Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  Miss Honeywell promised that, if ever she found herself in such a situation, she would bear in mind this sapient advice. Then she touched upon Lady Harveston’s kind invitation which met with the Dowager’s cordial approbation.

  ‘What a capital plan! It will take you out of town until tongues have ceased to wag! Lysander has gone to Newmarket, you know, which is very wise of him. How long shall you be in Sussex, do you think?’

  ‘No more than a few days, I should imagine.’

  ‘Well, do try to be back for the opening of the Academy, it is quite the best shillingsworth in town. Oh, dear, is that the time? I must go to my room, no doubt you will be wishful of dining a little early in order to prepare for your departure.’ Miss Honeywell acquiesced politely but wished she did not feel so guilty at having to deceive her godmother yet again. She consoled herself by the reflection that all was being undertaken on Mr. Derwent’s behalf and she owed him that, at least, for the wrong she had done him.

  ‘I am inclined to think,’ said Lord Fontevin, as his travelling chaise, complete with coachman and groom, moved out of Albemarle Street into Piccadilly, ‘that I have been much at fault in taking you up with me today. What story, may I ask, have you spun to her ladyship to gain her approval?’

  ‘I have told her that I am going into Sussex on a visit with my Lady Harveston,’ replied Miss Honeywell composedly. ‘And that, my lord, is very near the truth, since the moment you return me back to Albemarle Street we will set forth. Elizabeth is the one to be pitied,’ she added pensively, ‘since she must stay in strict seclusion until I join her again, lest someone should see her and tell Aunt Hetty.’

  ‘Indeed!’ was all his lordship would vouchsafe to this ingenuous explanation. Then, after a pause, he went on:

  ‘Well, I cannot imagine what you hope to achieve by accompanying me.’ He cleared his throat portentously. ‘I believe our wisest course would be to proceed direct to Newport. I am given to understand that my grandson will be driving a team of blacks that were until recently in the possession of Lord Davenport. My groom was at one time employed by that gentleman, and knows the beasts well.’ He took a languid pinch of snuff and Miss Honeywell again marvelled at his certainty of touch and clarity of thought.

  ‘What do you suspect, my lord?’ she asked curiously. ‘Like yourself, my dear, I hardly know, but I set my groom last night to discover all he could about the terms of the wager. It appears that it is left to the choice of each driver whether or not he stops to rest his horses or continues to the end without pause. Giles, my groom, informs me that the blacks are speedy beasts, but less likely to stay the full course than Mr. Derwent’s bays. It seems to me, therefore, that my grandson will endeavour to outdistance the bays in the first part of the race and then rest up for as long as he dares for the last run in across the Heath. Mr. Derwent, on the other hand, will probably continue at a steady pace throughout.’

  ‘And not draw in off the road at all?’

  His lordship inclined his head slightly. ‘Should he do so, if he is the man of sense I take him to be, it will be in some well-frequented spot and not along a lonely stretch.’ He settled back into his corner and leaned his head against the squabs. ‘When we get to Newport, Giles will lead me to inspect the two teams. You, I think, had best stay out of sight.’ Miss Honeywell agreed with him wholeheartedly on that point. ‘What then, my lord?’

  ‘Then we proceed to Newmarket, about an hour in advance of the contestants. At our pace, that should take us to Six Mile Bottom before either curricle should pass us. From there on to Newmarket is, I think, where danger is most likely to threaten.’

  Horrendous visions of Mr. Derwent being flung from his vehicle and lying insensible or worse upon the Heath, while Wayleigh raced past to victory, flashed before Miss Honeywell’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself, my dear,’ said Lord Fontevin, as if she had spoken her fears aloud. ‘We’ll see to it that your young man comes off safe!’

  ‘He—he’s not my young man!’ she said, in a very small voice.

  ‘Then don’t you think you had better put your mind to attaching him?’ said this surprising old gentlemen. ‘It does seem such a waste for so eligible a bachelor to be unprovided for.’

