Page 19 of Rogue’s Holiday

“In that you are correct,” Robbie said with a frown. It occurred to him that Miss Reynolds might be a country hoyden in search of a man of good fortune, excluding him, of course. Nevertheless, he had promised Lady Claremont to see to the lady’s welfare, and he would. Perhaps he could find her a suitable husband. Surely The Grand Countess would be pleased with that.

“What of Miss Crockett?” By the look on Jack’s face, he eagerly anticipated meeting her.

“Unlike her friend, Miss Crockett is all that is sweet, a country miss to be sure, but one with a biddable temperament. She, too, comes from Northampton, but from her proper speech and manners, I expect she had a governess.”

“Tell me she has dark hair and you’ll set my heart pounding.”

Robbie chuckled. “She does.”

“Then I shall leave the virago to you.”

The morning had begun with a drizzle but by ten o’clock, though a chill remained in the air, the sun was making an effort to shine as they reined their horses in front of Lady Sanborn’s house. They’d brought two more of the king’s horses for the ladies.

In the entry hall, Robbie bid good day to Miss Reynolds and introduced Jack to Lady Sanborn and Miss Crockett. Thankfully, the Demon Cat was nowhere in sight.

Soon after, the ladies gathered up the skirts of their riding habits, took their short whips in hand and followed Robbie and Jack outside.

Robbie had to admit The Keeper of the Demon Cat made a beautiful picture in her crimson riding habit with her blonde curls dangling from her jaunty hat set at an angle on her head. As she had gathered her skirts to walk down the stairs, he had glimpsed the beginning of a slim calf above a stylish half boot.

With a sly smile, he said, “I selected a spirited mare for you, Miss Reynolds, assuming that would be your choice.”

Chastity met his impudent gaze, annoyed he should think to know her so well. Pursing her lips, she turned her attention to the roan mare waiting for her. She might not have liked that he had been the one choosing the horse, but she had to smile as she looked into the mare’s intelligent brown eyes. The Rogue, who had knocked on Aunt Agatha’s door attired as a gentleman, had guessed correctly.

His uncle, the vicomte de Saintonge, led Rose to another mare. “Allow me to assist,” he said before giving her a hand up into the sidesaddle. The Florentia blue riding suit Rose had chosen this morning set off her coloring to perfection and, though they could not be observed in their full glory, the blue half boots Chastity had given her were lovely.

Chastity had been pleased to discover the uncle was not an older man as his noble title and relationship to Sir Robert suggested. Rather, he was a very handsome man of an age with his nephew but with perfect manners. His auburn hair fell in soft waves to his nape, a complement to his finely carved features and cinnamon-colored eyes. His accented voice had the same effect on her as a glass of sherry after a trying day.

“May I help you into your saddle?” Sir Robert asked.

Shifting her gaze to him, she said, “If you will, thank you.” It was impossible for a lady to mount on her own or she would have done so.

He made a quick check of the girth and straps before coming to stand before her.

Thinking he would hold out his cupped hands for her to step into, she put her short whip in her left hand and reached for the pommel, whereupon he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle in one quick move. “Sir!” she protested, resisting the temptation to swat him with her whip. Again, he had done with her as he willed with no deference to her being a lady.

“I thought it the most efficient way to seat you,” he said. “Do you object?”

She settled herself into the saddle, hooking her knee around the pommel. “Too late for that,” she acknowledged, impressed, notwithstanding her pique, at his strength in lifting her without effort. She was no tiny thing, after all, taller than many women. Still, it was not the done thing to touch an unfamiliar lady so. By his manner, she judged he was quite indifferent to her protest. Amused, more like, given his teasing manner.

He looked the picture of a well-dressed London buck, his neckcloth perfectly tied in an understated manner and his beaver hat perched upon his dark brown hair. But he was no dandy. The fit of his coat suggested he spent considerable time at Mr. Jackson’s boxing club. But then, what else did a man of leisure do in London, she asked herself, besides participating in sporting events, horse racing and cards? Oh, yes, and women.

From the front door, Aunt Agatha stood watching them. Her gown, the color of the daffodils in her garden, spoke of her cheery mood. Chastity had noticed her levity at breakfast when she bubbled over with joy at some new plants she was installing on the side of the house. Had she witnessed the impropriety of Sir Robert’s lifting her great-niece into the saddle? Perhaps not as she’d said nothing of it. Instead, she waved them off. “Enjoy yourselves!”

The four of them rode abreast as they followed the path Sir Robert chose. It led them first in front of the Royal Pavilion where they paused to admire the otherworldly domes and turrets rising from the surrounding vegetation as if out of a dream.

The sheer magnificence of the king’s Brighton home brought to mind Coleridge’s Kubla Khan. Under her breath, Chastity began to recite,

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

“The king’s Pavilion does seem as if it were lifted out of the Far East,” said Sir Robert. “Outside, it speaks of India but much of the interior decoration is in the Chinese style with fantastic dragons, lotus blossoms and walls painted to make you believe you are in a bamboo forest.”