by Olivia Drake
“He ain’t used t’ the sidesaddle,” the groom warned, giving Abby a worried frown. “Mind ye keep a firm hand on him, miss. Give him half an inch, and he’ll send ye flyin’.”
Memory thrust her backward in time to see her mother tumbling off Buttercup with a hard thud and then lying on the grass. The scene was so vivid that her resolve very nearly withered. She blinked the awful vision away and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Gripping the pommel, Abby hoisted herself into the saddle. She owned no riding habit, but she was too intent on leashing her fears to trifle over the shocking display of her stockinged legs revealed from mid-calf downward.
Brimstone shied and danced at the unfamiliar weight of her. No sooner had she gripped the reins than she caught one last glimpse of Dawkins’s anxious face before the animal took off at a trot with nary a signal from her.
Unprepared for the quick start, she hung on for dear life. The paddock streamed past and then Brimstone was cantering down the path toward the lake, huffing and snorting like a fiend from the depths of Hades.
A dizzying panic paralyzed Abby. Her heart thudded as fast as the horse’s hoofbeats. What had she been thinking? This was madness. Death surely would strike her at any moment!
Then the animal slowed and his powerful muscles bunched beneath her. As she realized his intention, a cry lodged in her throat. She had a split second in which to brace herself before he reared, his front legs pawing the air.
By some miracle, she managed to maintain her seat. In the midst of the fog of fright, instinct took control of her reactions. She drew firmly on the reins to let him know who was in charge.
With a thud, his hooves hit the ground again. He took off like a shot with her still clinging to the saddle. All of the equine knowledge that she had repressed for so many years came flooding back into her mind. She knew intuitively how to get him under control with a deft tug of the leather ribbons. He was heading the wrong way, and she decisively turned him in an easterly direction.
Max had reminded her that horses could sense a rider’s emotions, and she took several deep breaths to calm her wild heartbeat. Brimstone was still chomping at the bit. Perceiving that a neck-or-nothing gallop across the meadow would allow him to release his pent-up energy, she leaned low over his neck and gave the animal his head. After a mile or so of sprinting, he began to slow considerably, settling into a steady canter.
Her tension began to abate as she rediscovered the pleasure of riding. Relaxation permeated her limbs. For the first time in many years, Abby enjoyed the rush of the wind against her face. A long-lost sense of freedom eddied through her, and she found her confidence building and her spirits brightening. She could scarcely wait to tell Max that he’d been right to encourage her to overcome her nervousness.
Not that he would offer praise.
Today, he was far more likely to flay her with a severe tongue-lashing. He’d be furious that she’d ridden Brimstone. Worse, he’d never forgive her for failing to notice that his sister was being lured into danger by Abby’s niece. The sobering prospect made her spur Brimstone onward.
Drawing on her knowledge of the countryside, she took a shortcut through a spinney that would pare a few minutes off the journey. Within half an hour, she arrived in the village where the match was to be fought. It proved easy to locate the site. She simply followed the large number of country folk pouring over hedges and ditches to a large, open field.
An enormous canvas tent had been erected near a stand of ancient oaks.
The surrounding area was jammed with carriages, carts, and gigs. Grooms lounged here and there, and a few were trying to peek under the canvas, only to be chased away by officials. A rumble of excited voices emanated from inside the tent.
Leery of testing Brimstone’s reaction to the crowd, she reined to a halt beyond the outer fringes of the gathering. She gingerly slid down and secured the reins to a stout sapling. The hard ride had settled Brimstone. After a few desultory tosses of his glossy black mane, he lowered his head to crop a patch of grass.
Grateful to have arrived in one piece, Abby shook out her crumpled gown and stuffed a few wind-whipped strands of hair back into her bonnet. Then she made haste toward the tent, zigzagging a path through the congestion of vehicles.
Never in her life had she prayed more fervently that she was wrong. That the girls had not come here, after all. That they had merely gone for a ride and she had leaped to the wrong conclusion. In such an instance, she would be extremely happy to return to Rothwell Court with no one the wiser.
