“Bartholomew Fair?” Lord Glenrick chuckled. “Now that you mention it, I can see the resemblance. Epsom is close enough to London that it draws a goodly crowd to see the races, which in turn draws its own crowd to entertain them. Hi, you!” He stopped a youth pushing a wheelbarrow filled with sacks of oats. “Where might the filly Maharahnee be stabled?”

  The youth took in their clothes and Glenrick’s cultured voice and evidently calculated that being respectful was the most potentially lucrative course of action. “Next row down, sir, ’bout fifty yards that way. Hard by a girt yaller ’n green tent—outlandish thing. Jem Salter’ll be on guard outside it. Can’t miss him.” He held out his hand with an ingratiating grin.

  Lord Glenrick snorted and tossed him a coin and guided Annabel between a tent selling roasted apples and another fitted out as a barber shop. In the next “street” more of the tents appeared to be serving as stables. Annabel took careful note of any landmarks and distinctive features as they passed them by; getting lost was the last thing she wanted to happen.

  The “girt yaller ’n green tent” was indeed large and unmissable, in broad stripes of green and yellow trimmed with scarlet and scarlet pennons flying from its corners and center pole. Judging by the sounds issuing from it, a convivial dinner party was in full spate within. Flambeaux were stuck into the ground before the tent, between which a powerful-looking young man, clad in a sober suit, stood sentinel. He regarded them keenly as they passed. And next, beyond him—

  The tent beyond was neither large nor grand, being formed of stained gray canvas liberally adorned with patches. It barely looked long enough to hold a horse. Seated on a low stool before it, a man was rubbing grease into a bridle. He was as bald as an egg, had a jockey’s wiry, fine-boned build, and stared up at them with narrowed black eyes, so dark as to seem pupil-less.

  “What?” he barked as they paused.

  Annabel was taken aback by his ferocity. What a choleric temper! But another look at him made her wonder if that was actually the case; he didn’t seem angry so much as wound so tightly that the smallest irritation might cause him to fly to pieces. A pity Emily wasn’t there; she would probably have been able to read him like a book.

  Lord Glenrick did not appear to notice the man’s tension. “This is where Sir Oswald keeps his filly, yes? The lady hoped to catch a glimpse of her.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed even further if that were possible. “The lady’ll have to wait till Maharahnee runs, same as everyone else. I ain’t disturbing her just so you can gawk at her.” He scowled at Annabel.

  Lord Glenrick drew himself up. “My good man, I’ll thank you not to be so rude—”

  “Of course we don’t wish to disturb your charge,” Annabel said quickly. “We only stopped in case she was out. It must be a strain, preparing for a race—even for a dumb animal.”

  The man—this must be the Jem Salter the boy with the wheelbarrow had mentioned—gave her a long look up and down and seemed to relent. “’S all right, ma’am. I kin get—you know—prickly when people start actin’ as if it’s their right to see her. You come back tomorrow—mebbe she’ll be gettin’ her exercise.”

  “You are very kind, er—”

  “Salter, ma’am.” He bobbed his head.

  “Salter,” she repeated. “Good evening.” She nodded to him and pulled unobtrusively on Lord Glenrick’s arm. She could feel Jem Salter’s eyes on her back as they left.

  “Peppery little fellow,” Lord Glenrick said when they were out of earshot. “I didn’t care for how he spoke to you.”

  “He was being protective of his master’s property, for which he can scarcely be blamed.” Annabel did her best to subtly steer them back by the way they had come, to make certain that she had memorized the route. This place was a veritable city made of flapping, fluttering canvas—and, like a city, was perilously easy to get lost in. Thank heavens for that ridiculous yellow tent being where it was!

  “Still, I did not care to see my dear friend spoken to so roughly.” They turned into the alley between tents that led to the first main thoroughfare. The sun was lowering, painting the canvas walls with rosy light.

  “I am grateful for your concern, sir, but I am not some fragile flower who cannot survive an occasional cold wind.” She glanced up at him, smiling.

