The Marquess and Miss Davies (10 page)

Carys looked at her, horrified. “Never say that! Never say that again!”

Isolde laughed. “Oh, very well, but—”

“‘Tramping around in the countryside’ indeed! And to think I ever believed he had one
bit
of personal interest in me!” said Carys. She was returning her habit to the wardrobe in such a manner that one might think she was angry with that article of clothing.

“I don’t think the gentleman has that much sense,” said Isolde.

 “‘Tis lowering!”

“It is not possible to be lowered by such a creature as Mr Torvald.”

Carys turned to look at her twin for a long moment—and burst out laughing. “You are—”

“—quite correct. Aren’t I always?”

The ‘Torvald affair’, as Isolde called it, did not affect Carys’s spirits for long, and the casual observer would hardly have guessed there was anything amiss. But Isa knew that her sister was still frustrated and bored with London; the long walks in Green Park had been supplanted by long rides, which was an improvement—Alcaeus could certainly outrun any menace to her sister’s health—but no solution.

Carys had gone back to refusing all invitations and Isa, who had already ordered a second riding habit and a new saddle for Jesse, had nothing left with which to bribe her. And the marquess had not yet appeared in Hyde Park. Isa would need to speak with Benjamin Harcourt soon.

* * * *

One afternoon Lord Brabury paid a visit to Cardingham House and presented Carys with a copy of his latest volume of poetry. The book was slim, but the exciting news—which he conveyed to Miss Davies with something like awe at the enormity of his good fortune—was that it had been published by Thomas Egerton with only a few of the expenses to be covered by the poet himself.

“Can you imagine!” said Lord Brabury. “He does not charge me for the whole of the paper and ink!”

Carys nodded, and began to read.

“In softest night

I imagine the whisper of fingertips against—”

She stopped after a minute or two, blushing.

“Lord Brabury—”

“Have we not settled on first names?”

“Tobias—” She wasn’t sure how to continue.

He smiled, expectantly.

“Is this not rather forward in, ah, language?”

“Yes, but notice,” said Lord Brabury, “‘tis all dream and metaphor! Nothing objectionable, Mr Egerton assures me, and he has written only this morning that several copies have been
purchased
!”

Miss Davies closed the cover of the book and set it down carefully on the settee. She and Lord Brabury were to ride out, but she could not leave the volume here, for Lady Davies to chance upon. Fortunately Isa popped her head in at that moment.

“Still here?”

“We shall leave in a moment. Come with us.”

“I would only slow you down.”

“Isa—”

“Hmm?” Isolde had entered the salon and was availing herself of one of Cook’s scones.

“This is Lord Brabury’s new book of poetry. Do you think ... do you think you might take it up to our room?”

Something in Carys’s tone may have warned Isolde; she took the small volume without comment and left.

* * * *

Lord Brabury’s book—which was entitled
Noble Reverie
—became a small sensation in London society that year. No-one wanted to admit they had read it, and everyone had. Gentlemen winked at the mention of
poetry
, ladies exclaimed, and Carys and Isolde gave each other fits of giggles reading aloud to each other, the one declaiming each verse with the appropriate intonation and gestures while the other wiped away tears of laughter.

“He
was
a good poet!” Carys insisted.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

* * * *

That evening the long-awaited word arrived that Lady Reggie had been safely delivered of a son. Their mother fell into tears of joy, and the entire household rejoiced. Carys and Isolde began immediately to make plans to visit Pencarrow, but for once their mother had the more sensible thought.

“Give Lady Regina and your brother a few weeks to adjust to the newcomer,” she told her daughters. “They will tell you when it is time.”

The morning dawned cool and bright and very early, as ‘twas by now late in the spring. Carys snuck out of the bedroom—Isolde had taken to worrying every time she set foot outside the house, it seemed—and down to the stables. Jesse and Alcaeus nickered in welcome. She woke the boy, and together they managed to outfit Alcaeus with a hunting saddle.

“Miss?”

“‘Tis barely past six,” she told him. “And I am tired of riding like a lady.”

