by Amanda Scott
“I wish you will cease calling Ramsbury ‘the master’ in that odious way,” Sybilla said tartly. “You are my dresser, not his, and he has nothing to say to anything I do. Not anymore!”
They both had been going steadily about their business while they talked, and now Medlicott silently held out the skirt of the blue driving habit for Sybilla to put on. Sybilla glared at her, but she realized she had already said too much, and held her tongue, turning her attention instead to changing her clothes. Minutes later, carrying her hat and gloves, she went downstairs to give her orders to Mrs. Hammersmyth.
“I know I can depend upon you to keep everything in order here for the short time I expect to be away,” she added, once she had explained as much as she dared to the woman. “I have no idea, in point of fact, how long that will be. Of course, if Papa does not even know that I have gone, he will find less to complain about than if he thinks himself abandoned.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hammersmyth replied politely. “I shall attend to everything.”
Sybilla left her and hurried to the hall, where she waited impatiently for ten minutes before Sydney arrived. Upon seeing him, she threw up her hands in astonishment. “I’d never have thought you could be ready so swiftly.”
“I do what it is necessary to do,” he said, smiling at her. “I cannot think why that should ever surprise anyone.”
She saw that the breeches and coat he wore beneath the heavy cloak thrown back over his shoulders set off his slim figure to perfection, and although Sybilla preferred men with a look of solid strength about them, she had no doubt that many women preferred men of Sydney’s build. No doubt that was why so many match-making mamas had attempted to direct his attention to their daughters—that, plus the fact that despite his being a younger son he possessed a tidy fortune. When her gaze met his, she flushed, hoping he wouldn’t ask what she had been thinking, for she could imagine no way in which she could explain her thoughts to him, and she was suddenly certain that, despite his ever-casual manner and no matter how delicately they were described to him, Sydney would not appreciate them.
“Let us go,” she said quickly. “It is not good for the horses to be kept standing.”
The phaeton was at the curb, and when Sydney had helped her up, Newton handed her the reins and moved to take his own position behind. Sydney settled himself beside her, and a few moments later, they were off.
Their pace was necessarily slow until they had wended their way through the city to Walcot turnpike and up Kingsdown Hill, but once over the crest of the hill, Sybilla dropped her hands and the team shot forward.
Sydney remained silent beside her until they had passed through Melksham and crossed the Kennet and Avon Canal. Then, when Sybilla waved gaily to a group of noisy, laughing children who had run down to the road to watch them, he shook his head at her and chuckled.
“You love this, don’t you?”
She grinned. “How could anyone not love it, especially on a day like today? The air so invigorating, the road in good repair—after some of the roads we traveled, going to Charfield, this is beyond anything great!”
“ ’Tis a pleasure to watch you handle a whip, m’dear,” he said as she gave it a flick to encourage her team to a faster pace. “You’ve a right delicate touch.”
She laughed. “When Ned and I were first married, he made me practice in the stableyard at Axbridge Park until I was skilled enough, he said, to take a gnat off a leader’s ear without disturbing his wheeler. ’Tis a small talent, I know, and of no particular account, but it gives me pleasure because it is one thing I can actually do better than he can.”
“There are any number of Corinthians who would disagree with your opinion as to its lack of general worth,” he replied casually before they fell again into companionable silence.
She had traveled the road often enough before to know precisely where to change horses, and Newton knew the route as well as she did. The moment the phaeton’s wheels left the hard-packed earth of the road for the cobblestones of Devizes’ High Street, he raised his long horn to the ready, and as they approached the Bear Inn, he put it to his lips and sounded the change to warn the ostlers to be in readiness for them.
When Sybilla, without taking her eyes from the road, shifted the reins to her right hand in order to reach down to unfasten the ends of the lead and wheel reins, she found Sydney’s hand there before hers.
When she slanted him a quick look, he smiled. “Considering the speed at which you like to travel, I almost expected to find that you hadn’t fastened them properly. It has become a habit with a number of Corinthians of note to leave theirs unbuckled, or even to have their reins fashioned without buckles, in order to save a few precious seconds on the road.”
