Caledonia gave vent to her excitement, and gave her mare her head. Off they went down Rotten Row at a pace designed to shred decorum as well as miles. And why not make it miles? Why not get Tobias McTavish all to herself so she could get to the heart of the matter—and have an adventure saving her mother’s jewels in the meantime.

So she turned her mare off the well-beaten, hard-packed bridle path, and angled their course northward along the ice-bound line of the Serpentine River. Cally checked surreptitiously once or twice to make sure McTavish followed, before she put him to a real test by jumping the low railing out of the park and across the Oxbridge Toll Road into the fallow frozen fields of Craven Hill.

And gracious if McTavish didn’t clamp his hat upon his head and follow, making an effort to draw even with her by the time they reached the outskirts of the small village of Paddington.

“I had no idea you were a jockey masquerading as a young lady,” he observed as coolly as if she had not just called him by his real name. “You ought to be working the circuit at Newmarket.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun.” Cally laughed and gave him her sunniest smile as she patted her steaming mare. “One does one’s best.”

But her companion declined to flirt, and drew rein before turning his mount southward. “We’ve gone far enough—it’s time to turn back. Your people will be wondering where you are.”

“I’m a widow of four and twenty, Mr. Smith.” She used the name he obviously preferred as she turned her mount abreast of him, lest he think she was the sort of girl who could be led. “I’m hardly a green girl who needs to be minded.”

He tried to be quelling—favoring her with a ferocious frown. “That is a matter of opinion.”

But she could see the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he were working manfully to deny them both the pleasure.

“Have it your way.” They rode on in silence until she felt obliged to pick up the conversational reins. “Come now, Mr. Smith. I’ve been waiting all morning for you to ask me about—or even mention—that kiss I gave you last night.”

And there was the discernible curve to his gloriously full lips. “A gentleman doesn’t like to introduce such a topic.”

Cally laughed again, her breath curling in delighted arabesques over her head. “But we both know you’re no gentleman. Especially if you really were a Mr. Smith—they’ve done away with such distinctions in America.”

Her blithe response seemed to make him even more quelling—his frown grew into a narrow scowl. “In America—and in Scotland as well—” he added, “you’re what we’d have called a headstrong lass.”

“Thank you.” She touched her riding crop to her hat in acknowledgment. “I know men always mean the opposite when they say that—as if they judge my head not strong in the least—but as I’m from Scotland, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He looked at her askance. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

Cally laughed at his discomfort—she’d teach him to flirt yet. “Nonsense. You’re Scots,” she pointed out. “And you like me. You’d never have consented to come riding with me otherwise. Unless…you’re like the rest of the men, and only after my money. And jewels.”

He reacted not at all to the last. “And have you any money, Mrs. Bowmont?”

Now they were getting somewhere.

Cally minded herself enough to safely cross the traffic at the Oxford Road near St. George’s Row into the rather more tame confines of the park. “Not enough to make me an object of unscrupulous fortune hunters.”

“But you think I’m one of them?”

“I’m not sure just what you are, Mr. Smith. But I know you’re not American.”

“As I said, I was born in Scotland.”

“Where?”

“Fife.”

“Which is a rather large place—although it does make us neighbors of a sort, as I’m originally from Perthshire—so where specifically in Fife, Mr. Smith?”

“And why do you want to know, Mrs. Bowmont?”

“Why, to see if we have any acquaintance in common.”

“We do not.” His tone was firm. “I come from humble—frankly poor—stock. Not at all the type of people who have acquaintances.”

“Nonsense.” Cally pulled up, so she might face him. And so he might actually look at her, and see that she was sincere. “I come from good solid farming stock myself—my father was a gentleman farmer, not a nobleman like my mother’s husband. Viscount Balfour is my step-father only, and as generous and kind as he is, he shares with my siblings and me some of his money, but none of his bloodline.”

“All of the benefits, and none of the responsibility.”

He was trying to be off-putting again, so Cally switched tacks to agree with him. “I suppose so, when you put it like that. I do know I’ve been very lucky and very fortunate in my circumstances—though I have known the abject loss of widowhood, I’ve never known want, nor ever lacked all comfort. In fact, the loss has made me see what matters more clearly—and that knowledge has made me stronger.”

“So I see. As I said—headstrong girl.”

“Yes, headstrong. And heartstrong as well. I decide what I like and what I want, and I pursue it.”

“And do you usually get it?”

She gifted him with a smile. “Usually.”

“A singular girl, as well. I hate to be the first to disappoint you—”

“Oh, you’re not the first. And I was already disappointed in you—consorting with such a young girl back in the park. Shame on you.”

He was honest enough to immediately take her meaning. “There is nothing I can do about the age of a flower seller.”

“My dear man, I may be headstrong, but I am not stupid. You were quite clearly more than acquainted with that gawp-mouthed girl—I saw you go out the water stairs from the Thames at the Grindle & Company warehouse with her when I went there to arrange for wine to be supplied for my lady mother’s Christmas masquerade. You nearly knocked me down in your haste to escape the Runners. I’ll warrant you really didn’t see me, but I saw you.”

Now she had his attention—he leaned over the pommel of his saddle to openly stare at her. “I beg your pardon. I seem to have greatly underestimated you.”

As that was as good as an apology as she was like to get from him, she accepted it with an airy wave. “Men always do—they underestimate all women, I fear. But we do seem to have lost them, the Runners.”

He didn’t even bother to look around to confirm the truth of her assertion—he still just looked at her. “Very neatly done. You do seem to have your uses after all, Mrs. Bowmont.”

He was looking at her with open admiration—his eyes were shining with it.

He was going to kiss her now—she could tell by the way his gaze sharpened and dropped to her lips.

Cally’s heart squeezed in her chest, making it a pleasurable discomfort to breathe. It was everything she could do to sit still, and wait for him. To not moisten her suddenly dry lips, or lean toward him in encouragement.

Or maybe she was leaning toward him. Maybe…

“Let’s head back.” He turned his mount away, quashing her hope. “We’ve been gone far too long. And the horses will grow cold. Someone will miss me, even if they can’t possibly miss you.”