A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World

by Jo Beverley

  “He might not care. He’s sure he’ll win.”

  Dracy looked across the track at the stocky, full-bellied earl. “He won’t.”

  “You can’t be sure—”

  “Nothing is ever sure. Not even that we’ll return safely to our homes from this event.”

  “Oh, I say…”

  At least that gloomy observation silenced Knowlton and let Dracy study his horse.

  Carta was perfectly conformed. Even his cousin Ceddie had seen that. The fool had ruined the estate with his taste for London life and the latest fashions, and he’d sold off his father’s famous thoroughbreds to pay for gewgaws. He’d kept Carta, however, called the Midnight Jade then, hoping she’d eventually show well in races and sell for a high price.

  Carta had been Ceddie’s gamble, and now she was his, renamed for the best battle he’d taken part in. Do or die, then and now.

  “Here we go,” Knowlton said, as the jockeys mounted.

  Hernescroft’s man wore green and yellow silks, Dracy’s black and red lozenges. The two horses eyed each other as if they knew everything rested on this contest of speed and stamina.

  “The deuce!” exclaimed Knowlton.

  “What?” Dracy looked around for some unexpected hazard.

  “The Scandalous Countess. Over there, in men’s clothing.”

  Dracy looked and saw a man cramming a wide-brimmed hat back on the head of a laughing, red-haired woman.

  “You could object to that,” Knowlton said. “She could jinx the whole thing.”

  “I don’t believe in jinxes.” Dracy returned his attention to important matters. Devil take it, Carta was starting one of her fidgets. Perhaps she objected to red hair.

  “Got Maybury killed in a duel over her lewd behavior.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Maybury. The Scandalous Countess.”

  “She planned it?” Dracy asked, a scrap of attention caught.

  “No, no. At least, I don’t think so. Husband dead, Vance fled the country, but there she is, merry as a mayfly. Maybury was an amiable fellow.”

  “If he was amiable enough to let her stray, he should have been too amiable to challenge someone over it.”

  “Devil take it, Dracy!”

  “I’ve no interest in Lady Maybury or her lovers. Calm down, Carta. Calm down. At this rate she’ll burn off her energy before the race starts.”

  “Too high-spirited.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with high spirits.”

  “A true beauty,” Knowlton said.

  “Isn’t she just?”

  “But too wild to handle.”

  “Jorrocks and she understand each other.”

  “Who? Damn me, Dracy, I was talking about Georgia Maybury.”

  “To hell with Georgia Maybury. They’re readying for the off.”

  The buzz of conversation died away.

  The horses would gallop eight times around the course, to make two miles.

  Devil take the jade, right now he’d get top odds. She’d bucked as if trying to unseat Jorrocks. The groom turned her in a tight circle, forcing her to behave, but men were shaking their heads.

  Dracy glared at the starter, Sir Charles Bunbury, who was chatting to Hernescroft. Perhaps the glare was felt, for Bunbury turned and called for order.

  “Here we go,” Knowlton muttered.

  Bunbury waved the flag.

  “They’re off.”

  Carta was caught in a fidget and Fancy Free took the lead, thundering toward the distant oak that marked the turning point of the course. Dracy took out his navy telescope and watched Carta close the gap as they turned the tree.

  “Nothing in it,” he muttered, but he’d expected that. This race wouldn’t be happening if the two mares weren’t closely matched. Damned closely. And Hernescroft’s mare had two years’ maturity and two years’ more racing experience.

  But Carta had youthful fire. She’d do her best to win, and no one could ask more than that.

  As the horses galloped back toward them, the mass of men shouted and bellowed, threatening Dracy’s hearing as much as ships’ guns had, but he realized he was yelling too. Yelling at Carta to go, go, go!

  When the horses pounded past him, Carta still looked full of fire. She pulled ahead, as if showing off for the crowd, but then Fancy Free caught up and pulled ahead. Carta pulled that lead back.

  And so it went, around and around, nothing in it, nothing in it, Dracy’s heart pounding in his chest, his throat raw with shouting. A mere breath lay between victory and complete defeat.

  He was hoarse, and so must everyone be, but still they yelled, encouraging the horse they’d put money on, but also simply celebrating the magnificent, courageous beasts.

  A higher-pitched call snapped his attention beyond the horses for a moment. It was that scandalous woman, waving her broad-brimmed hat, red hair tumbling out of pins, catching fire in the sun. Her companion shoved her hat on again. She laughed at him, unrepentant.

  Dracy pitied any man who had the handling of her, but his attention was all back on the horses. One more turn, and then, nostrils flaring, necks extended, Carta and Fancy Free raced toward the finish line, first Fancy Free ahead by a nose, then Carta, then Fancy Free again.…

  Dracy fell silent, too focused to shout. Come on, come on, come on. A bit more, a bit more, my lovely. A bit—

  “Yes!” He threw his hat in the air, not caring where it landed. “By God, she did it! By a nose. By more than a nose.”

