Horse and boy took a sharp turn to the left and plunged down a steep slope. Hart followed. They splashed through a soggy patch, green and weedy.
Mud from the stallion’s hooves splashed in Hart’s face. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. The boy’s determination to avoid him was annoying, but the chase itself was exhilarating.
They headed back up a hill. The stallion pulled steadily away and made for a densely forested area. He was stronger and faster than Hart’s mount, and with the lighter weight of the boy, Hart didn’t have a chance.
“Stop, damn you! I only want to talk,” Hart yelled in frustration.
At the edge of the trees, the boy looked back. Hart caught a flash of white teeth as the lad gave what might have been a cheeky wave or—Hart narrowed his gaze—a rude gesture. As the boy and horse disappeared from sight, a light laugh floated back to him on the breeze.
Swearing to himself, Hart rode slowly back to where Sinc was waiting, hunched gloomily on his horse.
“Have fun, did you? I’m just about frozen solid. Though naturally, being your oldest friend, I’m only too delighted to become an ice block in your service.”
Hart ignored the sarcasm. “Little mongrel refused to stop. All I wanted was the name of the owner.”
“Is that all? Well, you could have asked me. Would have saved you all that gallivanting about. And me from turning into an icicle. You do know your face is spattered with mud, I suppose. As for your boots . . .” Sinc shuddered.
“What? You know who owns that horse? Who is it?”
“Forgotten your handkerchief?” Sinc scrutinized his friend’s face. “I have a spare if you need to use it. Can’t be seen with mud on your face.”
Frustrated, Hart pulled out a handkerchief and scrubbed at his face. “There! Now, who owns that damned horse?”
“You missed a bit. Just here,” Sinc said, gesturing to his own face.
Hart rubbed at the spot indicated. “Now, before I strangle you, tell me who owns that blasted stallion.”
“Oh, she won’t sell,” Sinc said.
“She? You mean the owner is a woman?” Fool woman, to entrust such a valuable and spirited animal to a mere youth. Though he had to admit the boy could ride. Superbly, as it happened. When he bought the stallion, he might even offer the lad a job.
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you know?”
“How would I know?” He blinked. “Are you suggesting that I’m acquainted with the owner? Who is she? Where might I find her?”
Sinc gave him an odd, amused look, then jerked his chin to where the stallion and his rider had disappeared. “You just saw her.”
Hart looked, but he could see no woman. “Where?”
“On the horse’s back. Leading you a right merry chase by the looks of it.”
Hart stared. The rider was female? Gad, but she could ride. In fact . . . His eyes narrowed . . . There had been something familiar . . .
“Who—?” he began.
“If you ever bothered to ride in Hyde Park, you would have met both horse and owner together. She and her family ride there most mornings—early. Practically crack of dawn,” Sinc added with a theatrical shudder.
Hart raised a skeptical brow. “Then how is it that you’ve seen them? You rarely rise before noon.”
“Coming home, of course. Often witness the grisly hours of dawn on the way home from a night out.”
“And who is this family that rides out so intrepidly at such an hour?”
Sinc grinned. “The family you almost married into.”
There was a short silence as Hart took it in.
Sinc chuckled. “Yes, that was Lady George Rutherford you chased all over the heath just now. Told you she was an original.”
Chapter Three
In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquility; and though prepared . . . to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free of them there.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
It was a hot afternoon. George, Aunt Dottie and Emm were crossing Berkeley Square on a quest to Gunter’s for ices, when they heard a series of shrieks and yaps. Human shrieks, canine yaps.
An elegantly dressed older lady was jumping up and down, appalled, flapping her hands and shrieking at a pack of dogs that were swirling and snapping and shoving at one another in a noisy canine whirlpool several feet away.
“It’s Milly Prescott,” Aunt Dottie exclaimed.
“FooFoo!” Mrs. Prescott cried. “Oh, stop it, you brutes! My poor little FooFoo!”
George saw what the problem was. In the middle of the pack of dogs was a small, dainty Pekingese, pink satin ribbons in her hair, receiving the eager attentions of a dozen scruffy mongrels.
“Sit and stay!” George ordered Finn, who was showing considerable interest in the proceedings. Reluctantly he lowered his behind, almost to the ground. George waded into the swirling pack, snatched up the little dog and handed it to the lady. Then she roundly dispersed the other dogs, who retreated a few yards away and waited hopefully.
One brave, enamored beast broke through and leapt up eagerly at FooFoo. Mrs. Prescott screeched, George roared at the would-be swain, and Finn jumped forward with a snarl. All the dogs retreated another few feet.
“Oh, you brave, brave girl, Lady Georgiana! I wonder you weren’t bitten—such a heroine you are! Thank you, thank you,” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed. “Oh dear, I’m all of a flutter! Those terrible brutes just appeared from nowhere and started attacking my poor little baby.”
George glanced at Emm and Aunt Dottie, who were trying not to smile.
“Um, they weren’t attacking her,” George said.
“They were, they were, didn’t you see? Oh, my poor little FooFoo, are you all right, my darling?” She examined the little dog anxiously, straightening her ribbons and murmuring, “Mummy’s here now, precious. Those nasty dogs won’t bother you again.”
“Actually they will,” George said. “Unless you keep FooFoo locked up for the next few weeks.” The dogs had retreated but were waiting, all eyes on little FooFoo, who wriggled and squirmed to get down.
“Locked up? Why ever should I do that? FooFoo loves her walkies in the park.”
“Yes, but she’s in season at the moment,” George explained. And when the lady didn’t seem to understand, she added, “She’s in heat. Those dogs know it. They can smell her.”