An Unwilling Conquest Page 6

  Joliffe snorted. “Only to the hangman’s noose. But his peculiar talents bear consideration.” Leaning forward, Joliffe placed both elbows on the table. “It occurs to me, my dear Mortimer, that we may be involving ourselves unnecessarily here.” Joliffe smiled, an empty gesture that made Mortimer shrink. “I’m sure you’d be most agreeable to any way of achieving our aim without direct involvement.”

  Mortimer swallowed. “But how can Lester help us—if he won’t?”

  “Oh—I didn’t say he won’t—just that we needn’t ask him. He’ll help us entirely for the fun of it. Harry Lester, dear Mortimer, is the rake supreme—a practitioner extraordinaire in the gentle art of seduction. If, as seems possible, he’s got your uncle’s widow in his sights, then I wouldn’t like to bet on her chances.” Joliffe’s smile grew. “And, of course, once she’s demonstrably no longer a virtuous widow, then you’ll have all the reason you need to legally challenge her guardianship of your cousin.” Joliffe’s gaze grew intent. “And once your pretty cousin’s legacy’s in your hands, you’ll be in a position to pay me, won’t you, Mortimer?”

  Mortimer Babbacombe swallowed—and forced himself to nod.

  “So what do we do now?” Scrugthorpe drained his tankard.

  Joliffe considered, then pronounced, “We sit tight and watch. If we get a chance to lay hands on the lady, we will—just like we planned.”

  “Aye—far as I’m concerned, that’s how we should do it—no sense in leaving anything to chance.”

  Joliffe’s lip curled. “Your animosity is showing, Scrugthorpe. Please remember that our primary aim here is to discredit Mrs Babbacombe—not satisfy your lust for revenge.”

  Scrugthorpe snorted.

  “As I was saying,” Joliffe went on. “We watch and wait. If Harry Lester succeeds—he’ll have done our work for us. If not, we’ll continue to pursue the lady—and Scrugthorpe here will have his chance.”

  At that, Scrugthorpe smiled. Lecherously.

  Chapter Four

  When Lucinda drove into the yard of the Barbican Arms the next morning, Harry was waiting, shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his boot against the wall for balance. He had plenty of time to admire the artless picture of mature womanhood seated beside Grimms in his aunt’s gig. Elegantly gowned in a cornflower blue carriage dress, her dark hair restrained in a severe chignon thus revealing the delicate bones of her face, Lucinda Babbacombe predictably turned the heads of those still dawdling in the yard. Thankfully, the thoroughbred races were to commence that morning; most of Harry’s contemporaries were already at the track.

  Grimms brought Em’s gig to a neat halt in the centre of the yard. With an inward snort, Harry pushed away from the wall.

  Lucinda watched him approach—his graceful stride forcefully reminded her of a prowling tiger. A very definite thrill coursed through her; she avoided smiling her delight, contenting herself with a mild expression of polite surprise. “Mr Lester.” Calmly, she extended her hand. “I hadn’t expected to see you this morning—I thought you were here for the races.”

  His brows had risen sceptically at her first remark; on her second, his green eyes glittered. He grasped her hand—for an instant, as his eyes held hers, Lucinda wondered why she was playing with fire.

  “Indeed,” Harry replied, his habitual drawl in abeyance. He helped her from the carriage, steadying her on the cobbles. “I own to surprise on that score myself. However, as you are my aunt’s guest, and at my instigation, I feel honour-bound to ensure you come to no harm.”

  Lucinda’s eyes narrowed but Harry, distracted by the absence of groom or maid—Grimms had already disappeared into the stables—did not notice.

  “Speaking of which, where’s your groom?”

  Lucinda allowed herself a small smile. “Riding with your brother and Heather. I have to thank you for sending Gerald to us—he’s entertaining company for Heather—I dare say she would otherwise grow bored. And, of course, that leaves me free to tend to business without having to worry my head over her.”

  Harry didn’t share her confidence—but he wasn’t, at this point, concerned with her stepdaughter. His expression hardened as he looked down at her. He was still holding her hand; tucking it into his arm, he turned her towards the inn door. “You should at least have a groom with you.”

