Robbie kept walking but he knew he had to give Jack an explanation. Perhaps it was time for the truth. “We were being followed. I can’t explain now, but I will later.”
“Très bien, I shall hold you to it.”
Robbie worried that whoever the man was, he had gained a knowledge of Robbie’s favorite haunts and his daily pattern. He would alter those to determine if the man was acting alone.
After a quick round of brag and a luncheon of cod pie and ale, Robbie hurried them on to meet Sir John Lade at the Brighton racecourse. He found Lade standing at the edge of the course that would soon play host to races patronized by the king, drawing out the whole town.
With Sir John was a tall lady wearing an enormous plumed hat. He recognized her as Sir John’s wife, Letty. They were talking with Sir Bellingham, who was equally tall, and another gentleman of a powerful build he knew to be that belonging to Lord Alvanley. Except for the Lades, who were older, the other two were of an age with Robbie and Jack.
Behind the small group stood a beautiful chestnut mare. As they drew closer, he said to Jack, “I’ll introduce you to the ones you have yet to meet.”
“Ho! If it isn’t the newly knighted lion,” said Lord Alvanley with his slight lisp.
“So it is,” said Sir John. “And right on time.”
“How nice to see you again,” said Letty, smiling at Jack.
Robbie made the remaining introductions. When Lord Alvanley learned that Jack was a vicomte with vineyards in Saintonge, he broke into fluid French. “Bienvenue à Brighton, Monsieur Donet. Saintonge produit l’un des meilleurs cognac de France! Vous devez vous joindre à nous pour une soirée de plaisir.”
Since Robbie well understood French, he had heard Alvanley’s compliment concerning the cognac of Saintonge. Though the province where the Donet vineyards were located had been renamed the Charente-Maritime during the Revolution, the family title, now restored, remained the same.
Jack returned Alvanley a broad smile. “Il me fera plaisir de me joindre à vous,” Jack said, accepting the invitation to join Alvanley for an evening out.
Sir John ran his hand across the mare’s withers. “Now, how about this fine mare, Powell? Are you interested?”
“If he isn’t,” put in Jack, “I am. She’s a beauty and I need a riding horse for the frequent times I am in England.”
Much was said in praise of the fiery red mare named Electra after King Agamemnon’s daughter. Sir John never owned a horse that did not win accolades. Robbie had two riding horses in London, so he suggested that Jack should have this one.
A price was agreed upon and Jack had his horse. “I’ll bring her around to the king’s stables,” offered Sir John.
Lady Lade suddenly spoke up. “Might we have a ride together tomorrow with you? John and I would enjoy that.”
Robbie glanced at Jack and then at the others.
“Go on,” said Sir Bellingham, “you won’t often get a chance to match yourself against riders as accomplished as the Lades.”
Robbie looked at Sir Alvanley expectantly.
He held up his hands. “Not me! A good walk is enough exercise.”
Robbie said, “Very well, Letty, you’re on.” Recalling that Miss Reynolds was supposedly an experienced rider who, according to The Grand Countess, was known for riding hell-for-leather, he added, “I might bring a lady friend, if that is acceptable. I expect Miss Reynolds would love to meet you.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Letty. “I should be delighted to have another woman with us who likes to ride.”
Surprisingly, Jack did not rush to the opportunity. Instead, he said, “Might I borrow your new curricle, Robbie, to take Miss Crockett for a ride about Brighton while you are with the Lades?”
“But of course!” To the Lades and Alvanley, Robbie said, “My uncle, the vicomte, has a fondness for Miss Reynolds’ companion.” Whether Jack cared for Miss Crockett or Robbie’s curricle and fine pair of grays, he could not say but, this way, Jack could have his wish and Robbie could keep his promise to The Grand Countess to watch over Chastity. At least that’s what he told himself.
As Robbie and Jack walked back to the Pavilion, Robbie kept a watch for any who might be following them but saw no one who drew his attention.
“All right, Nephew. Time to confess. Who’s been following us and pourquoi?”