“They are fools,” Sybilla said curtly, slowing her team to enter the innyard. “One can manage a pair, of course, without difficulty, but not a full team. If even one rein should drop out of the driver’s hands, it would be out of his power to recover it, and an accident must be the consequence. I’ve no patience with such foolhardiness.”
As the phaeton drew to a stop, Newton jumped down and ran forward to unhook the near leader’s outside trace and draw the lead rein through the terrets, handing it to the green-jacketed ostler who ran up with the new leaders. The new team had been properly placed as soon as Newton had blown up for the change, the wheelers on each side of the spot where the phaeton would stop, the leaders already coupled. Thus it was that less than three minutes passed before Newton jumped back to his perch, Sydney rebuckled the rein ends, and Sybilla whipped up her new team and headed back onto the road.
They changed horses again at Beckhampton Inn and again at the Castle in Marlborough, but although Sybilla got down to walk a little the second time, in order to work the stiffness out of her limbs, she refused to stop for food until they had reached Froxfield. Even then, although she was tired and her headache seemed worse despite the fresh air, she insisted upon haste.
Sydney, holding up his hands to assist her to the ground, frowned and said, “If you continue this wicked pace, my dear ma’am, either your phaeton will collapse beneath us or we shall have everyone in several counties believing we are eloping.”
“Don’t use that word to me, Sydney,” she said, unamused. “I cannot believe my sister is doing such a thing.” She lowered her voice so as not to be overheard, making Sydney bend his head nearer to hear her. When they had taken a seat in the empty coffee room and ordered a hasty meal, she looked at him ruefully and said, “I apologize. I have not been a good companion today, but I do most sincerely appreciate your company.”
He smiled. “Tell me what Lady Symonds thinks she is doing.”
Sybilla grimaced. “Her letters have overflowed with her boredom of late, so I suppose I ought to have expected her to do something outrageous. Honestly, Sydney, I could shake Harry Symonds. They seemed so happy in the beginning, but how he thinks she will sit calmly in London at this dismal time of year and wait for him while he is off hunting in Leicestershire, as he is at present—or shooting with friends in Yorkshire, as he did right after Christmas—or fishing in Scotland, as he did in October—Oh, I am out of patience with the man!”
“So I should think,” Sydney murmured. “But the Season will begin soon, and then Lady Symonds will have plenty to occupy her time. Why does she not wait?”
“I blame Brentford. Do you know him? An Irish viscount and the most unconscionable and dangerous rake of the lot.”
Sydney frowned. “I know of him,” he said. “Not a nice man. Money and good family, so he’s accepted most places and seems to charm the ladies easily enough, but he treads a fine line all the same. Rumor has it his wealth comes from enticing innocents into dun territory, and he’s killed at least one man in a duel. Has quite a reputation for poaching on other that’s preserves, too.”
“If you mean he waits until they are out of the way and then seduces their wives, that is certainly what has happened in this instance. Oh, I could box
Mally’s ears!”
“Did she really say she had nothing better to do?” Sydney inquired, smiling again.
“You think that is funny, I suppose. Yes, that is precisely what she wrote in her letter, that having looked over her list of engagements and ascertained that she had none worth staying for, she had agreed to elope late Wednesday night with Brentford. This being Wednesday, there is no time to waste, Sydney.”
“I agree,” he said, “so I shall say no more about your unseemly haste. Ah, here is our food.”
They ate quickly and were soon off. The weather held, and the condition of the road was such that they had difficulty only twice—once when Sybilla had to swerve to allow an overloaded stagecoach, driven along the very crown of the road by one of its passengers, to pass by, and again when a vixen with a chicken in her mouth chose to cross the road directly in front of them. The latter time Sydney swore at her for not simply running the animal down, but Sybilla very properly ignored him.
