The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin

1

The gentleman riding on the bridle way in front of me had not noticed his horse was lame. The gray mare's head bobbed excessively and her gait was short and choppy on the compacted sand of Rotten Row. Clear signs of distress. It was no wonder; the man jerked upon the reins and his seat was deplorable.

"I think we must intervene," I said to Leonardo, leaning forward in my sidesaddle to stroke his chestnut neck. "Otherwise, he may ruin her."

My hunter tossed his head as if in agreement. A whimsical notion, perhaps, but I have always held that horses are creatures of great sympathy.

"Thomas, I am riding ahead," I called to my groom, who followed at a discreet distance on his own mount.

"Aye, my lady," he answered.

I shifted my weight in the sidesaddle and gently urged Leonardo into a trot, the sound of his hooves dull thuds upon the damp ground.

The dawn light had broken through the dense autumn fog, and the trees and paths of Hyde Park were finally visible around us. Most of the other riders on the bridle way were grooms exercising their highbred charges. Only a few members of the bon ton, including myself and the two men ahead, were flouting the royal order that allowed grooms-and only grooms-to gallop upon Rotten Row at daybreak. Since anything above a trot was forbidden at all other times, it was worth the early start and slight risk. Although if I rode as badly as Mr. Deplorable, I would not have bothered.

"Ho, ahead," I called, my breath misting in front of my mouth. "Stop! Your horse is lame."

I drew Leonardo alongside the two riders and matched their slower pace. I did not know Mr. Deplorable, but I certainly recognized the compact athletic man mounted on the bay beside him: Lord Milroy.

Damn, one of the most contrary men I had ever met. He had a reputation as a Tory kingmaker-always avoiding the forefront of politics, but highly influential nonetheless-and was well-known for his view that women had no place in the political sphere, even at the social periphery where we were relegated. Ironically, we came into each other's orbit quite frequently at the Berry sisters' soirees-the heart of informal political discourse-and he and I had clashed twice in the debates. So far, the score was one all, but I believed the money was on me to win the next bout.

"Lord Milroy, your friend's horse is lame," I said in greeting. "He should dismount before he does any more harm."

"Lady Augusta," Milroy said, saluting me with a bare nod, his voice a rumbling baritone of disdain. He liked to dabble in the theater-imagining himself, no doubt, another Kemble-and had learned to use his voice to excellent effect. "I see you do not confine your lectures to the debating ring."

The swords, it seemed, were already drawn. "This is not a lecture, Lord Milroy, it is a fact: the mare is lame."

He and his companion reined their mounts to a halt. I did the same, settling more firmly into my saddle. This was not going to be an easy rescue after all.

"We are most fortunate, then, to have your eagle eyes upon the situation," Milroy said, casting a droll look at his friend. "I had heard you liked to ride with the grooms, Lady Augusta-so singular for a lady of your rank. What is the attraction, I wonder."

I ignored his sly innuendo and the fact that he did not introduce his smirking companion to me as etiquette demanded. "I imagine it is the same as for yourself, Lord Milroy: the chance to gallop. However, your friend should dismount now."

My suggestion went unacknowledged. Instead, Milroy surveyed the impressive dimensions of Leonardo. "Such a large hunter for a woman. One wonders who advised you to purchase such an inappropriate mount." He touched his forehead under his beaver hat in a theatrical gesture of recall. "Ah, but of course, you are sadly without the guidance of a husband."

I matched his silky tone. "I think it is always best to ride a horse that matches one's skill." A glance at his smaller gelding brought home my double meaning. His mouth tightened. A pleasing result, but the mare had cocked her lame hoof and the suffering was plain in her eyes. Time to move this conversation to its goal. "You have not introduced your friend to me, Lord Milroy," I said firmly.

Upon such a blatant prompt, he had no choice. "Lady Augusta, allow me to introduce Mr. Charles Rampling, lately of Hertfordshire, who is currently my guest here in London."

"Lady Augusta, enchanted," the man slurred, and made a clumsy bow in the saddle, sending his poor horse into an unnecessary step upon her lame foreleg. It seemed Mr. Rampling was still quite foxed from the night before.

