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Scandal in the Regency Ballroom: No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady
Louise Allen
No Place for a LadyMiss Bree Mallory hopes no one in Society will discover that she once drove the stage from London to Newbury…or that she returned unchaperoned with the rakishly attractive Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith! Yet, while beautiful Bree has no interest in marriage, Max’s kisses are powerfully persuasive…Not Quite a LadyThe wealthy and exquisite heiress Miss Lily France is determined to trade her vulgar new money for marriage to a man with a respected title. Then she meets the untitled and unsuitable Jack Lovell. His calm strength and deep grey eyes are an irresistible combination–but he is the one man she cannot buy!



About the Author
LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember. She finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past—Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Louise lives on the North Norfolk coast, where she shares the cottage they have renovated with her husband. She spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in the UK and abroad in search of inspiration. Please visit Louise’s website, www.louiseallenregency.co.uk, for the latest news, or find her on Twitter, @LouiseRegency, and on Facebook.

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom
No Place for a Lady
Not Quite a Lady
Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

In The Regency Ballroom Collection
Scandal in the Regency Ballroom
April 2013
Innocent in the Regency Ballroom
May 2013
Wicked in the Regency Ballroom
June 2013
Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom
July 2013
Rogue in the Regency Ballroom
August 2013
Debutante in the Regency Ballroom
September 2013
Rumours in the Regency Ballroom
October 2013
Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom
November 2013
Mistress in the Regency Ballroom
December 2013
Courtship in the Regency Ballroom
January 2014
Rake in the Regency Ballroom
February 2014
Secrets in the Regency Ballroom
March 2014

No Place for a Lady

Chapter One
Almost 1:00 a.m. on the Bath Road outside Hounslow—September 1814
We are going to crash. The thought went through Max’s brain with almost fatalistic calm. There was not enough room, even if the stage pulled over, even if it were broad daylight—even if he were driving and not his young cousin.
‘Rein in, damn it, it’s too narrow here!’ He had to shout over the wind whipping past them and the thunder of hooves. The stage held the crown of the road, as well it might. At this time of night it was the safest place to be—unless you had a private drag bearing down upon you, driven at full gallop by an over-excited eighteen-year-old racing for a wager.
The coach was lit with side lanterns, as they were, and the moon was high and full, bathing the road and the surrounding heath in silver light, but Max did not need it to judge the road—he knew it like the back of his hand.
‘I can make it!’ Nevill looped the off-lead rein and the team, obedient to the lightest touch, moved out to the right ready to overtake, and they were committed.
Snatching the reins would not help; they were going too fast—the big Hanoverian bays, full of oats and more than a match for any stagecoach team, especially night-run horses, were too powerful to stop in this distance. And somewhere behind them, moving just as fast, was Brice Latymer, out for blood, and behind him, Viscount Lansdowne.
Max raised the yard-long horn to his lips and blew, more in hope than expectation. If they were lucky, if the driver of the stage was alert, strong and experienced, they might get away with a sideways collision and at least the horses would not plough straight into the back of the stage. Unlucky, and there would be a four-coach pile-up and carnage.
And the miracle happened. The stage, scarcely checking its speed, drew tight to the left, the whipping branches of the hedgerow trees lashing the side, forcing the rooftop passengers to throw themselves to the right. It was lurching, its nearside wheels riding the rim of the ditch, but if Nevill could keep his head they might just make it through.
‘Go, damn it!’ he thundered. Nevill dropped his hands and the bays went through the gap like a cavalry charge. The drag tilted to the right, bounced, branches scored down the length of the black lacquer sides and then they were neck and neck with the stage.
Now he had created the space the other driver was slowing, fighting his team to keep the vehicle steady and out of the ditch it was teetering on. Max looked across, wanting to send a silent message of apology, and found himself looking into an oval face, white in the moonlight, the eyes huge, dark and furious, the mouth lush. A woman’s face?
Then they were past. Max shook himself—he was mistaken, or in the confusion of the moment he had seen the face of one of the rooftop passengers, not the driver.
He glanced to the side. Nevill was visibly shaken now the crisis had passed, his hand lax on the reins. ‘Here, take them. I’m going to be sick.’ He thrust the reins towards Max, making the bays jib at the confusing signals.
‘No, you are not—drive! This is your bet, your responsibility, and I just hope to hell the others were far enough back to miss that.’
The Bell was perhaps three minutes ahead. The end of the race. If the stage didn’t come through in five minutes it would be in the ditch and he would have to go back and see what he could do to help.
Who is she? The glimpse of that exquisite face seemed burned into his mind. Just a hallucination caused by fear, excitement, the relief of finding we were through after all? Or a flesh-and-blood woman? His blood stirred. He realised, with shock, that he was aroused. I want her.
‘We’re here,’ Nevill said with a gasp. ‘The Bell.’
Two and a half hours earlier
‘Have you heard a word I said?’
‘Probably not.’ Max Dysart looked up from his contemplation of the firelight reflected in the toes of his highly polished boots and grinned unrepentantly at his young cousin.
Despite the fact that the clocks on the high mantel had just struck half past ten, and the darkness outside was pierced by countless points of flickering light, he and all the men in the noisy, convivial company were dressed in buckskin breeches, riding boots and carelessly open coats. Only the elegance with which they wore their casual dress and the pristine, uncreased whiteness of their Waterfall cravats hinted that these were members of the Nonesuch Club and not denizens of some sporting tavern.
‘What were you thinking about?’ Nevill demanded, folding himself down on to the buttoned-leather top of the high fender and holding out one hand to the fire.
‘Women,’ Max drawled, knowing it would bring a blush to Nevill’s cheeks. The boy was on the cusp of ceasing to find women terrifying and unnecessary and discovering that they were still terrifying, but mystifyingly desirable, as well. He was too easy to tease, although women had certainly been the subject of Max’s brooding thoughts.
Max gave up trying to solve the conundrum of how he was going to find a suitable bride he could tolerate, marry and produce an heir with when he was, when he came right down to it, not certain he was in a position to make anyone an offer. He gave his cousin his attention, focusing on the youth’s eager face. He could just give up on the problem and accept Nevill as his heir, he supposed. Or was that the coward’s way out?
Nevill Harlow was just eighteen and appeared still to be growing into his hands and feet. He was also by far the youngest member of the Nonesuch Whips, gathered for their monthly meeting in their usual room at the Nonesuch Club on the corner of Ryder Street and St James’s. Young he might be, but even the highest stickler amongst the members accepted him for his growing skill with the ribbons and his relationship to Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, acknowledged nonpareil amongst drivers.
Acknowledged by everyone except, inevitably, Brice Latymer. Latymer was sitting beside the betting book, tapping his teeth with the tip of a quill pen and regarding the cousins sardonically.
Max let the cool regard slide over him without giving any sign he had noticed it. Sometimes he thought Latymer lived to antagonise him. The man’s scarcely veiled pleasure whenever he bested Max, whether in a race, at cards or by cutting him out for a dance, mystified him.
‘What should I have been listening to?’
‘I’ve had a bet with Latymer.’ Nevill was grinning with excitement. ‘But you’ll need to lend me your bays.’
‘My what?’ Max swung his feet down off the fender.
‘Your bays. And the new drag. I’ve bet I can beat him and Lansdowne to the Bell at Hounslow.’
‘In my new drag, driving my bays? My four expensive, perfectly matched, Hanoverian bays?’ Max enquired ominously.
‘Yes.’ Nevill was not known for the strength of his intellect, more for his abounding good nature, but it was obviously beginning to dawn on him that his magnificent cousin was not delighted by the challenge he had accepted. ‘They’re more than able to beat Latymer and his greys.’
‘They are. Are you? Are you aware what I will do to you if you sprain so much as a fetlock?’
‘Er … no.’ Out of the corner of his eye Max could see the rest of the Nonesuch Whips watching them, most with good-natured grins on their faces. They all knew Max’s feelings about his precious bays, and they all liked young Nevill, but the rare opportunity to view Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, losing his fabled self-control was eagerly anticipated.
‘I will tear your head off your shoulders,’ Max promised softly, dropping his arm over Nevill’s shoulders and smiling a crocodile’s smile. The younger man flinched, his nervous grin wavering. ‘I will knot your arms behind your neck and I will use your guts for garters.’
‘Right.’ It was a strangled squeak.
‘And do you know what I will do if you lose to our friend Mr Latymer?’
‘No.’ That was a gulp.
‘Never let you drive one of my horses again, as long as you live.’ Max imbued his smile with all the menace he could muster and felt the bony shoulders under his arm quiver. ‘Are you allowed passengers?’
‘No. Just a guard to carry the yard of tin.’
‘Right. I’ll do that.’ He felt the relief run through the young man. ‘When is it for?’
‘Midnight, tonight. Leaving from here. I wanted to send round to your mews and get them harnessed up.…’ Nevill’s voice began to trail away.
‘Just ask next time before you lay the bet,’ Max said mildly, creating major disappointment amongst the audience as they realised the anticipated explosion was not going to happen.
But, damn it, he had taught the boy to drive, starting with a pony cart, graduating through curricle and phaeton until he could manage a drag, the heavy private coach drawn by four horses, and a match in size, weight and speed for the Mail or the stagecoaches. If he could not trust Nevill with his team now, it was to mistrust his own teaching.
‘Send to the mews. And, Nevill,’ he added as his cousin made for the door, enduring amiable joshing as he went. ‘Bespeak dinner—I’m damned if I’m waiting until we get to the Bell!’
‘Have you had any dinner yet?’
Bree Mallory pushed back her chair and saw Piers standing in the doorway, a pint tankard in his hand. ‘No. What time is it?’
Her brother shrugged. ‘Nearly eleven. I had the ordinary in the snug an hour past.’
Bree got to her feet, stretched and glanced out of the window overlooking the main yard of the Mermaid Inn. The scene outside in the glare of torches and lanterns would have struck most people as chaos. To Bree’s experienced eye it was running like clockwork and the whole complex business of the headquarters of a busy coaching company was just as it should be.
Pot boys were pushing through the crowd with tankards and coffee pots; at least three women appeared to have lost either children or husbands, and in one case, a goose, and through the whole turmoil the grooms leading horses to coaches or to stables wove the intricate pattern that sent out a dozen coaches in the course of the night, and received as many in.
A coach, the Portsmouth Challenge, was standing ready, the porters tossing up the last of the luggage and a reluctant woman being urged on to a roof seat by her husband. Over her head Bree could hear the grinding of the clock gears as it made ready to strike the three-quarter, and she glanced towards the door of the tap room in anticipation. A massive figure in a many-caped greatcoat strode out, whip in hand, jamming his low-crowned hat down as he went. It was Jim Taylor, the oldest and most cantankerous of all the Challenge Coaching Company’s drivers.
As the clock struck Jim swung up ponderously on to the box, arranged the fistful of reins in his left hand without glancing at them and shouted, ‘Let them go!’
‘You could set your watch by him,’ Piers commented, strolling across to join his sister at the window.
‘You can by all of them,’ she riposted, ‘or we wouldn’t employ them.’
‘You’re a hard woman, Bree Mallory.’ He gave her a one-armed hug round the shoulders in passing, grinning to show he was only teasing.
Bree smiled back. ‘I have to be. This is a hard business. And why haven’t you gone home to bed?’ He might look like a man, her tall, handsome, baby brother, but he was only seventeen and, if he hadn’t been recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia, he would have been at school at Harrow. ‘And my excuse, before you ask, is that the corn chandler’s bill is completely at odds with the fodder records again and either he is cheating us, or someone is stealing the feed.’
‘I was finishing my Latin text.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s enough to put me into a decline, the amount of work the beaks have sent me home with.’
‘If you hadn’t spent most of the day hanging round the yard, you’d have been done hours ago,’ Bree chided mildly. Piers was itching to finish at school and come to start working at the company. It was his, after all. Or at least, he owned half of it, with George Mallory, their father’s elder brother, retaining his original share.
Bree had a burning desire to protect the company for Piers. Uncle George, with no children of his own, would leave his half to his nephew eventually and then there would be no stopping her brother.
He already knew as much as Bree about the business, and rather more about the technical aspects of coach design and the latest trends in springing than she ever wanted to know. ‘Where are my journals?’ he wheedled now. ‘I have finished my Latin, honestly.’
‘They look even more boring than the grammar texts,’ Bree commented, lifting the pile of journals dealing with topics such as steam locomotion, pedestrian curricles and canal building off the chair by her desk. ‘Here you are.’
‘I am giving up on the mystery of the vanishing oats for the night.’ Bree blotted the ledger and put away her pens. ‘Come on, let’s go and find some dinner—I expect you can manage to put away another platter of something.’
They rented a small, decent house in Gower Street, but the sprawling yard of the Mermaid seemed more like home for both of them and they maintained private rooms up in the attic storey for when they chose to stay overnight.
Bree stopped and looked back over the yard, seized with a sudden uneasiness, as though things were never going to be the same again. She shook herself. Such foolishness. ‘You weren’t born when Papa bought this—I can only just recall it.’ She smiled proudly. ‘Twenty years and it’s turned from a decaying, failed business into one of the best coaching inns in the capital.’
‘The best,’ Piers said stoutly, cheerfully ignoring the claims of William Chaplin at the sign of the Swan with Two Necks, or Edward Sherman’s powerful company with its two hundred horses, operating out of the Bull and Mouth.
From small beginnings, with his own horses and a modest stage-wagon service, William Mallory had built it into what it was today, and Bree had grown up tagging along behind him, absorbing the business at his coat tails.
It had worried her father, a decent yeoman farmer, that his daughter did not want to join the world of her mother’s relatives, but Edwina Mallory had laughed. ‘I was married to the son of a viscount, my eldest son is a viscount and I am delighted to let him get on with it! Bree can choose when she is older if she wants a come-out and all the fashionable frivols.’
And perhaps, if Mama had lived longer, Bree might have done. But Edwina Mallory, daughter of a baron, once married to the Honourable Henry Kendal, had died when Bree was nine, and her relatives seemed only too glad to forget about the daughter of her embarrassing second marriage.
‘What does Kendal want?’ Piers asked, hostility making his voice spiky. He had picked up the letter lying on her desk, recognising the seal imprinted on the shiny blue wax.
‘I don’t know,’ Bree said, taking it and dropping it back again. ‘I haven’t opened it yet. Our dear brother is no doubt issuing another remonstrance from the lofty heights of Farleigh Hall, but I am in no mood to be lectured tonight.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ Piers grunted, handing her the shawl that hung on the back of the door. ‘Pompous prig.’
She ought to remonstrate, Bree knew, but Piers was all too correct. Their half-brother, James Kendal, Viscount Farleigh, was, at the age of thirty, as stuffy and boring as any crusted old duke spluttering about the scandals of modern life in his club.
As soon as Bree was old enough to realise that her mother’s connections looked down on her father, and regarded her mother’s remarrying for love as a disgrace, she resolved to have as little as possible to do with them. Now, at the age of twenty-five, she met her half-brother perhaps four times a year, and he seemed more than content for that state of affairs to continue.
‘I don’t expect he can help it,’ she said mildly, following Piers out into the yard. ‘Being brought up by his grandfather when Mama remarried was almost certain to make a prig out of him. You won’t remember the old Viscount, but I do!’
Bree broke off as they negotiated the press of people beginning to assemble for the Bath stage in less than hour.
‘Hey, sweetheart, what’s a pretty miss like you doing all alone here in this rough place? Come and have a drink with me, darling.’
Bree looked to her left and saw the speaker, a rakish-looking man with a bold eye and a leer on his lips, pushing towards her.
‘Can you possibly be addressing me, sir?’ she enquired, her voice a passable imitation of Mama at her frostiest.
‘Don’t be like that, darlin’—what’s a pretty little trollop like you doing in a place like this if she isn’t after a bit of company?’
As Bree was wearing a plain round gown with a modest neckline, had her—admittedly eye-catching—blonde hair braided up tightly and was doing nothing to attract attention, she was justifiably irritated. But it was the rest of the impertinent question that really got her temper up.
‘A place like this? Why, you ignorant clod, this is as fine an inn as any in all London—as fine as the Swan with Two Necks. I’ll have you know—’
‘Is this lout bothering you?’ At the sight of Piers, six foot already, even if he had some growing to do to fill out his long frame, the rake began to back away. ‘Get out of here before I have you whipped out!’
‘Honestly, Bree, you shouldn’t be here without a maid,’ Piers fussed as they pushed their way into the dining rooms and found their private table in a corner. ‘You’re too pretty by half to be wandering about a busy inn.’
‘I don’t wander,’ she corrected him firmly. ‘I run the place. And as for being too pretty, what nonsense. I’m tolerable only and I’m bossy and I’m too tall, and if it wasn’t for this wretched hair I wouldn’t have any trouble with men at all.’
The waiter put a steaming platter of roast beef in front of them and Bree helped herself with an appetite, satisfied that she had won the argument.
Half an hour later she sat back, replete, and regarded her brother with fascinated awe as he dug into a large slice of apple pie.
‘This is your second dinner tonight. I think you must have hollow legs, else where can you be putting it?’
‘I’m a growing boy,’ Piers mumbled indistinctly through a mouthful of pastry. ‘Look, here comes Railton. I think he’s looking for us.’
‘What is it, Railton?’ The Yard Master was looking grim as he stopped by their table.
‘We’ll have to cancel the Bath coach, Miss Bree.’
‘What? The quarter to midnight? But it’s fully booked.’ Bree pushed back her empty plate and got to her feet. ‘Why?’
‘No driver. Todd was taking it out, but he’s slipped just now coming down the ladder out of the hayloft and I reckon his leg’s broke bad. Willis is taking the Northampton coach later, and all the rest of the men are spoken for too. There’s no one spare, not with you giving Hobbs the night off to be with his wife and new baby.’ His sniff made it abundantly clear what he thought of this indulgence.
‘Are you sure it is broken?’ Bree demanded, striding across the yard, Piers at her heels. ‘Have you sent for Dr Chapman?’
‘I have, not that I need him to tell me it’s a break when the bone’s sticking through the skin. You’ve no cause to go in there, Miss Bree. It’s not a nice sight and Bill’s seeing to him.’
Even so, one did not leave one’s employees in agony, however much of a fix they had left one in through their carelessness. Bree marched through the hay-store door and was profoundly grateful to see there was no sign of blood and Johnnie Todd was neither fainting nor shrieking in agony.
‘He’ll do.’ Bill Potter, one of the ostlers and the nearest they had to a farrier on the premises, got to his feet and walked her back firmly out of the door. ‘Doctor will fix him up, never you fret, Miss Bree.’
That was good, but it didn’t solve the problem of the Bath coach. ‘I’ll drive it.’ Piers bounded up. ‘Please?’
‘Certainly not! It’s one hundred and eight miles.’ Bree knew the mileages to their destinations, and all the stops along the way, without even having to think about it. ‘The most you’ve ever driven is twenty.’
‘Yes, but I don’t have to drive all the way, do I?’ Piers protested as they walked back to the office.
‘What?’ Bree broke off from wondering if she could possibly send round to one of the rival yards and borrow a driver. But that put one in debt …
‘Johnnie would only have driven fifty miles, wouldn’t he? Whoever the second half-driver is, he’ll be ready and waiting in Newbury.’ Piers banged through the door and started rummaging in the cupboard for his greatcoat.
‘Fifty miles is too far. I’ve driven thirty, and that was hard enough, and I wasn’t recovering from pneumonia.’ Thirty miles. Thirty miles with Papa up beside me, in broad daylight and with an empty coach coming back from the coach makers. Even so, can it be that much harder to do it with passengers up and at night? There’s a full moon.
‘I’ll drive,’ she said briskly, trampling down the wave of apprehension that hit her the minute she said it. ‘The Challenge Coach Company does not cancel coaches and we don’t go begging our rivals for help either. Shoo! I’m going to get changed.’