  As he met her glance, a change came over his face and he halted. “Annabel,” he said, so low that it sounded like a growl. In the next instant he had crushed her against him, covering her mouth with his.

  She gasped in surprise, which he seemed to take as encouragement; his kisses grew deeper and more impassioned…and deeply unpleasant. She turned her head and managed to worm a hand up to push at his chest. “Lord Glenrick, no! Stop!”

  “Annabel,” he murmured, kissing the side of her throat.

  She pushed again, this time staggering back a step. “Pray, sir—!”

  He tried to reach for her once more, then seemed to recollect himself and allowed his hands to fall. “Forgive me, my darling.” His breath came fast and ragged; it took him a long moment to master it. “When you looked up at me with that delicious little smile, I could not stop myself.”

  She watched him warily. “Sir, I—"

  “You have bewitched me, ma belle. I am completely in your spell.” He took her gloved hand and pressed his lips fervently into her palm.

  Oh, really. Annabel snatched it back. “I had no intention—”

  “That matters for naught. Your mere presence drives me to madness. I want you, Annabel. I want every last, luscious inch of you. If only you had come alone—if that Bathurst female were not here with you—” He took a step closer, eyes intent on her face.

  She turned away from him. Yes, that’s all very well, replied a voice in her head that sounded remarkably similar to her grandmother’s. But notice there’s no mention of loving or honoring or cherishing you.

  But even more than that, she did not want him to kiss her—or do anything else to her, for that matter. His…attack had been the antithesis of delicious, as far as she was concerned. Thank heavens Georgiana was indeed here; in fact, she almost wished now that they were sharing a room.

  She straightened her shoulders and turned back to look at him. “My lord, I—I fear that I do not share your feelings. Furthermore, I cannot think this is the time and place to discuss such…matters.” It was a miracle that no one had chosen to come down this particular alley a moment ago!

  He had the grace to look abashed. “You are right. I humbly beg your pardon, my darling. This was not the time or place.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the inn?”

  “Yes, please.” Annabel took his arm, not without trepidation, and they continued on. She was careful this time to not let him draw her too close to his side again...but surely that had not been the cause of his behavior. Nor, on reflection, did she think had she done anything to encourage his advances, even when considering her actions through the filter of her inner Grandmother Shellingham.

  But she must make it clear to him now that while she enjoyed his company for a stroll or a ride in the park, she did not welcome it in her bedchamber. And there was no time like the present. “Lord Glen—” she began.

  But he had spoken as well. “I find it difficult to credit that it is already June. Before we know it, the season will be over. Do you go to Brighton in August?”

  Annabel closed her mouth on her interrupted words. Should she forge ahead, or allow him to smooth over the matter with polite conversation? She hesitated, weighing the alternatives…and the moment passed.

  “I…usually I bring my sons to visit my parents in August,” she finally said. “I’ve never been to Brighton; my husband often went for a few weeks’ stay while I was in Somerset.”

  “Oh, you must come this year. Surely a week would not be out of the question, would it? Frances always enjoys our visits there; she would be delighted if you were present as well.”

  His mention of Frances was reassuring; she’d half-expected him to suggest a private rendezvous—inasmuch as anything in Brighton in August could be private, packed as it was with the Prince of Wales and his friends and hangers-on. But still… “Thank you. I—I am doubtful that it could be managed, but I shall give it some thought.”

  The rest of their walk back to the inn through the slowly deepening dusk was quiet, offering no good conversational openings for making clear her feelings—or lack of them—to Lord Glenrick. Very well, if it could not happen tonight, tomorrow or the next day would have to suffice. She hoped he would accept a rebuff philosophically, so that they could remain friends. One never knew; some men could be touchy about having their advances rejected.

  Especially if that rejection coincided with another man’s advances not being rejected.

  Not that Quin was precisely making advances to her; it was more as if...as if he was encouraging her to make advances to him now that she thought about it. If matters between them continued in this way, then Lord Glenrick might well come to regard Quin as a rival.

