Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (14 page)

“Spill it, Bobby.”

“…that I was to make sure you ate it so you’ll have a little strength,” he said quietly. “Said she made just what you like.”

He stared down at one boiled egg, two pieces of
bread, an apple, and a small pot of tea.
Finally
. She listened after all. He hesitated for a long moment before he ate and drank without a drop of remorse for the first time in his miserable life. He hadn’t eaten in over a day and this wouldn’t make a difference in his weight tomorrow other than to give him some small amount of strength, something the last meal she had forced down his gullet had done.

After, Rowland put away the drawing of the racecourse and bedded down in the corner of Vespers’s stall. He’d be damned before he’d let anyone else watch over her. Bloody Tattersall and his underhanded maneuver. He yawned so widely, his jaw cracked.

The edge of dawn dashed across the evening sky, chasing night away with its gold-and rose-tinted chariots. Elizabeth dressed in haste, grabbing the most important item—the black wig.

This was complete and utter madness. But for the first time in weeks she felt free of all the bindings of her wretched life—and certain she was right. She could do this. She knew she could. Her father would be proud of her. That, in and of itself, was enough.

And really, it was the only way. She had so little to lose. She had tried patience and demure living, and it had gotten her nowhere. It felt so good to act, and it felt even better to help someone.

It was amazing how easy it had been to get Michael and all of Manning’s men in the stable to do her bidding. All those hours in the kitchen had stood her well. The men would have dug a pathway to China if she had asked.

And Michael. For some odd reason, he seemed even
more eager than she. After she had escaped Pymm’s cloying words and touches throughout the royal ball, Michael had spent an hour with her discussing strategy, the other horses, riders, and above all, when to make the final push. She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that Michael and Mr. Lefroy would not allow this if they didn’t think she had an excellent chance of success. Each told her to trust Vespers, the most talented mare they’d ever seen. She was to stay far on the outside, avoid any hint of danger.

She refused to consider for a moment what Rowland would do to them all after the fact. It was too terrifying. And she was depending on success to soften his ire.

Now if she could just count on Sarah to play her part in the charade. It would be the last time she would ask anything of her.

Rowland struggled to grasp onto consciousness. What in hell was wrong with him? He cracked open his peepers and just beyond him, a shaft of sunlight filtered through the stall door, piercing the darkness and illuminating the dust motes hanging in the air.

“Morning, Master.” Lefroy’s groggy voice filled his brain.

Using all his effort, he turned his head slightly. Something was very wrong. It was too bright, and his head felt like three stone. Lefroy lay sprawled against the other side of the stall.

He had the notion that there was something very important on which he needed to focus. Something vital. His mouth tasted dry and bitter. “What in hell,” he grunted.

“Laudanum,” Lefroy said, lying back down with a small groan.

And then the truth rushed to his mind like a furious tempest.
Good God
. It was Ladies Day at Royal Ascot—the Gold Cup race. He swung to his feet, swaying terribly. His head swam. “Where the bloody hell is everyone?” he rasped. “What time is it?”

“About eleven—at a guess, sir. They’re at the course.”

With the vilest curse imaginable he wrenched his body forward. “Old man, you are relieved. Without notice. Hell, where’s my bloody whip? I’ll thrash you until you regret the day you first saw my face.”

“I already do, sir,” Lefroy replied with a wan smile. “Most days, that is.”

God, his head was as muzzy as a gin addict’s, his balance completely off. What had Lefroy said before?
“Laudanum,”
he whispered to himself.

“I think she put it in your tea last night.”

His mind was ratcheting back into some semblance of order. Only one person…a thousand thoughts cascaded into place.
The bloody little fool
. She’d break her neck.

He staggered to the edge of the stall and called to the nearest hand. His orders were so coarse and his tone so black, the devil himself would have jumped to attention.

It took less than a half hour for Rowland to ride the six miles from Windsor to the course at Ascot. His head traveled a mere quarter mile behind him. It took nearly half as long again to negotiate the crowd of fashionable fribble crowding the royal enclosure. Wasp-waisted gentlemen strolled in formal wear with
ladies draped on their arms. The bloody females tried to outdo one another with ridiculous hats and gowns of every hue and shape.