Chapter Two
Bree thrust the whip into the groom’s hands and used both hers on the reins. Behind her the passengers were screaming, the inner wheels were bucking along the rough rim of the ditch and branches were lashing both coach and horses.
Thank God she had never followed the practice of so many companies and used broken-down animals for the night runs, she thought fleetingly, as the leaders got their hocks under them and powered the heavy vehicle back on to the highway. The lurking menace of a milestone, glinting white in the moonlight, flashed past an inch from the wheels.
The coach rocked violently, throwing her off balance. Her right wrist struck the metal rail at the side of the box with a sickening thud. Bree bit down the gasp of pain and gathered the reins back into her left hand again, stuffing the throbbing right into the space between her greatcoat buttons.
Hell, hell and damnation. Ten miles gone, another forty to go. Her arms already felt as though she had been stretched on the rack, her back ached and now she had a badly bruised wrist. I must have been mad to start, but I’m going to do this if it kills me. It probably will.
The team steadied, then settled into a hard, steady rhythm. ‘Slow down, Miss Bree,’ Jem the groom gasped as she took the crown of the road again. ‘You can’t spring them here!’
‘I can and I will. I’m going to horsewhip that maniac the length of Hounslow High Street, and we’ve lost time as it is,’ she shouted, as the sound of another horn in the distance behind them had the groom staring back anxiously. ‘If they can catch us up before the inn, they can wait,’ Bree added grimly. And if they didn’t like it, they had one very angry coaching proprietor to deal with.
‘You won. Congratulations.’ Max fetched Nevill a hard buffet on his back as the young man climbed stiffly down from the box.
‘I … Max, I’m sorry. I nearly crashed it.’ He stumbled and Max caught him up, pushing him back against the coach wheel. The others would be here in a moment; he wasn’t having Nevill showing them anything but a confident face. ‘If you hadn’t told me when to go, shouted at me … I was going too fast on a blind bend. I’ll understand if you never let me drive your horses again.’
‘Are you ever going to do anything that stupid again?’ Max demanded, ignoring the bustle of ostlers running to unharness his team. ‘No?’ His cousin shook his head. ‘Well, then, lesson learned. I once had the York mail off the road, although I don’t choose to talk about it. I was about your age, and probably as green. Now, get the team put up and looked over and then get us a chamber. I’m going to save your bacon by doing my best with the coachman.’
‘But I should—’
‘Just do as I ask, Nevill, and pray I don’t look at the damage to my paintwork before I’ve had at least one glass of brandy.’
The average stagecoachman would have the boy’s guts for garters—their temper and their arrogance were legendary. Max heard the sound of the horn and the stage swept into the yard: at least he wasn’t going to have to organise its rescue from the ditch. He scanned the roof passengers as they clambered down, protesting loudly about their terrible experience. No young woman—he must have been dreaming. His heart sank and he grimaced wryly; he was acting like a heartsick youth after a glimpse of some beauty at a window.
The groom swung down beside the grumbling passengers. ‘Brandy on the company,’ he said, urging them towards the door of the Bell and the waiting landlord.
He swung round as Max strode up. ‘You driving that rig just now, guv’nor?’ he demanded belligerently.
‘No, my young cousin was, but I am responsible. Allow me to make our apologies to the driver, and to you, of course.’ He slipped a coin into the man’s hand and stepped to one side to confront the other who was slowly climbing down, his back to the yard. The groom shifted as though to protect his driver’s back. Max dodged—and found himself face to face with the smallest, strangest, and certainly most belligerent stagecoach driver he had ever met.
‘You oaf!’ It was his young woman. In the better light of the inn yard she was even more striking than he recalled from that startling glimpse, her looks heightened by shimmering fury. No classical beauty, although a low-crowned beaver jammed down almost to her eyebrows so that not a lock of hair showed, did not help. And goodness knows what her figure was like under the bulk of the caped greatcoat. But her face was a pure oval, her skin clear, her eyes deep blue and her mouth flooded his mind with explicit, arousing images
‘What are you staring at, sir?’ she demanded, giving him the opportunity to admire the way those lovely lips looked in motion, glimpsing a flash of white teeth. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a woman driving before?’ She grounded the butt of her whip with one hand and glowered at him. Tall, she’s tall for a woman, he thought irrelevantly as she tipped her head, just a little, to look at him.
‘Not one driving a stagecoach,’ he admitted. Somewhere behind him the increase in noise heralded the arrival of the two rival drags. Max moved instinctively to shield her from sight. ‘Madam, I must apologise for that incident. Naturally I will meet any damages to the coach, and you must allow me to pay for whatever drinks the passengers are taking in there.’
‘Certainly. Your card for the bill?’ That was businesslike with a vengeance. Max dug into the breast pocket of his coat and produced his card case. ‘Send me a round sum, I am not concerned with detail—it was our fault.’
‘It most certainly was, and I am concerned with detail. You will get a full accounting. Now, if you please, I must see to having my next team put to.’
‘Wait. You surely do not want to be seen by the other drivers.’ She did not appear in the least discommoded by being found, dressed as a man, in the midst of a group of boisterous gentlemen.
‘Really, Mr …’ She glanced at the card, tilting it to catch the lantern light and her eyebrows rose. ‘Lord Penrith, I am in a hurry.’ If it had been a young man with that accent and that attitude he would have assumed it was some young sprig of fashion out for a thrill. But women did not drive stages, and ladies most certainly did not drive anything on public highways outside the centre of town.
‘Damn it, Dysart, if it wasn’t for that damnable stagecoach I’d have had you in that last straight.’ Latymer.
Max swung round, the flaring skirts of his greatcoat effectively screening the willowy figure of the woman. ‘Go and argue the toss with Nevill,’ he suggested. ‘But I say you lost it on the pull past Syon House. How far behind was Lansdowne?’
‘One minute, but I still maintain—’
‘I’ll be with you inside in a moment. I’ve just got to argue this blockhead down from claiming half the cost of his damn coach,’ he added, low-voiced, taking Latymer by the arm and turning him away. ‘I told Nevill to get the brandy in.’
As he suspected, that was enough to turn the grumbling man back to the warmth of the inn parlour. As usual, whenever Latymer lost something, he would insist on a prolonged post mortem, the aim of which would be to prove he had failed for reasons entirely outside his control.
When he turned back, the young woman, far from taking advantage of his efforts to shield her, was engaged in spirited discussions with the head ostler about the team he was proposing to put to. ‘And not that black one either. It’s half-blind,’ she called after him as he stomped back to the stables to fetch another horse.
‘I will not run with those broken-down wrecks they try and fob one off with at night,’ she pronounced as he came up to her.
‘Madam—’
‘Miss Mallory. Bree Mallory.’
‘Miss Mallory, you cannot be intending to continue driving?’
‘As far as Newbury.’ She turned an impatient shoulder on him, watching the team being put to. It would take only a few minutes, now the horses had been agreed. ‘Jem, get the passengers.’
‘But wait, you’ve had a nasty shock.’ Max put out his hand and caught her by the right wrist, then dropped it as she went white and gasped in pain.
For a sickening moment the yard spun and Bree found herself caught up hard against Lord Penrith’s chest.
‘Let me go!’ The effect of being held by a strange man—no, by this strange man—was making her as dizzy as the pain. Reluctantly, it seemed, he opened his arms.
‘You are hurt. Let me see.’ What a nice voice he has, she thought irrelevantly. Deep, and gentle and compelling. She had no intention of doing as he asked, and yet, somehow, her hand was in his again and he was peeling back the cuff of the gauntlet to examine her wrist. ‘Has that just happened?’ She nodded. ‘Can you move your fingers?’
‘Yes. It isn’t broken,’ she added impatiently. His concern was weakening her; she had to tell herself it was nothing, that she could drive despite it.
‘Well, you aren’t driving a stage with that. You had best go inside and get it bound up.’
‘Yes, I am driving! I cannot abandon a coach full of passengers here, let alone the parcels we’re carrying. The Challenge Coach Company does not cancel coaches.’
‘There are entirely too many cs in that sentence,’ Lord Penrith remarked, ‘but it does at least prove that you haven’t been drinking if you can declaim it. The coach won’t be cancelled. I’ll drive it. Wait here.’
‘You … I … you’ll do no such thing!’ She found herself talking to his retreating back. He was already striding off towards the inn door to where the youth who had been driving the drag was waiting. There was a short conversation—more an issuing of orders, she decided, going by her short experience of his lordship’s manner, then he was coming back.
‘Right. Is there room for you inside, Miss Mallory?’
‘Certainly not. I am staying on the box.’ Bother the man, now he had tricked her into accepting that he was going to drive! ‘Are you any good, my lord?’
She knew who he was, of course—one glance at his card, and the cut of his own drag and team, told her that. But she was not going to give Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, the satisfaction of acknowledging that he was one of the finest whips in the land. Piers would be mad with jealousy when he found out with whom she had virtually collided.
He turned, pausing in the act of climbing on to the box, one hand still resting on the wheel. ‘Any good? At driving?’ One eyebrow arched.
‘Yes, at driving,’ she snapped. If only he didn’t keep looking at me like that. As though he knew me, as though he owned me …
‘Certainly. Much better than my young cousin, I assure you, Miss Mallory. Then … I am quite good at most things.’
Furious at what she suspected was an innuendo that she didn’t understand, Bree marched round and got Jem to help her up on the other side of the box. She could have made it on her own, she told herself resentfully, but she wasn’t such an idiot as to strain her hurt wrist just to prove a point. Without thinking about it she flicked the tails of her coat into a makeshift cushion under her, and settled back. Jem swung up behind.
Lord Penrith already had the reins in hand. He certainly looked the part. ‘Have you ever driven a stage before?’ she demanded. It would not be surprising if he had—it was a craze amongst young bucks to bribe a coachman to let them take the ribbons. More often than not, the entire rig ended up in a ditch.
‘Let them go!’ He turned his head and grinned at her as the wheelers took the strain and began to move. ‘Now I am wounded. You think I’m the sort of fellow who gets drunk and overturns stages for kicks? No, I drive a drag and my own horses when I want a four in hand. This lot aren’t too bad.’
‘Stick to ten miles an hour,’ Bree cautioned. ‘No springing them.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said meekly as they got back on to the road and the leaders settled into their collars. ‘There’s a clean handkerchief in my left-hand pocket if you want to tie up your wrist.’
Gingerly Bree fished in the pocket and pulled out the square of white linen. She wrapped the makeshift bandage round her wrist, then tucked her hand back into the front of her coat. Just the knowledge that she did not have to drive another forty miles was bliss. Surreptitiously she rolled her aching shoulders.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Max,’ he said absently, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘What sort of name is Bree?’
‘My sort. It was my father’s mother’s name.’
There was a flash of white as he grinned. ‘Tell me, Miss Mallory, how does a lady, who speaks with an accent that would not be out of place administering set-downs in Almack’s, come to be driving a stagecoach?’
‘I had an excellent education.’ Bother. She had been so shaken she had let her guard down. Both she and Piers were perfectly capable of switching their accents to suit their company, whether it was disputing the price of oats with the corn chandler or holding a stilted conversation with their half-brother. If she had been thinking, she would have let a strong overtone of London City creep into her vowels.
It was entirely possible that this man knew James, and if he discovered she was driving on the open road, and in men’s clothes, then the fat really would be in the fire. One more of James’s ponderous and endless lectures on propriety and she would probably say something entirely regrettable and cause a permanent family rift.
She shot an anxious glance over her shoulder, but the roof passengers were huddled up, scarves and mufflers round their ears, hunched in the misery of open-air, night-time travel. She could confess to robbing the Bank of England and they would not hear.
‘My parents were perfectly well to do. Just because we’re in trade does not mean elocution was neglected,’ she added starchily.
‘So how is it that you are driving?’ he persisted.
‘Because the driver broke his leg and there was no one else to send out, and the Challenge—’
‘Coach Company does not cancel coaches,’ he parroted. ‘Yes, I know. Do you drive often?’
‘I haven’t driven a stage for three years,’ Bree admitted. ‘And I’ve never driven one in service or at night. But Piers—my younger brother—is recovering from pneumonia. I couldn’t let him drive. It’s his company, his and my uncle’s. And I drive four in hand all the time.’ She didn’t add that she liked to drive the hay wagon up from the family farm near Aylesbury, or that she’d driven the dung cart before now when the need arose. Let him think she bowled round Hyde Park in a phaeton.
‘Your driving is superb. I don’t know how you held the stage out of the ditch when we overtook,’ he said.
Neither do I! Terror and desperation, probably. The compliment from such a master warmed her. ‘Why, thank you, my lord.’
‘Max.’
‘Max. It was sheer necessity. I doubt I could do it again. I was using both hands by that point, and I had abandoned my whip,’ Bree confessed. ‘The old coachmen in our yard would be shocked to the core.’
There was a chuckle from her companion, then he fell silent, intent on navigating the moonlit road.
It was curiously companionable, riding through the chilly darkness on the jolting, hard box beside this stranger. The team were trotting out strongly, then gathering themselves to canter when Max gave them the office on the better stretches. Her wrist throbbed painfully and her shoulders ached, but Bree realised she was enjoying herself. The man was a superlative whip.
‘You had better blow for the gate,’ Max remarked, jerking her out of her reverie. ‘The next toll bar’s coming up.’
‘I can’t. I’ve tried and tried to master the horn, but I can’t do it.’
‘Fine guard you are,’ Max grumbled. ‘Here, take the reins.’
He held his left hand towards her and she slid her own into it, fingers slipping down his wrist and over his palm until the ribbons lay between the correct fingers and he could pull his own free. The team pecked a little at the strange position, then settled.
Max lifted the horn and blew, the long notes echoing through the clear night. ‘Just in time,’ Bree said as the toll gate keeper stumbled out in his nightgown to drag open the wide gate.
‘We’re going to have to do this for every gate, you realise,’ Max commented, his big hand sliding into hers as he took back the reins. It brought them close together again and the fleeting memory of his arms around her in the inn yard made Bree catch her breath.
‘We could stop a moment and pass the horn back to Jem,’ Bree suggested reluctantly. It was the sensible thing to do, of course, but that had been rather fun.
‘And lose more time?’ Max flicked the whip close to the ear of the offside wheeler that seemed to have decided it didn’t want to share the work. ‘I’m sure the Challenge Coach Company is always punctual. Hmm, not enough cs. I shall have to think of a slogan.’ Bree chuckled. ‘Besides,’ he added, echoing her own thoughts, ‘it was rather fun.’
‘In what way, exactly?’ she enquired repressively. It might be very stimulating to be sitting here enjoying a master class in four-in-hand driving, but one had to recall that she was also alone, unchaperoned, with a man she was certain James would stigmatise as a rake. On the other hand, if James would disapprove, it made it all much more pleasurable.
‘It’s a form of trick driving in its way. And, of course, there’s the opportunity to hold hands with a pretty girl. Now, what have I said to make you snort?’
‘I do not snort. And if you find any female dressed as I am pretty, my lord, there is something wrong with you.’
‘I have exceptionally good eyesight.’
‘And a vivid imagination,’ she muttered. He probably was a rake, and flirting with anything female under the age of ninety was doubtless a prerequisite.
Max smiled, but all he said was, ‘We shall see.’
By the time they reached the last toll gate before Newbury Bree thought she had never been so stiff, nor so exhilarated, in her life. She seemed to have passed through some barrier of exhaustion and now, at almost four in the morning, she felt wide awake.
Probably because my bottom-bones are bruised black and blue, she concluded ruefully. The old coachman’s trick of making a cushion with her coat tails was not as effective as she had been led to believe, or perhaps she simply had less natural padding than they did.
It was time to sound the horn again. They had the rhythm of it now. Bree felt the warmth of Max’s large hand slide over hers, then she had the reins and he was blowing for the gate. But when they were through and he reached for her in his turn he did not slip his fingers across her palm; instead, he closed his hand around hers and held it lightly.
‘We’ll drive the last bit together,’ he said simply, and she wondered at the warm rush of pleasure the words and the action brought her.
I’m getting light-headed, Bree thought, flexing her fingers within Max’s grip and fighting the urge to lean into his body. It was deliciously like being drunk.
The sensation lasted as long as it took William Huggins, otherwise known as Bonebreaker Bill, to come striding out into the yard of the Plume of Feathers and see who was driving his coach through the arch.
‘Miss Bree! What do you think you are doing?’ He glowered up at the box of the coach, meaty fists on his bulky hips, booted feet apart.
‘We didn’t have a driver to send out, Bill,’ she said placatingly. Bill had known her since she was six and had proved a far stricter guardian than either of her parents ever had.
‘Who’s this flash cove, then?’ he demanded, swivelling his bloodshot eyes to Max. ‘Some break-o’day boy who’s cozened you into letting him take the ribbons for a thrill?’
‘This is Lord Penrith, Bill. My lord, allow me to introduce William Huggins, the finest coachman on this, or any other, road.’
Bill brushed aside the compliment, taking it as his due, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Penrith? From the Nonesuch Whips?’
‘For my sins.’ Sensibly, Max was staying on the box where he had the advantage of height. But the coachman had lost all his hostility.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! If half they say about you is true, my lord, then it’s a privilege to have you drive my coach, that it is! Why, you can take it all the way to Bath if you be so wishful.’
‘Thank you, but no, Mr Huggins.’ Max began to climb down. ‘This was a long enough stage for me—I had no idea those box seats were so hard.’
‘Hah! You should fold your coat tails under you, my lord. That’s the way to save your bum bones.’
‘It doesn’t work, Bill,’ Bree said, causing him to go scarlet. ‘I tried. Now, come and lift me down, please. I’m as stiff as a board.’
The ostlers, spurred on by the presence of their severest critic, completed the change in under two minutes and Bill took the coach out on to the highway with a roar of farewell and a flourish of his hat. Poor Jem, expected like all guards to work the whole distance, was back up on the box beside him.
‘There you are,’ Max said, fishing his pocket watch out. ‘Dead on time. The Challenge Coach Company never compromises with the clock,’ he added with satisfaction. ‘You may have it engraved on your stationery with my compliments.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Bree turned to him, tipping her head back to smile up into his face. It was one part of him, she realised, that she hadn’t been able to study during the last four hours. She knew the feel of his hands on hers, the range of his voice, and the height and breadth of his body had bulwarked hers like a rock all night.
It was difficult to make out colours in the lamplight, but his eyes were dark under dark brows, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin rather too decided for her taste, and his mouth—which was within a fraction of a smile as he watched her—was generous. It was a good face, she decided. A tough face, but in a good way. He made her feel safe.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Goodbye, my lord.’
‘And just where do you think you are going now, Miss Mallory?’
‘To bespeak a room, of course.’
‘With no maid, no luggage and at four in the morning?’
‘They will know who I am when I introduce myself.’
‘It is not the inn staff I am concerned about. Really, Miss Mallory, you cannot stay here—goodness knows who you might encounter. Think of your reputation.’
‘I do not have one!’ Really, he was as bad as James. ‘Not that sort of reputation. I am not in society, I am not in the marriage mart. I am in trade, my lord. Besides, what alternative do I have, other than to wait for the next stage back and be jolted for another five sleepless hours? I have, I regret to say, no convenient maiden aunt in Newbury.’
His mouth twitched. She could not tell, in this light, whether he was annoyed that she was arguing with him, or amused by the maiden aunt. ‘I was going to take a private parlour for you to rest in for a while and I will hire a chaise to take us back to London.’
‘A chaise? A closed carriage? For the two of us? All the way back to London? And just what will that do for my reputation, pray?’
‘Ruin it, I imagine,’ Max said amiably.

