A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (32 page)

They were cozily seated at a table in the packed dining room when the serving wench came to take their order. “Ale, please,” Hugh told her, “and we’ve heard good tidings about your meat pies.”

“Best in all Doncaster,” the lass said, passing him a saucy look.

“Then I’ll have the same,” Toby told her.

And then the wench’s cheeky gaze fell on Ellie. “Fix me with an ale and a meat pie, too,” she said in her deepest tones.

A man, his eyes bloodshot from drink, weaved toward their table. A crew of sodden mates caromed off one another in his wake. Seconds before landing in Ellie’s lap, the man did an about-face and sprawled into a chair at the table across from them. “Give ’em your finest gin,” he cried to the serving girl. “Drinks for me and my friends here!” He included their table in a sweeping gesture.

Ellie’s closest encounter with spirits was the occasional glass of ratafia or Madeira – gin was not something of which her parents would approve.

“Gin and ale,” the serving girl said, winking at them. She planted herself next to the red-eyed fellow. “And what’ll you have, champagne and sweet meats?”

“I’ll take me a bite of your notch,” the man said, leering at her.

“Hush ya’ jolter head, or there’ll be naught but sour milk in your cup.”

“And that’ll be just fine, wench, as long as me drink comes from your plump dairy.”

With a flip of her wrist, the wench brained the fellow with her tray and left to place the order. The men burst into wild laughter.

“She’s a ripe dell, can ye’ agree, fellows?” Red Eyes said, addressing their table.

Ellie’s cheeks grew hot. She looked at Hugh, who scanned the dining room, seeking a free table where they could retreat from their new friend. Nothing.

One of Red Eye’s compatriots smashed his fist on the table. “Aye, and I’m the upright man to play her the blanket hornpipe.”

The fellows hooted and slapped their thighs.

Red Eyes rose, his knees behaving like reeds in a windstorm. “Nay, you’ll not have at her ’til I’m done dipping me own pegoo.”

Ellie lowered her head and swallowed.

“She’ll not take an old catch fart such as yourself,” exclaimed one of the entourage. “A chit wants a man what’s the master, not one that follows ’em.”

Red Eyes waved him off, choosing instead to concentrate on Ellie. “Young cove, why you keepin’ your hat on in the house?”

“He’s got a great bald pate,” Hugh told him. “Remove his chapeau and there’s naught but crusty goat knees up there.”

The neighbors pounded on the table in hysterics. Hugh looked at Ellie, sympathy in his brown eyes. “We should move,” he mouthed. She pushed back her chair to get up, but the serving girl arrived with the gin.

Red Eyes caught Ellie’s shoulder with a heavy paw. “Tilt it back, friend,” he bellowed. His gang clinked glasses.

To Ellie’s horror, he leaned close, glass raised in salute. Cautiously she raised her own tumbler of clear liquid.

“May your head grow a bush a bawdy house would boast,” Red Eyes said, then dropped back his head and poured the contents of his drink into his mouth. Glazed and satisfied, he waited for her to do the same.

There was nothing to be done for it. Wear a man’s garb, and you had to be prepared to act like a man. Ellie emptied her glass and swallowed. Sweet coals roasted her throat. She fought the urge to cough. Hugh and Toby sat across from her, smiles threatening to bust their lips.

She glared at her companions until they lifted their own glasses and placed them back on the table, empty.

Within a few short minutes Ellie felt happier. The gentlemen at the next table were not a bad bunch. They enjoyed their bear garden jaw, but were good fellows all the same. In fact, she rather wished Red Eyes would order another round.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the wench who plunked three meat pies down on their table.

Red Eyes lurched in his chair to give the girl a swat on the behind. “What say we make the beast with two backs, lass?”

The wench swung her tray menacingly. “Listen, choice spirit, touch me again and I’ll have you wearing a wooden ruff in the town square.”

Red Eyes and company split with laughter.

Ellie threw her head back and roared with them. An instant later, Hugh stood over her, a look of fear in his eyes.

“Your hat,” he whispered. Frantically Ellie touched her naked head, the majority of her curls pinned to the top, while a thin ponytail dangled in back.

“Hey look at that, boys,” Red Eyes exclaimed. “One toast with me and the lad grew hair!”

