A diminutive tiger leapt from the carriage and ran forward to seize their heads.
“I heard tell someone had purchased Woking’s showy chestnuts, Percy. Now I see it was you.”
The voice was not loud, but it brought both Hugo and Pen’s heads round with a jerk and made Pen jump. It belonged to a familiar gentleman who drove a pair of blood chestnuts and wore a greatcoat with a very fashionable twelve capes.
He was addressing a red-faced man with a starched high collar and neckcloth, who coloured and said, “Arden… I might have guessed.”
As ill luck would have it, Hugo’s start had made him tighten the reins involuntarily and the blacks started to toss their heads about and move backwards. Hugo stopped them quickly, but not in time to prevent his right mudguard from grazing the other curricle’s left.
Hugo looked furious, and as if he was about to swear aloud from annoyance until he caught Arden’s eye.
“Hold hard, Burrows, the race starts at the end of the fight, man.”
Hugo flushed red and looked about him. Excited whispers rushed through the assembled throng like a breeze through trees.
“Did y’hear? Burrows and Arden—to race!” a bolder voice to the right spoke up.
“Is that true, Arden? You about to pit your blood-reds against Burrow’s blacks?”
“Indeed, Percy. I was anticipating a tedious morning’s sport, so I intend to supplement it with a little competition with Burrows.”
Pen turned in her seat slightly to regard Arden properly. It meant turning her eyes into the sun, and as a consequence, having to squint at his figure in part silhouette.
Arden sat nonchalantly, with one leg braced against the front of his curricle, the reins looped across his arm. He was relaxed, a ready smile on his face as he made conversation with his surrounding cronies. Where the firm, thin-lipped individual of the day before had gone, Pen could only guess. One thing she could easily discern was that Lord Arden had not spent the night with a brandy bottle as Hugo appeared to have done. The other thing that was very clear was the tight fit of his breeches left nothing to the imagination.
Pen averted her gaze, aware of a warm spread of desire starting to burn between her legs.
Hugo sat atop his curricle in angry silence, giving all the appearance of a very reluctant contestant indeed.
“What’s the course, Arden?” piped up another voice.
“From here, end of the fight, to The Greyhound Inn, Croydon. Carrington’s done the pretty for me and has gone up to Croydon this morning to check the winner in.”
“Trust Seb Carrington,” called a waggish voice from a few carriages away. “He’s no doubt encountered the half-decent table to be had there.”
“Aye, he’ll see the winner, all right,” declared another.
Sebastian Carrington? Sebastian? Her brother-in-law? There at the end of the race?
Dear God!
Pen sat bolt upright on her perch and stared straight ahead. How cruel could fate be?
What would he do?
What would he say?
Her initial reaction was to jump down from Hugo’s carriage and run. Run away…but where to? She had nowhere else to go.
Another mad, sly thought crept in to insidiously whisper…what if he should lose his temper? Maybe I could throw myself at him one last, outrageous time before he casts me off once and for all?
Pen was aware of a forbidden frisson of excitement at the prospect of the cool, restrained Sebastian losing his control. She glanced up and self-consciously licked her lips as she did so.
Arden was watching her, not the fight, studying her face, closely, as if assessing her reaction to news of Sebastian Carrington.
What he saw seemed to please him, as he smiled slightly before looking away.
Pen glanced across at Hugo, only to see him then reach into his pocket and pull out a silver flask.
“Hollands?”
No, not more alcohol!
Without thinking, she caught Hugo’s wrist
“Hugo!” she cried, letting go of his hand as if it were a hot coal on catching sight of Hugo’s expression “You are drunk!” Pen accused him.
Hugo gave her a condescending glance and turned his back on her. Pen had a terrible, sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach as she stared at the line of his recently turned back. She had had severe doubts as to Hugo’s ability to win the wager with Arden, but realising the condition he was in now, and seeing the martial light in his eye, Pen was starting to wonder if they could actually survive the race to Croydon in one piece.
Hugo was well known locally for his rash escapades when something the worse for drink. It was a fact that did not bode well for the coming hours.
Pen was all too aware of the fact that this entire incident was being followed closely from the adjacent curricle, Arden watching from beneath hooded eyes as his acquaintances started to wager on the outcome of the race as well as the forthcoming fight. Irritably she shrugged off her concerns at what he might be thinking, being more concerned with trying to gauge at what point the fight would start and at which point the spectacle would end, and the most serious event of her day would commence.
The gentleman that Arden had referred to as Percy pulled an enormous silver watch from his pocket. He then made a great show of consulting it, much to the disgust of the spectators in the surrounding carriages.
“It is after twelve. Do you think that the magistrates have got wind of it and are on their way?”
“No, here they come—and our man seems in good shape,” observed Arden.
Everyone turned in their seats towards the ring as a giant of a man, accompanied by his seconds, stepped over the ropes.
“He’s said to be between fourteen and fifteen stone,” Percy responded. “Ah… The colours are being tied to the ropes. The fight is set to begin!”
At that moment, some cheering mixed liberally with catcalls and derisive shouts rose from the crowd.
