“It seems the gentlemen have decided to breakfast on something other than our dust,” Lydia said. She took out the watch again. “A few minutes more and—”
A cacophony of shouts and whistles from the crowd cut her off. An instant later, a smart tilbury with a powerful chestnut in harness whisked through the gate and up to the starting line. When he pulled up on the left alongside her, Ainswood tipped his hat—for once, he was wearing one—and flashed a crooked grin.
Lydia wished she’d positioned her vehicle nearer the edge of the road, so that he would have been stationed to her right. Then Trent’s big form would have blocked her view of the duke.
But only Tamsin sat between them, and Lydia easily saw over her head the cocky assurance in Ainswood’s hard-edged countenance, the wicked glint in his green eyes, the arrogant angle of his jaw. She saw as well that his elegant garments might have been sculpted to him. She could almost smell the starch in his neckcloth, could almost feel the linen’s crispness…and she remembered, all too vividly, the warmth and power of his big frame, the muscles bunching at her touch, the beat of his heart against her palm.
She felt her heart lurch against her rib cage. Then it came, the flood of unwanted recollections: the boy he’d lost…the two orphaned girls…the children he’d rescued in Exeter Street…the flower girl…the cold, brutal rage while he finished off a villain in two ferocious blows…the big, rugged body…the strong arms that could lift her as though she were a slip of a girl…the husky whisper, “You’re so beautiful.”
Yet she gave him only a regal nod, clicked the watch case closed, and put it away.
“Impatient for my arrival, were you, Grenville?” the duke called above the whistling, cheering crowd.
“Delayed by an attack of nerves, were you, Ainswood?” she returned.
“I’m trembling,” he said, “with anticipation.”
“I’ll anticipate you—to the finish line,” she said. “With a mile to spare.”
On the sidelines, the blacklegs who infested every sporting event were taking last-minute bets, but Lydia couldn’t make out what the latest odds were above the tumult in her mind.
Still, tumult or not, there was no turning back. She could not give up all she’d worked for—her very identity, for that’s what it came to—without a battle. And Lydia Grenville never entered a battle she wasn’t determined to win.
“One minute,” a voice called out above the crowd’s roar.
The onlookers fell silent.
Lydia’s own inner uproar stilled.
Someone raised a handkerchief aloft. She focused on it, grasping the whip firmly. Then the bells of the parish church rang out, while the square of white linen fluttered to the ground. She cracked her whip…they were off.
The old Portsmouth Road started at London Bridge, wended through Southwark past the Marshalsea and King’s Bench prisons, on through Newington and Vauxhall turnpikes down to Wandsworth, and on through Putney Heath to the Robin Hood Gate.
This was the route Lydia had chosen, for several sound reasons. By eight o’clock, the slower Portsmouth coaches would have already set out, leaving this, their usual route, a fraction less congested. Meanwhile, the fast coaches departing from Piccadilly at the same hour would gain a considerable lead over the racers maneuvering through Newington and Lambeth parishes. Consequently, there would be less of a crush, Lydia hoped, at Robin Hood Gate, the first change, and the point at which slow and fast coaching routes joined.
The slow route would also suit Cleo, Lydia’s black mare, who was accustomed to negotiating busy streets and could be counted on not to take fright or fly into a fit at vehicles or humans darting into her path.
Unfortunately, it turned out that sturdy, fearless Cleo was no match for Ainswood’s powerful gelding. Though the tilbury was nearly as heavy as Lydia’s cabriolet, and though the men’s weight more than compensated for their slightly lighter vehicle, Ainswood overtook Lydia a short distance past the Vauxhall Turnpike and rapidly lengthened the lead thereafter. By the time Lydia changed horses at the Robin Hood Inn, the tilbury was out of sight.
Lydia was aware of Tamsin’s worried gaze upon her as they sped past Richmond Park.
“No, it doesn’t look promising,” Lydia said in answer to the unspoken question. “But it’s not hopeless. I only want another minute or so to make sure this creature and I understand each other.”
