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Sybella was tired to the bone and at last could bid her goodnights and climb into her bed. Too exhausted to lie awake worrying, she fell into the deepest sleep and was not even disturbed by Lucie tiptoeing in to kiss her goodnight.

8

HEELS FLASH AND WILLS CLASH

Sybella awoke to a beam of late spring sunshine piercing through a gap in the heavy curtains. For a moment, she thought she was at home, back in the Manor with the family retainers, the tenant farmers and the animals, all of whom relied on her management of the land for their safety and livelihoods. She was back with her bees in the orchard, now full of blossom. Despite the responsibility, she was happy there for she knew she could manage the duties that came with owning and running the family estate. But as consciousness claimed her, she realised she was still in London and her airy spirits drifted away. Problems of the heart were always so much more difficult to control and fix and a sense of powerlessness and unease dogged her as she rose from her warm bed.

Alice came into the room, bearing a cup of hot chocolate on a tray. She was excited, her eager young face flushed with import. Tantalisingly, she had been almost at the centre of yesterday’s drama and had worked out a little of the alarming events and had been relating them to the other servants downstairs. Obviously, that handsome Lord Ravenell had been arrested for kicking up some serious larks while in his cups. Young gentlemen like him were always getting into scrapes after quaffing too deep. Then, to add to the excitement, the young lord and her dear Miss Lucie were suddenly betrothed. Who would have thought it? The prospect of a society wedding between her beautiful young mistress and the handsomest man she had ever seen, heir to a dukedom and wealth so great it was whispered by Lady Godley’s servants that no one could count it, made her heart skip a beat. Alice was longing to gossip with Sybella but, watching her sip the chocolate, she was aware her mistress’s mind was elsewhere.

‘You’re riding Scipio today?’ Alice walked to the wardrobe.

‘Yes, I’m going with Gem and Mr Brabazon to Richmond Park.’

‘I’ll put out your best riding dress, the one Captain Lovatt ordered for you. You look so smart in it, Miss Sybella.’

The coat was stylishly cut by her husband’s tailor, Jonathan Meyer of Conduit Street, who had made Beau Brummell’s military uniform and was known for his skill with the elaborate Hussar coats and pelisses. She had worn this outfit for years and its flattering lines never failed to attract attention. Its most recent outing was to Shotten Hall when it had helped her show Mr Brabazon and his ward that the Carey sisters were not quite the country dowds they had thought.

Catching sight of herself in the looking-glass, Sybella was gratified to see the magical transformation had worked again: she had become a striking and stylish woman, at ease in any company. After James’s birth, her waist had returned to its slender proportions and the close-fitting jacket with its silver frogging and silver buttons across her bosom contrasted becomingly with the voluminous skirts. The fine sea-green wool made her green eyes more brilliant. She finished off her flattering ensemble with a smart military-style hat with a cockade of pheasant feathers and could hardly credit what a dashing figure she cut. No wonder the most fashionable French women sent to London for their riding habits.

At ten o’clock sharp, Samson opened the door to Mr Brabazon. Gem had brought Scipio round to Green Street from the mews and there met Hades, whose reins were put into his hands. This magnificent black stallion was even more impressive than his mistress’s Scipio, taller by more than a hand. The horses greeted each other warily and were restless and snorting, as if sensing what freedoms lay ahead. Anthony Brabazon strode into the hall. It was evident Samson really approved of this kind of visitor, dressed to perfection and with immaculate manners, always a refreshing change from the young bucks who rattled in and out of the house, funning and careless and far too familiar in their manner towards Miss Lucie. He was about to show this nonpareil into the library when Sybella appeared on the landing above.

Mr Brabazon’s usually imperturbable manner was disturbed by the sight of her descending the stairs in her beautifully tailored riding jacket, her voluminous riding skirts billowing as she walked. She had flung the tail of her skirt over her arm in order to descend the stairs more easily, providing just a glimpse of her ankles in fine calf boots. So concentrated was she on not tripping, Sybella had missed the fleeting gleam of appreciative surprise in her visitor’s eyes. She walked towards him with a welcoming smile.

‘Mrs Lovatt,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It’s a good day for a ride.’ Sybella looked up into his face. He was also dressed stylishly with an intricately tied cravat, no doubt recognised as the trône d’amour or the mail coach by those in the know. His dark blue riding coat was teamed with an immaculate pair of buff-coloured buckskin breeches without any sign of a sticky handprint. For some reason, looking into those cool grey eyes calmed her anxieties and made her feel she could temporarily put down her burdens and the world would not collapse round her ears.

