost in her daydream, she was completely taken by surprise by someone on a galloping mount who whizzed past her, shrieking.
“Hey!” Pamela shouted. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to ride so close to . . .” Realizing that the rider was slipping sideways, Pamela shut her mouth and bolted after the rider, who was clearly in grave danger.
It was neck and neck, and then she was close enough to see that the rider was a frightened girl who was clinging to the horse’s whipping mane. She had her eyes closed and her mouth open, and tears streamed down her pale face. Pamela urged Tassie closer and grasped the fluttering reins, pulling the mare to a stop slowly and calming the great heaving beast, who still shied and rolled its eyes. Her own perfectly steady mare’s demeanor finally calmed the other beast, and Pamela, out of breath, was just opening her mouth to speak to the girl, when another rider pelted over the hill just after them.
But he was clearly not out of control. In fact, he was probably one of the best natural riders she had ever seen, Pamela thought, admiring his seat, just before the fellow reined to a halt and commenced to roar, in a stentorian tone, “Belinda Amie de Launcey, what the hell do you think you are doing, taking off like that! This was supposed to be a riding lesson, not a galloping spree!”
The pale, quivering girl burst into great, heaving sobs, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks to her pointed chin.
“Do not shout at her like that! She has just had a dreadful experience, and then you go and dress her down like she is an infantry soldier.” Pamela leaped down from her mount and moved around to help the girl down from her own heaving, shivering steed.
The fellow leaped down too, and took two long strides. He grasped the sobbing girl by the shoulders and stooped, looking into her eyes. “Belinda, stop crying. You are clearly not injured.” He straightened and turned to Pamela.
She gazed at him with frank interest. Nice-looking, though not by any means an Adonis, he was a strongly-built gentleman of medium height, with very dark brown hair and light brown eyes. He was dressed in casual riding gear and carried a crop that he was tapping against his Hessians. He looked like a country gentleman, not a London beau, and she thought him very handsome when he wasn’t yelling.
“I took you for a stable lad,” he said, shock in his voice. “But you’re a girl.”
“A lady,” she said, drawing herself up to her full, if negligible, height.
“Pardon me, a lady,” he said with a rusty laugh.
The girl’s sobs had subsided, and she gazed back and forth between her two elders.
“I must thank you for your bravery in helping my wayward niece,” he said. He put his arm around the girl’s shoulders, but the child stayed stiff and separate from her uncle. “Belinda, introduce yourself properly and thank your rescuer.”
Feeling awkward, Pamela said, “Oh, she doesn’t have to thank me—”
“Yes, she does,” the man said, steel in his voice. “A little gratitude will not harm her.”
“I am Belinda de Launcey, miss, and I thank you.” The girl gave a bob that was supposed to be a curtsey.
The man rolled his eyes. “I am Strongwycke,” he said, stepping forward and putting out his hand. “Sorry for such an informal introduction, but it seems to suit the surroundings.”
“Pamela Neville,” she said, taking his gloved hand in her own and shaking.
“Miss Pamela Neville?”
She nodded.
“And you are in London . . .” He stopped and raised his brows.
“Oh, uh, I am in London for the Season with my brother, Lord Haven, and his fiancée. They are here to prepare for their wedding in a few months. And my sister and mother and grandmother; we are all together.”
“Sounds like quite the family party. May I call on you and thank you properly, Miss Neville?”
Alarmed, Pamela shook her head. “No! I mean . . .” She paused and considered how to word the next part. She took a step back toward Tassie and twisted the reins around in her hand. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would rather this morning’s meeting remain just between us.”
He smiled, and it turned into a grin. He looked her over, from her boots to her breeches to the dirty hat jammed on her curls. Shaking his head, he glanced down at his niece and said, “Like clings to like. It seems that you and Belinda have something in common, perhaps a liking for early morning gallops? But you, evidently, are more skilled than my troublesome niece.”
Pamela saw the hurt in Belinda’s eyes at her uncle’s description. His opinion mattered to her, and it was painful to be described as troublesome. Pamela felt a kinship for the girl.
“It would have been all right if the stupid horse had not shied at a groundhog.” The girl kicked at a rock. “Lucky, my own mare, would never have been so idiotic.”
“That’s enough, Belinda!”
He could be quite intimidating, Pamela thought, shooting the girl a sympathetic look. Tears stood in her dark eyes, and, heart hurting for her, Pamela said, “Would you like to go for a proper ride later, Belinda? One of those calm, boring ones but . . .” She glanced around in an exaggerated manner and lowered her voice. “If you can see the park sedately, you can tell where to gallop and where not to gallop next time. Familiarity is everything. I have been here already this spring and walked over the green, you see.”
The girl’s tears dissipated. “Could we, sir?” she asked, looking up at her uncle.
Strongwycke hesitated, but then said, “Only if I may be allowed to accompany you two ladies.” He saw the looks on both of their faces. “I am sorry my presence will be such a damper, but Belinda is my responsibility, and at least for the first time, I will accompany you. Like it or not.”
Pamela, noting the inflexibility of his tone and admitting to herself it was not an unreasonable demand, agreed for both of them. “Later then, sir. Shall I meet you at the Curzon Street entrance at three this afternoon?”
Agreement made, Pamela departed as the other two rode off in the opposite direction. For the first time, with acquaintance of her own, she could look forward to the afternoon without dread.
Books by Donna Lea Simpson
See all of Donna Lea Simpson’s
books on Smashwords!
Classic Regency Romances
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
The Earl of Hearts
Romancing the Rogue
Married to a Rogue
Taming the Rogue
The Rogue’s Folly
A Matchmaker’s Christmas
Miss Truelove Beckons
Courting Scandal
A Rake’s Redemption
Lord Haven’s Deception
The Debutante’s Dilemma
Lady Anne Mysteries
Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark
Revenge of the Barbary Ghost
Curse of the Gypsy
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.
The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!
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