  Or would he? The interactions that she’d observed between the two men were odd. Quin had once warned her against Lord Glenrick without explaining why she should be wary of him. Yet she’d seen the pair of them together at the Summer Exhibition, and Quin had accepted Lord Glenrick’s invitations to the opera and to Hampton Court—or had those been Frances’s invitations?

  It was all dreadfully perplexing.

  But even if Quin were not here, she would not be falling into Lord Glenrick’s arms simply because he wanted her to. That, at least, was not perplexing.

  Some hours later, Annabel was again walking the tent alleys of Epsom Down—this time wrapped in shadow and with a cloaked Georgiana by her side. Sneaking out of the inn—even with Georgiana—had been the least of her difficulties. The greatest had been her maid, Winters.

  When she’d gone up to her room after returning from her walk with Lord Glenrick,Winters was waiting for her, as was proper. Annabel allowed her to take her hat and shawl to put away but refused, nonchalantly but firmly, when Winters offered to help her prepare for bed. “Thank you, but I find I am wide awake. Perhaps I’ll sit by the fire in one of the parlours downstairs and read for a bit. You don’t need to wait up for me.”

  Winters bent to put the folded shawl into Annabel’s portmanteau. When she straightened, there was a faint line between her eyebrows. Annabel raised her own. “What is it, Winters?”

  “What is what, my lady?”

  “Something’s troubling you.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “You’re wearing the face you usually save for informing me that my glove box now contains at least five mateless gloves and that I must either stop losing them or permit you to purchase more. Since my mother was kind enough to replenish my glove supply, that can’t be it. What have I done?”

  Winters’ pursed lips twitched into an unwilling smile. “It’s not really my place to say—”

  “That won’t fadge. I know you too well; if you thought it wasn’t your place, we would not be having this conversation.”

  Winters’ internal struggle lasted a moment longer. Then she sighed. “I beg your pardon in advance, my lady. I know it’s none of my affair. But—” She stopped, biting her lip.

  Annabel left unsaid the cajoling words she’d been about to utter. Winters was truly unhappy. “Please tell me,” she said simply.

  “It’s—if you wish to read, may I not bring you another candle so that you can remain here instead? It’s—not fitting that you should be down in the parlour alone.”

  Ah, so that was the problem. “Thank you, but Mrs. Bunwich assured me that she’s closed the inn to anyone not actually staying here. I won’t be jostled by the locals. In fact, the parlours were empty when I came in a moment ago.”

  “It isn’t the locals I’m worried about.” Poor Winters looked desperately uncomfortable. “I daresay you’ll think I’m putting my nose in where it don’t belong, my lady, but Mrs. Bunwich’s Liz was telling me after you went out that Lord Glenrick was asking her earlier which room you were in and whether you were sharing it with Lady Bathurst or me or had it to yourself. ‘I thought ‘er ladyship ‘ud want to be knowing that, so she can leave th’ door off the latch if she wishes,’” she mimicked. “She actually winked when she said that!”

  Oh, dear. Winters’ scandalized expression might have made her laugh if she hadn’t been so annoyed. Drat Lord Glenrick! What did the man think he was about? The last thing she wanted to stir up was gossip joining their names—and with the inn’s other guests all being members of the ton, that was not too far-fetched a possibility. “Thank you for warning me. I can imagine it was uncomfortable for you.”

  Winters looked relieved. “Do you wish me to stay here with you tonight, my lady? I could fix up a pallet from a few blankets.”

  Make that double drat on Lord Glenrick. How would she be able to slip out with Georgiana to pay a call on Maharahnee if Winters were hovering over her like a Spanish duenna guarding her charge? “N…no, thank you, Winters. I trust he will be enough of a gentleman not to do anything so crass as to invade my room.”

  Winters turned painfully red and looked away. “Yes, my lady.”

  “And I have no intention of inviting him to do so, either.” She hesitated. Something in Winters’ averted face wouldn’t allow her not to say something. “But I—er, do have an engagement this evening outside the inn that I must keep.”

  “An engagem—” Winters looked up, startled, and then quickly away. “Yes, my lady.”