Just then, however, she noticed a pair of horses tethered to a tree. One was Lady Gwendolyn’s gray mare, Pixie. The other was Valerie’s chestnut gelding.
Chapter 23
When Abby approached the flap of the tent, a hulking brute barred her way. He had the build of a fighter beneath his rough garb, and a hard-nosed face with beady black eyes. “Shilling,” he said, thrusting out a grubby paw.
She blinked at him in consternation. It had never occurred to her that there might be an entry fee. “I’m afraid I haven’t any money.”
“Then away wid ye.”
He reached past her to snatch a coin from the man behind her, who quickly ducked into the tent. Other late arrivals crowded her from the rear, shoving and grumbling at her to move out of the way, that the match was about to begin.
She would not allow herself to be turned off. Not after that bruising ride. And certainly not with Valerie and Lady Gwen somewhere inside, mingling with the boisterous crowd.
Lifting her chin, Abby fixed the man with a regal glare. “I’ve come from His Grace of Rothwell’s house with an urgent message. The duke will be extremely displeased if you prevent me from delivering it.”
The brute’s flinty expression eased in a twinkling. He bobbed his head in a respectful bow. “Ah, well! Ye might’ve said so! Go on in!”
In a moment, Abby found herself ensnared in a mass of teeming, catcalling, shouting humanity. The rowdy eagerness of the mob was palpable in the close air. Mostly men, they were farmers and merchants and gentlemen intermingling with shadier characters. The few females she spotted were the bawdy sort with whom no lady would associate.
The task she faced was daunting. How was she ever to find the girls in this swarm?
Deciding to make a circuit of the tent, Abby squeezed her way through the throng, earning herself a few elbows and trying not to breathe too deeply of the scent of unwashed bodies. Luckily, no one paid any heed to her. Everyone’s attention was trained on the ring in the center of the tent.
All of a sudden, a great cheer arose from the horde. The wave of sound nearly deafened her. Peering through the shifting sea of people, Abby caught sight of Goliath stepping into the ring.
A huge greatcoat swathed his hulking form. With a dramatic flair, he flung off the garment to reveal his massive, bare chest. Wearing only a pair of breeches, he flexed his bulging muscles, strutting around the ring like a cock of the walk. Another thunderous ovation swept the tent. Men clapped and stomped their feet for England’s champion.
The roar died down as his opponent came into view, and Abby had her first sight of an American frontiersman. In stark contrast to Goliath’s theatrical manner, Wolfman made no attempt to engage the crowd. He merely dropped his fur cloak into the arms of a handler in a corner of the ring. His face was impassive. Although taller than his opponent, he was not quite as broad of chest, yet he radiated a lithe, sinewy strength.
Riveted, Abby had to tear her gaze away in order to resume the hunt. It wouldn’t do to let herself be distracted when time was of the essence. Better she should search for Lady Gwen’s sky-blue riding habit, and Valerie in burgundy. But neither of those colors could be seen in the masses of people.
Hoping to gain a clearer view near the front, she edged her way through the tightly packed gathering. She lost count of the number of times she said pardon me with an ingrained politeness that was lost to the noise inside the tent. When at la
st she wriggled her way closer to the open center, she spied the London party.
A rope had been strung between four stakes to mark off the dirt-packed arena. Beyond it, on the far side, a special viewing area was occupied by members of the gentry, mostly dapper gentlemen. Abby didn’t recognize any of them except for Lord Pettibone and Lord Ambrose, who were in the company of Mrs. Chalmers and Lady Desmond. They were laughing and chatting while waiting for the fight to begin.
A short distance away, Max stood in his shirtsleeves in a corner of the ring. He didn’t appear to notice his friends or the surrounding multitudes. His entire attention was focused on the pugilists. Lifting his hand, he signaled to another man, who promptly rang a bell.
The two rivals stepped to a line scratched down the center and shook hands. Without further ado, Goliath flew at his adversary in a flurry of blows. The frontiersman leaped to the side and landed a hard hit to Goliath’s jaw that sent him staggering backward. The champion caught his balance and barreled forward again like a raging bull. Wolfman was soon bleeding down one side of his face, while drawing blood himself with lightning strikes on Goliath that inspired a series of collective gasps from the onlookers.