Chapter Three
Max watched the expressions chase across what little he could see of Bree’s face. Oh, to get that damned hat off her head. ‘At least, it would ruin you if you were the young society lady you speak of, with vouchers for Almack’s and a position in the marriage mart to defend. Then, if it should be known that you had spent five hours in a closed carriage with a man, it would be a disaster.
‘But you aren’t, are you? You are much safer being whisked home in comfort by me than you are sitting in a public house where you will be recognised by anyone who does business with your company, and at the mercy of any passing rakes and bucks who chose to prey on unprotected women.’
‘And you aren’t, I suppose? A rake, I mean.’ That lush mouth looked gorgeous even when it was thinned to a suspicious line.
‘No, I am not, if by that you imagine I will take the opportunity to ravish you. But I cannot prove it—you will have to make your own judgment on my character.’ He studied Bree’s face, expecting anything from anger to the vapours, and was taken aback when she laughed.
‘My lord, if you feel moved to ravish any woman looking as I do now, and after driving through the night, then I both pity your need and admire your stamina. I would appreciate the comfort of a chaise very much. Thank you.’
Enchanting. Oh, enchanting, he thought, returning the smile. ‘Let us find you a room for half an hour, for I am sure you would want to wash your hands, have a cup of tea and have your wrist better dressed. I will hire a chaise. Even stopping for breakfast along the way, we will be home for luncheon.’
When he tapped on her door she emerged promptly, discreetly wearing the voluminous greatcoat and with the low-crowned beaver down over her eyebrows. But as soon as the chaise turned out on to the highway she tossed the hat into the corner and shrugged off the weighty coat with a sigh of relief.
‘Max? What are you staring at?’ she asked, watching him with narrowed eyes in the light of the two spermaceti oil lamps that lit the interior.
‘I … I … your hair. I was not expecting it to be so long.’ God, I’m babbling like some green boy. Even Nevill would be showing more address.
Bree flipped the thick braid back over her shoulder. ‘I should have it cut, but it is easier to manage plaited.’
‘Don’t cut it,’ he said abruptly. It was a lovely, unusual, wheaten gold without any hint of red in it. Not brassy or silvery or any of the usual shades of blonde. Where it escaped from the severity of the braid tiny wisps curled at her temples and across her forehead, which was smooth and touched with just a hint of the sun. So unfashionable to have blonde hair. So unladylike to allow oneself to be caught by the sun. His gaze wandered down to arched brows, three shades darker than her hair, to deep blue eyes watching him back somewhat warily from the shelter of long lashes.
‘Do I have a smudge on my nose?’ Bree enquired, seemingly ignoring his comment about her hair.
‘No. I am just getting used to you without that hat.’ And without that greatcoat, and in breeches and boots, Heaven help me! Her legs were long and shapely, her figure, flattened by a waistcoat and shrouded by her coat, was more difficult to judge, but even the best efforts of men’s tailoring could not completely submerge womanly curves that had Max’s heart beating hard.
He wanted her, but not because she was beautiful, because she wasn’t exactly that, and he should know, he had kept some diamonds of the first water in his time. What is it about her? He struggled with it, trying to identify the elusive something that had shot an arrow straight under his skin in that first fleeting exchange of glances.
More for something to occupy himself than for comfort, Max took off his own greatcoat, stuffed his gloves in his pocket, and ran his hands through his hair, which had suffered from having his hat jammed down hard to keep it on against the wind.
‘Is that a Brutus, that hairstyle?’ Bree was watching him, head on one side a little. She had the faint air of a woman sizing up a purchase. Max had the uncomfortable feeling that if he were a chicken she would have inspected his feet for signs of age, or if he were a horse she would be checking his teeth. He was not at all sure he was passing muster.
‘My own variation on it, yes.’
‘I only ask because Piers says that is how he has had his hair cut. I can see the resemblance, but yours is far more successful.’
‘Thank you,’ Max said gravely. Contact with Miss Mallory handing out lukewarm compliments was chastening to one’s self-esteem. ‘How old is your brother?’
‘Just seventeen. We have a half-brother, James, who is thirty. Mama married twice.’
When she talked about Piers her voice was warm, loving; when she spoke of her other brother, it was cool. ‘Is James concerned with the business?’
‘Goodness, no.’ That was apparently funny enough to make her laugh. Max was filled with an ambition to make her laugh again, to hear the rich, amused chuckle, but his usually ready wit appeared to have deserted him. ‘James has nothing to do with it. Piers inherited my father’s half and Uncle George holds the other. He founded the company with Papa and he still runs both family farms and breeds most of our horses. I run the office.’
‘So you own nothing, but do all the work. That seems a little unjust.’
‘It is merely the lot of most women,’ Bree observed drily. ‘Piers will take over as soon as he is of age, although I suspect I will still manage things day to day. Piers is far more interested in the technical side of the business—improved springing, horse breeding for stamina, that sort of thing. And he believes that we will need to keep an eye on all the new forms of transport that will come in the next few years.’
‘Such as? Nothing will replace the horse, however improved the carriages may become.’
‘Canals, steam locomotion …’
‘Never catch on,’ Max said confidently. ‘Canals are fine for heavy transport, I’ll give you that, and steam is good for industry and mining. But these steam locomotives are nothing but dangerous gimmicks.’
That luscious chuckle again. ‘Should you ever meet Piers, I advise you not to air such opinions. I usually have to rescue the unenlightened after an hour’s lecture.’ She yawned suddenly, hugely, clapping both hands over her mouth like a guilty child. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’
‘Go to sleep,’ Max suggested. ‘Here.’ He stripped off his coat, folded it so the soft silk lining was outermost and offered it to her. ‘Use that as a pillow. And take your own coat off. You’ll be more comfortable. You can put one of the greatcoats over you, if you feel chilly.’
Bree regarded him, the laughter gone from her face, her eyes a little wide. Max realised that taking off his coat had probably been unwise, and expecting her to abandon herself to sleep under the circumstances was asking too much.
‘Thank you,’ she said, surprising him. She shrugged off her own coat, giving him a glimpse of the label. Not such a good tailor as his, but not contemptible either. She saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, I was so brassy as to have these clothes made by a tailor, but he came to the house—I draw the line at marching into a gentleman’s establishment to order breeches, whatever James might think.’
Max sat back, his arms folded, and gazed out of the window on to darkness while Bree made herself comfortable. She placed her own greatcoat on the seat at one end, patted his coat carefully into a pillow at the other, then swung her feet up and curled on to her side.
‘Are you warm enough?’ He shook out his caped greatcoat and offered it.
‘If I take it, then you might be cold.’ She looked up at him, suddenly so vulnerable on the makeshift bed that something inside him twisted.
‘I’m warm,’ Max assured her. ‘Very warm indeed.’ Too damned hot, in fact.
‘Thank you.’ She simply closed her eyes and snuggled down as he draped the heavy cloth over her, careful not to touch her body. As if it were something she did every night, Bree fished out the golden plait and let it lie on the covering. ‘Goodnight.’ Her lips curved into a smile.
‘Goodnight.’ Max flattened his shoulders against the squabs, crossed his arms, crossed his legs and gazed fixedly at the webbing of the small luggage holder above Bree’s seat. How was that made? Netting, presumably. How was netting made? Try to work it out. Or count the number of diamonds it made. Or think about how much damage tonight’s little adventure had done to the immaculate lacquer of his drag’s sides. Or anything other than the fact that the woman opposite trusted him enough to fall asleep like this, and that he wanted to abuse that trust, very, very badly.
Why? It all seemed to go back to his musings in the club, so many hours ago: he should get married and start his nursery. He had a title, an estate, a family name to consider.
There was no one to nag him to do it except his grandmother, who on their last meeting had informed him with some asperity that if he wanted to go racketing around like a twenty-year-old instead of a man who had just had his thirtieth birthday, then she washed her hands of him. ‘Either sort out that business over Drusilla once and for all and find a suitable young woman to marry, or decide to accept Nevill as your heir. He’s a nice enough young cub,’ the Dowager had pronounced flatly. ‘I expect I can lick him into shape if I start now.’
Nevill was, indeed, nice. The word just about defined the boy. But Max didn’t want him as his heir, he wanted his own son, he realised. That decision at least seemed to have hardened since he was thinking about it last night.
A son meant a wife. He had done his best to reform his life, he assured himself. He had danced attendance at every function the Season could throw up. He had spent the summer at a number of house parties—he had even spent two weeks in Brighton.
I have been giggled at, simpered at, flirted with. I’ve chatted endlessly to tongue-tied girls, I’ve done my duty by well-bred wallflowers, I’ve risked my skin by talking to forward young madams with bold manners and overprotective brothers and I’ve done the pretty by every matchmaking mama in town. And not one of them has stirred me as much as that first sight of this woman.
The honourable thing—the rules—were quite simple. Well-bred virgins were for courting, respectfully. Young matrons who had not yet produced their husband’s heir and spare were for avoiding. Decent middle-class women of any description and servants were out of bounds. Professionals, flighty widows and married women with a quiver full of offspring and a yen to stray—they were all for pleasure.
What he had before him was a decent, if unusual, middle-class woman. Which meant she was out of bounds for any purpose whatsoever. Except friendship. That was a startling thought. Men did not have women friends. Women were to be married to, or related to or for making love to or for employing. But this one, this Bree Mallory, made him want to talk to her, as well as reduce her to quivering ecstasy in his arms.
He thought he could talk to her about the problems with the Home Farm, his efforts to make Nevill less awkward around ladies, his search for a decent cook, his doubts about government policy and whom he should support in the House.
Talk about big things or utter trivia, both comfortably, with a friend.
For a moment, thinking about that fantasy, he had forgotten the reality. To marry, a man must be single, unattached, free. And he had no idea whether he was or not, whatever his lawyer assured him. And reforming his life in order to find himself a wife was meaningless when he was still avoiding the same issue that he had been for ten years.
Bree sighed and stirred in her sleep, and the heavy plait slithered over the rough wool, hairs snagging in it. Then it fell. Max sat watching it swing with all the focus of a cat confronted by a mouse. He wanted to catch it, pat it, stroke it, play with it. He wanted to feel the texture of it in his hands. It would be like silk, he just knew. Most of all, he wanted to see it loose.
He must not touch her. He knew that as he knew the sun came up in the morning. But the thin ribbon that tied the end of the plait, that was another matter. The bow had come undone, so only one crossing of the tie held the knot. Max bent, caught one end in his fingers and tugged gently. It was brown velvet, prickling against the pads of his fingers. The tug loosened it. He tweaked the other end, the weight and springiness of the hair working with him. The ribbon caught for a moment, then fell to the floor.
He sat upright, away from Bree, his eyes on her hair as the plait, freed, began to part and come undone, his breathing as tightly controlled as though he were about to fight a duel.
The lack of movement woke Bree, then the noise from outside. Confused, she lay with her eyes closed. It sounded like the yard of the Mermaid during a change, but she hadn’t fallen asleep at her desk … the bed she was lying on lurched slightly and her eyes flew open.
‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I had forgotten where I was.’ Lord Penrith, no, Max, was sitting opposite her, the lines of his face harsh in the morning light filtering through the drawn blinds. His cheeks were darkened with stubble. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost seven. You’ve slept through two changes and we are at an inn on the far side of Reading. I thought it might be better to stop here for breakfast.’
‘Why? Oh, you mean more discreet?’ Bree sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake, look at my hair.’ It had managed to free itself almost entirely from its plait and the ribbon lay twisted on the floor. She pushed back the greatcoat and sat up, gathering the mass in both hands and dragging it back off her face. Max stood up abruptly and reached for his coat.
‘I’ll go and bespeak a private parlour and breakfast.’ He almost snatched up his hat and the door was banging shut behind him before she could respond. ‘Wait here.’
What is it about men and mornings? Papa was just the same, and Uncle George still is, and I cannot get a coherent or intelligent word out of Piers before at least nine. Shrugging, Bree raked her fingers through her hair and began to plait as best she could with no mirror. She pulled on her coat, then the greatcoat, jammed on her hat and got out of the chaise into a familiar scene.
The poles of the chaise were grounded, the postilions leaning against them chatting with an ostler, knowing that they had at least half an hour before their passengers finished breakfast. A pair of stable boys in breeches and waistcoats scurried across the yard carrying buckets, and a stout man with a gig was engaged in earnest conversation with a groom over a problem with the harness.
It was a small inn, not one she knew, which meant it would not accommodate a stage changing. But the horses looking over the stable doors were healthy stock, from what she could see, and the place was well kept. It was a wise choice for a discreet stop, she realised, wondering if Max knew all the inns along the Bath road where a man might halt with a woman and expect privacy and a good meal.
No one took any notice of her as she walked across the yard and in through the inn door. A maid was bustling through with a loaded tray. Bree stopped her with a query and received a startled glance when the girl realised she was a woman.
‘The privy’s through there, sir … I mean, ma’am.’
‘And the gentleman who just bespoke a private parlour for breakfast?’
The maid’s face cleared. Obviously this was an illicit liaison, which was an easy explanation for the strangely dressed woman in front of her. ‘Second on the left, ma’am, Miss … er.’
Max was brooding over a day-old news sheet when Bree came into the parlour and tossed her hat on to a chair. He got to his feet, a frown between his level brows. ‘There you are. I couldn’t find you.’
‘Privy,’ Bree explained briskly. No point in being coy about it. ‘The maid thinks we are eloping,’ she commented, peeling off her greatcoat and sitting down in the chair he was holding for her.
‘How the devil do you deduce that?’
‘Well, when a woman in man’s clothes asks which parlour a gentleman is in, there are very few alternatives that are likely to occur to her.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I certainly won’t be stopping at this inn again, so where’s the harm?’
‘I am beginning to have grave doubts about how I am going to explain this to your male relatives.’
‘I cannot imagine Uncle George coming up from Buckinghamshire armed with his horsewhip, and Piers will be too busy worshipping at your feet to notice, even if I staggered through the door shrieking that you had ruined me.’ Bree found she enjoyed watching Max’s face, even when he was scowling.
He definitely was not handsome. She had long ago decided that her taste ran to slender gentlemen with dark hair and green eyes, the refined, artistic type. The earl was big, tough, and did not look as though he had an artistic bone in his body. His eyes were brown, his hair the deep colour of dark honey. The decided chin she had already remarked upon. And his mouth—now that was very expressive.
His lips quirked as she studied him. ‘And why should your brother do anything so outlandish?’
‘Because, although he has altogether too much interest in steam engines and canal boats, his absolute passion is driving. And he knows all about the exploits of the Nonesuch Whips—meals are frequently rendered hideous by his mistaken belief that I must be just as interested. You, my lord, feature frequently. Oh, thank you.’ The maid came in with a large platter of ham and eggs, followed by a pot boy with a teapot in one hand and a tankard in the other and another girl with the bread, butter and preserves.
‘So you knew who I was from the moment you saw my card?’
‘Of course.’ Bree began to cut bread.
‘So you knew I was a perfectly competent driver?’
‘A nonpareil, according to Piers.’ She passed him the bread and helped herself from the platter. ‘I am starving.’
‘Yet you asked me if I was any good?’ That obviously rankled.
Bree smiled sweetly. ‘I could not resist. I was somewhat annoyed with you, if you recall.’
‘You, Miss Mallory, are a minx and I hope your young man has the measure of you,’ Max said warmly, taking out his feelings on a slice of ham.
‘My what?’
‘Young man, follower, betrothed.’
‘I don’t have one.’ She regarded him, surprised, her forkful of food half-raised.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Most of the men I meet are employees. And I don’t mix socially with the other coaching company proprietors, because … I don’t know really, I just don’t. When we are at the farm there are our neighbours, but I’ve never met anyone I felt I wanted to be closer to, somehow.’ Her voice trailed away.
How could she explain that the farmers and the coaching proprietors all regarded her warily because of her titled relatives, and her half-brother and that side of the family thought of her and Piers as an embarrassment hardly to be acknowledged. She fell neatly between two stools, but she had no intention of revealing her family circumstances to the earl. He too would despise what she knew James regarded as her mongrel breeding.
The vertical line between Max’s dark brows was deeper now. ‘That’s a waste.’
‘I am too bossy anyway,’ she said with a laugh, determined that he would not pity her. ‘What about you? Is Lady Penrith wondering what has become of you?’
‘I am not—’ He broke off. ‘There is no Lady Penrith at home waiting for me.’
‘So is there a young lady expecting to become a countess shortly?’
‘No.’ He frowned again and there was a bleakness at the back of those warm brown eyes that spoke of banked emotion. ‘If I were looking for a wife, I would first have to find one who isn’t a ninny.’
‘They can’t help it, you know.’ Bree cut some more bread. ‘They are brought up to believe that the slightest show of independence, the merest hint of taking an intelligent interest in anything besides fashions and dancing, housekeeping and babies, will brand them as either bluestockings or fast.’
‘How do you know?’ Max was enjoying watching her eating. Her table manners would have graced a banquet, but her appetite was extremely healthy. It occurred to him that Bree Mallory was one of the freest women he knew: she said what she thought, she made up her own mind about things and she did not appear to feel she had to hide things just for the sake of convention.
‘I …’ It seemed he was wrong. What had he said? She had coloured up and was looking thoroughly self-conscious. ‘I read fashionable journals, if you must know. And I observe people.’
‘Of course,’ Max agreed. There was a mystery about Miss Mallory, and one he was only too well aware he was not going to be able to investigate. Whatever he felt about her—no, because of what he felt about her—the only honourable thing to do would be to drop her at her own front door and never see her again.

Chapter Four
‘That was a good stretch,’ Bree remarked, looking out on the countryside rushing past as the postilions took advantage of the famously fast road between Staines and Hounslow.
‘Yes.’ Max nodded agreement. ‘I would reckon we made thirteen miles an hour there. We’ll be at the bridge over the River Crane in a moment.’
‘Then the Heath, then Hounslow and we’ll be back where we started,’ she said brightly, trying to keep the conversation going. That sentence was the longest Max had uttered since they left the inn, replete with ham, eggs and cherry preserve.
‘Yes.’
Bree watched him from under her lowered lashes as the chaise slowed and clattered over the bridge. He wasn’t sulking; he did not appear to be sleepy. Perhaps he was simply irritated to have lost so much time over her concerns. She hoped it was not that; she had been enjoying the adventure—even her wrist had stopped aching so much. And, if truth be told, she was enjoying Max’s company.
The chaise lurched on the well-worn road and the Heath unfolded on either side with its rough grazing, spiny cushions of gorse and occasional copses of trees.
‘The gorse is still in flower.’ Max was resting his forearm on the window ledge.
‘Love is out of fashion when the gorse is out of bloom.’ Bree quoted the old adage with a smile. ‘I love the scent of it in the summer when the sun’s on it. It smells of—’
There was a shot, very close, and the chaise juddered to a halt to the sound of shouting outside.
‘Hell.’ Max shifted to stare forwards out of the offside window, pushed Bree firmly into a corner and rummaged urgently in the pockets of his greatcoat as it lay on the seat. ‘Highwaymen. Two of them.’ He dragged a pistol from the pocket. ‘Stay there.’ He opened the door and climbed out slowly, the hand holding the pistol slightly behind his back.
The moment he was out of the door Bree slid along the seat and squinted round the corner of the window frame. There were two of them, each with an ugly-looking horse pistol, one covering the postilions who were out of her sight, the other now training his weapon on Max.
‘Not good odds,’ Bree muttered. Her heart was banging somewhere in the region of her throat, but she tried to think calmly. The fact that they probably did not have much of value about them, beyond a few coins in her pocket and Max’s watch, signet and what money he had left after hiring the chaise, was not particularly encouraging. She had heard of highwaymen shooting travellers out of sheer frustration at a disappointing haul.
She dug into the pocket of her own greatcoat and produced her pistol. Not as large, and by no means as elegant, as the firearm Max was carrying, it was still perfectly capable of doing the job. Not that she had ever used it in anger. Bree checked it carefully, brought the hammer to half-cock and slid out of the opposite door, opening it as little as possible.
‘Hand it over, guv’nor.’
‘I am not carrying more than a few sovereigns.’ Max sounded bored.
‘We’ll have them. And yer watch and yer rings.’
‘I’ll be damned if you do.’
Bree peered round the back of the chaise. The position hadn’t changed, although the man covering the postilions had turned slightly, his pistol wavering between the riders and Max.
‘Well, if you wants to go to hell, guv’nor, I’m sure we can manage that. Just hand the dibs over first.’ The closer man seemed to be the leader—he was certainly doing all the talking. She tried to commit his appearance to memory for later reporting to the magistrates, but between a kerchief covering him from the nose down, and a battered tricorne jammed on his head, there was little to identify him.
She couldn’t see properly to get a clear shot at the other, not without coming right out into the open, and she didn’t want to do that until Max made his move. Her bruised wrist was already aching abominably with the weight of the pistol; she just wished he’d do something.
When he did, it took her by surprise as much as it did the highwaymen. His head snapped round as though he had just seen someone approaching and both men responded. In the second it took them to realise nothing was there, he had the pistol trained on the nearer rider.
Bree saw the man’s hands tighten on the reins and his horse began to sidle. ‘Just need to point out, guv’nor—there’s two of us. You loose off that pop, you’re going to get shot.’
‘And you will be dead. I am an excellent shot,’ Max rejoined calmly. ‘Might I suggest we call it quits and you leave before you get hurt?’
‘Nah. You cover him, Toby. He won’t do nothing. The odds aren’t right.’
‘They are now.’ Bree slid out from behind the carriage and ducked under Max’s arm before any of the men could react. ‘I’ve got your friend Toby right in my sights.’ For just as long as I can hold this thing steady, which isn’t going to be for much longer.…
‘That’s a woman!’ the nearer rider said indignantly. He fired at Max just as Max pulled the trigger. Bree took aim at the centre of Toby’s chest and squeezed. The air seemed to be full of the sound of gunfire; something whistled past Bree’s ear and struck the coach. Toby was clutching his right hand, swearing, his horse rearing. The other man was slumped over the pommel of his saddle, one hand groping for the reins.
Bree turned to Max, expecting him to go forwards to grab the horse while the man was incapable, and found he was on his knees, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood showing between his fingers.
‘Max!’ The sound of hooves made her turn to see both men, lurching in their saddles, cantering away. ‘Max!’
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I think it’s just a graze, across the top of my shoulder.’
‘Come here, help his lordship up!’ The postilions hurried over, and between them got Max to his feet.
‘It’s all right. I can manage.’ He shook them off and climbed into the carriage, muttering words under his breath that Bree was fortunately unable to hear clearly. ‘Drive back to London before anyone else decides to have a go at us.’
‘We should stop in Hounslow, find a doctor. Max, you’re bleeding.’
‘Not much. Don’t fuss.’ His teeth were gritted and he was pale across the cheekbones, but the bleeding did not seem to be getting any worse. ‘That was one hell of a shot—you took the pistol right out of his hand.’
So that was what had happened. Bree realised she’d shut her eyes the moment she’d pulled the trigger. The temptation to take the credit for such a feat was acute. ‘I was aiming at his chest,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never shot anyone before.’ And would not again, if she could help it. Her ears were still ringing, her wrist felt as though it had been hit by a hammer and she didn’t like to contemplate how she would be feeling if she had killed the man.
Max gave a shout of laughter that turned into a gasp as the chaise lurched forwards again. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t attempt? And then to have the honesty to admit she had missed by a foot. He was going to get her back home before anything else happened, and he certainly did not intend her spending any time in Hounslow in broad daylight, dressed like that, while they found a surgeon.
He dragged off his neckcloth, wadded it up and pushed it under his coat.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Bree was watching him, hands fisted on her hips.
‘Stopping it bleeding.’ Ouch.
‘We need to look at it, bandage it properly. It could be bleeding worse than you think and with that dark coat I can’t tell.’
‘I’ll take off the coat,’ Max conceded. Anything to stop her fussing, he told himself, trying to ignore the very real anxiety in her blue eyes.
Shrugging out of it, in a moving carriage, was not easy. He could feel the sweat beading his forehead, and he almost bit his tongue with the effort not to swear out loud.
Bree came and sat next to him. ‘Now take off your shirt.’
‘No.’ He could feel the colour rising in his face and tried to fight it.
‘Why ever not? How can I bandage this if you don’t?’
‘It doesn’t need bandaging.’
‘I will be the judge of that. You can’t sit in a jolting chaise for another hour with it oozing like that.’ He heard her swallow hard. Obviously dealing with oozing gunshot wounds was not something Miss Mallory dealt with daily. He was almost surprised.
‘I will hold my neckcloth over it.’
‘You will not. Take off that shirt.’
‘No.’ Max groped for a convincing explanation. ‘It would not be proper.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I’ve seen men’s bare chests before. I have a brother, don’t forget. And the men are always sluicing off under the yard pump. I’m sure a lord has nothing they don’t have.’
He could feel it now, the blush was positively burning. ‘I am not going to take off my shirt.’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She had her hands on the collar. It was quite obvious the wretched woman had a younger brother.
‘I am not being—’
Bree simply gripped the shirt either side of the tear made by the bullet and yanked. Max clutched the tatters of the garment to his chest and glared at her. ‘Satisfied?’ he demanded, glancing down and flattening his palms firmly to his pectorals.
‘Better, but you are making this very difficult.’ She peered at the wound. ‘It is just a groove, but it is really deep. It must hurt.’ She lifted the neckcloth and dabbed gently at the edges. ‘I’ll make a pad with some of the shirt fabric and then tie it up with the neckcloth. Will you please let go of it!’
Max clung on grimly while Bree wrenched at the shoulder seams until the whole back of the shirt came away. She made a neat pad and pressed it to the wound, then stared at him. ‘It isn’t the pain, is it? You’re embarrassed—in fact, you are blushing. For goodness’ sake, you’re a man of the world, a rake probably—what is there to be embarrassed about?’
‘I am not a rake,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.
‘Well, you certainly aren’t a monk! Women must have seen your chest before now. Lots of them. Oh, have it your own way—just sit still.’
He should have realised, if he had been thinking clearly, that the only way to secure a pad on his shoulder was to place the middle of the long neckcloth on top, cross it under his armpit and then bring one end across his chest and the other around his back, to tie under the opposite armpit.
But it did not occur to him until her right hand was diving under the front of his shirt, pushing his own hand out of the way.
‘What on earth?’
Oh, Lord. If she laughed, he’d strangle her. Reluctantly Max unbuttoned the wreck of his shirt and pulled it off. ‘Before you ask, I was very drunk, very young and it was a bet.’
‘But …’ She was staring, obviously fascinated. The effect of her wide-eyed, innocent regard was damnably arousing. He concentrated grimly on the embarrassment. ‘It’s pierced, only not like earrings. It’s a sort of stud.’ She reached one exploratory finger towards his right nipple, realised what she was doing, flushed as red as he knew he was, and snatched her hand back. He thought he might simply faint from lust, there and then. ‘What is it?’
‘I was nineteen,’ Max said, determined to get this said and finished with. ‘We went to a house of … a place …’
‘A brothel?’
‘Yes, a brothel. And there was a tableau …’
‘Really?’ Bree’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What of?’
‘Never you mind. Anyway, the man had his nipple pierced, and there was an argument about how much it hurt to have it done, and like an idiot I said it couldn’t be that bad, women had their ears pierced all the time—I did mention that I was very drunk, didn’t I?—and one thing led to another, and there was a bet. And there I was.’
‘Did it hurt?’ Her eyes were enormous.
‘I cannot begin to describe it.’ He winced even now at the memory. ‘This shoulder is nothing in comparison.’
‘Can’t you have it removed?’ She was staring, openly fascinated despite her blushes.
‘No. It’s shaped like a tiny dumbbell with ends that seem to self-lock. I went to my doctor. When he’d finished falling about hooting with laughter he said I risked losing significant bits of flesh if he tried to cut it off, so I’m stuck.’
Bree was still staring, transfixed, and the blush was ebbing away to leave her looking positively intrigued. ‘Does it still hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Why do people do it, though?’
‘It’s considered erotic.’ And I hope to Heaven she doesn’t ask me what I mean. ‘And don’t you dare laugh.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Bree assured him, biting the inside of her cheeks in an effort to keep a straight face. The poor man was mortified—who wouldn’t be? But it was very endearing to see such a very male creature reduced to blushing confusion. She busied herself with catching the ends of the makeshift bandage and tying it, which was not at all easy without brushing against the unmentionable stud.
But erotic? Why would such a thing be erotic? she wondered as Max rearranged the shredded shirt as best he could and then eased the coat back on.
She knew what the word meant. She understood in principle what went on between men and women—you didn’t grow up on a farm and run a public hostelry without working that out—but what on earth had nipples to do with it?
The problem was, just thinking about it made her own begin to tingle in a most extraordinary way. In fact, they were positively aching and she was finding it very difficult to meet Max’s eyes and her breath felt as though it was tight in her throat and something of the dizziness she had felt when he had caught her in his arms in the inn yard returned.
So, this was sexual attraction. Oh, my goodness! Well, thankfully I haven’t felt this way until this stage in the journey and Max is doubtless too embarrassed, and in too much discomfort, to notice anything odd about my manner. Am I blushing? He’s stopped blushing. That’s all right then.
Max crossed his legs abruptly, making Bree certain he was in more pain than he was admitting. He was fiddling with the tails of his coat, flipping them across his lap and turning in the seat away from her.
‘I should have asked you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Are you all right? The shock of the highwaymen must have been considerable.’
‘No, I’m absolutely fine,’ Bree said brightly, well aware that she was overdoing the cheerfulness by several degrees. She glanced out of the window and saw the glint of water to the right. ‘The Thames—we’re nearly at Kew.’
‘I told the postilions to take me home first, to Berkeley Square. Then they can take you on to your home. I thought that would be more discreet.’
‘Yes, of course. How thoughtful.’ She was sounding like one of the ninnies he said he disliked. But what did it matter? Bree realised with a sinking heart what should have been obvious from the start of this adventure: she was never going to see Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, again.
This attraction was too new, too strange to handle. If she said anything, she’d be sure to betray herself, she was certain. Better to be safe than sorry. With an artistically contrived yawn Bree turned her head into the corner squabs and pretended to settle down and sleep.
The rumble of carriage wheels over cobbles signalled their return to town and gave Bree an excuse to wake up. It was a relief—sitting with one’s eyes closed, and nothing to think about but a disturbing gentleman only inches away, was not a comfortable way to pass the time. Especially when the man in question was about to become nothing but a daydream.
The imposing houses around the square were a far cry from the modest respectability of Gower Street, but Bree had a fair idea of what they looked like inside. James’s own town house was just a stone’s throw away in Mount Street.
Max looked very much more himself, she noted. Doubtless relief at seeing the back of this inconvenient adventure acted as a powerful tonic. ‘Miss Mallory.’ He was being very formal all of a sudden. ‘It has been a pleasure.’
‘I am quite sure it hasn’t,’ Bree retorted, smiling. ‘Your handsome drag is no doubt scratched all over, you’ve lost a night’s sleep and been shot in the shoulder—you must have a very strange idea of pleasure if the past twelve hours have been entertaining.’
‘It all depends on the company,’ he said, surprising her by catching up her hand and touching his lips to her fingers where they emerged from their makeshift bandage.
‘That, my lord, is very gallant.’ Ye gods! What must he be like if he sets out to flirt in earnest? The women must fall at his feet in droves. Those dark brown eyes were melting something inside her in a way that was, strangely, both painful and enjoyable.
‘Gallantry does not come into it. What direction shall I give the men?’
‘Oh, um—’ She almost said Gower Street, then thought rapidly. ‘The Mermaid Inn, High Holborn.’
‘Home of the Challenge Coach Company? Of course. Good day, Miss Mallory.’
Not goodbye. ‘Good day, my lord. And thank you.’ Impulsively Bree leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and sat back, flustered, as he stared at her, a smile just curving the corner of his mouth. Then he had stepped back, the door was closing and the chaise moved off.
Piers came bounding out of the office as she climbed down from the chaise and thanked the postilions. ‘What on earth are you doing in that? It’s not like you to spend that sort of money. Still, I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted. How did it go? Tell me all about it, Bree. I wish you’d let me go too.’
‘Do hush a minute!’ She threw up a hand to silence him and hastened into the office. ‘The sooner I get out of these clothes the better. Help me with this greatcoat, will you?’
‘What have you done to your wrist? Let me see.’ Piers pushed her firmly down into her desk chair and began to untie it. ‘Ouch! That looks painful.’ The fine square of white linen, soiled now where it had been on the outside, flapped open as he shook it out, revealing a fine white-work monogram in one corner. ‘D? Where did this come from?’
‘It stands for Dysart, and it belongs to Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith. And yes, he is that Max Dysart, your hero from the Nonesuch Whips.’
‘You’ve met Lord Penrith? Tell me—’
‘I will tell you all about it when I’ve got out of these clothes, had a bath and we’re eating our luncheon. Is everything well here?’
‘Oh, yes, fine, except I can’t work out what’s going wrong with the oats bill either. But what happened—Bree, you cannot leave me in suspense …’
‘Oh, yes, I can,’ she said, making for the door and the blissful prospect of a deep, hot bath. ‘Just watch me.’
‘If you’re going to be mean, then I’ll spoil your bath by telling you that James sent a message round to ask why you haven’t answered his letter. So I thought I’d better read it in case it was something serious.’
‘And is it?’ Bree stopped in the doorway.
‘He’s getting married.’
‘At long last! To whom? And why is that such a matter of urgency for us to know about?’
‘He’s engaged to Lady Sophia Lansdowne, the younger daughter of the Duke of Matchingham.’
Bree whistled soundlessly. ‘That’s a very good match. Brilliant, in fact. She’s supposed to be very beautiful and extremely well dowered.’
‘Yes, and she’s got a fierce grandmother who has heard that James has some disreputable relations and she’s not willing to give her blessing until she’s inspected us for herself. Apparently she’s heard we run a broken-down ale house and are in the horse-coping business or some such.’
‘Well, why doesn’t James put her right?’ Bree demanded. ‘Snobbish old harridan.’
‘Rich, snobbish old harridan, if you please. Apparently she’s likely to leave the bulk of her fortune to Lady Sophia—if she approves of her marriage.’
‘So we have to be taken to be inspected, I collect? I’m half-inclined to dress like a Covent Garden fancy piece and have you borrow an outfit from one of the grooms.’
‘We’d look very out of place.’ Piers grinned. ‘We’re to attend the ball to celebrate the betrothal and, what’s more, we’re invited to the dinner beforehand.’
‘To make certain we don’t eat peas off our knives and spit in the finger bowls, I suppose. Honestly! We visited with James at the town house only six months ago—he must know we have presentable society manners.’ She sighed. ‘We had better go. James is a tactless idiot, but he is our brother. What will it be, trollop and ostler or lady and gentleman?’
‘Lady and gentleman, I think,’ Piers said reluctantly. ‘Less fun, but we’d only give him heart failure otherwise. And look on the bright side, Bree—you’ll need a new gown.’

