Chapter Ten
Ottenberg called promptly at two o’clock that afternoon. Promptness, he declared as he stood with booted feet spread, commanding the center hall with his presence, was a Prussian virtue.
Frankie had chosen a dark blue jacket with scarlet piping and matching skirt, and to wear her hair in a simple chignon. Her hat was styled after a man’s silk topper, with a demi-veil pulled to the back in a saucy bow of netting. The duke smiled as he examined her. The next moment Red appeared in his riding coat and English boots, hat and gloves in hand, and held out a beefy paw to the duke.
“Redmond Strait, Yer Grace.” Red grinned as he pumped the duke’s reluctantly offered hand. “Frankie’s uncle. Her ma insisted I come. Said some fresh air would do me good.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Strait.” The duke drew his hand back with a stiff expression, and Frankie thought to herself that she’d just caught him in his first lie. And not a very good one at that. “I shall do what I can to see you fully exercised.” He turned to Frankie. “It appears we must make a brief visit to the Hyde Park first, but then we will proceed to the Guildsmere Battery, where I have sent my man ahead to arrange refreshments.”
It wasn’t a suggestion or proposal, it was a decision. His.
“Why Hyde Park?” she asked, hoping he would see her reluctance, remember what she had said about the place.
“I have a business matter to attend there. It grieves me, fräulein, that it intrudes on our pleasure, but it will hopefully prove worth the inconvenience.” He looked less grieved than determined. The way he had seized her afternoon as if it were his to dispose of made her wish it was already over.
“Perhaps you would prefer to take care of your business first,” she suggested, “and then return to collect us on the way to Guildsmere.”
“Oh, no, my dear, it will only take a few moments. And the view of the place they call the Serpentine will surely entertain you.”
Was he determined to annoy her or was he simply used to making decisions and having everyone around him kowtow? She felt her free-range-American hackles rising.
“I heard o’ that Guildsmere place,” Red said before Frankie could object further. “Military in olden days. Always wanted to see it.”
The sun shone through a gray haze caused by London’s countless chimney stacks, but it was still strong enough for Frankie to feel it on her face. A lifting breeze promised a comfortable outing. As her big roan gelding, Aramis, was brought up by a groom from the Trinity stables, she couldn’t help rushing to greet him and give him a carrot she had snagged from the kitchen. He nuzzled her in joyful familiarity.
“You feed the horse before he does work?” The duke inspected her beloved mount with a skeptical air. She barely kept her jaw from dropping.
“He is my favorite and I give him treats to show I care for him.”
The duke gave a slight frown, and then his gaze caught on the English saddle on Aramis’s back.
“You ride astride?” He searched her skirts with a hint of shock.
“Always.” She lifted her chin, determined to let him know his opinion was irrelevant. “It is the Nevada way, Your Grace. More secure and, frankly, more comfortable. Though, I have given up my Western saddle for an English one.” What would he think if he knew she sometimes groomed and brushed her horse as well?
He seemed to be turning her peculiar habits over in his mind as he helped her to mount. He laced his hands to form a step, and soon they were riding three abreast through the streets toward Hyde Park. She caught the duke studying her and realized he was scrutinizing her seat with a sly smile. A knot began to form in her middle. This had not started off well, and now she was stuck pursuing his blessed itinerary for hours.
The cool, gray streets were full of carriages, cabs, lorries, and pedestrians, but within fifteen minutes, they were riding through the Hyde Park gate to join other riders on the sand-colored path lined with trees. Rotten Row was walk-slow-and-look-smart territory, the complete opposite of the unfettered, joyful exercise the duke had promised her.
Within two minutes of arriving, she spotted Mrs. Clayton Erskine, wife of a cabinet minister and a friend of her mother’s, riding a stockinged chestnut and scrutinizing everyone who came through the gate. Mrs. Erskine smiled stiffly and nodded in greeting. Mama would surely get a full report before the day was out. Lord Bradford was nearby, showing off his fashionable daughters on horses that looked as bored as the young women on them. Another smile and nod. There were several gentlemen on horseback who nodded or tugged hat brims as they passed and stared covertly at her unconventional choice of saddle. Lady riders studied her seat as she passed and leaned to whisper to one another and their escorts.
