Regency High Society Vol 1: A Hasty Betrothal / A Scandalous Marriage / The Count's Charade / The Rake and the Rebel. Mary Brendan

      ‘Hell and damnation!’ cursed Robert, Viscount Sandford, as he pulled his horses hard over to avoid a seemingly inevitable collision with the coach that had suddenly appeared from around the curve ahead.

      Driven at speed by a reckless youngster with no heed for the safety of either the terrified passengers or any other road user, the vehicle was swinging perilously from side to side as the ageing coachman attempted to wrest the whip from the young blade’s hand.

      Having eagerly accepted the fistful of guineas from the would-be professional, the driver was now regretting his impetuous gesture and was determined to reinstate himself into his rightful position before they reached the next stage, where the mealy-mouthed proprietor would be sure to report him for this breach of contract. Luckily, the man’s skill with the ribbons was still with him and, as the coach swayed on into the distance, Sandford could see that it did indeed seem to be slowing down as he carefully brought his own pair to a sweating, trembling standstill.

      ‘Jump down and hold the heads, Tip,’ he commanded. ‘We’ll have to walk them for a bit until they calm down.

      Damned coachmen—I wish to God they’d refrain from giving the ribbons to these young whipsters!’

      ‘Whoops! Guv—looks like he hit something!’

      Tiptree, Sandford’s groom and one-time batman, pointed to the verge some distance ahead, where a figure lay sprawled in an untidy and apparently motionless heap. Leaping lightly from his seat at the rear of the curricle, he went to the head of the nearside chestnut, talking gently and stroking its nose while Sandford sprang from the driving-seat and strode quickly up the road to see what had occurred. Tiptree followed more slowly, leading the horses and the carriage to where his master was bending over the prostrate form.

      ‘Nasty bump on his forehead, sir,’ he offered. ‘Wheel must have clipped him as it passed—or maybe he hit it on one of these here stones when he fell?’ He crouched beside the viscount and helped him to straighten the crumpled body.

      ‘Why, ‘tis only a lad!’ he said, as Sandford took the thin wrist in his hand, feeling for a sign of life. ‘A stableboy, by the look of his kit! Is he dead, sir?’

      ‘No, he’s still breathing—we’ll have to get him to a doctor. Dammit! That means more time wasted! Lift him into the curricle, Tip, then we’ll see if there are any dwellings hereabouts.’

      This feat eventually achieved by Tiptree, Sandford climbed back into the driving-seat, steadying the lad against him with one arm, and, holding the reins loosely in his other hand, commanded Tiptree to walk the horses on. Once or twice, the groom thought he heard a low moan coming from the boy and hoped that the youngster was not going to cast up his accounts over his lordship’s driving-coat, for, as sure as eggs were definitely eggs, Kimble would blame him, as usual, for any extra work incurred from this trip. Kimble was his lordship’s new valet and prided himself in keeping his lordship ‘bang-up-to-the-mark’ as the saying went but, luckily, Kimble was still at Beldale, where Sandford had left him contentedly reorganising his master’s wardrobe.

      The viscount, having purchased his colours some ten years previously, had distinguished himself with honours at the Battles of Corunna and Ciudad Rodrigo and had risen to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel but, close on the heels of the victory at Waterloo, had received from home the tragic news of the death of his twin brother, Philip, in a carriage accident, and had straight away resigned his commission. His younger brother’s death had left Sandford as their father’s sole adult heir, so the earl had persuaded Sandford that his army days must, perforce, be over. He must now devote his energies to the Beldale estates and, hopefully, settle down.

      The viscount’s brother, whom Sandford had always laughingly referred to as ‘Farmer Phil’ because of his love of the pastoral, had left a young widow, Judith, as well as two little children. During the past year Sandford had become uncomfortably aware that this lady’s mother cherished the thought that he must surely now take his opportunity to marry the girl with whom both brothers had fallen in love as striplings, her father’s property having neighboured theirs. Sandford, unfortunately for the dowager, no longer carried the willow for his pretty sister-in-law, having long since recovered not only from that particular sickness, but also from several similar afflictions over the intervening years.

      Now that Napoleon was safely ensconced on St Helena, many of the viscount’s former comrades had also left their companies and returned to England. Sandford had recently been enjoying a spirited reunion with some of his fellow officers in London when he received an urgent summons from Beldale that his father had fallen from his horse and suffered a serious injury. The viscount and his groom were now on their way home with all the speed they could muster.

      This present delay would not serve to improve his lordship’s frame of mind, thought Tiptree, as he surveyed the grim expression on Sandford’s face. His long military service with the viscount had earned him a special place in his master’s affections and he had learned to judge his moods to a nicety.

      ‘Looks like an inn of some sort ahead, sir!’ he called, but Sandford had noted the ramshackle building and was already lifting the unresisting victim on to his shoulder and preparing to climb down.

      ‘Bring the carriage into the yard and see to the horses,’ he instructed, as he strode to the closed door, at which he kicked violently. ‘Landlord! Ho! Open up within, I say!’

      Moments passed as he eased his now-groaning burden more securely across his shoulder. Again he hammered and shouted and finally, to his relief, he heard the rattle of door-chains and the screech of an iron bolt being drawn back. The door opened, but only fractionally, to reveal a tousled-headed old woman who regarded him with rheumy eyes.

      ‘We’m closed for business, sir,’ she mumbled fretfully, attempting at the same time to shut the door in his face.

      ‘Open up, I say!’ demanded his lordship curtly. ‘There has been an accident. This youth is injured and I shall require assistance.’

      He pushed at the door firmly and the old dame stepped aside fearfully, recognising the Voice of Authority when she heard it, but still she shook her head apologetically as she attempted to grasp his sleeve.

      ‘Sir—sir,’ she stammered, ‘There baint no one here but mysen. My old Sam—he took ill and died a sennight since and I been waiting for our Jem to come back from the soldiering …’

      Sandford interrupted her. ‘Then I shall deal with the matter myself. Get some water heated and show me to a couch of some sort.’

      He nudged the old