Elizabeth Mansfield (18 page)

Her glance and her response both conspired to put him in a state of bliss. "Tomorrow?" he suggested promptly. "I could take you driving tomorrow."

Though utterly delighted at the offer, she hesitated. She had nothing proper to wear for a drive.
If I had but one day to prepare,
she thought,
I
could contrive.
"I must do some shopping tomorrow," she said shyly, "but the day after... if you could—?"

"I most certainly could!"

There was no doubting his enthusiasm. They beamed at each other happily. Taffy had never before found a girl so easy to talk to. He had to keep this enchanting conversation going. He looked over at the table. "Oh, but I see you haven't eaten!" he exclaimed, crossing the room and pulling out her chair.

"Well, you see, I wasn't very hungry," she murmured.

"Please join me, Miss Adela. I'm quite famished, and I hate to eat alone."

Adela gave a shy nod of acquiescence, but, inside her, nothing was shy. She had met the man of her dreams. Her heart was leaping about in her chest like a caged puppy, and the blood was dancing in her veins. It was amazing, she thought as she slid gracefully onto the seat he held for her, how beautiful the weather had become.

TWENTY-TWO

If Luke had been in a condition to notice, when he came into the morning room half an hour later, he would have seen that his friend and the strange girl at the table had their heads very close together and were utterly absorbed in their whispered conversation. "Smelling of April and May, the pair of them," he would have said. But he didn't take notice. His head was still pounding from his overindulgence in rum, and his determination to return to his profligate ways was so compelling that it overwhelmed all other interests. "There you are, Taffy," he said in abrupt greeting. "Are the arrangements—?" But the sight of the unfamiliar face staring up at him stilled his tongue.

Taffy jumped up. "Ah, Luke! I don't believe you've yet met your guest. May I present Miss Adela Douglas? Miss Adela, this is Lord Kettering."

Adela rose and made a low bow. "Your lordship."

"So, you're the sister I've heard about." Luke gave her a piercing look. "Jane was quite right; you are
not
like her. Fortunate for you."

Since the barb was not at her expense, and since she didn't quite understand it anyway, Adela took no offense. "May I be permitted to thank you, my lord, for your kindness in—"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted, waving off the sentiment, "I hope you've been made comfortable. But I beg leave to deprive you of your breakfast companion, ma'am. Mr. Fitzgerald and I have some pressing business to discuss."

"Yes, of course," Adela said hurriedly, casting an almost imperceptible look of disappointment in Taffy's direction. "I'm quite finished. I'll go at once."

"No, stay," Luke ordered, grasping Taffy's arm firmly and pulling him to the door. 'Take your time over your tea. Taffy and I'll find ourselves another room."

Taffy pulled himself loose. "You won't forget that you're to go riding with me, will you?" he asked the girl. "Day after tomorrow?

Her cheeks reddened with pleasure. "No, I won't forget."

'Two o'clock?"

She nodded. "Yes, two. I'll be ready."

Only then did Taffy allow himself to be pulled out. But this final exchange caught Luke's attention at last. "I say, old man," he said, peering down at his friend with a sudden grin, "did I hear aright? Did you actually find the courage to arrange to come calling on a girl?"

Taffy eyes gleamed, but he didn't otherwise reveal his inner exuberance. "Well, you see," he said with a modest shrug, "I'm taller than she."

Luke gave a shout of laughter and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Very deedy, old fellow, very deedy. That was well done!"

The good spirits lasted until they closeted themselves in the small sitting room. Then Taffy's face became sober. "I wish you wouldn't agree to this race, Luke. I don't like the sound of it."

"What do you mean? What can be amiss? I've done coach races four-in-hand dozens of times."

"But Monk's made up some special rules this time. He says that if you drive your own team, you're bound to win. Neither his nor Poole's horses can equal yours."

"He's right about that. Well, what does he suggest? That I give myself a two-mile handicap?"

"Worse. He says that the real challenge would be to use the horses the professional coachmen drive."

"Does he mean that we should drive a professional stage, horses and all?"

"That's just what he means."

