The Ladies of Mount Street

CHAPTER ONE

Except for a reflexive tightening of his grip on the reins, the driver of the curricle paid no heed to the first faint grumble of thunder in the distance.

In the next few minutes lightning streaks in the darkening sky grew closer and more frequent, culminating in a bolt that appeared to split the narrow road in two for an instant, illuminating the hedges on either side.

The thunderclap that followed, loud enough to wake the dead, completed what the lightning had begun.

The job horses, which he’d hired in Wrethlestam to pull the curricle after his traveling chaise had lost a wheel, shied and bolted, almost jerking him off the seat.

Loosing a loud stream of creative invective served to relieve his temper somewhat, but had no effect on as miserable a pair of stumblers as it had ever been his misfortune to try to hold together.

By the time Lord Hastings had slowed their headlong flight and reasserted control over the panicked pair, he had collected a new set of bruises from jouncing over the uneven road surface and was half blinded by the now sheeting rain.

Worst of all, he had no idea of his precise location at the moment, and night was rapidly approaching.

Their progress had been slowed by traveling in tandem with the two vehicles today so that his groom, whose shoulder was not fully recovered from an injury, could drive the lighter vehicle.

He had chaffed at the further delay caused by the accident to the chaise.

However, it had likely been a mistake to insist on resuming his journey in mid-afternoon in an open vehicle powered by two horses whose appearance had provoked a snort of disgust from his groom, instead of racking up at what had looked to be a tolerable inn outside Wrethlestam until the wheel should be ready the next day.

To continue in the face of Huckston’s dire warnings of an impending storm had been a worse mistake, he admitted, and one that his groom, who took an inordinate pride in the accuracy of his weather prophecies, was not likely to let him forget in the near future.

He preferred not to dwell on a picture of this annoyingly prescient individual, who was no doubt dry and warm and enjoying a pint with his supper at this hour, while the chaise awaited repair and his bone-headed master received the wetting he deserved by electing to continue on alone in a sporting vehicle not made for inclement weather.

It would seem that he had lived up to his nickname once again, he conceded glumly, conscious of a constant trickle of water down the neck of his many-caped driving coat.

He was aware that he was widely known as “Hasty Jack”, a soubriquet earned in his school days by virtue of numerous acts of folly and rashness.

His school days were well behind him at eight-and-twenty, however, and though he often indulged in good-natured ribbing himself, he had no great desire to remain embalmed by society at large as an image of juvenile imbecility.

Obviously his decision to press on today had been ill-judged, but it had not been made in the spirit of daredevilry that had inspired his earlier exploits, he reminded himself, peering into the gathering darkness for a signpost or a recognisable landmark.

He was not entirely unfamiliar with this part of Hertfordshire either; his godmother’s estate, which was his destination, was a few miles from the village of Tuddwell.

He had escorted his mother there just last month prior to joining a hunting party in Leicestershire.

Had it not been for the accident to his carriage, he would have been safely at Belfort well before this storm and before dinner, thoughts of which contributed to his present discomfort.

His godmother, Lady Crofton, was renowned for her hospitality and her talented chef.

The childless widow of a wealthy baronet twenty years her senior, she was of a gregarious nature, filling her house with diverse and amusing people.

She and Jack’s mother had met at school in Bath, and their friendship spanned more than three decades.

Thoughts of his mother caused Jack’s jaw to stiffen into a grim line as he urged the horses to a faster clip.

He cursed the lack of wit that had led him to set a specific date for his appearance at Belfort in the brief note he’d dispatched in reply to her last letter.

He could picture her sitting in Lady Crofton’s elegant saloon trying to respond to the company while that anxious look crept into her eyes, and her ears strained to hear anticipated signs of arrival.

Befuddled and absorbed in his own grief in the beginning, he had been slow to recognise the change in his mother in the two years since a freak accident on the hunting field had killed his father and fatally blighted his mother’s happy life, with the single exception of her husband’s namesake and heir.

