by Brenda Hiatt
That drew a general chuckle as the couple left the room. Given the way Dina’s cheeks had pinkened, Violet thought it best to wait a bit before going up herself. She therefore joined Lord Killerby, Lady Killerby and Lord Uppington in a game of whist to pass the time.
After two hands, Lady Killerby also declared herself ready for bed and Violet had perforce to accompany her upstairs. Cautiously entering the bedchamber, she was relieved to find Dina already asleep.
When Brigid appeared a few moments later, giggling about something, Violet put a finger to her lips and nodded toward the bed.
“What is so funny?” she whispered to the maid.
“You’ll not believe it, Miss,” Brigid whispered back, “but Thomas, Lord Uppingwood’s valet that is, mistook me for Mrs. Turpin there just now,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “Gave him quite a start, I did, when I went to the kitchen to get a warming pan for your bed.”
Violet gave a tiny snort of laughter herself. “I presume you set him straight?”
“Oh, he realized soon as he noticed what I’m wearing, but his face was a right picture for a moment there.” Still chuckling, she began helping Violet out of her frock.
“I suppose his mistake was understandable, as you and Dina both have red hair and are roughly of a height,” Violet conceded.
Beyond those basic features, the two women didn’t look much alike at all. Brigid was much plumper than Dina, with brown eyes instead of green. The maid also sported a generous sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, unlike Dina. Amusing as the valet’s error was, it seemed unlikely to occur again.
“That will do, Brigid,” Violet said when the maid stifled a yawn. “I can brush my own hair tonight. We’ve both had a long day. Get you to your bed and I’ll get into mine.”
As Violet was not particularly tired, she moved the small oil lamp to her bedside table and pulled out her book about the Saint of Seven Dials to read herself to sleep. Opening to the place she’d marked, she was soon engrossed yet again in his daring exploits on behalf of the poor.
A master of disguise, the Saint moves at will throughout all levels of Society, from the poorest slums to servants’ halls to the glittering ballrooms of the very pinnacle of London’s nobility…
When her eyes finally grew heavy, she tucked the book under her pillow. Turning down the lamp, she rolled over to dream of thrilling midnight chases along London’s streets.
The next morning Violet waited until Dina had dressed and gone down to breakfast before ringing for her abigail.
“No, no,” Violet told Brigid when she pulled out a lilac morning gown. “Have some toast and tea brought up, then get out my habit. There is a hunt today, you know.”
“Oh, did Master Grant agree to let you join it after all, Miss?” asked Brigid in surprise.
Violet merely smiled.
The gentlemen would breakfast early, she knew, as the hunt was to gather at Cottesmore House before nine. Watching from her second story window, she waited until the last one had ridden off before venturing downstairs herself.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Dina greeted her as she passed the dining room. “Lady Killerby and I wondered whether you would rise in time to join us.”
“Yes, we’ll need to leave in half an hour if we are to catch the start of the hunt, for we must fetch Sir George on the way,” Lady Killerby said. “Not to worry, however, there is sufficient room in my phaeton for four.”
“Oh, I needn’t crowd you in the phaeton,” Violet told her. “I should much prefer to ride alongside. ’Twill be far more comfortable for all of us that way.”
Dina regarded her with faint suspicion but Lady Killerby merely shrugged. “As you wish. We will be near enough to provide propriety. No doubt you will have a better view of the hunt on horseback, though I must say that Sir George and I always find it vastly entertaining from the phaeton.”
Violet thanked her, let Dina know she’d already had a tray in her room, then continued on to the stables. There she found Farrell, her brother’s groom, just leading out Grant’s best hunter.
“Morning, Miss Turpin,” he greeted her in obvious surprise. “If you were looking for your brother, you just missed him. He left not ten minutes ago on his hack. And I’d best hurry myself if I’m to get Othello to Cottesmore House before they begin the hunt.”
“First, Farrell, would you please saddle Ares for me?” she asked, naming Grant’s second-best hunter. “My sidesaddle should be to hand, as I had it sent down to the stables when I arrived.”
“Ares? To what purpose, Miss?”
