Phee, or Miss Euphemia Templeton.
London’s most celebrated matchmaker, indeed. It was absurd. If Euphemia Templeton was anything, it was London’s most infamous troublemaker.
If there was one person he blamed more than himself for Harriett’s disastrous season, it was Euphemia Templeton. She’d been the one to suggest the match with Lord Wyle in the firstplace. Considering what a disasterthathad turned out to be, one would think she’d be ashamed to show her face again, but here she was in London, and as meddlesome as ever, filling Harriett’s ears with her ridiculous opinions.
“Phee is ever so clever. She’s never wrong about such things.”
“She was wrong about Wyle, wasn’t she?”
As soon as Wyle’s name left his lips, he wanted to bite his tongue off. God above, why had he mentioned that scoundrel? He’d promised himself he’d never breathe a word of reproach regarding that business, but just the mention of Euphemia Templeton’s name was enough to upset all his best intentions.
Something would have to be done about her, and soon, but not now. Not when Harriett’s chin was wobbling again. “I beg your pardon, Harriett. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“I know.” She nodded, but she kept her face turned away from his, and she’d caught her lower lip between her teeth in the way she always did when she was trying not to cry. “It’s alright.”
But it wasn’t alright. It hadn’t been for some time now, and he cursed himself under his breath as another strained silence unfolded between them. It was becoming a common occurrence, these awkward silences.
He no longer knew what to say to her, or how to comfort her. He’d been a fool to think he could return after six years, and find his life just as he’d left it, as if no time had passed. Instead, he was like a misshapen puzzle piece, too warped to slip back into the place he’d once fit.
On the worst days, he felt as if he didn’t even know Harriett anymore.
He cleared his throat, desperate to dispel the silence. “It’s a lovely day, is it not? Very warm for spring.”
The weather. He was talking to his beloved sister— the sister with whom he’d shared every secret, and who’d once told him allher childish dreams —he was talking to her about theweather, for God’s sake.
Things had come to a sad pass, indeed.
“Yes, quite warm. I do hope we’ll have a?—”
A shriek echoed through the crisp, clear air, cutting Harriett off, and she turned to him, her eyes wide. “My goodness! What was that?”
Before he could reply, there was a second shriek, this one louder, and edged with terror. A man’s shout followed, and the riders in front of them quickened their pace, eager to see what mayhem was on offer.
“Oh, dear. There’s some sort of commotion.” Harriett shaded her eyes, squinting at the small copse of elm trees ahead. “It looks as if there’s a crowd gathering near the Ring.”
“There’s always a crowd near the Ring.” Thetonloved nothing more than making a spectacle of themselves, and there was no better place to show off their fine horses and carriages than the Ring.
It was impossible to see a thing from here, but as they drew closer to the Guard House he saw that Harriett was right. There was a growing knot of people converging near the Ring, some of them spilling onto the adjacent footpath. Several gentlemen had dismounted from their horses and were gesticulating wildly, their shouts growing in urgency as they pointed toward some disturbance unfolding in the Ring.
A carriage accident, perhaps? It wouldn’t be the first time there’d been a collision, as the Ring was always crowded with carriages, and thetonon the whole were often too preoccupied with parading to pay proper attention to where they were going.
He clucked to Nyx and Hemera, who broke into a trot
“What’s happening?” Harriett asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“No, not with all these people in the way.” All he could see was a flash of bright yellow— a gentleman’s coat? But theshrieking hadn’t ceased, and from the earsplitting volume, this was no ordinary disturbance.
Those were screams of true terror.
“James!” Harriett grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his coat sleeve. “Something’s terribly wrong!”
“Take the reins, Hattie.” He tossed them to her, then leaped down from his phaeton and set off for the footpath that skirted the eastern edge of the Serpentine, toward the Ring.
It wasn’t until he reached the railing that separated the Ring from the footpath that he recognized his aunt’s carriage, and it was… Good God, what was happening?
Her carriage was pushed hard against the railing, and trapped in place by a green, high-perch phaeton. A red-faced gentleman in a yellow coat was atop the box, tugging on the reins in a fruitless attempt to control his pair.
All was confusion, but it looked as if the gentleman in the yellow coat had lost control of his pair of high steppers. They’d bolted and were careening around the Ring in a panic, searching for a way out.
