The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

“It seems the gentlemen have decided to breakfast on something other than our dust,” Lydia said. She took out the watch again. “A few minutes more and—”

A cacophony of shouts and whistles from the crowd cut her off. An instant later, a smart tilbury with a powerful chestnut in harness whisked through the gate and up to the starting line. When he pulled up on the left alongside her, Ainswood tipped his hat—for once, he was wearing one—and flashed a crooked grin.

Lydia wished she’d positioned her vehicle nearer the edge of the road, so that he would have been stationed to her right. Then Trent’s big form would have blocked her view of the duke.

But only Tamsin sat between them, and Lydia easily saw over her head the cocky assurance in Ainswood’s hard-edged countenance, the wicked glint in his green eyes, the arrogant angle of his jaw. She saw as well that his elegant garments might have been sculpted to him. She could almost smell the starch in his neckcloth, could almost feel the linen’s crispness…and she remembered, all too vividly, the warmth and power of his big frame, the muscles bunching at her touch, the beat of his heart against her palm.

She felt her heart lurch against her rib cage. Then it came, the flood of unwanted recollections: the boy he’d lost…the two orphaned girls…the children he’d rescued in Exeter Street…the flower girl…the cold, brutal rage while he finished off a villain in two ferocious blows…the big, rugged body…the strong arms that could lift her as though she were a slip of a girl…the husky whisper, “You’re so beautiful.”

Yet she gave him only a regal nod, clicked the watch case closed, and put it away.

“Impatient for my arrival, were you, Grenville?” the duke called above the whistling, cheering crowd.

“Delayed by an attack of nerves, were you, Ainswood?” she returned.

“I’m trembling,” he said, “with anticipation.”

“I’ll anticipate you—to the finish line,” she said. “With a mile to spare.”

On the sidelines, the blacklegs who infested every sporting event were taking last-minute bets, but Lydia couldn’t make out what the latest odds were above the tumult in her mind.

Still, tumult or not, there was no turning back. She could not give up all she’d worked for—her very identity, for that’s what it came to—without a battle. And Lydia Grenville never entered a battle she wasn’t determined to win.

“One minute,” a voice called out above the crowd’s roar.

The onlookers fell silent.

Lydia’s own inner uproar stilled.

Someone raised a handkerchief aloft. She focused on it, grasping the whip firmly. Then the bells of the parish church rang out, while the square of white linen fluttered to the ground. She cracked her whip…they were off.

The old Portsmouth Road started at London Bridge, wended through Southwark past the Marshalsea and King’s Bench prisons, on through Newington and Vauxhall turnpikes down to Wandsworth, and on through Putney Heath to the Robin Hood Gate.

This was the route Lydia had chosen, for several sound reasons. By eight o’clock, the slower Portsmouth coaches would have already set out, leaving this, their usual route, a fraction less congested. Meanwhile, the fast coaches departing from Piccadilly at the same hour would gain a considerable lead over the racers maneuvering through Newington and Lambeth parishes. Consequently, there would be less of a crush, Lydia hoped, at Robin Hood Gate, the first change, and the point at which slow and fast coaching routes joined.

The slow route would also suit Cleo, Lydia’s black mare, who was accustomed to negotiating busy streets and could be counted on not to take fright or fly into a fit at vehicles or humans darting into her path.

Unfortunately, it turned out that sturdy, fearless Cleo was no match for Ainswood’s powerful gelding. Though the tilbury was nearly as heavy as Lydia’s cabriolet, and though the men’s weight more than compensated for their slightly lighter vehicle, Ainswood overtook Lydia a short distance past the Vauxhall Turnpike and rapidly lengthened the lead thereafter. By the time Lydia changed horses at the Robin Hood Inn, the tilbury was out of sight.

Lydia was aware of Tamsin’s worried gaze upon her as they sped past Richmond Park.

“No, it doesn’t look promising,” Lydia said in answer to the unspoken question. “But it’s not hopeless. I only want another minute or so to make sure this creature and I understand each other.”