Since she never sought to curtail his sporting activities, he had only gradually come to realise that his once-serene mother lived in terror of losing her son as she had lost her husband.

She kept a constant guard on her tongue, but she could not conceal the fear that leapt into her eyes whenever mention of his sporting pursuits reached her ears.

Her fears were irrational, of course, but they were real, and he could not lightly disregard something that caused her real suffering.

It was the conviction that his mother would be tormented by worry at his non-appearance that had impelled him to fly in the face of Huckston’s advice this afternoon.

Driving a mismatched pair of inferior horses over poorly surfaced roads was a wearing task even in good weather, and the storm and gathering dusk were making this a hellish trip in every way.

He would have aching muscles tomorrow to remind him of this stint, but he must be quite near Tuddwell now.

He could see lights up ahead that were not lightning streaks.

Soon his mother could stop fearing that because she had lost John she would lose John’s son too — at least until the next perceived danger to her only chick, he amended, his mouth twisting wryly.

Jack’s expectation of a successful conclusion to the adventure proved premature.

In the next instant the malign fate that punishes hubris in mortals struck in the form of a huge tree root extending into the road on a curve.

It would not have posed a problem in full daylight, but the storm had stringently reduced visibility.

By the time he noticed the obstruction, it was too late to avoid it.

The impact was stunning and the loud crack utterly dismaying.

As he pitched out of the curricle, still clutching the reins, Jack’s last coherent thought was that he’d managed the ultimate in humiliation: breaking a wheel on two vehicles in one infamous day.

Then he hit the ground and pain exploded in his head, driving out all thought as he slid into unconsciousness.

Hurried footsteps descending a staircase heralded the entrance of a young woman into the parlour whose sole occupant was another lady seated by the fireplace and occupied with a piece of stitchery.

“I am sorry to be so late, Mama,” said the girl breathlessly, her eyes on her fingers as she fumbled to retie the sash circling her slender waist into an even bow.

The older woman’s smile of welcome turned into a chuckle as she comprehended her daughter’s struggles, and she set aside her embroidery, getting to her feet with the fluid grace of a girl.

“You are making sad work of that sash, dearest. Let me help you.”

The girl’s arms promptly dropped to her sides and she stood motionless, a rueful little smile curving her lips while her mother’s clever fingers smoothed the creases in the sash and fashioned an attractive bow whose streamers trailed down the front of the gown in smart symmetry.

“There, that’s better,” Mrs. Marsh said, stepping back, her head on one side as she eyed her handiwork with satisfaction.

The girl swooped forward and planted a kiss on her parent’s smooth cheek.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said, adding in a voice of mock despair, “I may have inherited your hair colour and cheekbones, but I’ve utterly failed to acquire any of your feminine accomplishments.

I cannot draw or paint or play on the pianoforte.

Also, I am hopeless with a needle,” she added, catching sight of the white work on her mother’s chair as they approached the fireplace, “and if I should ever be so foolish as to open my mouth to sing I would disgrace you beyond any hope of redemption.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Marsh briskly interrupted this piteous catalogue of failings.

“If you are looking for sympathy you are barking up the wrong tree, my love. It is true that you have no voice to speak of, but your early progress on the pianoforte was very promising. However, you were never to be found when it was time to practise. It was the same story with the other so-called feminine accomplishments that girls of your station are taught from childhood by long custom. No, it was not a lack of talent or aptitude but a deplorable want of application that was at fault, Laura. You always preferred to be out in the barns or the fields with your father.”

Laura, now seated opposite her mother’s chair, stared across the fireplace, temporarily dumbstruck at this frank assessment.

“I … I must have been the horridest little beast in nature,” she blurted out at last, bewildered and a bit hurt.

“Why did you allow it, Mama? I mean, why was I not made to apply myself, if you felt it was important that I acquire these skills?”