‘I’m determined to be on the Swan,’ declared Jane.
‘Then take a grip on yourself. You can’t let womankind down by being seen in a flap.’
Jane couldn’t help smiling. ‘Womankind?’
‘You carry a great responsibility, Jane. You are the only woman in a positive army of men, and you have to flick your petticoats scornfully at them all. So, take a deep breath and tell yourself that you’re as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Do as you’re told, Jane.’
Jane obeyed, still smiling. ‘I’m as cool as the proverbial cucumber,’ she said.
Her aunt hugged her then. ‘Good luck, my dear, we’ll be willing you on.’
Blanche hugged her too. ‘Be lucky, Jane. Show Henry what you’re made of.’
‘At that moment it would undoubtedly be jelly.’
She went to the coach then and Jacob assisted her up onto the box beside Will. She felt almost light-headed, gazing down at the four splendid horses stretching away from the coach before her. Then, she took another deep breath – she was as cool as a cucumber! She put up her parasol and twirled it gaily above her head.
Arthur was hovering anxiously beside the coach, calling up to his apprehensive son. ‘Confidence now, Will; you can do it if you set your mind to it. You’ve got excellent eyes, strong arms, light hands, and an even temper, and with cattle like these to do your bidding, you have it all going for you. Don’t pull or haul like you might need to with lesser animals; let every horse get on with its work, and always handle their mouths gently, like they were made of silk. They’ll fly for you if you treat them right.’
Will nodded, the beads of perspiration clearly visible on his forehead. He waited until the three ladies had entered Blanche’s landau, then he gently touched the team into action. Jane’s heart began to thunder so wildly that she was sure everyone must be able to hear it. The coach rolled slowly toward the archway, and as the leaders appeared in the sunlight beyond, a great cheer rose from the waiting crowd.
The chestnuts made a splendid sight, stepping high and proud as they drew the gleaming blue carriage out into the street. Approval was shouted from all sides, but there was astonishment mixed with it, for all eyes were drawn to Jane’s yellow-clad figure, seated so prominently beside the coachman.
Most of those who saw her didn’t know who she was, nor did they know who the ladies were in the following landau, but there were a number of ladies and gentlemen in the watching carriages who recognized them all straightaway.
A dandy in green satin stood up in his curricle, his quizzing glass raised incredulously to his astonished eyes. ‘’Pon me soul,’ he murmured to himself. ‘’Pon me soul.’
THIRTY
The whole of London, both fashionable and unfashionable, seemed to have gathered on the hill where William the Conqueror built his great fortress. Overlooking the city and the river, the immense square tower presided over an impressive assemblage of castellated buildings, and the whole was surrounded by an impregnable wall and a large moat. It was one of the most formidable strongholds in the world, and today it seemed to be under siege from the huge crowds that had come together to watch the start of the race.
On the green slopes outside the medieval defenses, the grass was almost completely concealed by thousands of people, their numbers swollen by the arrival of the queen and her multitude of supporters. The queen was in her element, acknowledging the huge gathering as if it was there to see her and not the race.
Every sporting gentleman worth his salt had turned out for the event, and the air was full of their knowing slang and loud laughter. The younger bucks swaggered among the crowds, conducting themselves as if they were every one the equal of professional coachmen like Sewell. Many of them were the friends of Lord Sefton, and intended to accompany him all the way to Brighton in their curricles and cabriolets. These light vehicles were to be seen everywhere, as were the more elegant and comfortable carriages which choked the roads leading to the hill, and all intended to pursue the three competitors the fifty-five miles to Brighton.
At their posts in the Tower, the Beefeaters tried to maintain an air of indifference to the excitement all around. Their scarlet and gold Tudor uniforms made vivid splashes of color against the brooding Norman stonework, and for a long time those specks of color didn’t move from their posts, but in the end it was too much, and they came to the battlements to gaze down at the seething crowds below. The famous ravens wheeled and dipped excitedly in the clear sky, their raucous cries echoing all around. Deep within the tower, their roars muffled by the thick walls but still audible, the lions and tigers in the royal menagerie paced restlessly up and down, agitated by the sheer numbers of people they sensed to be close by.