  This, not unnaturally, had the effect of rendering Miss Honeywell speechless, and his lordship, excusing himself by reason of their early start, presently dropped off to sleep, while the miles slipped by beneath the wheels of the beautifully sprung chaise.

  They made good time to Newport, but Miss Honeywell had no eyes for its long main street or the fine plaster-fronted and brick-and-timber houses that adorned it. Though the hour was still well in advance of the starting time, there were already a number of persons gathered together in front of the Crown House, an ancient building which was believed once to have been an inn and was, by tradition, associated with the name of Mistress Nell Gwynn. Lord Fontevin ordered his coachman to draw up some distance away, while he prepared to alight.

  ‘We will be taken for just another set of race viewers,’ he assured Miss Honeywell, who was not too happy at his venturing forth with only Giles for company.

  ‘What if the Marquis sees you?’

  ‘Am I not his devoted grandfather, come to witness his prowess with the ribbons? Quite unexceptionable, I assure you, ma’am!’

  Miss Honeywell hoped the Marquis would be of the same opinion and watched Lord Fontevin, leaning on his groom’s arm, walk slowly towards the Crown House. A fine team of blacks was being led to and fro, and further away she fancied she could see Mr. Derwent’s bays being similarly exercised. Then, to her dismay, the tall figure of Wayleigh detached itself from the group as his grandfather approached.

  After some brief discussion they walked together to inspect his team, and Lord Fontevin ran a hand over the powerful quarters as if his fingers could tell him what his eyes could not. Miss Honeywell, peering cautiously out of the window, was forced to withdraw quickly as a party of gentlemen came riding up the street. She saw these to be Mr. Derwent and Mr. Dacres, with several others unknown to her, and Harvey in attendance.

  Lord Fontevin returned a little later, wearing a very grave expression. ‘We will move on now, John, if you please,’ he said to his coachman. ‘Pause at some suitable place in about an hour’s time to allow us to partake of some refreshment.’ The rugs were removed from the horses’ backs, the steps were let down to permit his lordship to enter and, in a moment, the chaise moved off with well-trained smoothness, bowling briskly past the group around the Crown House, none of whom paid it much heed.

  ‘They are Davenport’s blacks, true enough. Giles recognised them and they him, so I had to draw him off lest it was remarked upon.’ There was nothing of the somnolent ancient about his lordship now. ‘Unfortunately Wayleigh saw Derwent greet me, and came to enquire how I should know his adversary. I told him of the circumstances of our meeting and the details of his sister’s elopement.’

  Miss Honeywell felt as if a dark cloud had swept across the sunlit sky and, involuntarily, she shivered.

  ‘I have ill tidings for you, ma’am. Sophia and your cousin were apprehended before they reached the coast. It would appear that Wayleigh had set a man to watch Bredon—for what reason he did not enlighten me—who was not deceived by your laying a Yarmouth capon t’other night, but followed them from St James’s Square.’

  This unlooked-for misfortune quite cast Miss Honeywell into the dismals, and for a time put all thought of the race from her head.

  ‘Then—then Bredon is in custody?’

  ‘Yes, and will stand his trial. Information had been laid with the Runners that he was in England—not, Wayleigh assured me, by him, though he knew of it. He swore he was only concerned in getting his sister back.’

  ‘I don’t believe him!’ said Miss Honeywell forcefully. ‘Did you—could you warn Mr. Derwent?’

  ‘Only to tell him briefly to be on his guard. What more could I say? We know nothing of Wayleigh’s purpose.’ Thereaft
er the journey was undertaken in near-silence until Stump Cross was passed, when it was decided to make a halt. Neither the lady nor gentleman was found to have any appetite for the excellent cold lunch provided by His Grace of Edmonton’s kitchens, and Lord Fontevin suggested they take a turn about the grass to stretch their legs.