Combined with the duke’s sidelong glances, it was an invasive and unwelcome kind of attention that she had studiously avoided for the last two years. Whatever possessed the duke to publicize his association with her like this, to make sure they were seen together by all and sundry? Who would care that they rode together today?
“Well, well,” came a familiar voice coming up behind her. “Imagine meeting you here.”
* * *
Reynard had watched her arrive with Red and the Prussian, right on schedule. They made a striking trio, but his attention fastened on Frankie—beautifully turned out in her dark blue riding habit, in perfect control of her handsome mount, and looking utterly composed. At the moment, the duke was being distracted by a pair of gentlemen intent on speaking with him.
When he rode up behind her and spoke, she started and reined up sharply. Red halted and turned to see what caused her surprise and broke into a grin at the sight of him.
“Hey, Fox,” Red greeted him with a mischievous grin and a buoyant wave of a hand.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her eyes were set off by the color of her jacket and her face was flushed with either pleasure or surprise. He took a steadying breath. He had never seen her looking more vibrant.
“Riding, I believe.” He responded with a nod to Red and then looked down. “Ah. Horse. Definitely riding.”
“Why here?” she said, exasperated. “On the most famous bridle path in the kingdom? I wouldn’t think you engaged in such fashionable habits.”
“Yes, but, being the curious sort, I love to see and hear the doings of the fashionable set, Miss B. And where better to do that?”
Turning her head so the duke couldn’t see, she gave him a glare that could have set a haystack ablaze. Fortunately, he was made of less flammable stuff. He smiled and edged his mount forward as the duke turned from the gentlemen he had spoken with and spotted him.
“Rottenberg, I believe.” Reynard leaned forward, nodding. “A pleasure to see you again. And in such fetching company.”
“I do not recall the introduction,” the Prussian said, though his narrowed eyes indicated he remembered the face.
“Yer Grace, this here is Reynard Boulton,” Red inserted, resting his forearm on the pommel of his saddle. “Viscount Tannehill in the makin’.”
“He was at the Tuttys’ ball last week,” Frankie added, annoyed by the duke’s selective amnesia. Lie number two. “No doubt you saw him there.” She leaned forward in her saddle to look past the duke. “Have you completed your business here, Your Grace?”
“Almost.” The duke looked around restively. “I am to see a horse—one I may decide to purchase. They bring it around now.”
“Conducting a horse purchase here?” Reynard raised one eyebrow and glanced at the grand company parading past. “Interesting.”
“Actually, I had hoped to gain Miss Bumgarten’s opinion before the purchase,” the duke said, giving her a smile that conferred condescending approval. “Coming from a family that knows horses, I hope she will appreciate good riding stock when she sees it.”
“Heh.” Red gave a huff of a laugh. “She knows good stock when she sees it.” He looked at Reynard. “Bumgarten gals take their own head when it comes to ridin’. But they know what they’re doin’.”
“I would love to see this animal you are considering.” Reynard addressed the duke with a hint of challenge. Rotten Row was hardly the place to be seen trying out new mounts, and surely the Prussian knew that. That meant he intended to show off an acquisition in this public place, intending to impress Frankie. “And to hear Miss B’s opinion of it.”
If the duke’s glare had been a knife, Boulton sensed he would lay dead and headless in the middle of the path.
* * *
A commotion occurred across the railing separating the row from the carriage lane. A mounted rider was having trouble leading a fractious horse through the carriages. A wave of consternation and comment accompanied the animal’s attempts to free itself from the groom’s callous use of the reins. As the horse neared their party, its eyes were wide and anxious and it seemed to be struggling with a sizeable curb bit.
