Lord Scandal (9 page)

Could Lord S——'s new distraction be the reason he makes no protest to his wife's flaunting herself about on the arm of the Angelstone Turk?

Tête-à-Tête, 3 October 1789

Imogen was well aware of the timing of all the races. They were, after all, popular events with the men of the ton, and as a political hostess she'd had to be aware of such things to avoid planning conflicting events.

The First October Races were exactly what the name implied. They took place on the first Monday in October, thereby preceding the Second October Races and the Houghton meeting, which brought the racing season to a close. No more formal races would be run until the following spring, when the Craven would be held on the Monday after Easter, and the entire sporting world would once again make the pilgrimage to Newmarket.

The young Prince of Wales was an a avid patron of the turf, frequently running his own horses, and could be counted upon to absent himself from London for all the major race meetings. She still recalled with particular relish when one of her rival hostesses had planned an elaborate masked ball, sent out the invitations, and was horrified to discover that she'd chosen the eve before the Oaks, and that nearly everyone who was anyone would be at Epsom Downs. Imogen's own Venetian breakfast, offered a well planned three days later, had been a smashing success.

Imogen flexed her foot in the stirrup and clucked to her mount. They were almost to Newmarket, having set out just after breakfast, and Quiz was beginning to slow down. The elderly bay gelding was her favorite amongst the many horses in the Somercote stable, and she'd been delighted with George's suggestion that they all ride to Newmarket. They'd sent their trunks along in the carriage the day before, and even now their things and the Tregaron's grooms should be awaiting them at the Slug and Lettuce, a favorite inn of George's set. Imogen reached down and patted Quiz soundly on the neck, eliciting a snort and a head shake.

“Almost there, old boy,” the countess said, glancing over at her friend. “Talavera's getting tired too, but not Cobweb,” she noted, as her husband's horse gave an irritated little cow hop.

“No, not Cobweb. He's rather annoyed just now at being forced to bring up the rear,” the earl replied, taking a firmer grip on the reins. “Nasty brute that he is.”

Imogen pressed her lips together and did her best to resist laughing. The way the earl said it,
nasty brute
was undoubtedly an endearment. Much like when George referred to Gabriel as a
dreadful provoking beast,
or her godson as a
thatch gallows.

As they neared the town, the road became choked with men on horseback, and vehicles of every description imaginable, from the most elegant equipages to the humblest gigs, as well as mail coaches with their tops full to overflowing with passengers.

When the rooftops of Newmarket came into view a man's voice called out, “I'll be damned. It's Mrs. Exley.” And they all reigned in, pulling off onto the verge, and turning in their saddles to observe a very elegant gentleman mounted on a solid chestnut hack.

“I say,” the man continued, stopping beside the countess, “that's quite a horse you have there.” He studied Talavera intently for a moment, entirely missing the amused glance George threw her husband. “Spanish?”

“Dutch,” the countess replied, reaching out to scratch her mount's neck.

“Dutch, you say,” he mused, finally looking up from the horse. “Hmm. Well, a beauty all the same. And I say,” he said a second time, catching a glimpse of the earl's horse as Lord Somercote rode over towards them. “That's a splendid animal as well. You can't tell me he's not got a splash of the Spanish.”

“Guilty as charged,” the earl answered, raising one brow inquiringly at his wife. Imogen bit her lip to hold back a laugh. One simply never knew who might claim an acquaintanceship with George. She seemed to know and be known by everyone from Princes, to dandies, to pugilists.

“Somercote, this is Lord Fitzwilliam, who I've known for an age. Lord Fitzwilliam, this is my husband, Lord Somercote.”

“Well, well,” Fitzwilliam said, smiling in a very open, friendly manner, taking in the earl with a bit more enthusiasm. “Guess I'll have to get used to calling you
my lady
now.”

George shook her head at him and introduced him to Imogen as well. “Here for the races?” he asked her, blithely stating the obvious. “Good, good. You keep an eye on my Pewett. Won the St. Ledger this year, and I have every hope of doing the same here.”

