How To Tame a Rake (8 page)

“I’m glad he had a bath,” Ernest said, his eyes twinkling.

Willy began to cut. After Frederick’s initial whimper of unease, he sat still, enjoying having his fur stroked and petted.

An hour later, he emerged from the pile of fur lying on the ground. “There,” Willy said surveying her handiwork. She had trimmed a fringe above his eyes and cut the fur close along his back, leaving it thick and curly around his legs and sides for warmth. His tail had a stylish bobble on the end. “He looks quite exotic, don’t you think?”

Ernest could only nod. He was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“As a treat, you shall come for a ride in the landau today,” she told the dog as it danced about.

“I think he’s relieved he still has his skin intact,” Ernest said.

Their drive around the park almost brought the traffic to a standstill. Frederick stood like a ship’s figurehead, his face into the breeze, his nose seeking new scents. Every now and then he would bark at passing vehicles. A carriage pulled up beside them. A man and woman and their two children hung out the window, calling to Frederick. “Is he a rare breed?” the woman asked Willy.

“He’s the only one of his kind in the country,” Willy answered, “Are you looking for a dog?”

The children both cried yes, but their father shook his head. The carriage and the landau parted at the corner.

“A white lie, but it might have found him a good home,” Willy said to Agnes.

“I’m sure it’s true.” Agnes agreed. “There could only be one Frederick.”

* * * *

On his way into the country, Blake did not go directly to Hawkeswood. He stopped to visit Ben Nye at the police station in High Wycombe.

“Gore and his cohorts have since robbed a coach and a farmer on his way to market,” Ben said. “But we aren’t any closer to finding him, your lordship.”

Blake rode on to Hawkeswood. He consulted his bailiff, visited his tenants, and discussed the planting with his head gardener and the stocking of the woods with his gamekeeper. He checked on the progress of work being done about the estate. The floors of the big house echoed under his heels, gloomy and far too quiet. He rode miles each day, threw himself into his work and retired exhausted at night. He did not send for Sarah. On the third night, a full moon shone silvery light through the gap in the curtains. Blake lay wide awake debating whether to rise to close it. The door opened and a figure slipped in. Sarah lifted the blanket and climbed into the bed beside him.

It was too much to resist the soft body lying beside him. Afterwards, he felt shabby because his mind remained elsewhere. He was determined it would not happen again.

After a week of hard labor working alongside his men, Blake was making plans to return to London when a clerk from the police station brought him a note from Ben Nye. Joe Gore had been sited, shots had been fired. A policeman killed. Would he care to join the chase?

* * * *

Aunt Elizabeth had a suitor and Willy was thrilled for her. Henry was a widower with greying hair, new to London from Kent. He escorted them to concerts, recitals and soirées. Willy watched them dance together—it was so romantic. She missed Blake and longed to be with him, even though he was more often displeased with her than lover-like.

At a reception for the visiting ambassador from France, the blond man she had met at the theatre, Vincent Loudon, came to her side and swept her a bow. “You look most charming this evening, Miss Corbet. Would you grant me the next dance?”

As he swung Willy around the floor, Vincent said, “Blake gave me permission to attend you while he is rusticating. I planned to call on you in a few days time. Have you asked Lady Elizabeth about a day at the races?”

Willy hadn’t given it another thought. She knew that Blake didn’t like the idea and he was already annoyed with her about Frederick. “Perhaps I’ll wait until Blake returns to London.”

“A pity, my horses are to be spelled after the next meeting.”

“Next season, then, Mr Loudon.”

“Call me Vincent, please. I feel we are already friends.”

“Please call me Willy as all my friends do.” After she said it, she remembered Blake’s warning. The handsome man smiled down at her, his guiding hand resting lightly at her waist. She felt it an unjust criticism. He had never broached the lines of propriety.

The music stopped. As he led her back to her aunt, Vincent said, “If there’s anything I can do for you while Blake is away, please get in touch with me at this address.” He handed her a blue-edged, calling card.

“There is something. Do you know where I can reach Lady Angela Burdett-Coutts?”

“I do. The baroness is a neighbour of mine in London. Do you wish to meet her?”

Willy hesitated. “I have something I wish to ask her.”

“Then I’m sure I can arrange it.”

“When Blake returns I would be most grateful.”