Jeffers would have protested—he took considerable trouble over the reputation of his young ladies, when they were on a horse, and especially when the master was gone—but the boy adored both Carys and Isolde and knew little of
ton
conventions. Alcaeus was soon ready, and she managed to scramble onto the stallion’s back with the aid of the stall railings. The boy threw her the reins and she clucked softly, feeling the weight of London slip from her shoulders even before they had left the stable grounds.

Carys had first thought of going as far as Richmond Park, but decided that sitting astride was perhaps enough of a mutiny for one day. Well, sitting astride and giving the stallion his head. A nice long gallop was exactly what she needed, and if London society took issue, she simply didn’t care.

* * * *

She and Alcaeus trotted north on Park Lane, past Upper Grosvenor Street, past Upper Brook Street and Green Street, toward the Cumberland gate at the northeast corner of the park. The streets were already full of bustle and noise; carts and people going about their business, none of whom paid her any mind. The minding would come from the lords and ladies of society, but Carys had hopes that few of them were about at this hour.

Although—hadn’t Benjamin said something about Lord Leighton frequenting Hyde Park? Isolde claimed that he lived on the west end of Sovereign Street, which was just to the north. But surely such a man-about-town wouldn’t be awake at this hour. Carys ignored the small twinge of disappointment. She smoothed her skirt, feeling the fine velvet under her fingertips.

Her costume was a design of her own, taken only a sennight ago to the modiste. ‘Twas a fitted jacket of heavy jacquard over a wide velvet skirt, neither unusual for a riding habit, but this skirt was split in the middle; doubled, if you will. Madame had raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and the outfit had been delivered the evening before, fortunately while Isolde was at some musicale or another. It draped over the saddle quite nicely, and if one did not look too closely, if one saw Carys from only one side, say, and at a distance, it might not be immediately obvious that she was astride at all.

* * * *

She reached the gate; the Reservoir and gravel pit were to the south, but Carys headed west, intending to cross over Hyde Park bridge into the Kensington gardens, a more wooded and secluded area. Once inside the park proper the noise of London receded and the air became noticeably fresher. She clucked Alcaeus to a trot and tried to imagine she was back in Cornwall, flying up the side of Kilmar Tor on her beloved Leopold, the stallion’s neck outstretched and clods of turf erupting from beneath his hooves. She tried to imagine the Hyde Park geese—waddling, overstuffed creatures—as the wild geese of the Bodmin moors, circling high overhead.

She spurred Alcaeus lightly. The horse hesitated a moment, as if he couldn’t believe his good luck.

Then he ran.

 ‘Twas a few minutes of glorious, heart-pounding freedom. ‘Twas something, here in London, to feel it again. Laughter burbled in her throat. She threw back her head and almost shouted in her joy. They raced along the north border of the park, parallel to the turnpike. A few trees flew by, and suddenly a hedge was in front of them. She felt the horse gather its hindquarters, she kept her head up and released the bit—

The stallion leaped, a jump that seemed to go on for hours, and they cleared the hedge with so little trouble it might not have been there at all. They continued for a while at a canter until Carys decided ‘twas time to give Alcaeus a short rest. The horse made it clear that slowing down was not his idea. He pranced and fought the reins until she gave them a smart tug.

“A walk will do for now, thank you very much.”

He nickered in what Miss Davies imagined to be grudging consent.

Sovereign Street. So close to the park that one could be there in the space of minutes. Carys thought she had been on the street once or twice, and tried to remember the homes, tried to recall one that might be large and grand enough for a marquess. But nothing came to mind.

He would certainly still be asleep. That was what the
ton
did. They slept, and they partied, and they drank.

Alcaeus nickered again.

“I agree,” said Carys.

And they were off. The stallion gathered speed, neck outstretched, until he was running flat out. The sound of hooves—the rhythm of the muscles underneath her gathering and exploding with each stride—was as familiar to her as her own breath. She settled into the motion, felt her body make its own adjustments without effort or thought.

Without thinking of anything at all.

I could do this forever. I do not need to marry. I will return to Pencarrow, and be happy.