“There he is, the grand stallion,” the duke said, glowing with anticipation. “He has most unusual coloring, eh, mein fräulein
?”
“Striking.” She stared in open dismay at the way the groom used a crop and yanked the horse’s head around.
In truth, the horse was stunning—a bit over sixteen hands, dappled white with a black mane and tail and a beautiful, if somewhat muscular, confirmation. Andalusian blood, no doubt. Reynard watched both the horse and Frankie as the groom prodded the animal to the railing between carriages and boxed it in with his own mount. She gripped her reins tightly and her face was taut with self-control. Ottenberg concentrated so intently on his prize that he was oblivious to Frankie’s tension.
“Bring him around so I can see him move,” the duke ordered, jerking his head toward the entrance to the Row, near the Hyde Park Gate.
When the groom turned his own mount to drag the horse past the carriages and down the lane, the stallion took exception to the way the groom’s horse brushed his hindquarters and kicked, hitting the groom’s horse—which shied and bolted, tearing the stallion’s reins from the groom’s hands as he fought to stay upright in the saddle.
Reynard saw a disaster in the making as the black-and-white stallion spooked and reared. He grabbed Frankie’s elbow to get her attention. “Back up—give him room—he’s going to—”
The stallion was blowing in panic and confusion, and his hooves hit the metal railing with a clang that spooked him further. He twisted one way, then another, trying to find an opening to freedom. Frankie, Red, and Reynard wheeled their horses and scrambled out of the way, while the duke spat orders in German—his face red and eyes hot. Their withdrawal created space for the horse to escape and in a wild-eyed panic, he reared and lunged over the railing, clearing it by an inch.
As the stallion made for open ground farther down the lane, Frankie spurred her big roan with her heels and took off after him. Reynard was seconds behind her. Red was seconds after him.
Frankie bent to her horse, urging him after the stallion. Reynard tried calling out, telling her to let it go, but the wind and the thunder of hooves made it impossible for him to be heard. His heart crept into his throat as she pulled even with the runaway and leaned precariously from her galloping mount to reach the stallion’s dragging reins. Twice, then three times she leaned and grabbed for the reins, and he could hear Red bellowing just behind him. On the fourth try she grabbed them and straightened in her saddle, and began to slow her mount.
The stallion fought the reins, his mouth open and neck arched. Frankie was having a hard time slowing him down and the panicked stallion kicked out at the big roan that was crowding him. Aramis reared, stumbled, and went down rear-first, throwing her off as he scrambled for footing.
Reynard was the first to reach her and dismounted at a run, slamming to his knees in the sand beside her.
“Miss B!” He grabbed her shoulders as she sat up and when she looked up, seeming a little dazed, he began to feel her arms for broken bones. Red arrived a moment later and she waved him after the stallion before he could dismount.
“I’m fine!” she shouted. “Get him before he breaks his fool neck!”
Red shot her a grin and kicked his mount into a dead run that was as impressive as any Reynard had ever seen. The old boy still had it in him.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered, feeling her shoulders, neck, and the back of her head. “You could be injured—”
“Hardly,” she said, propping herself up with her arms. “I’ve been thrown more times than I can count. I can tell there’s nothing broken. Let me sit up.”
“Are you certain?” he said, feeling a belated rush of anxiety he had held at bay while charging after her. Then she looked up with big blue eyes that were slightly out of focus, and he felt like he’d taken a haymaker to the gut. Her perky hat with its saucy bow was damaged; there was dust all over her riding habit; and her skin was flushed from her wild ride. Those moments the other day in the coach came back to him. It was all he could do to withdraw his hands and allow her to right herself as other riders arrived.
The duke slammed to a stop and dismounted like an avenging angel. “Are you injured, fräulein?” He stood over her with worry etched in his stony face.
“I’ll be all right, Your Grace. Just a bit shaken up.” She squeezed Reynard’s arm as if to insist he stay beside her.
“Mein Gott
, I will see that monster destroyed!” When he saw her trying to rise, he stooped to extend a hand. “Please, allow me.”