Robbie took a deep breath and let it out, his mind seeing again that night on Cato Street. “You have asked what I did to earn the baronetcy. It was the Cato Street Affair.”
“That was you?”
“The plan to trap the conspirators was mine but, for the most part, their capture was the handiwork of the Bow Street Runners.”
“And the one who is following you now?”
Robbie shrugged. “I don’t know who he—or they—are but there was that note. Someone knows who I am and has followed me here.”
“The message that turned you white as a ghost in the Pavilion?”
Robbie nodded. “It was nasty and threatening. Even before then, I had the sense I was being followed, but after…well, since that message, I have glimpsed a man, possibly two, trailing me as I did this morning. I don’t want you to be involved in this, Jack.”
“You have no choice. J’insiste, Nephew.” Jack raised his chin. “We will face this together. With your skill at pistols and mine at knives, we are equipped to defeat them.”
Robbie glanced at his uncle and friend, thankful they had grown close. “It comforts me to know we are in this together though I regret the risk you take.”
Jack held up a hand. “A risk I am happy to take. But wait…I thought the conspirators had all been captured.”
“According to the reports, yes. But my relief was short-lived. It seems even the wicked have friends.”
“Indeed they do,” said Jack.
Robbie frowned. “The question is, how many?”
Chastity returned from a delightful tea at The Old Ship Inn with Rose, Aunt Agatha and Mrs. Fitz to find Featherstone, her aunt’s portly ginger-haired butler, holding out a silver tray. “For you, Mistress.”
She handed her bonnet and pelisse to a footman and lifted the note from the tray, noting her name in elegant script. “Thank you.”
As she began to climb the stairs, Rose joined her.
“Be down in time for dinner!” Aunt Agatha cried up at them.
“Who is the message from?” asked Rose.
“Wait until we are alone and I shall tell you.” Chastity carried the sealed note into her chamber and sat on the bed. The long day of shopping had tired her.
She opened the red wax seal and scanned the signature first. “It’s from Sir Robert Powell, The Rogue.”
“I’m certain he did not sign it ‘The Rogue’,” teased Rose.
“No, he need not have done.” Remarkably, the man’s handwriting was clearly that of a gentleman, one taught penmanship from a young age.
Rose drew up a chair next to Chastity. Her friend’s brown eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Well, what does he want?”
Reading the message, Chastity said, “He invites me to go riding tomorrow with some of his friends. He mentions Sir John Lade and his wife, Letty.” She looked up from the paper in her lap. “Oh, Rose, just imagine! The famous Letty Lade. Why, she rides better than most men!”
“And curses up a storm if the newspapers be true. Will you go?”
“Indeed I will. I’m sure Aunt Agatha will not object.”
Rose pulled a face. “But how very wrong of you to have the handsome Sir Robert all to yourself!”
Chastity could not very well tell her friend one of the reasons she would accept Sir Robert’s invitation was to remove his person from Rose’s presence. Her friend was too enamored of him. But there was also her desire to meet Letty Lade. “We will not be alone, Rose. Lady Lade will be accompanied by her husband. I so want to meet her. Why, the woman is famous or, more accurately, infamous. Did you know she was once the mistress of the highwayman ‘Six
teen String Jack’? And later the mistress of the Duke of York?” Thinking of it, she added, “Perhaps I shan’t mention that last bit to Aunt Agatha.”
“Likely, she already knows, Chas. She seems to know everyone.”
Chastity glanced down at the note. “There is a postscript. He says his uncle would like to take you for a drive in Sir Robert’s curricle.” Chastity met her friend’s eager gaze. “I think it’s a good idea, Rose. You’ll have more the measure of the vicomte once you’ve spent time alone with him. And do not forget, he is nobility of the old order and has vineyards and a chateau in France.”
Rose inclined her head, a grin forming on her face. “He does, doesn’t he? A curricle is all the rage and with the handsome vicomte, I shall be much admired.” Rose looked down at her fingers twisting in her lap. “Though Father would never approve of a suitor who lives in France.”