  ‘I allow it to be a pretty touch of Wayleigh’s to declare that the race should end in the courtyard of the Ram Inn and the gates be closed three minutes after the winner drives in,’ he confided to Miss Honeywell as they strolled to and fro in the warm sunshine. ‘M’father often recounted to me the tale of how it got its name when his friend Orford—some distant connection of the Trennicks and a chuckle-headed fellow, if ever there was one—driving four stags harnessed to his coach, crossed the path of the Essex hunt. Yes, indeed,’ he nodded in response to her surprised exclamation, ‘the young bloods of today may think they are awake upon every suit, but their grandfathers knew it all before them! The hounds chased Orford right up to the inn, where, by good fortune, the ostler had the wit to slam the gates shut when the coach was safe inside.’ He paused, head to one side, listening to the sound of a vehicle approaching at great speed. ‘It couldn’t be—not yet, surely!’

  She caught his arm and drew him into the cover of an outcrop of rock as the Marquis’s team of blacks, sweat-lathered but still at full stretch, flashed past in a flurry of dust.

  ‘Where is Mr. Derwent?’ she almost wailed, looking back down the empty road.

  ‘Handling his cattle with more care, I should hope!’ responded his lordship curtly. ‘Wayleigh’ll founder those horses before he gets to Six Mile Bottom if he holds to that pace. Come, if he is going to halt it must be soon. Let us follow him.’

  Miss Honeywell allowed herself to be urged back to the chaise. The fact that the Marquis was putting forth every effort seemed to postulate that Mr. Derwent was still in the race and hope was not altogether extinct.

  Mr. Derwent was most certainly still in the race, and holding to the same opinion as Lord Fontevin. When, soon after the start, Wayleigh had passed him with his groom sounding off triumphantly upon his yard of tin, he looked at Harvey who shrugged a philosophical shoulder.

  ‘He’s got to rest ‘em sometime, sir, springin’ ‘em like that. Else they’ll be on their knees across the Heath.’

  ‘Come on, my beauties!’ Mr. Derwent spoke softly to his bays and they quickened at his voice, ears pricked, heads held high.

  ‘That’s the dandy, sir,’ approved Harvey. ‘Let ‘em take their own time and no one can beat ‘em. I wonder where his lordship means to lie up?’

  As it happened, Lord Fontevin and Miss Honeywell were in the best position to give him that information. Just before they entered upon the long wooded stretch of Six Mile Bottom the coachman called their attention to the Marquis’s curricle, issuing from a cluster of nondescript buildings set amid pine trees some distance from the road ahead of them.

  Lord Fontevin whistled softly. ‘He’s not given them much pause. How do they look, John?’

  ‘Pretty bobbish, m’lord. Hey! Here’s t’other curricle coming up fast!’

  A sharp blast on a horn confirmed this statement, and the chaise drew to one side to allow Mr. Derwent to pass. An awed Miss Honeywell watched the bay heads creep up level and then slide past, still going strongly and without any apparent sign of exhaustion.

  ‘How far ahead is—my grandson?’

  ‘Not fifty yards, I’d say, m’lord. His team have but turned on to the road and are scarce in their stride. There, they’re away now and the other gentleman on their heels!’

  ‘Keep as close behind them as you can, John.’

  A few minutes later the coachman reported the blacks to be drawing steadily ahead. ‘Only to be expected, m’lord, after their rest.’

  Harvey was saying much the same to Mr. Derwent. ‘Just keep on their heels, sir, and pass ‘em when they start to flag.’

  ‘Devil take it, they’re not flagging!’ Lysander’s dust-powdered face was set in grim lines.

  ‘They will, sir, they will!’ promised Harvey, but even his optimism was subdued as the distance between them and the Marquis’s curricle grew ever longer. ‘Faith, sir, they must be strengthy beasts! They’re going full out like a new team!’

  ‘A new team? God, why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘He’d never, sir!’

  ‘Would he not, indeed!’ Mr. Derwent’s teeth showed in a mirthless grin. ‘Who’s to know if he has?’

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  The same possibility had taken strong hold of Lord Fontevin’s imagination also. When he disclosed his doubts to Miss Honeywell, she was all for turning back.

  ‘If the original team is there then your groom can identify them,’ she urged.

