To Win the Lady (26 page)

All Miss Paget
thought about was her horses and keeping the stables running, an impossible
task for a woman and the state she was in proved it. Looking at her today, he
could hardly believe she was the same delightfully feminine woman who had
danced the night away in London and galloped in the park; she had looked
exhausted, careless of her clothes and hair. He had longed to take the strain
from her, to tell her he would undertake everything and she was not to worry,
but he knew her well enough to realise that that would only have served to
infuriate her. She would have taken it as a direct criticism of her ability to
manage; she had to be allowed to realise her limitations for herself.

He smiled wryly
as he walked Pegasus into the inn yard of the Swan at Stevenage; she had not
reached her limit yet; there was more strength in her, more pluck than in many
a man, and he loved her all the more for it. But at the end, what then? How
could he help her? Marrying her seemed to be the obvious answer, but if she
thought for a single minute that it was pity for her situation or a desire to
control Sir Henry’s stables which prompted him to ask she would turn him down
flat. And neither was true. He wanted her for what she was, the woman he loved,
the woman he could not be happy without. His love for Maria had faded into the
mists of the past; he could not go on living in the past.

He smiled,
imagining a future full of bright happiness, surrounded by a loving family,
wife, sister, father and children. Yes, Georgie’s children would be tall and
beautiful. But it was only a dream. Felicity might not turn him down, however
he phrased his proposal, and that mischievous baronet might do untold damage.

And there was
that race. If he won, then Rowan Park would be given as much credit as he could
manage, but, if he lost, the reputation of the stables, which had been on a
down slope ever since Sir Henry died, would slide even further down to
extinction. It was no longer a race between two men over a single horse, it was
life and death to Georgie and his own hopes for the future. He rode into London
next morning with two things foremost in his mind: to see Miss Felicity Paget
and to win the race to York. He would look no further than that.

He had not been
back at Baverstock House above half an hour when John Melford called on him.

‘Good to see
you back, old fellow,’ he said on being shown into the library where Richard
was sitting at his desk poring over a well-used map with a glass of Madeira at
his elbow. ‘Been watching out for you.’

‘Come in. Sit
down and have a glass of wine. I was just going over the route for the last
time.’

John poured
himself a glass of Madeira and sat in a chair, though he seemed somewhat on
edge. ‘You’ve been over it?’

‘Every step.
Timing is all-important.’

‘And, of course,
Rowan Park is not on the way at all.’

Richard gave no
indication of surprise or puzzlement, other than a slight lifting of one
eyebrow. ‘Not precisely on the route, no, but it is only a dozen or so miles
off it. Why do you ask?’

‘Thought you
might have called there.’

‘I did. You
must know Miss Paget is looking after some of my horses and lending me others.’
He paused and looked hard at his friend. ‘Why are you quizzing me in this
fashion?’

‘Didn’t know I
was.’

‘Yes, you are.
Out with it.’

‘There is talk...’
He stopped, knowing Richard’s temper could sometimes be volcanic. ‘Talk that
you have spent time there...’

‘I just said I
did, didn’t I? If you are insinuating any impropriety, then I shall have to ask
you to leave.’ His voice was dangerously calm.

‘Stow it,
Richard, I was just warning you to expect squalls, that’s all.’

‘From Miss
Felicity Paget, I suppose.’

‘No, I should
hope it ain’t yet reached her ears. And she wouldn’t judge you anyhow; she’s
far too sensible. But I shouldn’t like to think you were doing the dirty on
her. If you were, friend or no, I should be constrained to call you out for
it.’ He looked so thunderous, Richard laughed.

‘I am trembling
in my boots, John.’

‘It is no
laughing matter.’

‘Oh, I agree
whole-heartedly. But who can possibly be spreading these malicious rumours, I
wonder? Could it be a certain aristocratic gentleman who has more than a little
to gain if I lose this race?’ He tapped the map in front of him. ‘Let’s
concentrate on that, shall we?’

‘Very well.
What can I do to help?’

‘Go to York, be
in at the finish. I’d appreciate a friend to greet me when I arrive. Take the
Baverstock coach post-chaise, so we can return in comfort; somehow I don’t
think I shall want to ride back. You’ll have to leave tonight if you’re to be
there on time.’ John’s hesitation was only momentary but it was enough for
Richard to raise his eyebrow once again. ‘Does that not suit?’

‘Yes, yes, of
course. Delighted, my dear fellow. I’ll take my leave. Have to cancel an
engagement.’ He threw the remains of his wine down his throat, set the glass
down and stood up, all in one movement. ‘See you in York for breakfast the day
after tomorrow.’

Richard rose to
see him to the door. ‘I take it you have seen something of Felicity Paget this
last week?’

‘I have been
privileged to be in her company on one or two occasions,’ he said stiffly.
Then, realising that Richard had not asked out of idle curiosity, he added, ‘I
hope you are not implying that there is anything improper in that. We have
always been in other company and besides, I would not...’ His voice faded and
colour suffused his face as he realised he was giving himself away. ‘You
absented yourself, after all.’

‘I am not
implying anything, my dear friend,’ Richard said, smiling so cheerfully that
John began to wonder what had come over him. ‘I shall see you in York.’ A
footman came forward with John’s hat and gloves and opened the front door for
him. Richard watched him go down the steps and get into a curricle which stood
in the drive, smiling as the vehicle lurched away, narrowly missing the gates
as it turned on to the road.

Richard went
back into the library where he sat musing on the strange conversation he had
just had with his friend. Could it be? And if it was, would it be better to
delay his approach to Felicity once again or precipitate matters? But he had
promised Georgie that he would speak to her sister and so that afternoon,
dressing carefully in a buff coat of superfine and biscuit pantaloons, he
ordered the Baverstock barouche and was driven to Richmond...