The Swan’s two rivals had already arrived, the amazing new Nonpareil having caused a tremendous stir when it appeared, drawn by a team of extremely eye-catching skewbalds. The coach’s scarlet livery was familiar enough, as were the black horse emblems on its shining panels, but the novelty of the revolutionary design made it the object of a great deal of astonished attention. It was exactly as Aunt Derwent had described it – low and wide, with an open compartment behind the box for outside passengers, only today, of course, Sewell was to be the only person on board.
He looked as smart as ever, in a coat to match the color of the coach and trousers as fashionable and white as any gentleman’s. He sat elegantly on the box. the ribbons held almost nonchalantly in his kid-gloved hand as he leaned down to talk confidentially to Chapman. The coachmaster himself was dressed in peacock blue with a yellow cravat, and the satisfied smile on his lips told of his confidence that the Swan had been eliminated and the Iron Duke was easy prey.
Nearby, Henry’s gleaming green coach stood at the ready, its team of mettlesome strawberry roans stamping and tossing their splendid heads. The Iron Duke exuded an air of excellence and style, everything about it proclaiming it to be the product of Powell of Bond Street. Its lacquerwork was glossy, its metal-work the finest silver, and its rich appointments were worthy of a royal carriage; it was a very elegant and stylish vehicle, as aristocratic as its owner.
A group of gentlemen stood in its shadow, discussing the burning topic of brakes. Among them were Henry himself and the marshal of the race, Lord Sefton. The marshal was a large, bluff man, much given to wearing his favorite sporting pink, and possessed of such a commanding manner that he was the natural leader of the sporting fraternity and therefore the obvious choice to see that all was as it should be on an occasion like this. A stickler for the rules, he intended to pursue the contestants in his yellow curricle, and that splendid vehicle waited behind the Iron Duke, a smart groom attending to the spirited pair of bays, Lord Sefton being famous for his predilection for horses of that color.
Behind the curricle there was another dashing sporting vehicle, this one a purple cabriolet drawn by a single gray. It was the property of the Duke of Dursley, who wore purple to match and who was lounging on the seat with a secret, knowing smile on his lips, for alone among the huge gathering he knew that Blanche was going to follow the race. He had happened upon the information because he’d overheard her maid discussing the matter with her footman beau, and he intended to use it to the best advantage. With luck, Henry wouldn’t show up well against the Nonpareil, and that would surely lower his stock in Blanche’s eyes – if indeed his stock could fall much more anyway. The duke’s lips curved into a smile more sleek than ever. The Lyndon fortune was falling neatly into his hands after all. It had been a tiresome business, especially as the lady wasn’t exactly to his taste anyway, lacking the full-bosomed figure of the actresses he much preferred, but her fortune was sufficient to make it all worthwhile, and once she was safely married, he could ignore her. His eyes glittered as he pondered the delights of spending his way through such wealth. Ah, sweet delight, he’d be able to indulge his many vices, and pursue a certain young creature who’d caught his eye at the opera house the other night. What a divinity, absolute perfection; but disagre
eably expensive. That would change when he had old Lyndon’s pennies in his ducal pocket.
Next to the Iron Duke, Henry was attempting to concentrate on his friends’ conversation. He wore a double-breasted beige coat with a high collar and large brass buttons, and his cream cord trousers were tucked into particularly elegant Hessian boots. His brown silk neckcloth was adorned with a fine diamond pin, and his top hat was tall and shining. He was in the very tippy of fashion, looking very handsome and dashing, but although he smiled and laughed with apparent unconcern, he was wishing with all his heart that he’d gone to make his peace with Blanche as Jane had wanted the previous day. It would be so good to have Blanche with him now, cheering him on as he tooled the Iron Duke down the hill toward Eastcheap and London Bridge. Goddammit, how he missed her. His cane tapped impatiently. How much longer did they have to wait for Ardenley’s wretched Swan to put in an appearance? And how much more of Dursley’s smirking stares did he have to endure? Charles’s note had been appreciated, for at least he’d had advance warning.