Mr Loudon’s brown eyes studied her. “Very well.” He bowed and left her.

Willy went to tidy her hair. She was at the mirror when a woman wearing an emerald green dress came to stand beside her. The woman gazed into the glass, tweaking a red curl. “Miss Corbet, isn’t it?”

Willy recognized her as the woman from the theatre. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“It’s not important.” She looked around, but the maid was busy folding towels. “You are in for a treat, Miss Corbet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Blake is an excellent lover. Or do you know that already?”

Willy blushed and turned to leave.

The woman placed a restraining hand on her arm. “He will still come to me,” she murmured. “He cannot live without me.”

“We shall see,” Willy said. She shook off the woman’s hand and hurried out into the ballroom. She looked around for her aunt. Through the tears of anger blurring her vision she saw her dancing with Henry.

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and looked up to find Vincent by her side. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve changed my mind, Vincent,” she said. “I shall ask my aunt about the races.”

His eyes brightened. “Wonderful.”

“And if you could arrange a meeting with the baroness. I should be very grateful.”

He smiled. “Consider it done.”

Willy lay awake for hours that night. Even though her aunt had agreed to attend the races after Henry voiced his wish to go, she couldn’t banish the red-haired woman’s face from her mind, the spite in her green eyes. How could Blake desire such a woman? The answer was clear—she had oozles more sex appeal than all the regal women at the ball put together. Even Amabel’s flirtations could not equal a glance from those green eyes.

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Chapter Ten

Two days later, Vincent Loudon called at Park Lane and sent up his card. Willy came down to greet him.

“Can you come for a drive?” he asked. “I have arranged for you to meet Lady Burdett-Coutts.”

“Wonderful. I’ll just tell my aunt and get my coat.” Willy paused. “Should I bring Frederick?” She felt a pang. The dog was a favorite of the chef’s. And most of the servants had grown fond of him. He was almost like one of the family. If only Blake would allow him to stay.

“Frederick?”

“A stray dog. I want the baroness to find a home for him, where he’ll be well cared for.”

Vincent laughed. “What an extraordinary girl you are. You may bring him if you wish. Is he carriage-trained?”

“Oh yes. I take him out most days. He’s very well-behaved.”

When Willy and Agnes brought Frederick out to Vincent’s barouche, he roared with laughter. “What do you have there? Are you sure it’s a dog?”

“Of course he is,” Willy said. “Get in, Frederick.”

Frederick jumped in and assumed his position, nose directed into the wind.

Vincent assisted the two ladies into the barouche. Willy arranged her lavender skirts and unfurled her new, matching parasol.

Vincent gazed at her. “Blake must be decked in the nob.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s crazy. Doesn’t he know what a treasure he has? Where the devil is he?”

“Oh, he’s very busy. There’s a lot of work to be done at Hawkeswood.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that explains these constant absences.”

Willy bit her lip and looked over the park. “Where are we going?”

“Only a few blocks. Mivart’s in Brook Street. Lady Angela keeps an apartment there.”

They climbed the stairs to the Baroness’ apartment—part of a row of townhouses that formed Mirvat’s Hotel—Frederick pulling on his lead.

At the sight of Frederick, the butler’s mouth hung open.

“I’m Miss Corbet and this is Mr. Loudon. Lady Burdett-Coutts is expecting us,” Willy explained.

“Who is it, Beaks?” A lady’s voice enquired.

“Mr. Loudon, Miss Corbet and her … dog, my lady.”

“Send them in.”

The dark-haired lady rose and came towards them. “Heavens! He’s a strange breed.”

“I trimmed his fur, it was falling in his eyes,” Willy explained.

“Astonishing.” Lady Angela smiled as Frederick licked her hand. “How do you do, Frederick?”

Two hours later, the carriage pulled up in Park Lane.

“It was very generous of the Baroness to keep him,” Vincent said. “She will find a good home for him, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.”

He studied her. “You miss him.”

“Already,” she sighed. “But Blake will be pleased.”

Vincent reached for her hand and put it to his lips. “I would not have asked you to part with him, Willy.”

“It’s for the best,” Willy said loyally, gently removing her hand.

* * * *

At noon, Blake, Ben Nye and a posse of men reassembled at the last place Joe Gore and his bandits had been seen. The hunt for Joe had taken on an even greater urgency since a young policeman had been killed.