He chatted on for a few minutes with the countess about the other contenders, and then, with a neat bow of his head he excused himself and rode off down the road, whistling through his teeth.

Imogen glanced at George.

“Obsessed with horseflesh,” George explained, turning her horse back towards Newmarket. “Wait and see Ivo, he'll make you an offer on Cobweb before we head home. I recognize his acquisitive gleam.”

The earl answered his teasing wife with a smile and a shake of his head. Imogen had no doubt she was right, but there was no chance at all that the earl would be induced to part with Cobweb. The big grey dapple was his longstanding favorite.

After weaving their way through the crowded streets, past braying donkeys, roving orange girls, and what seemed like hundreds of carriages, they rode into the yard of the Slug and Lettuce and handed their mounts over to their waiting groom. “Anyone else here yet, Catton?” George inquired, as her long time retainer took the reins from her.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied, drawing out the
my lady,
in an affected way. “Sir Bennett, Lord Worth, Lord Alençon, Lord Carr, and Lord St. Audley are all here. I believe they're in the tap room. There's only the Misters Angelstone, Lord Layton, and the earl, his father, still wanting.”

“Excellent,” the countess pronounced, linking her arm through Imogen's. “Thank you, Catton.” The groom nodded, and led the horses away to be unsaddled and stabled. “And now, Ivo dearest, I think Imogen and I shall go up to our rooms and tidy up, and then we'll join you for luncheon.” The earl sketched them both a quick bow, and strolled off towards the tap room.

Up in her room Imogen washed her hands and face, took off her hat and set about attempting to resurrect her hair. She was still struggling with it when the countess knocked and summarily entered her room.

“Ready?” she asked brightly. “Apparently not,” she added, shutting the door behind her. “Here,” she came around behind Imogen and batted her hands away, “let me do it. I love your hair,” she sighed, deftly twisting up the riot of springy curls and pinning them in place.

“Somebody has to,” Imogen mumbled in return, frowning at her reflection. George caught her eye in the mirror, and shook her head at her. Imogen quirked up one side of her mouth, and watched as George finished pinning up her hair, carefully drawing out a few curls at the nape, and taming them with a bit of water.

“There now,” George said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork.

 

Downstairs the tap room was filled with gentlemen, a great many of whom were by now familiar to Imogen. The sporting set was quite large, but most of the core constituency had been present at the Somercote's house party. They were all drinking ale, making quick work of the hearty plates of food supplied by the inn keeper and his surprisingly amiable wife, and talking horses nonstop.

George and Imogen took seats at a small table partially occupied by Bennett and Morpeth and proceeded to eat, surrounded by the mad hubbub of the room. Imogen chewed her food slowly, glancing thoughtfully around the room, content to watch and listen. George was already in the thick of it, arguing the various merits of several contenders.

“Too short in the back, I tell you,” she insisted, “and ever-so-slightly cow-hocked.”

“Is he?” Bennett asked, his brows drawn together in a frown.

“Absolutely.” George pronounced with her usual conviction. “You won't catch me putting my money on one of Brown's showy hacks. They've all got that snaky, little Arab head, too, which I can't abide.”

“I'll agree with you about the snaky little heads,” Bennett said, still frowning, “but I'm going to have to take a good look at his rear action before agreeing that he's cow-hocked.”

“Ten pounds on it, just between friends?” George suggested, her teasing smile peeping forth.

“And who's to be the judge if I say the colt's legs are straight and true?”

“Oh, you're to be the judge. I trust you. You'd never be able to bring yourself to pronounce such an animal sound for a few guineas.”

When they'd finished their meal and the countess was still avidly discussing horseflesh with Bennett, Imogen wandered about, shyly greeting her fellow guests, until she found herself being solicited to take a stroll by the Duke of Alençon.

“Come along, my dear,” he urged, holding out one hand, “you shall accompany me to meet Carr at the stables to see how our little filly Aérolithe is fairing.”

She glanced at George and the countess waived her off. “Make sure you take her to Gregson's for tea,” George called after them as they made a push for the door.

Once outside the crush was only marginally easier to maneuver through than it had been in the tap room. The streets were choked with Corinthians, military officers, navel men, country squires, cits and tradesmen, and bloods and blades of every description.