The bay in the harness was not so cooperative as Cleo, and tended to shy at every passing shadow. By the time they passed through Kingston Market Square, however, the horse’s will was obliged to submit to Lydia’s. Once clear of the town, Lydia told her companion to hang on.

A sharp crack of the whip—a hairsbreadth from touching the horse—was enough, and the bay thundered over the next four miles at a punishing pace.

After a speedy change at Esher, Lydia plunged into the next stage, and they finally caught sight of the tilbury at the Cobham Gate.

Trent was clinging to the side of the tilbury, watching the road behind them.

“By Jupiter, there she is again,” he said hollowly. “Dash it, Ainswood, it don’t look like they mean to give up.”

Vere glanced upward. Heavy masses of grey clouds rolled above their heads, and the same wild currents driving the thunderclouds beat against his face. The wind whipped through Pains Hill to tear fading leaves from the trees and drive them in mad eddies over the rolling countryside.

He’d already pushed two horses to the very edge of their endurance to gain a lead sufficient to discourage any rational, sober human being.

Not only had Grenville not given up, but she was inching up on him.

Meanwhile a storm straight from the bowels of hell was brewing, and the worst of the route lay ahead.

For the thousandth time in five days, he cursed himself for goading her into this bedamned race—or letting himself be goaded. He still wasn’t altogether certain who had provoked whom, though he’d replayed their row in his mind any number of times. All he knew was that he’d lost his temper over nothing and made a thorough muck of matters. He wished she’d thrown something at him or hit him. That would have given her satisfaction, and maybe knocked some sense into him.

But it was too late. These reflections were merely the most recent in a long series of If Onlys.

Ockham Park had faded behind them and the first straggling houses of Ripley were coming into view under the ominously darkening sky. The wind was sharpening, and Vere wanted to believe that was why he felt so chilled.

He knew better.

He was insensitive to weather. Torrid heat, freezing cold, downpour, sleet, and snowstorm had never caused him any discomfort worth noticing. He never fell ill. No matter how he abused his body, no matter what ailments he was exposed to, no matter how contagious…

He pushed away the memory before it could fully form, and focused on his competitor, and the road ahead.

They had some twenty-five miles yet to cover in what promised to be the worst weather over the most treacherous terrain. He could see clearly half a dozen places where she could come to grief…and he would be too far away to save her.

Too far away, as always, when he was needed.

He pulled into the yard of the Talbot Inn and minutes later pulled out again, a fresh animal in harness, and all the while the refrain tolled like funeral bells in his mind.

Too far away. Too late.

He snapped the whip over the horse’s head and the beast lunged and thundered through the wide village street.

In the same way, not so very long ago, had he raced through countryside and village streets….

But he wouldn’t think of it, of the spring that had made him hate springtime ever since and spend the blossoming season blind drunk.

They flew past Clandon Park and entered the long stretch—almost deserted on their near side—of Meroe Common, and Vere drove on, harder than before, and prayed his competitor would come to her senses. She couldn’t hope to win. He was too far ahead. She mu

st give up.

Trent again turned back to look.

“Is she still there?” Vere asked, dreading the answer.

“Gainin’ on us.”

They plunged into Guildford, hurtling over the cobbled street, gaining speed down the incline.

Yet the cabriolet drew ever closer.

Over the River Wey they went, and up St. Catherine’s Hill, the horses slowing, laboring through the steep ascent, and too tired to increase their pace as they crossed Pease Marsh Common.

And all the while the cabriolet drew nearer, until Vere could practically feel its horse breathing down his neck.

But he was more aware of the furious wind, the lowering skies, the warning rumble in the distance. He thought of the brutal stretch to come: twelve miles of punishingly steep ascents and treacherous descents. He saw in his mind’s eye the storm breaking over them…panicked horses, screaming, hurtling over the road edge…the cabriolet smashed to pieces.

He tried to make himself believe she’d give up, but with each passing mile his doubts grew.