His lips slowly curved; again, she found herself fascinated by the movement.
Harry took the hand she held out to him and, his eyes on hers, raised it to his lips. “Your rescue was indeed my pleasure, Mrs Babbacombe.” The sudden widening of her eyes as his lips touched her skin was payment enough for the consequent hardships. “I’ll ensure that your people know where to find you—your maids will arrive before nightfall, I’m sure.”
Lucinda inclined her head; she made no effort to retrieve her fingers from his warm grasp. “Again, you have my thanks, sir.”
“It was nothing, my dear.” His eyes on hers, Harry allowed one brow to rise. “Perhaps we’ll meet again—in a ballroom, maybe? Dare I hope you’ll favour me with a waltz if we do?”
Graciously, Lucinda acquiesced. “I would be honoured, sir—should we meet.”
Belatedly reminding himself that she was a snare he was determined to avoid, Harry took a firm grip on his wayward impulses. He bowed. Releasing Lucinda’s hand, he nodded to Em. With one last glance at Lucinda, he strolled gracefully out of the door.
Lucinda watched the door shut behind him, a distant frown in her eyes.
Em studied her unexpected guest, a speculative glint in hers.
AGATHA’S BEEN WITH ME forever,” Lucinda explained. “She was my mother’s maid when I was born. Amy was an under-maid at the Grange—my husband’s house. We took her with us so that Agatha could train her to act as maid for Heather.”
“Just as well,” Heather put in.
They were in the dining-room, partaking of a delicious meal prepared, so Em had informed them, in honour of their arrival. Agatha, Amy and Sim had arrived an hour ago, conveyed by Joshua in a trap borrowed from the Barbican Arms. Joshua had returned to Newmarket to pursue the repairs of the carriage. Agatha, taken under the wing of the portly housekeeper, Mrs Simmons, was resting in a cheery room below the eaves, her ankle pronounced unbroken but badly sprained. Amy had thus had to assist both Lucinda and Heather to dress, a task at which she had acquitted herself with honours.
Or so Em thought as she looked down the table. “So,” she said, patting her lips with her napkin then waving Fergus and the soup tureen away. “You may start at the beginning. I want to know all about you since your parents died.”
The sheer openness of the request robbed it of any rudeness. Lucinda smiled and laid aside her spoon; Heather was dipping into the tureen for the third time, much to Fergus’s delight. “As you know, what with both families disowning my parents, I hadn’t had any contact with my grandparents. I was fourteen at the time of the accident. Luckily, our old solicitor hunted up my mother’s sister’s address—she agreed to take me in.”
“Now let’s see.” Em’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the past. “That would be Cora Parkes that was?”
Lucinda nodded. “If you recall, the Parkes family fortunes had taken a downturn sometime after my parents married. They’d retired from Society and Cora had married a mill-owner in the north—a Mr Ridley.”
“Never say so!” Em was enthralled. “Well, well—how the mighty did fall. Your aunt Cora was one of the most intransigent when it came to any question of reconciliation with your parents.” Em lifted her thin shoulders. “Fate’s revenge, I dare say. So you lived with them until your marriage?”
Lucinda hesitated, then nodded.
Em noticed; her eyes sharpened, then flicked to Heather. Lucinda saw—and hastened to explain. “The Ridleys weren’t exactly happy to have me. They only agreed to house me, thinking to use my talents as governess to their two daughters and then to broker my marriage as soon as maybe.”
For a moment, Em stared. Then she snorted. “Doesn’t surprise me. That Cora was ever out for her own gain.”
“When I was sixteen, they arranged a marriage with another mill-owner, a Mr Ogleby.”
“Ugh!” Heather looked up from her soup to shudder artistically. “He was a horrible old toad,” she blithely informed Em. “Luckily, my father heard about it—Lucinda used to come and give me lessons. So he married Lucinda instead.” Having done her bit for the conversation, Heather returned to her soup.
Lucinda smiled affectionately. “Indeed, Charles was my saviour. I only recently learned that he bought off my relatives in order to marry me—he never told me.”
Em snorted approvingly. “Glad to hear they’ve some gentlemen in those parts. So you became Mrs Babbacombe and lived at…the Grange, was it?”
