From the top of the coach they had a commanding view of the field. The duke’s coachman had positioned the coach so that the box faced the track, but had left room for the standing crowd in front of it. He’d unhitched the team and returned them to the stable, leaving one of the grooms to guard the coach. Their arrival had relieved the groom of his duty until after the race. With a vail from Gabriel clutched in his hand, the groom disappeared into the crowd.
Imogen amused herself watching the crowd as it ebbed and swirled around the coach. Beside her, George was busy chatting with Lord Morpeth, while the others wandered away for a closer look at the field of contenders for the day’s first race. The crowd was made up of men from every walk of life. Cits and farmhands rubbed shoulders with liveried servants, country gentlemen, Corinthians and members of the militia. Here and there she spotted a well-dressed lady of the ton, or an even better dressed lady of ill repute.
Gentlemen flocked to their coach, and soon Imogen had been introduced to the few remaining members of the Corinthian set who had yet to come her way. She’d met Lord Craven, and Tom Johnson, the rough and tumble champion pugilist. She’d even re-encountered Lord Fitzwilliam, and shared an amused glance with George when he’d expressed his dismay at missing the earl.
‘Wanted to make him an offer on that magnificent dapple of his.’
‘George,’ Imogen said as soon as he’d gone, ‘he’s going to drive Lord Somercote mad.’
‘Nonsense,’ the countess responded with a wicked twinkle. ‘It will do Ivo good to learn to say no. Besides, an offer of purchase from a man such as Fitzwilliam is a compliment of the highest order. Ivo should be flattered.’
Imogen laughed and shook her head at her friend. George delighted in twitting her husband, and luckily the earl seemed to thrive on her teasing. When she looked back out towards the track, it was to see a dark, very handsome man threading his way through the crowd, watching them intently. From the cut and style of his clothing, it was obvious he belonged to the sporting set, from his bearing, that he’d at some point and time been a military man, and from the smile on his face, that he was extremely happy to have spotted George.
‘George,’ Imogen prompted. ‘Another friend of yours?’
The countess looked out into the crowd and suddenly squealed. She was yelling, ‘Darling! Darling!’ as she leapt down from the coach and flung herself into the man’s arms. Startled, Imogen stared down at them.
The man hugged her close and swung her around, to the imminent danger of the surrounding spectators. He whispered something that made them both laugh, and then set George aside to shake hands with Lord Morpeth.
‘Imogen,’ George called, motioning her to climb down. ‘I’m simply ecstatic to introduce you to a very old friend of mine, whom I thought to be still in the thick of things in India. Imogen, this is Major Lindsey Darling. Darling, this is Miss Imogen Mowbray.’
‘Actually,’ the gentleman said with an apologetic smile, ‘it’s Lord Drake now. I sold out, when m’father died, nearly eight months ago now.’
‘Oh, Lindsey…’ George extended a hand to clutch his sleeve.
‘It’s perfectly alright.’ He patted her hand. ‘The old reprobate went out in style, three bottles of good burgundy in him, and a mistress barely a third his age under him. Nothing the undertaker could do to get the smile off his face.’
Imogen goggled at him, unsure how to respond, but the countess burst into laughter. ‘You are impossible.’
‘All true,’ Lord Drake protested. ‘Ask Alençon or Cardross if you doubt me.’
‘I don’t doubt you for a minute. Remember, I too knew your father. And you’re still damn lucky that I’m not your step-mother. Lord knows he asked me often enough.’
‘The old boy always did have a soft spot for you,’ Drake replied with a laugh. ‘I’d have paid a monkey to see his face if you’d accepted. I hear you’ve news as well though. Re-married, and not to me. Though you promised so faithfully that I was next. I always knew you were a heartless tease.’
‘A fickle jade. That’s me,’ the countess agreed with a cheeky smile. ‘You can meet him tonight, my new lord and master. We’re hosting a small party at The Slug and Lettuce.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said with the slightest of bows. ‘Now I’d best be off if I want to get my wager in. George. Miss Mowbray. Morpeth.’
George sighed as they settled back onto the box and Lord Drake disappeared into the milling crowd. ‘Very satisfactory,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘Another of my boys clearly in need of a little meddling. You wouldn’t care to be a viscountess, would you, Imogen?’
Chapter Eleven
Has a certain fiery-haired opera dancer grown tired of Lord T——? It would seem so, judging by the performance she gave last night in the green room…
Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789
The race was over all too quickly, in Imogen’s opinion.
There was a shot, then the thunder of hooves as more than twenty horses flew past, their jockey’s distinctive silks nearly impossible to distinguish in the tumult. The crowd yelled and cheered. Imogen felt the rush of excitement down to her toes.
The countess was watching the race through a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses, bouncing up and down on her seat. She gave a triumphant yell as the race finished and lowered the glasses.
‘Well?’ Imogen asked eagerly.
‘Aérolithe, by at least a furlong. There was nothing even close to her.’
Imogen gave an excited whoop and George glanced over at her. ‘I told you it was thrilling,’ the countess said with a touch of smug hauteur.
‘Going to turn our newest member into a turf addict, are you, George?’
Imogen