Chapter Five
‘Are you writing a poem, Dysart?’
‘A what?’ Max put down the glass of brandy he was nursing and focused on the amused face of his friend Avery, Viscount Lansdowne. ‘Of course not. Are you foxed?’
‘I’ve been holding what I thought was a perfectly sensible conversation with you for the past ten minutes and you’ve just said “The underside of bluebell flowers” in answer to a question about what you were doing next Thursday night.’
‘Was I being coherent up to that point?’ Max hoped so. And he was damned if he was going to explain that his mind had drifted off in an effort to find just the right colour to describe Bree Mallory’s eyes.
‘Probably. You have been saying, “yes”, “no” and “I see what you mean” in approximately the right places. On the other hand, so does my father when my mother’s talking to him, and I know he doesn’t hear a word she says.’
‘I am not your father, thank God. Start again.’
‘All right. But you haven’t seemed to be yourself ever since we had that race to Hounslow.’
‘It was a long night of it, and then I got shot in the shoulder coming back, if you recall.’
‘You’re getting old,’ his friend retorted with a singular lack of sympathy. ‘Don’t tell me that driving a stage is so much more tiring than driving a drag.’
‘Well, it is. You’ve a team that is any old quality, and just when you get used to it, they change it. You’ve a strict schedule to keep to and a coachload of complaining passengers to look after. And it’s heavier than a drag. You’re only nagging me because you lost to both Nevill and Latymer and you want to try a stage.’
‘I expected to lose to young Nevill, with you up on the box alongside him,’ Lansdowne retorted. ‘That was no great shock. But I don’t say I wouldn’t have minded putting Latymer’s nose out of joint for him. And as for driving a stage—now you’ve got the “in,” can’t you arrange for the rest of us to have a go?’
‘No.’
‘Selfish devil. Well, then, forget whatever you’re brooding about and tell me—are you going to come?’
‘To what?’
‘There! I knew you didn’t hear a word I’ve been saying to you.’ Avery crossed his long legs and made himself more comfortable. ‘To my sister Sophia’s betrothal party. Grandmama Matchingham has insisted on the full works—dinner first, ball after, all relatives from both sides mustered.’
‘Who did you say she’s marrying?’ Max ignored Avery’s exaggerated eye-rolling.
‘Kendal. You know, Viscount Farleigh. You must have met him, gets to everywhere that is respectable. Prosy type, if you ask me, but Sophia seems to like him, so there you are, another sister off my hands.’
‘Prosy he might be, but at least with him you can be sure he’s not setting up a chorus dancer on the side, or running up gaming debts for you to settle.’ Max thought about what he knew of Farleigh: all of it was boringly ordinary.
‘There’s that to be said for the match. I’d be as worried as hell if she fancied one of the Nonesuch crew.’ Avery grinned. ‘Anyway, I need some leavening at this party—what with Grandmama Matchingham insisting he bring along his entire family for inspection, and Sophia inviting every insipid miss she calls a friend, it’ll be a nightmare. I’m asking all the Whips in sheer self-defence—at least we can get up a few card tables.’
‘You make it sound so tempting, how could I resist such a flattering desire for my company?’ Max murmured. ‘Why does the old dragon want to inspect all the Kendals—no black sheep in that lot, are there?’
‘Apparently there are some rattling skeletons she’s heard about. Anyway, Kendal pokered up and said he had no concerns about producing the entire family down to third cousins once removed, if required, so I expect it’s all a hum.
‘Say you’ll come, there’s a good fellow. I’ll put you next to a nice girl at dinner.’
‘I thought you said they were all insipid,’ Max grumbled mildly. Of course they’d be insipid; there was only one woman who wouldn’t be. ‘All right, I’ll come. Anything for a friend.’ Anything to take my mind off going to the Mermaid in High Holborn and committing a monumental indiscretion with Bree Mallory.
‘Miss Mallory, I implore you, allow me to cut your hair! How are we to contrive a style even approaching the mode with this much to deal with?’ Mr Lavenham, the excruciatingly expensive coiffeur Bree had decided to employ, lifted the wheaten mass in both hands and looked round with theatrical despair. His assistant rushed to assist with the weight of it, clucking in agreement.
She dithered. It was heavy, it took an age to dry when she washed it, the fashion was for curls and crops. Don’t cut it. The deep voice rang in her head. Bree swung between practicality and the orders of a man she was never going to see again. What is the matter with me? There is no decision to be made—I no longer take orders from anyone.
‘Leave it,’ she said decisively. ‘I am paying you a great deal of money, Mr Lavenham—I expect you to work miracles.’
‘Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, Miss Mallory, and my brother, Mr Mallory, to your notice?’
How very condescending, as though we are actually well below her Grace’s notice, Bree thought, the fixed smile on her lips unwavering. At least he hasn’t slipped in the half sister and brother, just to distance himself as much as possible.
Bree swept her best curtsy, watching out of the corner of her eye as Piers managed a very creditable bow. In front of them the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham narrowed her eyes between puffy lids and assessed them.
How old is she? Bree wondered. Old enough not to care about anyone or anything beyond her own interests and those of the family, and she is one of the generation for whom very plain speaking was the norm. The washed-out blue eyes focused on her.
‘I hear you run some sort of inn.’
‘My brother is half-owner of the Challenge Coaching Company, your Grace. It operates from the Mermaid Inn in High Holborn.’
‘Hmm. What’s this I hear about horse dealing?’ Definitely a throwback to an age where good manners were considered a weakness.
‘My Uncle George breeds the horses for the company, your Grace. He also manages the two farms the family owns. They are very extensive and situated near Aylesbury.’
‘Your family owns land?’
Time to bite back. Bree raised one eyebrow in elegant surprise. ‘But of course, your Grace. Our father was one of the Buckinghamshire Mallorys—Sir Augustus is a cousin.’ The baronet was a fourth cousin once removed and she’d never met him, but he was suitable for these purposes.
‘Indeed.’ Her Grace’s nose was slightly out of joint, Bree could see. The prejudice she had formed could not be sustained, which was always uncomfortable. Time to move on—it would not be politic to rub it in. The Dowager turned her attention to the next person in the receiving line. ‘Lady Bracknell, it must be an age since we met …’
Bree swept another curtsy, thankful, for once, for her mama’s insistence on deportment lessons. Piers was close at her side. ‘Phew, what an old dragon!’
‘And we slew her nicely,’ Bree murmured. ‘Now, time to do the pretty to everyone else.’
Lady Sophia was pale, beautiful in a way that had Piers gazing with dropped jaw until Bree dug him in the ribs and painfully correct. ‘Miss Mallory, Mr Mallory. I am so pleased to meet you.’
‘And we are delighted to meet you,’ Bree rejoined warmly, meaning it. Surely this lovely creature would make James more human? ‘I wish you every happiness.’
Freed from the principals, they were still faced with a formidable line. The Duke, the Duchess, Viscount Lansdowne, all waited to be greeted. Bree liked Sophia’s brother on sight. He was languid, elegantly handsome and had a twinkle in his green eyes that had her dimpling back. It occurred to her, with startling suddenness, that he was exactly the sort of man she had believed was her model of excellence. Until she had met one large domineering gentleman with brown eyes, a stubborn jaw and strong, gentle hands.
‘Run the gauntlet, Miss Mallory?’ the viscount enquired softly.
‘I am afraid the family skeletons were not up to scratch, my lord,’ she rejoined demurely, wondering what possessed her to be so bold. ‘We scarcely rattled at all.’
‘Good. Grandmama deserves the occasional set-down. Will you save me a dance, Miss Mallory?’
‘I would be delighted, my lord.’
‘You are going it!’ Piers observed as they emerged, with some relief, from the end of the receiving line. ‘Dancing with a viscount, indeed.’
‘Why not?’ Bree demanded. ‘I have been having driving demonstrations from an earl, after all.’ She glanced around the big reception room. ‘You should go and find yourself a pretty heiress to flirt with.’
Piers, predictably, went pink to his hairline, but strolled off, heading for a group of young men around the fireplace at one end of the long room.
For an unchaperoned single woman, things were more awkward. She assumed a confident smile and drifted towards a group of gossiping young matrons.
Her silken skirts swished reassuringly as she moved, reminding her that, in this department at least, she had nothing to fear. Sea-foam green silk trimmed with tiny gilt acorns and fine gilt ribbon clung in elegant simplicity. Her hair, braided and curled by a master, was dressed into a style where the intricacies of plait and twist were all the ornament it needed, and, to complete her air of confidence, Mama’s thin gold chains and aquamarine ear bobs provided a refined hint of luxury.
Bree rarely had the opportunity, or wish, to dress up, but when she did, she found a totally feminine delight in it. In fact, after the events of a few days ago, shedding every trace of the booted, overcoat-clad stagecoach driver was a pleasure to be revelled in.
As she came up to the group, a young woman stepped back, squarely on Bree’s foot. ‘I am so sorry! How wretchedly careless of me. Are you all right?’
She was black haired, lovely and vivacious and her wide, apologetic smile had Bree smiling back, despite her sore toes. Then she realised who this lady must be: the likeness was unmistakeable. ‘Excuse me, but are you related to Lady Sophia?’
‘But, yes, she is my baby sister, and Avery is my big brother.’ Her new friend linked a hand confidingly through Bree’s elbow. ‘I am Georgy—Lady Georgiana Lucas, if you want to be stuffy. So now you’ll have met all of us except Augustus and Maria, and they are still in the schoolroom.’
Slightly dazed by the flow of information, Bree allowed herself to be steered to a sofa. ‘I couldn’t bear another minute of Henrietta Ford’s account of her last confinement,’ Lady Lucas continued. ‘It’s bad enough having babies oneself, without someone going through all the details endlessly, don’t you think?’
Georgy stopped, her head on one side, waiting for a response. ‘I’m not married,’ Bree explained. ‘So people don’t talk about that sort of thing in front of me.’
‘Aren’t you? Good heavens! You look married.’ Bree must have appeared puzzled, for Lady Georgiana went off in a peel of laughter. ‘You know—confident, poised. Not at all like someone just out.’
‘Well, I’m an old maid, so that accounts for it.’
That provoked more mirth. ‘I don’t believe you—and I’ll wager next month’s allowance that Avery has already asked you for a dance. He always asks the prettiest girls. I just wish he’d marry one. Would you like to marry him? He’s very nice and badly in need of a wife to make him settle down.’
‘He seems charming, but I am quite ineligible for such a match.’ Despite the shocking frankness of Lady Georgiana’s conversation, Bree couldn’t help liking her. Whatever did she make of dear James?
‘Why?’ Georgy demanded.
‘My father was a farmer. My brother and uncle own a stagecoach company,’ Bree confessed.
‘Oh!’ Georgy laughed delightedly. ‘I know who you are—you are the black sheep!’
‘I believe so. I am Bree Mallory, and that’s my brother over there, the tall blond youth on the right of the fireplace. I think, to be accurate, we are the skeletons in James’s cupboard. Our mother married the second time for love, you see.’
‘Then you will be my sister-in-law. We will be the greatest friends. What fun I will have matchmaking,’ Georgy announced. ‘Admittedly, a country squire and a stagecoach company is just a teensiest bit of a handicap if you want an eldest son at the very top end of the aristocracy, but I’m sure I can find you a nice baron, or the second son of a viscount. In fact, I’ve got just the man in mind. Are you poor? I hope you don’t mind my asking, only that does make a difference.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Bree said frankly, half-fascinated, half-appalled by this frankness. ‘I’m very comfortably off, I’m happy to say.’ And she was. She had money in her own right from her parents, Piers and Uncle George insisted she take a fair share of the company profits and she managed her money with care. A top-flight coiffeur and a fashionable evening ensemble had not caused her a moment’s financial worry. ‘But I am not—truly—in search of a husband. I’m not at all sure I could give up my independence now.’
‘It will have to be a love match then. I do not despair.’ Georgy got to her feet in a flurry of amber silk. ‘Come along and meet people.’
Bree worried that Georgy would make the most embarrassing introductions, but she flitted amongst the growing crowd, talking to everyone, introducing Bree with a cry of, ‘You must meet my new sister-in-law to be! Isn’t she lovely?’ Everyone seemed friendly, no one drew aside their skirts in horror at meeting Farleigh’s embarrassing relative and she began to enjoy herself.
‘And this is Mr Brice Latymer.’ Georgy halted in front of a saturnine gentleman of average height and exquisite tailoring.
Latymer, the man from the inn yard, the man who was racing Max’s cousin that night. Did he see me? Bree could feel the blood leaving her cheeks and forced a smile to match his.
‘Miss Mallory, I am delighted. And I understand I have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner.’ He was very suave, his eyes on her appreciative, without being in any way offensive. Bree felt herself relax. Of course he did not recognise her. He made her an immaculate bow. ‘I shall seek you out again when dinner is announced, Miss Mallory. I look forward to it.’
‘Phew, he is so smooth,’ Georgy remarked once they were out of earshot. ‘Really good company, and he makes an excellent escort, but I wouldn’t waste time with him, Bree, dear. Not quite enough money.’ She steered them firmly towards the fireplace. ‘Now, introduce me to your handsome brother.’
‘Miss Mallory?’ It was Mr Latymer again, this time offering his arm to escort her in. She let him lead her, enjoying the sensation, just for once, of being comprehensively looked after. It would pall after a time, she knew, but it was quite fun, once in a while, to be treated like a fragile being.
The Duke took the head of the table and the party began to settle themselves. Just as the footman tucked the chair under Bree’s knees there was a slight flurry as another couple arrived opposite. Beside her she felt Mr Latymer stiffen and glanced across to see what had caught his attention.
There, staring right back at her, was Max Dysart, arrested in the act of sitting. The earl looked blankly at her, and she realised, with an inward tremor of mischief, that he couldn’t decide whether she really was the woman he had rescued in the inn yard.
It was unthinkable to speak across the table. Wickedly, Bree gave not the slightest hint of recognition. Doubt flickered in his eyes and there was a frown line between his dark brows. Bree fussed a little with her napkin, and turned her head sideways, allowing Lord Penrith—should he still be looking—the picture of upswept hair, elegant jewellery and the line of a white throat.
Then it occurred to her that, amusing as it might be to tease his lordship, he was now almost certain to approach her after dinner in an attempt to decide whether his eyes were deceiving him or not. And, if he said the wrong thing in this crowded assembly, she could find herself in a very difficult position indeed.
‘Penrith’s taking an inordinate amount of interest in this side of the table,’ Mr Latymer observed, directing a hard look back. ‘Are you acquainted with him?’
‘Lord Penrith?’ Bree laughed, hoping it was not as shrill as it sounded inside her head. ‘Good heavens, no!’ Now she had done it. Damn, damn … I should have thought, said I had some slight acquaintance. Now if he seems at all familiar Mr Latymer may assume the worst.
Bree Mallory. It has to be her. But how can it be? ‘Miss Robinson, allow me.’ Max handed his dinner partner the napkin that had slipped from her grasp.
The slender brunette at his side batted sweeping lashes and gazed at him admiringly as she prattled on.
Max smiled and nodded and murmured agreement with her inanities. And Avery promised me a nice girl as a partner! Like the one opposite. Just what has Brice Latymer done to deserve her? It has to be Bree.…
Surely there was no mistaking that glorious wheaten-gold hair, the weight of it caught up into a masterpiece of the coiffeur’s art? And surely there was no mistaking that generous, lush mouth or those eyes, the colour of bluebells in a beech wood? A blue you could drown in.
But the elegant society lady across the table looked back at him without a glimmer of recognition. And besides, what would practical businesswoman Miss Mallory in her breeches and boots have to do with this gorgeous creature?
He realised he was staring as he caught Latymer’s sharp green eyes glancing in his direction. Time enough to solve the mystery, Max decided, turning to show an interest in Miss Robinson’s intensely tedious recital of her feelings upon being invited to this event. There was a sense of anticipation flowing through his veins, like the feeling before hounds draw first cover on a crisp autumn morning—it would more than support him for the duration of this meal.
As the covers were removed after the first course Max took the opportunity to scan the couple opposite. The blond woman reached out her right hand to pick up her wine glass. She misjudged the distance and the back of her wrist knocked against the heavy cut-glass flagon of drinking water. Max saw, more than heard, her sharp intake of breath. Small white teeth caught on the fullness of her lower lip and she closed her eyes briefly before lifting the wine glass.
That clinched it—hair, eyes, mouth might all be some amazing chance likeness, but all that and a painfully injured right wrist, that was beyond coincidence.
He caught her eye and mouthed Bree? For a moment he thought she might continue to cut him, then a twinkle of mischief lit her eyes and she nodded slightly before raising one gloved finger to her lips in a fleeting warning.
How the Devil did she get in here? Max jerked his attention back to the young lady on his left who, unfortunately, showed no sign of wanting to prattle mindlessly, unlike Miss Robinson. He was going to have to exert himself to entertain this one, when all he wanted to do was speculate wildly about Bree’s presence under the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham’s roof. Admittedly, it was the current Duke’s roof, but no one, let alone that nobleman, believed he had any chance of ruling it while the Dowager lived.
He offered peas to the young lady, agreed that the latest gossip about the Prince Regent was too intriguing for words and asked her opinion of the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy.
That at least gave him a chance to think about Bree. How had she obtained the entrée into such a gathering? And where, for goodness’ sake, had she obtained a gown that was the work of a top-flight modiste?
The meal dragged on interminably, the passage of time doing nothing but build the tension in his nerves and the disconcerting feeling of arousal in his loins. How could he have guessed that the enchantingly different girl in her man’s clothing was the possessor of an elegant neck, of white, sloping shoulders and the most deliciously rounded bosom? The gown she was wearing was apparently designed to make the very best of all these features and, unlike the very young ladies in their first Season, she had dispensed with the froth of tulle or lace that disguised them. If he had wanted her before, now the need was painful.
The ladies, called together by the Duchess rising, began to file out amidst a scraping of chairs. At the door Bree glanced back over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Was he imagining things or had she motioned with her head towards the terrace?

