Probably for the best.
THREE DOORSdown a smart building stood out for its brick frontage and stone dressing – affluent and fashionable with courtyard bustling, the Champion stagecoach having lately arrived.
The Rothwell estate lads proceeded to re-tie their neckcloths and re-slick their hair.
“They don’t let no one in without a neckcloth,” Daniel bemoaned with a wheeze, cheeks rubescent, before they all headed into the crowded public bar. Ernest heaved a sigh at the crush but dived in after the lads who expertly weaved to the counter with nigh a trodden foot.
The jugs of ale were golden and…clear, the pie was chicken and pea, but the lads wandered to the yard for a game of Knock Aunt Sally’s Block Off, which consisted of throwing batons at a figure of an old lady, so he and Redmond headed for a seat in the private bar.
A notch above The Three Goats, the walls were papered in crimson red and the ceiling plastered in ornate swirls.
London folk took their leisure at this establishment tonight. Floral perfume wafted and silks glided, an air of entitlement and riches.
“All here for the horserace meet on the overmorrow,” muttered Redmond, tugging his coat straight. “Pushing up prices, so they are. I paid twelve bloody pence for a slab of butter.”
“Race meet?”
“Aye. Sweepstakes at Bibury.”
Of course, and an idea formed – one he was sure would bring delight to Hebe’s eyes. One that may chase away those bloody shadows.
“I might ask the ladies if they wish to attend. Make a day of it – picnic and all.”
“Grand idea. And ya know there’s also a Gentleman’s Race this year?” Redmond tapped a finger to the table and glanced sideways. “Ya weren’t going to be here for it so we never entered ya, but Lord Jack’s in a fair mood for a gallop. All in a lather for Lady May, who’s not in season yet.”
Pondering, Ernest sipped his potent brew. “Would there still be room for me, do you think?”
“Ach, I’d say so. The Rothwell title could get ya into St Ledgers an hour before, but I’ll ask.”
“Excellent. I’ll–”
“Lord Ernest?” breathed a voice dripping in money, silk and intent. “How…opportune.”
Glancing up, his eyes met…Lady Conway?
Ernest just about remembered his London manners and leaped to his feet. “My lady. A pleasure. What brings you to these parts?”
Pretty as a picture in lavender with paisley shawl, she fiddled with her gold locket, drawing all eyes to–
“I’ll see how the lads are getting on,” murmured Redmond as he likewise sprang to his feet, gave a shallow bow and fled.
Her ebony-tipped lashes fluttered. “I’m here for the Bibury Races, but…” She drew near, sinful jasmine drifting, gloved fingers straying to his top waistcoat button. “Perhaps tonight we might continue where we left off in Hyde Park…” Those fingers slid once more in a southerly direction.
This lady was alluring and selective, and not so long ago, he would have embraced the opportunity…
“My apologies.” Ernest removed her fingers to bow low over them instead. “But I am no longer available, Lady Conway. My affections are taken.”
A perfect brow raised before she sighed and twisted, skirts swishing and ringlets bouncing before she paused to gaze over one shoulder, eyes coy and fingers brushing her throat.
“Should you change your mind…”
“I wish you a pleasant stay in the Cotswolds, Lady Conway.”
With a rueful smile, she glided away and Ernest stood a while, feeling more contented than he ever had done.
“All done, my lord?” Fingers tugged on his coat sleeve. “’Tis The Red Lion next.”
ERNEST PEEREDup at the three-storey stone building of The Red Lion just across the street. A small child waved from a second-floor window and he waved back.
