Verena didn’t appear to be present. He’d looked for her at the Chastain ball last night, but hadn’t seen her then either. Shelburn had been there, flirting with all the debutantes, the rogue. So at least Eliot hadn’t had to imagine his rival rolling about in Verena’s bed.
Although he supposed that he shouldn’t feel too reassured. The bastard could have gone to Verena once the party finished.
Imogen’s encouragement had rung in his ears since he’d called to say goodbye to her. She’d seemed to think that he had a chance with his beloved. Although his sister had no idea of the complicated history of his courtship.
She’d accused him of giving up on Verena too soon. Damn him if he didn’t think she had a point. He’d schemed and negotiated and maneuvered with his parliamentary colleagues to get what he wanted. He wanted Verena more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life. If he used his brain, surely he could work out how to win her.
And she loved him. That must give him some advantage. She didn’t want to care, but she couldn’t help herself. He just had to arrange things so that she could no longer bear to say no.
“Good afternoon, Colville,” Shelburn said from just behind him.
Eliot started, giving the reins a jerk that made his skittish horses whinny and toss their heads. He’d taken their measure by now, but he never underestimated how highly strung they were.
“Shelburn,” he said without pleasure.
The earl was on foot and looking his usual superior self. The urge to smash that smug smile from the fellow’s face was nigh irresistible. Eliot gave a brief bow, searching the area for Verena. Lately the two had been inseparable in public.
“The park is busy today, isn’t it? I’ll swear it gets worse every year.”
Puzzled, Eliot regarded his rival. The man appeared to be in the mood for conversation, which was the last thing Eliot wanted. “Yes.”
“The Chastain affair was a bear’s den last night, too, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Eliot was desperate to come out with something haughty and crushing, but he seemed to be stuck agreeing with the swine.
Who studied the grays with an acquisitive light in his eyes. “I envy you those high steppers. I wish I’d seen them first.”
“Well, you didn’t,” Eliot said shortly, although the riposte hardly stretched to the definitive set-down he burned to come up with.
“Would you consider selling them? They’re the nicest nags I’ve seen in a dog’s age.”
Ah, that explained Shelburn’s sudden interest in talking to him. He wanted to get his grubby hands on the grays. “Why would I sell them? I think they’re a wonderful pair, too.”
“Pity. I’d pay over the odds.”
Then like a sky full of fireworks bursting inside his head, Eliot came up with an idea. A rather bold and improper idea, and one that he knew would make Verena furious. But if Verena was furious, at least she’d be thinking about him.
Imogen had told him to start working strategically. Imogen was right. At this moment, Eliot had something that Shelburn wanted, and Shelburn had something that Eliot wanted. Perhaps they could arrange a trade.
He turned to face Shelburn and smiled down at him with a grin that he feared might look rather wolfish. Shelburn had no idea what he was about to take on. “You know, I’ve often wondered how they’d go against those pretty chestnuts of yours.”
“A race?” Shelburn regarded him with a hint of wariness. The man might be a blackguard, but he was no fool.
“Yes. If you come in first, you can have the grays. It will be cheaper than buying them.”
Shelburn frowned. “And you get my chestnuts if you win?”
Eliot was so pleased with himself that he laughed. “What the devil do I want with your chestnuts, man? No, there’s something else I want from you.”
Shelburn’s eyebrows arched in inquiry. “And what’s that?”
Verena would never forgive him for what he was about to do, by God. But the chance was too tempting to pass up. “You’ve established an arrangement with Lady Verena Gerard.”
Surprise lit Shelburn’s eyes. What an idiot the man was if he imagined that Verena’s preference for his company hadn’t attracted society’s notice. “Have I indeed?”
“That’s the talk anyway.” Eliot inhaled to firm his purpose, although his mind was already made up. “If I win the race, you will surrender any claim on Lady Verena and break off all contact.”
“By contact, you mean…”
“Devil take you, you know exactly what I mean. The affair ends when I cross the winning line ahead of you.”
“And has the lady any say in this?”
“She’s only passing the time with you.”