Chapter Six
Max waited a moment. Several guests rose and made their way out. He joined them, making his way out through the long windows on to the terrace that ran the full width of the gardens. At intervals steps went down to the lawns and at the far end there was a charming summerhouse.
Max strolled along. Where is she? Had he misunderstood? Then he glimpsed a flutter of pale draperies behind one of the pillars of the summerhouse. ‘Bree?’
‘In here, my lord. Thank you for coming. I could only hope you would understand my meaning. How is your shoulder?’ Some light reached them from the house where every room blazed with illumination, but it was not intense and he moved close to study her face. Her voice was a touch breathless, but otherwise she was remarkably composed for a young lady in such a compromising position.
‘A little sore, but healing well, thank you. I did not expect to find you at such a party. I was having trouble believing my eyes.’
‘I was shocked to see you too, although why I cannot imagine—I am sure you must go to endless smart parties. I was being mischievous, I am afraid, teasing you by pretending I was not myself. Then Mr Latymer asked me if I knew you. I should have said yes, in an indifferent way, and he would have thought nothing of it. Then I realised I risked all sorts of embarrassments if you greeted me later. I will warn Piers not to react if he meets you.’
Max took her by the elbow and steered her to the front of the summerhouse where its arcade overlooked the silent gardens. Bree perched on the balustrade and leant her back on a pillar.
‘Your brother is here too?’ How had both the Mallorys inveigled their way in?
‘Of course—you do not know who we are. Viscount Farleigh is our half-brother. Our mama married twice. She was the daughter of Lord Grendon, so we have dozens of Grendon cousins—most of them are here tonight. Then, when James’s father died unexpectedly, she married again, for love. It was very romantic—her horse bolted and Papa jumped a five-bar gate on his hunter and galloped after her and snatched her from the saddle. Mama used to say he snatched her heart and never gave it back.
‘As you can guess, there was the most frightful row. Mama was only just out of mourning and, although Papa was perfectly respectable and owned land, some of the family had drifted downstream socially. The cousin who was a highwayman was almost an insuperable obstacle, but fortunately—in the opinion of the old viscount—he was hanged just before the wedding, poor man. His grandfather insisted on bringing James up, so we are not at all close.’
‘So you must be the skeletons in the cupboard Avery was telling me about.’
Bree gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘That’s us.’ He could see from the glint of light on white teeth that she was smiling. ‘James insisted we come along and demonstrate that we do not swig gin out of the bottle or try to sell doctored nags to the unwary or whatever it is the Dowager believes we do, the old gorgon. I think we surprised her.’
‘You surprise me,’ Max admitted. ‘You must agree, breeches and beaver hat do not show you to your best.’
She chuckled. ‘They are very practical, but I do prefer being a girl. I enjoyed dressing up for this evening. I took your advice, you know.’
‘You did?’ Max shifted his position so he could sit facing her. ‘What about?’
‘I almost had my hair cropped. My coiffeur wanted me to, I wanted to, or I thought I did. But at the last minute I remembered what you said, and didn’t.’
‘It looks … very well.’ And I want to take out every single pin and comb, very, very slowly, until it all tumbles down.
‘Thank you! I must go back.’ She jumped down off the balustrade, shaking out her skirts. Max smiled, his amusement at her lack of concern unseen in the gloom.
‘Bree?’
‘Yes?’ She stood poised on the top step, ready to flit back along the terrace.
‘Will you dance with me this evening?’
‘Me?’ Even in that light he could make out the incredulity on her face. ‘My lord, earls are far too top-lofty for the likes of me.’
‘Earls dance with the sisters of viscounts and the granddaughters of barons, and I’ll wager Lansdowne has already asked you for a dance.’ And she is not an innocent little bourgeoise, she understands this world, my world, even if she is not actually apart of it. This is becoming something very different, and I can’t fool myself it is not. He stood looking at her, thoughts rushing through his mind. Now I have to do something about Drusilla.
‘Yes, well …’ She was in a delightful dither, his stare only adding to her confusion. Max found it strangely encouraging that he seemed to have this effect on her. ‘Lord Lansdowne is about to become my brother-in-law.’
‘Well …’ Max pursued, moving closer ‘… I am so top-lofty, as you put it, that I will dance with whom I choose, especially if they happen to be the most beautiful girl in the room.’
‘Me?’ Bree felt her insides execute a swoop of delight. It was not true, of course, although she flattered herself she was looking more than passable this evening. It was very strange being out here alone with a man like this. It was even stranger being here with the man she had been dreaming about for days and who, she had very sensibly decided, was completely beyond her touch.
Now she was here, such sensible considerations did not seem particularly relevant.
‘Yes. You.’ He was very close suddenly. The man seemed to move like a cat, for all his height and breadth. ‘Do you think I deserve a reward for saving your hair?’
‘I … you …’ He is going to kiss me. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, although whether to his spoken question or his unspoken one she had no idea.
Bree had never been kissed before. Not by a non-related male. Not kissed full on the mouth by a man who appeared to have made a study of just how to reduce an independent, mature, sensible female to a state where all she was capable of was clutching as much of his torso as her hands could encompass and clinging on in the faint hope that her legs would continue to support her.
She hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly rather more activity than was occurring. It was incredible that he could achieve the effect he was, simply by holding her very firmly against his chest with one arm and cupping the back of her head with the other hand whilst applying light pressure to her lips.
Only—it was not just pressure, she realised hazily. He was exploring her lips with his, moving from corner to centre, catching the fullness of her lower lip between both of his, releasing it to slide to the other corner and then back to the centre. This time he used his teeth in a light, teasing nip that shot sensation, shockingly, right to the core of her.
His tongue, sliding out to run along the join of her lips, made her gasp against his mouth. She felt his smile. ‘Shh,’ he whispered without lifting his mouth and the sound hummed against the sensitised tissue. Back came his tongue, sliding, pressing now. What does he want? Oh!
The invasion breached her feeble defences, leaving her shaken. If someone had told her a man would put his tongue in her mouth and she would like it, she would have been disgusted and incredulous. But it was … Bree gave up trying to think straight and tentatively touched her own tongue tip to Max’s.
It was moist and velvety and hot, this intimate exchange of touch. This caress. And it was making her feel as though she were in someone else’s body altogether. Her breasts, pressing heavy against cool linen and the fine friction of superfine cloth, felt decidedly swollen. They tingled most disconcertingly and it seemed that the only relief might be to press closer. And in the pit of her stomach—no, lower, in an area where no modest young woman should be giving any thought to, there seemed to be a strange, hot, liquid feeling.
As she shifted her grip to hold more securely to Max’s shoulders, she became aware of a pressure against the curve of her belly. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t ignorant. One knew the mechanics of the thing—in theory. But she hadn’t exactly comprehended that a kiss could have quite such a startling effect on a man. Max lifted his head.
‘Bree. I had not intended doing that.’ He sounded rueful, and to her delight, shaken.
‘Why not?’ she asked, the poor light defeating her efforts to read his face.
‘One does not kiss young ladies, on the terrace, in the dark. Surely your chaperon warns you about these things?’
‘I do not have one.’ She realised that Max was not the only one who was feeling shaken—her knees were trembling.
‘You’re going to need one if you are intending to attend any more social events. It will be noticed if you do not. The lady who resides with you will probably do.’
Why was he talking about chaperons when the presence of one would have stopped him kissing her as he just had? Bree blinked in the gloom; perhaps Max really was regretting that kiss. Perhaps he thought she would take it as some sort of declaration and chase after him.
‘I do not have a female companion,’ she explained, trying to keep any hint of chagrin out of her voice.
‘Does Farleigh realise that?’
‘No.’ Bree bit her lip. Now that she and Piers had been introduced to the Lansdowne clan it seemed unlikely that they would be able to slide back quite so easily into social obscurity. ‘I suppose I had better acquire one.’
‘It’s as well. Men really are not to be trusted, you know.’ Max gave her a gentle push in the direction of the terrace.
Bree resisted the pressure. ‘All men? You included?’
‘Oh, me in particular, Miss Mallory.’ The amusement in his voice had a hard edge. ‘Definitely, you should be beware of me.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly. ‘I asked you to come out here—and I could have left at any moment when you kissed me. And besides, if you are such a dangerous seducer, you could easily have had your wicked way with me the other night and you were the perfect gentleman.’
‘I was, wasn’t I? I wonder what came over me. Did it not perhaps occur to you, Miss Mallory, that I was behaving with such restraint with the intention of lulling you into a false sense of security in order to entice you into my power later?’
‘Have you been reading sensation novels, my lord?’ Bree enquired tartly. ‘I realise that many men find a dangerous image to be an attractive one to cultivate, but I do credit you with more sense than that.’
He laughed, a genuine snort of amusement. ‘You never answered my question about a dance.’
‘Certainly, my lord—I have an entire card full of country dances to fill!’ Without waiting for his response, she picked up her skirts and ran down the steps to the terrace. The allegory about riding tigers floated into her mind from nowhere. She was riding a tiger now, and very exhilarating it was. But how did one get off?
Bree studied her face in the mirror in the ladies’ retiring room while a maid valiantly brushed at the lichen clinging to her skirts. The effect on her face of being thoroughly kissed was startling. Her cheeks looked as though she had rouged them, and her mouth was bee-stung and rosy pink. Her eyes were wide, and something sparkled in them, try as she might to lecture herself for wanton behaviour.
‘Bree! There you are.’ It was Georgy, sweeping in. ‘Look at my hem! Oh, thank you.’ She smiled sweetly at a maid who came forward with a sewing basket.
‘I … I feel a little flushed,’ Bree admitted. ‘I came in here to cool down a trifle.’
‘You look fine to me. The colour suits you,’ Georgy assured her. ‘You mustn’t be shy—go on, they’ll be starting the dancing in a minute, and you’ll want to get your card filled up with all the most eligible men.’
That seemed unlikely to occur, but Bree was pleasantly surprised. The attentions of Viscount Lansdowne and the approval of his sister apparently gave her a certain cachet and, although her card was not full, it was gratifyingly almost three-quarters complete when she showed it to Piers.
‘Am I too late, ma’am?’ The deep voice made her jump, even though she had been tensed for Max’s appearance ever since she had come into the ballroom. ‘I apologise for addressing you before being introduced, but I am not acquainted with your chaperon.’ Bree narrowed her eyes at him and he smiled back with an air of perfect innocence. ‘Max Dysart, Ea—’
‘But, Bree, you must know Lord Penrith, he rescued yo—’ Piers’s clear, excited voice cut through the hum of conversation. Interested faces turned.
‘Lord Penrith? Why, of course, you came to the aid of young Hinkins, our driver, at Hounslow a few evenings back, did you not? Piers told me all about it—thank you so much.’ She directed a look of such quelling intensity at her brother that he shut his mouth with a snap and melted back into the crowd.
But the group of men he was with had heard more than enough to pique their interest and he found himself the centre of attention. ‘I say, Mallory, do you have anything to do with the stagecoach Penrith was driving?’ one gentleman demanded.
‘I own the company,’ Piers admitted. ‘Half of it, that is.’
‘I see your brother has fallen amongst the Nonesuch Whips,’ Max commented softly. ‘Tell me which dance I may have, and then I’ll go and distract them if I can. Otherwise you’ll have a yard full of bucks all wanting to drive a stage.’
‘The second cotillion?’ Bree asked distractedly. ‘And thank you, I would be grateful.’
Max bowed gracefully and strolled off to join the crowd around Piers. To her relief the focus of their attention switched immediately to him. For such a big man, he really looks surprisingly good in evening dress, Bree mused. I would have expected him to look his best in buckskins and boots, but he appears positively elegant. Good tailoring, of course, but—
‘What an extraordinary coincidence that Penrith should be sitting opposite you at dinner.’ Mr Latymer’s voice in her ear jerked her abruptly back from her contemplation of broad shoulders under well-fitting superfine.
‘Er … yes, it was, was it not? Naturally I am glad of the opportunity to thank him.’
‘Yet you did not mention the acquaintance earlier.’ Mr Latymer raised an eyebrow. ‘In fact, you denied it.’
‘Of course. I had not been introduced.’ Bree pulled herself together. ‘And, however grateful I was to his lordship—given that I understand it was his drag that caused the accident in the first place—the fact that he was able to assist one of Piers’s drivers is stretching an excuse to claim acquaintance to its limit.’
‘Hmm. Our dance, I believe.’
Almost half an hour spent executing intricate figures with a number of other couples was not the best situation in which to carry out a conversation, and Bree was grateful for it. But Mr Latymer obviously had something on his mind, and she was not surprised when, after the dance, while she was sitting fanning herself, he returned to her side with a glass of lemonade.
‘I would be fascinated to see around the headquarters of your coaching company, Miss Mallory. Might I call?’
‘Why, of course, but it is not my company—Piers can make arrangements for you to see behind the scenes.’
‘Then you have nothing to do with it?’
‘I occasionally assist with a little paperwork,’ Bree said airily. It would be just her luck to be there when Brice Latymer turned up.
‘What a good sister you are.’ There was warmth in his tone. Bree shot him a glance from under her lashes and was surprised to see warmth in his eyes also—the sort of warmth she had discerned in the gaze of another gentleman altogether. Goodness, she thought, flustered. Piers is right, I am going it!
‘I am very fond of Piers, and he intends to take over the running of the company full time when his education is finished. My uncle is the other owner, but he lives in the country, so I do what little I can to help,’ she added, hoping it sounded as though she occasionally glanced at the bill for candles.
‘But you could spare some time to drive with me?’
‘Drive?’ Bree, feeling herself going hot and cold all over, plied her fan energetically.
‘Yes. I have a new phaeton you might enjoy.’
‘Oh. Your phaeton. Of course.’ Of course, not a stagecoach … Of course, he doesn’t know … ‘Thank you.’
Bree shot a distracted glance in Piers’s direction, hoping he was being discreet. To her horror he was deep in conversation with the lanky young man she recognised as Max’s cousin. There was nothing for it, she would have to go and extract him before he did any more damage.
‘Miss Mallory, our dance, I believe?’ It was Lord Lansdowne.
‘Yes, of course.’ Bree flipped open her card. It was a country dance and immediately afterwards she had the cotillion with Max—all she could hope was that he had discouraged the Nonesuch Whips from a mass descent on the Mermaid.
She curtsied and took her place. At her side Lord Lansdowne waited while the first couple set off down the double line. ‘Would you care to drive with me some time this week?’ he enquired.
Another one! Really, this would be quite amusing if it were not so awkward. She could hardly abandon the business to its own devices until the Whips lost interest in the possibility of a whole stagecoach company to play with. Yet, on the other hand, if she was discovered to be the actual manager of the business, James would be mortified and the Dowager deeply disapproving. One look at the Lansdownes had left Bree very clear about who called the tune in that household. The old besom might well take it into her head to forbid the match.
‘Of course, my lord, I would be delighted.’ What else could one possibly say? The dance took them off down the line, into an intricate measure at the far end and left them separated by several couples. The necessity of keeping a smile plastered on her face for the length of the dance did nothing for Bree’s nerves, nor for her temper.
Lord Lansdowne, obviously impervious to her simmering state, swept her an extravagant bow and deposited her neatly in front of Lord Penrith.
‘Thank you so much, my lord.’ Bree curtsied, smile intact.
‘It was a pleasure. I will call at the earliest opportunity.’ Lansdowne made a mocking bow towards Max. ‘I yield to you, Dysart.’
‘Miss Mallory. Our cotillion.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Bree tucked one hand firmly into Max’s elbow and headed for the doors on to the terrace. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Really, ma’am, you have me all of a flutter. Alone with you on the terrace twice in one evening—people will begin to talk.’
‘They’ll have to see us first,’ Bree retorted, marching down the steps into the maze of clipped yew that framed the formal pool.
‘Your friends the Whips! You said you’d distract them, but two of them have asked me to drive with them and your dratted cousin is exchanging cards with Piers, and the rest are hanging around him like wasps round a honeypot and how am I to run the business not knowing which gentleman is about to appear in the yard and start poking about? I can hardly wear breeches and a false beard until they lose interest, can I? And stop laughing at me!’
Max had folded up on to an ornate bench and was clutching his sides in abandoned amusement. ‘Oh, please, try the false beard.…’
‘Wretch!’ Bree took a swipe at his elegant crop with her fan. ‘It is not funny.’
‘I can quite see that from your point of view it is not,’ Max agreed, getting his laughter under control with an effort. ‘But, Bree, this may be a blessing in disguise. At least now you are forewarned of the danger—after all, once your brother became betrothed to Lady Sophia your days of managing the yard were doomed. Sooner or later someone is going to find out, and then think of the kick-up there’d be.’
He looked up at her standing in front of him, and smiled. Bree took her hands off her hips and tried not to glower. ‘A chaperon, a business manager—what are you going to tell me I need next? James is costing us a great deal of money.
‘What is it with you men and stagecoaches? You’ve got drags, you’ve got much better bloodstock than we can afford—why do you want to play with my stagecoaches?’
‘It is not your company, when all is said and done. Don’t you want to get married, have a family of your own?’
‘I suppose so, but I am resigned to it. By the time Piers is old enough to take control, I will be too old to find a husband.’
‘So find a business manager, then find a husband,’ Max said. ‘And don’t frown at me, it creases your very nice forehead.’ He got up and smoothed the furrow between her brows with his thumb. ‘I fail to see why you cannot find a good man to manage your business.’
‘Piers would resent it.’ It was tempting and yet, what on earth would she do with herself all day without the company to run? Shopping and calls and parties until she found a husband? Then more of the same, plus children? The children were intriguing, the unknown husband and the daily social whirl were not. ‘I would die of boredom.’
‘Find a man with an estate you can become involved with, start a charity, play the ‘Change, take a lover …’
‘Max!’ He was altogether too close. She could smell the light, citrusy cologne he wore, the trace of soap, the exciting tang of masculinity overlaid with all the refinements of clean, well-groomed sophistication. He was showing an altogether commendable, if very disappointing, restraint about trying to kiss her again.
Perhaps he didn’t like it last time. I am very inexperienced after all. Completely inexperienced. Perhaps he doesn’t want to do it again. I shouldn’t want him to—this can’t possibly lead to anything.
‘You are a delicious innocent, Miss Mallory, and I should not be out here with you.’
‘That’s true. But you were in the carriage with me before, so I know I can trust you. But then I looked dreadful.’
‘You looked edible,’ Max said, reminiscently. He reached out and let one finger trail lazily up and down the column of her neck. It felt strong, hard, slightly rough against her soft skin.
‘You, my lord, must have a very strange taste in women, if you thought I looked better then than I do now,’ Bree observed as repressively as she could manage, given that her insides appeared to be hollow and her breathing was not working properly.
‘I did not say that.’ The finger was exploring the whorls of her ear now, rubbing the lobe, then drifting up behind it into the soft hair. ‘Now, I think you look utterly seductive.’
‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ Bree asked, swallowing hard.