The stands were full to bursting with more than ten score of spectators determined to see who would take home the prestigious prize.

He grabbed a gentleman’s arm without preamble. “The Gold Cup,” he sputtered, out of breath, “has it gone?”

The gentleman pulled away from him with a dark glare. “I would thank you to not—”

“Bloody, sodding hell. Has it gone?” he shouted.

The female on his arm looked him over with a giggle. “It’s about to begin, Mr. Manning. Look…” She pointed toward the starting stand, where a dozen or more horses jockeyed for position.

He began to cut through the crowd using all his remaining strength. His eyes scanned the lineup, searching among the riders for the dark blue and gold colors of his livery. He found Vespers first, her form a half a hand taller than the rest of the field.

As he zigzagged past the last stragglers in the throng, he finally allowed himself to see what he had known he would find.

His gut fell to his feet. The most hideous black wig, now cut short, peeked out from under the traditional jockey cap. The imbecile. She was going to be killed.

He shouted but instinctively knew it was too late. The flag dropped. The crush of race horses sprang forward en masse. Cursing a blue streak, he dashed to the starting stand, his eyes never wavering from the woman whose neck he would break if she didn’t manage to do it on her own in the next few minutes.

Clenching his fists, he reached the two men he would later torture privately with his own hands.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a venomous spew.

The Duke of Helston and the Earl of Wallace turned their heads in unison and had the good sense to take a step away from him.

“You didn’t forget that pistol, did you?” the earl said with a hint of fear to his ducal partner in crime.

“I wouldn’t waste your time worrying,” Helston replied with false assurance. “Manning doesn’t have that damned murderous whip in hand.”

“I always knew peers were dicked in the nob. But…you are both beyond every expectation, allowing her to ride. I—oh, for godsakes, please tell me she isn’t carrying a whip.” He was paralyzed with fear as he watched her battling in the rear of the pack.

“Of course not,” Michael said. “What do you take us for? Lefroy and I told her everything she needed to know.”

“What about the part about my locking her in a stall, and feeding her hay and water for the rest of her life?”

He felt a dig in his ribs and half turned to see the Dowager Duchess of Helston. “I can’t see anything. Lift me up, Mr. Manning.”

“Ata,” the duke groaned. “You’re supposed to be in the stands distracting General Pymm with Sarah, Wymith, and Grace.”

“He refuses to be distracted. And I refuse to be anywhere near John Brown while he sits beside that—that—”

“Now, Ata,” the earl said. “He doesn’t care a whit about the Countess of Home. I keep telling you that
you mustn’t let Mr. Brown see an inch of your anger. He’s testing you. He’s—”

“Oh, bloody hell, shut up,” Rowland shouted. “Oh God—”

A thousand people gasped as they watched Vespers stumble, and then right herself, in the famous long, climbing section of the course.

“She’s lost a stirrup…” he breathed. “She’s going to fall. She’s going to finish last,
and
dead.”

“Look, she’s retrieved it,” Michael replied. “Stop mother henning. She’s closing with the pack.”

The tight loop of the track loomed. It was the one place the tall mare had to hang back. The only section she had a prayer of making up ground was in the long, straight stretch at the end. But apparently that witch, Elizabeth Ashburton, had not a clue. His eyes bugging out, he watched her surge toward the dangerous inside. Miraculously, Vespers raised her tail and unleashed her hindquarters, squeezing between the rail and a small chestnut who had begun to flag. Vespers overtook half the field in the maneuver.

A roar of approval echoed from the massive stand. There was less than a mile left.

Rowland tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and could not move. He couldn’t hear another bloody thing as he watched. All he could see was a stand of raised whips flaying the air.

He clenched something and realized someone had slipped a small spyglass into his hand. He raised it to his eye, his hand fluttering like a damned flag. And in that moment he spied the terrified expression of the woman he could not live without.

Oh God.

“S
he’s making headway.” His brother’s voice was filled with awe.

Ata giggled with glee and jumped up and down like a girl of six and ten.

“I’ll say,” the Duke of Helston added, without his usual blasé drawl. “And in fine form.”

“Except that wig,” Michael said with a crazy shout of laughter.