Running for her life. And then—

A man’s voice, unexpected and very close.

“Hang on!”

What?

“Don’t worry! I’ll catch you!”

And then
he
was at her side, on an animal even larger than Alcaeus, the two horses thundering across the grass stride for stride, and he was reaching—

“What are you doing? No!”

But the wind blew her words away as her mount sensed a challenge and galloped faster. The Marquess of Clare was perilously off-balance, extending his hand for her own reins. If she pulled Alcaeus aside at that moment—

Dear Lord, he would fall. The man would break his neck.

Another dozen strides, and Carys was able to convince Alcaeus that he really should slow down, but it wasn’t yet enough. A dangerous combination, two stallions neck for neck, and now Lord Leighton grabbed again for the reins but her mount, frustrated and annoyed at the interloper, chose that moment to misbehave. Alcaeus turned abruptly and reared up and—unprepared—she was falling, falling—

 Fallen. Everything went black.

* * * *

Carys later learned that she had been unconscious for only a few seconds; a frantic time for the marquess nevertheless. He jumped from his mount without thought for either horse, and knelt on the ground at her side, aghast.

Her own memory was the sense of being held as the blackness receded. There was a faint, masculine scent—

“Miss Davies. Miss Davies.”

“Alcaeus,” she murmured.

“That animal? He’s—”

She felt a slight shift as he turned around. “He’s right over there, none the worse for wear. Having a bit of the lovely Hyde Park grass.”

She sighed. Something hurt. Her arm—

And suddenly she was completely awake, and completely aware of what had happened, and where she was. And who was holding her.

Carys sat up. “Oh!”

“Miss Davies, please—”

“What were you thinking?” she demanded. “Why on earth did you do that?”

A short, aggrieved silence. “Do what? Save your life? And what possessed you to ride that devil’s mount?”

He had some nerve, thought Carys. “That devil’s mount, as you say, is a perfectly well-behaved—”

“Pah! He was utterly out of control, and heading for—”

“He was certainly
not
out of control!” But her voice broke, to her embarrassment. Her shoulder was throbbing, and she felt something warm and wet trickle down her arm.

“He was not out of control,” she repeated, more quietly.

“He is hands too large for a rider of your size. I cannot imagine what your brother was thinking when—”

“My brother!” This was the outside of enough. “My brother! What does he have to do with your nearly running me down and—”

“I beg your pardon! You were seconds away from falling off that ... that animal.”

“I most certainly was not!”

“And furthermore—”

“I will have you know, your lordship,” said Carys, “that I have ridden faster, and harder, and longer than you have
ever
ridden in this ill-begotten park.” She had meant to sound resolute and in control, but the pain in her right arm made it difficult to concentrate. Her left fingers felt along the fabric of her jacket; yes, ‘twas torn, drat it, and the beautiful jacquard would need to be repaired. Madame
la modiste
would be most annoyed.

“
Miss Davies
,” said the marquess, suddenly. He was looking, in dismay, at her fingers. Which were covered in blood.

Carys’s eyes opened wide and she felt a roaring in her ears. “Oh,” she said weakly.

“I will bring you at once to Clare Manor and call for a doctor.”

“No. No,” she attempted, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t be a ninny. If you can manage to hold on, Tantevy can carry us both.”

Blood was now dripping from her elbow into the grass. Carys stared at it with a kind of horrified fascination, and felt herself grow a bit faint.

“Alcaeus,” she said abruptly, remembering.

“I’ll send the groom for him.”

Miss Davies did not like leaving her mount. But to traverse the London streets without a firm grip on the reins—no, it could not be done, her horse would be even the worse for it. The marquess helped her to her feet, where she made every effort to stand without swaying.

“Perhaps—” began the marquess.

“If we are to go,” said Carys, “let us do so.”

She managed to get one foot into a stirrup and then felt herself thrown up into the seat. A weight settled behind her and warm arms went around her waist.

“I will get blood on your clothing,” said Carys. “Perhaps—”

“Hush,” said his lordship.