They crossed into Hyde Park, where the evidence of spring was showing in every unfurling leaf. Sophy’s mare was a little on her toes, and inclined to break from the trot at which Sophy held her. Sophy wanted her to know who was in control from the outset. Harriet’s mount was amenable and contented enough to merely look about him and enjoy the air. She had christened him Bramble, for no better reason than, she said, it sounded gentle. Susan sniffed.
‘But brambles have nasty thorns, and tear holes in one’s hem.’
‘I did not mean he is like a bramble. Besides, bramble jelly was always one of my favourites with nursery tea. What are you calling your horse?’
‘Huge,’ suggested Sophy, not entirely joking.
Harriet giggled.
‘Oooh, I could call him Hugo. He was the villain in this lurid romance I read last year.’
‘I sincerely hope he does not prove to be a villain today.’ Sophy eyed the animal with a sense of foreboding. It was not that he looked vicious, but if he took it into his head to do as he wished, she did not see Susan having much chance of holding him back. ‘Let us hope he is not afraid of children or small dogs or—’
‘Cavalry officers.’ Susan sighed.
‘Well, I … oh. Oh no. Susan, for goodness’ sake, do not—’
She was wasting her breath. Susan urged Hugo into a loping canter that emphasised his size and showed off her petite frame. She had been quite right that the combination was arresting. The two scarlet-coated officers who had been trotting towards them did a sharp ‘eyes left’ as she passed them, with the hem of her habit blowing sufficiently to give a glimpse of an elegantly booted ankle, and wheeled about. Sophy, despairing, kicked the mare on, so that at least Susan would not be in company with the unknown gentlemen alone, and called upon Harriet to keep up. Bramble clearly thought rushing was asking a lot of him, but reluctantly increased his pace.
Susan, hearing the hooves behind her, brought Hugo back to a sedate trot, and smiled to herself. The two officers came up beside her.
‘I say, ma’am, you do look the most complete hand upon such an animal. How do you manage him?’
‘One just has to be assertive, gentlemen.’ She gave them a look which, as the one later remarked to the other, did queer things to a man’s insides. It was a very promising start, but from this point she lost control of the situation. Her cousins caught up, Sophy looking ice cool and commanding.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I do not think we have been introduced.’ Her tone implied that she was not particularly keen that they should remain long enough to perform introductions. They coloured.
Whatever they were going to say was halted by the party being hailed by another rider. Sophy turned, and tried not to let her pulse quicken. Lord Rothley, mounted upon a tidy steel grey, raised his hat to her.
‘I am so sorry to be late,’ he announced, quite taking her breath away with the barefaced lie. His glance took in the two young officers. ‘Your servant, Kesgrave. How is your brother George?’
‘Er, very well, thank you, Rothley.’ The Honourable Rowland Kesgrave tried not to look juvenile, but since his elder brother had been at school with Rothley, this was not easy.
‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce these officers, my lord,’ requested Sophy, smoothly.
‘Of course, ma’am. Anything to be of use to you.’ There was interrogation in his eyes. ‘May I present Lieutenant Kesgrave, younger brother of Lord Kesgrave, and …’ He raised an eyebrow at the other young man, who stammered his response.
‘L-L-Lieutenant M-M-Madeley, sir.’
‘Ah, Lieutenant Madeley, both of the Life Guards. Gentlemen, may I present the …’ he paused for the merest fraction of a second, ‘the Lady Sophronia Hadlow, the Lady Harriet Hadlow, and Miss Tyneham.’
Sophy could tell he was laughing at her for putting him in a situation to use her much hated name.
‘So, tell us, my lord, what it was that delayed you.’ Sophy felt the least she could do in revenge for his mockery was to put him upon the spot.
‘Del—oh the most mundane of things, ma’am. I … er … completely forgot to equip myself with a handkerchief, and had to turn back. I very much fear I might have the first signs of a slight cold,’ he sniffed, rather theatrically, ‘and would not wish to contaminate others with it.’
‘You would have been better to have taken to your bed and have your man rub your chest with goose fat, my lord.’ Sophy kept a very straight face.
‘You are joking?’ Lord Rothley’s look of utter horror almost broke her.
‘Not even roasting you over the lowest of heats, my lord.’ Her eyes held his.
His eyes narrowed at that.
‘Touché, ma’am,’ he murmured.
‘It is quite true, my lord.’ Susan was keen to involve herself in the conversation. ‘My brother swears by the application of goose grease to the chest.’
