The Proud Viscount (9 page)

“Oh, no. Not until you’ve learned that Ascot is perfectly blameless, as is his rider.”

Jane’s eyes swept to his face. “Blameless of what?”

“Of anything improper, either of us,” he assured her. He reached out and laid a comforting hand on Gingerbread’s neck, speaking encouragingly to her in a firm, affectionate voice. The mare’s ears flicked back and forth and her erratic tred settled into an ordinary trot. Ascot nudged the mare with his great black muzzle, and she swung her head in a gesture that looked remarkably coy, but she maintained an even pace.

“You see? She’s quite used to him now.” He sat back in his saddle and considered Jane. “I thought you went to your room with the headache.”

“I felt better after a while.”

“You were annoyed with me at dinner.”

Jane didn’t feel civil enough at the moment to deny it. “You were very tiresome. I thought we’d passed the stage where you found it necessary to be cool and distant.”

“Your aunt pursued the subject of our marriage again.”

Jane shrugged. “What difference does that make? She will discover in time that we mean what we say, that we have no intention of marrying. You needn’t be rude to me to prove it.”

For a moment he looked as though he meant to say something important. He leaned toward her, the line between his brows becoming pronounced. Then he studied her face and straightened. “I beg your pardon. It won’t happen again.”

Feeling cheated of his confidence, Jane spoke with an edge to her voice. “You had given me the impression Mrs. Fulton was not an entirely respectable woman. Do you spend a great deal of time in her company?”

“I never said she wasn’t respectable.”

“Rossmere, let’s not bandy words. Your actions indicated that it would be improper for me to strike up an acquaintance with Mrs. Fulton. Is that untrue?”

"No."

“But it’s perfectly acceptable for you to renew your acquaintance with her.”

“I called on her as a matter of curiosity, Lady Jane. Nothing more.” Rossmere’s jaw was firmly set. Wisps of his black hair lifted in the breeze. His blue eyes were narrowed with annoyance.

“You think I don’t have any right to question your motives, I gather. But I would remind you that as a guest at Willow End your behavior is a reflection on my father. If Mrs. Fulton is a less-than-respectable female, your visits are certain to be construed most unfavorably by the villagers. On the other hand, if her reputation here is all that it should be, your visits could destroy it.”

“You’re too kind to offer me lessons in propriety, Lady Jane. I’m well aware of the need to honor local custom in the matter. I never even went indoors with her this evening."

Jane sighed. “I’m sure you’ll be circumspect, Lord Rossmere.”

“What makes you think I could afford to have a dalliance with Mrs. Fulton?”

It hadn’t occurred to Jane, until that moment, that anyone would charge Rossmere to daIly with her. Surely even mistresses made exceptions for handsome, warm-blooded men? She found the viscount regarding her quizzically and turned her head away.

“You’re quite out, you know, if you think such women indulge in acts of charity,” he said, amusement lifting his lips.

“I’m sure it’s improper for me to think of such women at all.”

He laughed. “Probably.”

She felt more at ease with him again and they rode in silence until the buildings of Willow End appeared off to the right. “There’s a fair at Littleton for the next day or two. I’m to judge the marmalades, jams, jellies, and preserves. I do it every year; they count it a great honor. There are the usual entertainments and stalls. Aunt Mabel won’t come along, as she hates fairs. And there’s to be racing, which might hold a special interest for you. One of Ascot’s colts is running. Would you care to accompany me?”

“One of Ascot’s colts? I had no idea Richard had bred him. Is the horse fast?”

“If gossip is to be credited, there’s been nothing faster, save his father, in the history of the county.”

Rossmere regarded her with a thoughtful frown. “Would you mind if I rode Ascot there, beside the carriage?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I can’t think of anything I’d prefer doing.”

“Excellent. We’ll leave directly after breakfast.”

The fairgrounds outside Littleton had been used for the August fair for decades. There were tents, booths, and stalls selling toys and trinkets, gingerbread and beer. The weather was perfect, cooler than the last week had been, but sunny, with a light breeze blowing. As usual, there were dwarfs and giants and a magnificent menagerie as well as an educated pig and a man-monkey. Hawkers cried their ballads, showmen readied their Punch and Judy entertainments. Alongside the bookstalls and skittle alleys, pie men and fruit sellers strolled with their wares.