  Knowlton was jumping up and down, holding on to his hat and grinning like an idiot.

  Dracy ran to Carta to give her all the praise she deserved, more purely exhilarated than during his fiercest victory at sea.

  He congratulated the wizened jockey, aware of being backslapped and of men grabbing his hand to wring it. It wasn’t just those who’d won bets. Men were celebrating with him because the race had been a fine one and because he’d gambled all and won.

  Someone put a goblet of wine in his hand, and he toasted both horses and both jockeys. He passed the goblet to Jorrocks and had him drink. He praised Carta again. In her moment of glory she’d decided to be a perfect lady, posing like a black marble statue and accepting tribute.

  “Oh, you beautiful jade!”

  He was still grinning, even though he knew his scar would twist it. He’d a burn on the right side of his face that could make sensitive souls blanch, especially when he grinned and it created a snarl. He tried not to disturb strangers that way, but right now, he didn’t give a damn. He grinned and laughed. This was a glorious moment.

  He drained another cup of wine but then steadied himself and went to take possession of his prize.

  Or rather, his bargaining chip.

  Fancy Free’s grooms greeted him with stony faces. They didn’t want to see her go, especially to ramshackle stables like those at Dracy. Dracy had made sure they and the Earl of Hernescroft knew all about that.

  The horse also seemed downcast, as if knowing her fate. He wished he could whisper that she needn’t worry. That she wouldn’t have to leave her luxurious home.

  He bowed to the portly gray-haired earl. If Hernescroft had thrown a fit upon losing, he’d recovered. He didn’t pretend happiness but offered congratulations.

  “A damn fine race, Dracy, and a damn fine horse too. Damn fine. I regret she won’t be joining my stables.”

  “They both ran well, Hernescroft. I assure you Fancy Free will be well cared for in my stables. They aren’t as fine as yours, but she’ll have the necessities.”

  The earl’s jowly features twitched. “Perhaps she can stay with her familiar attendants for now, eh? Rest a day or two before traveling.”

  “By all means. I intend the same for Cartagena.”

  “Good, good. Would you take a celebratory glass of wine with me at the house? We can discuss the arrangements.”

  “Honored, Hernescroft.” Dracy bowed again. “I’ll just see to Cartagena’s care.”

  “Hav
e her brought to my stables. She and your people will have the best care.”

  Dracy’s “people” were Jorrocks and a thirteen-year-old lad, and they’d be uncomfortable in grand surroundings.

  “Thank you, my lord, but she’s happily settled at the Bull nearby.”

  He turned away, intrigued by the earl’s tone. Perhaps Hernescroft was already thinking along the right lines.

  Carta was playing the coquette now, but in a well-mannered way, preening for her admirers and dancing just a little, as if to say she could do it all again, immediately.

  “You minx,” he said, rubbing her nose. “You beautiful, magnificent minx.” Close to her ear he added, “I’m going to get you a fine stallion as a reward.”

  He sent her off to the Bull and told Knowlton, “I’m invited to drink wine with the loser.”

  “Gracious of him.”

  “Only what I’d expect.” He strolled with Knowlton away from the dwindling crowd. “I suspect he’s already thinking along the same lines as I. It’s all going according to plan.”

  “You couldn’t be sure you’d win,” Knowlton complained.

  “Fate’s a capricious wench. I survived actions when men on either side of me died, and they’d done nothing to warrant their bad luck. I’ve seen winds change to favor one side or the other in battle. Some cry that God’s favored them, but why should he? Neither side was good or evil, and wars are usually about money and land in someone’s pocket.”

  “Oh, I say…”

  Dracy regretted disturbing his friend. “In this case, I pray it’s a stallion in my stables.”

  “Wish I had your nerve.”

  “No, you don’t. You have all you want in life. You’ve no need to risk anything to gain more.”

  Knowlton smiled. “I admit it, but sometimes I think I lead a dull life.”

  “Give thanks for it daily. I hope for the same.”

  “You think to marry?” Knowlton asked, surprised.

  Dracy had been thinking of life in general, but he supposed a cozy life would benefit from a cozy wife. One day.

  “I’ve too much on my plate restoring house, estate, and stables to take on more at the moment.”

  “A wife can be a helpmeet, especially with the house. That’s her domain.”

  “It’s certainly not mine. Very well, if you think of a suitable lady with a tranquil temperament, frugal domestic talents, and a handsome dowry, let me know. One who won’t mind my face.”

  Knowlton spluttered, and Dracy felt guilty again for upsetting him. Theirs was an odd friendship, but he truly liked Tom Knowlton and valued the entree to his cozy, normal world.

  He slapped him on the back. “I’m off to my appointment with fate. Wish me luck. I’ll report all to you over dinner at the Bull.”

