‘Nah, I ain’t seen anyone like that.’ He flicked through the coins, then handed up the ticket. ‘This’ll take you through Crawley too, sir. Are you on some kind of race?’
‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Open the gate, man!’
By the time they reached Crawley, the sky had brightened into shades of dawn pink, and the horses were showing the strain of the sustained speed, their chestnut coats dulled to brown by sweat and road dirt. The Duke slowed them into a tired trot as they approached the Rising Sun Inn, its long, many-windowed frontage sporting a huge black and white sign across the top that proclaimed ‘Posting House and Livery Stables’. A neat fence made of white posts linked by chains demarcated the front of the inn from the road. A town coach, empty of its passengers, stood waiting opposite the entrance of the inn, the driver and an old ostler inspecting the hoof of one of its team. They looked up at the clatter of the curricle’s arrival, watching as the Duke manoeuvred his team in behind the larger vehicle.
‘Robbie,’ the ostler called over his shoulder, ‘His Grace, the Duke of Selburn. Four-in-hand!’
A younger ostler appeared from the archway that led to the stables. He jogged over to them, touching his hat. ‘Your Grace.’
‘The greys ready for a stretch, Robbie?’ the Duke asked.
The boy grinned. ‘Champing, Your Grace.’
The Duke glanced at Helen. ‘Order some refreshment for us if you will. We shall be here but a few minutes.’
Helen placed her hat upon the seat and climbed down to the cobbles, arching her back and sighing with the stretch of cramped muscles. She watched as the Duke drove the curricle through the narrow archway, the older ostler also looking up from his work to watch the show of skill.
‘I’ll check the tack,’ the coach driver said. He gestured to the hoof. ‘You’ll take care of this?’
‘Aye,’ the ostler said, taking a file from his leather apron. ‘Won’t take long.’
The driver walked to the coach’s two lead horses and inspected the harness.
The inn door opened and a waiter approached. ‘Refreshment for the Duke and yourself, sir?’ he asked. ‘Claret? Rum? Ale?’
Helen’s mouth and throat were parched and she was sure she had swallowed at least three insects. What she really craved was the tart slake of lemonade, but Mr Amberley and the Duke of Selburn would hardly order such a mild beverage.
‘Ale,’ she said.
The waiter bowed and hurried back across the cobbled yard to the inn.
Helen walked over to the older ostler. The man looked up from the hoof and dipped his grey head. ‘Sir.’
‘Cracked hoof, is it?’
‘Aye, but not bad.’
‘A lot of coaches on the road,’ Helen commented. ‘Do you know Lord Carlston by sight?’
‘Aye. Came through a while back driving his bays; all but blown. Looked like he had the devil on his back.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He usually has a kind word for me an’ the boys, but not this time. He was wild, pacing up an’ down. In a right state.’
A worrying description.
At the corner of her eye, she saw the Duke emerge through the archway. A loud chatter of voices, female, turned her head to the inn door. A waiter held it open as three women and a gentleman, all in evening dress, departed the inn and headed across the short distance to the coach. The familiar squarish figures of two of the women registered first, sending a sweep of foreboding across Helen’s skin. Then she heard the loud voice of Pug Brompton declare, ‘The last team were absolute bone-shakers. I hope this lot are better matched.’
Helen felt her heart punch against her chest. Pug and her mother, on their way back from the Olivers’ ball. Lord, if they recognised her … If she were found alone in the company of the Duke …
She searched wildly for an escape. The four coach horses prevented any retreat over the white post fence; the ostler, bent over the wheeler’s hoof, blocked the path to the archway. Pug and her party were only a few steps away. She did not even have her hat to pull down low over her eyes. Her best chance was the archway.
She turned her face away from Pug and launched herself past the old ostler. The wheeler caught her sudden movement at the edge of its blinker and shied, wrenching its hoof from the man’s grip. The ostler jumped back, straight into Helen’s path as the horse heaved upward in the traces. Its back legs kicked out. One hoof slammed into the driver’s box with a booming thud, the other clipped Helen’s hip. She staggered, the horrified faces of Pug and her companions blurring as her hands and knees hit the cobbles, the impact jarring through her bones. More painful than the glancing kick. In reflex, she rolled away from the sound of squealing horses and the scraping shift of hooves.
‘Helen!’ the Duke yelled. She heard his running footsteps, felt him grab her under her arms, her body hauled backward away from the distressed team. ‘Are you hurt, Helen?’
The aching pain had already peaked and settled. She heard a loud, familiar female gasp of recognition. Oh, no, Pug had heard her name. Her untitled name.
‘Get me out of here!’
She wrapped her hand around the Duke’s strong forearm, her urgency cutting through the shock in his face. He pulled her upright.
‘For goodness’ sake, get another ostler to their heads,’ Lady Dunwick commanded as the driver and the old ostler ran to the lead horses to calm them.
All attention was upon the coach and team. A chance to slip away. She took a limping step, the Duke supporting her arm.
‘Lady Helen?’ Pug’s voice.
Helen hunched her shoulders, but Pug was not one to give up. She circled in front of them, peering into Helen’s face.
‘That is you, isn’t it? Why I didn’t recognise you until —’ She stared at the Duke, still with his hand supporting Helen’s arm. ‘Your Grace.’ She bobbed into a curtsey, her gaze darting from Helen to the Duke and back again, the story complete in her face. ‘Holy heavens above, you are eloping, aren’t you? How wonderful!’
Lady Dunwick whirled around from inspecting her vehicle, her protuberant eyes even wider than ever. ‘What did you say, Elizabeth?’ She stared fiercely at Helen, the moment of identification arriving with a small gargle of horror. ‘Lady Helen!’ Her gaze came to rest upon the Duke and his hold upon Helen’s arm. She inclined her head, her voice thick with disapproval. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Are you hurt, Lady Helen?’ Pug asked.
‘No, not at all. It was my own fault.’
‘Oh, now I see — it is Lady Helen Wrexhall!’ the other woman exclaimed; a thin, hawk-nosed woman wearing girlish curls and an expression of scandalised delight. She leaned closer to the rotund man at her side, presumably her husband, and said in a loud whisper, ‘Viscount Pennworth’s niece.’ Her eyes raked over Helen. ‘Look, Albridge, you can see the whole length of her leg!’
The man, his thick lip curled in disdain, raised his quizzing glass. ‘Quite,’ he said.