Shelburn looked amused rather than offended. “Perhaps that’s true, but if she and I are no longer together, that doesn’t mean she’ll turn to you instead.”
“What happens afterward is none of your concern.”
“If I win, I’ll get my clutches on the grays and Verena.”
“You’re not going to win, Shelburn.” Eliot’s vitriolic hatred for this self-satisfied weasel deepened. “At the race or in love.”
“Ah, it’s love, is it?” Shelburn responded on a mocking note. “In that case, it would be ungallant not to play the game.”
“Good show,” Eliot said equally dryly. “When are you at leisure?”
“Tomorrow? It’s Sunday, and the traffic shouldn’t be as bad as on a weekday.”
While Eliot and Shelburn negotiated the terms of their wager, people had stopped to listen to their discussion. Eliot didn’t care. Now that Imogen’s marriage prospects were no longer at issue, he didn’t care if the whole world knew about his interest in Verena. He could cause scandals left, right and center, if the fancy took him.
One thing was for sure. This race would set off a huge brouhaha. If Eliot participated, even more if he won, nobody would ever again accuse him of being old before his time.
“Suits me,” Eliot bit out. “A twenty-mile course? Anything much further than that and we’ll have to change horses, when the whole point is to put our cattle through their paces.”
Shelburn might be a famous whip, but Eliot was no slouch either and he’d back his grays against any team in England. Not to mention that his frustrated love gave him added incentive to win. Shelburn might desire Verena, but he didn’t love her. If he did, he wouldn’t risk losing her like this, no matter how much he coveted Eliot’s horses.
“That sounds good. It’s twenty miles from Islington to Hatfield. If we leave from Mayfair, we’ll spend hours getting out of Town, even on a Sunday.”
“Very well. You’re on. The Angel through to the Greyhound,” Eliot said, naming two well-known coaching inns. “Eight tomorrow morning.”
“So deuced early?” Shelburn reacted with theatrical horror. “I head off to bed around then.”
“If you’ll take my advice, you’ll get a good night’s sleep beforehand. You’re not going to win, but I’d hate you to put up a poor show.”
Eliot’s insincere concern made Shelburn laugh. “Hark at your confidence, Colville. I’ll almost be sorry to leave you choking on my dust. Be damned to you, eight tomorrow it is. I’ll ask Freddie Edgecombe to go to the Greyhound ahead of us to witness the finish. Although he’ll curse me for keeping him from his bed at that hour on a Sunday morning.”
“And I’ll ask Alexander Lumsden to be my witness.”
Shelburn’s expression conveyed an injury as insincere as Eliot’s concern. “Don’t you trust me?”
Not as far as I can kick you, you woman-stealing mongrel. Eliot kept his smile in place. “How could I not?”
“Capital. I’ll let my head groom know that we’re about to take on two more horses. He’ll love getting his hands on those grays. Tomorrow morning, you’ll make both of us the happiest of men, my lord.”
Over my dead body, you toadying scoundrel. “We’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”
Curiosity buzzed arou
nd them. The crowd of eavesdroppers had swelled with astonishing speed. Verena would hear of the wager within the hour, if Eliot was any judge of the speed that gossip traveled in the ton.
He probably should mind how livid she’d be, once she discovered that he and Shelburn had bandied her name about in public. But right now, the prospect of grinding his competitor’s face into the mud was too alluring for him to have attention left for much else.
“We will indeed. I look forward to showing you what a master can do with the ribbons,” Shelburn said.
Eliot bared his teeth at his rival. “And I look forward to greeting you with a tankard of ale when you arrive at the Greyhound behind me.”
Chapter 16
Even before eight on a Sunday morning, the Angel at Islington was crowded and bustling. Some coaches still ran, despite it being the Sabbath, and private travelers were always on the move. Not to mention that news of the race between the scandalous Lord Shelburn and the once-respectable Lord Colville to win the favors of Lady Verena Gerard had spread far and wide.
Despite the unsociable hour, many members of the ton had gathered in Islington after their Saturday night revels, instead of seeking their beds. The contest promised grand entertainment, especially on such a beautiful day.