All the horses
except Warrior had been taken to their stations, those who had only a few miles
to go being ridden gently to their places, the furthest being transported in
carts, to the huge amusement of any who saw them on the road. The men who took
them were to patrol their particular section and see fair play. Georgie had
waved them off, calling, ‘Good luck!’ as they trundled out of the gates.

Rowan Park
seemed strangely empty and silent after they had gone, although there were
still a few horses left to be looked after: mares and their foals, one or two
yearlings and Bright Star, now well on the way to recovery. Two elderly grooms
had been left behind to see to them, besides Jem who was to take Warrior to the
Barley Mow, and there was little for Georgie to do except wander about looking
into empty boxes and watch Royal Lady cavorting in the paddock with her sturdy
little filly. It was too soon to say if the filly would make a racehorse, but
she was beautiful. Would Rowan Park still be in existence as a breeding stable
when she grew old enough to ride? Would there still be a Paget in residence
then? So much depended on that wager to York and she wished it did not.

She strongly
disapproved of deep gambling; a flutter at a race was one thing, but this! She
was as bad as those young bloods who spent whole nights in gambling hells and
lost fortunes. How had she allowed it to happen? Could she have prevented it?
No, she told herself; it was all tied up with her ambitions for Rowan Park and
her love for Richard Baverstock. He had had faith in her and she must have
faith in him. If anything could bring him victory it must be the knowledge that
she believed in him.

The race had
attracted a great deal of publicity and she could imagine the crowds standing
in the gathering dusk at the start, waving the colours of the riders. Richard
had chosen deep blue and white stripes, Lord Barbour, purple laced with gold.
There would be betting and sideshows, and flares and torches brought out to
illuminate the scene as darkness deepened. There would be a platform for the
starter and grooms and attendants surrounding the horses as they came to the
line. And then they would be off, riding into the night. Some people might try
to follow on horses or in swift phaetons, but they would drop back to be
replaced by others who had stationed themselves along the route.

How she would
have liked to be part of that, caught up in the excitement, instead of sitting
at home waiting, waiting. It would be at least a day and a half before news of
the final result could reach her. She might as well go to bed and catch up on
her lost sleep. But she could not. She dashed indoors, calling for Fanny to lay
out her habit.

The contestants
had hardly left London, so she had plenty of time, but that was good; she could
walk Warrior gently along and rest him when she arrived at the station.
According to Richard’s calculations, he should be there a few minutes before
midnight, with a third of the journey behind him.

Fanny
thoroughly disapproved and she made no attempt to hide it. ‘You can’t ride
alone, Miss Georgie; it’ll be dark soon. And what are you putting them breeches
on for? You’re never going to be seen out in them?’

‘I’m going to
wear them under my habit.’

‘You’re riding
astride. Oh, no, Miss Georgie, what will people think of you?’

‘I can’t take a
side-saddle, now can I?’ she said, reasonably. ‘Major Baverstock will most
likely put his own saddle on him, but one of the men will have to ride the
horse back. Besides, it will be dark; no one will notice.’

‘I don’t see
why you have to go at all. Why can’t you wait here?’

‘Oh, Fanny, I
can’t. I’ll go mad.’

Half an hour
later, with her habit pulled up to allow her to ride astride, she set off on
Warrior to ride to the Barley Mow, leaving Jem in charge of the stables, much
to his chagrin. She rode slowly and carefully but it looked like being a
moonlight night and Warrior was footsure; she had no qualms. At the head of the
lane she drew rein, debating whether to take the road or ride across the heath.
The road was only a narrow one and full of potholes and it might also be busy
with spectators converging from miles around. She decided on the solitude of
the heath and thereby missed her aunt whose chaise was approaching Rowan Park
in a frenzy of galloping hooves.

Chapter Nine

Mrs Bertram’s state of mind was not improved when she
discovered that the only people at Rowan Park were servants, and precious few
of those.

‘Where are my nieces?’
she demanded of Mrs Thorogood who had answered her imperious rap on the door.

‘Nieces?’
queried the good lady. ‘Miss Paget has gone to the Great North Road, taking a
horse...’

‘I did not meet
her.’

‘I reckon she
went by way of the heath. It’d be quicker. She was taking the Major one of his
mounts.’

‘That
pestilential race! Do you know I had the devil’s own job to find anyone to let
me have horses? I was offered such sorry-looking nags as you wouldn’t believe
and have been hours on the road.’ The race was not the only reason she was
miffed, but she had no intention of divulging her more important errand.

‘You must be
fatigued, ma’am,’ Mrs Thorogood said, trying to be helpful. ‘May I offer you
refreshment? Fanny will make up a bed for you.’

‘Bed! I do not
want a bed, not when my nieces are goodness knows where. Am I to assume Miss
Felicity is with her sister?’

‘No, ma’am, I
haven’t seen Miss Felicity since she left here to go to London with you.’

Harriet sat
down hurriedly before her legs gave way beneath her. ‘She’s not here?’

‘No, ma’am. Is
anything wrong?’ The question was superfluous; there was obviously a great deal
wrong. ‘Here ma’am, you’d best take a glass of brandy to restore you.’ She took
a decanter from a side-table, poured a generous bumper and handed it to Mrs
Bertram, then stood over her waiting to be enlightened.

Harriet Bertram
took the glass and sat sipping it, more to give herself time to think than
because she felt she needed it. All the way from London she had been trying to
convince herself that Felicity would have come home. Where else would she go
when in trouble but to her sister? That she was in trouble her aunt did not for
one minute doubt. How were they going to live down the scandal? She looked up
at the woman, standing with the decanter in her hand as if intending to refill
her glass the minute it was emptied. Or was she just curious? It was a
curiosity she did not mean to satisfy. ‘Tell me exactly where Miss Paget has
gone.’