Turning away from the groom’s suspicious gaze, she laughed. “Oh, did Grant not tell you? I am also to ride in the Cottesmore today.”
Rush gazed around in approval at the crowd gathered in front of Cottesmore House. The recent dry spell, unusual for late February, combined with how little remained of the hunting season, had brought out a near-record number of sportsmen.
As always, the sights, sounds and smells of the hounds and horses created a pleasurable sense of anticipation. Gad, but he loved fox hunting! During the seven-odd months until November first, when he could again ride to the hounds, he might as well be only half alive.
All too soon he would leave Melton Mowbray to attend to estate matters at Rushford Abbey in Northamptonshire, then head to London to renew his acquaintance with Miss Simpson. He rather dreaded the latter, for he had never cared much for Town life, where riding was limited to tame canters in the park.
Still, he really should use this interim while awaiting her father’s consent to get to know his bride-to-be. With any luck, he would discover that he and Miss Simpson had more interests in common than had been apparent on the surface.
“Quite a turnout, eh?” remarked Stormy from just behind him. “Always the way toward the end of the season.”
“Aye, and glad I am that I can enjoy at least a few more hunts before it’s over,” Thor exclaimed from Rush’s other side. “Not that I truly regret these last weeks at Ashcombe with Dina, or the progress we’ve made there.”
Sir Charles laughed. “Progress indeed, I’d say! You and your pretty bride clearly put your time to good use.”
“Still,” Thor continued as though he hadn’t heard, “I missed the hunt more than I expected. I did join the Hoar Cross thrice, but it can’t compare with the hunts near Melton. This—” He waved an expansive arm at the assemblage waiting to start— “is the real thing.”
“I feel the same about the Pytchley,” Rush agreed, grinning. “Not bad, as the smaller hunts go, but it’s but a poor substitute for—”
He broke off, for Thor was staring past his shoulder, an expression of outrage on his face.
“That hoyden! I thought I made my position perfectly clear to her.” Rapping out an oath, Thor wheeled his horse about and cantered off.
Turning, Rush saw the cause of the outburst: Miss Turpin, resplendent in a sky-blue habit, mounted on Thor’s second-best hunter.
Inappropriate as her presence here was, Rush could not help admiring her pluck as well as her appearance. With her riot of dark curls pulled back from her heart-shaped face and a small top hat perched above at a jaunty angle, she presented a fetching vision. He also noted that she sat her oversized steed remarkably well, as she trotted alongside the low-slung pink and green phaeton containing Lady Killerby, Sir George Seaton, and Thor’s wife.
“What the devil are you doing on horseback?” Thor demanded, intercepting his sister at the edge of the gathering. “And who said you could ride Ares? He’s barely broken to sidesaddle.”
“He’s been no trouble whatever. Not surprising, as I’m the one who first put a sidesaddle on him,” she retorted. “Come, Grant, don’t fuss. As I’m already here, I may as well join you.”
Her unrepentant rejoinder served as a timely reminder that beneath Miss Turpin’s alluring exterior she was still Thor’s scapegrace little sister. Indeed, judging by the stubborn set of her jaw, his massive friend might well need ass
istance. He urged his mount forward.
“Only members are permitted to ride with the Cottesmore,” Thor was sternly reminding her. “Even if that were not the case, a young lady like yourself has no business—”
At that inopportune moment, Lord and Lady Anthony came cantering up to join the forming hunt.
Miss Turpin gestured toward them with a triumphant grin. “What of Lady Anthony, then? I presume the Master has given her permission to hunt the Cottesmore. Why not me, as well?”
“She is a special case. Her father is a well-respected squire and longtime sportsman hereabouts. He personally petitioned for her to join the local hunts at the very start of the season.”
Lord and Lady Anthony joined them then, neatly reining in their mounts.
“Miss Turpin, I presume?” asked Lord Anthony cheerily. “Thor did not tell us you would be joining the hunt today as well.”
His wife directed a charming smile Miss Turpin’s way. “I confess I shall quite appreciate having another woman in the hunt, for I sometimes feel a bit like a side show attraction.”