At one posting house, the ostlers, seeing a woman driving, attempted to fob her off with an unsatisfactory team, but without so much as pausing long enough to let Sydney open his mouth, she made short work of the offenders and soon had an excellent team in her traces.
It was dark by the time they reached Twyford, where she agreed to Sydney’s suggestion that they order a basket of food to take with them, and then strode energetically about the torchlit innyard while it was being prepared. When the basket came, they were off again.
The phaeton boasted carriage lamps, but Sybilla would not allow them to be lit. “I’ll see only lamplight,” she said simply. “We’ve still twenty-five miles to go, and ’tis nearly five. I doubt we shall make London before eight.”
She gave her full attention to her driving after that, going as fast as she dared and hoping that no more small animals would dart out in front of her. There was only starlight now, but it was enough so that she could see the gray-white ribbon of road ahead. Still, she knew she was driving too fast. Usually, when she drove herself from Bath to London she spent one night at an inn, but that would not do tonight. Not only was there no time for such indulgence, but with Sydney traveling with her, she knew the tattlemongers would soon have the information that they had spent a night together on the road. That would not do at all.
So concentrated was she upon her task that when the phaeton passed into the tunnel of trees edging Hounslow Heath, the sudden darkness startled her and she jerked on the reins, causing her nearside wheeler to shy. Sybilla recovered quickly enough to avert an accident, but the incident brought her to her senses, and she immediately slowed her team. Beside her, she heard Sydney sigh with relief. The sound brought a smile to her lips.
“Nearly broke my word to you there and landed you in a ditch,” she said with a smile. Then, drawing the team to a halt, she turned on her seat and said quietly to the groom behind her, “Newton, you may light the lamps now if you please.”
There was a metallic scrape of tinder and flint, and a few moments later, the first lamp burst into glowing light. Newton hung it in place and moved to light the second one. As he reached to hang it back in its place, there was a rustle in the undergrowth, followed by a scrape of gravel, and then the harsh sound of a man’s voice.
“Don’t move, me friends, or we’ll blow ye ter bits.”
Sybilla slipped the reins to her left hand, and her right hand tightened on her whip handle as she peered through the darkness to see the man behind the voice. There were three dark, bulky shadows, all on foot, slinking nearer. Then the lamplight glinted on metal, showing her that the first man had not spoken idly. At least one of them was armed.
“What do you want?” she demanded curtly.
“Yer baubles’ll do,” the first said, and now she saw that he was the one with the gun. The others skulked behind and a little to either side of him.
“Hold on tight, Newton,” she murmured, then added in a louder tone, “You’ve picked a fine place for a hold-up, for I daresay any number of drivers must stop here, just as I have, but I regret to tell you that I have nothing of value with me.”
The response was a sardonic chuckle. “The place serves us well enow, but ye’d be surprised ’ow many coves tells us they ain’t got nothin’ o’ value on ’em. Ain’t seed a mort a-drivin’ afore, neither,” the man added, “but I s’pose yon flash cove aside yer knows what ’e’s about. I s’pose, too, ye’ll be a-tellin’ me next that ’e’ don’t have nothin’ neither; howsoever, I kin see a flash o’ gelt beneath yon cloak, so I hopes ye won’t be spittin’ me no such false’oods. Be what they calls a cravat pin, I reckon, and looks ter be a mighty fine one.”
“You may have the pin,” Sybilla said calmly, ignoring her companion’s small indignant growl. “Throw it to them, Sydney.”
She watched obliquely while he unfastened the jeweled pin in his cravat. Then, as he tossed it toward the men, she flicked her whip neatly so that the tip of it caught the spokesman near his eye just as he opened his mouth to tell one of his companions to pick up the pin.
He cried out, clapping his free hand to the injured eye. As he did so, Sybilla flicked her whip again, wrapping the end of it around the pistol, snatching it from his grip, and flinging it into the bushes. His cohorts, shocked by the sudden turn of events, both turned toward him, but Sybilla gave them no chance to act. She dropped her hands, calling urgently to Newton as she did so, and drove straight at the three men, scattering them as she flashed by with Newton clinging to the side like a monkey.
