The Marquess and Miss Davies (12 page)

“Lud! ‘Tis nothing of the sort between us, I assure you,” said Carys, who hoped she was wrong. Or at least potentially wrong.

“I saw the two of you sitting on that settee, and believe me, it is
something
of the sort.”

Carys blushed. “He kissed my hand.”

“Ah, ha!”

“But then you and Lady Leighton returned, and—”

“I did think it was perhaps too soon.”

“Is the music room really full of paintings?”

“‘Tis. The dowager has an interesting sense of colour,” said Isa.

“How so?”

“Quite hard to describe really. There are a great many of them.”

“Colours?”

“Yes.”

The sisters decided that the note from the marquess should be answered promptly. “I’ve no desire to play coy with the gentleman,” Carys said, and Isolde quite agreed. A return reply arrived within the hour, and ‘twas arranged that they meet at the Grosvenor Gate morning after next.

“Do you think the marquess will be shocked if I am astride?” wondered Carys.

“You were before.”

“Yes, but that was an accidental meeting.”

“Are you to go out very early?”

“Seven of the clock.”

Isolde smiled. “‘Twill be quiet,” she said. “And private.”

“He
is
a marquess.”

“True. But consider his mother. She is not exactly what society expects.”

“Mmm,” said Carys. She tried to imagine herself riding next to Lord Leighton, Alcaeus paired with his enormous stallion—Tantevy, as she recalled. The temptation to race would be great, and she could hardly expect to win riding sidesaddle. Of course, perhaps she should not attempt to win. So the older society ladies always said, although ‘twas quite annoying to the younger women.

Two riders were some distance apart, of necessity. If they dismounted, and walked for a time—

“Oh, gods,” said Isa, suddenly. “Your costume. Your
jacket
.”

“Ah!”

A flurry of activity ensued. Carys brought out the beautiful velvet skirt and examined it carefully for any evidence of staining—there was none, thank goodness—while Isolde dived into one of the wardrobes to locate her own riding outfits. Fortunately one of Isa’s jackets went nicely with the skirt, and both sisters, after considerable discussion, pronounced themselves satisfied with the result.

“You have an extra, do you not?” asked Carys. “You could accompany us.”

“Ha,” said Isolde.

“Do you suppose I should tell mother?”

Isolde was sitting on her bed, trimming a frayed thread from the cuff of the jacket. “Hmm,” she said, frowning. “It might satisfy her for a time.”

“I worry that she will tell everyone she knows.”

“Oh, she
will
tell everyone.”

“I cannot risk it then. Imagine the mortification when the Marquess of Clare receives congratulations from some thrice-removed cousin on his upcoming nuptials.”

“You can’t hide from our mother forever.”

“I can try.”

* * * *

In fact, the only danger that Lady Davies would learn of Carys’s meeting with the marquess came from the chance that a mutual acquaintance would see them in the park. Carys was willing to risk this.

“After all,” she told Isa. “He cannot be totally shocked by matchmaking mothers. It cannot be his first experience of the breed.”

So, thinking they had accounted for every eventuality, two mornings later both Carys and Isa were out of bed early, and went down to the kitchen for hot tea and a plateful of fresh buttermilk scones. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, Jeffers arrived.

“Good morning,” said the groom. “Do you need Jesse and Alcaeus saddled?”

 He looked curiously at them both, as Carys was dressed in a riding habit and Isolde was not.

Drat
, thought Carys, who had hoped to deal, once again, only with the boy.

“I awoke late,” said Isa, easily, innocence written large on her face, “and needed a bit of sustenance first. Miss Carys will go out shortly and I will meet her within the hour.”

The groom nodded, apparently satisfied with this plan.

“The boy can take care of Alcaeus,” added Isa.

“Well—” Jeffers was doubtful. Isolde’s mount was one thing, but he preferred to deal with Carys’s stallion himself. Even though the animal had caused not a bit of trouble with the saddle.

“You know,” said Isa. “I think Jesse has been off his feed recently. Here, the scones are delicious, let me put a bit of butter on this one—do you think he should be fed rather later in the day?”

“Oh, not at all, miss,” said Jeffers, who sat down across from Isa to discuss the importance of consistency in a horse’s schedule.