  ‘Depend upon it, they will be well hid away by now. No, we need Giles at Newmarket to convince the judges that Wayleigh’s winning team are not Davenport’s blacks.’

  ‘Winning team?’ she faltered.

  ‘With fresh cattle he must win,’ said his lordship simply.

  Their arrival at Newmarket occasioned no particular interest so great was the melee about the Ram Inn. Then Miss Honeywell caught sight of a disconsolate Mr. Dacres riding past and called to him.

  ‘Good God, ma’am, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ she beseeched him, ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Wayleigh won by seven clear minutes. I cannot understand it—no one can.’

  ‘Giles, your arm!’ snapped Lord Fontevin. ‘You, sir, be good enough to make a way for us through the press!’

  Mr. Dacres eyed the blind and aged gentleman descending from the chaise with some concern.

  ‘This is Lord Wayleigh’s grandfather,’ Miss Honeywell hissed at him. ‘Pray give him what assistance you can.’ She longed to say more but dared not because of so many attentive ears.

  ‘Happy to be of service, m’lord.’ The perplexed Mr. Dacres swung his mount about and proceeded at a leisurely pace in front of Lord Fontevin and his companion.

  Miss Honeywell alighted from the chaise and stood looking about her until forced to step back smartly to avoid being run down by a horsewoman riding a spritely mare. This imperious young female, disdaining assistance, slid down from the saddle and exclaimed impatiently. ‘ ’Twould appear to be all over! Who’s won, ma’am, d’you know?’

  ‘My lord of Wayleigh, I believe,’ said Miss Honeywell, a little nettled by this offhand behaviour, but, in spite of that, impressed by the other’s appearance.

  Above medium height and finely proportioned, her russet hair falling loose about her shoulders, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement, there was a certain untamed magnificence about the lady that commanded admiration. Upon hearing that Wayleigh was the victor, she emitted a crow of delight.

  ‘I must go offer him my congratulations! Would your fellow hold my mount for a time, ma’am?’

  Without waiting for a reply, she thrust her reins into the hands of a gaping stableboy and was away into the crowd.

  ‘Well!’ said Miss Honeywell to no one in particular, ‘who can that be, I wonder?’

  The stableboy pushed his hat forward in order to scratch the back of his head with greater ease. ‘One o’ my lord Wayleigh’s fancy-pieces, I’d say, beggin’ your pardon, miss.’

  ‘She owns a mighty fine horse.’ Miss Honeywell stroked the mare’s satin-smooth neck, and as she did so an idea was born in her fertile brain. ‘Don’t you think,’ she said casually, ‘that it might be well if you followed his lordship and saw him safely back? I’ll hold the mare and the coachman can stay with the chaise.’

  The stableboy, being eager to have all details of the race at first hand, assented readily and was off without further urging. ‘I’ll just take her to a more quiet place and walk her about,’ Miss Honeywell called to the coachman and strolled away, leading the mare.

  Once out of his sight, she found a mounting-block and was up and away from N
ewmarket, her heart thudding in fierce competition with the mare’s hoof-beats. There was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Derwent had been cheated out of the race, but who was going to listen to a blind man and a youthful groom? What was needed was proof of the change of horses, and that she must supply. It did occur to her that to be running contrary to the Marquis’s plans might prove dangerous, but she dismissed that notion as being unworthy of even a moment’s consideration.

  A stiffish breeze had arisen and she became increasingly grateful for her warm travelling mantle and the full skirts of her barragon gown. Drawing the ample folds of the cloak about her, she disclosed a small pistol-holster, tucked neatly by the saddle, convenient to her right hand. Having been bred in a country which required its womenfolk to take thought for their own safety, Miss Honeywell was well accustomed to handling firearms. She pulled the mare to a walk and drew out the little weapon, satisfying herself that it was primed and in good order. Pondering upon what manner of young woman it was who rode about unattended on a blood mare with a loaded pistol by her side, she restored it to its holster and, feeling heartened by this discovery, continued on her way.