Imogen flexed her foot in the stirrup and clucked to her mount. They were almost to Newmarket, having set out just after breakfast, and Quiz was beginning to slow down. The elderly bay gelding was her favourite amongst the many horses in the Somercote stable, and she’d been delighted with George’s suggestion that they all ride to Newmarket. They’d sent their trunks along in the carriage the day before, and even now their things and servants should be awaiting them at The Slug and Lettuce, the inn George’s set reserved whenever they were in town. Imogen reached down and patted Quiz soundly on the neck, eliciting a snort and a head shake.
‘Almost there, old boy,’ the countess said, glancing over at her friend. ‘Talavera’s getting tired too, but not Cobweb,’ she noted, as her husband’s horse gave an irritated little cow hop.
‘No, not Cobweb. He’s rather annoyed just now at being forced to bring up the rear,’ the earl replied, taking a firmer grip on the reins. ‘Nasty brute that he is.’
Imogen pressed her lips together and did her best to resist laughing. The way the earl said it, nasty brute was undoubtedly an endearment. Much like when George referred to Gabriel as a dreadful provoking beast, or her godson as a thatch gallows.
As they neared the town, the road became choked with men on horseback, and vehicles of every description imaginable, from the most elegant equipages to the humblest gigs, as well as mail coaches with their tops full to overflowing with passengers.
When the rooftops of Newmarket came into view a man’s voice called out, ‘I’ll be damned. It’s Mrs Exley.’ And they all reigned in, steering their mounts onto the verge, and turning in their saddles to observe a very elegant gentleman mounted on a solid chestnut hack.
‘I say,’ the man continued, stopping beside the countess, ‘that’s quite a horse you have there.’ He studied Talavera intently for a moment, entirely missing the amused glance George threw her husband. ‘Spanish?’
‘Dutch,’ the countess replied, reaching out to scratch her mount’s neck.
‘Dutch, you say,’ he mused, finally looking up from the horse. ‘Hmm. Well, a beauty all the same. And I say,’ he said a second time, catching a glimpse of the earl’s horse. ‘That’s a splendid animal as well. You can’t tell me he’s not got a splash of the Spanish.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ the earl answered, raising one brow inquiringly at his wife. Imogen bit her lip to hold back a laugh. One simply never knew who might claim an acquaintanceship with George. She seemed to know and be known by everyone from princes, to dandies, to pugilists.
‘Somercote, this is Lord Fitzwilliam, who I’ve known for an age. Lord Fitzwilliam, this is my husband, Lord Somercote.’
‘Well, well,’ Fitzwilliam said, smiling in a very open, friendly manner, taking in the earl with a bit more enthusiasm. ‘Guess I’ll have to get used to calling you my lady now.’
George shook her head at him and introduced him to Imogen as well. ‘Here for the races?’ he asked her, blithely stating the obvious. ‘Good, good. You keep an eye on my Pewett. Won the St Ledger this year, and I have every hope of doing the same here. Good place to put your blunt.’
He chatted on for a few minutes with the countess about the other contenders, and then, with a neat bow of his head he excused himself and rode off down the road, whistling through his teeth.
Imogen glanced at George.
‘Obsessed with horseflesh,’ George said by way of explanation, turning her horse back towards Newmarket. ‘Wait and see Ivo, he’ll make you an offer on Cobweb before we head home. I recognize his acquisitive gleam.’
The earl answered his teasing wife with a smile and a shake of his head. Imogen had no doubt she was right, but there was no chance at all that the earl would be induced to part with Cobweb. The big grey dapple was his longstanding favourite.
After weaving their way through the crowded streets, past braying donkeys, roving orange girls, and what seemed like hundreds of carriages, they rode into the yard of The Slug and Lettuce and handed their mounts over to their waiting groom. ‘Anyone else here yet, Catton?’ George inquired, as her long time retainer took the reins from her.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he replied, drawing out the my lady, in an affected way. ‘Mr Bennett, Lord Morpeth, the Duke of Alençon, Lord Cardross, and Lord St Audley are all here. I believe they’re in the tap room. There’s only the Misters Angelstone, Lord Layton, and the earl, his father, still wanting.’
‘Excellent,’ the countess pronounced, linking her arm through Imogen’s. ‘Thank you, Catton.’ The groom nodded, and led the horses away to be unsaddled and stabled. ‘And now, Ivo dearest, I think Imogen and I shall go up to our rooms and tidy up, and then we’ll join you for luncheon.’ The earl sketched them both a quick bow, and strolled off towards the tap room.
Up in her room Imogen washed her hands and face, took off her hat and set about attempting to resurrect her hair. She was still struggling with it when the countess knocked and summarily entered her room.
‘Ready?’ she asked brightly. ‘Apparently not,’ she added, shutting the door behind her. ‘Here,’ she came around behind Imogen and batted her hands away, ‘let me do it. I love your hair,’ she sighed, deftly twisting up the riot of springy curls and pinning them in place.
‘Someone has to,’ Imogen mumbled in return, frowning at her reflection. George caught her
