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What he needed, in effect, was a house party. Avery scrubbed at his face with a towel and considered. He needed a hostess and he needed someone to suggest the guests. Which meant, he supposed with a sigh, he must ask his godmother. She was interfering and opinionated and she disapproved of Alice, but she was of impeccable ton, knew everyone and would not allow her disapproval to make her unkind to the child, only to lecture him on his supposed indiscretion. There was nothing for it, he was going to have to throw himself on the mercy of the Dowager Marchioness of Birtwell.
*
‘And where are you going, my lady?’ Mab demanded as Laura came down from her room after breakfast. ‘You’ve got that look in your eye—you’re up to mischief. And that outfit!’
‘Really, Mab, any other employer would give you your notice. I am going out and I do not get up to mischief.’
‘Then you’ll want me along,’ Mab said, refusing to be snubbed. ‘You’ll not be seen out without either maid or footman.’
Laura had no intention of being seen at all, hence the drab gown and pelisse that would not have been out of place on a governess, matched with a sensible veiled bonnet and sturdy half-boots. ‘I am going for a stroll and dressed like this I am in no danger of being accosted by gentlemen on the strut.’
‘You are going to find Miss Alice, that’s what you’re about.’
‘I only want to see her,’ Laura protested as she pulled on her gloves. ‘I will not let her see me. You stay here, Mab.’
It was a sunny morning and no nurse worth her salt would keep a child indoors on a day like this. Alice would be going out to take the air, Laura would bet her new Norwich shawl on it. The directory had given his lordship’s address and Berkeley Square, only a few minutes’ walk away, had a large central garden that would be perfect to play in.
It was early, and quiet, without even a single carriage drawn up outside Gunter’s tea shop in the south-east corner of the square. Servants were putting the finishing touches to the brasswork on doors and deliveries were in full swing. A florist’s boy staggered under the weight of a vast bouquet, a dray dripped water outside Gunter’s as men in leather capes unloaded ice, a milkman negotiated his hanging pails through the area gate and down the service steps to the kitchen entrance of politician George Canning’s elegant house and a giggling kitchen maid was flirting with the greengrocer’s delivery man.
Laura strolled into the garden and pretended an interest in the flower beds as she made her way towards the north-east corner and a secluded bench opposite Lord Wykeham’s fine double-fronted house. She did not have to wait long before the door opened and Alice bounded down the steps. A bag bounced at her side and Miss Blackstock followed her out. Her voice drifted across to Laura. ‘Walk, if you please, Miss Alice!’
They walked down past Gunter’s, and then past the high wall of the gardens of Lansdowne House into Bolton Row. Laura hung back, matching her pace to theirs, wondering where they were going. In a moment they would be in Curzon Street, walking past her own home. Then Alice scampered into Clarges Street and Laura realised they must be going to Green Park.
It was not the easiest of the parks to hide in, she reflected as she watched Alice, hand in hand with Blackie as they negotiated the traffic in Piccadilly. The nurse gave her a coin to hand the crossing sweeper herself, then they were through the gate leading to the narrow rectangle of the reservoir. Alice ran to the end nearest Queen’s Walk where a group of ducks were clustered hopefully and dropped her bag on the ground, spilling what must be crusts of stale bread on the grass.
Laura walked in the opposite direction, to one of the benches at the far end where the ride towards Constitution Hill wound off around the gardens of the lodge-keeper’s cottage. At this distance, veiled, she was safe from recognition, she was certain.
A few other nursemaids with their charges were walking towards the reservoir, all making for the end where Alice was surrounded by quacking and flapping ducks in the water and a flock of pigeons on land. Her laughter brought a smile to Laura’s lips, even as her heart ached at the distance between them.
She glanced to the side as hoofbeats signalled the arrival of one of the park’s rare riders, perhaps trotting back from an early morning gallop in Hyde Park. A raking black more suited to the hunting field than London hacking drew level with her and out of the corner of her eye she was aware of immaculate brown boots with tan tops, long legs in buckskin breeches and a gloved hand resting negligently on the left thigh as the rider guided the horse one-handed.
Her attention was still focused on Alice as she stood, intending to move her position to where a clump of bushed provided a little cover. The horse curvetted away, making her jump and she turned fully to face it as the rider swore. ‘What in damnation are you doing here, Lady Laura?’
Avery Falconer brought the big animal under control without taking his gaze from her veiled face. How can he recognise me? Her immediate instinct was to bluff, to turn a haughty shoulder and pretend he was just some importunate rake bothering a lone woman in the park, but she realised at once that was futile. Something about her had jolted his memory, now all she could do was brazen it out.
Laura tossed back her veil and raised one eyebrow in haughty distain. ‘This is a public park, I believe, Lord Wykeham. I do not require your permission to take the air in it.’
‘Dressed like a governess and without your maid?’ He brought the gelding sidling forward, so close it took a conscious stiffening of her spine not to back away. ‘You are spying on Alice, you devious jade, and I told you I would not stand for it.’
‘Indeed?’ Laura lifted the other brow and sneered at him, as best she could, considering their respective positions. ‘And just what do you intend to do about it, considering that I am nowhere near her and in a public place?’
‘Do?’ Avery jammed his riding crop into his boot and smiled. ‘Why, remove you, of course.’
Before she could realise what he intended he leant out of the saddle, took her by the upper arms and hauled her bodily up in front of him. Laura kicked, twisted and found herself dumped unceremoniously to sit sideways across his thighs. ‘Ouch!’ The pommel jabbed into her. ‘Put me down!’
‘In my own good time.’ He turned the horse’s head away from the reservoir and shifted his arms so they caged her and he could take the reins in both hands. The gelding tossed its head as if in protest at the additional load, but walked on meekly enough.
‘People will see,’ she protested.
‘Then resume your veil,’ Avery said in a voice of sweet reason.
Laura contemplated wriggling free and dropping to the ground, but the animal was a good sixteen hands high and she risked a broken ankle if she tried that. Besides, the strength with which Avery had hoisted her up indi
cated that he would have little trouble subduing any attempt at escape. She was slender enough, but she was a well-built adult woman and no featherweight to be tossed about like a child. It was, she realised, fuming, rather exciting.
Crude, animal instinct, she told herself severely. He is big, strong and muscular, any woman would be in a flutter under the circumstances. And he probably knows it, the wretch.
His chest was broad and steady and it was impossible to lean away from it—in fact, she was squashed so close she could sense his heartbeat, infuriatingly steady. Beneath her buttocks his thighs were hard and, she realised with rising indignation as she worked out what was pommel, what was leg and what was…something else, that he was finding this arousing.