Chapter Seven
‘Seduce you? No.’ Max’s mood of gentle sensuality seemed to have quite vanished. ‘I am getting you in a fluster and I am ensuring that I spend an acutely uncomfortable evening.’
‘Why?’ Bree demanded.
‘Why am I getting you in a fluster?’
‘No. I know the answer to that—you’re a man. Men flirt, and I was silly enough to come out here with you—I expect it is quite automatic on your part. No, why will you be uncomfortable?’
‘Um … my conscience will be troubling me,’ he said. Bree narrowed her eyes. That was not the truth, but he would refuse to tell her if she pressed. ‘May I call and take you driving?’
‘You are number three,’ Bee informed him, torn between smugness and exasperation. ‘Am I to go driving with all of the Nonesuch Whips while you take it in turns to try to persuade me to let you drive a stage? It is a deeply unflattering motive.’
‘But you may acquit me, for I have already driven your stage, have I not?’
Time to take the bull by the horns, my girl, Bree told herself. ‘Then what is your motive, my lord? You do not want to drive a stagecoach, you do not want to seduce me …’
‘I said I was not trying to, not that I did not want to.’
‘Now you are teasing me. I know perfectly well that you are too much the gentleman.’ He grimaced. In the flare of the torchlight his face looked stony. Bree blinked; it must be a trick of the light.
‘Perhaps I am amusing myself by bringing you into fashion, perhaps I enjoy flirting with you or perhaps I enjoy your company and would like to be your friend. What do you think, Bree?’
‘Perhaps all three?’
‘Clever girl.’
She slapped at him lightly with her fan. ‘Do not patronise me, my lord, or we will not be friends for long.’
Max stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘That would be a pity, Bree Mallory, because I think you will be very good for me.’
Max watched Bree take the hand of her next dance partner and walk gracefully on to the dance floor. Another of the Whips, he noted. He really should do something about that, but it was too tempting to let them lay siege to the Challenge Coach Company—nothing was more certain to drive Bree out of the office and into the life that was proper for her. Into his company.
‘Don’t you go hurting my about-to-be-sister-in-law,’ a voice at his elbow chided him, like the echo of his conscience.
He looked down and met the sparkling green eyes of Georgy Lucas. ‘What do you mean, Lady Georgiana?’
‘You know perfectly well what, and you know who, as well—don’t go getting all starchy with me, Max,’ she said, slipping her hand companionably under his elbow as they stood there. ‘I know what they say about you.’
‘And what is that, pray?’ Georgy’s challenging gaze was not at all shaken by his coolness.
‘That you gave your heart very unwisely when you were young, had it broken and now have no heart at all.’
Damn the woman! Max bit down a sharp retort. What does she know, really? Not the whole truth—very few people know that.
‘Oh, I have a heart, Georgy, just not one I care to hazard any more.’
‘You will have to marry one day, Dysart—think of the title.’
The title. And my heart—if anyone wants it.
‘And if you really choose to be unconventional, why, you have the standing to carry it off. Miss Mallory is not so very unsuitable after all—think of all the members of the House of Lords who have married actresses, for goodness’ sake. She is perfectly respectable, with some excellent, if distant, connections.’
‘I assume you are trying to matchmake as usual, Georgy. I hope you know what you are talking about, for I have no idea,’ Max lied. She was a disconcerting little minx, but talking to her had given him an idea.
He began to steer her down the edge of the floor. ‘Where is your husband? I feel the need to advise him to lock you up on his most remote estate until you learn better conduct.’
Georgy, whom he had known since she was in leading strings, pouted. ‘Darling Charles is in the card room, and he dotes upon me, so it is no use grumbling to him, Max.’
Darling Charles was Lord Lucas, not only an influential magistrate, but one with close ties both to Bow Street and in government.
‘I think I will have a little chat with your Charles,’ Max said meditatively, disentangling Georgy’s hand from his arm. ‘Go and flirt with your numerous admirers.’
She dimpled at him and strolled off in a swish of expensive French satin, leaving Max wondering how to broach his request to her husband. At the card room his luck was in; his quarry was just settling up after a game of piquet and was more than happy to join Max for a hand.
Max selected the table in the farthest corner, passing several empty ones on the way. Lord Lucas’s slightly raised eyebrow at this odd behaviour did not escape him, but the magistrate settled back in his chair without comment while Max summoned a waiter to fetch them claret.
Max looked into the shrewd grey eyes and wondered if the rumours about the baron being the government’s leading spy-master could possibly be true. If they were, it seemed an odd occupation for a man whose taste in wives ran to Georgy and all her frivolity.
‘This is an excuse,’ he said baldly, cutting the fresh pack and offering it to Lucas. ‘I wanted to ask your advice on a matter of some discretion. It is a problem upon which I have only just reached a decision.’
‘Indeed.’ Lucas shuffled the cards and dealt, his face blandly amiable. ‘I will be glad to help if I can, Dysart.’
‘It is a personal matter.’ Max picked up his cards, one part of his brain assessing the hand, even as he spoke. ‘It concerns an affair that very few people know of, and one I would wish to keep from being any more widely known.’ He laid down a club.
The baron merely nodded, played in his turn, then remarked, ‘I spend my life hearing things that must never be spoken of. I have the habit of secrecy. Why not tell me your problem? I will see what I can do to help.’
Max folded the cards in his hand and snapped them down on to the table. ‘It concerns my wife.’ He picked up the hand again, irritated to find himself so lacking in control. ‘I need to be certain that she is dead.’
Bree sat down next to Piers and fanned herself. ‘Phew! That was very energetic. You are a good dancer, my dear.’
‘I am, am I not?’ he observed smugly.
‘At least when you are dancing with me you are not being indiscreet with your new friends from the Nonesuch Club. Honestly, Piers—you almost blurted out that I was driving the stage that night! Can you imagine the scandal that would cause if it were known?’
‘I’m sorry. I will try to be very careful—but what can I do about them calling? They wanted to know our direction so they can visit—I could hardly refuse to say, could I?’
Bree nodded. ‘We cannot keep fobbing them off. I’ll have to think of something harmless for them to do that does not involve fare-paying passengers.
‘But as for calling, I’m afraid I am going to have to find myself a companion-cum-chaperon, and I do not think I can spend so much time working at the inn either. We need a business manager. Lord Penrith pointed out to me that now we are known widely as James’s relatives we are going to have to keep up this level of respectability. Or, at least, I am. I have to admit, I did not think this through at first, but he is quite correct. Our brother is marrying the daughter of a duke, for goodness’ sake! That is not going to be something that goes away after tonight, or even after the wedding.’
Her brother grimaced. ‘Isn’t it going to be expensive to hire these people? And won’t you miss it? Working at the Mermaid, I mean?’
‘Yes, I will, and I will miss my freedom as well, but it cannot be helped. Leaving James’s opinions to one side, I do not really want to figure as a hoyden, nor do I want to cut myself off from society altogether. Tomorrow I will try the agencies, see what I can find out about what rates of pay would be expected. We can afford it, Piers. The business is doing well, and I can still keep overall control from a safe distance.’
‘I could leave school,’ he suggested, with a sideways glance from under ridiculously long lashes.
‘And act as my chaperon, do you mean?’ Bree laughed at him. ‘I don’t think so!’
‘As our business manager, of course.’ Piers laughed back. ‘And I think you are quite right, it isn’t proper, and it is not fair that you have to do all that work.’ He bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Won’t it be difficult at home, though, if you are going to employ a starched-up chaperon to live with us?’
‘Lord, yes! It would be ghastly,’ Bree agreed, taken aback by the thought. Really, the pitfalls of all this respectability stretched way beyond the cost of it. There would be a loss of privacy, the need to run a more regulated and formal household—and the fact that a chaperon would expect to … well, to chaperon her. ‘What I need,’ she said reflectively, ‘is the appearance of rigid respectability combined with the freedom to do whatever I like.’
‘Mmm.’ Piers raised an eyebrow, a skill Bree wished she could perfect. ‘I would love to be a fly on the wall when you explain that at the employment exchange.’
Lord Lucas’s hand froze in the moment of making a discard, then he recovered himself smoothly and laid down the card. His face did not betray any emotion beyond an interest in the fall of the cards. ‘Indeed? I assume that you do not mean to imply that you wish this lady found and then—how can I put it?—removed?’
‘No. Never that.’ Max fanned out his cards with steady fingers. The Queen of Spades, the Knave of Hearts, the King of Diamonds. It summed the whole wretched business up somehow.
‘Forgive me, Dysart, but I was not aware that you had a wife.’ The man opposite did not raise his eyes from his study of his hand.
‘Very few people are. A vicar somewhere in Dorset who may be dead, a certain adventurer who may also be dead—and will be if I ever find him—my grandmother, my man of business, my groom and some old, very loyal servants.
‘It is seven years since money was last drawn on the funds I set up for her. If she is still alive, I will divorce her. If she has died, then I need take no further action.’ How would it feel to see her again? Or to stand by her graveside? Will it still feel as though something is ripping into my heart, or will I still feel nothing, as I have taught myself to do these past years?
‘After seven years she may legally be presumed dead.’ Lord Lucas played a card. ‘My hand, I think.’
‘So my legal advisor tells me, but I wish for certainty. A presumption is not enough, should I wish to marry again.’
‘I see.’ The magistrate—if that was all he was—glanced towards the ballroom, then back at Max. He kept his face shuttered, willing himself to show no emotion. ‘Yes, I see. Despite what my dear wife believes, I do actually listen to what she says, and I begin to see your predicament. Young ladies do have a not unreasonable expectation that a man who courts them is free to do so.’ He hesitated. ‘You contemplate divorce if Lady Penrith should still be alive? You do understand what that would mean?’
‘Legally, emotionally or in terms of my reputation and honour?’ Max enquired, then answered his own question. ‘Yes, to all of those. I understand exactly what it would cost.’
‘Has it occurred to you that the other lady in the case may hesitate to commit herself in the face of such notoriety?’
Max picked up the pack and began to shuffle it. He moved the cards in his hand aimlessly, looking unseeing at the painted faces. ‘If I were to have a lady in mind—and we are speaking hypothetically, you understand—I would need to be very certain of my own feelings, and of hers also. Even then, I must decide whether I can square my conscience with placing her in that position, if I do find myself seeking a divorce.’
‘If there was someone,’ the older man responded carefully, ‘your sudden desire to discover the truth implies that it is a fairly recent acquaintance. Perhaps such a lady would not have the stomach for being at the centre of a scandal.’
‘Do you know, if her heart was engaged in something, I do not think anything would give her pause.’ Max smiled wryly. ‘Speaking hypothetically, of course.’ But one wife left me within weeks—why am I such an optimist as to believe I might find another who will love me? He realised, with a stab, almost of irritation, that he could no longer contemplate simply a suitable marriage. Now, all of a sudden, he was demanding a love match for himself. And that, surely, was an impossible dream.
‘This anxiety may not be necessary,’ Lord Lucas pointed out, cutting across his thoughts. ‘You may indeed be a widower. After seven years and no word of her, that is the most likely assumption.’
‘Yes, I may.’ Drusilla. Sweet, playful, lovely, innocent Drusilla, who had dismissed her responsibilities as Countess of Penrith as a tiresome bore, and himself for a stuffy tyrant, within days of that impetuous secret marriage, and who had set her desires higher than his honour when she found herself a lover within the month. She had not spurned his wealth though, not while it could support both her and the man she fled with. Yet, how could he wish her dead? Even asking these questions seemed perilously close to it. ‘How do I find out?’
‘You need an investigator of experience and discretion. I know a man who fits that description. If you will permit me to consult him, without mentioning names, naturally, I will discover if he is available and what his fee would be. If you decide to proceed, we can then arrange a meeting.’
‘Money is not an object,’ Max said harshly. ‘Speed and discretion are.’ For nine years he had done nothing. Now even nine days of uncertainty were intolerable to contemplate.
After he parted from Georgy’s husband Max made his way back to the edge of the dance floor. His nerves stretched raw by the conversation he had just had, and the memories it evoked, he stared out coldly at the noisy throng, the weaving lines of dancers, the nodding chaperons, the chattering girls, the dark elegance of their men folk. It was all a mask over—what? Did every face, serious or laughing, conceal some painful secret?
‘Are you well, my lord?’ A hand touched his arm and he looked down, startled. It was Bree, her long fingers in their elegant kid gloves startlingly white on his dark sleeve. ‘You look so—’ She wrestled for a word, frowning up into his eyes. ‘So bleak.’
‘I felt bleak,’ he confessed, feeling the blight lift as he looked at her. She seemed so right, standing by his side, as though some benevolent deity had created her, just for him. How long had he known her? All his life, it seemed. ‘What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society?’
‘I know you have.’ She dimpled a smile, lifting her hand to brush fleetingly over the right breast of his waistcoat. Desire hit him like a blow and he was conscious of his nipples hardening at her touch.
‘Not that, you minx.’ He found himself smiling at her and shook his head. ‘No, this is something far more serious.’
‘I see.’ Bree bit her lip, her eyes thoughtful. ‘I should say that I am very sorry it makes you so sad, and I would ask if there was anything I could do to help you.’
‘Why? Why would you do that?’
‘Because we are friends.’ She flattened her palm against his left lapel. He was conscious of his heart beating beneath the pressure—surely she could feel it too? ‘And because I am a little outside society and I am not easily scandalised.’ She took her hand away and Max realised he had not been breathing. He dragged the air into his lungs as she smiled mischievously. ‘And I am very intelligent, so perhaps I can think of something to help.’
‘Your company and your friendship already help,’ Max said seriously. ‘I hope that perhaps my secret may prove not to be too terrible after all.’
‘And if it is?’ The calm oval of her face tilted up as she looked deep into his eyes. ‘No, do not answer—you will still find me your friend, whatever the problem.’ He found he was watching her mouth, certain that it was as expressive as her lovely eyes. Now it went from composed, serious lines into a soft, tentative smile. ‘Would you wish to be left in peace?’
‘What, now?’ He met her eyes. ‘No, not by you, Bree. Why?’
‘We never had our dance,’ she pointed out.
‘Whose fault was that?’ He found he was already leading her on to the floor where the next set was forming.
‘Mine,’ she admitted with a twinkle. She moved in close to his side as the other couples shuffled and sorted themselves out. ‘Do you dance as well as you do other things?’
‘Such as?’ The bleak mood had lifted completely. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the shadow of it, the looming cloud of approaching scandal and old heartbreak, the wrenching decision whether to cease all contact with Bree now, before she could be embroiled in this, hurt by it. And under it the nagging uncertainty that any woman could truly love him, Max, just for himself. But that was like a storm gathering over distant mountains. Here it was as though he were in a sunlit valley.
‘Such as … driving.’ The tip of her tongue just touched the full pout of her lower lip. Max could have sworn it was a quite unconscious provocation, but her body was betraying her and he had a silent bet with himself that he knew what she was thinking about.
‘Not as well as driving,’ he admitted, low-voiced as the music started and he swept her a formal bow. ‘And definitely not as well as kissing.’
His daring words had caught her at the bottom of her curtsy. Bree gasped, stumbled, and he caught her up in his arms before she could fall. ‘Do take care, Miss Mallory,’ he said, loudly enough for the surrounding couples to hear. ‘The floor seems quite slippery here.’ He steadied her on her feet again and swung her into the first measure.
‘You are an unmitigated rake,’ she whispered as she pivoted elegantly beneath his raised hand.
Max caught the gleam in her eyes. ‘I fear you have led me astray, Miss Mallory.’ He swung her neatly round at the end of the turn and they came to the end of the line and were able to catch their breath while the next couple worked their way down the ranks of dancers. ‘May I call on you?’
‘For what purpose, my lord?’
‘To take you driving, as you promised. And possibly to practise my other skills.’
‘But of course, my lord. I would be delighted to go driving.’ Bree made her curtsy to the gentleman opposite them and prepared to step out to take his hand. ‘I do not, however, consider that you require any further practice in the exercise of that other talent you mentioned.’
Max found he was grinning broadly and hastily got his face back under control before the young lady opposite decided she was about to be partnered by a lunatic. Why was it that being chastised by Miss Mallory was as gratifying as any amount of admiration from any other woman?
He watched her as she turned, following the lead of her partner, moving away from him down the floor. Away. His heart contracted painfully. He should move away from her in real life, dissociate himself from her entirely until he was certain no stain of scandal attached to him and that there was no need for the public shame of a divorce.
But if he did, now she was out in society, who would move to claim her while he waited, silent, uncertain and unfree, in the wings? He had only just found her—must he let her go?

Chapter Eight
‘A lady’s companion would be how much a year?’ Bree demanded, even though she knew she had heard correctly the first time. It was not as though she could not afford the rates the Misses Thoroughgood’s Exclusive Employment Exchange demanded, but they seemed extreme for something she did not want in the first place. However, common sense told her she should, so, the Monday morning after the ball, here she was.
Miss Emeline Thoroughgood looked down the length of her thin nose. ‘If one desires a lady companion of breeding and refinement, and one who can undertake the delicate and sensitive duties of a chaperon with discretion yet firmness of purpose, I am afraid one must expect to pay premium rates, Miss Mallory.’
‘I simply require the look of the thing, Miss Thoroughgood.’ Even as she said it, she realised that the lady would leap to entirely the wrong conclusion. ‘I live with my brother,’ she said hastily. ‘He is most rigorous in his care of me. However, a respectable female to accompany me when he cannot would be desirable.’
Miss Emeline’s expression softened slightly at the reassurance that she was not dealing with some kept woman who needed to cloak her activities in a veil of respectability. Actually, she is not so far wrong, Bree thought with hidden amusement. Only my activities are not quite what she imagines.
‘I may be able to suggest a solution,’ Miss Emeline said pensively. She rang the hand bell on her desk. ‘Smithers, has the client with Miss Clara departed?’
‘No, Miss Emeline.’ The clerk consulted the clock on the mantel. ‘I would expect her to come out at any moment.’
‘Ask her to come in here when she is free, would you?’ He bowed himself out. ‘I make no claims for this suggestion, Miss Mallory, however, Miss Thorpe may answer your purposes at a most reasonable cost.’
A tap at the office door heralded the entrance of a woman in her late thirties. Her dress, from bonnet to half-boots, proclaimed the governess in its drab anonymity, and her hair, dark brown, threaded with grey, was drawn back tightly under her bonnet. But her eyes looked out steadily from under rather thick brows and met Bree’s with an assessing intelligence that instantly appealed to her.
‘Miss Mallory, this is Miss Thorpe. Miss Thorpe is an experienced governess with admirable qualifications. However, we understand that she no longer wishes for that form of employment. It occurs to me that possibly she may suit your requirements.’
‘Miss Thorpe.’ Bree got to her feet and offered her hand. ‘I am looking for a companion. Why do we not have tea together in Gunther’s and see how we suit each other?’
This unconventional approach appeared to startle Miss Thoroughgood, but Miss Thorpe’s eyebrows merely lifted slightly and she smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Mallory, I would be pleased to.’
‘That’s settled, then. Thank you, Miss Thoroughgood. I will let you know how we get on.’ Bree shook hands briskly and ushered Miss Thorpe out in front of her. ‘Now, we just need to find a hackney carriage.’
‘There’s one.’ Miss Thorpe hailed the cab authoritatively, securing it under the nose of a soberly dressed City type clutching a bundle of papers tied in red tape. Bree was impressed.
‘Well …’ she settled back and regarded the other woman ‘… I will be frank, Miss Thorpe. I have never had a female companion before, nor a chaperon, and I suddenly find myself in a situation where that has become, if not essential, at least highly desirable. But—and here is where the frankness comes in—I have no intention of losing my freedoms and suddenly becoming a sheltered society miss. I run a stagecoach company.’ That did provoke a reaction from the self-controlled Miss Thorpe. Her lips pursed in a soundless whistle, then she smiled.
‘Unconventional indeed, Miss Mallory. Would I be required to assist with this enterprise?’
That had never occurred to Bree. ‘Would you be interested to?’
‘Why, yes, I believe I might. I am a competent book-keeper and I used to run a school—quite a large one, in Bath—until the proprietor decided to sell up, and I did not have the resources to buy her out. Then I found myself having to work as a governess, but I do miss having the variety of managing the school. You will be wanting to take up references, Miss Mallory, and to have a trial period, I imagine.’
‘I hire and fire staff for the company on a regular basis, Miss Thorpe. Few of them come with references, so I have come to trust my judgment on first impressions. I would be very happy if you would join us on the basis that you assist with the running of the office, accompany me in the evenings and act as my chaperon whenever I have company. We will give it a month and see how we feel at the end of it. What do you think? You may find us unacceptably unconventional.’ There was something about the governess that appealed to Bree. It was not so much what she said, but the calm confidence with which she said it.
‘It sounds fascinating, Miss Mallory.’ Miss Thorpe looked out of the window as the hackney drew up to the pavement. ‘I have never been interviewed for a position at Gunther’s. I think that bodes very well!’
‘Excellent.’ Bree led the way into the tea shop, glanced around and found a table in a quiet corner. ‘This will do. Now, what shall we have? Hot chocolate? I suppose it is really rather cool for ices, and perhaps too early in the day,’ she added reluctantly.
‘I never think it is too anything for ices,’ Miss Thorpe declared robustly.
Bree found herself laughing. ‘I really think we will suit, Miss Thorpe! Now, let me tell you all about ourselves. The household consists of my brother Piers and myself …
‘ … and so you see, what with Lord Farleigh’s engagement and the interest the members of the Nonesuch Whips are taking in the company, things cannot go on as they are.’ That account had skimmed lightly over some of her feelings on the stage, and censored completely that kiss the other night. Bree stopped talking at last and peered into the depths of the chocolate jug. ‘Shall we have some more?’
‘Yes, please, Miss Mallory.’
‘Bree, please. What is your name?’
‘Rosamund. My father was a Shakespeare enthusiast.’ Miss Thorpe smiled. ‘I answer very well to Rosa.’
‘Rosa it is, then.’ Bree gestured to the waiter. ‘Another jug of chocolate, and a plate of macaroons, please. So, what do you think? And when can you start?’
‘I think that it sounds fascinating, and I could start immediately, if that is what you would like. But I am afraid my wardrobe is singularly unfitted for the role as your companion, especially if you intend to accept any evening engagements.’
‘Goodness, we have not discussed salary, have we?’ Bree thought rapidly. She had not yet investigated the wages a business manager might expect, but now she might well not have to. The Yard Master, Railton, and his men were more than capable of supervising the operation in the evenings and at night as they did now, provided there was someone taking the major decisions and doing the bookwork. She named the amount Miss Thoroughgood had asked for a top-flight lady’s companion. ‘How would that be? And a suitable wardrobe as well? And you can move in today.’
Rosa gasped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Why, yes. It will be hard work filling two roles. Now that I have been forced into society, I suppose I had better enjoy it, so we will be out and about a good deal.’ She poured the fresh chocolate. ‘Have a macaroon.’
‘I will need a new wardrobe if I am to eat many of these,’ Rosa commented, biting into one of the confectioner’s famous biscuits.
‘Well, any excuse for shopping is welcome,’ Bree said seriously, earning a chuckle from across the table. ‘Let’s make a list.’
Max reined in his team to a walk as they entered Gower Street. The road was relatively quiet and it did not require much concentration to negotiate it to the point halfway down where the Mallorys’ home was.
Which left far too much mental capacity for indecision. The Earl of Penrith was not given to indecision. Max Dysart, the man, was discovering just how uncomfortable it could be. The choices before him were clear-cut enough, but none of them were easy.
One, Max tried rehearsing them again, I can make no effort to see her again and treat her as a mere acquaintance whenever we meet. Two, I can attempt to act simply as a friend and an acquaintance and, thirdly, I can endeavour to attach her.
He pulled up in front of Bree’s house and sat there, the reins still in his hand. Gregg, the groom who was sitting up behind him, arms folded, jumped down from his perch behind and ran to the horses’ heads.
They are all dangerous. Max stared ahead unseeingly between the ears of one of the dapple greys, causing an approaching gentleman to wonder anxiously if there was something amiss with the cut of his clothes, given that the swell in the fancy rig was frowning at him so ferociously. Number one almost ensures that she will find herself courted by any number of other men before I am in a position to make my move.
Two—he reflexively steadied the offside horse which was taking exception to a passing dog—risks her thinking my interest in her is purely platonic and we are back to the numerous other suitors again. Three, I am risking everything on the chance I am no longer married. If I am wrong, then I am embroiling Bree in a scandal that will be plastered all over the papers in every ghastly detail. And all of this assumes I really do want to risk courting another woman and offering her marriage.
‘My lord?’ Gregg was regarding him anxiously.
‘Get back up,’ Max ordered.
‘I thought we were calling here, my lord. I could walk the greys if you are worried about leaving them standing in this wind.’
‘I’ll shake the fidgets out of them in the park,’ Max declared as the groom walked back.
With the licence of long service, the man let his feelings show on his face: the pair were as calm as high-blooded driving horses could ever be, and his lordship had just driven past the park on his way here.
Max gave a mental shrug. If he was going to become indecisive, he might as well get on with it. Once round the park, then I’ll make up my mind, he bargained with himself, lifting the hand that held the reins and sending the greys off down the street at a brisk trot.
‘Oh.’ Bree stood staring down Gower Street at the unmistakable back and shoulders of the driver of the retreating phaeton.
‘Is something wrong?’ Rosa climbed down from the hackney and joined her on the pavement.
‘That was Lord Penrith, the gentleman I told you about. The one who drove the stage for me.’
‘The one who advised you to employ a chaperon and a business manager.’ Rosa nodded, obviously ticking off a mental list from her morning’s briefing.
‘He must have been calling,’ Bree said, lamely stating the obvious. She gave herself a little shake and called up to the driver, ‘Wait a moment, will you? Someone will be out to pay you and collect our baggage.’
The front door opened to reveal the Mallorys’ one footman who doubled as Piers’s valet. ‘Peters, please pay the driver and fetch in the luggage. This is Miss Thorpe, who will be living here from now on. She will be having the blue bedroom.
‘We employ Peters, a cook, Mrs Harris—a general maid—and an upstairs maid who will be looking after both of us now.’ Bree urged Rosa in front of her into the hall and looked at the salver lying on the console table. It contained a number of calling cards and several envelopes. Bree flipped through the cards confidently. ‘Mr Latymer, Lord Lansdowne, Mr Trenchard. Trenchard? Oh, yes, third country dance. Lady Lucas.’ There was nothing with Max’s crest.
‘Peters?’
‘Yes, Miss Mallory?’
‘Did the gentleman who just called not leave a card?’
‘No gentleman has called since eleven o’clock, Miss Mallory. There was a regular flurry of callers this morning, but no one yet this afternoon.’
‘How very odd.’ And how very … Bree searched for the right word to describe her emotions. How very flattening. Max had obviously intended to call and then thought better of it on the very doorstep. But why? She led Rosa upstairs, talking brightly about the household and pointing out the various rooms as they went, her mind almost entirely on Max and his motives.
Had he taken her in disgust when he reviewed the events of last night in the cold light of day? It would be hypocritical of him if he did, but then, that was the way of the world. Men expected to take their pleasures and keep their respectability. The women involved immediately lost theirs.
Did he think her pert and forward, or completely wanton? Her stomach churned uncomfortably and suddenly she felt quite ill with mortification. Last night it had seemed natural to respond to his advances, natural to return his kisses with what small instinctive skill she had. Max had not treated her with disrespect; she had seen no cynical gleam in his eyes.
Which made it worse, in a way. Thinking back, recalling with a blush just how she had responded to him, he must have taken a disgust of her behaviour. Or she was wrong about him and he was actually a rake, bent on her seduction after all—but why, then, would he not call? No, she could not be that wrong about him. But what do I know about men? It was a mystery, and a very unsettling one.
‘Here is your room.’ She threw open the door to the third bedroom. ‘It looks out at the back, so it is very quiet.’ Bree sat down on the edge of the bed and bounced a little. ‘Yes, the bed seems to be all right. Now, what else can we do to make you more comfortable? There is an easy chair, and a dressing table and stool, and I think the wardrobe will be large enough.’
She got up and went to open the clothes press, trying to force her muddled brain to think of practical matters. ‘Good, I think that will do. Would you like a small table and chair for a desk? There isn’t much room in here, and, of course, we hope you will feel absolutely free to join us in the drawing room at any time, but you might like privacy for letter writing and so on.’
‘It looks—’ Rosa swallowed hard and blinked ‘—it is lovely. It is such a luxury to have a pretty, well-furnished room again. I became used to it when I was running the school, but as a governess one soon learns one’s place—which is in whatever spare room it is least inconvenient to put one.’
‘That’s horrid.’ Bree smiled with a warmth that came hard, given that she was feeling so queasy. ‘We both want you to feel at home here.’
‘Your brother has not met me yet,’ Rosa said cautiously.
‘Piers will like you,’ Bree said confidently. ‘He is living in dread that I am going to bring home a starched-up widow who will make him take his feet off the furniture, mind his tongue at all times and button his waistcoat in the house.’
Peters arrived at the door and dumped the first of Rosa’s bags on the floor. ‘I’ll fetch up the rest directly, Miss Mallory. What about the shopping?’
‘Bring that up here too, and send Lucy to help Miss Thorpe unpack.’ She turned to Rosa as the man clattered off down the stairs again. ‘If you sort out the bits and pieces I brought for myself, Lucy will bring them along. You must treat her as your maid as well as mine. She will fetch you hot water, light your fire and so forth.’
She broke off at the sound of the knocker. ‘I wonder who that is.’ Leaning over the banisters, she could hear Peters below.
‘I am sorry, my lord, I do not know if Miss Mallory is at home. Would you care to step into the drawing room whilst I ascertain if she is receiving?’
From her perch, hanging over the second-floor banisters, Bree had a bird’s eye view of the hall and the tops of Peters’s sandy head and the oval of a fashionable tall hat. The hat was doffed and handed to the footman along with gloves.
‘Who is it?’ Rosa came to her side.
The bared head below was unmistakably that of Max Dysart. Her complaining stomach performed another uncomfortable twist and Bree clutched the polished wood. ‘Lord Penrith.’ So why has he come back?
Peters was toiling up the stairs again, a silver salver in his hand. ‘Lord Penrith, Miss Mallory.’ He proffered the salver, the neat rectangle of pasteboard lying dead centre. ‘Are you at home?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bree said blankly. ‘I really do not know.’
Peters, unused to such a response, gaped at her. ‘Go down to the hall and wait a moment,’ Rosa said firmly, taking control. The footman obediently began to descend again. ‘What is wrong?’ She took Bree’s arm and guided her back into the bedroom. ‘Do you not wish to see this man? I can go down and tell him you are resting or some such excuse.’
That was so tempting. Bree bit her lip, then decided that honesty was the only policy with her new companion. ‘He kissed me last night, and then, later, I was out alone on the terrace with him. Now I am afraid he will think me very fast and will either be here under the mistaken assumption that I will permit liberties, or he considers me wanton and has decided he no longer wishes to have anything to do with me.’
‘Why would he be here in that case?’
‘Because he promised to help me with the Whips, and now perhaps he feels he does not care to.’
‘Hmm.’ Rosa pursed her lips. ‘I think there is nothing to be gained by putting off the encounter. I will come down too. If he is a rake bent upon your seduction, my presence should serve to warn him off, and if he is hypocrite enough to despise you for a few innocent kisses, then he should be chastened by seeing you have taken his advice and have a companion.’
She whipped off her bonnet and stooped to check her reflection in the mirror. ‘My goodness, I shall be pleased to get out of this hideous gown, but it certainly makes me look a dour chaperon.’
Bree managed a shaky smile. ‘Come along, then. Let us put my reputation to the test.’