Half a mile. And then he foresaw catastrophe. She was three from the lead now, neck and neck with Tattersall’s gray gelding, and easing slightly ahead. In a flash, Tatt’s jockey raised his whip and brought it down on Vespers’s rump.

The mare kicked out, allowing the gray to surge forward. Worse, Elizabeth’s balance was lost. Rowland’s eyes nearly peeled out of his head. He was witnessing death.

His own.

Her breath caught, her mouth as dry as the desert and filled with its grit. She held on to Vespers’s mane with a death grip and she willed herself to stay on. Her legs felt numb as she clamped them as hard as
she could around Vespers’s barrel while she tried to regather a proper seat. “Steady,” she gasped more to herself than to the mare. Inch by inch she righted herself even though it cost her in speed.

It was almost impossible to see past the flying hooves of the small pack in front of her. Two, maybe three horses stood between her and the final stretch. In the large dip of the course she kept to the outside, knowing she could not chance another encounter with a jockey’s whip. If she was to have a chance, she would have to stay clear of others and let Vespers do the work.

At that moment the jockey who’d had the audacity to whip the mare turned and grinned at her.

Elizabeth’s fury nearly blinded her. “Come on, girl,” she gritted out. The horse responded like an arrow let loose from a bow with the wind behind it.

Her hands rocked with the ground-churning motions of the mare as Vespers bore down on two horses and passed them at the start of the straight stretch.

This was her last chance. Elizabeth’s heart was in her dry throat as she urged Vespers forward. As she closed the gap between Vespers and Tattersall’s gray in front of her, Rowland’s face flashed in her mind. “Do it for him, girl…Please.” It was as if the mare understood her, and they rocketed forward.

Elizabeth was still urging Vespers on when she discerned that the roar in her ears was not from galloping horses but rather from the crowd’s cheers. She dared to glance to the rear and saw the other horses far behind her. The race had ended a full furlong ago.

At least Vespers was smart enough to know it, for Elizabeth was frozen. The mare slowed to a trot, her
sides heaving, and then came to a standstill as someone caught her reins.

Elizabeth looked down, nearly blind.
His
gaze met hers. Gone was the usual blank mask he wore. Pure, wild fury overflowed his luminous eyes. As others reached them in the middle of the track, it was his hands that gripped her waist and tried to lift her off.

But she was stuck like a burr in shaggy fur, and couldn’t move. “Release your legs,” he said an octave lower and harsher than the excited voices circling them.

Legs?
She had legs? And then she couldn’t stop the trembling.

“Make way,” he barked behind him. She felt him disengaging her boot from the stirrup, and then in one awkward, wrenching movement he pried her from the saddle and placed her on the ground. The track rose up to meet her and he grabbed her about the waist again before she fell. Her legs did not seem to be able to support her. They felt boneless, useless.

“I’ll get her out of here, Manning,” a low voice said, that sounded remarkably like the Duke of Helston.

Elizabeth finally managed a croak of sound. “Did Vespers…did we win?”

“Of course you won,” Michael shouted, his laughter nearly overcoming him.

A blaze of voices rang with congratulations and awe. But there was only one she wanted to hear. The only one who would not speak to her—Rowland.

Instead, he transferred her body to the Duke of Helston. “Take her away from here. Don’t let Pymm find her.”

What should have been the greatest moment in her scandal-riddled life was fast becoming one of her bleakest as the Duke of Helston’s strong arms carried her far from the grandstand, Michael in front of her, hiding her from the curious onlookers. She struggled to see Rowland leading Vespers toward the winner’s green. His back was stiff until the mare nudged her nose under his arm, seeking his praise.

A carriage waited for Elizabeth, and the two lords bundled her inside.

The petite form of the dowager duchess awaited her.

“You’re to go to the Horse-Shoe Cloisters just inside Windsor’s gates,” Michael urged Ata. “The driver knows, and everything’s been arranged.”

When the door closed the deluge of emotion Elizabeth had held tightly within flooded her eyes, threatening to streak down her dirt-caked face.

They were waiting for him when he reached the winner’s green. The corpulent form of the Prince Regent stood slightly in front of General Pymm and the Duke of Wellington. The latter looked like he’d be far more at his ease in a battlefield than milling about this fancy crowd.