Rossmere left Jane in a booth whose shelves were lined with a multitude of glass jars marked with each maker’s name—apple jam, apricot marmalade, black-current jelly, damson jam, gooseberry jelly, greengage jam, quince marmalade. He didn’t envy her the necessity of tasting each of them and judging which was best. But he forgot about the booth full of jars the moment he moved with the crowd toward the temporary racetrack.

The Willow End coachman, who had driven Lady Jane, was already there, studying the horseflesh parading in the area. Rossmere leaned against the railing next to Barnes and asked, “Have you a fancy to bet on one of them?”

“Ay, the brown filly. Know the owner, Jeremy Davenport.”

“Which one of them is Ascot’s colt?”

Barnes pointed to the far end of the enclosure. “The black colt, there by the railing. But he’s untried, milord. Don’t know that I’d sport my blunt on him. Never in a race before, see. Don’t matter that they run like hell if they’ve never had to run with other horses.”

Rossmere studied the colt. Though the horse certainly had the stature of his father, there was no telling if he had the strength and the staying power. “Is it too late to join the field?” he asked.

Barnes’ head swung up instantly. “You ... never! With the wild one? Has he ever raced before?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Is it too late?”

“You can sign up till half hour before post,” the coachman admitted.

A large notice posted beside the track announced that the purse for the race was fifty pounds. But that wasn’t the only inducement Rossmere had. He remembered Richard telling him he had always wanted to race Ascot, had in fact given him that name because of his plan. The problem for Richard had been finding someone to ride the unruly horse. Rossmere had no doubt about who would ride Ascot. He wouldn’t let anyone else do so on a bet.

The entry fee was five shillings. The viscount paid his money to a man who noted his tonnish dress with some apprehension. The fellow scratched his grizzled head energetically, saying, “ ‘Tis a hard ride, sir. The young ‘uns don’t pay much mind to keeping the order.”

“You needn’t fear for me,” Rossmere assured him. “My horse will keep a way clear for himself.”

As he walked away, he decided not to bring Ascot to the enclosure until just before the race. It was true enough that he would fidget among the other horses, perhaps even rebel at being forced to wait with them at the starting line. Rossmere considered his strategy as he drifted around the fairground, buying gingerbread and brandy balls, a sausage on a stick and a peach and an ice. He watched three jugglers and bought an old book about Bath for Jane with the last three shillings he had on him.

Now he really would have to win the race, he thought grimly. There was very little left in his drawer at Willow End.

He decided that he wouldn’t tell her about the race. Not only would she likely disapprove, but he understood that the judging would take the better part of her day. He passed the booth with its rows of jars on his way to get Ascot. Jane stood with two other women, distinguished by her elegant height. Rossmere paused to watch her, unobserved, as she chatted with her fellow judges. He was struck by this view of her: she was teasing about something, her eyes dancing with merriment. He had thought her rather stiff and dowdy when he arrived at Willow End a week ago. How was it that he now thought her not only genuinely warm, but devilishly attractive as well?

With an impatient shrug he took himself off to the stable where he’d left Ascot. There was sufficient time before the race to walk Ascot in the enclosure with the other horses, but Rossmere wasn’t sure it was a wise idea. Better, perhaps, to keep his half-wild animal as far away as possible until the last minute.

His decision to lead Ascot around the long way to the racetrack only avoided the crowd for a short while. As they encountered more and more people hurrying past, Ascot began to prance with nervousness. Holding him firmly by the bridle, Rossmere walked him quickly past the swinging rides set up for children. Ascot snorted and tossed his head, his eyes rolling wildly at the unfamiliar activity. When a pebble from a slingshot stung his hindquarters, he very nearly knocked the viscount over with his bucking.

Matters were not proceeding well, Rossmere decided when he had managed to bring Ascot into the enclosure. The other horses made him even more jittery. Rossmere swung up into the saddle and rode his horse away from the most heavily congested area. But there were horses all around the enclosure, and Ascot continued to exhibit his displeasure. Rossmere found it uphill work keeping his mount from exhausting himself with plunging away from the other animals.