"You should dismount immediately, Mr. Rampling," I said briskly. How many times did I have to repeat myself?

"Dismount?" Mr. Rampling echoed. "Good God, no. I'd have to walk if I dismounted."

Perhaps he did not understand the urgency of the situation. "That would be the case, certainly, but if you do not, you could damage your mare permanently."

Mr. Rampling squinted at me, then giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched trill. "So, are you a horse physician, Lady Augusta?"

"Of course not," I said, pitching my voice over Lord Milroy's laugh. "Anyone with an ounce of knowledge would see-"

Rampling shrugged. "Then, begging pardon, my lady, this is my animal and I'll do with her as I please. I am not about to walk upon the Row like some Johnny Raw."

"Perhaps the effects of last night's revels are still with you, Mr. Rampling," I said sharply. "Only a fool would disregard such an injury to his horse and by doing so compound it. Surely you do not wish-"

"Are you scolding my friend, Lady Augusta?" Lord Milroy asked with mock jocularity. The angle of his long chin, however, held the jut of battle. "Perhaps it is not only this mare that needs a bridle."

I stared at him, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"He means a scold's bridle," Mr. Rampling slurred helpfully. He giggled again, his rocking mirth pressing the poor mare into another pained shift upon her lame hoof.

I drew a steadying breath. Every fiber of my being demanded that I tell Milroy exactly what I thought of him, but that would not help the horse. I had to get her away from these men at any cost.

"Mr. Rampling, I will give you seventy guineas for her if you dismount and hand her over now."

It was twice the amount the mare was worth, but I did not care.

Rampling's eyes widened. "Seventy? Well, I-"

Milroy quelled Rampling with a glance, then leaned forward in his saddle. "Too easy, Lady Augusta. How about a wager instead? Your horse and skill against mine. A race along the length of the Row. Winner takes the mare. Surely a lady who rides with the grooms will not balk at a race."

Even in a world where fortunes were regularly won and lost on the flip of a card or the roll of the dice, Milroy was famed as a hard gambler. I had heard that he had once wagered he could find a man to eat a cat alive. The tale was most probably-and hopefully-apocryphal, but the message was the same: the man would wager a great deal upon anything.

A hot rush of competition surged through me. Leonardo was the superior horse and my own skill was easily a match for Milroy's. I could beat him. Even so, he was asking me to race for money on public ground. A whole new level of impropriety. Moreover, such a wager in front of the grooms would inevitably bring gossip. I could not afford to attract any attention to myself. Not with what was currently at stake: Julia and I had two fugitives hiding in our house, and Lord Evan-my dear absent Evan-was being hunted by the Bow Street Magistrate for absconding and robbery. Any eyes upon us could put them all at risk.

"I think you are well aware I cannot accept such a wager, Lord Milroy," I said. "Mr. Rampling, would you consider one hundred guineas?"

A ridiculous price, but we were in competition now and I was not going to lose.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a handsome black horse approach at a stately pace, its elegantly dressed rider instantly recognizable: Mr. Brummell.

Good God, what was he doing here? George Brummell did not usually emerge from his rooms until midday.

"Lady Augusta," Mr. Brummell called. "Well met."

I collected myself enough to raise my riding crop in greeting. George reined in his mount beside Leonardo and made a bow in the saddle to the two men. "Good day, Lord Milroy, and Mr. Rampling, is it not?"

Rampling straightened from his lolling slump. It was not every day that a man of his ilk was recognized by the king of fashionable society. "It is, Mr. Brummell. It is, it is indeed," he stammered, returning my friend's salute with vigor.

George glanced at me with a lift of his brow. It was plain he knew I was fuming.

"I have just offered Mr. Rampling one hundred guineas for his mare," I said, as evenly as I could manage.

George raised his quizzing glass-hanging around his neck on an elegant black riband-and considered the gray with some authority. In his youth he had been a cavalryman and he knew his horseflesh. "That is rather exorbitant, my dear Lady Augusta, since she is quite lame." He shifted his scrutiny to her rider. "You should take it, Rampling. You will never get a better price."

