Recklessly Yours (2 page)

Thank you to the Carriage Association of America for helping me sort out the Windsor Mews, specifically what existed, and, more important, what didn't yet exist, in the spring of 1839.

Thank you to my parents for all those riding lessons I took as a kid—see, they finally paid off.

And a huge thank-you to my editor, Ellen Edwards, for her continued support, guidance, and patience (she knows what I mean).

 

 

A
violent jolt clacked Holly Sutherland's teeth together and shocked her out of a fitful doze. Her eyes flew open, and she spied high stone walls and an open gate just before the brougham she'd traveled in throughout the night rolled to a halt on a cobbled drive.

The carriage listed as the footman stepped down from his perch on the rear footboard, but Holly swung the door open before he'd come round to assist her.

“Are we here?” She leaned out, eager to be free of the dim and confining carriage, and just as eager to see what the next minutes held in store.

“We are, miss. Please wait while I set down the step.” Roger, a towering youth with a head of dark, wavy hair and the handsome features typical of many young footmen, unfolded the step and offered an arm to assist her down.

The sight that greeted her took her aback. The morning mist shrouded a grim, two-story edifice sporting several pairs of closed double doors; above them, a row of dingy windows struggled to reflect the first glimmers of dawn. A stale air of neglect hung over the place, lending it as much cheer as a prison.

Is that what it was? Had the queen sent for her because an inmate had escaped, and it would be Holly's task to track him down? The villain might be some deranged brute who had threatened England's twenty-year-old monarch. There had been several attempts against Her Majesty's life in the two years since she had ascended to the throne. . . .

The notion should have frightened Holly, but, on the contrary, exhilaration raced up her spine. A weight in the reticule dangling from her wrist provided a heady boost in confidence that sent her chin inching upward. Could she pull the trigger of the repeating revolver she had brought along for added protection?

Most certainly, if it came down to protecting the queen's life, her own, or that of an innocent bystander. And if she held the weapon in two hands and braced her feet firmly, she could even aim it fairly straight.

Behind her, the gates whined and then clanged as a pair of guards pushed them shut. The stark sound sent her forward with a spring in her step, while over her shoulder she asked the footman, “Where is here, exactly? And how do we get in?” The doors all appeared to be locked up tight.

“We're at the Windsor Mews, miss. Her Majesty's stables. And not that way, miss. That is merely the carriage house.”

She stopped a few feet shy of the first set of doors, a ripple of disappointment dousing her excitement. Stables were rather less spine-tingling than a prison, though perhaps Victoria wished to supply her with a speedy mount on which to pursue her quarry.

Glancing up, she caught a glimpse through the mist of Windsor Castle's Round Tower poised high above the landscape like a monarch on her dais. She regarded the seedy brick structure before her. “These mews are rather less grand than one would expect for England's queen.”

“There are plans for new ones to be built later in the year,” he replied in a bored tone. “Now, if you'd follow me please.”

“Is the queen to meet me here?”

Of course he didn't answer. He had tolerated her questions long enough. His job was not to supply information, but simply to deliver her to her destination. “If you please, miss, follow me.”

They threaded their way through a maze of courtyards, stables, and outbuildings, Roger's steady pace prompting Holly to grit her teeth to keep from asking him to please hurry. Voices reached her ears, along with the clanging, clunking, and sweeping of the stable hands beginning their morning tasks. She rounded a corner into another enclosure, where a team of workers scurried back and forth carrying buckets, brushes, rakes, and armfuls of snaking tack. They seemed to have reached the very heart of the mews. The footman stopped before a heavy-looking door, reached into his pocket, and brought out a jangling set of keys.

She was surprised to step into a cozy room furnished with a faded but comfortable-looking settee and a small oak table and chairs; a cheery fire flickered in a small brick fireplace. The effect was of a slightly shabby retreat, the furniture too worn to remain in a drawing room but adequate enough to accommodate the queen's hunting parties.

“Her majesty's private salon, miss,” Roger explained, confirming Holly's guess. “Do make yourself comfortable, if you please.” With that, he turned on his heel and left her alone. She had no choice but to contain her impatience and wait.

It was all very puzzling. But even more puzzling had been the note Roger himself had delivered, only hours ago, to the Knightsbridge Readers' Emporium, the London bookshop owned jointly by Holly and her sisters.

She'd barely had time to comprehend the note's meaning—that, like her sisters Laurel and Ivy before her, she was being called to the service of her country—before she had found herself scurrying to pack a bag, bid her sisters good-bye, and board the waiting brougham. Without further explanation, she had been whisked out of the city and across a moonlit countryside.

A clatter of footsteps echoed in the hall. Just before the door swung wide, Holly jumped up from the settee. A petite figure swathed in a cape of sumptuous forest-green velvet swept through the doorway, and England's queen flipped back her hood and stretched out her hands. “My dearest Holly, thank goodness you are here!”

They rushed to each other, and Holly found herself enfolded in an embrace that for several lovely seconds renewed every sweet facet of the friendship that had marked her childhood years.

Here before her stood the only real friend she and her sisters had known during their sheltered upbringing at Uncle Edward's country estate—and vice versa. As heir presumptive, little Princess Victoria had been allowed precious few influences beyond those of her mother and John Conroy, a man who early on had designs on controlling the throne Victoria would eventually occupy. At her mother's insistence, the common-born Sutherland sisters had been tolerated against John Conroy's advice only due to their father's military ties to Victoria's father, the deceased Duke of Kent.