Carys fled.

* * * *

Perhaps that was the beginning. Miss Davies met the marquess at the Grosvenor Gate, as planned; he was waiting for her on Tantevy, the horse huge, its rider sitting tall and as nobly as one could imagine. Carys’s mind again saw him bloodied and in armor, with pikestaff in hand, and ‘twas almost a shock when he approached and greeted her with a commonplace of their modern age.

She had half expected ‘what keepeth thee, fair damsel?’, and smiled to herself.

They rode for the better part of two hours, with lively conversation interspersed with comfortable silences and occasionally a gallop, the latter never quite a race, but approaching it. Carys discovered that Alcaeus, no matter how fast, was outmatched by Tantevy, and she contented herself with keeping up, and with never allowing his lordship to rest, as it were, on his mount’s laurels. She also discovered that Lord Leighton, who was now convinced of her skills, condescended not at all, and treated her much as Talfryn did, riding, which might have disturbed another girl, but not Carys. There were other areas in which she would willingly defer; just not on a horse.

She had thought ‘twould be a brief outing, and that she would be home well before there was any danger of being noticed, but Lord Leighton showed no inclination to return to the Grosvenor Gate, and Carys was content enough in his company not to care. So eventually there were others of the
ton
to greet them and to be horrified by a woman sitting in a man’s saddle. Not that anyone would have been so bold as to express their disapproval to her face, of course, and Carys decided there was something to be said for the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Even the busiest cats of London society would sheath their claws for a young woman associated with a marquess.

For now.

Lord Leighton himself had not raised an eyebrow. And since the gentleman at her side seemed to have no objection, Carys began to imagine the ways in which she could dispose of the hated sidesaddle once and for all.

“I could burn it, I suppose,” she murmured, and was surprised when Lord Leighton answered.

“Good heavens, what will you burn?”

Carys laughed. They were well into the Kensington gardens at that moment, and the horses had slowed to a walk. The morning had warmed up to a considerable degree, and the shade of the surrounding trees was pleasant.

“The sidesaddle.”

“Are they so uncomfortable?”

“‘Tis not any discomfort, really. But when you are perched in such a manner, you don’t feel ... free.”

“Free to—?”

She shrugged. “Gallop away from the many dangers one meets in a London park.” Her tone made light of the matter, but ‘twas not entirely something to laugh at. “Isolde was becoming highly annoyed with my walks,” admitted Miss Davies. “She was convinced I would be accosted and robbed of my bonnet.”

Lord Leighton smiled, but added, “Your sister has the right of it. As I attempted to warn Jo on more than one occasion.”

“Jo?”

“My youngest sister, Josephine. She rode sidesaddle, I will say.”

“Much more proper.”

“Except that she escaped the groom so often that we finally gave up and allowed her to go out on her own.”

Carys smiled. “She sounds like a delightful individual.”

“Oh, she is. But not your equal on a horse. She fell off occasionally, and once sprained her ankle too badly to walk. The household was in an uproar until she reappeared.”

“Good heavens, how did your sister ever get home?”

“Benjamin found her.”

“Lord Harcourt? How fortunate.”

“Indeed.”

Carys did not learn the entire story until much later. ‘Twas no chance that Lady Josephine had been rescued by Benjamin Harcourt on that occasion; they had been riding together, something she had never quite admitted to her family. But Lord Leighton knew.

* * * *

The marquess accompanied Carys back to Cardingham House, and bid his adieu with a promise to meet her again in a week’s time. This was quite acceptable; she would have been happy to see the gentleman the very next day, but such preference would not go unremarked.

Nor could she hope that even this one occasion, extended as it had been, would escape the notice of her mother. Someone would tell Lady Davies.

“You
must
,” said Isolde, “convince Jeffers to let you go out without all this to-do. I could not get him to stop talking about oats and hay and the various digestive disorders that can afflict a horse—there are more than you would believe—and I ate three scones, and will soon weigh as much as Jesse.”

“I’m sorry,” sighed Carys. “But I had no choice. You know Jeffers.”

“No stone left unturned—”

“—when it comes to his lordship’s baby sisters. Yes. At any rate,” Carys added, “‘twas in a good cause.” She grinned.