“That’s right.” Heather had finally relinquished the soup; Lucinda paused to serve herself from the platter of turbot Fergus offered. “To all appearances Charles was a well-to-do gentleman of moderate estate. In reality, however, he owned a considerable collection of inns up and down the country. He was really very wealthy but preferred a quiet existence. He was close to fifty when we married. As I grew older, he taught me all about his investments and how to manage them. He was ill for some years—the end was a relief when it came—but because of his foresight, I was able to handle most of the work for him.”
Lucinda looked up to find her hostess staring at her.
“Who owns the inns now?” Em asked.
Lucinda smiled. “We do—Heather and I. The Grange, of course, went to Charles’s nephew, Mortimer Babbacombe, but Charles’s private fortune wasn’t part of the entail.”
Em sat back and regarded her with frank approval. “And that’s why you’re here—you own an inn in Newmarket?”
Lucinda nodded. “After the will was read, Mortimer asked us to vacate the Grange within the week.”
“The blackguard!” Em glared. “What sort of a way is that to treat a grieving widow?”
“Well,” Lucinda held up a hand. “I did offer to leave as soon as he wished—although I hadn’t thought he’d be in such a hurry. He’d never even visited before—not really.”
“So you found yourselves out on your ears in the snow?” Em was incensed.
Heather giggled. “It really turned out most fortuitously in the end.”
“Indeed.” Lucinda nodded, pushing her plate away. “With nothing organised, we decided to remove to one of our inns—one a little way away from the Grange, a place we weren’t known. Once there, I realised the inn was far more prosperous than I would have guessed from the accounts our agent had recently presented. Mr Scrugthorpe was a new man—Charles had been forced to appoint a new agent a few months before he died when our old Mr Matthews passed on.” Lucinda frowned at the trifle Fergus placed before her. “Unfortunately, Charles interviewed Scrugthorpe on a day he was in great pain and I had to be in town with Heather. To cut a long story short, Scrugthorpe had falsified the accounts. I called him in and dismissed him.”
Lifting her gaze to her hostess’s face, Lucinda smiled. “After that, Heather and I decided that travelling the country getting to know our inns was an excellent way to see out our year of mourning. It was exactly the sort of enterprise of which Charles would have approved.”
Em snorted—this snort clearly signified her appreciation of Charles’s good sense. “Seems to have been a very able man—your father, miss.”
“He was a dear.” Heather’s open face clouded and she blinked rapidly, then looked down.
“I’ve appointed a new agent—a Mr Mabberly.” Lucinda smoothly covered the awkward moment. “He’s young but extremely efficient.”
“And goes in awe of Lucinda,” Heather offered, looking up to help herself to a second scoop of trifle.
“As he should,” Em replied. “Well, Miss Gifford as was—you’ve certainly done your parents proud thus far. A capable lady of independent means at what—twenty-six?”
“Twenty-eight.” Lucinda’s smile was crooked. There were times, such as today, when she suddenly wondered if life had passed her by.
“A very fair achievement,” Em declared. “I don’t hold with women being helpless.” She eyed Heather’s at last empty plate. “And if you’ve finally finished, miss, I suggest we retire to the drawing-room. Do either of you play the pianofo
rte?”
They both did and gladly entertained their hostess with various airs and sonatas, until Heather fell to yawning. At Lucinda’s suggestion she retired, passing the tea trolley in the doorway.
“Indeed, we’ve had an adventuresome day.” Lucinda sat back in an armchair by the fire and sipped the tea Em had dispensed. Lifting her gaze, she smiled at Em. “I can’t thank you enough, Lady Hallows, for taking us in.”
“Nonsense,” Em replied with one of her snorts. “And you could please me by dropping all the ladyships and just calling me Em, like everyone else in the family. You’re Melrose’s daughter and that’s close enough for me.”
Lucinda smiled, a trifle wearily. “Em, then. What’s it a contraction for? Emma?”
Em wrinkled her nose. “Ermyntrude.”
Lucinda managed to keep her lips straight. “Oh?” she said weakly.