  “Nonsense, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a curious glance. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that at my age I need a chaperon?”

  Looking into her eyes, softly blue, their expression openly independent, challenging yet oddly innocent, Harry inwardly cursed. The damned woman didn’t need a chaperon—she needed an armed guard. Just why he had elected himself to the post was not a point he was willing to pursue. He contented himself with repressively stating, “In my opinion, Mrs Babbacombe, women like you should not be allowed out alone.”

  Her eyes twinkled; two tiny dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Actually, I’d like to see the stables.” She turned to the archway leading from the main yard.

  “The stables?”

  Her gaze ranging their surroundings, Lucinda nodded. “The state of the stableyard frequently reflects the quality of the inn’s management.”

  The state of the stables suggested the innkeeper of the Barbican Arms was a perfectionist; everything was neat, clean and in its place. Horses turned their heads to stare as Lucinda picked her way over the cobbles, still wet with dew, forced more than once to lean heavily on Harry’s arm.

  When they reached the earthen floor of the stables, she determinedly straightened. Regretfully withdrawing her fingers from the warmth of his sleeve, she strolled along the row of loose boxes, stopping here and there to acknowledge their curious occupants. She eventually reached the tack room and peered in.

  “Excuse me, ma’am—but you shouldn’t be in here.” An elderly groom hurried out.

  Harry stepped out of the shadows. “It’s all right, Johnson. I’ll see the lady safe,”

  “Oh!—it’s you, Mr Lester.” The groom touched his cap. “That’s all right and tight, then. Ma’am.” With another tug of his cap, the groom retreated into the tack room.

  Lucinda blinked, then shot a glance at Harry. “Is it always so ordered? So…” She waved at the loose boxes, each with their half-doors shut. “So exact?”

  “Yes.” Harry looked down at her as she stopped beside him. “I stable my carriage horses here—you may rest assured of the quality in that respect.”

  “I see.” Deeming all queries on the equine side of business satisfied, Lucinda turned her attention to the inn proper.

  Ushered through the main door, she looked with approval on half-panelled walls, well-polished and glowing mellowly. Sunshine reflected from crisply whitewashed walls; stray beams danced across the flagged floor.

  Mr Jenkins, the innkeeper, a neat, rotund person of genial mien, bustled up. Harry performed the introductions, then stood patiently by while Lucinda explained her purpose. Unlike Blount, Mr Jenkins was all gratified helpfulness.

  Lucinda turned to Harry. “My business with Mr Jenkins will keep me busy for at least an hour. I wouldn’t for the world impose on your kindness, Mr Lester—you’ve already done so much. And I can hardly come to harm within the inn.”

  Harry didn’t blink. For her, the Arms played host to a panapoly of dangers—namely his peers. Meeting her innocent gaze with an impenetrable blandness, he waved a languid hand. “Indeed—but my horses don’t run until later.”

  Which comment, he noted, brought a flash to her eyes. She hesitated, then, somewhat stiffly, acquiesced, inclining her head before turning back to Mr Jenkins.

  Wearing patience like a halo, Harry followed his host and his aunt’s guest about the old inn, through rambling passageways and storerooms, to bedchambers and even to the garrets. They were returning down an upper corridor when a man came blundering out of a room.

  Lucinda, opposite the door, started; glimpsing the man from the corner of her eye, she braced herself for a collision. Instead
, she was bodily set aside; the chubby young gentleman ran full tilt into a hard shoulder. He bounced off, crumpling against the door frame.

  “Ouf!” Straightening, the man blinked. “Oh—hello, Lester. Slept in, don’t y’know. Can’t miss the first race.” He blinked again, a puzzled frown forming in his eyes. “Thought you’d be at the track by now.”

  “Later.” Harry stepped back, revealing Lucinda.

  The young man blinked again. “Oh—ah, yes. Terribly sorry, ma’am—always being told I should look where I’m going. No harm done, I hope?”

  Lucinda smiled at the ingenuous apology. “No—none.” Thanks to her protector.

