Griselda fell back, feeling as if her heart were going to pound its way out of her chest. “And what do you think the driver thought of the way you were stuck halfway in and halfway out of this hackney?” she said, hearing the gasp in her own voice.

He just grinned at her.

“Lord knows, anyone could have walked by the carriage,” she said, fussing with the bodice of her dress because it had become slightly disarranged.

“Have you ever been in a gentleman’s lodging?”

“Of course not!”

“A first for both of us, then.”

23

From The Earl of Hellgate,

Chapter the Nineteenth

Now I come to the darkest chapter in my lurid career, Dear Reader, and I must beg of you again to close the pages of this book…set it to the side and take out your Prayerbook instead. Within you will find verses to nourish your inner spirit and true life, whereas here…

Oh Reader, Beware Indeed!

M ayne was conscious that he ought to be the happiest man on earth. Gigue had won her heart. Not only was he the richer by some thousands of pounds, but Rafe’s entry had been soundly beaten. There’s nothing like trouncing a dear friend to make one’s joy complete.

What’s more, he had his exquisite fiancée on his arm, and she was showing every sign of enjoying the Ascot. He glanced down at Sylvie. She was wearing a daring French coat of imperial satin in a lavender-blossom color. She had informed him of the particulars; in fact, he felt he knew her costume down to the color of its thread: the lilac color, bordered at the waist, the brocade ribbon of a shaded jonquille color (whatever that was), the scalloping around the feet, and the pièce de résistance, an Indian turban cap with a white sarsenet parasol with Vandyke floss fringe.It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the picture she made, tripping along in her Indian turban. She looked dainty, French, and charmingly au courant. Perhaps it was just that he wasn’t a turban sort of man. Or it might be the way the French coat pressed Sylvie’s front so that she looked (a thought never to be revealed) as flat as a plate in the front. There were moments when women’s fashion was inexplicable from a man’s point of view.

Josie’s costume was altogether more simple. She was wearing a walking dress in a scarlet color, very simple, rather than trimmed and fringed and au courant. She’d taken off her bonnet, and was swinging it from the hand that wasn’t tucked under his elbow. And she was paying no attention whatsoever to Sylvie’s observations, but kept craning her neck to watch horses thunder by on the track.

She looked as fascinated by the racetrack as if she’d never seen a horse run before, whereas Sylvie showed little interest in the sport. It was probably just that Josie was practically still in the nursery, though you’d never know it now that she’d discarded that hideous corset. She presented an entirely delicious picture of curvy womanhood. No garment in the world could make Josie flat as a plate, not even that horrendous corset. In fact, Mayne had noticed that every man who passed them was ogling her greedily.

“Mayne!”

He turned and looked down at his fiancée, who was looking up at him inquiringly.

“Boots of scarlet cloth trimmed with velvet,” she said pointedly.

Mayne prided himself on quick recoveries. “Yes indeed,” he said, with all the experience of years of talking to Griselda.

“But the gold and pearls—blended, you understand,” Sylvie said, wrinkling her nose. “Entirely overdone, don’t you think?”

“Yes, indeed.” His attention wandered away again. Josie had stopped and was standing on tiptoe, watching as a group of horses thundered past them. “Look!” she cried, pulling his arm. “Unless I’m mistaken, one of Rafe’s horses has won!”

Mayne peered over to the final line, and sure enough, it seemed that the winning horse was wearing Rafe’s colors. He supposed he could allow Rafe a victory now and then.

“Divided on the forehead, like horns,” Sylvie said to him.

“Of course.” Surely they had seen enough? He was longing to return to the box where he could watch the races from a decent vantage point.

“Mayne!” Sylvie was laughing at him, he realized with a start. “You’re not paying the slightest bit of attention, are you? I just observed that the Duchess of Piddlesworth was wearing a horn of pearls on her forehead and you agreed!”

“I do apologize,” Mayne said, although he felt rather irritated, to tell the truth. “Would you like to return to our box now? It is rather difficult to see the races from here.”

Sylvie would never do anything quite so graceless as to pout…but there were those who might call her expression a pout. “How tedious,” she said, frowning at him. “I would much prefer to continue to look for Countess Mitford. I promised her that I would tell her something of the French way of arranging a drawing room.”

Mayne felt a sudden, mad desire to get away from her. “Yes, let’s look for Countess Mitford,” he said. “I’m sure she is waiting for you with bated breath.”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed slightly but she said nothing. She was, Mayne realized, far too well-mannered to engage in something as undignified as brangling in a public arena. “I apologize,” he said, looking down at her again.

But she smiled at him. “I was just thinking that you are akin to my father.” She wrinkled her nose. “He is, you understand, quite obsessed with the fate of his dogs. Are they well, are they strong, do they need a constitutional dose of barleywater?”

“Barleywater?”

She nodded. “The poor animals dare not show a yellow eye or he puts them on a special diet of steamed broccoli and barleywater.”

Mayne shuddered. “I fail to see any connection between myself and your father.” Josie had let go of his arm and was standing just beside the fence, watching as another heat of horses made their first sweep around the turn.

“Josie!” Sylvie cried. “Do back up. You’ll become quite dusty.”

But Josie didn’t hear her. She was clapping as a slender chestnut broke from the pack and swept forward, her little ears cocked far back. Even from here Mayne recognized the stride of a winner.

“Who is she?” Josie called back to him.

He shook his head. “Palmont’s colors—”

A gentleman moved next to Josie and was eagerly talking to her, and then they watched, shoulder-to-shoulder, as the horses swept about again. A tall, gaunt gelding was gaining on the inside…gaining…gaining.

“No, no!” Josie screamed wildly.

Sylvie made a small sound of disapproval. “Who is that man whom Josephine is standing beside?”

“Lord Tallboys,” Mayne said. Tallboys was watching Josie more closely than the horse. But she was completely swept into the excitement of the race, her cheeks pink, gloved hands gripping the railing tightly. “Rafe introduced him to Josie at the Mucklowe ball.”

“Is he respectable?”

Mayne frowned down at her. “Do you think that I would allow Josie to be in his presence were he not? He’s a good man with an excellent estate.”

“Unmarried?” Sylvie asked in a hushed voice. And then: “Excellent!”

Just then the brown horse seemed to gather herself and stretch her neck, and before the crowd could even take a breath she swept past the winner’s post. Josie was screaming and waving her discarded bonnet; Tallboys gave a roar of approval. Then Tallboys was dancing Josie around in an exuberant circle.