Ben rode his small, feisty mare. “We shall split up. You two men will go south,” he said pointing, “You two, north. Bill and Edward go east. His lordship and I will go west. We’ll meet back here around four o’clock before it gets too dark. If you catch sight up of ‘em, fire two shots into the air, or at their backs if you prefer.” He winked. “We’ll come running.” He stroked his bushy moustache. “We want ‘em dead or alive, men, but don’t be heroes. I don’t wish to see anymore of you buried before your time.”

Blake and Ben rode off through the oaks, limes and beech trees, their eyes searching, their ears straining for human noise above the screech and twitter of the birds. Escaping Roe deer flattened the bushes only to have them bounce back into the horse’s way. Squirrels flung themselves along branches sending showers of leaves to the ground. The men rode for hours along the narrow trails in relative silence.

A red fox emerged from the bushes, running for its life. Startled, Ben’s horse left the trail galloping into a thicket. It stumbled over a badger sett. “Whoa!” Ben cried, pulling the reins. He dismounted and carefully checked the horse’s fetlocks. “Nothing wrong there.” About to remount, something caught his eye and he knelt down, examining the ground. “Horses have been through here,” he said. “Recent like.”

“They leave the trail over here,” Blake said, pointing. The land sloped down to a river. “Maybe they crossed there.”

“Maybe they did.” Ben mounted and rode his horse into the water. Blake followed.

There was no sign of the fugitives. On the opposite bank a steep rocky cliff blocked their way forward. Blake and Ben rode up and down both sides of the river for several miles, but found no sign of them.

“Quite a trick that,” Ben said, dispirited. “Disappeared into thin air like phantoms.”

Just then, a shot rang out. Startled, Blake turned his mount to search the woods. “Can’t see anything, can you?” He looked back to see Ben crumple from his horse.

“Devil take it!” Blake jumped down and ran to the man lying face down on the ground.

He carefully rolled him over. Ben was dead. He’d been shot through the heart. “They’re real all right,” Blake said bitterly, searching the sheer cliff face on the other side of the river. “And I promise you, Ben, we’ll get them.”

* * * *

After two hours in the carriage, Willy, Lady Elizabeth, Henry and Vincent Loudon travelled over the Banstead Downs to the pretty village of Epsom where they stopped for lunch. In anticipation of a good crowd, the eating places had all stocked up with boiled meats, roasts and pies, the cottages had boards outside, offering hot water and loaves of bread. Carriages waited at the railway station to carry people who wished to pay a penny, up the mile of steep hill to Epsom race track.

Willy gazed out the window as the carriage rattled up the rough, narrow lane, passing an unending line of exhausted people. The racetrack was already full of Londoners who walked from the city to camp or bed down on the ground and under carts overnight. Hawkers moved through selling two and a half penny loaves and saveloys, pedlars, boot blackers and shiners, and pickpockets shouted their wares.

Vincent took great care of them. He escorted them to the grandstand, a large building built to house the gentry. They drank champagne, served by Vincent’s groom as the crowds swarmed over the lawns and gathered standing shoulder to shoulder to watch the first race.

Lovely Lady, the chestnut thoroughbred Vincent owned, was in the third race. They all moved to the rail to watch her as the horses lined up across the grass. The starter dropped his handkerchief and they took off. Lovely Lady was soon in front. A roar went up in the crowd as the horses grew close to the winning post. “Go, Lovely Lady,” Willy yelled, jumping up and down, holding on to her hat.

Lovely Lady sailed past the post in first place, a head in front. Vincent picked Willy up and spun her around before putting her down again. She saw her aunt beckoning. When she joined her, her aunt said crossly. “Wilhelmina! You behave like a hoyden.”

Henry laughed. “We all had money on Lovely Lady, Elizabeth. I felt like doing that myself.”

As usual, at his calm words, Lady Elizabeth’s face softened. “Nevertheless, please remember you are a betrothed, young lady.”

Willy felt her spirits drop. “Yes, Aunt.”

After the champion, Volitgeur won the next race. Vincent took Willy to meet the owner of the Derby winner, down in the mounting yard. The Second Earl of Zetland shook her hand and laughed when she told him she’d won two shillings on his horse.