“Indeed. My brothers delighted in calling me all the contractions you might imagine. When my nephews came along, I declared it was Em and nothing else.”
“Very wise.” A companionable silence settled as they savoured their tea. Lucinda broke it to ask, “Do you have many nephews?”
From under heavy lids, Em’s eyes glinted. “Quite a few. But it was Harry and his brothers I had to guard against. A rapscallion lot.”
Lucinda shifted. “He has a lot of brothers?”
“Only two—but that’s quite enough. Jack’s the eldest,” Em blithely rattled on. “He’s—let me see—thirty-six now. Then comes Harry, two years younger. Then there’s quite a gap to their sister Lenore—she married Eversleigh some years back—she must be twenty-six now, which makes Gerald twenty-four. Their mother died years ago but my brother still hangs on.” Em grinned. “Dare say he’ll manage to cling to life long enough to see a grandson to carry on the name, the cantankerous old fool.” The last was said affectionately. “But it was the boys I had most to do with—and Harry was always my favourite. Blessed by the angels and the devil both, of course, but such a good boy.” Em blinked, then amended, “Well—a good boy at heart. They all were—are. I see most of Harry and Gerald these days—what with Newmarket so close. Harry runs the Lester stud which, even if ’tis I who say so—and Heaven knows I know next to nothing about horses—such a boring subject—is hailed as one of the premier studs in the land.”
“Really?” There was not the slightest trace of boredom in Lucinda’s face.
“Indeed.” Em nodded. “Harry usually comes to watch his runners perform. Dare say I’ll see Gerald this week, too. Doubtless he’ll want to show off his new phaeton. Told me when last he was up that he was going to buy one, now the family coffers are full and overflowing.”
Lucinda blinked.
Em didn’t wait for her to find a subtle way to ask. One hand waving, she airly explained, “The Lesters have traditionally been strapped for cash—good estates, good breeding, but no money. The present generation, however, invested in some shipping venture last year and now the whole family’s rolling in an abundance of the ready.”
“Oh.” Lucinda readily recalled Harry Lester’s expensive elegance. She couldn’t imagine him any other way. Indeed, his image seemed to have fixed in her mind, oddly vivid, strangely enthralling. Shaking her head to dispel it, she delicately smothered a yawn. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company, Lady—Em.” She smiled. “I suspect I’d better follow Heather.”
Em merely nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, m’dear.”
Lucinda left her hostess staring into the fire.
Ten minutes later, her head pillowed in down, Lucinda closed her eyes—only to find Harry Lester on her mind. Tired, adrift, her memories of the day replayed, her interactions with him claiming centre stage. Until she came to their parting—which left one question to plague her. How would it feel to waltz with Harry Lester?
A MILE AWAY, in the tap of the Barbican Arms, Harry sat elegantly sprawled behind a corner table, moodily surveying the room. A smoky haze wreathed a forest of shoulders; gentlemen mingled freely with grooms and stablemen, tipsters wrangled with bookmakers. The tap was all business this evening; the first races, those for non-bloodstock, would commence the next day.
A barmaid came up, hips swaying. She set a tankard of the inn’s finest on the table, smiling coyly, one brow rising as Harry flipped a coin onto her tray.
Harry caught her eye; his lips curved but he shook his head. Disappointed, the girl turned away. Harry lifted the foaming tankard and took a long sip. He’d abandoned the snug, his habitual refuge, where only the cognescenti were permitted, driven forth by the all-but-incessant questioning as to his delectable companion of the afternoon.
It seemed as if all in Newmarket had seen them.
Certainly all his friends and acquaintances were keen to learn her name. And her direction.
He’d given them neither, steadfastly returning their bright-eyed enquiries with a blank look and the information that the lady was an acquaintance of his aunt’s he’d simply been escorting to her door.
Those facts proved sufficient to dampen the interest of most; the majority who frequented Newmarket knew of his aunt.
But he was definitely tired of covering the lovely Mrs Babbacombe’s tracks, particularly as he was trying his damnedest to forget her. And her loveliness.
With an inward growl, Harry immersed himself in his tankard and tried to focus his mind on his horses—usually an enthralling subject.