Fortunately he managed to scramble to his perch, and they emerged from the thicket without further incident, at which time Sybilla eased the headlong pace and noted for the first time that Sydney was laughing. She glanced at him, shook her head, and called over her shoulder, “You safe, Newton?”
“Aye, m’lady,” came the gruff reply, “and a neat piece o’ work it were, if I may be so bold as to say so. So smooth did you manage it that I didn’t even lose my hat.”
Another chuckle from Sydney caused her to frown at him. “You laugh, sir? You certainly were not much help to me.”
His amusement was still evident in his voice when he said, “Did you want me to help? I thought you managed very well on your own. I told you, my dear, I do only what is necessary. Do you perhaps wish for me to drive now, so that you can rest?”
“Don’t be nonsensical.” She flashed him a mocking glance. “I doubt you can drive.”
He vouchsafed no reply to that, and silence fell between them again. It was nearer nine o’clock than eight when they passed through Kensington turnpike, to be briefly welcomed by the dim lights of the charity school on the left and the much brighter ones from the row of inns and taverns on their right, before, they reached the vast darkness to the left that was Hyde Park. Some minutes later they passed through the final turnpike into Piccadilly and almost immediately after that, Sybilla turned into Park Lane and drew up in front of Ramsbury House.
Sydney said, “I’ll find a hack. You’ll be wanting to get a hot meal and a warm bed, I’ve no doubt.”
She stared at him. “Good God, Sydney, you cannot have forgotten Mally. You are coming inside with me to change into proper evening dress, and then we are going to at least one party, if not a good many more, before this night is done!”
IX
ALTHOUGH SYDNEY ADVANCED MORE than one argument against going into Ramsbury House with Sybilla, she was in no mood to listen to him, insisting that with servants awaiting her, there could be nothing improper about his presence. Since she punctuated her arguments with orders to Newton to take the phaeton around to the mews and order out her town carriage, Sydney was left with little choice but to obey her.
Inside the high-ceilinged entrance hall, Sybilla dismissed one of the footmen with orders to find her a maidservant to help her change her clothes, and sent another hurrying to Symonds House to discover where Mally had gone for the evening. She then hurried to a side table, where she rummaged hastily through a silver-gilt basket full
of calling cards and invitations.
“Really, Sybilla,” Sydney expostulated, watching this procedure, “you cannot think that on the eve of her elopement Lady Symonds will have gone to a party! She will be safe in her own house doing whatever it is a young woman does to prepare for a rapid journey. Why did you not tell your man to discover if it is convenient for us to call upon her at home?”
Sybilla, feeling her head begin to pound again shot him a look of irritation and muttered as she returned to her task, “If you think Mally will be sitting home on this or any night, you’d best think again. Ah, here is just the thing. Lady Heatherington is always one of the first. She is so fussy, you know, that although the Lords don’t sit till February, she must be here betimes to set all in order for the Season, but once she is here, she cannot bear to be without company. If Mally is not at her dinner party, she must certainly be found at Emily Rosecourt’s card party. We will go to Lady Heatherington first, Sydney.”
“But, look here, Sybilla,” Sydney said, clearly unsettled for once. “We cannot simply appear at a dinner party. I have not received an invitation, and even if I had—”
“Oh, don’t quibble,” Sybilla snapped, putting a hand to her temple in a futile effort to stop the dull thudding. “At this time of year, one is glad to see any civilized person who appears at one’s door, and I simply must find Mally, Sydney, before she does this terrible thing. Now, please, go with Fraser,” she said, indicating another hovering footman. “He will show you where your things have been put. And do hurry!”
Instead of promptly following the footman, as she expected him to do, Sydney looked at her until Sybilla felt warmth creep into her cheeks and had to look away from him. When the silence lengthened, she said uncomfortably, “What a beast I am! I have no business to be ordering you about like this, and particularly after you have been so good. You don’t even like London, and will probably have to put up at a hotel—”