"Of course I'll take it," Mr. Rampling said. He dismounted-an untidy affair that forced a huff of pain from the mare-and offered me the reins.

Clearly, he had agreed only because George had told him to sell; a man's advice was always worth one hundred times more than a woman's. Moreover, if that man happened to be "Beau" Brummell, then there could be no refusal. I gritted my teeth and took the reins. A hollow victory, but at least the horse was safe.

I turned in my saddle and waved to Thomas, waiting nearby on his mount, to join us. Upon his arrival, I handed him the reins. "Walk her back to the mews and ask John Driver to start poulticing her right foreleg."

"Yes, my lady." He hesitated. "Shall I return?"

"No. I will be along presently."

With a nod and a bow, Thomas rode slowly toward the Hyde Park Gate, leading my new mare behind him.

"What is the horse's name?" I asked Rampling.

The man shrugged. "I just call her the old gray," he said from the ground, which, frankly, summed up the worth of the man.

"I had thought you were made of sterner stuff, Lady Augusta," Lord Milroy said, a false smile on his thin lips. "Perhaps we will have that race one day. For a different wager."

"Certainly," I said, meeting his smile with my own. "I would relish defeating you again."

Milroy straightened in the saddle.

George cleared his throat. "Will you ride with me awhile, Lady Augusta?" he asked, casting me an amused glance.

"I would be delighted." I looked down at Rampling. "I will send my groom to return your tack, and my man of business will be in contact with you directly. Good day." I met Milroy's hard look. "Good day to you, too, Lord Milroy."

George touched the brim of his hat in polite farewell and we turned our horses, quickly settling into a matched pace.

"Did I hear correctly? A wager with Milroy?" George asked when we were well out of earshot. "I would not recommend standing against him. He plays to win-no regard for the cost-and between you and me, I do not think he always plays fair."

I glanced at my friend; the warning was odd enough, considering George's own penchant for hard gambling, but I would never have expected him to impugn another man's honor. Still, I could believe it of Milroy. He was in politics, after all. "He challenged me to a race down the Row for the mare, but of course I could not take him up on it."

George smiled. "Yet you were sorely tempted, no doubt, despite the scandal that would have ensued."

I returned the smile. "Oh, George, you have no idea how tempted."

"I have some idea. You do like to push boundaries, don't you?"

I snorted: that was definitely the pot calling the kettle black. George Brummell had risen from a common birth and a mediocre cavalry career to become the king of fashionable society, all on the strength of good looks, good taste, and a great deal of wit. He had not just pushed boundaries; he had vaulted over them.

He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed me. "So, you took my recommendation and went to Weston."

I looked down at my riding outfit: a habit styled along military lines in blue superfine wool with four rows of black braid across the bodice and epaulets à la Hussar. George, of course, was the epitome of riding elegance, his own superfine blue jacket-also made by the great tailor-cut precisely across his shoulders, with immaculate buff breeches, a pristine cravat, and well-shined riding boots.

"Indeed. Thank you for the introduction. I had not expected Weston to make it himself."

George dropped the quizzing glass back upon its riband. "But of course he did. I introduced you." He surveyed the misty bridle way, a frown upon his handsome profile. "It is a pity there are not more riders to see our matched splendor."

I laughed at his pained tone. "I must admit I was not expecting to see you here at this hour."

"Alas, my own lost wager at Watier's," George replied.

"I did not lose the wager," I said. "I just could not accept it. Now or ever, unfortunately. I thought you had vowed never to appear in Watier's wager book again after that last loss."

George had told me about the famous wager book-all gentlemen's clubs had them, apparently-where bets, from the frivolous to the extraordinary, were recorded.

He shrugged. "I could not resist. Alvanley bet me that Lord Dannerby would not wear his usual repulsive puce this Friday past. The man had not deviated from the color for months. Alas, he arrived wearing chartreuse, and so I must accompany Alvanley here for a week. He finds galloping down the Row at this godforsaken hour the height of enjoyment, whereas he knows it is my worst nightmare."