Miss Turpin returned Lady Anthony’s smile with a brilliant one of her own. Surely it was the crisp winter air and not the sudden flash of that smile that caught Rush’s breath in his throat.
“Yes, we were just discussing what a shame it would be if I were not allowed to ride,” Miss Turpin replied. “Is it too late to petition the Master of the Hunt on my behalf, do you think?”
Thor scowled. “This late in the season? Of course it is. Even if I were willing, which I’m not, I doubt Lord Lonsdale would agree. Get you back to Lady Killerby’s phaeton. And have a care with Ares as you dismount. It’s been over a year since you last rode him.”
“You cannot honestly think that I am unequal to the hunt, Grant. You know better than anyone that I can handle myself on a horse.” Miss Turpin’s eyes now held a challenging gleam. “Or must I prove myself yet again?”
When his only answer was a scowl, she continued.
“Very well, I propose a wager. I will race you to that tree.” She pointed at a hoary old oak two fields away. “If I win, you must petition Lord Lonsdale on my behalf. If I lose, I will surrender Ares, ride meekly along with Dina and Lady Killerby, and say not another word about joining the hunt.”
Her eyes sparkled with mirth but Rush noticed a tightening in the muscles around Thor’s mouth. He surmised that this was not the first time she had challenged her brother to a race—nor did Thor look fully confident he could best her.
Rush smiled in spite of himself. Though far too headstrong and impetuous for her own—or anyone’s—good, there was no denying the girl had spirit. Nor was it like Thor to be so stodgy. A side-effect of marriage, perhaps?
“I must admit that would be well worth watching,” Rush declared on sudden impulse, even as Thor opened his mouth to refuse. “In fact, I’ll petition Lonsdale myself, Miss Turpin, if you can beat this lout.”
Thor turned to him in shock but Stormy let out a whoop of approval and Lord and Lady Anthony both laughed. He was further rewarded by a look of surprised gratitude from Miss Turpin. How had he never noticed before that her eyes were of such a deep blue they were nearly violet? Was that why she was so named? He quickly looked away.
He knew it was irresponsible of him to encourage this start of hers, but he’d sensed last night how disappointed she was that Thor and his wife would not be overseeing her London Season after all. This seemed a relatively harmless compensation for that. He was also admittedly curious to discover whether Miss Turpin was as accomplished a horsewoman as she—and Thor, previously—had claimed.
Though he glared daggers at both Rush and his sister, Thor offered no further protests. “Bring me Othello, then,” he fairly growled to his groom, dismounting from his covert hack. Then, to his sister, “That will put paid to your foolish pretensions, Vi, for you know full well Othello is faster than Ares. Nor am I out of practice riding him. You can still back out if you don’t wish to embarrass yourself.”
“Not a chance, my dear brother. ’Tis settled.” She neatly circled her mount to bring him alongside Othello as Thor mounted. Both pointed their horses’ noses toward the designated oak tree, on the far side of a small stream spanned by a narrow wooden bridge.
As he had so unwisely promoted this contest, Rush felt obliged to see it properly executed. “On your marks, then,” he called out. “Get set… go!”
Thor and Miss Turpin set heels to their mounts and were off. Both fairly flew toward their goal, churning the hard earth under their horses’ hooves as they galloped through the slanting wintry sunlight.
Despite the disadvantage of the sidesaddle, Miss Turpin kept pace with her brother and the formidable Othello, leaning low over the neck of her mount. She moved remarkably well—better than most men in the hunt, truth be told. And on a horse she hadn’t ridden in a year? Impressive.
As they neared the bridge, two thirds of the way to the tree, Thor’s mount began to pull ahead. The bridge would require a slight detour from the straightest path to the tree and was too narrow to allow both horses to cross at once. Thor had clearly realized he only needed to reach the bridge first, not the tree, and therefore spurred his mount to an extra burst of speed.
Rush experienced a distinct pang of disappointment as the gap between Miss Turpin and her brother lengthened. It seemed a shame for her to lose, given her excellent seat and fiery determination.
But then he realized she had not slowed, only veered away from the bridge into a direct line toward the tree. Surely she did not mean to leap the stream?