• • •

The next afternoon, sober to her bones, Ellie sat on the bed in the room she shared with Hugh and Toby. She held a cracked mirror. Turning her head this way and that, she contemplated the cascade of white locks framing her face. “Take care of the family. Become the estate steward,” she mumbled, staring into her own eyes. “This is your life now.”

Thoughts of High Tor fired like a marksman’s bullets. How useless her feminine wiles had been. She’d made a fool of herself with Hugh. He would never love her. And even if he did harbor some admiration, it was for her skill with horses. No respectable man with a title could align himself with a lady who rode astride. She picked up the scissors and lifted a shank off her forehead. Tears blurred her vision.

“Ninny,” she hissed.

She found a handkerchief squashed in the pocket of a pair of Hugh’s pants. Applying the cloth to the corner of one eye then the other, she sat on the bed again and grabbed the scissors. But the tears wouldn’t stop coming. She couldn’t hold the handkerchief, the mirror, and the scissors simultaneously. “What are you mourning? Love? Children of your own?” The scissors dropped from her fingers, bounced off the mattress, and landed on the floor.

“Bloody blast it!” Ellie reached for them just as Hugh burst into the room.

“Wouldn’t you know, Manifesto’s ready to eat the track and I’m standing like a fool without my pocket watch.”

He dug about in a discarded vest. “Got it.” He looked at her. “Aren’t you coming?”

Ellie straightened and surreptitiously tucked the scissors behind her on the bed. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Hugh opened the door, then stopped and looked closely at her. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

He crossed the room and sat next to her. “You have. That pale skin holds no secrets.”

Excuses skittered in her brain like leaves before a puff of wind, but she couldn’t form a sentence.

He reached behind her and took the scissors. “You weren’t about to cut your hair, were you?”

“It’s the smartest thing to do. I’m a man now. No one will let me near the track as a female trainer. My hair is a dangerous hindrance.”

Hugh shook his head. “You can’t cut it.”

“I can’t?”

“No,” he said. He stood and offered Ellie his hand, pulling her to a standing position by the bed. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of desire in his eyes.

“Come out and train Manifesto now,” he said. “Put the scissors where they’ll be safe.”

A shiver went through her. “Where would that be?”

He took the metal tool from her. “In my hand.”

• • •

Ellie’s state of mind worried Hugh. Sadness rested on her like dust on a dying flower. She offered expert advice, trained Manifesto with the same care and concern she’d always displayed, but the fun had left her body. She strained to smile. Laughter rose from her as if it weighed almost more than she could lift.

While keeping a sharp eye on Manifesto as the horse rounded a makeshift track on Roan Midgeon’s farm, Hugh said, “It’s too bad, you having to dress as a man.”

“I suppose,” Ellie replied absently.

Toby flashed by on horseback. Ellie’s eyes never left the horse. “He’s still going wide on the turn,” she noted under her breath.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Canter him along the turn. Let him get used to it, then increase his speed.”

“Right then,” said Toby.

Hugh cleared his throat. “I suppose society has forced you into it.”

“What’s that?”

“Society. We’ve made it unacceptable for a woman to be as fine with horses as you are.”

She shrugged and let out a slow breath. “I wish it weren’t so.” A look of glittering determination came into her eyes.

Hugh let a moment pass, waiting for the hard line of her jaw to soften. “Do you miss dresses and the like?”

Ellie took her eyes off of Manifesto and looked at him. At first she appeared angry, ready to bark something curt and dismissive. Slowly, her gaze dropped to the ground. “I do, actually.”

“What do you miss most?”

“Staring at myself in the mirror.”

“Ha,” Hugh laughed.

The grim line of her lips remained unchanged. “I used to be quite pretty, you know.”

Her seriousness broke his heart. “You’re quite pretty still.”

“I hope not inappropriately pretty for a horse trainer.”

“Afraid so.”

Her lips quirked up at the corners. “Perhaps I should grow a mustache.”

“Nice trick if you can do it.”

She crossed her arms and focused on Manifesto again. “Let’s take the saddle off and lunge him now. Slow around the ring, but let the left lead dominate.”

“Got it,” Toby cried.

“Perhaps when Toby shaves, I could save the hair and glue it to your face. What do they use in the theatre, spirit gum?” The moment the words were out, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. She squeezed out a little laugh that dropped in the air like a stone off a cliff.