The bay in the harness was not so cooperative as Cleo, and tended to shy at every passing shadow. By the time they passed through Kingston Market Square, however, the horse’s will was obliged to submit to Lydia’s. Once clear of the town, Lydia told her companion to hang on.
A sharp crack of the whip—a hairsbreadth from touching the horse—was enough, and the bay thundered over the next four miles at a punishing pace.
After a speedy change at Esher, Lydia plunged into the next stage, and they finally caught sight of the tilbury at the Cobham Gate.
Trent was clinging to the side of the tilbury, watching the road behind them.
“By Jupiter, there she is again,” he said hollowly. “Dash it, Ainswood, it don’t look like they mean to give up.”
Vere glanced upward. Heavy masses of grey clouds rolled above their heads, and the same wild currents driving the thunderclouds beat against his face. The wind whipped through Pains Hill to tear fading leaves from the trees and drive them in mad eddies over the rolling countryside.
He’d already pushed two horses to the very edge of their endurance to gain a lead sufficient to discourage any rational, sober human being.
Not only had Grenville not given up, but she was inching up on him.
Meanwhile a storm straight from the bowels of hell was brewing, and the worst of the route lay ahead.
For the thousandth time in five days, he cursed himself for goading her into this bedamned race—or letting himself be goaded. He still wasn’t altogether certain who had provoked whom, though he’d replayed their row in his mind any number of times. All he knew was that he’d lost his temper over nothing and made a thorough muck of matters. He wished she’d thrown something at him or hit him. That would have given her satisfaction, and maybe knocked some sense into him.
But it was too late. These reflections were merely the most recent in a long series of If Onlys.
Ockham Park had faded behind them and the first straggling houses of Ripley were coming into view under the ominously darkening sky. The wind was sharpening, and Vere wanted to believe that was why he felt so chilled.
He knew better.
He was insensitive to weather. Torrid heat, freezing cold, downpour, sleet, and snowstorm had never caused him any discomfort worth noticing. He never fell ill. No matter how he abused his body, no matter what ailments he was exposed to, no matter how contagious…
He pushed away the memory before it could fully form, and focused on his competitor, and the road ahead.
They had some twenty-five miles yet to cover in what promised to be the worst weather over the most treacherous terrain. He could see clearly half a dozen places where she could come to grief…and he would be too far away to save her.
Too far away, as always, when he was needed.
He pulled into the yard of the Talbot Inn and minutes later pulled out again, a fresh animal in harness, and all the while the refrain tolled like funeral bells in his mind.
Too far away. Too late.
He snapped the whip over the horse’s head and the beast lunged and thundered through the wide village street.
In the same way, not so very long ago, had he raced through countryside and village streets….
But he wouldn’t think of it, of the spring that had made him hate springtime ever since and spend the blossoming season blind drunk.
They flew past Clandon Park and entered the long stretch—almost deserted on their near side—of Meroe Common, and Vere drove on, harder than before, and prayed his competitor would come to her senses. She couldn’t hope to win. He was too far ahead. She mu
st give up.
Trent again turned back to look.
“Is she still there?” Vere asked, dreading the answer.
“Gainin’ on us.”
They plunged into Guildford, hurtling over the cobbled street, gaining speed down the incline.
Yet the cabriolet drew ever closer.
Over the River Wey they went, and up St. Catherine’s Hill, the horses slowing, laboring through the steep ascent, and too tired to increase their pace as they crossed Pease Marsh Common.
And all the while the cabriolet drew nearer, until Vere could practically feel its horse breathing down his neck.
But he was more aware of the furious wind, the lowering skies, the warning rumble in the distance. He thought of the brutal stretch to come: twelve miles of punishingly steep ascents and treacherous descents. He saw in his mind’s eye the storm breaking over them…panicked horses, screaming, hurtling over the road edge…the cabriolet smashed to pieces.
He tried to make himself believe she’d give up, but with each passing mile his doubts grew.
When had he ever seen her back down?