“I’ve laid a monkey on him, and another if he gives the first knock down. The only thing is that he’s rumoured to be a bit on the slow side, but he’s supposed to be aggressive with it, a real slugger,” Percy informed them all in excited tones, standing so that he could get a better view of the men stepping up to the scratch line.
The champion’s hat was hurled into the ring, and within a few moments the seconds and bottle-holders left, and the fight began.
From this point on, Pen’s emotions were a mixture of anxious frustration and dread at Hugo’s progressively worsening state. Every shout of the crowd made her jump, and every roar made her leap involuntarily to her feet to see if one of the participants in the ring had crashed down and was being counted out. Her heart seemed to spend all of its time either lodged firmly in her throat or buried deep in her boots. Pen’s hands were covered in sweat, and she had to keep wiping them on her coat and breeches as she found she had no grip on the carriage if she did not. Pen also kept rubbing her hands repeatedly through her badly cut hair, until it stood up over her head and felt like a hedgehog.
Hearing someone shout new odds on the fight, Pen turned quickly, only to encounter Arden’s stare. Whilst all the people about them had their attention focused on the ring, Lord Arden lounged back in his seat, watching her with an air of observant calculation.
Once more Pen was forced to concede that he was a handsome man, who carried his rakish good looks off to perfection. His hair was immaculately cut and styled, yet still apparently untouched by the outdoor pursuits he was indulging in today. His eyes, which last time had had a weary boredom about them, held a sardonic gleam in their silver depths, and Pen found herself held there as if bewitched. It was as if all the other noise about them had receded, the hustle and bustle of the event disappearing into the background.
As Arden continued to look at her, his face broke into a lazy yet beautiful smile and he saluted her with his whip hand before inclining his head towards a neighbouring carriage as someone spoke to him.
&nb
sp; “Why you…” Pen primly averted her gaze then realised in that split second exactly how much trouble she just might be in due to her determination to stay en route to London when Hugo had tried so hard to send her back to Hatchlands.
Viscount Arden had been quite precise about the terms of his wager, and she had ruthlessly sought to use it to blackmail Hugo to not offload her immediately. But if Arden suspected she was female—or even more shocking, if he did not—the terms of the wager suddenly hinted at a much darker, sinister motive for Arden’s interest.
Even in the hot noonday sun, Pen was aware of her nipples tightening against the coarse linen of her shirt, and the seam of her slightly too-snug breeches resting lewdly on her sex. She was aware of a growing dampness between her legs as she imagined Arden stripped before her like the boxers fighting in the ring, his torso streaked with dirt and sweat.
The thoughts raced rashly through Pen’s mind with a numbing speed and clarity, all within a second of Arden turning his gaze upon her and smiling.
Pen risked another look but Arden’s attention had been drawn firmly back to the fight. The bad news for herself and the by now rather badly inebriated Hugo, was that the match appeared to be staggering into its final stages. As if on cue, Hugo started to manoeuvre his rig out from the surrounding carriages.
“Look smart, Pen!” Hugo snapped as he guided his team from the crush. “This is no time to be making cow eyes at the opposition. Gather up the tin and hold hard as I have no intention of being beaten by Arden.”
Pen did not confide in Hugo, for she knew him of old. If he thought he could gain something from Arden by using her in some way, she did not doubt that he would endeavour to do so. As it was, he had a distinctive, wild look in his eye, and the effects of the morning’s intermittent drinking seemed to have had its effect. Hugo’s eyes had acquired a cold, and in Pen’s opinion, a not altogether sober look, and she was starting to have very real concerns for the health of both herself and Hugo’s horses over the race to come.
* * * *
Once free of the general melee, Hugo eased his blacks into a gentle canter across the field in order to be first onto the rough, mud road north after Arden had signalled the start of the race with a curt nod
As much as Pen looked, she could see no sign of Arden or his rig, but it was clear that the fight had ended as people at the edge of the crowd were starting to disperse. The carriage hit a rut, and Pen realised that she needed to hold very hard onto the side lest she would be hurled unceremoniously into a ditch. The curricle bounced along the road, and for the first time in her life Pen found herself questioning whether a well-sprung carriage was a good thing.
Hugo drove like a man possessed as he urged the eager horses on, obviously keen to gain the advantage. In fact, so speedy and abrupt was his progress that a number of other carriages and pedestrians took exception to him making way and expressed their opinion in no uncertain terms.
“Oy!” called out one gentleman farmer, in a gig pulled by a large bay cob. “Mind your…”
The rest of the shout was thankfully lost in the stiff breeze that was picking up. The sky had also changed from the clear blue of that morning to a lowering steely grey that hinted at stormy things to come.
But for now, they appeared to be running before whatever weather was due, the roads dry and the way clear.
Pen tried to settle herself more comfortably in her precarious seat. Her arms were already suffering from fatigue and she knew they had barely even begun their ordeal. She kept her spirits up by reminding herself that every jerk of the carriage, every bump and jolt of the wheels, was taking her further away from Hatchlands and closer to London.
That thought cheered her sufficiently for her to renew her grip on the carriage and her determination to stay the course on the dangerous and unpredictable journey that lay ahead.