“Hear, hear, Manning!” the prince crowed. “Well done, man. Knew you could do it. Although”—and here the prince leaned forward conspiratorially—“I’d cut Pymm a wide berth if I were you. He bet on the wrong man—or woman, if I have the right of it.” The prince winked.

The Duke of Wellington shook his hand without a
word, his usual serious expression gracing the hawk-like face.

“Give him the trophy, Pymm. That’s it, dear boy. You never were a good loser—thank God, for England.”

A small bouquet of flowers was tucked under Vespers’s saddle flap and General Pymm drew close to hand Rowland the Gold Cup, inscribed with the previous winners of the most prestigious race in England’s history. A false smile plastered Pymm’s face, while beads of perspiration lined his brow and ruined the row of blond curls there.

“Good show, Manning,” he said loudly. “Congratulations.”

There was little surprise as the general closed the gap and lowered his voice. “Sorry to inform I won’t require those cavalry horses after all, Manning. Too bad, isn’t it? I should have known a bastard like you wouldn’t be able to understand such simple terms.”

“What’s that, Pymm?” The prince stepped forward.

“Just inviting Mr. Manning to my wedding, Your Majesty.”

“There, I knew you could be gracious in defeat, Pymm,” the prince said with a chuckle. “Now where is that neck-or-nothing little devil of a jockey of yours? Would very much like to meet him—or
her
.”

“Mr. Lefroy’s feeling under the weather, Your Majesty,” Rowland ground out.

The prince’s watery eyes studied him as his jowls waggled. “You can’t fool me,” he murmured loudly enough for Pymm and Wellington to hear. “’Twas
that female you bussed so outrageously at St. George’s, wasn’t it? Damned talented little thing. And here I thought she was just a little mud dab you keep on the sly. You wouldn’t consider sharing, would you?” The prince guffawed as Rowland imagined ten thousand ways to separate Prinny’s head from his rotund form. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Pymm was contemplating the same thing with Rowland’s own noggin.

The Duke of Wellington stepped forward and, with far more pomp and circumstance than either the Prince Regent or Pymm, handed Rowland the purse winnings.

Prinny slapped him on the back. “You must join us at table tonight, man. Everyone will want to hear how you plotted the race.” He winked again. “And I order you to bring your magnificent little jockey so we can celebrate properly. She can sit beside me, since Pymm’s fiancée has so little conversation.”

The general’s face was mottled purple with rage.

Elizabeth wasn’t exactly certain what Ata said to her in the carriage. Her mind was still reeling with images from the race, the roar of the crowd, and Rowland’s furious face as he lifted her from the saddle.

“What are you going to do? What would you like us to do? What shall we tell General Pymm if he saw through your disguise?” Ata flung the questions at her like a seasoned barrister. When the dowager realized Elizabeth was incapable of speech, Ata clucked a few times before a haze of silence settled over them both. Elizabeth could only hear the pumping of her
heart, still racing and skittering at the remembrance of Rowland’s reaction.

She barely glanced at the timber and herringbone brick of the ancient cloister as she was secreted inside. A maid guided Ata and Elizabeth up a tiny winding stair to a small octagonal room where a bath awaited her.

She could feel Ata’s eyes studying her and she looked away. The dowager dismissed the maid.

“I will help you, myself, my dear.”

She couldn’t move.

Ata sighed, and began to unbutton the dark blue and gold jockey’s silks. Elizabeth closed her eyes.

Oh, this was not how she had imagined it would go. She had been sure he would be transported with happiness at the win. It would mean five thousand pounds. Enough to stave off his creditors for a long while.

Ata slipped the hat and wig from her head.

“I can do it,” Elizabeth finally whispered.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was certain you were in shock,” Ata murmured.

“I’m sorry, Ata.”

“Why aren’t you excited? You won! I was never so in awe, my dear. You are the bravest young lady I’ve ever known.”

Elizabeth stepped into the steaming water of the copper tub. “No. I’m the most scandalous.” She sank into the depths, submerging even her head. She wished she could stay in the warm, calming waters. Everything felt like a dream underwater.