“There you are! Been looking all over. What’re you doing out here?” Dawlish slumped into the chair beside him.
“Don’t ask,” Harry advised. He waited while the barmaid, with a fine show of indifference, served Dawlish before asking, “What’s the verdict?”
Dawlish shot him a glance over the rim of his tankard. “Odd,” came mumbling from behind it.
Brows lifting, Harry turned his head to stare at his henchman. “Odd?” Dawlish had gone with the coachman, Joshua, to fetch the wainwright to the carriage.
“Me, Joshua and the wainwright all thinks the same.” Dawlish set down his tankard and wiped the froth from his lip. “Thought as how you should know.”
“Know what?”
“That the cotter-pin on that wheel was tampered with—half-sawed through, it was—before the accident. And the spokes had been got at, too.”
Harry frowned. “Why?”
“Don’t know as how you noticed, but there were a curious lot of rocks strewn about that stretch of road where the carriage went over. None before—and none after. Just along that stretch. No way a coachman could miss all of ’em. And they were just round a corner so he couldn’t see them in time to pull up.”
Harry’s frown was intense. “I remember the rocks. The boy cleared them away so I didn’t have to drive over them.”
Dawlish nodded. “Aye—but the carriage couldn’t avoid them—and as soon as that wheel hit, the cotter would have snapped and the spokes after that.”
A chill swept Harry’s nape. Five mounted men in frieze, with a wagon, hiding in the trees, moving towards the road just after the carriage went down. And if it hadn’t been a race-week, that particular stretch of road would almost certainly have been deserted at that time of day.
Harry lifted his gaze to Dawlish’s face.
Dawlish looked back at him. “Makes you think, don’t it?”
Grim-faced, Harry slowly nodded. “It does indeed.” And he didn’t like what he thought at all.
Chapter Three
“I’LL HAVE Y’R TEAM OUT in a jiffy, sir.”
Harry nodded absentmindedly as the head-ostler of the Barbican Arms hurried off towards the stables. Pulling on his driving gloves, he strolled away from the inn’s main door to await his curricle in a vacant patch of sunshine by the wall.
Before him, the courtyard was busy, many of the inn’s guests departing for a day at the track, hoping to pick a few winners to start the week off on the right note.
Harry grimaced. He wouldn’t be joining them. Not, at least, until he’d satisf
ied himself on the score of one Mrs Babbacombe. He had given up telling himself she was none of his business; after the revelations of yesterday, he felt compelled to brave her dangers—long enough to assure himself of her safety. She was, after all, his aunt’s guest—at his insistence. Two facts which undoubtedly excused his interest.
“I’ll get along and see Hamish then, shall I?”
Harry turned as Dawlish came up. Hamish, his head-stableman, should have arrived yesterday with his string of thoroughbred racers; the horses would be settling into their stables beyond the racetrack. Harry nodded. “Make sure Thistledown’s fetlock’s sufficiently healed—I don’t want her entered unless it is.”
Dawlish nodded sagely. “Aye. Shall I tell Hamish you’ll be along shortly to see it?”
“No.” Harry studied the fit of his gloves. “I’ll have to rely on your combined wisdom this time. I’ve pressing matters elsewhere.”
He felt Dawlish’s suspicious glance.
“More pressing than a prime mare with a strained fetlock?” Dawlish snorted. “I’d like to know what’s higher on y’r list than that.”
Harry made no effort to enlighten him. “I’ll probably look in about lunchtime.” His imaginings were very likely groundless. It could be no more than coincidence, and two likely females travelling without major escort, that had focused the attention of the men in frieze on the Babbacombe coach. “Just make sure Hamish gets the message in time.”
“Aye,” Dawlish grumbled. With a last keen glance, he headed off.
Harry turned as his curricle appeared, the head-ostler leading the greys with a reverence that bespoke a full appreciation of their qualities.
“Right prime ’uns, they be,” he averred as Harry climbed to the box.
“Indeed.” Harry took up the reins. The greys were restive, sensing the chance of freedom. With a nod for the ostler, he backed the curricle preparatory to making a stylish exit from the yard.
“Harry!”
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