He knew that wouldn’t be the end of the matter. White’s betting book would be full of Zoe today.
This didn’t worry him. Nothing the ton was talking about was scandalous, merely entertaining. The abortive embrace was nowhere mentioned.
What worried him was the Queen. She was a stickler of the first order, and if she owned a sense of humor, she hid it well. She was polite and gracious and suffocatingly correct. He was not sure what she’d make of the stories. He supposed it was too much to hope they wouldn’t reach her.
For all he knew, the invitation had not yet been sent. Even if it had been, it could be rescinded. If it wasn’t rescinded, Zoe could still be snubbed. At a Drawing Room, this would be catastrophic.
Such thoughts were not conducive to tranquility.
Now, roused from a not-so-sound sleep and hastily dressed by a fretful Hoare, His Grace was not in the best of humors. His narrowed gaze moved from the maid to his butler.
“I do apologize for troubling Your Grace,” said Dove. “I explained to this person that she ought to have brought her problem to Lord Lexham’s butler. We at Marchmont House have no control over the doings of Lord Lexham’s stablemen. Despite my earnest entreaties, she was most insistent upon speaking to you.”
She must have threatened Dove with the umbrella, Marchmont thought.
“Mr. Harrison is out buying provisions, Your Grace, else I should have consulted him,” Dove added.
“What the devil has Harrison to do with it?” Marchmont said. “Do you need him to tell you the matter is urgent? Was the maid’s anxiety for her mistress not plain enough? Send to the stables. I want a horse.Now.”
The Hyde Park Zoe discovered in the early morning was amazingly quiet and stunningly beautiful. A faint mist hung over the place, making the leaves of the trees shimmer. There was green, green, green as far as the eye could see, and the sheen of water in what her groom had told her was the Serpentine, a man-made river created in the time of King George II on the orders of his consort, Queen Caroline.
The view Zoe took in was easily worth the guilty conscience. She’d lied to the grooms. Wearing her mother’s habit, she sat upon her mother’s saddle on her mother’s horse. None of these articles, including the horse, fit her. She could only hope that she didn’t end up as a tangled heap of broken bones.
Ahead of her at present stretched the King’s Private Road. This was the road known as Rotten Row, the groom explained. It was strictly for riding, he said. Only the reigning sovereign was permitted to drive along this particular road.
At this hour, Zoe knew she’d little chance of encountering any sovereigns driving to or from Kensington Palace. At the moment, she didn’t even see another rider.
But as she was taking in the acres and acres of glistening greenery, a slim, elegant rider on a superb gelding approached. The horse’s dark coat matched the lady’s hair. Her wine-colored habit was of the highest quality and latest fashion. Her groom’s livery was splendid.
This had to be Marchmont’s concubine.
Zoe felt the twinge again, but sharper, augmented by envy. The lady was breathtakingly elegant and utterly sure of herself.Shedidn’t need lessons in how to stand or sit or pour tea.
As she neared, Zoe touched her crop to her hat. She couldn’t remember whether it was proper to acknowledge a rider to whom one hadn’t been introduced. On the other hand, failing to do it might be construed as a snub.
Zoe didn’t want to snub this woman.
She wanted to kill her.
It was wrong and stupid to feel this way, of course, but she couldn’t help it. She was uncivilized.
To her surprise, the lady returned the salute. She didn’t pause to speak, though, but rode on.
Zoe let her pass, then followed, slowly at first. But as Lady Tarling’s horse picked up speed, Zoe encouraged hers to do the same. Before long, Zoe was riding alongside the lady on the broad path. Lady Tarling glanced her way, smiled, and raised her eyebrows in inquiry. Zoe returned the smile and nodded. And so the race began.
By the time Marchmont found them it was too late to do anything. They were galloping headlong down the hill from a stand of trees. He dared not get in their way, lest he distract them and cause an accident.
In his mind an image flashed of Zoe, in the summer before she vanished, galloping ahead of him on a narrow bridle path. She’d bolted and taken a fractious mare for a mount—daring herself and everyone else, as she too often did—and he’d gone after her, his heart in his mouth.
When he caught her and scolded her, she told him he was stuffy. She complained of her French lessons and mimicked her French tutor’s efforts…until Marchmont was clutching his stomach, laughing helplessly.
In less than a twelvemonth she was gone, and all the brightness went out of his world.
Now he watched, heart pounding, until at last the two riders slowed and turned onto the road that would take them across the Serpentine. When they returned to Rotten Row they seemed to exchange words, but briefly. He made his way back to the Row and waited.
Lady Tarling rode ahead. When she reached him, he resisted the urge to shout at her for endangering Zoe. His mind knew—if his gut didn’t—that Zoe endangered herself.
He schooled his features and his voice and greeted the lady politely. She was flushed with the exercise, and her dark eyes were dancing.
