Forbidden (16 page)

"Oh, yes," said Felicity, dark eyes flashing. "Let's hold them up!"

"Stubble it," said her guardian, and she subsided, but with a blistering look at him.

Lucien was observing his wife in amused resignation. "Heaven help us all, but do you have a plan?"

"No," she admitted.

"Thank heavens."

"Yet."

He groaned but was laughing.

"I'll take care of it," said Francis flatly. "I'll just discuss the matter with them, face to face."

"Not altogether wise, old man," Con Somerford pointed out. "You have no rights, and they'd be bound to ask your intentions. Unless you want to marry the woman, a direct approach would be disastrous."

"Damnation," said Francis, then muttered, "Sorry, ladies."

"Oh, heavens, Francis," said Beth cheerfully. "Don't be worrying about such things in this company. Keep your mind on the problem. The fact is that Serena's brothers have cheated her out of her rightful property and it must not be allowed. To be a penniless woman is very dangerous. It would," she mused, "be helpful to know the precise amount. One doesn't wish to take more than one should...."

"Doesn't one?" asked the irrepressible Felicity, causing her guardian to shake his head.

"About three thousand, I understand," said Francis.

"Take?" echoed Lucien. "Beth, all joking aside, I am not going to allow you to be involved in criminal activities again. Particularly now."

"Allow?"
Beth gave her husband a dark look. "I knew you were going to turn silly over this."

"Silly!"

"Very silly. A mere matter of procreation will not stand between me and—"

"Beth!" thundered her husband. "You will recall we haven't even mentioned the matter."

"Oh," she said, blushing.

Hal Beaumont grinned. "Do we gather the duchy has a chance of another generation?"

"You do," said Lucien. "So my marchioness will cease her meddling."

Beth opened her mouth, then clearly decided on discretion. "Very well, my lord marquess, what do
you
intend to do about this patent illegality?"

"Hell, I'll pay the woman the few thousand."

"That is
not
the same thing."

"She'll never know the difference."

Francis interrupted. "I would know, and I approve no more than Beth. Serena's brothers deserve to suffer."

They pondered the problem for a while, coming to no satisfactory point until Miles Cavanagh laughed. When asked for an explanation, he said, "Tom and Will Allbright care for gambling, horses, and women, in that order, and they're not too bright about any of them, though they're neck-or-nothing riders. Why not take them on, two out of three?"

"How?" Francis asked.

"You know Banshee?"

Francis shuddered. "Yes." Banshee was one of Miles's new horses, a wicked gray with a mind hell-bent on destroying anyone who tried to ride him. He was ugly, looking as if no part belonged to another, but he was also surprisingly fast and had amazing stamina.

He was a hell-horse, but he'd be a prize hunter if a man could control him and survive the ride.

Miles grinned. "During stables this Sunday, it shouldn't be that hard to set up a wager between Banshee and one of the Allbright's nags. They have a couple they're proud of. I'll win, and there you are."

On Sunday, the hunting fraternity amused themselves by admiring one another's horseflesh, making bets and sometimes purchases.

"Problem is," said Con, "that the Allbrights would have to be imbeciles to underrate any horse of yours, Miles, and they're surely not that stupid."

"Yes," said Francis. "And this is my business, anyway. I'll ride him. In fact, I'll buy the horse first just to make it aboveboard. How much do you want for him?"

"Fifty."

Francis gave him a look, but said, "Done."

Miles grinned at Felicity Monahan. "There,
alanna.
Didn't I say I'd get fifty for him? You owe me a cake baked by your own fair hands."

Felicity glared, but then burst out laughing. "Miles Cavanagh, sometimes I have to like you, you wicked man. What a thoroughly underhanded scheme. You are a rogue of the first water!"

"We all are, my dear," said Miles. "Every last one of us."

On Sunday afternoon, a large proportion of the hunting fraternity gathered just outside Melton to watch the race between Tom Allbright on his big roan, Whiskers, and Lord Middlethorpe on a most peculiar gray named Banshee. The betting was heavily against the gray. Middlethorpe was a sound rider but no miracle worker. The horse showed no promise and was vicious besides. He'd already taken a bite out of one unwary spectator.

Francis eyed his partner in crime warily. Banshee glared back and bared his teeth, kicking out in the hope that someone might be behind.

This morning, when the men had toured the various stables around Melton, Banshee had been marked as his and had been the subject of considerable amusement. When the Allbright brothers had strolled by and made a scathing comment Francis had taken offense. Words had grown heated and the matter had quickly come to a wager and a race, just as he intended.

It hadn't been quite as simple to escalate the wager to the thousands he wanted, but the brothers had allowed their greed to take control. Anyone could see that Banshee had all the appearance of a disaster. The wager finally stood at three thousand guineas.

"Having second thoughts?" sneered Tom Allbright as he came over to shake his head over the hell-horse. "Too late now."

"Too late for you, too," said Francis. "He's faster than he looks."

Allbright guffawed. "He'll have to be!"

It suddenly occurred to Francis that the Allbright brothers showed no sign of concern about their sister. It was possible that they had Runners out looking for her, but somehow he doubted it. They had apparently taken her small fortune and washed their hands of her, leaving her to fend for herself in a harsh world.

He smiled at Banshee. "Ready?" he asked Allbright.

"Ready and raring, Middlethorpe. First to Cottesmore Church, right? I hear the innkeeper in Cottesmore makes a fine brew. I'll sample it as I wait for you." He strolled off, laughing, toward his well-behaved roan.

Francis took a deep breath and approached his horse. He'd ridden the brute twice since the idea had been mooted, and he had the bruises to show for it, but he could manage Banshee. It was just that mounting the gray was the greatest challenge.

