Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise Allen

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      ‘Are you quite well, my lady?’ Philpott frowned, anxious. ‘You look a trifle emotional.’

      ‘No, I am quite well. My eyes are watering, that is all. Just the after-effects of such a long sleep, I expect.’ Ashe had been gentle and kind and tolerant. But he was not going to come back, that was certain. Male pride, she knew from observing every male of her acquaintance, did not take kindly to rejection, and rejection did not come in more comprehensive form than a woman falling asleep in a man’s arms when he was intending to make love to her.

      She felt fidgety, unsettled and sad. A strange combination of emotions. She was going to have to write and apologise. What on earth could she say to excuse her behaviour? But at least she could do something about the fidgets and perhaps later she would know what to say in her note. And there was that kiss to remember, always.

      Bel threw back the covers and went to her little desk in her bare feet. ‘I will drive in the park this morning, Philpott. Please have this note taken round to Lady James Ravenhurst’s London residence immediately and tell the footman to wait for the reply.’

      There was only one woman in London she felt she could safely be with at the moment without betraying some clue as to her inner turmoil and that was Cousin Elinor. Elinor would not notice anything amiss unless a Greek charioteer drove through Hyde Park, or St Paul’s Cathedral sprouted minarets, she was certain of it.

      Miss Ravenhurst’s note gratefully accepting the offer of a drive and luncheon was returned promptly and Elinor was equally prompt when the barouche drew up outside the house. When Bel thanked her for not keeping the horses standing, she brushed it away with a shake of her head in its plain straw bonnet. ‘I did not want to dally, believe me! Mama is sure to have thought of some piece she wants me to transcribe after all and really, this is far too lovely a morning to be shut inside.’

      ‘You help my aunt a great deal with her researches, then? It must be fascinating,’ Bel added mendaciously, thinking that, unless Elinor was as committed as her mother, it must actually be quite ghastly.

      ‘It has a certain interest. Anything does if you come to know enough about it.’ Elinor folded her hands neatly in her lap, the tight buttoned gloves precisely the wrong shade of tan to go with the mouse-brown skirt and pelisse she wore. Either she was colour blind or her mother insisted she dress to repel men. Knowing Aunt Louisa, Bel strongly suspected the latter.

      ‘Besides,’ her cousin added, with the air of making her position quite clear, ‘I have to do something with my time. Fortunately there are no elderly aunts who require a companion and I may be thankful that neither Simon nor Anne expect me to dance attention on their offspring. I am not at all good with children and I make a dreadful aunt. So, if one must be on the shelf, this at least has the advantage of being intellectually stimulating.’

      It was the longest speech Bel had ever heard Elinor make, and certainly the first time she had ever volunteered her thoughts on her own situation. ‘I do not understand why you should be on the shelf,’ she ventured, choosing her words with caution. ‘You are very pretty, well connected…’

      ‘I am too tall and I have red hair,’ Elinor contradicted. ‘You are lucky, Cousin Belinda, you are one of the brown-haired Ravenhursts. I am one of the redheads.’

      ‘Auburn,’ Bel corrected. ‘It is lovely, like conkers.’ Poor Elinor. At least, whatever other problems she had, Bel had never been made to feel plain. ‘Cousin Theophilus has much redder hair than you do.’

      Elinor smiled. ‘You are very kind, but I know I have no charm and that is essential to attract gentlemen. I am too practical, I expect. And I have not met Cousin Theophilus for years: Mama says he is a loose fish and a wastrel. Where are we going to drive?’ She craned around inelegantly to see where they had got to, one hand firmly clamped on the crown of her awful hat. ‘Hyde Park?’

      ‘I thought so. And then shall we go to Gunter’s for ices?’ Eating ice cream in the morning was decidedly self-indulgent, but she felt she needed it.

      The carriage made several turns, Bel pointing out the exotic sight of a lady with a pair of elegant long-haired hounds on a leash. Elinor twisted again in her seat to watch them, unconcerned about creasing her gown. ‘I think those are saluki hounds, from Arabia. Cousin Belinda…’ she frowned as she turned back ‘…there is a man following us in a curricle.’

      ‘How can you tell? The streets are jammed.’

      ‘I saw the curricle behind you when you picked me up, and he was there again when I looked to see where we were and now he is still behind us. He is driving a striking pair of match greys—I cannot be mistaken.’

      ‘I expect he is going to the park as we are and our ways just happen to coincide.’ Elinor looked dubious, but Bel was not going to scramble about in the carriage, peering out at the traffic behind them. ‘Why should anyone want to follow us? I do believe you are a secret novel reader, Cousin! I can assure you, I am not being pursued by a wicked duke for some evil end. Perhaps he is after you.’

      Elinor blushed so furiously at the suggestion of novel reading that Bel decided that not only must she consume the productions of the Minerva Press avidly, but that Aunt Louisa had no idea and would not approve. ‘I have just borrowed The Abbess of Voltiera from the circulating library, if you would like to have it as I finish each volume,’ she offered. ‘It is quite blood curdling.’

      ‘That would be very nice,’ Elinor said primly as they entered the park. ‘Oh look, there’s a gentleman waving to you. See? On that horse close to the grove of chestnuts.’

      Ashe. Bel followed the direction of her cousin’s gaze and saw Mr Layne approaching them on a good-looking bay hack. ‘Pull up,’ she called to the coachman as her treacherous pulse returned to normal. ‘Mr Layne, good morning. Cousin Elinor, may I make known to you Mr Layne, the brother of the renowned poetess? Mr Layne, my cousin, Miss Ravenhurst.’

      He brought his horse alongside the carriage and leaned down to shake hands. ‘A lovely morning for a drive, is it not?’

      ‘Delightful,’ Elinor agreed. ‘Are you also a poet, Mr Layne?’

      ‘Not at all, I fear. I can hardly rhyme moon and spoon.’ Patrick laughed, shaking his head in self-deprecation. ‘All the talent in the family is with my sister. I manage my uncle’s estates.’

      ‘That requires talent also,’ Elinor observed.

      Now he would be perfect for her, Bel thought, suddenly struck as she watched them chatting easily. Mr Layne showed no sign of alarm at either Elinor’s despised auburn hair, nor her appalling dress sense. He was a young man with his way to make in the world and, with her connections and excellent common sense, she was just the sort of woman to…

      ‘Oh, look, Cousin Belinda, that man who was following us has just driven past.’ Elinor pointed.

      ‘What?’ Mr Layne stood in his stirrups to observe the rear of the curricle that was sweeping away down the carriage drive. ‘Has someone been annoying you ladies? Shall I catch up to him and demand his business?’

      ‘No! I am certain it was just coincidence that he was behind us for such a way. Please, do not concern yourself Mr Layne. See—he has gone now.’

      ‘Then let me ride beside you as escort in case he comes back.’ He reined back to one side and matched his pace to the barouche as it moved off, keeping far enough away so as not to appear to be with them.

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