When Eliot emerged from the stables where he’d been giving the grays a last check, he was astonished to witness the hubbub. The yard was jammed. Curious onlookers in rough garb mixed with highborn lords in evening dress, and quite a few ladies in silk gowns mingled with the crowd.
“Good Lord, what’s this?” he asked in bewilderment. He’d stayed overnight at the Angel, so his horses were well rested and didn’t have to cover the four miles from London before he set them galloping to Hatfield.
“It’s like a bloomin’ fair,” Grimes, his groom, said in disapproval from where he sat beside Eliot in the sporting curricle. Grimes would follow him to Hatfield to take charge of the horses after the race. That was if Eliot won. He hoped to hell he won.
The grays didn’t like all this hullabaloo. They snorted and tossed their heads and stamped their feet.
“Easy, my beauties,” Eliot said, bringing them back under control. The last thing he needed was for his cattle to trample some reckless pedestrian.
He tipped his hat to Shelburn in a mocking salute. His rival’s carriage was on the opposite side of the yard, mobbed by well-wishers. All around, Eliot saw money changing hands. There seemed to be a rash of betting on the race’s outcome.
“Cor, my lord,” Tom said in admiration, as he ran out of the crowd to hold the horses’ heads. He’d travel to Hatfield with Grimes. “You’ve set the cat among the bleedin’ pigeons with this race. I just heard some swell cove put five hundred guineas on Lord Shelburn for the win.”
Eliot couldn’t help smiling at his tiger’s enthusiasm, although for him, the outcome of this race was as serious as life and death. “Is anyone betting on me?”
“A few natty morts who have spied the grays in Hyde Park. But the odds are on Lord Shelburn. He’s known as a great whip, and until now, you’ve hidden your light under a bushel.”
“Good for the natty morts,” Eliot said dryly. He hoped they were natty enough to be right about him coming in first, or he’d end the day deprived of both horses and Verena.
“I put two bob on you, my lord,” Tom said loyally, gazing up at Eliot from under an untidy thatch of straw-colored hair. His expression said that he couldn’t imagine anyone ever besting his master.
“And I put a crown on you, too, sir,” Grimes said in his characteristic flat voice. “Nobody handles the ribbons like you do, as I know, even if the world doesn’t. And those grays are the best runners I’ve seen in forty years of working with horses. Lord Shelburn’s good, but he’s flashy. You’ll come out ahead, my lord, and I’m willing to lay out hard-earned brass to show you how sure I am of that.”
“Thank you, both of you. I’m dashed grateful.” Touched by their stalwart support, Eliot smiled at his servants. “In that case, I’d better make sure I win.”
A couple of acquaintances called out greetings and he responded, but his mind was on the contest to come. “Let them go, Tom. I need to line up next to Shelburn.”
“Good luck, my lord,” Tom said.
“Thank you, lad.”
“Godspeed, my lord,” Grimes said, touching his hat in a respectful salute before he climbed down.
“Make way for his lordship’s coach. Make way,” the boy shouted, walking ahead and clearing a path through the throng.
Rising excitement charged the air. Eliot had entered this race with a grim sense of fatalism. As if he made one final despairing roll of the dice to recoup his fortunes, on a night when luck hadn’t run his way. But even his overburdened heart rose at the prospect of a good run on such a bright morning.
Thank heaven it wasn’t raining. Bad weather wouldn’t just make the trip unpleasant. Slippery roads presented a danger to his team. Even on the best days, it was perilous to dash all out along the Great North Road. Accidents were a daily occurrence.
The vociferous crowd parted just enough for him to maneuver his rig next to Shelburn’s. It was the high-perch phaeton that he’d seen before, not least on that humiliating day when Verena had left him behind on her steps while she drove off with his rival.
“Good morning, Shelburn.” He had to raise his voice over the clamor of the earl’s supporters. The representatives of high society who turned up this morning were mostly from the wilder element. Shelburn was much more popular with them than Eliot, who until recently had borne a reputation as a bit of a dry stick, he knew.
