No Place For a Lady

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter One

Almost 1:00 a.m. on the Bath Road outside Hounslow—September 1814

We are going to crash. The thought went through Max’s brain with almost fatalistic calm. There was not enough room, even if the stage pulled over, even if it were broad daylight—even if he were driving and not his young cousin.

‘Rein in, damn it, it’s too narrow here!’ He had to shout over the wind whipping past them and the thunder of hooves. The stage held the crown of the road, as well it might. At this time of night it was the safest place to be—unless you had a private drag bearing down upon you, driven at full gallop by an over-excited eighteen-year-old racing for a wager.

The coach was lit with side lanterns, as they were, and the moon was high and full, bathing the road and the surrounding heath in silver light, but Max did not need it to judge the road—he knew it like the back of his hand.

‘I can make it!’ Nevill looped the off-lead rein and the team, obedient to the lightest touch, moved out to the right ready to overtake, and they were committed.

Snatching the reins would not help; they were going too fast—the big Hanoverian bays, full of oats and more than a match for any stagecoach team, especially night-run horses, were too powerful to stop in this distance. And somewhere behind them, moving just as fast, was Brice Latymer, out for blood, and behind him, Viscount Lansdowne.

Max raised the yard-long horn to his lips and blew, more in hope than expectation. If they were lucky, if the driver of the stage was alert, strong and experienced, they might get away with a sideways collision and at least the horses would not plough straight into the back of the stage. Unlucky, and there would be a four-coach pile-up and carnage.

And the miracle happened. The stage, scarcely checking its speed, drew tight to the left, the whipping branches of the hedgerow trees lashing the side, forcing the rooftop passengers to throw themselves to the right. It was lurching, its nearside wheels riding the rim of the ditch, but if Nevill could keep his head they might just make it through.

‘Go, damn it!’ he thundered. Nevill dropped his hands and the bays went through the gap like a cavalry charge. The drag tilted to the right, bounced, branches scored down the length of the black lacquer sides and then they were neck and neck with the stage.

Now he had created the space the other driver was slowing, fighting his team to keep the vehicle steady and out of the ditch it was teetering on. Max looked across, wanting to send a silent message of apology, and found himself looking into an oval face, white in the moonlight, the eyes huge, dark and furious, the mouth lush. A woman’s face?

Then they were past. Max shook himself—he was mistaken, or in the confusion of the moment he had seen the face of one of the rooftop passengers, not the driver.

He glanced to the side. Nevill was visibly shaken now the crisis had passed, his hand lax on the reins. ‘Here, take them. I’m going to be sick.’ He thrust the reins towards Max, making the bays jib at the confusing signals.

‘No, you are not—drive! This is your bet, your responsibility, and I just hope to hell the others were far enough back to miss that.’

The Bell was perhaps three minutes ahead. The end of the race. If the stage didn’t come through in five minutes it would be in the ditch and he would have to go back and see what he could do to help.

Who is she? The glimpse of that exquisite face seemed burned into his mind. Just a hallucination caused by fear, excitement, the relief of finding we were through after all? Or a flesh-and-blood woman? His blood stirred. He realised, with shock, that he was aroused. I want her.

‘We’re here,’ Nevill said with a gasp. ‘The Bell.’

Two and a half hours earlier

‘Have you heard a word I said?’

‘Probably not.’ Max Dysart looked up from his contemplation of the firelight reflected in the toes of his highly polished boots and grinned unrepentantly at his young cousin.

Despite the fact that the clocks on the high mantel had just struck half past ten, and the darkness outside was pierced by countless points of flickering light, he and all the men in the noisy, convivial company were dressed in buckskin breeches, riding boots and carelessly open coats. Only the elegance with which they wore their casual dress and the pristine, uncreased whiteness of their Waterfall cravats hinted that these were members of the Nonesuch Club and not denizens of some sporting tavern.

‘What were you thinking about?’ Nevill demanded, folding himself down on to the buttoned-leather top of the high fender and holding out one hand to the fire.

‘Women,’ Max drawled, knowing it would bring a blush to Nevill’s cheeks. The boy was on the cusp of ceasing to find women terrifying and unnecessary and discovering that they were still terrifying, but mystifyingly desirable, as well. He was too easy to tease, although women had certainly been the subject of Max’s brooding thoughts.

Max gave up trying to solve the conundrum of how he was going to find a suitable bride he could tolerate, marry and produce an heir with when he was, when he came right down to it, not certain he was in a position to make anyone an offer. He gave his cousin his attention, focusing on the youth’s eager face. He could just give up on the problem and accept Nevill as his heir, he supposed. Or was that the coward’s way out?

Nevill Harlow was just eighteen and appeared still to be growing into his hands and feet. He was also by far the youngest member of the Nonesuch Whips, gathered for their monthly meeting in their usual room at the Nonesuch Club on the corner of Ryder Street and St James’s. Young he might be, but even the highest stickler amongst the members accepted him for his growing skill with the ribbons and his relationship to Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, acknowledged nonpareil amongst drivers.

Acknowledged by everyone except, inevitably, Brice Latymer. Latymer was sitting beside the betting book, tapping his teeth with the tip of a quill pen and regarding the cousins sardonically.

Max let the cool regard slide over him without giving any sign he had noticed it. Sometimes he thought Latymer lived to antagonise him. The man’s scarcely veiled pleasure whenever he bested Max, whether in a race, at cards or by cutting him out for a dance, mystified him.

‘What should I have been listening to?’

‘I’ve had a bet with Latymer.’ Nevill was grinning with excitement. ‘But you’ll need to lend me your bays.’

‘My what?’ Max swung his feet down off the fender.

‘Your bays. And the new drag. I’ve bet I can beat him and Lansdowne to the Bell at Hounslow.’

‘In my new drag, driving my bays? My four expensive, perfectly matched, Hanoverian bays?’ Max enquired ominously.

‘Yes.’ Nevill was not known for the strength of his intellect, more for his abounding good nature, but it was obviously beginning to dawn on him that his magnificent cousin was not delighted by the challenge he had accepted. ‘They’re more than able to beat Latymer and his greys.’

‘They are. Are you? Are you aware what I will do to you if you sprain so much as a fetlock?’

‘Er…no.’ Out of the corner of his eye Max could see the rest of the Nonesuch Whips watching them, most with good-natured grins on their faces. They all knew Max’s feelings about his precious bays, and they all liked young Nevill, but the rare opportunity to view Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, losing his fabled self-control was eagerly anticipated.

‘I will tear your head off your shoulders,’ Max promised softly, dropping his arm over Nevill’s shoulders and smiling a crocodile’s smile. The younger man flinched, his nervous grin wavering. ‘I will knot your arms behind your neck and I will use your guts for garters.’