Chapter Nine
‘Lord Penrith. Good afternoon.’ Bree was proud of her calm tone. ‘May I introduce Miss Thorpe, my lady companion? Miss Thorpe, Lord Penrith, who was so good as to assist when we found ourselves with a driverless coach.’
She studied him as he shook hands with Rosa. He seemed the same and yet, somehow, different. What was it? Bree puzzled and then stopped as she realised he was waiting while the ladies took their seats. ‘Do sit down, my lord. Would you care to take tea?’
‘Thank you, yes, I would.’
Rosa bobbed up and tugged the bell pull, then sat quietly while Bree spoke to Peters.
‘You see, my lord, I took your advice and engaged a companion,’ Bree said, attempting a rallying tone. It was impossible to read Max’s feelings this afternoon; all the expressive light had gone from his eyes and he was sitting, perfectly composed, his face unreadable. There was an air of seriousness about him, that was what was different.
‘I am flattered that you should take such heed of my advice.’
‘Indeed. But how could I not, after you had demonstrated the need for one so clearly.’
‘Demonstrated?’ His eyebrows went up.
‘By your lucid explanation—or should I say example?—of the dangers to a lady’s reputation when in society.’ She felt the need to provoke a reaction, any reaction. This was like talking to a polite feather pillow.
‘It is a sad fact that a lady, incautiously without chaperonage, may find herself kissed, or worse,’ Max remarked blandly.
‘Outrageous,’ Rosa contributed, her face studiously straight.
‘Of course, the lady might allow such liberties,’ Max added. ‘A gentleman would do well to reflect that this may simply be the expression of innocence, inexperience or a certain naive generosity of spirit.’
‘Or all three.’ Bree could feel her colour rising. He was telling her—in a patronising manner—that he understood, excused and dismissed her behaviour last night. ‘Doubtless the gentleman in question would also reflect that a further attempt would be doomed to failure.’
‘I feel sure that would be the safest path for him.’ His smile was rueful and Bree thought she had glimpsed the first sign of genuine emotion since he had arrived. She decided that she was not being dismissed as wanton, nor was he bent on seducing her, which left the rather embarrassing situation of having kissed him and now not knowing how to behave with him.
‘You may be interested to know that Miss Thorpe will also be taking over some of the office work at the Mermaid for me.’
‘Have you any experience of such a business, Miss Thorpe?’ Max turned his dark eyes on her.
‘None at all,’ Rosa smiled austerely. ‘But I have run a large girls’ school. I am sure my experience with accounting, keeping discipline and managing a complex timetable will come in useful.’
‘I must congratulate you, Miss Mallory, on finding such a well-qualified candidate so quickly.’ His eyes found hers and Bree racked her brain to decide exactly what colour they were. A very dark hazel, or brown? She pulled herself together and concentrated.
‘I was lucky my lord. I hope you also mean to congratulate me upon taking your advice.’
‘I do. And I wonder why.’
‘Because it was sensible advice, of course.’ Bree flushed at her own sharp tone and reached for the tea pot. ‘Cream or lemon, my lord?’
‘Cream. Thank you. Are you from London, Miss Thorpe?’
‘Nottinghamshire originally, my lord.’ He waited, his silence an invitation to prattle that Rosa ignored with a prim smile, much to Bree’s admiration. She knew she would have plunged on with every detail of her life story, confronted by that coolly interrogative voice and the amount of sheer personality behind his bland expression. What is he here for? I thought he was coming to ask me to drive with him.
‘Have you been able to solve my other problem and rein in your friends of the Nonesuch Whips?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said baldly, putting down his cup and crossing his legs. Bree forced herself not to stare at the length of tightly stretched pantaloons vanishing into glossy Hessians. ‘I hinted, I suggested—and I found myself beginning to sound as though I had an ulterior motive. And that, I would suggest, is more dangerous than the original threat.’
‘Oh …’ Bree mentally passed in review a number of highly improper expressions she had learned in the inn yard. ‘Drat,’ she concluded regretfully. It really did not do justice to her feelings.
‘Drat indeed,’ Max agreed.
‘Will they get bored and find something else if Piers gives them the run of the place for a couple of days?’
‘I doubt it—not unless you let them drive. That’s the big attraction, you see—driving a stage in cold blood, not as the result of a drunken spree. They are good drivers, all of them, they have a serious interest and an inn yard is a public space, when all’s said and done.’
‘Well, they are not getting anywhere near my passengers,’ Bree declared robustly.
‘You let me drive,’ Max said softly.
‘I knew of your reputation. In any case, I had no choice.’
‘And were you satisfied?’
Bree swallowed. ‘I was entirely satisfied with your driving.’
They sat silently looking at each other while the tick of the clock on the mantel seemed to fill the room and Bree felt her own heartbeat stuttering out of time with it.
‘Ahem.’ Rosa leaned forward. ‘May I pass you a custard tartlet, my lord?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ The shutters were back. No, not even that—his expression was so unreadable that she had no idea whether there even were any shutters or whether there were simply no strong feelings for him to hide.
‘I have had an idea,’ she said suddenly. Goodness knows where it came from, other than from her desperate desire to distract the Whips and her equally urgent wish to be anywhere but here exchanging stilted conversation with Max Dysart. ‘Do the Nonesuch Whips have club days when they all drive to a specific destination, as the Four Horse Club does?’
‘Yes, but we are not so hidebound as to insist on the same destination on every occasion, nor do we confine ourselves to trotting in single file the entire way as is the FHC rule. We seek out interesting inns and eating houses and make them the goal for the day. Why do you ask, Miss Mallory?’
‘Because it occurs to me that on some days we do have a spare coach and that we might be prepared to allow that to be driven, without paying passengers, of course, on such an expedition. Would that slake your friends’ thirst?’
‘The very answer, Miss Mallory, I congratulate you. You and Miss Thorpe must be my guests in my drag.’
‘I must insist on my own groom with the stage and Piers on the box as well,’ she cautioned.
‘That seems eminently reasonable to me,’ Max agreed.
‘And no racing.’
‘I promise.’
‘You can offer that on their behalf?’ Bree realised she must have looked as dubious as she sounded when she saw the quirk of amusement at the corner of Max’s mouth. Thank goodness, some sign of humanity at last!
‘I will ensure that everyone who wishes to drive must give me their word to that effect before we start. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Yes. Yes, my lord, it does. Thank you.’
‘The Club will, of course, pay whatever a return journey for the trip would be, assuming a full waybill of passengers.’
Bree opened her mouth to agree that that would be very acceptable and closed it again. Now she had Rosa she did not have to fear curious strangers at the Mermaid any longer, not if they had an acceptable outlet for their desire to drive the stagecoaches. Piers had blossomed in the company of the Whips: he had enjoyed it and it was far better that he had his introduction into society with men who spent their time driving rather than frequenting gaming halls and brothels.
‘No,’ she said slowly, considering it. ‘No, we will not charge, unless any damage is done. If it is successful, then we may repeat it. I see no harm, and perhaps it may give the Challenge Coach Company a certain cachet.’
And it also propelled her into the unsettling company of the Earl of Penrith. And that of a number of other pleasant and attractive gentlemen, she added mentally. Max’s words about finding a husband echoed with Georgy’s teasing matchmaking. Not a gentleman of title, not with her pedigree. But there might be a nice younger son. She tried to feel enthusiastic about that possibility and found the thought strangely flat.
‘That is very generous.’ Max removed his pocket book and consulted it. ‘The next meeting will be on Saturday the tenth.’
‘I will check with the yard and see, then let you know. Where is the destination?’
‘It depends on the weather, although there was discussion of taking a picnic to Greenwich Park, if it is fine.’
A whole day of frivolity. Bree tried to recall when she had last taken an entire day to devote simply to pleasure, and could not. And an entire day in Max’s company. And that of Lord Lansdowne, Mr Latymer, Piers, Rosa and all the other Whips, of course.
‘That sounds delightful,’ Rosa observed sedately, jerking Bree back to the present.
‘Delightful,’ she echoed dutifully.
Lord Penrith put down his cup and saucer and got to his feet. ‘I will wait to hear from you then. Thank you for the tea.’ He bowed slightly. ‘Ladies.’
Rosa jumped up and tugged the bell for Peters and then Max was gone, leaving Bree staring rather blankly after him.
‘I thought he was going to invite me to drive in the park with him,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he forgot, thinking about your proposal with the stage,’ Rosa suggested, looking doubtful. ‘Is he always like that?’
‘No.’ Bree wrinkled her forehead. ‘But I’ve only met him twice before, of course. How did he strike you?’
‘At first, just as he meant to—a conventional, rather cold-blooded English gentleman making a social call. But he isn’t just that.’ Rosa was frowning now too. ‘There’s humour there and warmth in his eyes when he looks at you and you are not looking at him. And something else. Something dark.’
Bree shivered. ‘Rosa, you sound positively Gothic!’ Then she recalled his words during the ball. ‘I think he has something on his mind. A secret.’
‘Hmm.’ Rosa sat down and poured more tea. ‘Lord Penrith is very attractive—I just hope he doesn’t turn out to be Bluebeard.’
Max swung up into the driving seat and gathered the reins. So much for option two—we have a stilted conversation full of undertones that makes us both uncomfortable because of what happened at the ball. ‘Walk on.’ The pair moved off sedately and Gregg swung up behind.
Max tried to sort out how he felt and made the unnerving discovery that his general sense of unease and indecision was worse than before. He wanted Bree, but the thought of marriage was more fraught with discomfort the more he contemplated it. He had dragged the locked trunk out of the attic of his memory and forced himself to open it, look at the hurt and shame and anger and fear that he had pushed away so he could get on with his life again. Only now they were out and he was facing them, all the doubt was back.
Drusilla had left him within weeks of their marriage. It was his job to make a marriage, to keep his wife, and he had failed. Was it just that one woman, or was there something about him that was unsuited to matrimony? Dare he risk it again? Dare he risk it with this woman? He was not even sure what he felt for her other than liking, admiration and undoubted desire. Always assuming she did not laugh in his face at the mere thought of it. Bree Mallory did not strike him as a woman likely to be dazzled by a title.
He turned into Bedford Square and then into Tottenham Court Road, heading for the crowded thoroughfare of Oxford Street. ‘Any idea of the time, Gregg?’ It was too busy to drive one-handed and fish out his pocket watch.
‘About three, my lord, I’d hazard.’
Time then to think in peace and quiet at home before Ryder, the man recommended by Lord Lucas, came to discuss his problem.
My problem, Max thought, jeering at himself. A nice euphemism. I can pretend I have a leak in the roof, or a difficult decision about investments or an unreliable tenant. And a man will come and sort out my problem. Which I should have sorted out years ago.
He was in no better frame of mind at six o’clock when his butler, Bignell, announced, ‘Mr Ryder, my lord’, and ushered in the investigator.
‘Mr Ryder, please, come and sit down.’
‘My lord.’ One would take him for a superior clerk in his sober, understated clothes and with his quiet manner. But his voice was that of an gentleman, he moved with a swordsman’s grace and the grey eyes, when they met Max’s, were cool and assessing. From a clerk the scrutiny would have been insolence; from this man it felt like being assessed by a surgeon. It was about as comfortable.
It was also steadying. Max gathered himself mentally and concentrated, much as he would before a fencing bout. ‘Lord Lucas recommends you highly.’
‘I have been able to be of use to him in the past.’ No false modesty or protestations there. ‘His lordship tells me that there is a personal matter requiring the highest discretion that you wish investigated.’
‘Yes. Ten years ago, when I was twenty-one—just twenty-one—I met a young woman called Drusilla Cornish. She was twenty, the daughter of an apothecary in Swindon. I fell in love with her, and I married her.’
There was a notebook in Ryder’s hand—it seemed to have appeared as though by magic. He jotted something and looked up, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I use codes and a shorthand of my own devising, my lord. Your lordship held your present title at this time?’
‘Yes. I was the Earl of Penrith, I did marry a tradesman’s daughter and, under the terms of my father’s will, virtually all my money was in trust until I reached the age of twenty-five, or married with the approval of my trustees. It was every bit as ill judged an action as you are most tactfully not saying.’
‘Special licence?’ Max nodded. ‘And the marriage took place where?’ He listened as Max recounted how he had recalled the out-of-the way church in Dorset from a visit to a friend’s country estate the year before. ‘And her address in Swindon? Her family?’
He told it all, the memory of the dusty little shop coming back so clearly as he spoke that he could smell the herbs and medicines, could see the light glinting on the glass vessels where the sun stuck through the lead-paned windows, could see the vision of loveliness that had seemed to swim out of the shadows like a black-haired mermaid at the sound of the tinny little bell.
‘I had toothache, of all the damned prosaic reasons for finding myself in this mess now. I wanted to see my own dentist in London, not submit to some rustic tooth-puller, but I needed something to dull the pain for a day or two. And there she was, serving. Her father was in the back, grinding up some nostrum, her small sister was perched on the end of the counter making up lavender bags.
‘I walked in feeling as though some demon were drilling holes in my jaw, fell in love and forgot the pain, all in one glance.’ It was surprisingly easy, talking to this dark stranger. Almost he could understand the allure of the confessional. He took a folded paper out of his pocket book. ‘Here. I have written down everything I can recall about names and places.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Ryder glanced through it, nodded and tucked it into his own notebook. ‘And then?’
‘Then I took Drusilla home. I knew my trustees would not approve, but, what the hell—my allowance was a thousand times more than her father earned in a year, we could survive very well for four years. My parents were both dead, my grandmother presided over Longwater. She took one look at Drusilla and told me to say nothing to anyone except the servants.’
‘You could rely upon them?’
‘Oh, yes, they were old family retainers, every one. They, and my grandmother, set about turning Drusilla into a countess.’
‘How well did they succeed?’
‘Not at all. She was appalled. She had no idea of what would be expected of her, she was intimidated by the house, by the servants, by my grandmother—by me, once she saw me in my proper setting, as it were.’
Mr Ryder just waited, silently. It was a technique Max used himself and he was wryly amused to find himself succumbing to it. ‘If she had loved me, I don’t think that would have mattered, but she didn’t. I think she had seen me as the equivalent of a wealthy merchant and that was the height of her ambition. She had not expected to have to work for the title and the wealth and the position. I might have been young, and I might have been besotted, but I knew what a countess’s duties and responsibilities were.
‘She realised that this was not a game and we both realised she did not love me. It took three weeks to reach that point.’
Mr Ryder taped his teeth with the end of his pencil. ‘I suppose that there were not grounds for an annulment?’ he enquired delicately.
‘No.’ Max looked back over the years with grim amusement. ‘I think you might say that the one place where we were compatible was in bed.’
There was a pause while the investigator gazed tactfully out of the study window and Max consigned those particular memories to a deep, safe, dark, mental cupboard.
‘Then she met a gentleman when she was shopping in Norwich. It is the closest town to my country seat. Drusilla enjoyed shopping and Grandmama saw no harm in it so long as she went incognito. That gentleman was handsome, charming, lived by his wits and was, as she informed me in the exceedingly ill-spelled letter she left me, fun. She left, taking all those jewels Grandmama had not locked in the safe.’
‘You pursued her?’
‘No. I wrote to her at the inn her note had come from and informed her that I was opening an account with my bank on which she, and only she, could draw, and that I hoped she was happy.’ He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘I never saw her, nor heard from her, again. Money was taken out, to the limit I told her I would maintain, for two years. After that it was untouched and has remained so to this day.’
‘The logical presumption would be that she is dead, or no longer in the country,’ Ryder remarked.
‘I need more than presumption, Mr Ryder. I need to know whether I have a wife living or not.’
‘Indeed, my lord, I can understand why you feel that to be desirable. Did you contact her family?’
‘No.’
‘Make any enquiries at all?’
‘None.’
‘Why not, my lord? Nine years is a very long time with, if I may be so frank, the succession to an earldom to be considered.’