The progress of Hugo’s curricle continued on as the air about them acquired the deathly still of an impending storm. Onwards through Tilgate Forest, the trees started to sway in the wind as they raced on towards the Swan tollgate. After Pease Pottage, the road favoured the carriage with a downwards gradient on the approach to Crawley. The hot blue summer sky was being slowly invaded by grey, then ominous black clouds, which loomed moodily above.
Hugo seemed ill disposed to let up on his horses, and their flanks were even blacker with sweat, their mouths flecked with foam.
“Do you not need to slow down?” Pen finally shouted her first words to Hugo since their departure from the prize-fight.
“No. I’ll get a fresh team at The Chequers,” was the snapped answer.
Pen shook her head then swayed wildly as the carriage struck an odd rock. “Can you do that?”
“Of course I bloody can! Did Arden say no change of cattle?”
Of course, he had not. But therein Pen could see Arden’s cunning strategy. Arden would have his own horses staged at The Chequers Inn. Hugo did not have the kind of resources to stage his own horses, and without a doubt there was a good chance that they would get an unsound team. Pen would have staked an easy monkey on Arden having factored that into his challenge.
“How far?”
“A few miles, but unfortunately it’s uphill after that.”
“Just perfect for Arden,” Pen fumed quietly to herself, startled at how her competitive spirit had eclipsed any fear as she clung for dear life onto the back of the curricle.
* * * *
Hugo’s carriage clattered into the inn, his loud shout catching the ostler’s attention in no uncertain terms. The state of Hugo’s horses proclaimed his current haste to the men present in the yard, and gentlemen in such a hurry were well known to sport a generous amount of blunt at the end of a speedy change of cattle. Hugo’s own blacks were led away, and Hugo made a great show of checking the replacement horses for weakness or injury before allowing them to be put to.
Pen assisted and did a quick check of her own to ensure that all was secure before she resumed her seat. However, she was still not confident that they would progress as well with the new team. She cast her mind about, trying to think of some way of delaying Arden by some trick, as he would undoubtedly be stopping at The Chequers shortly, but to her disgust she could think of nothing.
“Stand away!” barked Hugo as the ostlers fought over the handful of silver he had cast on the ground. “And tell Lord Arden when he stops here that I’ll be in Croydon before him, and drinking his health.”
Pen could have groaned aloud. Hugo’s words seemed to echo around the yard, and from the glances the stable lads of the inn cast each other, would undoubtedly make sure that The Chequers would be standing ready to receive Arden as he swept into the inn yard, ready to change his horses.
A record change of cattle would no doubt yield a corresponding amount of financial appreciation—the yard staff were certainly not slow to realise where there was potential to net a few extra shillings.
“Let’s see what these animals can do,” Hugo said to no one in particular, and allowed the mismatched bays to have their heads while fresh.
Once more Pen had to renew her hold on the curricle, and swung her booted foot round one side to give herself some extra grip as the fresh horses surged into their harness and pulled them northwards, away from Horley.
The animals were soon labouring on the gradual climb past Salfords, and onwards across Earlswood Common, towards Red Hill. The route was not particularly straight, and on occasion meant dropping the team to an increasingly reluctant trot and even a walk. As soon as the road levelled and straightened, Hugo urged them back up into a canter, and even on occasion, a gallop, but it was becoming harder and harder with each ongoing mile. The looming grey sky was getting darker and darker, the threat of bad weather seeming to literally hang over their heads. Red Hill was eventually left behind, but as they had come through the tollgate, just before Merstham, large drops of rain started to fall from the leaden sky.
“Damnation!” snapped Hugo as his concentration was b
roken by the increasing frequency of huge raindrops hitting the dry road and carriage.
One of the horses was showing themselves to be a real roarer, but they had performed better than Pen had expected. But she did not know for sure that it would not be enough until she saw a most distinctive carriage indeed, bearing down on them through the steadily increasing rain.
“Hell and damnation!” Hugo’s next words were muffled as he chanced a look back, and realised the significance of the speeding team behind them. “Come on, you couple of bonesetters!” he roared at the labouring horses. “Have at you!”
And with that he cracked the whip over their heads.
As the whip cracked, a corresponding flash of lightning and a deafening crash of thunder erupted about them. Pen cringed at what seemed to be the loudest thing she had heard in her entire life.
The horses leapt forward into their bits with fear and bolted. It was all Pen could do to retain her hold on the by now wet and slippery seat of the curricle, and try not to be dumped unceremoniously onto the rapidly flooding road to Merstham.
The heavens opened, and the rain fell in drenching sheets that hid the surrounding Surrey countryside in a curtain of grey. The horses continued to career on their way, the curricle bouncing about in their wake like a cork dropped atop the running water of a stream.
But through the torrential rain, and above the noise and chaos of Hugo fighting for control of the bolting horses, Pen could hear the thunder of the pursuing team’s hooves. The sides of the road were high-banked, a ditch on one side, a hedge on the other. There were bends and twists in the road, which made the progress of their curricle treacherous, due to the speed at which Hugo was forced to negotiate it whilst his hired team were effectively out of control. It also served to hide and then reveal again, and again, the pursuing carriage from view.
Wild Pen Carrington Page 3
