‘There now,’ George said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork.
Downstairs, the tap room was filled with gentlemen, a great many of whom were by now familiar to Imogen. The sporting set was quite large, but most of the core constituency had been present at the Somercote’s house party. They were all drinking ale, making quick work of the hearty plates of food supplied by the inn keeper and his surprisingly amiable wife, and talking horses nonstop.
George and Imogen took seats at a small table partially occupied by Mr Bennett and Morpeth and proceeded to eat, surrounded by the mad hubbub of the room. Imogen chewed her food slowly, glancing thoughtfully around the room, content to watch and listen. George was already in the thick of it, arguing the various merits of several contenders.
‘Too short in the back, I tell you,’ she insisted, ‘and ever-so-slightly cow-hocked.’
‘Is he?’ Bennett asked, his brows drawn together in a frown.
‘Absolutely.’ George pronounced with her usual conviction. ‘You won’t catch me putting my money on one of Brown’s showy hacks. They’ve all got that snaky, little Arab head, too, which I can’t abide.’
‘I’ll agree with you about the snaky little heads,’ Bennett said, still frowning, ‘but I’m going to have to take a good look at his rear action before agreeing that he’s cow-hocked.’
‘Ten pounds on it, just between friends?’ George suggested, her teasing smile peeping forth.
‘And who’s to be the judge if I say the colt’s legs are straight and true?’
‘Oh, you’re to be the judge. I trust you. You’d never be able to bring yourself to pronounce such an animal sound for a few guineas.’
When they’d finished their meal and the countess was still avidly discussing horseflesh with Mr Bennett, Imogen wandered about, shyly greeting her fellow guests, until she found herself being solicited to take a stroll by the Duke of Alençon.
‘Come along, my dear,’ he urged, holding out one hand, ‘you shall accompany me to meet Cardross at the stables to see how our little filly, Aérolithe, is fairing.’
She glanced at George and the countess waived her off. ‘Make sure you take her to Gregson’s for tea,’ George called after them as they made a push for the door.
Once outside the crush was only marginally easier to manoeuvre through than it had been in the tap room. The streets were choked with Corinthians, military officers, navel men, country squires, cits and tradesmen, and bloods and blades of every description.
Here and there, there was a bonnet to be spied amongst the men, and every now and again Imogen got a clearer view of one or another of the women who’d also chosen to attend the races.
The sight was not wholly reassuring.
The majority of the women she saw were clearly not ladies, or even members of the upper echelons of courtesans. Most of them were shockingly vulgar, in both their persons and their voices, which could occasionally be heard bantering with the men thronging the streets.
Averting her gaze from a particularly bold piece, who was sashaying down the main thoroughfare her nipples clearly visible through her fichu, Imogen found herself suddenly gazing across the street and meeting Gabriel’s surprised eyes. He smiled and then a coach trundled past them, blocking him from her view. Alençon craned his neck for a better view and paused on the pavement, clearly waiting for Gabriel to join them.
More than a little pleased to have spotted his nymph almost immediately upon his arrival, Gabriel waited impatiently for his chance to dash across the busy street. Dodging a rather rickety gig and weaving his way skilfully between a mail coach and a closed carriage, he hurried across the choked thoroughfare. The duke greeted him with a little light-hearted raillery, chuckling in his usual provoking style. Imogen bit one side of her lip and blushed slightly.
‘We were just on our way to look in on my Aérolithe, my boy,’ the duke said, his eyes full of mischief. ‘Care to join us?’
‘Delighted.’ Gabriel fell in behind them as the duke set off again.
Imogen had her hands firmly locked about the duke’s velvet-clad arm. A few spiralling curls danced about the standing collar of her redingote; dark against the milky skin of her neck. Gabriel held his breath for a moment, wanting nothing so much as to lean forward and place an open-mouthed kiss to the exposed nape of her neck.
Closer to the stables the crowd thinned and he was able to come abreast with Imogen. He gazed down at her, smiling to himself. He could see the hand of George at work again.
‘Is that a new hat?’
‘Yes,’ Imogen responded, her colour still unusually high. ‘The countess brought it back from Town.’
‘Amazing,’ Alençon said, gazing at her with open admiration. ‘Simply amazing. George picked that out you say? She has always had the most regrettable taste in headgear. It’s hard to credit it.’
Imogen frowned at the duke, while Gabriel laughed. ‘That’s not true, and you know it,’ Gabriel insisted. ‘You’re thinking of that horrible thing Lyon bought her in Paris, which I’ll admit, was a monstrosity. George rarely bothers to wear a hat, but when she does, they’re always tasteful.’
‘Except for the monstrosity from Paris, which, must I remind you, she wore constantly, the whole summer through, not to mention her penchant for stealing her brother’s hats, and now her poor husband’s.’
‘My Lord Duke,’ Gabriel protested. ‘George was a new bride when Lyon bought her that hat. You can hardly blame her for wearing it.’
‘There is no excuse for that hat. None,’ the duke insisted with a shudder. ‘Ask any of the Macaronis, they’ll second me on this.’
‘I’m sure they will. Just as I’m sure they’d approve Miss Mowbray’s Chapeau Jockei.’
Before they could continue their quarrel,