Rescuing Miss Price in Vinegar Yard…bashing Crenshaw in front of Crockford’s…mocking Vere to his face in the Blue Owl…masquerading as a man in Jerrimer’s…climbing up the back of Helena Martin’s house…sashaying half naked through Covent Garden…playing jewel thief in Francis Street…. Grenville was game for anything, afraid of nothing. And when it came to pride, Vere could think of but one person who could match her for pure, overweening arrogance, and that was Lord Beelz himself.
With the thought, he became aware of something beckoning at the far fringes of memory—a wisp of an image, a recognition. It had appeared before, more than once, and it vanished this time as on previous occasions, in the way, sometimes, a word or phrase stays tantalizingly out of reach. He let it go because memory, the past, didn’t matter so much as the present.
At present, he could no longer believe the woman would give way, come forty-day flood or apocalypse. To back down was no more in her nature than it was in his. The difference was, what happened to him didn’t matter.
By the time he pulled into the yard of the inn at God-alming, he’d made his decision.
The cabriolet followed close on his wheels.
The clouds spat chill droplets and the warning rumbles grew louder.
“We’ll never outrun this storm, Grenville,” he called to her over the stable yard hubbub. “Let’s call a halt—and no forfeit. We’re as near a draw as makes no difference.”
“Thank God,” Bertie muttered beside him. He drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
Grenville only stared at him, in the cold, deadly way Vere found so intolerably provoking. Even now, though he was drawing perilously near the edge of panic, he was provoked and wanted to shake her.
“Lost your nerve, have you?” she returned, her tones as cool and level as the vexatious look.
“I can’t let you kill yourself on my account,” he said. A stable man led her horse up. It was a large, black gelding with a wild look in its eye. “Take that beast back,” he snapped at the man. “Any idiot can see he’s a bolter.”
“Put him in the traces,” Grenville commanded.
“Grenville—”
“Look to your own animal, Ainswood,” she said. “I’ll see you in Liphook.”
“A draw, I said, drat you! No forfeit. Are you deaf, woman?”
She only shot him another gorgon glare and turned to raise the cabriolet’s hood.
“You don’t have to marry me!” he shouted. “It’s done, don’t you understand? Over. You’ve proved you’re a competent whip.”
“Obviously, I haven’t proved a dratted thing. You there,” she called to a yard man. “Give us a hand with the hood, and never mind gawking.”
While Vere watched in numb disbelief, the cabriolet’s hood went up, and the beast from hell was wrestled into harness.
Before Vere could summon the presence of mind to leap from the tilbury and pull her from her seat, the black gelding lunged forward, knocking aside the startled stable man, and throwing Miss Price back against the seat. In the next heartbeat, the cabriolet was hurtling out of the yard. Above the shouts and curses of the grooms, Vere heard Grenville’s laughter.
“Oh, Lord, Lydia, this animal is insane,” Tamsin gasped. She was clutching the side of the carriage with both hands—an intelligent response, given the gelding’s breakneck speed. “The duke will go off in an apoplexy, you know he will. I’m sure he’s worried to death, poor man.”
“Are you worried?” Lydia asked, keeping her eyes on the road. The gelding was a lively brute, to be sure, and strong enough to take them up Hindhead Hill at a good pace, but he did have a mischievous tendency to pull to the left.
“No. This is too exciting.” Tamsin leaned forward and peered ’round the hood. “They’re starting to catch up again. Sir Bertram’s face is very red.”
Thunder reverberated over Witley Common. Lydia caught a flash of light in the distance. Another rumble followed after a short interval.
The girl sat back. “I can’t think how you summoned the strength of will to refuse His Grace. He was so terribly upset. I know he’s dreadfully provoking, and he might have put his offer of a draw more tactfully—”
“He believes I’m so addlepated and irresponsible as to get myself killed—and take you with me,” Lydia said tightly. “That’s why he’s upset, and that’s what’s intolerable.”
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed another shaft of light. A low boom of thunder followed. “If he had his way, I should finish sitting tamely beside him,” she went on. “While gazing up adoringly into his deceitful face. But he is not going to make me his private property and tie me to him until death us do part, if I can help it.”