  “Good—oh! I’d best be on my way, then. See you at the track, Lester.” With an awkward bow and a cheery wave, the youthful sprig hurried off.

  Harry snorted.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a smile. “I’m really most grateful.”

  Harry took full note of the quality of her smile. Coolly, he inclined his head and waved her on in Jenkins’s wake.

  By the end of her tour, Lucinda was impressed. The Barbican Arms, and Mr Jenkins, were a far cry from the Green Goose and Jake Blount. The inn was spick and span throughout; she had found nothing remotely amiss. Her inspection of the books was a mere formality; Mr Mabberly had already declared the Arms a model of good finance.

  She and her host spent a few minutes going over the plans for an extension to the inn. “For we’re full to overflowing during race-meets and more than half full at other times.”

  Lucinda gave her general approval and left the details for Mr Mabberly.

  “Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” she declared, pulling on her gloves as they headed for the door. “I must tell you that, having visited all but four of the fifty-four inns owned by Babbacombe and Company, I would rank the Barbican Arms as one of the best.”

  Mr Jenkins preened. “Very kind of you to say so, ma’am. We do strive to please.”

  With a gracious nod, Lucinda swept out. Once in the courtyard she paused. Harry stopped beside her; she looked up at his face. “Thank you for your escort, Mr Lester—I’m really most grateful considering the other demands on your time.”

  Harry was too wise to attempt an answer to that.

  Lucinda’s lips twitched; she looked quickly away. “Actually,” she mused, “I was considering viewing this race-meet.” She brought her eyes back to his face. “I’ve never been to one before.”

  Harry looked down at her ingenuous expression. His eyes narrowed. “Newmarket race-track is no place for you.”

  She blinked, taken aback—Harry glimpsed real disappointment in her eyes. Then she looked away. “Oh.”

  The single syllable hung in the air, a potent testimony to crushed anticipation. Fleetingly, Harry closed his eyes, then opened them. “However, if you give me your word you will not stray from my side—not to admire some view, some horse or a lady’s bonnet—” He looked down at her, his jaw setting. “I will engage to escort you there.”

  Her smile was triumphant. “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

  Not kind—foolish. It was, Harry was already convinced, the most stupid move he’d ever made. An ostler came running in answer to his curt gesture. “I’ll have my curricle. You can tell Grimms to take Lady Hallows’s gig back; I’ll see Mrs Babbacombe home.”

  “Yessir.”

  Lucinda busied herself with the fit of her gloves, then meekly allowed herself to be lifted to the curricle’s seat. Settling her skirts, and her quivering senses, she smiled serenely as, with a deft flick of the reins, Harry took the greys onto the street.

  The race-track lay west of the town on the flat, grassy, largely tree-less heath. Harry drove directly to the stables in which his string of racers were housed, a little way from the track proper, beyond the public precincts.

  Lucinda, drinking in the sights, could not miss the glances thrown their way. Stableboy and gentleman alike seemed disposed to stare; she was unexpectedly grateful when the stable walls protected her from view.

  The horses were a wonder. Lifted down from the curricle, Lucinda could not resist wandering down the row of loose boxes, patting the velvet noses that came out to greet her, admiring the sleek lines and rippling muscles of what, even to her untutored eyes, had to be some of the finest horses in England.

  Engaged in a brisk discussion with Hamish, Harry followed her progress, insensibly buoyed by the awed appreciation he saw in her gaze. On reaching the end of the row, she turned and saw him watching her; her nose rose an inch but she came back, strolling towards him through the sunshine.

  “So all’s right with entering the mare, then?”

  Reluctantly, Harry shifted his gaze to Hamish’s face. His head-stableman was also watching Lucinda Babbacombe, not with the appreciation she deserved but with horrified fascination. As she drew nearer, Harry extended his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it without apparent thought. “Just as long as Thistledown’s fetlock’s fully healed.”

  “Aye.” Hamish bobbed respectfully at Lucinda. “Seems to be. I told the boy to just let her run—no point marshalling her resources if it’s still weak. A good run’s the only way to tell.”