Abby took advantage of everyone’s preoccupation to steal closer and scan the assemblage. It was then that she spotted the girls.
They were standing behind the gentry and near the back wall of the tent. They seemed to be quarreling. Abby’s niece was trying to pull Lady Gwen’s arm, but the girl emphatically shook her head. Her face looked pale and scared. Valerie then moved forward alone, as if determined to work her way up to the front where Max’s friends stood.
Of all the reckless nonsense!
Abby plunged through the horde in an effort to reach the other side of the ring before it was too late. Crude curses rang in her ears. Men growled and snapped at her, but most let her through. She had to catch Valerie before any of the London party spotted her. Then there might yet be a chance to spirit her and Lady Gwen out of the tent before Max caught sight of them.
Luckily, his full attention was concentrated on the boxers. Goliath was swinging his fists like twin sledgehammers. All of a sudden, he landed a blow that sent Wolfman crumpling to the ground. The crowd let out loud bellows of delight.
Max strode forward to count over the fallen man, who seemed a lifeless lump of flesh and bone. Yet in the next moment, he sat up and sprang lightly to his feet again, and the fight resumed with as much ferocity as before.
In that moment of distraction, Abby lost sight of her quarry. She couldn’t see Valerie anymore, and could only surmise that the tight cluster of cheering gentlemen barred her from view.
Abby inched her way forward until she had nearly reached Max’s friends. Thankfully, their avid attention was on the match, giving her time to scan the throng behind them. It was critical to escape detection. By keeping her face averted, she hoped the brim of her bonnet would hide her features.
She had ventured so close to the ring that the thud of every blow assaulted her ears. The grunts of the combatants underlay the roar of the assembly. Suddenly, her heart leaped.
There!
She spied Valerie squeezing between two gentlemen who were shouting with great gusto at the boxers. They stepped aside upon seeing the young lady, ogling her for a moment before returning their attention to the ring.
Her niece’s strawberry-blond curls and pert features were framed by a bonnet of chip straw with a cluster of burgundy flowers. The girl froze in place. Her blue eyes rounded on her aunt.
Then Abby suffered a shock that pulled her attention away from her niece. Lady Elise had appeared directly beside her.
“You!” the woman snapped. “What are you doing here?”
Abby drew a sharp breath. Her stupefied mind scrambled for a reason to explain her presence at the prizefight. If only Valerie had the sense to make a quick retreat, there might yet be a faint chance …
“I’ve brought a message for Max,” she blurted out.
Even as the words left her mouth, Abby realized her mistake. She should have referred to him as duke or Rothwell or His Grace. A proper governess would never dare to use her master’s given name.
“Max, is it? Max?”
If looks could kill, Lady Elise’s face was a lethal weapon. Malice twisted the beauty of those dainty features. Her green-gold eyes were narrowed, the rosebud lips curled in contempt.
In the next instant, Abby felt a hard shove against her spine that sent her lurching forward. It happened so fast she was unable to stop herself from tripping over the rope and tumbling straight into the ring.
She glimpsed Max’s stark gaze on her, then the boxers locked in mortal combat. Momentum hurled her against a hard body. A sharp elbow clipped her in the side of the head.
With the swiftness of a candle winking out, the world went dark.
* * *
A drumbeat pounded inside her skull. The incessant thrum of it made her head hurt abominably. Striving to escape the barrage of pain, she fidgeted weakly and moaned.
Something cool and damp came over her brow, and the throbbing subsided to a dull ache. A cloth. The comfort of it helped to pull her out of the dark depths and into feeble awareness. So did the sharp scent of hartshorn, and she irritably batted away the hand holding it to her nose.
Her eyelids fluttered open. The light stabbed like daggers and as she blinked against it, a familiar face swam into view. He was leaning close, peering down at her. She knew those hazy gray eyes. They could be cold as granite, though at the moment they shone warm with concern.
His image abruptly split apart into twin copies. The oddity of it muddled her mind.
“Max?” she said, her voice a mere croak. “Why are there two of you?”