It was clear that Ascot wasn’t going to line up easily with the other animals. There were almost a dozen horses in the race, and most of their riders were whooping and shouting with excitement. Ascot’s ears were flat back against his head now and he lunged when Rossmere directed him toward the starting line, again and again.

A less-persistent man might have abandoned the job at that point. Rossmere motioned a lad over to him and said, “Tell them I’ll hold him about twenty feet back from the others, but that we’re still in the field.”

“That’s no way to run a race,” the boy insisted, disgusted. He spat into the dirt and added, “You won’t never be able to catch up with them.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Rossmere said just as he caught sight of not one but two familiar faces in the crowd that lined the railings. He might have known that Lady Jane’s coachman would pass along word of his entry to her. But he hadn’t expected to see Madeline Fulton, in a dashing red carriage dress with a red parasol, standing just a few feet away from her.

Chapter 8

Barnes had sent a message with Tilly, Jane’s maid. At first Jane had thought the girl must be mistaken, until she excused herself from the judging for a while to check out the story. Standing by the railing, watching him try to control the wild horse, she had felt a tremor of fear. What could have possessed Rossmere to enter a horse race at a country fair? Both he and the horse were inexperienced and would very likely do an injury to themselves. Even if he was able to forget, she never did. Richard had died from a fall off Ascot.

She had only mentioned the race because of Ascot’s colt being in it. Her thought had been that Rossmere would enjoy seeing the colt run, not that he would decide to enter the race himself.

The local people were amused by Rossmere’s attempts to bring Ascot in line. The resentment they might have felt that a viscount who was merely visiting in the area had decided to join the race was not evident. They made laughing remarks about his horse and his capabilities, assuming that the position he was forced to take would necessarily mean he would finish the race dead last.

Jane doubted it. She had seen Ascot run. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it, the other horses disturbed him. His naturally reckless temperament was obvious to everyone. People had begun to whisper that it was Richard’s horse. She heard Richard’s name on the wind, bandied about in an almost superstitious way, with people ducking their heads as they spoke it.

Eyes turned her way. She stood a little taller, a little prouder, her hands folded together behind her back. Let them stare at her. They often had when Richard was alive, thinking her extremely odd to have attached herself to a madman. Perhaps, when she was very young, it had bothered her to be so unkindly judged by all and sundry. With age had come a calmness, a composure that was more of a rebellion than any of them suspected, because it was a rejection of their values rather than an ignorance of them.

But she was furious with Rossmere. Not because he had put her in this position of being discussed again by her inquisitive neighbors. Rather because she questioned his motives in entering the race. Jane had seen Mrs. Fulton nearby and had noticed the widow waving gaily to Rossmere.

Reason tugged uselessly at her mind. Everyone was there urging someone on, and Rossmere was the only one Mrs. Fulton knew. Yes, and she was clapping her hands with delight and calling out his name. How had she even known he would be here today? Jane hated to consider the possibility that he had returned to her cottage sometime during the night. Better to imagine that he had run into her at the fair and disclosed his plan. It would certainly be an incentive for her to cheer him on.

Just at that moment Rossmere caught her eye. He tipped his head to her, a wide grin spread on his face. Oh, definitely, the gesture was for her. As close as Mrs. Fulton was, it could not have been meant for anyone else. Even Jane’s nearest companion, one of the other jam judges, remarked on it in her own particular fashion.

“Did you see that? How very forward of the fellow, I must say. Do you know him, Lady Jane?”

“Yes, indeed! It’s Lord Rossmere, who is staying with us at Willow End. I believe this is his idea of a joke.”

“My, my! Imagine. How very odd in him, to be sure. And isn’t that the horse Richard Bower owned?”

“It’s Ascot. One of his colts is running in the race. I’m sure that’s what put the idea in Lord Rossmere’s head. The black colt, on the end there.”

“A proper beauty,” Miss Caruthers admitted. “Much better behaved than his lordship’s horse.”

The crack of the starting pistol interrupted any further attempt at conversation. Jane couldn’t tell how she felt any longer. The anger, the fright, the amusement, all seemed to roil inside her until all she wanted to do was be back in her room at home, reading a nice, undemanding book. But her eyes were glued to the race. Almost immediately the mass of horses surged forward, jockeying for position. Far behind the main bunch was Ascot.