"Unusual, I admit," Luke said thoughtfully, "but not impossible. I raced Hell-fired Dick's stage once, remember? And I beat his best time by two full minutes."

"Yes, but there's something smoky about this match. Monk wants to use two fully loaded coaches, with the horses that customarily draw them."

"Hmm." Luke rubbed his chin. "Not having my own horses is a challenge, I admit. But the horses will be strange to Poole, too. I can outdrive Poole under any circumstances."

"There's more. They want to race this afternoon, rain or shine. At best, the roads will be thick with mud. And there's an even worse stipulation. The bet must be two monkeys."

"A
thousand pounds?
Is the fellow looney? From what I know of Poole's finances, he's scarcely in a position to drop so large a roll of blunt."

Taffy nodded glumly. "That's what worries me. I think he has some secret reason to believe he'll win. It seems to me, Luke, that you should exercise some caution here. Turn the match down."

The word
caution
was not one that could please Luke at this moment. "Damnation, Taffy," he burst out, "I don't want to exercise caution! I don't want to be turned into the spineless jellyfish that she... that some people would like me to become. You yourself were saying, just yesterday, that I've changed. Well, I don't want to change. I want to be the same reckless ne'er-do-well I always was."

"Even if it means you'll lose this match? Even if it means you won't achieve your independence at the end of the month?"

"Even so! Dash it, what good is having my independence if it turns me into a mollycoddle?"

Taffy shook his head in disapproval. "Is it being a mollycoddle to take precautions? To refrain from rushing into situations that are fraught with risks?" he argued.

"I never worried about risks before. Why should I start now?"

"But you weren't a tom-doddle before, either. You'd never let yourself be taken for a chump." That gave Luke pause. He frowned at his friend with eyebrows knit. "Do you think I'll be taken for a chump in this match?"

"I don't know." Taffy walked slowly over to the fireplace and gazed down into the flames. "There's just something about this entire scheme that sets up my bristles."

Luke paced about the room, debating with himself. After three turns, he paused. "Two coaches, both working stagecoaches, is that right? You and I will inspect each one, and then Poole and I will draw for the privilege of choosing first. If we insist on those stipulations, I don't see how they can trick me."

Taffy sighed. "Neither do I. But still—"

"If it were Monk doing the driving, I'd be suspicious, too," Luke said slowly, "but I'm racing Poole. Poole's not the sort to palm an ace." He strode over to the fireplace and looked down into Taffy's face, silently seeking his understanding. "I'm going to do it, Taffy. Say you'll second me in this."

"Damnit, man, you know you can count on me. I just wish you'd reconsider."

Luke shook his head and turned away. "Don't you see? I
need
to do it, to feel like a man again. Go and tell Monk to make the arrangements."

TWENTY-THREE

Although the sun was darting in and out of the dissipating clouds by the time Taffy and Luke arrived at Islington for the race, the improving weather was not enough to make Taffy feel cheerful. The ground was still muddy, the two coaches waiting in the courtyard of the White Hart Inn were ancient, clumsy, and sagging at the rear, and the circumstances of this peculiar race still seemed murky. It was only when he saw George Poole emerge from the inn doorway that his spirit lifted. "Look, Luke," he chortled, "Poole's arm is in a sling."

"I slipped on a cobblestone dashing through the rain this morning," Poole explained, "and wrenched my shoulder."

For Taffy, this was the best of news. "Good!" he cried impulsively. "Then the race is off."

The tip of Poole's nose quivered in offense.
"Good?
Thank you so much, Mr. Fitzgerald. I'm so glad my injury pleases you!"

"I didn't mean that, you codshead. I only meant that I'm relieved that we won't have to race today. I've felt from the first that this ain't a good day for it."

Poole turned to Luke with raised brows. "You ain't saying you're backing off, are you, Luke? I've never known a little mud to stop you."

"But you don't intend to go on with this, do you, George?" Luke asked. "You can't drive a stage with an injured shoulder."

"No, of course not. But we cannot simply cancel the race. Not after all the trouble we took to arrange for the carriages and the teams and all. So Monk's agreed to take my place. He's waiting inside. Come on in."