  Harry nodded. “I’ll stop by and speak to him myself.”

  Hamish nodded and effaced himself with the alacrity of a man nervous around females, at least those not equine in nature.

  Suppressing a grin, Harry lifted a brow at his companion. “I thought you agreed not to be distracted by horses?”

  The look she bent on him was confidently assured. “You shouldn’t have brought me to see yours, then. They are truly the most distractingly beautiful specimens I’ve ever seen.”

  Harry couldn’t suppress his smile. “But you haven’t seen the best of them. Those on that side are two-and three-year-olds—for my money, the older ones are more gracious. Come, I’ll show you.”

  She seemed only too ready to be led down the opposite row of boxes, dutifully admiring the geldings and mares. At the end of the row, a bay stallion reached confidently over the half-door to investigate Harry’s pockets.

  “This is old Cribb—a persistent devil. Still runs with the best of them though he could retire gracefully on his accumulated winnings.” Leaving her patting the stallion’s nose, Harry went to a barrel by the wall. “Here,” he said, turning back. “Feed him these.”

  Lucinda took the three dried apples he offered her, giggling as Cribb delicately lipped them from her palm.

  Harry glanced up—and saw Dawlish outside the tack-room, standing stock-still, staring at him. Leaving Lucinda communing with Cribb, Harry strolled over. “What’s up?”

  Now that he was beside him, it was clear Dawlish was staring at his companion, not him.

  “Gawd’s truth—it’s happened.”

  Harry frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Dawlish turned a pitying eye on him. “Ridiculous, is it? You do realize, don’t you, that that’s the first female you’ve ever shown your horses?”

  Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “She’s the first female ever to have shown an interest.”

  “Hah! Might as well hang up your gloves, gov’nor—you’re a goner.”

  Harry cast his eyes heavenwards. “If you must know, she’s never been to a race-meet before and was curious—there’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “Ah-hah. So you says.” Dawlish cast a long, defeated look at the slight figure by Cribb’s box. “All I says is that you can justify it any ways you want—the conclusions still come out the same.”

  With a doleful shake of his head, Dawlish retreated, muttering, back into the tack-room.

  Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown. He glanced back at the woman, still chatting to his favourite stallion. If it wasn’t for the fact they would shortly be surrounded by crowds, he might be inclined to share his henchman’s pessimism. But the race-track, in full view of the multitudes, was surely safe enough.

  “If we leave now,”
he said, returning to her side, “we can stroll to the track in time for the first race.”

  She smiled her acquiescence and laid her hand on his arm. “Is that horse you were talking of—Thistledown—running in it?”

  Smiling down into her blue eyes, Harry shook his head. “No—she’s in the second.”

  Lucinda found herself trapped in the clear green of his eyes; she studied them, trying to gauge what he was thinking. His lips twitched and he looked away. Blinking as they emerged into the bright sunshine, Lucinda asked, “Your aunt mentioned you managed a stud?”

  His fascinating lips curved. “Yes—the Lester stud.” With ready facility, prompted by her questions, he expiated at length on the trials and successes of his enterprise. What he didn’t say but Lucinda inferred, it being the logical deduction to make from his descriptions, was that the stud was both a shining achievement and the very core of his life.

  They reached the tents surrounding the track as the runners for the first race were being led to the barrier. All Lucinda could see was a sea of backs as everyone concentrated on the course.

  “This way—you’ll see better from the stands.”

  A man in a striped vest was guarding a roped arena before a large wooden stand. Lucinda noted that while he insisted on seeing passes from the other latecomers ahead of them, he merely grinned and nodded at Harry and let them by. Harry helped her up the steep steps by the side of the planks serving as seats—but before they could find places a horn blew.

  “They’re off.” Harry’s words echoed from a hundred throats—about them, all the patrons craned forward.

  Lucinda turned obediently and saw a line of horses thundering down the turf. From this distance, neither she nor anyone else could see all that much of the animals. It was the crowd that enthralled her—their rising excitement gripped her, making her breathe faster and concentrate on the race. When the winner flashed past the post, the jockey flourishing his whip high, she felt inordinately glad.