Her breath gave up and she rose. Ata applied soap
to her hair and washed away the grime of the race.

“You shouldn’t be doing this, Your Grace.” Elizabeth bowed her head and Ata poured clean water over her head.

“Your Grace?” Ata said with a sigh. “Since when did I give you leave to address me in that formal fashion?”

“I don’t want to pain your hand, Ata.”

“Oh pish,” the dowager murmured.

Elizabeth quickly finished with her bath and rose to accept the linen toweling and robe before settling in a chaise in front of the tiny fire in the austere grate.

Ata picked up a comb and began the tedious task of pulling the tangles from Elizabeth’s huge mass of dripping hair. She stilled the older lady’s fingers. “Please let me do this. My hair is impossible.” Her eyes dropped to Ata’s gnarled hand that was always fisted.

“Botheration,” Ata muttered. “It doesn’t hurt, you know.”

Before she could think, Elizabeth posed the question not one of the ladies in Ata’s secret club had ever dared to ask. “What happened to your hand?” She stopped. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have presumed to—”

“My husband detested music.” Ata paused, her aged face drawn. “And I never played very well, you see.”

It was so rare for the dowager duchess to admit to any fault in her person. Elizabeth turned fully on the chaise to face Ata.

“I played the pianoforte. But my true love was the harp.”

“I remember your mentioning something about that when we were all in Cornwall.”

“It’s a difficult instrument. Makes the most ungodly sounds when ill played.” Ata plucked at her gown awkwardly.

“You don’t have to tell me the story,” Elizabeth whispered.

“No,” Ata said. “I want to tell someone. I never have, you know.”

Elizabeth nodded silently.

“My husband, Luc’s grandfather, had a devil of a temper like most Helstons. But you see,” she said softly, “there was something more behind it. Something in him enjoyed tormenting those weaker than himself. And I never had a complacent nature. I never could back down from a bully. And the duke was that.”

Elizabeth covered Ata’s gnarled hand with her own.

“After John Brown left me waiting for him over the anvil in Scotland the summer I was sixteen…well, I was so furious I agreed, despite many misgivings, to the brilliant match my parents had arranged before we toured the Highlands. It was stupid of me. The duke was well over a foot taller than me and wanted nothing more than the large fortune I brought to the marriage.”

“He hurt you,” Elizabeth murmured.

“As I said, he had an unparalleled temper.” Ata’s black-as-night eyes stared into hers.

Every hair on Elizabeth’s arms rose.

“He forbade me to ever touch the instrument again after he first heard me play. Soon after, he discov
ered me practicing in secret.” Ata looked down at her twisted hand. “He became enraged and knocked down the harp. My hand—fingers—were caught…broken. No surgeon was called. That is why…”

“Oh, Ata,” Elizabeth whispered. “No…”

They both sat in lengthening silence.

“Elizabeth,” Ata said quietly. “I have a confession to make.”

She looked at the older woman with the crown of gray locks braided into submission under her cap.

“I only suggested you marry General Pymm because I thought I sometimes spied a darkness in Rowland Manning’s eyes. The same look my long-dead husband had. Until today, I feared Rowland was a bully—as heartless a blackguard as my husband. And Pymm? Well, while he might be a bit dour, and well pleased with himself, he at least has shown nothing but blind love and devotion to you. But I fear I might be wrong…Am I wrong? Are we all wrong?”

“Why do you think you’re wrong?” Elizabeth asked gently.

“I watched Rowland Manning while he followed the race. I’ve never seen such utter terror on a man’s face before. As if he would not be able to go on living if something happened to you.”

“Ata, I beg your pardon, but it was not anxiety. It was anger.”

Ata tightened her lips. “Allow me to assure you that I know the difference. Mr. Manning faltered, almost fainted dead away, when you lost your balance. Luc and Michael had to hold him back from jumping the rail to run after the pack.”

She had no reason to doubt Ata, but the memory of
Rowland’s face filled with fury countered the dowager’s every word.

“Oh, Eliza, I do wish I could counsel you better. It’s just…well, as of late…actually, ever since Mr. Brown returned from Scotland, I have felt very unsure if I render the best advice.”