Chapter 1
What’s done cannot be undone.
—Macbeth,act 5, scene 1
Hyde Park, 1815
Bray Drakestone, Marquis of Lockington, heir to the dukedom of Drakestone, sat in the curricle, every inch of him shuddering in pain. Not that anyone would know to look at him. He’d learned from a young age not to show any emotion, much less reveal pain. That this pain came from an overabundance of brandy didn’t make it better. In fact, his father would have preferred he experience the searing agony of a bullet or saber wound than a pounding head and blurry eyes from drink.
Bray had never listened to his father, other than to absorb the lesson of never displaying emotion, any emotion.Thatskill had served him well.
“Are you going to take what’s left of the night to decide if you are up to the challenge, Lockington?” Viscount Wayebury asked him.
Bray pressed his eyes closed. The challenge. Damn.
After a moment, Bray glanced in the viscount’s direction. Whorls of misty fog that drifted across Rotten Row made it nearly impossible to make out the man sitting in the curricle not ten paces from him. Earlier, Bray had noticed an eerie halo surrounding the oil lamps that lit the well-worn road.
His horse stamped and snorted puffs of warm air while jerking its head and rattling the harness of the small sporting carriage. The animal obviously didn’t like being out in the damp cold either.
Bray didn’t know Wayebury as well as some of his other friends. The two of them hadn’t attended the same schools, but they spent a lot of time together whenever the viscount was in London. Wayebury had said that he preferred the quietness of his estate in northern Cornwall, but if that was the case, he seldom went there. He seemed always to be in London, behaving as wild as the next young buck who had nothing but time on his hands. They were both members of the Heirs’ Club and they enjoyed their share of bets on gaming, shooting, and horse racing, but never had they made a wager on such a dark and murky night.
Bray heard the viscount’s dog bark up at his master. Lord Wayebury looked down at the spaniel and said, “Don’t worry, ol’ boy, I know what I’m doing.” He then shot another glance at Bray and bragged, “It wouldn’t be worth the money we’re betting if there wasn’t a little risk involved, now, would it, Lockington?”
Those were brave words coming from the viscount, so Bray huffed a laugh and released the brake handle. The bleating tosspot possessed stellar gambling fortitude. “Indeed, the dark and the fog make the amount and the win all the sweeter,” Bray answered.
The broad but fairly short pathway called Rotten Row could be hazardous for two carriages careening side by side in the light of day and best of weather, but on such a dreary night, not even the lamps could alleviate the gloom. Quite frankly, Bray couldn’t have cared less if they raced or not. Losing a couple of hundred pounds wouldn’t lessen his pockets nor would winning it add to their weight. But since his days at Eton, what he didn’t like was losing—be it a fortune, a horse, or a shilling. He always played to win.
Like him, Wayebury had been at the Heirs’ Club since early evening, and the brandy was now talking and thinking for both of them. Bray had never declined a bet or rejected a dare, no matter how dangerous the challenge or how foxed he was. He wasn’t going to start tonight.
He had no idea how good Wayebury was handling the horse and lightweight curricle, but Bray didn’t figure he’d lose, even though he’d felt none too steady on his feet when he left the club. He’d been racing curricles as fast as the horses could pull them since he was big enough to climb onto the seat. And the carriage under him now was well sprung and built by a master of the trade.
“Does everyone have their bets placed?” someone called to the gathered crowd of a dozen or so men who had trailed the two young bucks out to the park. Some were afoot, others on horseback, and one or two were in their own carriages. They all would follow Bray and Wayebury down Rotten Row, but at a much slower pace.
Bray heard the grumbling rumble of various voices, which he took for a collective yes.
He wanted to get this over with. He was through with the night and ready for bed. He gave his head a quick shake and tuned his senses to the night and the restless stomp of his horse. He looked over at the man who had agreed to start the race and said, “Step back, pull your weapon, and fire when ready.”
The pistol shot cracked the air. Bray slapped the horse’s rump with the strips of leather, and the carriage took off with a jerk and a rattle. The road seemed bumpier than usual, at times lifting Bray out of the seat as they sped down the lane. He leaned forward, blinking several times to clear his eyes, but the brisk wind and the overindulgence in the brandy had taken their toll.
Knowing they were near the end of the lane, Bray glanced over at Wayebury. They were staying dead even until Prim’s carriage wheel inched dangerously close to Bray’s. His hands tightened on the ribbons, but he didn’t try to check the gelding. Bray had never been known for his self-restraint.
The viscount grinned excitedly and bore the leather down again on his own horse.
Moments later, Wayebury had inched ahead of Bray. Determination to win rose up in him. He flicked the reins hard, urging his animal faster. Instantly, thick fog engulfed him, completely blinding him. His heart leaped to his throat. Over the roar in his ears and the rumble of wheels and hooves on hard-packed ground, Bray heard a loud thump, the whinny of a horse, and the chilling sound of wood splintering apart.
Alarm shot up his spine.
“Prim!” Bray yelled the viscount’s surname and yanked the reins hard and short. The horse nickered in alarm and the curricle shuddered violently, almost throwing him out of his seat. He dropped the ribbons and jumped down before the carriage rolled to a stop.
“Prim!” he called again, hoping to discern which way to go in the fog. He heard shouts of other men calling their names. “I’m fine,” Bray answered as he combed the grayness for the fallen lord. “Find Wayebury!”
“Over here!” someone shouted.
Swirls of fog scattered before Bray as he raced in the direction of the voice. Under a pool of flickering lamplight, he saw the wheel of the curricle slowly spinning in the misty air. At the front of the carriage and tangled in its rigging, the horse seemed unharmed and was trying to stand.
Bray pushed a man aside and knelt down where the viscount lay on the ground, his dog licking his face and whimpering. Bray reached down to lift him, but the man cried out.
“No!” His breath halted and his face contorted in pain. “It hurts like hell. Don’t move me.”