Here and there, there was a bonnet to be spied amongst the men, and every now and again Imogen got a clearer view of one or another of the women who'd also chosen to attend the races.

The sight was not wholly reassuring.

The majority of the women she saw were clearly not ladies, or even members of the upper echelons of the demimonde. Most of them were shockingly vulgar, in both their persons and their voices, which could occasionally be heard bantering with the men thronging the streets.

Averting her gaze from a particularly bold piece, who was sashaying down the main thoroughfare her nipples clearly visible through her fichu, Imogen found herself suddenly gazing across the street and meeting Gabriel's surprised eyes. He smiled and then a coach trundled past them, blocking him from her view. Alençon craned his neck for a better view and paused on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for Gabriel to join them.

More than a little pleased to have spotted his nymph almost immediately upon his arrival, Gabriel waited impatiently for his chance to dash across the busy street. Dodging a rather rickety gig and weaving his way skillfully between a mail coach and a closed carriage, he hurried across the choked thoroughfare. The duke greeted him with a little lighthearted raillery, chuckling in his usual provoking style. Imogen bit one side of her lip and blushed slightly.

“We were just on our way to look in on my Aérolithe, my boy,” the duke said, his eyes full of mischief. “Care to join us?”

“Delighted.” Gabriel fell in behind them as the duke set off again.

Imogen had her hands firmly locked about the duke's velvet-clad arm. A few spiraling curls danced about the standing collar of her redingote. Dark against the milky skin of her neck. Gabriel held his breath for a moment, wanting nothing so much as to lean forward and place an openmouthed kiss to the exposed nape of her neck.

Closer to the stables the crowd thinned and he was able to come abreast with Imogen. He gazed down at her, smiling to himself. He could see the hand of George at work again.

“Is that a new hat?”

“Yes,” Imogen responded, her color still unusually high. “The countess brought it back from London.”

“Amazing,” Alençon said, gazing at her with open admiration. “Simply amazing. George picked that out you say? She has always had the most regrettable taste in headgear. It's hard to credit it.”

Imogen frowned at the duke, while Gabriel laughed. “That's not true, and you know it, Your Grace,” he insisted. “You're thinking of that horrible thing Lyon bought her in Paris, which I'll admit, was a monstrosity. George rarely bothers to wear a hat, but when she does, they're always tasteful.”

“Except for the monstrosity from Paris, which, must I remind you, she wore constantly, the whole summer through, not to mention her penchant for stealing her brother's hats, and now her poor husband's.”

“Your Grace,” Gabriel protested. “George was a new bride when Lyon bought her that hat. You can hardly blame her for wearing it.”

“There is no excuse for that hat. None,” the duke insisted with a shudder. “Ask any of the Macaronis, they'll second me on this.”

“I'm sure they will. Just as I'm sure they'd approve Miss Mowbray's
Chapeau Jockei.
”

Before they could continue their quarrel, Carr appeared from the end of one of the long barns, and threw up an arm, calling them over to join him.

As they approached the Duke of Bedford, Alençon dropped her arm to run his hands knowingly over Bedford's filly. Gabriel promptly stepped into the breech, hands sliding knowingly along her arm, drawing her to him.

She shut her eyes for a moment, dizzy. Let the soothing scent of the barn wash over her. Hay, horse, dung, sweat, leather…she caught a whiff of sandalwood. Angelstone. She swallowed hard and followed him down the barn.

They finally found Aérolithe, Carr and Alençon's blood bay filly, and after billing and cooing over her, and hand feeding her slices of dried apples, the duke suggested Gabriel and Imogen take themselves off to Gregson's. “We're going to be here for hours. And I'm sure we're boring Miss Mowbray to tears. Be a good lad and take her off for some tea,” he said with a sly twinkle.

Imogen blinked at them all, stunned to have been so easily pawned off, but Gabriel smiled wolfishly, and agreed that tea would be just the thing. With her hand tucked firmly between his arm and his chest he led her out of the barn and turned them both back towards the heart of Newmarket.