The Notorious Lord

friends, Cory, and friends do not kiss each other like that.’ She scuffed at the soft sandy earth beneath her feet. ‘You must promise me that you will not kiss me again.’

She saw the slight, negative shake of his head even as she spoke. He took her hand.

‘I cannot give you that assurance,’ Cory said, and though he spoke quietly his words had an undertone of steel now. ‘If you wish to take refuge in thoughts of friendship, that is your choice, Rae.’ His fingers tightened and she looked up and met the blazing light in his eyes. ‘It will, however, be my ardent endeavour to prove to you how much more than friends we have become.’

And he gave her a curt bow and walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

The Deben Regatta fell on the following day, which was a public holiday. It was another bright blue summer’s day. Rachel viewed the arrival of James Kestrel to escort her with something less than enthusiasm. As she tied the ribbons of her straw bonnet beneath her chin, she wished that she had not accepted James’s invitation. Unfortunately the arrangement had been of such long standing that Rachel had thought it discourteous to snub him at so late a stage. Even so, her thoughts were full of another man entirely as she went downstairs and allowed James to help her up into his curricle.

She was to regret her choice even more when James stationed his curricle at the very back of the crowd and she had to crane her neck to see anything at all. The river was some hundred yards distant and Rachel wished she had brought her opera glasses.

‘I hope that we shall be quite safe here,’ James said, viewing the shining water with disfavour. ‘I should not wish to be splashed.’

‘I do not believe there is any possibility of that,’ Rachel said, trying not to sound snappish.

The entire town seemed to have turned out for the regatta. Across the river at Woodbridge, Rachel could see that the quay was colourful with the uniforms of the soldiers and the bright summer dresses of the ladies. The residents of the Midwinter villages had elected to line the opposite riverbank, however, and were all assembled on the sloping grassy incline that led down to the water’s edge, where there was also a refreshment tent and a musical quartet playing. A light wind came off the river, ruffling the ladies’ bonnets and setting the spinnakers of the yachts ringing.

Up ahead of them, Rachel could see a barouche containing the Marneys and Deborah Stratton. Justin Kestrel and Cory Newlyn were both lounging by the side of it, deep in conversation with the occupants. There was much laughter and chatter, particularly when Lady Sally Saltire and Lily Benedict came up to join the party. Rachel could not help feeling a little like the plain girl stuck on a rout chair at the ball, especially as James Kestrel was not paying her a great deal of attention, but appeared to be looking around for someone else entirely. Nor did Cory seem interested in making good the promise he had delivered in the churchyard only the previous day. He had glanced across at Rachel when she and James had arrived; he had smiled and sketched a bow, but he had not approached her yet. Rachel, whose errant heart had been racing at the thought of seeing him again, felt extremely disappointed.

The ringing of the church bells was the signal for the races to begin and a cheer went up from the other bank. First were the various rowing competitions for prizes of a few guineas, and the townspeople of Woodbridge threw themselves wholeheartedly into these. Rachel could not see the races very well, since Mr Kestrel’s curricle was too far back and the boats were low on the water, but when the yacht race began she had a fine view. Five yachts had entered, and the contest was keenly fought. In the end Sir John Norton was the winner with his elegant craft, Breath of Scandal, just beating the yacht Ariel, by a head. He carried off the silver trophy and beautifully engraved glass bowl in triumph.

‘Excuse me, Miss Odell,’ James Kestrel said suddenly. ‘I shall be back directly.’

He swung himself down from the curricle and disappeared past the refreshment tent.

For a while, Rachel sat alone and watched the Duck Hunt, which was the culmination of the regatta. There was much merriment as one of the local fishermen in a wildfowling punt took the part of the ‘duck’ and was chased by four other oarsmen. The punt was quick, but the rowers were quicker and the duck ended up jumping over the side and being chased over the mudflats and into the crowd on the Midwinter bank, where the ladies screamed and twitched their skirts aside from the mud and the water he sent flying.

