Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen
its place of origin since it left in your possession.
Max stuffed the letter into a breast pocket and tried to control his impatience. After all this time it was not to be expected that Ryder would come upon the definite proof he sought in a day or two. He weighed up strolling along to Watier’s to eat, as against staying here where the food was less refined, but the company more likely to distract him.
‘Dysart, there you are.’ It was Brice Latymer.
Max nodded. ‘Latymer.’ His dislike of the man was instinctive, but he habitually suppressed it, unwilling to create bad blood amongst club members. Latymer was a poor sport, and had an unpleasantly jealous streak, but it was simpler just to ignore him.
‘You were going to give me the direction of that Irish breeder you recommended for heavy hunters.’ Latymer dropped elegantly into the chair opposite.
‘So I was.’ Max fished his pocket book out. ‘I have it here, I think—but what’s your interest? I imagine you ride too light to be after one yourself.’
‘My uncle—the rich, unmarried, one—rides sixteen stone. I thought I’d put myself in his good books with a recommendation. He must be due to remake his will about now. He does it every year.’
‘Yes, here it is.’ With an inward wince at the blatant greed, Max found the page and made to pass it over.
Latymer stretched out a hand and then hesitated. ‘Jot it down for me, there’s a good fellow. I don’t have a notebook on me.’
Repressing a sigh, Max got to his feet and walked across to one of the writing tables set in alcoves around the wall. By the time he had found a pen with a good nib, scrawled the address and sanded the sheet, Latymer was on his feet studying the portrait hanging over the mantel.
‘Prosy old bore that one looks,’ he remarked. ‘Thanks very much.’ He made to go, then half-turned. ‘I’m looking forward to that outing you’ve arranged with Miss Mallory and her stagecoach. Very dashing young lady that, admire her no end.’ With a flash of white teeth he was gone, leaving Max glaring after him.
Dashing young lady indeed. He should say something to Bree about Latymer. He turned back to his chair, wrestling with the problem of warning a young lady about a fellow club member when one had no basis for the warning and no standing with the lady. He was trying, damn it, to keep his relationship with Miss Mallory on a very sensible footing for both their sakes, and wanting to punch on the nose any man who mentioned her name was not conducive to that.
Something crackled under his right foot and Max stooped to pick it up. It was Ryder’s letter. It must have come out when he pulled out his pocket book. Max jammed it back and strode out of the room. Watier’s be damned, he was going to Pickering Place to bet deep in one of the hells over a bottle or two of claret.
‘So do you actually drive a stagecoach, Miss Mallory?’ Bree’s hand jerked reflexively with the shock, sending a glass of champagne splashing all over a towering arrangement of dried flowers in Lady Lemington’s salon.
‘What?’ she demanded, making Miss Holland, the wide-eyed young lady who had blurted out the question, squeak in surprise.
Lady Lucas had persuaded Bree to come along to the evening reception on the grounds that she would make many new acquaintances who also knew James and his betrothed. As she was determined to do her best to present a conventional front and not embarrass her half-brother, she had to agree it was a good idea.
What she had not expected was to be pounced on by a gaggle of young ladies, very newly out, who had obviously decided that she was dashingly different and that it would be great fun to talk to her. Bree felt rather like a hound she had once observed in the stables being mobbed by a boisterous group of spaniel puppies, all bounce and wagging tails. Like the hound, she was too good natured to snap at them—until Miss Holland’s question.
‘Only Mr Mallory was telling us all about the stagecoaches and how he can drive.’ Miss Holland, and several of the girls, cast lingering glances at Piers, who was deep in conversation with several of the Nonesuch Whips and blissfully unaware that his profile was attracting the attention of susceptible young women. ‘And we’ve seen you driving in the park, you do it ever so well, and it seems so dashing to drive a stagecoach …’
Bree could feel herself becoming flustered, and struggled for composure. It was the effect of a guilty conscience, she knew full well. If it had not been for that scandalous drive, which had so nearly ended in disaster at Hounslow, she would probably have been quite happy to admit that she had taken the reins once or twice, in a purely private setting. Now she felt so self-conscious about it that she could hardly choke out the denial.
‘Of course I do not. That would be a most scandalous thing to do,’ she began, aware, even as she spoke, that she was protesting too vehemently.
‘No lady would do such a thing,’ a smooth, faintly amused voice added at her elbow. Brice Latymer fixed the gaggle of girls with a smile that was half-reproof, half-flirtation and which reduced them all to simpering giggles. ‘You have quite put poor Miss Mallory to the blush. Run along and bat your eyelashes at Mr Mallory and no doubt he’ll tell you exciting tales of highwaymen.’
They fluttered away, too bashful, Bree was glad to see, to go to talk to Piers. ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’ She turned to him with a heartfelt sigh. ‘It would be such a trial for my half-brother if that sort of rumour got about, and it is so difficult to deny without sounding over-emphatic’
Mr Latymer tucked her hand under his elbow and steered her in the direction of the refreshment room. ‘Of course it is,’ he agreed, holding out a chair for her and snapping his fingers at the waiter. ‘Champagne. And lobster patties, I think, unless you would care for a sweetmeat?’
‘No, lobster would be delightful.’ Bree began to ply her fan.
‘Of course, it is particularly difficult to deny when it is the truth,’ Brice Latymer said so smoothly that for a second his words did not penetrate.
‘I … you … whatever do you mean, sir?’ She hoped she was sounding suitably outraged and feared she was managing only to be guiltily flustered.
‘I mean no criticism, Miss Mallory. You drive a pair with exceptional skill for a lady. The way you take up the ribbons and the way you attack turns and gateways makes me think you have experience driving something much bigger—and you do have the vehicle to hand, as it were.’ He tipped his head on one side and regarded her with a twinkle. ‘Not that I would dream of making that observation to anyone else, I assure you.’
‘I …’ Bree made a decision. ‘My father taught me to drive four in hand, privately, on our land. My brother Viscount Farleigh would be horrified if it were known, and it would make me seem so fast.’
‘It will remain our secret, and you need have no fear that I will tease you about it.’ He let his hand rest lightly on hers as it lay open on the table and Bree felt a flood of relief wash through her. Reflexively she let her fingers curl into his; he squeezed and released hers. ‘Now, let us talk of other, safer matters until those delightful roses in your cheeks fade a little.
‘How is your uncle, the one you were so concerned about the other day?’
‘I went to visit him, and it seemed to us …’ She hesitated, aware of the slip, then decided he would assume she had gone with Piers. ‘It seemed that there is something strange about him. But there is nothing I can put my finger on. We will go and stay for several days in a few weeks’ time. That will give us a better chance to observe him.’
Their refreshments came, and after a glass of champagne, and a delicious patty, all accompanied by Mr Latymer’s sprightly commentary on their fellow guests, Bree felt decidedly better. He might be a little waspish, and she suspected he was probably not safe company for very young ladies, but she found Mr Latymer refreshing.
‘I gather our picnic expedition to Greenwich Park on Saturday has been confirmed,’ he observed, raising a finger to the waiter who was passing with