Eleanor glanced at Moira, who looked both thrilled and fearful—this day, for both of them, was taking so many unexpected turns that she herself began to feel as if she were riding a wild horse galloping off across the fields.
“Then right this way,” Rutherford declared, brushing out his muttonchops with the tips of his fingers, “for time and tide…”
“Wait for no man,” Moira piped up, always anxious to complete a saying, and Eleanor noted that Rutherford gave her an appreciative glance—a glance that lingered, most notably, on the glimpse of creamy bosom afforded by her unbuttoned bodice.
“Right you are, Miss Mulcahy,” he said, offering her his arm. “May I escort you?”
Moira appeared flummoxed for a moment—a man of Rutherford’s stature, wearing a pearl-gray cutaway coat, offering his arm to someone of her social position—but Eleanor gave her a discreet nudge and she slipped her hand onto his arm, and out they all went.
The coach was a brougham, with a family crest—a lion rampant on crossed shields—drawn by a sturdy pair of Shire horses with bay coats. Until that moment, Eleanor had been unsure of the world she had entered, but this—the family coach, the easy way the men all had with money (though her lieutenant, she guessed, was overly profligate with his)—decided the matter. Both she and Moira were swimming in waters way over their own heads.
The interior of the coach was upholstered in Morocco-finished leather, with its fine pebble grain, and stowed beneath the seats there were lap robes, also embroidered with the family crest. The footrests were of polished mahogany and the front wall—just behind where the coachman sat—housed a small window, like a trap, with a tasseled handle. And though the captain had assured them there would be plenty of room, there was not, what with Rutherford being such a large man and Moira possessing such an ample figure. Room also had to be made for Miss Wilson’s striking hat. Sinclair, very courteously, offered to sit between Eleanor and Moira so that they might gaze through the open windows and enjoy the passing view.
They were traveling through a largely rustic landscape, the Ascot racecourse having been built, in 1711, on the fringes of Windsor Great Park, in a natural clearing close to the village of East Cote. The green fields were dotted with sheep and cows, and the farmers and their families, going about their chores, often paused to watch Captain Rutherford’s impressive coach rumble by. A boy with a heavy pail in each hand stood stock-still, staring, and Eleanor could well imagine his awe; she had felt it herself, at the sight of such coaches going by, and wondered, as he was no doubt doing, what it was like to be inside of one…to be a wealthy landowner, or born aristocrat, who traveled, and lived, in such a manner. When her eyes met, for just an instant, with the dumbstruck boy’s, she felt such a welter of emotion—at first she simply wanted to explain to him that she wasn’t in fact one of those fortunate few, that she was merely a simple farm girl by birth, ordained to live a life much like his own—but then, a curious thing happened. She inclined her head slightly, as she imagined an aristocrat would do, and felt in her breast a thrill of delight, and pride, and deception. She felt the way she had when she’d worn a princess costume—as a little girl, at a country fair—and thought the townspeople had mistaken her for the genuine article.
“Winning always whets my appetite,” Sinclair declared. “What would you all say to a buffet supper at my club?”
Le Maitre—or Frenchie, as Eleanor now recalled—said, “Perhaps we should go to my club? Given certain circumstances, regarding Mr. Fitzroy,” he added, raising one eyebrow at Sinclair, who brushed it off.
“Pshaw! Nothing to fear from that quarter,” Sinclair said, even though Fitzroy had been demanding satisfaction ever since he’d been thrown through the brothel window. “What would you say to some cold meats, cheeses, and a much finer port than anything Frenchie’s club could provide?”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say—events were galloping on again, with her barely clinging to the reins.
When no one lodged an objection, Rutherford declared it a fine idea and rapped hard with his knuckles on the trap behind his head.
When it opened, and the coachman’s head leaned down, Rutherford said, “Pall Mall—the Longchamps Club.”
The coachman nodded, the trap was closed, and the carriage wheels rattled loudly over a wooden bridge.
Eleanor, her shoulder pressed close against that of Lieutenant Copley, sat back on the plush seat and wondered how this marvelous dream might end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
December 7, 8 a.m.