The past, with all of its childish secrets, promises, hopes, and dreams, flooded Holly's heart as she pressed her cheek to Victoria's. They had been orphans together, the Sutherland sisters and this dear, lonely little girl. But as Victoria's importance to England grew, Holly and her sisters were deemed less and less suitable to be her companions.

Now she was their queen and could acknowledge their friendship openly if she chose to, which she did not because of one imperative matter.

We will always be your friends . . . your secret servants if need be.
Holly and her sisters had spoken those words to the child Victoria nearly a decade ago, on a sunny summer's day in Uncle Edward's rose garden. At the time, none of them could have guessed what that pledge would lead to. In the past year, Laurel, the eldest, and Ivy, Holly's twin, had each risked death in the service of their queen, though neither had quite explained to Victoria the dangers they had faced.

Risk, danger, fear . . . The vow had incurred all that and more for Laurel and Ivy. And now—oh, now it was Holly's turn to finally stray from the safety of everyday life and embark on her own adventure.

Did that frighten her, even just a little? Good heavens, yes. It was a sensation that made her feel alive, vibrant,
important
. . . .

Victoria's arms came away, and Holly stepped back to gaze into her friend's face with a smile she could hardly restrain. “What is it you need me to do?”

Victoria rattled off her needs like items on a shopping list. “Prevent an international incident. Save the monarchy. Save
me
.”

V
ictoria tapped her foot nervously on ground left slightly muddy from recent rains. The morning breeze stirred the dark curls framed by her bonnet brim, and she absently blew away a tendril that strayed across her cheek. “Now that you've had a good look, tell me what you think of him.”

Holly hesitated, no less puzzled now than she had been at the outset of her journey. The “him” to which Victoria referred snorted and stamped his foot, then swung his head in an arc that showed his impatience to be free of the lead rope presently coiled around the head groom's hand.

William, a man who barely reached above Holly's shoulder yet whose stocky physique possessed the strength to control a half-trained Thoroughbred, had spent some ten minutes putting the two-year-old colt through its paces in the paddock behind the royal salon. Even after another several minutes of being walked sedately around the ring, the animal's flanks rippled in agitation, a sign of its unseasoned youth. Standing some fifteen hands high, the colt was sure to gain another several inches before it reached maturity.

For a second time, Holly made a slow circuit of the animal, careful to stay well out of reach of the back hooves. The ebony mane and tail made a dramatic contrast to the bay coat; a white marking gleamed beneath the forelock.

She peered over the horse's muscular neck to Victoria. “He's an Ashworth colt, isn't he?”

The queen smiled astutely. “You recognize the star.”

“The distinctive Ashworth star,” Holly mused with a nod. At the very mention of the name, a faint stirring quickened her pulse, a sensation she could no sooner ignore than she could stop breathing. What had this matter to do with the Ashworths? She reached out to finger the horse's midnight mane. “There is no mistaking that marking, or the quality of the animal.”

“He was a gift,” Victoria explained, “from the Duke of Masterfield himself before he departed the country last week. Have you met the man?”

“I know
of
him, that he is the patriarch of one of England's premier families. I am acquainted with the younger Ashworths, though only just.”

“Colin Ashworth is well acquainted with your brother-in-law, is he not?”

Holly merely nodded, afraid her voice might reveal her sudden discomfiture. Ordinarily the Sutherland sisters would never have set eyes on such noble personages as the Ashworths, but all that had changed when Ivy married Simon de Burgh, Marquess of Harrow.

Holly had first met Colin Ashworth, Earl of Drayton, at the wedding, and on several occasions over the past months. Each instance had been marked with strained silences and awkward pleasantries that left her perplexed and certain the man held her in small regard. Then there had been that last encounter, only a few weeks ago. Her insides fluttered at the memory of how they had found themselves alone in Ivy's morning room one day. The earl had drawn her to the window overlooking the gardens, had stood closer to her than he ever had before, and spoken softly in her ear. For a moment Holly's limbs had turned to molten jelly, for something in his stance, his manner, his very hesitation, had led her to think perhaps he was going to . . .

She dismissed the memory with a quirk of her lips. He had merely asked if she knew the variety of a certain box hedge edging the gazebo, which she had not.

Victoria cocked her hip in a decidedly unqueenly gesture and set a hand at her waist. “Well? What do you think of him?”

“The earl is a . . . a courteous gentleman. Well informed on numerous topics of conversation . . .”

“No, no, not Colin Ashworth. We'll get back to him. I mean the colt.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Er . . . he appears very well proportioned. Glossy coat . . . bright eyes . . . perspiring moderately from his exercise . . . good muscle tone. His fetlocks are sturdy, his gait steady. He carries his head high and . . .” With thumb and forefinger she raised the colt's top lip. He tried to snap at her and she pulled her hand out of his reach. “His teeth are even and a good color. I'd say he is top rate. A fine animal and exactly what one would expect of the Ashworth stock.”

Frowning, William bent his grizzled head and dropped his gaze to his feet. Before Holly could fathom the reason for that odd reaction, Victoria huffed and waved a gloved hand in the air. “Yes, yes, he promises to make a champion racehorse someday. But is he the most extraordinary of horses? Does he surpass all others of his ilk? Does he . . .” She moved beside Holly, reached out to stroke the colt's nose, and said in a hush, “Does he fill you with a sense of awe?”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Victoria's arm swung down to her side. “I thought not. And that is because this is not the same colt the Duke of Masterfield presented to me.
This
horse”—she jerked her chin at the animal—“is an imposter. Switched, possibly while William and the other grooms were exercising my horses in the Great Park.”