  Chapter 3

  Dracy walked toward Herne through a dispersing crowd, but he was still frequently slowed by men wanting to congratulate him. He fended off a number of invitations to dine, or even to spend a few days at this place or that, but realized he was enjoying the spirit of the moment.

  He missed the navy, especially the camaraderie enforced by crowded ships. He missed having friends and acquaintances in every port, especially those who shared his devil-may-care attitude to life. It didn’t take long for any military man to realize how much of survival was up to chance.

  He especially missed encounters with the men he’d first met as a cabin boy. Some were dead and the rest scattered around the world.

  After nearly six months, he still struggled to fit into the sleepy Devon society around Dracy. The racing world was a better fit because it was manly and adventurous, with fortunes often in the balance. However, most of these men would return to lives as predictable and comfortable as Tom Knowlton’s. They hadn’t learned that anyone had only the moment, that disaster could strike with no warning, even on a sunny day.

  They should have learned it—he met men, and even some women, who teetered constantly on the edge of disaster, mired in debt, reveling in dangerous sports, flirting with fatal scandal. Every now and then one toppled over into the mire, yet the rest showed no visible awareness of their mortality.

  Did they think they were gods?

  He’d take the solid country gentlemen like Tom Knowlton over the beau monde any day.

  But take a wife?

  The idea was growing on him, however, especially now he’d won the gamble. Solitary life held little appeal. Perhaps a wife—a plump and practical one like Annie Knowlton—would know how to make damp, dusty Dracy into a cozy home. But she’d have to do it on a pittance. The stud, not the farmland, appealed

  to his temperament, and he was putting every spare penny to work there, and nearly all his energy too. Many a time he’d taken up saw or hammer to attend to a job.

  A house was a wife’s job, however, as Tom had said. He was sure Annie Knowlton took up duster and scrubbing brush alongside her servants. Perhaps a wife would know how to dragoon his handful of servants into hard work.

  The right wife would know how to put cheap, tasty meals on the table and defeat the army of moths and other pests he housed. She would sit with him by the fireside in the evening, mending sheets as he worked on the estate books. And then in time, they’d go to bed.

  How the devil would that go?

  His bed partners had always been sophisticated ladies who by the very nature of things were demanding of those they favored. There’d been none of that since returning home. An impoverished baron didn’t have the allure of a naval officer in a foreign port, and of course his appearance counted against him with some.

  No, he wouldn’t give much for his chances of any sort of wife. One particularly sensitive lady in Devon had swooned when brought suddenly face-to-face with him.

  Even Tom’s wife was uncomfortable with his appearance. She was sorry for him rather than disgusted, but it had taken her a while to become at ease. Tom’s children still weren’t. If they caught sight of him they stared and clutched at an attendant. He’d quickly learned not to smile at them.

  He wasn’t one to mourn what couldn’t be changed, but before leaving the navy he’d not been so aware of his disfigurement.

  He passed through a yew hedge and paused to give due tribute to the great house known simply as Herne. The place was enormous, stretching left and right, ranks of windows gleaming despite the window tax. The front doubtless had pillars and porticos, but he was approaching from the rear. The back was still richly decorated, and a long terrace ran across the middle of the house, with stairs leading up to it.

  There didn’t seem much point in walking around to the front, but what were the appropriate entrances on this side? Three sets of glass doors led from the terrace into the house. The left-hand doors stood open. They’d do. He set off across a sea of lawn scattered with pale classical statues and then wove his way through geometric gardens.

  He climbed the steps and crossed the stone terrace, pausing before a pair of gryphons, half eagle, half lion. As symbols of valor and magnanimity they were all very well, but as guardians they were rather easily circumvented. He walked around them and headed for the open doors, wondering whether it would be seen as a rude invasion.

  Just then, a powdered and liveried footman stepped out to bow. “Welcome to Herne, your lordship.”

  Dracy nodded and went in, liking the feel of that. Hernescroft had arranged for his comfort, and that augured well for making a good deal.

  He was in an elegant room with a richly plastered ceiling, and walls covered with paintings. Probably not a drawing room, as they were generally on a higher floor, less easily invaded. This was for more public use. He wagered himself a shilling it was called the Terrace Room.

  The footman led him down a corridor, then right and down another, until they’d moved beyond the main part of the house into a plainer part.

  They halted before a plain door.

  An estate room?

  Not so promising.

  When Dracy entered, however, he l
iked it better. This had to be the earl’s office, but he clearly also used it as a comfortable retreat. Dracy’s boots were treading on a fine carpet, and the furniture was all richly made and lavishly gilded, including a monumental desk. The walls here were also hung with paintings, but all of horses and races, alongside other sporting items. A small table might be used for private dining. Two upholstered chairs sat by the fireplace, and a settee nearby could be used by additional guests.

  Dracy knew that noting all these details might seem odd, but it was an old instinct. Details were crucial in warfare, and especially in navigating unknown waters. Whether in the temperamental seas of the fashionable world or the more placid lakes of the country gentry, one wrong word could sink a man.