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George Bramley watched the lithe figure of Miss Montrose, who was likely to be his bride before the night was out, and congratulated himself on winning a woman who was not only beautiful, not only beholden to him, but utterly desperate to wed him.
He’d never met one of those, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked the power this gave him. He would get a lot of pleasure out of reminding Miss Montrose that without him she was nothing, and that she’d have nothing. Well, she’d continue to have nothing unless she learned that George Bramley’s way was the only way. He rubbed his hands and felt his breeches swell with the anticipation of showing her tonight who was master.
Devil’s Run was going to make him a fortune, bring him a bride who, it had to be said, was everything a man could want when it came to lush womanhood. She might not be in her first flush of youth, but she had a good few years left in her yet. Besides which, she’d already given him carte blanche to carry on his affairs as he chose. If she thought that meant leaving her alone, she’d be in for a surprise, but it gave George licence to act with impunity and without suffering regular baleful reminders of what he owed her. Well, he owed her nothing since she’d been the one to beg him to marry her.
George was in an expansive mood by the time he settled himself under the canopy erected for the spectators and sipped champagne. It was at the top of a slope by the edge of a beech wood.
He’d dressed with care that morning in a wasp-waisted burgundy coat in the new style, with narrow trousers and a low-crowned beaver to top it off. The owner of the winning horse had a figure to cut. And at midnight when he wed Miss Montrose, he’d be owner of the winning horse, and Devil would win him many more races.
He tossed back his drink and marvelled at his good fortune. In markings and build the gelding was the twin to Maggot, the fleet-footed gelding George had happened upon in the stable yard of the Dusty Crow during one of his carousing sessions. At first, he’d thought his wits were addled or his eyes deceiving him, and that Devil had followed him all the way from Quamby House. But no, this horse was a dead ringer for Devil.
Parting with a good portion of the night’s winnings, George had acquired the horse, which Whittlesea had been stabling for the last two weeks in anticipation of the great race today.
Now all George had to do was patiently enjoy his prime position at the top of the flat, and watch Devil struggle through Jackson’s Marsh and across the winning line.
Reluctantly, Eliza trailed after Ladies Quamby and Fenton who were, as ever, in disagreement over the benefits of one cushioned chair beneath the canopy as the other.
“You know that even the moonlight is likely to turn me as brown as a gypsy and besides, that’s far too close to Cousin George,” complained Antoinette.
“Then you sit further into the shade, and I shall sit here with an interrupted view of Cousin George’s ugly visage so that I might delight in his horror when Devil finishes so far back,” said Fanny. “Oh, sorry Miss Montrose; that wasn’t very polite of me since Devil, of course, belongs to you, and you must have a great deal riding on him.”
Eliza nodded weakly. She did, although not in monetary terms. Devil couldn’t possibly win the race, and it was this thought which had increasingly encouraged her as she’d tossed and turned throughout the night.
No, Devil could not, and would not win, and Eliza would therefore not be forced to marry Mr Bramley. Only hours before, she’d feverishly thought this her only option, but clarity had surprisingly surfaced through her sleeplessness.
Brushing back a strand of hair from her forehead, she caught the speculative glance of Mr Bramley, and her stomach heaved. No, she couldn’t subject either herself or Jack to a life under the stewardship of Mr Bramley. Better to be a pauper and have Jack in her household as a bootboy, than to be wed to Mr Bramley with the dangerous hope that the Quamby household’s fondness for Jack would shore up his future.
“Ah, Fenton, darling, come and sit beside me.” Lady Fenton patted the cushion beside her and fleetingly squeezed her husband’s hand, which earned her a brief kiss on the cheek before he settled himself with a coupe of champagne.
What Eliza wouldn’t give to enjoy such domestic felicity. Lord and Lady Fenton had been married more than eight years, and yet they remained exquisitely in love, despite the occasional tiff that only seemed to bring them closer together.
Eliza might have had that too if she’d been thinking with less fraught emotion. All through the night, she’d been disturbed by images of Mr Patmore’s kindness to her, his patent admiration, his desire to facilitate her every wish—and his patience. On so many occasions, she’d prevented him from making the marriage offer he was so obviously keen to make, and when finally he’d gone down on bended knee, she’d told him to wait some more.
And now he’d gone.
She was barely able to attend to the chatter about her as she took another sip of her drink. Mr Patmore was loyal and in love. And she’d only asked him to wait until tomorrow. She sighed. If she had pencil and paper, she’d scribble an answer to him right now and see it was despatched to him.
There was a m
inor ripple as Lord Quamby arrived, striking in a flamboyant waistcoat of claret and gold, a lace-encrusted flared coat in the old style, and the most extraordinary pair of striped trousers Eliza had ever seen.
He was leaning heavily on his sticks and accompanied by the most handsome young man Eliza had ever seen, but now Lady Quamby jumped up and with arms open wide, gushed, “Darling Quamby, you came after all! I’m so glad. It’s going to be the most exciting finish. Only seven contenders still in the race, we’ve just been told, and Devil just bound to win. I hope you don’t mind that you gave him to Eliza.”
Eliza blushed hotly. She was unaccustomed to gifts of any kind, and now felt highly visible to the assembled audience of about two dozen from the lowliest serf to the villagers, and now Lord Quamby himself.
“I believe in rewarding great service,” the earl said with a benign smile at Eliza. “Your aunt didn’t serve you well, my girl, but I hope this horse will as you forge yourself the future you deserve.” Grunting, he took a seat between Antoinette and Lord Fenton, saying over the top of the glass he was just handed, “Just sorry it wasn’t with that nice young man who’s been dangling after you since my good-for-nothing nephew threw you over.” He sent a baleful look at Mr Bramley, who had raised his opera glasses to scan the horizon and appeared not to be listening.
Eliza’s heart hitched. Studiously, she avoided looking at all in Mr Bramley’s direction. No, she wouldn’t marry him. She’d made up her mind to do what she should have done long before. She would tell Mr Patmore about Jack. He might not wish to marry her, but he’d keep her secret, and that was all that mattered. She could still find a way to direct his future. She’d not be another of those shamed women, and there were so many of them in society, who wilted into lonely graves through lack of love because, once, they’d taken it when they shouldn’t have.
Antoinette patted her husband’s hand and said brightly, “Well, maybe Mr Patmore will come galloping into our midst on his white charger and whisk Miss Montrose away.”
“A man has his pride, my dear. No, Mr Patmore got his answer, did he not, Miss Montrose?” The earl sent her a compassionate look. “He would have been good to you, I think, but if you can’t return his feelings, then fault should not be attributed to either side, naturally.”
Eliza cast a panicked look towards Mr Bramley, hoping he was out of earshot.
Lady Fenton asked sharply, “What’s this, my Lord?” Then with more confidence, “Of course Mr Patmore isn’t going to do anything rash when it’s clear Miss Montrose needs more time following the death of her aunt to know her own heart.”
The earl raised an effete hand to brush away a fly. “That’s not my understanding, my dear, and nor does it signify if Miss Montrose doesn’t wish to have him.”