Miles came over to help the struggling grooms. He deflected teeth by thumping the horse on the nose, then grabbed a foreleg, holding it up. Off balance, the gray ceased its madness for a moment and Francis swung into the saddle. Once settled, he nodded to Miles and the handlers to let go.

The gray kicked, then swung to try to take a bite out of his rider. Francis gave him a sharp cut with the whip. Banshee immediately froze into a statue of outrage. Francis grinned. One thing he'd learned about the hell-horse was that he behaved better with a rider on his back than without, especially if the rider was resolute. Banshee was actually fairly well schooled, as one would expect of any horse from Miles's stables; he just had a vicious temper and resented the human race.

He was also, Miles had assured Francis, rabidly competitive. Banshee would tolerate no horse being before him. It made him difficult as a hunter, for the Master and the huntsmen generally thought they had a right to be before the field, but it was a useful quality in a race.

Francis raised his whip to Allbright and saw the man's eyes narrow at the sight of the silent horse.

Francis pondered for a moment the effects surroundings could have on a physical feature. Both the Allbright brothers had eyes rather like Serena's—dark and tilted. In their red, puffy faces, those eyes looked like malignant currants.

Perhaps eyes truly were the mirror of the soul.

What, then, did her huge dark eyes say about Serena?

He gingerly touched his leg to the horse's side, urging him forward. Banshee was clearly in two minds about cooperation and took only a hesitant step forward. Francis saw Allbright smirk at the awkward movement.

A number of other horsemen had decided to join the race, though it was accepted to be between Francis and Allbright. Lucien was there, and Con, and Will Allbright. Lucien was riding his big black stallion, Viking, even though he did not hunt the horse for fear of injuring him. Francis knew that Lucien was riding him in the race because that magnificent horse could outrun anything on the field, and he wanted to make sure of fair play.

The race almost didn't start.

Lord Alvanley, who had agreed to act as starter, chose to wave a red spotted handkerchief, and Banshee took grave exception. First he shied wildly, almost unseating Francis, then he set his ears back and went for both handkerchief and holder. Francis had to use the full power of the harsh bit in the horse's mouth to persuade him to stop.

Then the handkerchief dropped and they were away.

After a fashion.

Banshee again objected to the fluttering red and white and made a determined effort to go sideways instead of forward.

Francis thought he'd have to use the whip again, but the gray suddenly realized there were other horses ahead of him. He put out his head and raced hell-for-leather forward.

They were off!

Banshee was certainly fast but had all the elegance of a warped cartwheel. Each stride sent a jolt through Francis, and there would be ten miles of this. God, would Serena ever appreciate what he was doing for her?

He pulled up hard to steady the horse for the first jump. To his surprise, Banshee obeyed and cleared it beautifully. "Good lad!" Francis shouted, elated. It seemed the horse had intelligence enough to accept a rider's guidance if it suited him.

They thundered by some slower members of the field, but the leaders, including both Allbright brothers, were well ahead.

The race was over ten miles, though, so starting speed was of no great importance. Endurance was. Tom Allbright's horse was a hunter and thus bred for endurance, but Francis trusted Miles that there wasn't a horse born with the staying power of Banshee.

Francis wondered if
he
had the staying power. He tried to ease the pounding on his seat and spine by standing now and then, but he couldn't hold that for long. The jumps were a relief—a blessed moment of smooth passage through air, then a landing like a ton of bricks and the pounding all over again.

Slowly, they worked their way up the field, though, passing more than one horse and rider that had parted company in the grueling ride. Francis tried to pull Banshee back occasionally to pace him, but the horse was simply intent on overtaking everything in the field.

Lucien rode up alongside on his big black. "Going well!" he shouted.

Banshee's ears went back. That was all the notice given before the horse whipped his head sideways and went for Viking's throat. Francis hauled hard on the bit, using legs and hands to control the damned beast, feeling as if his arms were going to be torn from his sockets. Lucien fell back, cursing.

Francis sensed his horse tense to buck and used the spurs. Banshee shot forward. In a moment it was as if nothing had happened, and the horse was eating the distance between him and Will Allbright's chestnut.

"You're a spawn of the devil," Francis muttered as they surged past the younger Allbright, "and in a right and proper world, you'd be dog meat tomorrow. But win this race, my lad, and I'll look after you."

It occurred to Francis that he was acquiring some strange dependents, but he didn't much care. He was very much looking forward to presenting Serena with her stolen money.

He came up with Tom Allbright at a little past halfway as they galloped through the village of Teigh. His opponent looked shocked to see him and whipped his horse to greater speed. Banshee merely produced more speed as if it were limitless. What heart the horse had.

Francis, however, was in trouble. Each jarring stride was agony and further weakened his legs and back. It would be ironic if he was the problem in this race by getting thrown. If Banshee determined to throw him, he wasn't sure he could stay on.

Now there were no horses ahead, Banshee allowed Francis to hold him back a little, which was a relief to his body and his conscience. Francis had no desire to have the animal drop dead under him. Some distance away, Tom Allbright was also taking the opportunity to rest his horse a little.

Francis relaxed, but he relaxed too soon.

With no one ahead of him, Banshee was distractible. A plover firing up from a covert had him veering off at right angles and almost unseating his rider. Francis blistered his ears and hauled on the reins. The contest was about even until the hell-horse realized Whiskers was in front again. Immediately, he was off like a white devil, with Francis just trying to stay on his back.

Once even, he slowed again.

Damnation. There was no way to make the horse build a lead, and the ending was going to be very dicey.

Unless...

He glanced around. Sure enough, there was Lucien, keeping pace a cautious distance away, watching for tricks by the Allbright brothers.