“So, that’s what you liked to do, admire yourself in the mirror?” he said, gently.

“It sounds vain, but it wasn’t so. I found it calming sometimes to roll my hair in papers, apply unguents to my face — nothing to do all afternoon but prepare for the evening’s dinner with you and Poultney and Algie and all our friends. I used to think I’d go mad with boredom, but now … ” She looked down and nudged a fallen twig with her boot. With obvious effort, she lightened the moment by poking an elbow into Hugh’s side. “Thunder an’ turf, that was a lifetime ago.”

He touched her back, but she moved off toward Toby and Manifesto.

Hugh caught up to her. “What will you do next?”

“I’ll return home in breeches and become the steward of Fairland.”

“You’ll turn yourself permanently into a man?”

She didn’t look at him. “How else can a woman support her family? I will say, though, that I don’t envy any man his existence. It’s hard work, and the responsibility is … crushing.”

She walked faster, but he kept by her side. “If you had the money and everything at Fairland was put right, would you go back to wearing dresses?”

She blinked, the rims of her eyes growing red. “I would wear dresses and breeches. Nothing will make me give up horses.

“Let’s limber the beast on the right lead now,” she called to Toby. “He’ll be doing some fancy footwork during the race.”

Hugh caught her arm and turned her toward him. It took a moment before her gaze met his. “I just want to say that you’re not half rotten for a society girl … even if you are a man.”

Ellie gave a shaky laugh. Her body trembled as if the act of standing had suddenly become difficult. “And you’re not half rotten for a society boy, either,” she said. Her hand came up and she gave him a playful shove on the shoulder, a hail-fellow-well-met gesture, devoid of femininity, devoid of sex, devoid of enjoyment.

Her unhappiness tore him apart. He’d put her in this position. Allowed her to strip off her very being for the sake of her family, and he’d pushed her to do it just so he could see her again. Be sure of her. Every night since they’d arrived in Doncaster, he’d listened to her soft breathing as she slept in the bed across the room. Having her so near, yet being forced to keep his distance, had been physical and mental torture. He studied her lithe body as she stood beside Manifesto, stroking the horse’s muzzle and talking with Toby. Taking a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his brow and thought,
Do I really need more proof?

• • •

The day before the St. Leger, they brought Manifesto to the track at Doncaster, registering the horse as Whisker, under Dixon Boyce’s name. Lank wouldn’t suspect a thing. Dixon was one of the top trainers in England.

Ellie fussed over Manifesto, giving him a bath, rubbing his legs with linseed oil, and filling his bucket with hand-selected oats.

“You’ve got to relax,” Toby said, shaking her gently by the shoulders. “Your horse is going to be fine.”

“How can I relax? Everything is hanging on this — the family’s future, everything.”

“You’re dangerous to be around today,” Toby scolded. “You’re making me and Manifesto nervous. Go take a nap.”

“That, sir, is literally impossible.”

“Then put your hair in papers and get ready for the ball,” Hugh said, coming up behind her and giving her a little push away from the stallion. “You’re of no use here. You’re fidgety as a cat, and driving us all to Bedlam. Go away! Be off! I don’t want to see you ’til your tresses bounce in circles.”

She yanked down her waistcoat. “What are you blabbering about?”

Hugh pulled a thick card from a jacket pocket, flipped it open, and read, “The granddaughter of Lieutenant Colonel Anthony St. Leger, the founder of the St. Leger horse race in 1776, requests the pleasure of your presence at the annual St. Leger ball. The affair is to be held in the ballroom of Brigham Hill, the home of Mr. Lane Turbot Armstrong Gordon and Mrs. Millicent St. Leger Armstrong Gordon.

“It seems we oughtn’t to turn her down,” he concluded.

Ellie stepped back. “Are you mad? Dancing — how can you think of such a thing at a time like this?”

“It’s a jolly nice thing to think about, and I suggest you set your mind on it, because I’m booting you from the barn.”

She planted herself in the straw. “In the rush to save my family from imminent ruin, I forgot to pack a ball gown.”

“Then get your breech-bottomed arse into town and find a dress,” Toby snapped.

“My word!” she cried. “You know nothing of women’s clothing. An appropriate dress has to be made. You can’t just meander in from the street and expect one to be hanging there.”