Emerging into the street, Sybella saw for the first time Scipio and Hades side by side. ‘What a magnificent sight,’ she said. ‘I never knew Hades was so big!’ She turned to look at Mr Brabazon with astonishment in her eyes. ‘At least seventeen hands, isn’t he?’

‘He does have to carry a big man.’ He was inexplicably amused. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to ride any smaller steed, especially over long distances.’

‘Do you race him, Mr Brabazon?’

‘I have done.’

‘Was he your mount for the race to Newmarket?’

‘He was, when both of us were much younger. I wouldn’t want to put him, or me, through that again.’ He laughed briefly. He was in a good mood and looking forward to the day.

They set off down Park Lane heading for Hyde Park Corner, the western boundary of the city, the horses trotting keenly along the busy thoroughfare. Quickly they were upon the turnpike gate, which they passed through without any transaction. Mr Brabazon, it seemed, was well-known to the toll-keeper, having some kind of account there. Sybella was struck by how picturesque the twin toll houses were, like miniature Palladian villas, and Mr Brabazon pointed out the extensive buildings of St George’s Hospital opposite the Park.

Their conversation was easy and she found herself relaxing as they set out on what seemed to be an unexpected adventure. She could tell Scipio too was relaxing and his skittishness was less pronounced. He was anticipating freedom too. As they trotted down towards the villages of Knightsbridge and Kensington, Mr Brabazon told her how notorious was this part of the Bath Road when he was a boy, deep in mud and running with water and worse. It mired all travellers in the slime and slowed the post-chaises down to less than a couple of miles an hour. Such an obstacle was a boon to every petty napper and attracted the worst of the footpads and highwaymen to prey on struggling travellers.

‘My father had an altercation with a highwayman just here,’ he said, pointing to a section of the road south of Kensington Gardens. ‘Just beyond that ill-favoured tavern, the Halfway House, his own chaise was stopped by a man with a scarf over his face who thrust his horse pistol through the window and demanded my father’s valuables. Pater barely moved and appeared to be asleep. Then, without warning, he shot the highwayman in the face with the pistol he was holding in his coat pocket all along.’

‘No! Did he kill him?’ Sybella had instinctively put her hand to her throat. The weather was sunny and warm and the story of robbery and murder on this famous highway chilled her with the thought of how close death could be, even on a day like this.

Mr Brabazon nodded grimly. ‘Yes. No doubt about it. Dead as a stone.’

‘So he didn’t even withdraw his pistol from his pocket? Just shot him through his coat?’

‘His valet was not very pleased. It was one of his best, made by his tailor George Stultz,’ he said drily, and Sybella found herself laughing, despite herself. He continued in an even way, ‘Freddie’s right, I’m afraid. He was a hard man.’

Sybella glanced across at his face. The last time his father had been mentioned, it seemed to provoke such unwelcome memories, but Mr Brabazon had volunteered this revealing piece of information himself. She had a powerful sense of how ruthless and cold his father could be in a crisis, possibly even in his domestic life too.

They passed the barracks and were confronted by a few soldiers on horseback, some who seemed partly intoxicated and others who eyed Sybella with an openly lubricious stare. She was aware of Mr Brabazon moving Hades across closer to her and Gem also brought his horse up. She noticed Mr Brabazon slip his right hand into his pocket and suddenly felt a chill down her spine: was he capable of the same ruthlessness as his father, she wondered. They continued unmolested and soon concentrated on navigating their way on a suddenly crowded thoroughfare, past carts laden with produce or piled high with firewood, public and private carriages jostling for the best route on the rutted highway and knots of dusty pedestrians toiling at the side of the road.

They rode on without speaking through country that was now flat and featureless, except for the market gardens and orchards providing food for the city. Soon the great river barred their way and finally they mounted the old timber bridge at Putney. ‘Is it Sir Robert Walpole we have to thank for this bridge?’ Sybella surveyed the surprising width of the Thames at this point and the rushing grey water beneath them, aware of how much more troublesome it would have been to have to wait for the ferry. Could she even have persuaded Scipio to clatter aboard?

‘I think he was inconvenienced one time too many, with a drunken ferryman on the opposite bank refusing to cross to pick him up to take him home.’