As Othello’s hooves thundered over the bridge, Ares gathered and leapt. He cleared the stream with hardly a break in stride, his rider moving effortlessly with him. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the contest gasped in unison, then burst into cheers and laughter as Miss Turpin, having avoided the detour required by the bridge, reached the tree a full length ahead of her brother.
When the two came trotting back, Miss Turpin was in obvious high spirits, her cheeks flushed with becoming color and her eyes glittering with triumph. Thor, on the other hand, looked decidedly glum—though resigned rather than furious, Rush was relieved to see.
Ares and Othello pranced with excitement at the unexpected exertion but both riders still had their mounts well in hand.
“Earl William and his Flat Hats will have to let you ride to hunt after that display, Miss Turpin,” Sir Charles crowed as they drew near.
“Indeed. Well, well,” came the amused voice of Lord Lonsdale himself, the little race having attracted the attention of the entire hunt by now. “I do believe we may be seeing a return to the old days, when more ladies joined their lords in the hunt. Mrs…?”
“Turpin, my lord,” she replied breathlessly. “Miss Violet Turpin, Grant’s sister.”
“Ah.” The earl flicked an amused glance Thor’s way. “I’ve no doubt you will be a credit to the Cottesmore Hunt, Miss Turpin. We can see to the matter of your membership after today’s run concludes.” Still smiling, he turned his horse as the horns sounded the start of the hunt.
It was all Violet could do to suppress an unladylike squeal of triumph. She’d feared Grant might renege on the wager, as he hadn’t specifically agreed to her terms, but he could hardly overrule the Master of the Hunt himself!
Ignoring the mutinous look on her brother’s face, she smugly turned Ares to follow the rest of the field toward the first covert. She’d wager no man here could have won that race in a sidesaddle. A giggle escaped her at a sudden vision of her brother’s imposing frame sitting daintily sideways on a horse.
“What’s so funny?” Grant cantered up behind her on his covert hack, having switched horses again to save Othello for the hunt itself.
She smiled sweetly at him. “Just imagining you in a sidesaddle, dear brother.”
“Hmph. I was only trying to spare you the disgrace of a tumble by taking the bridge myself, you know. I should have guessed you’d be fool enough to jump t
he stream regardless,” he said sourly, before startling her with a smile. “You really are an excellent horsewoman, Vi. You did me proud. Enjoy the hunt—but do try to be careful. I’d hate to explain to Mother should you injure yourself.”
Setting his heels to his hack, he rode on ahead. She couldn’t deny jumping the stream in a sidesaddle had been risky—but it had been worth it. Now she could afford to be more cautious. After all, she would hate for an injury to cause her to miss yet another Season, or to bar her—and perhaps other ambitious women—from joining future hunts.
“A bloody shame, if you ask me,” came a disgruntled male voice from behind her. “I’d say they’re letting the hunt go to the dogs, except that those creatures belong here, unlike ladies.”
“Aye!” answered another. “Can’t imagine what Earl William was thinking, inviting her to join. It’s bad enough letting that horse-trader woman ride, showing off her stable to command outrageous prices. If he’s not careful, all the young chits in the country will be vying to do the same, ruining the sport for us all. What does a woman know of hunting?”
“Nothing at all, however well she might ride,” agreed a third Flat Hat disdainfully. “Thought Lonsdale cared more for the reputation of the Cottesmore than that.”
“Indeed. I wonder if we oughtn’t—” The gentleman broke off abruptly, perhaps realizing that Violet was within earshot. The group cantered past her in silence, though with no effort to hide the disapproval etched into every line of their faces.
Violet’s cheeks burned, first with embarrassment, then defiance. Just then, Lady Anthony drew level with her.
“Pray don’t take it personally, Miss Turpin. I heard much of the same when I joined the hunt last autumn. Anthony claims it’s because their pride is pricked by seeing a woman ride as well—or better—than they can.”
“Thank you, Lady Anthony.” Violet smiled gratefully. “If half the stories I’ve heard of your prowess as a horsewoman are true, I daresay he is right. Why should we care what a few dandies mired in the past think of us?”