Lord Sefton took out his fob watch and flicked it open. Was the Swan’s late arrival due to a sense of the theatrical, or had the events of the previous evening proved too much, even for Ardenley? Mulling over the latter thought for a moment, his lordship swiftly rejected it, for Lewis Ardenley wasn’t a man to be put off by the scurrilous activities of someone like Chapman. Lord Sefton glanced at the Nonpareil’s proprietor for a moment. Chapman had been sailing close to the wind for too long now, but everything he’d done had been impossible to prove. The day of reckoning was surely at hand, and if he tried anything during this race, anything at all, then he’d have the might of Sefton to contend with and he’d pay dearly for his many past sins.
Distant cheers from Eastcheap heralded the approach at last of the third and final competitor, and everyone strained to look down the hill. Chapman’s smile faded for a moment. So, they’d decided to start even without Huggett, had they? Who had they found to take his place? What if they’d managed to get Lord Ardenley back from Maywood in time? Fleeting alarm seized him then and he scrambled quickly up on the box beside Sewell.
It was the women among the crowds in Eastcheap who first alerted those on the hill that there was something of more than mild interest about the Swan, for their mixed cries of delight and disbelief were clearly audible. The fashionable ladies at the start stood up in their open carriages the better to see what was causing such female fuss, and soon their gasps of astonishment were to be heard as well.
The Swan drew nearer, its blue panels very bright and its fine chestnuts stepping high as they effortlessly pulled the coach up the hill. The dainty figure beside the coachman was the cause of all the attention, as the ladies soon whispered to their male companions.
A great stir began to pass through the crowd as Jane acknowledged the cheers, her parasol twirling and her bonnet ribbons fluttering in the light breeze. Chapman stared, knowing her immediately. Felbridge’s sister! So that was the real reason for Ardenley’s interest in the Swan! But the coachmaster wasn’t really interested in Jane; he was relieved to see Will with the ribbons. Ardenley was evidently still tucked safely away at Maywood, and long may he remain there! Chapman’s sharp eyes were thoughtful, though. Maywood was too handily placed and Ardenley might get on the box yet. He leaned closer to Sewell. ‘You’ve got a passenger, George; I think it might be wise if I’m on the spot, so to speak.’
‘You’re expecting trouble?’
‘Only what I’ve laid in store for the others.’ Chapman’s expression was still thoughtful. ‘There’s too many nobs in this for my liking. That bit of muslin isn’t only Felbridge’s sister – she was betrothed to Ardenley.’
‘Do you reckon we’d do better to stick fast to the rules then?’
‘Hardly, not if the Nonpareil’s to get into Brighton first!’ snapped Chapman irritably. ‘I need that £50,000 and intend to get my hands on it, so we’ll do it like we planned, only I’ll come with you now instead of staying back here in London.’ His glance moved beyond the Swan then to the landau which had drawn up behind it. ‘God above!’ he exclaimed, seeing Aunt Derwent’s face grinning out at him.
Sewell saw her too and recognized her as the widow who had been wined and dined. So, for once Chapman had been duped instead of doing the duping! The coachman had to grin, nudging the furious coachmaster. ‘Here, isn’t that—?’
‘No!’ came the snappish reply. ‘It just happens to look like her!’ Chapman scowled at the landau.
Henry had been so stunned to see Jane on the box that he didn’t notice that Will had the ribbons instead of Arthur. Seeing his sister perched up there so conspicuously was a galling experience, and Henry’s blue eyes had darkened with fury. So, she thought to make a fool of him, did she? What a gull he’d been, not realizing what a viper she was in his trusting bosom! Far from being really interested in his coaching, she’d been pumping him and telling Ardenley and Wheddle everything he said! He rounded on Lord Sefton, suspecting him of complicity. ‘Sir, I don’t find this trick at all amusing!’
Lord Sefton didn’t like the tone. ‘Steady on now, Felbridge, there’s no need for that. I didn’t know Lady Jane was involved. I only knew about Ardenley, and I told you about that. You’ve been asking for a poke on your handsome snout for some time now. That business of the Lyndon ball was evidently the final straw for your sister.’ He chuckled a little. ‘What spirit, eh?’
‘That’s not what I’d call it,’ grumbled Henry, giving Jane another dark look. He hadn’t noticed the landau behind yet.