  “I promise you, I will not be out alone—and I won’t be with Lord Glenrick.”

  Winters still would not look at her. “No, my lady. Will you be wanting me to wait for you?”

  Annabel sighed. Winters was only a few years older than herself but sometimes felt rather like her mother’s lieutenant, deputed to keep an eye on her. “If you wish to, Winters. But I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  Winters drew herself up. “I’ll wait, my lady.”

  So at least she had not had to sneak out of her room. She’d waited for Georgiana’s knock and cast a shadow over them before they tiptoed down the stairs and out the inn’s door.

  Despite the actual creation of a shadow being easier in nighttime—there was plenty of raw material to work with, after all—it was more difficult to maintain it well. Night was not all black; just as day did, it had its own variations and textures of shadow. She had learned from experience that turning herself into a figure of inky blackness could make her stand out on, say, a moonlit night. Indeed, one balmy spring evening at Belsever Magna, as a girl, she’d sneaked outside to play with shadows and had given the Vicar of St. Matilda’s an apoplexy; the poor man was on his way home after dining with her parents and had been convinced that the dark, featureless figure coming toward him on the drive was a demon straight from the pits of hell. It had been excessively difficult not to dissolve into giggles in church the following Sunday when he gave a heartfelt sermon on maintaining one’s vigilance against the powers of darkness.

  There was little light in the sky this evening as it was only a few nights past the new moon. But their journey was made more complex by sudden encounters with drunken race-goers bearing torches and lanterns, stumbling their way between parties.

  “It is astonishing what excuses men will find to engage in foolish behavior. All this for horses running about in a field,” Georgiana murmured as they stepped aside to avoid yet another group of inebriated men crossing their path.

  “I know,” Annabel murmured back. She probably could have spoken in normal conversational tones and not have drawn a bit of notice.

  In the darkness, broken by the occasional torch or lantern, the tent city looked completely different from how it had only hours before. Annabel missed the turn for the alley she and Lord Glenrick had gone down earlier but found the thoroughfare; when she spotted the big yellow-and-green-striped tent with its red pennons still flying and the two tall torches burning brightly before it, she breathed a sigh of relief. It sounded as if the party inside it was still in full spate, which would provide some cover for Georgiana to talk to Maharahnee.

  No Jem Salter stood guard outside Maharahnee’s tent, but that only increased the chance that he might be inside it. If only Clementina were with them; her ears would have easily discerned whether he was or not. Instead, Georgiana would have to investigate on her own.

  On the trip to Epsom, it had been decided among them that Georgiana would take the form of a goat to make the first attempt to talk to Maharahnee. Many horses seemed to find the company of goats calming, and in that form she would surely appear less threatening than another horse or a person. But she would first take the shape of a mouse and slip inside the tent to confirm that Jem Salter wasn’t there.

  They moved into the gap between the two tents, where the shadows were deeper. Georgiana grimaced as she unfastened her cloak and handed it to Annabel. She wore a plain black robe beneath it, long-sleeved and high in the neck; she possessed an entire wardrobe of plain gowns in varying shades of white, tan, brown, and grey to aid in her assumption of different animal forms. “I do not look forward to—” She pressed her lips together.

  Annabel could guess the rest of what she had been about to say. “We could wait until Maria is here tomorrow,” she murmured. “I expect she could find a way to talk to Maharahnee.”

  Georgiana shook her head—and then she wasn’t there. Only a small black mouse stood in her place, staring up at Annabel.

  “Good luck,” Annabel said quietly. “I’ll be here.”

  The mouse scurried toward the tent and nosed along it before disappearing under its edge. Annabel prepared to wait. For a few minutes, all she heard were the sounds of conviviality from the yellow and green tent—men talking loudly and laughing, the clink of a wine bottle on the rim of a glass—ah! There beneath the other noises had been the soft bleat of a goat. So Jem Salter was not inside, and Georgiana had found her way in to Maharahnee. With any luck she would be able to find out what was going on and they would be able to go back to London tomorrow. A little distance from Lord Glenrick would be helpful at present, and perhaps Quin—

 

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