“I believe she should go home and be seen by a physician,” Reynard said as she reached her feet with assistance from them both, but swayed against him.
“I agree,” the duke said, extending an arm as if expecting Reynard to cede her unsteady form to him. Reynard met him eye to eye.
“I have her, Ottenberg.” His concern for her overrode his common sense. “Perhaps you could find someone to lend a coach?”
Ottenberg straightened, glancing at the well-heeled riders watching them, and tempered his reaction. Then he looked past Frankie to her horse that had regained its feet and stood, head down, beneath a nearby tree. His expression darkened and Reynard turned to see what had drawn his notice. There was a slash on the roan’s right flank and his surprise was somehow transmitted through his contact with her.
“What is it?” She turned to follow his gaze. “Aramis!”
“The carriage, man!” Reynard barked at Ottenberg, who looked as if he would lash out at the impertinence, but he saw Frankie wilt against Reynard and stalked for the line of carriages, gripping his riding crop as if looking for something or someone to use it on.
She rushed to the horse and ran her hands over his head and neck, murmuring reassurance.
Reynard bent to look at the wound. “Not as bad as it looks. Shallow, but a bleeder,” he said quietly as several onlookers dismounted. He glanced around, recognizing several faces, and stepped closer to her.
“Now would be a good time to faint,” he murmured for her ears only. “If you’re keen to escape this debacle with the Prussian, that is. Who could blame you? Being thrown and then the sight of blood . . .”
* * *
What were the options? Frankie was frantic. Giving the duke a piece of her mind in front of God and everybody . . . calling off the ride and searching for a way home . . . finding a horse doctor while fending off the duke’s commands that were cloaked as concern . . .
* * *
Frankie looked at Reynard with sudden clarity and then collapsed in the most ladylike swoon he had ever seen, raising her arms, pressing the back of a hand gracefully to her forehead, giving him time to catch and collect her into his arms. The reaction of onlookers was immediate; they made a path for him and called for a carriage, any carriage to bear the young woman to safety. Confusion broke out as several people offered to see her horse to a veterinary surgeon and to see his mount returned to his stable. He spoke to a gentleman he knew, putting their mounts in his hands. A short, elegantly clad fellow wearing thick spectacles appeared to direct him to a carriage on which the footman was just putting up the hood.
“Mister Pelham.” Reynard recognized him as a former MP. “I would be most grateful, sir.”
“Think nothing of it.” The old fellow hurried along beside him as he carried her across the bridle path to a nearby carriage. “I hope she recovers quickly. She is a most courageous young woman.”
Reynard nodded, thinking she was more foolhardy than brave, but he had to agree with the old boy that there was something admirable in her willingness to take action even though it jeopardized her own safety. He was breathing hard and torn between holding her close and throttling her as he climbed into the carriage. The footman closed the door and took his perch on the back while the driver at the front took the address.
Reynard deposited her bottom half on the seat and kept his arms around her shoulders as they reached the streets. Mr. Pelham’s barouche was a light, well-sprung carriage that made the ride surprisingly gentle. Still he couldn’t bring himself to release her. For a moment, he just watched her breathing softly in his arms.
She popped one eye open, then the other, and sighed with relief.
“Where did you learn to faint like that?” he said. “Is that your mother’s doing? Did you have a vapors-and-swooning tutor?”
“It may surprise you to learn that this is the first time I have pretended to faint in my entire life.” She raised her chin but made no effort to remove herself from his lap.
“You’re right, I am surprised. Mastering the art of genteel fainting is something of a rite of passage among upper-class girls.”
“You forget,” she said, eyes twinkling, “I’m upper-class by finance only. Down deep, I’m a hardy, rough-ridin’, cattle-wranglin’ female from Silver City, Nevada.”
That startled him for a moment.
“Good,” he declared. “Because I think I may have thrown my back out carrying you. I may have to have help getting into your house.”