By God, he’d well and truly smashed that over these last weeks, hadn’t he? The world might now dismiss him as a reckless fool, but nobody would ever again call him a self-righteous bore.
Somewhere in Mayfair, his father would be stamping around with steam coming out of his ears. Eliot had no doubt that the Pater would have heard about this latest example of the way his son had started thumbing his nose at propriety.
He grinned at the man he intended to trounce without mercy today. “Are you ready to lose the race?”
Shelburn laughed. “Good morning, Colville. You’re brimming with vinegar this morning. Almost makes me sad that I’m going to beat you. Such a pity to dash hopes that have risen so unreasonably high.”
“Your horses have already come from London, so the advantage is mine.” Eliot watched Tom take the grays’ heads again, as they showed their discontentment with the crescendo of noise and the chaotic movement whirling around them.
“Not at all, old man. My cattle spent a good night in the stables here under my groom’s supervision. I however have just come from Town. You missed a good night at the Brices’. The ball was a crush and didn’t finish until nearly four. I vow I’ll enjoy seeing my bed, once all this tomfoolery is over.”
Eliot did his best to hide his annoyance. Shelburn could at least make a show of caring about the race’s outcome. Every dealing he had with the villain left him only more convinced that the man didn’t love Verena.
To his regret, he had a feeling that was the way the lady preferred it.
“You show him, Shelburn,” Lord Plunkett said from the sidelines. “I’ve got a monkey says you’ll come in first.”
Five hundred guineas said a lot for Plunkett’s confidence that Shelburn would win. Eliot hoped to Hades that the man was mistaken.
“I appreciate your faith,” Shelburn said before he glanced at Eliot. “I didn’t anticipate quite this level of interest in our little contest, by Jupiter.”
Eliot surveyed the heaving crowd. “Nor did I.” He lowered his voice, although any chance for discretion had been lost the moment that he made his challenge, he feared. “Did you see Lady Verena last night?”
“I did. She’s furious with me.” Shelburn’s lips curled in a wry smile. “Although given you started this whole thing, I got the impression that she’s even more furious with you. If you see her in the next littl
e while, I’d duck for cover, chum, or blood might be spilled. She’s an excellent shot.”
Eliot wasn’t surprised to hear that Verena was fuming. She’d be even angrier than his dear papa. And that was saying something. In particular, she’d resent that he and Shelburn gambled with her fate, without giving her a say in what happened. Although he was bleakly aware that even if he banished Shelburn from her side, society was full of men eager to go to her bed.
“Are you ready, my lords?” Over the voice of the Angel’s landlord, Eliot heard the town clock chiming eight. The din faded, as people realized that the race was about to start. “Clear the way. Clear the way. We don’t want anyone hurt.”
“I’m ready to show Lord Colville the way to Hatfield,” Shelburn said with a self-assurance that made Eliot grind his teeth. When his hands tensed on the reins, the grays pricked their ears. He felt their quivering eagerness to be on the run.
Before Eliot could answer, the hum rose again to a new pitch of curiosity.
The crowd parted, not so the race could begin, but to make room for a stylish cabriolet that bowled into the inn yard at a dangerous pelt. “My lords, I believe I have a stake in this race.”
It was Verena.
Of course it was. His heart rose at the sight of her. By God, he admired her spirit. This was no milk-and-water miss he’d fallen in love with.
Eliot should have expected that she wouldn’t be content to observe from a distance. He wondered whether she meant to cut up rough and try and stop the race. If she did, she’d left it deuced late to make her move.
“My lady, how pleasant to see you,” Shelburn said, sweeping off his hat and giving her a deep bow from the seat of his carriage. “A fine Sunday morning for a rural frolic, wouldn’t you say?”
Verena didn’t smile, as Shelburn replaced his hat at a jaunty angle. She looked angry and determined, like Athena sweeping down from Olympus to restore law to disruptive humanity. All the military touches on her stylish red carriage dress only emphasized her martial air. She looked too beautiful for a man trying to come to terms with losing her forever.
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