Chapter Ten
‘Because I had a guilty conscience and because I am unused to failure.’ Max had had long enough to work out why he had consigned the problem of his marriage to a locked cupboard. ‘Don’t think I feel any complacency about my lack of action. But I should never have married her—I took the poor girl completely out of her depth. And having done so, somehow I should have made it work. It may sound arrogant, Mr Ryder, but I am not used to failure.’
‘I am sure that is the case, my lord.’
Max paused, tapping the tips of his joined fingers against his lips. ‘And the longer I left it, the more difficult it became. I suppose, too, that my damnable pride got in the way as well. I had offered her a golden future and she tossed it back in my face to run off with an adventurer—I was damned if I was going to chase after her.’ Was that at the heart of it? Was that the real reason, and I’ve been too much of a hypocrite to admit it? Pride?
‘Well, my lord, I think I have enough to commence my investigations. I will write to you weekly to advise you of progress, unless, of course, I make a breakthrough. I will refer to the Countess in terms of a painting that was stolen some years back and which you wish to trace. That should be adequate cover in the event of a letter falling into the wrong hands.’
Ryder stood, tucking his notebook away in a breast pocket. ‘Just one more thing, my lord. Did none of her family make any attempt to contact you after the marriage?’
‘No.’ He looked at the investigator and suddenly that omission seemed as odd to him as it obviously did to Ryder. ‘How very strange.’
‘Indeed. I believe I will start with them. Good day, my lord.’
Max went to sit at his desk again as the door closed behind Ryder. He felt confidence in the man, both in his discretion and his skill. A few weeks and he would know where he was and how he stood. It was good to have done this at last. For years he had been telling himself that Nevill would make a perfectly acceptable heir. Now he could close his eyes and see the nebulous outline of his own son. The fact that this phantom of the future had only begun to appear since he had met Bree did not escape him.
A son with her blue eyes and his dark hair, or perhaps his brown eyes and her wheaten blonde hair—either was an attractive thought. And a number of daughters, all like their mother.
Max grinned at his distorted image in the silver inkwell, his spirits lifting from what seemed like an inordinate time in the doldrums. Surely, if one was daydreaming about the number of children one would have with a lady, one was beyond the stage of being undecided about one’s feelings? All this needed was very careful timing and complete self-control. And her co-operation, of course. And beyond that, to learn what one had done so very wrong before and not commit the same mistakes again.
By the second circuit of Green Park on Wednesday afternoon with Mr Latymer, Bree had come to the conclusion that she needed at least three new walking dresses if she was going to keep this up. And two new bonnets.
On Tuesday Lord Lansdowne had called and had taken her driving in Hyde Park at the height of the fashionable promenade. She had been acknowledged by a gratifying number of new acquaintances from the Dowager’s ball, despite the Viscount’s protestations that town was virtually empty of company.
‘I wouldn’t be up now if it weren’t that Grandmama wanted to puff off Sophia’s engagement from the town house,’ he explained. He moved the phaeton off again after a stop to speak to three of Bree’s Grendon cousins who were staying up in town while the fine weather lasted.
‘But the Nonesuch Whips are here,’ Bree observed. ‘At least, enough of you to be having meetings.’
‘Mmm.’ The Viscount touched his hat to a barouche full of fashionably dressed young matrons as they passed. ‘I’m here for Sophia’s affair, Greesley’s staying on because his elderly uncle, the one who’s going to leave him all the money, is threatening to turn up his toes, and Greesley’s doing the dutiful. Penrith’s up because his suite at his country seat is being redecorated and he’s fled from demands to choose hangings—at least, that’s his story—and young Nevill’s here because Penrith is. Don’t know what Latymer’s reason is, but once there’s a core of us, then it makes it worthwhile for the others and it snowballs.’
‘Has Lord Penrith told the other club members about my suggestion for them to drive the stage?’ Bree twirled her parasol and tried not to feel guilty about leaving Rosa with a stack of account books. Her companion had protested that she wanted to read them to get a better understanding of the business and had shooed Bree out of the house as soon as Lord Lansdowne had called.
‘Indeed he has.’ The Viscount was enthusiastic. ‘It’s what’s keeping us all up now, the hope we can get at least two outings in while the weather holds.’
‘I really do not understand the attraction,’ Bree said doubtfully, still uneasy that they would try and race. ‘I expect you all have beautiful rigs and very fine teams.’
‘That’s just the point.’ Lansdowne caught the end of his whip neatly round the handle in a way that had Bree itching to learn the trick of it. ‘We spend the money, but is it our horses and our well-balanced rigs that make us drive well? How do we know? If we take a stagecoach, which, forgive me, is not built to the same standards, and have to take pot luck with teams that are not bred for looks or speed, then the man with the better skills will be obvious.’
‘It’s more of a challenge, then?’ Bree could think of one gentleman who more than lived up to it.
‘That’s right,’ Lansdowne agreed cheerfully. ‘Tell me, do you drive, Miss Mallory?’ Once she had recovered from the inexplicable coughing fit, Bree was able to assure him that she was capable of managing a phaeton or a curricle, and to convince herself that admitting to being able to handle the reins of a park carriage did not brand her as a hoyden who drove coaches.
She had enjoyed her drive with the Viscount. Then this morning Georgy had arrived in her barouche to ask whether Bree would like to visit Ackermann’s Repository with her to chose some prints. It has seemed only courteous to agree, although that made a second day when she would be absent from the Mermaid.
‘I’ll show Rosa around, settle her into the office,’ Piers had promised firmly. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’ Really, if she had not known better, she would have thought Piers and Rosa were in a conspiracy to give her a holiday.
Georgy was intent on buying enough images to make a fashionable print room out of a closet between her dressing room and her husband’s, but the necessity to buy what seemed like hundreds of prints from the shop did not distract her from the lure of fashion magazines, a stack of which were now waiting, oozing temptation, on Bree’s bedside table.
It seemed strange to have a female friend, especially one as au fait with society as Lady Lucas. She seemed to have forgotten that Bree was single and cheerfully chatted of the latest crim. con. scandals, her falling out with her husband over her milliner’s bill and her scheme to put him in a better mood by wearing a quite outrageously naughty négligée she had just purchased.
‘It is the sheerest pink lawn, with deep rose ribbons and lots of lace, which makes it look as though it is quite decent until one moves and then—oh la, la! Charles is going to be beside himself.’
Bree thought of what effect such a garment might have on Max and found the very thought brought a blush to her cheeks. It also brought a very unwelcome tingling feeling in all those places he had kissed and she tried to calm herself by thinking how very unflattering such a garment would be to her complexion in pink. Deep blue, on the other hand …
‘And how is Dysart?’ Georgy demanded, uncannily echoing her train of thought as they sat back in the barouche and regarded their morning’s shopping with satisfaction.
‘I have no idea. I saw him briefly the day after the ball when he called, but that is all.’
‘Really?’ Lady Lucas frowned. ‘How provoking. I would have thought he would have asked you out driving at least once by now.’
So would I, Bree thought.
‘I am convinced you should marry him,’ her companion added chattily.
‘What!’ Bree sat bolt upright and shot a glance at the backs of the driver and groom sitting up in front of them. ‘I am quite ineligible, even were his lordship interested.’
‘Oh, I know I said you had better settle for a younger son,’ Georgy said airily, ‘but now I know you, I think you would do marvellously for Dysart. You have so much more élan than I could have hoped for—you could carry it off.’
‘But I do not want—’
But Georgy was in full flow, although this time she lowered her voice. ‘If anyone can mend his broken heart, I am sure you can.’
‘His what?’ One thing Max Dysart did not appear to be afflicted by was a broken heart. Anyone less lovelorn she had yet to see.
‘They say he fell in love ten years ago and she would not have him, and now he holds the memory of her, for ever frozen, in his heart.’
‘That is a horrid image,’ Bree said robustly. ‘And, in any case, ten years is a long time. Why, he was hardly more than a boy then. Now he’s a man.’
‘Yes, but ten years ago, he withdrew from society!’ Georgy whispered, her voice thrilling. ‘In the height of the Season, he vanished off down to Longwater. That must have been when it happened.’
‘Well, who was she?’ Bree demanded. Max’s words at the ball came back: What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society? No, it couldn’t be that. A broken heart was sad, but not a scandal.
‘I have no idea,’ Georgy said, breathless with the excitement of a mystery. ‘But you can unfreeze his heart …’
‘Yuck! I shall do no such thing, even if I were capable of it. And even if it were frozen, which I am sure it is not.’
‘Then why has he not married?’
‘Because he has not found someone he loves enough.’ And when he does, he is going to court them properly, not promise to take them driving and then forget all about it!
‘You are horribly sensible,’ Georgy grumbled. ‘Just like darling Charles.’
‘Think of the négligée,’ Bree whispered to distract her, and was rewarded with a gurgle of laughter and a quick hug.
Now Mr Latymer had called to take her out in his high-perch phaeton. It was a more showy vehicle than Lord Lansdowne’s, but she did not feel Mr Latymer’s pair was the equivalent in quality of the Viscount’s match bays, so honours so far were even.
On hearing that she had been in Hyde Park yesterday, Mr Latymer had offered to take her again, or for her to name her choice, congratulating her when she decided on Green Park. ‘So much more tranquil,’ he observed, turning in out off the hubbub of Piccadilly and skirting the reservoir with its promenaders.
‘This is delightful. I have walked here often, of course, but I had not realised how pleasant it is for driving—so much less crowded than Hyde Park with everyone on the strut.’
‘Do you keep a carriage, Miss Mallory?’
‘No. Not in town. When we are at home in Buckinghamshire, then I drive a gig.’ She regarded Mr Latymer from under the shelter of the brim of her bonnet. He was not as good-looking as Lord Lansdowne, with dark looks which bordered on the sardonic, but he had an edge about him that was quite stimulating, she decided. It wasn’t in anything he said, more in the way that he said it. Sometimes he could deliver a compliment with a glint in his black eyes that made her suspect this was all a game to him. It certainly put a girl on her mettle.
‘Would you care to drive now?’
‘Why …’
‘Unless you are unsure about driving more than a single horse.’ He made it sound like a challenge.
‘Oh, no, I can drive four in—’ Oh, Lord!
‘Four in hand, Miss Mallory? What a very unusual skill for a woman.’
Drat, double drat! ‘Farm wagons,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Only at a walk, of course, for fun, in the summer.’
‘Ah, I see. For a moment there I thought you were going to tell me you could drive a stagecoach.’
Bree fought the temptation to look at him and try to read his expression. ‘Goodness, what a shocking thing to suggest, Mr Latymer!’ She laughed brightly. ‘But I would like to try a pair—under your guidance, of course.’
‘Certainly.’ He pulled up and began to hand her the reins. They both saw her gloves at the same time.
‘Oh, bother. I should have worn something more sensible to come out driving.’ Bree regarded the almond-green glacé kid gloves ruefully. ‘I bought them this morning, and could not resist. But I will surely split or stain them if I try to drive.’
‘Why not take them off and wear mine?’ Brice Latymer stripped off his gloves as he spoke. ‘They’ll be too big, of course, but the leather is very fine. They should protect your hands.’
‘Thank you.’ She really ought to refuse until another day when she could come prepared, but the temptation of the quiet park in the sunshine was too much. ‘Oh, dear, I knew I should have bought a larger size.’ Bree tugged, but the thin leather clung tenaciously to her warm skin.
‘Let me. I think you need to pull finger by finger.’ Mr Latymer wrapped his reins around the whip in its stand and shifted on the seat until he was facing her. ‘Give me a hand.’
Obediently Bree held out her right hand and sat patiently while he caught each fingertip in turn, tugging the tight leather a fraction at a time. Finally the glove slid off and he caught her hand in his own bare one. ‘There, you see? Patience and care.’ He began on the other.
It was, she realised, a very intimate act. He was having to sit close, her hand held in his while he used the other hand to fret at each fingertip. He made no move to touch her in any other way, nor did he say anything the slightest bit flirtatious, but Bree was visited by the realisation that he was finding this an arousing experience. There was colour on his cheekbones and his breathing was slightly ragged. She swallowed, her own colour rising.
‘Here it comes.’ The second glove slid off, the fragile kid insubstantial in his hand. Bree found she could not take her eyes off it; it seemed like a crushed leaf. Latymer lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘Such a very hot little hand.’
‘Good afternoon.’ A deep voice had Bree jerking her hand out of Latymer’s grip and sitting bolt upright, her cheeks scarlet. ‘Undressing, Miss Mallory?’
She gasped. Of course, it just had to be Max Dysart regarding her with raised eyebrows from the back of a very fine black gelding.
What the devil is she doing, letting Latymer make love to her in the middle of Green Park? He’ll be starting on her garters next. Max recognised the look of heavy-lidded concentration—Latymer was hunting, whether Bree in her innocence knew it or not. However, dismounting, dragging him out of the phaeton and punching him, while it would be satisfying, was not acceptable behaviour in public parks, especially as Bree was showing no signs of distress at his actions.
The gelding sidled, picking up his mood. Max steadied it with hands and the pressure of his thighs, without conscious thought.
‘Mr Latymer was lending me his gloves as he was kind enough to offer to let me drive, and I was foolish enough to come in the most impractical ones imaginable.’
Max fought a brisk battle with his own temper, and won. He had made no claim on her—if one discounted a scandalously indiscreet kiss—and he had no right to be jealous if he found her in a public place with another man. But it was damned hard to be rational and fair about this when the other man was Brice Latymer, whom he trusted about as far as he could throw him.
‘I was not aware that you wished for driving lessons, Miss Mallory.’
‘Hardly lessons, my lord, although I am sure Mr Latymer will be able to give me many useful pointers. Is it not kind of him to remember his promise to take me driving? Lord Lansdowne did as well, and Lady Lucas.’
Hell, I promised to take her driving too! And she’s furious that I haven’t, Max realised with a flash of insight. Is that just pique, or is she disappointed? He should be apologetic that he had forgotten; instead, he cheerfully heaped coals on the flames to see if that produced a reaction.
‘Yes, most thoughtful of them,’ he agreed cordially. ‘You see how much fun you are having since you began to follow my advice, Miss Mallory?’ He tipped his hat to her, and nodded to her companion. ‘Latymer. Enjoy your drive.’ He turned the gelding’s head and cantered off towards the park entrance, fully conscious of two pairs of eyes glaring at his back.
‘Advice?’ Bree was conscious of Brice Latymer’s own hostility, even through her own chagrin. There was something between the two men, something she had noticed, but not given any thought to, in the inn yard in Hounslow. Whatever it was, Max had not liked seeing her with Mr Latymer. Infuriating man. It would serve him right if she set out to make him jealous.…
‘Advice?’ Latymer repeated.
‘Er, yes. He suggested that I … that I get out more, spend less time at home looking after things.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Brice Latymer’s voice was silky. ‘How right he was, of course. But then, Lord Penrith specialises in being right. Now, if you would care to try my gloves?’

Chapter Eleven
The next day brought three invitations to parties from ladies Bree had met at the Dowager’s ball, a note from Georgy asking if she was going to Lady Court’s soirée, because, if so, could they go together because Lord Lucas would not be at home to escort his wife, and a slim package.
‘Goodness, look at these.’ Bree pushed the invitations across the breakfast table to Rosa. ‘We need more gowns, don’t you think? I haven’t got anything suitable for full-dress occasions.’
‘And I certainly have not. Do you intend to accept them all?’
‘I think so. I expect we will get weary of frivolity soon, but it is fun at the moment. So long as you are not finding it too much to go out in the evenings on top of working at the Mermaid.’
‘I enjoy it.’ Rosa spread honey on her roll and took a bite. ‘I am finding it very stimulating, and it is interesting to be working with adults. I do have a list of questions, though, if we could go through them before I go to the office. Unless you need me this morning?’
‘No, although we should go shopping, but I do not mind—morning or afternoon are both fine for me.’ Bree picked up the package and reached for her bread knife to slit the seals.
‘I’ll go this morning, then. Did I tell you I have solved the mystery of the fodder bill? Someone had put all the use of oats into the corn column and the … Goodness, what lovely gloves.’
‘They are, are they not?’ Bree stared at the fine calfskin gloves, perfect for a lady to drive in, with delicate punch work on the backs and dashing cuffs. They were strong, but as soft as butter when she stroked them.
‘Did you order them?’
‘No. I think they must be a present.’ Bree drew on the right one, flexing her fingers. ‘They are silk lined, what luxury.’
‘Who from? Oh, look, there is a card.’ Rosa caught it up and passed it to Bree.
Max! ‘Oh. They are from Mr Latymer.’
‘My dear, you cannot possibly accept them. Not from a gentleman.’ Rosa ran one finger down the back of the left glove and sighed regretfully.
‘Why ever not? I could accept a fan or handkerchiefs, could I not?’
Her companion coloured up. ‘Gloves are more … intimate.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Bree pulled on the other glove and smiled appreciatively as she turned her wrist to admire the effect. ‘They are hardly underwear!’
‘Oh, dear, how can I put this?’ Rosa glanced round and checked that the maid was not in the room. ‘There is a certain symbolism about gloves. And shoes. You have to insert part of your body into a tight fitting …’ She came to a halt, unable to explain further. ‘Cinderella,’ she added, rather wildly.
Light dawned. ‘You mean, like sex? Good heavens, I had no idea.’ No wonder Mr Latymer was getting hot and bothered and Max had been so frosty when he saw Mr Latymer slowly stripping off her gloves in Green Park. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’
‘You aren’t. I’m supposed, as a good chaperon, to warn you.’
‘I’ll have to send them back, won’t I?’
‘I’m afraid so. With a polite note saying you appreciate the gesture, but you are unable to accept articles of apparel.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Bree sighed and folded the gloves back into their wrapping paper before any butter got on them. The door banged open and Piers bounced in. ‘Good morning, Piers.’
‘Morning. Good morning, Rosa. Bree, I’ve finished all my Latin. I got up early. Now, say I can go down to the Mermaid with Rosa this morning?’
‘If you can bounce about like that, and you’ve finished all the tasks set you, then you ought to be going back to school,’ Bree said, feigning severity.
‘I’m tired, really.’ Piers drooped unconvincingly into a chair next to Rosa. ‘I’m just being brave. What’s for breakfast?’
‘What you see! If you want anything else, then ring for it. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.’
‘Who from?’ Piers forked up the last of the bacon and stuck it inelegantly between two slices of toast.
‘Uncle George, I think.’ Bree squinted at the handwriting as she passed it over. ‘Not his usual tidy hand.’
Piers put down his toast and slit the seal. ‘Yes, Uncle George it is.’ He read steadily, taking occasional bites of bacon, then stopped eating, his hand still in mid air.
‘Piers, for goodness’ sake, if you can’t mind your manners for me, do think of poor Rosa with your breakfast waving about under her nose,’ Bree chided.
‘What? Sorry, Rosa. Look, Bree, this is da—I mean, very odd. The old boy doesn’t sound himself at all. He rambles on about the farm, not saying anything of any purpose. Then he asks if we are all right and the business is doing well. And then he says what a good thing it is that I am growing up and can manage my half of the company, and that’s a great weight off his mind. And then there’s something scrawled, which I can’t make head nor tail of.’ He passed the sheet back and Bree peered at it.
‘Neither can I. He’s crossed the sheet to save paper.’
Rosa got to her feet. ‘I will go down to the Mermaid—you will want to discuss this in private.’
‘No, please don’t. You are one of the family.’ Bree flashed her a worried frown. ‘I don’t understand this at all. Rosa, can you read this? You might be more used to bad handwriting.’
‘It looks like, never forgive myself. Excuse me, but is Mr Mallory an elderly gentleman? Could he be becoming confused? It does happen.’
‘He is only sixty-five,’ Bree protested. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I had better go down and see him.’
‘Me too.’ Piers perked up.
‘Either you are well enough to go back to Harrow or you are still convalescent and must stay here and help Rosa with the business. I can take the Aylesbury stage—Mr Hearn’s Despatch goes daily from the King’s Arms.’ Bree frowned and looked at the clock over the mantel. ‘It goes at two o’clock, I think. It’s only at Snow’s Hill at the end of High Holborn,’ she explained to Rosa. ‘I can go up tomorrow, spend the night and get the morning coach back if it is just a false alarm.’
They all sat looking at the folded letter as though expecting it to speak and solve the riddle of Uncle George’s odd ramblings. Rosa gave herself a little shake. ‘If we can just go through my list of queries? Then I’ll get off to the inn. Do you still want to go shopping this afternoon?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Bree said with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I’m sure it’s just a storm in a teacup and I can come back directly. If there are any problems, I’ll write at once and stay down there.’
They worked through a list of queries about the intricacies of the ticketing system, whether it was worth trying a different printer for waybills, how livestock was priced and why turkeys were not carried—’Unless dead’, as Piers helpfully added—and what to do about the unsatisfactory behaviour of one of the ostlers. Then the others departed, Piers quizzing Rosa about the mystery of the fodder bill.
Bree wandered into the drawing room, sank down on the sofa and regarded the empty fireplace blankly, worrying about her uncle. Should she go down today? No, she decided. He might just have been down in the dumps and there’ll be a letter tomorrow saying so. And he’ll be mortified if I go haring off down there because of that. I’ll give him twenty-four hours.
But it would be good to have someone to talk to about it. She felt Piers was too young, and she could hardly burden Rosa with family worries, but what if there was something seriously wrong with him? He was unmarried, a reserved, independent type who would hate it if they had to start interfering in his life, however good their motives and however tactful they were.
If only Max were here. She could talk to him and he would be sensible and sympathetic and help her see it in perspective. No, perhaps not so sympathetic now, not since that stilted visit and the embarrassing encounter in Green Park.
The sound of the knocker sent her to the window. There was a phaeton at the kerb, but she did not recognise the horses. Perhaps it was Max.
‘Mr Latymer, Miss Mallory.’ Peters stood waiting. ‘Are you at home?’
‘Oh. Yes, yes, I am. Peters, show him in and ask Lucy to come down, please. He can wait in here. I just need to get something from the breakfast room.’ After the incident with the gloves she had better be on her best behaviour, and that included chaperonage. Bree slipped out of the connecting door and went to collect the gloves from the table. When she got back Lucy was perched on a hard chair in the corner and Brice Latymer was studying the landscape over the fireplace.
‘Miss Mallory, good morning. I see you have received my little gift.’
‘Please, sit down, Mr Latymer. Yes, it arrived safely. The gloves are delightful, but I am afraid I cannot accept them.’ She held out the package, but he made no move to take it.
‘But the merest trifle, Miss Mallory, please, relent.’ The black eyes held a trace of the heat she recalled from the day before.
‘I must insist, sir. I cannot accept articles of apparel.’ She continued to hold out the gloves until he had no choice but to get up and take them.
Bree knew she was blushing. Knew, too, that he could see that and that he knew that she knew the significance of the gift. It made her feel decidedly hot and bothered. ‘My chaperon is adamant, I am afraid,’ she added.
‘A pity.’ He folded them away into his pocket with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come for a drive anyway?’
Bree shook her head regretfully. ‘I am sorry, but I would be poor company today.’
‘My dear Miss Mallory, are you in some distress? What can I do to assist you?’ His black eyes were sharp and interested.
‘A family matter, sir. A relative who seems … unwell. There is nothing you can do, but thank you for your concern.’
‘I can listen,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes that helps. Is it a close relative?’
‘Yes, my uncle. My late father’s brother who lives near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.’
‘Mmm?’ He nodded encouragingly.
‘He is the co-owner with my brother of the stagecoach company, and breeds our horses.’
‘And Mr Mallory senior is unwell?’ Latymer prompted, leaning forwards with his forearms on his knees, sleek and elegant. It all seemed so easy, just to confide in him.
‘We had an odd letter from him today. He sounded—I suppose distracted is the word.’
‘How disconcerting. His family is looking after him, I suppose?’
‘No, he is unmarried. I intend to go down to visit him tomorrow. It is probably nothing, but I want to set my mind at rest.’
‘Of course, I can quite see that you would want to do that. Perhaps the burden of the business is too much for him?’
‘I do not think it is that. I … I mean, Piers runs the business, although Uncle George owns half.’
‘You are obviously concerned and a visitor cannot fail to be a distraction from your thoughts.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Miss Mallory, I will remove myself and hope to persuade you to a drive when you return to town. Good day, and I trust you find your uncle in the best of health.’
Bree said all that was expected and sat down onto her sofa as he left. She really ought to think about what to take tomorrow, and there was Cook to speak to about menus for two days.
‘That’s what I call a proper gentleman,’ Lucy observed, getting up and making her way to the door. ‘Ever so good-looking and nice manners with it.’
‘Mmm,’ Bree agreed absently.
‘Shall I pack a bag for tomorrow, Miss Bree? And do you want me to come too?’
‘No, I will be fine on the stage, Lucy. If you can pack an overnight bag, please, that would be helpful.’ Feeling as though her feet were lead, Bree stood up and went to interview Cook. Pleasant as Mr Latymer was, he was not the gentleman she was yearning to talk to, and the realisation that she had so little control over her emotions was as depressing as anything.
‘Miss Mallory!’
Bree looked around, half-expecting to see an ostler from the Mermaid running after her up the crowded pavements of High Holborn. Then she glanced towards the road and saw Max pushing the reins of his curricle into the hands of a groom and jumping down into the traffic.
‘My lord, do take a care!’ she scolded as he arrived at her side. ‘I am sure jumping about like that is not good for your shoulder.’ But the sight of him was good for her spirits, however ambivalent her feelings towards him were. Bree felt her heartbeat quicken and she had to struggle to keep the smile off her lips.
‘Thanks to the exceptional care I received, my shoulder is almost healed,’ he assured her. The memory of his smooth, hot, hard-muscled skin under her palms flashed through Bree’s thoughts and she made herself smile politely.
‘Excellent.’
‘Where are you off to with that bag, all by yourself?’ Max demanded, seeing the portmanteau in her hand for the first time.
‘Just to the King’s Head in Snow Hill to take the Aylesbury stage, my lord. Will you excuse me? It leaves at two and I must hurry.’
‘What are you doing, trying out the opposition?’ He took the bag from her hand and began to stride along beside her.
‘No, just visiting my uncle in Aylesbury.’
‘By yourself? On the common stage?’ She shot him a look and he tipped his head to one side in rueful acknowledgment that, to her, travel by stage was no particular adventure. ‘Let me drive you.’
‘In what, my lord?’ Bree kept walking briskly as she talked. She had booked her ticket and had not thought it necessary to allow much time to walk the short distance between the two inns. ‘Your curricle will take perhaps six hours, almost as long as the stage, and both that, or a chaise, would be equally shocking for me to be seen in.’
‘Of course. I was forgetting that you are the respectable Miss Mallory now, not my stagecoach-driving Bree.’
‘You made me become respectable,’ Bree pointed out, trying not to analyse his words too carefully.
‘So I did,’ Max agreed. ‘So the least I can do is to give you my escort.’
‘On the stage? I am in no need of escort, I assure you.’ Bree turned into the yard of the King’s Head, her eyes automatically assessing the state of the place, comparing and learning. Max was still firmly by her side. ‘You will not get an inside ticket, my lord.’
‘I will travel in the basket if necessary,’ he vowed, turning aside to the ticket office while Bree handed her bag to the guard.
It seemed things were not that bad, for Max emerged with a ticket for the roof. ‘But what about your carriage? And your plans? It takes seven hours to Aylesbury—we arrive at nine at night. You must stay over and leave at seven in the morning to get back.’ She regarded him helplessly. ‘My lord, there is absolutely no need for this.’
‘All aboard the Despatch for Aylesbury!’ The guard began to chivvy the passengers.
‘My groom will sort things out—my people are quite used to me taking off with no notice. I fancy another stagecoach adventure. Let me help you inside.’
Bree gave up, let herself be handed in, and wedged herself into a corner seat along with the other five passengers who made for a full inside complement. She just hoped that Max was not too uncomfortable on the roof and that the Despatch was not carrying its maximum of twelve outside passengers. It really was no place for a man with an injured shoulder, whatever he said about how well it was healing.
She fretted about him for a while, then came to the conclusion that she could not worry about a grown man as she could about her brother, and let herself enjoy the warm glow of knowing that he was concerned about her.
The disconcerting pang of physical attraction she felt for him had not diminished, she realised, then smiled faintly. She could hardly be more chaperoned than she was now, rattling along, jammed in with five strangers while Max was stuck on the roof. They might exchange a few words at the stops along the way, then she’d be off in a hired chaise to the farm and he would be left to find lodgings in Aylesbury. Tomorrow morning the whole exercise was be repeated.
What did he think he was protecting her against? Highwaymen? It was hardly likely that a full stage, in daylight and with a guard up, would attract an attack.
‘Do we stop at Stanmore?’ the stout woman opposite her demanded.
‘Yes. The second stop,’ Bree answered automatically, earning herself affronted looks from the four men in the coach who all obviously thought they were better fitted than a woman to respond. ‘The Bell. Then we stop at Watford, Hemel Hempstead, Berkhamsted and Tring. This is a slow coach,’ she added.

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