They were more than halfway up the long hill. The black gelding was beginning to slow, but he showed no signs of wishing to rest.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if he would gaze back adoringly,” Tamsin said.
“That’s worse,” Lydia said. “Ainswood’s adoring looks can be lethal. I had a sample in Covent Garden, recollect. His Grace, on his knees, looking up worshipfully into one’s face, is a devastating sight.”
“I wish I had seen it.”
“I wish I hadn’t,” Lydia said. “I had to fix my mind on Susan, and her soulful gazes, which are motivated by greedy doggy concerns such as food or playing or petting. Otherwise, I should have melted into a puddle on the spot.”
“Poor Susan. How wicked the duke was to use her against you.”
“Poor Susan, indeed. Her behavior was disgraceful.”
“She may have simply felt sorry for him,” Tamsin said. “You know how she seems to sense when one is unwell or out of sorts or distressed. Only yesterday, Millie was upset because she’d scorched an apron. Susan went to her and dropped her ball at Millie’s feet and licked her hand just as though—Oh, my goodness, there’s the gibbet.”
They’d nearly reached the top of the hill. On the near side stood the Hindhead gibbet. The spitting rain beat down upon the carriage hood, and the shrieking wind mingled eerily with the gallows’ creaking chains. Lightning blasted at the distant edges of the Devil’s Punchbowl, on the far side, and the thunder rolled, adding its ominous drumbeat to this satanic concerto.
At the crest of the hill, Lydia drew the horse to a halt, for he was steaming and clearly needed a rest. But within minutes he was fretting and straining in the traces, impatient to go on.
“By gad, you’re a game ’un, aren’t you?” Lydia said. “Still, my fine fellow, you shan’t plunge us headlong down this hill.”
She heard behind her—close behind—the rattle of wheels and clatter of hoofbeats.
Ahead and below stretched the perilous decline, with packhorse tracks as deep as a Devonshire lane on either side. The only sign of habitation in this bleak terrain was the smoke coiling upward from the Seven Thorns Inn, an unsavory place in which she didn’t fancy takin
g refuge.
This stretch of the usually busy Portsmouth Road was virtually deserted, thanks to the storm. This, clearly, was not the time or place to have an accident.
The rain drummed angrily upon the hood—which, thanks to the wind, did little to keep them dry. But Lydia had no energy for considering her discomfort, having her hands full with the gelding. He fought her efforts to slow him while obstinately—and in typically self-destructive male fashion—aiming for the road edge.
By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, her arms were aching, and still the gelding showed no sign of tiring.
Lydia glanced guiltily at Tamsin. Her skirts were drenched and she was shivering.
“Two more miles.” Lydia had to raise her voice to be heard over the pounding rain and rolling thunder.
“I’m only wet,” Tamsin said through chattering teeth. “I won’t melt.”
God forgive me, Lydia thought, her conscience stabbing. She should never have let Tamsin come, should never have agreed to this fool race. At the very least, she should have accepted Ainswood’s offer of a truce. If Tamsin took a fatal chill—
A blast of lightning nearly jolted her from the carriage seat, and the thunderous clap following in the next heartbeat seemed to shake the road beneath them. The gelding rose up on its hind legs with a terrified whinny, and her arms and hands burned as she strained to bring him down and away from the road edge before he capsized them into a ditch.
The world went dark for an instant, then blindingly bright again as lightning bolted over the commons, accompanied by deafening crashes.
It took a moment to register the other sounds: shouts, the shriek of a horse in pain or panic, the clatter of carriage wheels.
Then she saw it, hurtling down the road inches away from her wheels. Lydia pulled the cabriolet back to the left, saw the tilbury jerk crazily to the right as it rumbled past, narrowly missing her. Lightning flared again and she glimpsed Ainswood’s taut silhouette, saw him work the ribbons in the instant before the crash of thunder and the next, more frightening crash as the tilbury went down, over the far side of the road.