“Then you can tell your father that Monsieur Donet is from Guernsey, a Crown dependency. For that is where the vicomte makes his home, is it not?”
“I’d forgotten,” said Rose, her face brightening. “Still, Chas, I might prefer Sir Robert were I to have a choice.”
“Sir Robert, despite his apparent wealth, is not a suitor of whom your father would approve. Your parents will want a man whose reputation is above reproach, a man who would ever be faithful. After all, what has he been doing these past years but living a wastrel’s life?” Even as she asked the question, Chastity considered the possibility she might be wrong. But then she thought of the tavern wench and his bold flirtation with the married Countess Lieven. “There will be others, Rose. The Brighton Season is only beginning. And we have Aunt Agatha’s reception to look forward to.”
Rose smiled, her dark eyes glistening with anticipation. “We do, don’t we?”
Robbie arrived at Lady Sanborn’s house on the Steyne at the expected hour of nine o’clock and tied the two horses to a fence post before proceeding to the door where he knocked twice.
The door opened but, before the footman could invite him inside, the demon cat came flying out. Robbie thought he meant to attack, but the beast raced past him. A large dog, passing by and seeing the cat, leapt onto the fence, barking ferociously. The cat hissed but obviously not trusting the fence, scaled the tall tree in the front yard.
Through the front door came Miss Reynolds, looking quite beautiful in her butter yellow riding habit. Ignoring him, she cried to the cat, “Crispin, oh Crispin, do come down at once!”
“Apparently, he does not wish to confront the dog,” said Robbie. “Allow me to remove the menace,” he added with a grin.
A frown furrowed her forehead as if she were reluctant to accept his help. Letting out a sigh, she said, “That would be most helpful, Sir Robert.”
Robbie strode to the fence and, waving his hat at the annoying canine, shooed him away. That accomplished, he joined the lady beneath the tree, staring up at the cat. “He does not appear to be in any hurry to descend.”
“I can see that,” she said, tossing him a look of incredulity. “Crispin is very frightened of large dogs. Small ones he can intimidate rather well, but the big ones remain unimpressed.”
Robbie still had penance to do for running her down in Grillon’s lobby, so he decided to be magnanimous even if it might gain him scratches aplenty. “Here, hold my hat and I’ll fetch him down.”
“You?” she said, taking his hat. “Crispin loathes you.”
“Nevertheless, I shall manage.” Grabbing the trunk, he swung onto a lower branch. Having climbed the rigging on his family’s ships for years, he was well equipped for such a rescue. Once his face was level to the cat’s, he looked into the animal’s golden eyes. “Now Crispin, it is time we made friends. Allow me to assist you to the ground.”
The cat glared at him but, perhaps realizing this was his only path to salvation, did not hiss at Robbie when he pried the cat’s paws from the branch to which he’d been clinging. Free of the tree, the cat clung to Robbie’s chest. With one arm holding the cat, he slowly descended to where he could hand the feline to his mistress. “Here, your familiar, er…your cat, returned to you.”
“Highly amusing, I’m sure,” she said, reaching for the cat. “Still, I am much in your debt. Do come in while I retrieve my hat and riding crop.” As she walked toward the house, she scolded her cat. “Naughty Crispin!”
Inside, he greeted Lady Sanborn and Miss Crockett, who had been watching from the open doorway.
“A magnificent rescue, Sir Robert,” said Lady Sanborn.
“You were wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Reynolds’ friend.
The accolades made his face heat. He did not take well to the hero’s role, preferring anonymity. Perhaps that is why the role of spy had suited him.
Answering Miss Crockett’s unspoken question, he said, “My uncle will be along shortly to collect you.”
“I look forward to our ride,” she said. “I’ve never ridden in a curricle before.”
Miss Reynolds descended the stairs, having retrieved her hat and riding crop. He noticed her half boots were an unusual combination of red and yellow leather and wondered if they were her own creation. He thought it clever of her that she should design shoes. A singular woman to be sure. A woman who could do something. And one he was finding increasingly interesting.