Isolde brightened. “Did you kiss? Did he look at you with adoration written in his eyes? Did he swing you down from Alcaeus and allow his hands to remain on your waist a second too long?”

“You have been reading too many of Miss Pratchett’s novels.”

Isa laughed. “Or Lord Brabury’s poems. But if you are to abandon me, I must find something to do.”

They heard a scratching at the door.

Carys sighed. “You don’t think—”

“I’m sure of it.”

* * * *

‘Twas, as both girls suspected, a summons from their mother. The viscountess waited for them in the smaller salon; her air was one of intense disapproval overlaid on a background of poorly concealed excitement.

Riding astride! With a marquess!

Lady Davies’s method was never to attack a problem directly. “Tea, my dears,” she said, and poured for all.

Isa eyed the butter-cakes, but restrained herself. Carys bit into one happily. Both sisters waited for their mother to broach the actual topic at hand.

“Isolde, my dear,” said Lady Davies, “have you purchased a new gown for the Telford’s ball?”

“I have. ‘Tis embroidered silk and cost a great deal.”

Their mother sighed. “I don’t know what Talfryn will think when he returns to London. We will have ruined him.”

“Oh, I think not, ma’am.” The complaint of imminent bankruptcy was a favorite of the viscountess, who—judging by her own expenditures—was hardly serious.

“And Carys—you will go to the Telford’s ball as well?”

Recently this would have been followed by a refusal; Carys, however, was wondering if the Marquess of Clare would be in attendance.

“I ... I am not sure. As yet.”

The viscountess regarded her thoughtfully. “Fine weather today,” she said.

“Indeed, ma’am.”

“One believes the warmer months have finally arrived.”

“One does, ma’am.”

“And in all this fine weather, as I understand,” said Lady Davies, “one of my daughters has been seen riding through Hyde Park very early of a morning. In a
shockingly
unladylike manner.”

And there it was, although— Was it possible that the identity of the twin was in question? Carys and Isolde exchanged a glance.
Of course
, the glance said, as the girls realized that whoever had been their mother’s informer may have not known them well, or seen Carys only at a distance. This opened up fields of potential obfuscation, and Isolde hid a small smile.

“Unladylike? Whatever does that mean?” she asked, innocently.

The viscountess was loathe to elaborate. “Well—” she said, and hesitated.

“Astride?” said Isa, who became quickly bored. “Good heavens. Was this person quite sure ‘twas me?”

“Well—” said Lady Davies again.

“Because I assure you, madam, I did not ride out this morning, on any side of a horse.”

Their mother frowned, somewhat at sea. She had never paid much attention to the fact that each of her daughters now had a mount in London, and were both riding regularly. Isolde was the one more likely, in Lady Davies’s mind, to break the rules of polite society. But Isolde just said that she had not done so.

“‘Yes,” said Carys, taking pity on their mother, even as Isa tried to kick her under the table. “I rode out this morning with Lord Leighton.”

A brief silence as the viscountess took this in.

“Lady Bertram claimed you ... you were riding astride.” Hope was clearly at war with outrage in their mother’s mind.

“With the Marquess of Clare,” said Isa, repeating the salient point.

“I cannot imagine that he approves—”

“His lordship and I discussed it,” said Carys. This much was true, as it happened. “He offered no protest.”

“My dear, he may not have said anything at the time—” Lady Davies marshaled her thoughts. “But there were any number of others, who saw you, and who—”

“Others of the
ton
?” said Isa. “At seven in the morning? I truly cannot believe Lady Bertram was even there.”

Although, obviously, someone had seen Carys.

“Not Lady Bertram
herself
,” said Lady Davies.

“Well, then,” said Isa. “‘Tis secondhand gossip, nothing more. I should think most would know better than to cast aspersions on any young lady that Lord Leighton chose to accompany.”

Carys covered her smile with a raised hand. She was always impressed with Isa’s ability to turn matters upside down and inside out.

And for all her occasional befuddlement, the viscountess knew both her daughters well. No good would come of continuing to press the matter. “Well, if Lord Leighton did not object, I suppose—” She paused. “I suppose the marquess may attend the Telford’s ball.”