After that the crowd began to disperse, for some of the gentlemen had been invited to dine at the Anchor Inn and the ladies were to prepare for the ball in the evening. Rachel waited for James Kestrel and started to feel a little irritable. He had been gone a good half-hour and she was marooned in the curricle with no way of getting home. People were starting to stare at her now. Rachel tilted her parasol to shade her face from the curious glances, whilst inside she fizzed with irritation. She sat getting hotter and hotter and more and more annoyed, until finally she scrambled down from the curricle and went in search of James Kestrel. He was not in the refreshment tent, nor could she find him among the rapidly dwindling crowd on the shore. Rachel was accustomed to walking and decided that James Kestrel’s discourtesy deserved that she should leave him there and walk home. Hot, bothered and with the wrong footwear for a two-mile walk, she set off up the path towards Midwinter Royal.

She had not gone more than fifty yards when she saw James. He was standing in the shelter of a copse of oak that stood back from the path, and he had certainly not seen Rachel. He was too busy, for Miss Helena Lang was locked in his arms and he was kissing her passionately.

Rachel stopped. Her first thought, absurdly, was that she would never have expected Mr Kestrel to do anything so rash as to embrace a lady in public in full daylight. Her second thought was a not unreasonable anger at being left sitting like a lemon in James’s curricle whilst he paid court to Miss Lang. It was not that she was jealous, precisely, for she had never wished his amorous attentions to be turned in her direction. It was more that she felt cross-grained and a fool when she had known what was going on between James Kestrel and Miss Lang and yet she had still accepted his attentions. Perhaps, Rachel thought wretchedly, James had been using her to deflect interest from his courtship of Miss Lang. Perhaps under his sober exterior he was as much of a rake as the rest of the family and fully intended to court Rachel’s fifty thousand pounds-whilst making love to another woman. And perhaps she was almost as culpable, for had there not been an element of immaturity in her behaviour in wanting to make Cory jealous by accepting James’s escort?

Rachel set her jaw, turned her back and retraced her steps to the shore, where she decided that it would be fitting punishment for James Kestrel if she were to requisition his curricle and drive home, leaving him behind.

It was unfortunate for Rachel that Sir John Norton, flushed from his victory in Breath of Scandal, had just come ashore, waving the silver cup above his head. The engraved glass bowl that was his other prize gleamed on the stern of the yacht as Sir John splashed through the shallows and clambered on to the bank. Seeing Rachel walking alone towards the others, he slid an arm about her waist with odious familiarity and gave her a smacking kiss. ‘Congratulate me, Miss Odell! Was that not the most tremendous victory?’

Rachel just managed to restrain herself from slapping his smug face. His wet arm was still about her waist and it was causing an unpleasant dampness to seep through her muslin dress. She flushed bright red at the curious and amused looks on the faces of those watching, and slipped from his grasp. ‘Excuse me, Sir John. I shall leave you to celebrate with your friends.’

Sir John made another grab for her. It was clear now to Rachel that he had been drinking, a course of action that seemed rather foolhardy when in control of a sea-going yacht.

‘Not so fast, sweetheart! What are you doing all alone, anyway? I’ll take care of you. Come aboard with me…’

‘No, thank you,’ Rachel said, feeling the panic rising. The Marneys’ barouche had gone and she did not recognise any of the stragglers on the shore. She was almost tempted to run to James Kestrel’s curricle, where the groom still stood, wooden-faced, at the heads of the patient horses. It was ridiculous to be stuck here and at the mercy of a drunken and oafish Sir John.

‘Miss Odell!’ Rachel turned with relief to see Lord Richard Kestrel at her elbow. ‘May I be of service to you? Escort you back to your party, perhaps? You seem in some distress here.’

Rachel turned to him with gratitude. ‘Thank you, Lord Richard. I fear that my companion has rather left me at the mercy of all and sundry.’