He bid Lady Sanborn good day and followed Miss Reynolds out the door. “I brought you the same mare you rode before, as you and she did well together.”
“We did,” she said. “I like her very much.”
As before, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to protest the manner in which you assist me into the saddle.”
He grinned. “None at all, Miss Reynolds.” Robbie had much experience with women and he was well aware that if he gave Chastity Reynolds an inch, she would take a mile. More than a mile. He had no intention of granting her an inch.
The Lades were mounted and waiting when they reached the racecourse.
“Allow me to introduce you to Miss Chastity Reynolds,” he said.
Sir John dipped his head. “Charmed.”
Letty, being Letty, would have to remark on Miss Reynolds’ given name. “Chastity? What a moniker! A damned anvil to carry around, what? Did you not think to adopt another?”
“Many times,” said Miss Reynolds, unoffended. “My inheritance requires I bear it. Vengeance from my Puritan ancestors, I believe, my lady.”
Letty laughed. “If you know my beginnings, they are quite opposite yours and so I insist you dispense with ‘my lady’ and call me ‘Letty’.”
Chastity smiled, her blue eyes shining beneath her saucy hat. “And you must call me Chas, as do my particular friends.”
“Splendid,” said Sir John. “Now, whither shall we ride? A fast ride down the racecourse or along Brighton’s shore at a more leisurely pace?”
“Let’s race first,” said Letty. She might be entering her sixth decade, but Robbie had always thought Letty Lade was not one to be held back by the passage of time.
One look at Chastity told Robbie she was eager to run, too. “A race it shall be.”
Sir John nodded. “Very well.”
The four of them took off at a run, the ladies outpacing Robbie and Sir John. Based on all he had been told about Chastity Reynolds, he should not have been surprised at how she galloped away a smile on her face. His gaze fixed on the ribbons from her hat flowing down her back to her narrow waist as it flared into gently rounded hips and a perfect derrière.
The two women took the bend in a blur, laughing as they did, like two Furies bent on punishing mere mortal men with stings of conscience. Did such women cause men like him to reflect upon their lives? That was certainly the effect Chastity Reynolds was having on him.
He did not count his life as a spy as the kind of stuff that made for a legacy. He was proud of his service to the Crown, but legacies arose from families where love abided and where childr
en resided in great numbers, like his own. He wanted that kind of legacy.
Thank God it is not too late.
The women plunged down the track with Robbie and Sir John in their wakes. At the end, Letty pulled reins and Chastity Reynolds drew alongside her. They slowed their horses to a trot and Robbie and Sir John followed at the same pace.
“I see your wife has lost none of her spirit for the horse,” Robbie observed.
“No, though these days she much prefers her high perch phaeton. Thankfully, seeing her commanding the reins scandalizes society less today than it once did.”
“You and Letty have been well matched,” Robbie remarked, thinking of the controversy that had always swirled around the couple for his gambling and her outrageous past.
“I tell you true, Powell, women with spirit like Letty keep a man warm at night. I have no regrets.”
“Doubtless you speak the truth,” Robbie said, thinking of Chastity Reynolds. The woman had spirit in spades. As he pulled up alongside her, he noted her brow beaded with sweat, her complexion glowing in the morning sun.
She sat her horse with excellent form. Her blonde curls had fallen free of her hat and he pictured them lying across a pillow. She would warm any man’s bed.
Leaving the racecourse, they rode along the shore for some time, the wide Marine Parade affording them a grand view of the beach and the blue sea beyond. Where they had room, they cantered but most of the time they walked the horses to avoid crowding the people who were on either side of the Parade.
“I hear Prinny means to have his yacht, the Royal George, brought to Brighton,” said Sir John. “I expect we’ll all be invited aboard.”
“Have you ever sailed on the king’s yacht?” Miss Reynolds asked Letty.
“Yes. Last year, John and I sailed on the Royal George. It has been Prinny’s yacht for several years.”
“Since you are here as the king’s guest, Powell, you’ll doubtless be one of the king’s guests,” said Sir John.
Rogue’s Holiday Page 10