“Hush, don’t try to talk. We’ll be home very soon.”
Home. Not Linton House. He meant Rothwell Court. A faint longing stirred in the midst of her pain. Oh, how she wished it were her home, too.
Her perception slowly sorted through various sensations. She was reclining in his lap with her head on a pillow. Her bonnet had somehow vanished. That gentle rocking motion must be his coach. But how she had come to be here eluded her comprehension.
“What … happened?”
“You fell into the ring at the prizefight and suffered a knock on the head.”
Disjointed memories flitted through her mind. One in particular caught her attention. “Brimstone! I left him…”
“I surmised as much,” Max said rather dryly. “One of the grooms will bring him home.”
“And the girls…?”
“We’re right here, Aunt Abby.”
Valerie’s subdued voice came from somewhere nearby. Abby cautiously turned her sore head and saw their fuzzy forms occupying the opposite seat. She blinked in a vain attempt to bring them into focus. “Oh … thank goodness you’re safe. I was so afraid…”
Lady Gwendolyn burst into tears, and Valerie passed her a handkerchief. “Shh,” she whispered. “I want to cry too but we mustn’t. It will only make her feel worse.”
As Gwen’s weeping diminished to sniffles, another faint memory eddied through Abby’s mind. “Dawkins…”
“We tricked him,” Valerie admitted in a low, quivery voice that sounded entirely unlike her usual intrepid self. “We pretended to be having a race, and then left him behind in the dust. Please, Your Grace, don’t blame him—or Gwen, either. The plan was entirely my notion.”
“That isn’t entirely true,” Lady Gwen protested. “I—”
“Enough,” Max said. “We will speak of this matter later.”
At his imperious tone, Abby lifted her head slightly. “There’s something else I must explain … about Dawkins…”
The mere act of tilting her neck caused her vision to spin dizzyingly. The words that had sat on the tip of her tongue scattered in all directions. The clanging in her brain resumed, and she collapsed back onto the pillow.
His fingers lightly stroked her cheek. “Not another syll
able from you, Abby. Whatever it is, there will be time enough later to tell me.”
Despite her recent bid for independence, she felt content to let him make the decisions. Especially since at the moment she couldn’t seem to string two thoughts together. Sighing, she shut her eyes and drifted back into the peace of nothingness.
Chapter 24
As Max lifted Abby out of the coach, she barely stirred in his arms. A goose egg marred the tangle of cinnamon hair on the side of her head. With her eyes closed, she looked young and vulnerable, and her pale stillness caused a clutch of fear in his chest.
He carried her up to the portico, where a footman threw open the door and admitted them into the entrance hall. The servant gawked at Max’s burden, then thrust out his arms. “Your Grace! If I may assist—”
Max aimed a black look at him. The fellow shrank back and deferred to Finchley for direction.
The butler’s grizzled brows arched in alarm. “What’s this? I knew that demon beast would toss her when Dawkins said she’d gone out on Brimstone! ’Tis just the same as what happened to her mother!”
“It wasn’t Brimstone,” Max growled. “Send someone to fetch Mrs. Jeffries. And show the doctor up to Miss Linton’s chamber at once.”
The man had driven his gig closely behind the ducal coach. Max always engaged a top-notch London physician to attend these prizefights. Inevitably, there were injuries that required immediate treatment, stitching wounds, applying ointments, bandaging limbs.
England’s champion deserved cosseting. But today, Max hadn’t spared a thought for Goliath’s welfare—especially as he’d been the culprit who’d bashed Abby in the side of the head with his elbow, accidental though it had been.
His footsteps echoing sharply on the marble, he mounted the grand staircase, while Gwen and Miss Perkins trudged after him with all the enthusiasm of condemned prisoners on their way to the gallows. Let them stew. If not for their misbehavior, Abby wouldn’t be in such a predicament.
Her niece dashed ahead to fling open the door to Abby’s chamber, which was located directly across the corridor from his sister’s suite of rooms. He waited a moment while Gwen pulled back the coverlet of the four-poster. Ever so gently, he laid his precious burden down on the bed and arranged a feather pillow beneath her head.