Luke and Taffy exchanged looks. Then Luke shrugged and followed Poole into the inn. Taffy had no choice but to do likewise.

Monk was seated at a table in the crowded taproom with a mug of ale in front of him. He lifted it and waved it in greeting. 'The sun's breaking through," he said with a broad smile. "At least we won't be soaked through."

"Sun or no sun," Taffy said angrily, "the match is off. We agreed to it only on condition that Poole was driving."

Monk's smile changed to a sneer. "What's the matter, Luke? Afraid of the prospect of some
real
competition?"

Luke's fist tightened. The urge to plant the fellow a facer was hard to control. He had no doubt that this substitution was prearranged; there was probably nothing at all wrong with George Poole's shoulder.

The situation was peculiar, to say the least. He wondered why Monk had gone to such devious lengths to arrange this match. Did that make-bait really think him too cowardly to face a stronger competitor than Poole?

Never in his life before had he been taken for a coward. Had his reputation sunk so badly in such a short time? It was a humiliating thought. But there was no need to concern himself; he could change things simply by a win today. And he had no doubt he could outrace Sir Rodney Moncton under any circumstances, on any day of the week. "I
welcome
some real competition, Monk, old man," he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite his rival. "Just tell me the rules."

Taffy came up behind him. "Excuse me, Luke, but may I have a word with you outside?"

Luke nodded, and the two left the room. As soon as they were out of hearing, Taffy turned on his friend. "What on
earth
are you about, Luke? Didn't you say, just this morning, that you would
not race Monk?"

"I know." Luke sighed. "I'm being played for a chump."

"Yes, you are. George's shoulder is no more injured than mine is."

"You're right about that. What I don't understand is why Monk went through this rigamarole just to cozen me into accepting the match."

"I understand it. If he was the opponent, he was afraid you'd turn him down. And so you should."

Luke knit his brow thoughtfully. "If I did so, the implication to the world would be that I was willing to take a chance on a weaker opponent but was afraid to take on the stronger one."

"No one would believe that of you. They would simply assume that you were too cautious to engage in so risky an enterprise."

"Damnation," Luke burst out angrily, "there's that word again! I tell you, Taffy, I will
not
be cautious. I refuse to turn myself into a nose-twitching rabbit, frightened at the slightest risk!"
 

"But Luke, you
can't—"

"Why can't I? Do you truly believe Monk can outrace me?" He glared at Taffy belligerently. "Are you implying that I've beaten him before merely because I had better horseflesh under me?"

"You know
I
don't believe that," Taffy argued earnestly. "I know you can outrace him. But not if he has some sort of ace up his sleeve."

"You think he's planning to make an ass of me again, eh?" His air of belligerence died. "You're probably right."

Taffy expelled a breath of relief. 'Then let's go in and
call this off."

"No. I can't call it off. But what we
can
do is keep our eyes open for the ace. Forewarned is forearmed."

They returned to the taproom, Luke full of determination and Taffy full of misgivings. Monk and Poole immediately began to outline the rules. "The object," Poole said excitedly, "is to simulate a real stagecoach ride. We've rented the two coaches and their teams for three guineas each from those two stage drivers sitting there at the window."

"One is taking a load to Oxford. He agreed to put off the departure until this evening," Monk put in, "and the other is setting off for Birmingham in the morning."

"In order for this to be an authentic stagecoach race, we've persuaded eight of their passengers to ride with us," Poole continued. "We'll let them draw lots to determine which coach they'll board. We'll reward them with a few shillings after the race."

"All expenses to be assumed by the winner, of course," Monk said.

"Of course," Taffy said dryly.

Poole continued to outline the rules. The coaches were to be loaded with four passengers each, with each rider allowed no more than two pieces of baggage, eight pieces on each coach, tied onto the rear platform. The two stages would start together from the courtyard, drive up the Great North Road ten miles to a posting stage called the Bull's Head Inn, where the teams would be changed. Then they'd immediately race back to the starting point. "Agreed?" Poole asked.

Taffy and Luke exchanged looks. Taffy opened his mouth to speak, but Luke put up a hand to restrain him. "Any passengers to be seated outside on the box?"