Lord Sefton was looking thoughtfully at Will Huggett and then at Chapman, who hadn’t exactly seemed all that surprised to see the son on the Swan’s box instead of the father. ‘Felbridge, there appears to be something you’ve overlooked in your apoplectic rage with your lovely sister, and that is the howling fact that Arthur Huggett is nowhere to be seen.’
Henry stared at Will, forgetting Jane for a moment. ‘I wonder what’s happened? He was hail and hearty enough when I saw him yesterday.’
‘Look at Chapman. He’s been up to slightly more than that fire last night, you mark my words. With Will on the box, the Swan doesn’t stand an earthly. It’s going to be between you and the Nonpareil after all.’ Lord Sefton glanced at the landau then and saw Blanche. He pursed his lips. ‘Felbridge, I’m afraid that I’ve got some bad news for you.’
‘Eh?’
‘Miss Lyndon is evidently in on the Swan as well. She’s in the carriage behind.’
Henry stared at Blanche, his eyes hurt and accusing. It was bad enough that Jane had stabbed him in the back, but that Blanche should do it as well…. Then he saw his aunt and he turned away. So Charles had only seen fit to warn him about Dursley and had kept the rest to himself. Sworn to secrecy, no doubt! He’d show them! He’d show them that they couldn’t make a fool of him!
Lord Sefton pursed his lips. ‘Well, my boy, I’ll warrant you wish now you’d behaved yourself the night of the Lyndon ball, eh?’ He chuckled again. ‘Your womenfolk are tweaking your nose, and doing it publicly.’
Henry didn’t reply. He didn’t find anything amusing in the situation, especially as he now understood the knowing smirk on Dursley’s odious face. Even Dursley had been in on the plot, his archrival and the man he loathed most in all the world! He’d never forgive Jane for this, or Blanche, or his aunt! Never! He vaulted lightly up onto the box of the Iron Duke, making the roans toss their heads in anticipation as he picked up the reins. He sat stiffly, ignoring the Swan and keeping his back toward the occupants of the landau.
Blanche had watched his every reaction and now she lowered her eyes sadly. If he’d given her the chance, she’d have smiled at him and shown him she still loved him, but he hadn’t, and now he seemed more angry than ever before.
Aunt Derwent sniffed. ‘Tiresome boy,’ she muttered. ‘When will he ever learn? Don’t pay any attention to him, Blanche, he’s being extremely disagreeable.’
‘But I love
him.’
‘I know.’ Aunt Derwent patted her hand, and then smiled at Betsy. ‘Come on now, ladies, we’re off to Brighton and it’s going to be very exciting. Smile at the world, we’ve a stagecoach to cheer for and it certainly isn’t the Iron Duke! Or that horrid Mr Chapman’s Nonpareil. Did you see the look on his face when he spotted me? Oh, it was a sweet moment.’
Blanche managed a laugh then, and Betsy smiled shyly, a little overawed to be with such elegant ladies in a carriage more luxurious than any she’d ever been in before.
Lord Sefton looked at his watch again and decided that it was more than time to start the race. He signaled up to the battlements of the Tower, where a cannon was waiting to be fired for the off. An answering wave signified that they were in readiness, and a hush fell over the gathering, even the queen’s yahoos standing in quiet anticipation for a moment. As the marshal walked toward his curricle, every other vehicle prepared for the big moment, ready to set off in hot pursuit the moment the stagecoaches left.
Chapman nudged Sewell, hissing through clenched teeth. ‘I want that £50,000! Needle Felbridge, I want him rattled!’
The coachman was confused for a moment, but then with a taunting grin he leaned across, pointing his whip at the Iron Duke’s splendid roans. ‘What a poor, lean lot you’ve got there, my lord. They must cost you more in whips than hay!’
A ripple of amusement passed through those in the crowd who heard.
Henry scowled at him, goaded more easily than might otherwise have been the case because of the Swan. ‘I can’t imagine how you’ve got the gall to criticize my cattle considering you’ve got the most miserable set of bokickers I’ve ever seen stagger from a stable! They look as if they’ve had three sweats already! Claw them up the hill, did you? You’ll have to find a better style, Sewell, you looked like a damned windmill when you arrived. Not that many will have noticed, they were all too busy laughing at that tea crate you call a coach!’
Lady Jane's Ribbons Page 29
