âIs it the devil weâre running from, then?â
The question, uttered in the mildest of tones, made Harry Lester wince. âWorse,â he threw over his shoulder at his groom and general henchman, Dawlish. âThe matchmaking mamasâin league with the dragons of the ton.â Harry edged back on the reins, feathering a curve at speed. He saw no reason to ease the wicked pace. His match greys, sleek and powerful, were quite content to keep the bits between their teeth. His curricle rushed along in their wake; Newmarket lay ahead. âAnd weâre not runningâitâs called a strategic retreat.â
âIs that so? Well, canât say I blame you,â came in Dawlishâs dour accents. âWhoâd ever have thought to see Master Jack landedâand without much of a fight, if Pinkertonâs on the up. Right taken aback, is Pinkerton.â When this information elicited no response, Dawlish added, âConsidering his position, he is.â
Harry snorted. âNothing will part Pinkerton from Jackânot even a wife. Heâll swallow the pill when the time comes.â
âAyeâpâraps. Still, canât say Iâd relish the prospect of answering to a missusânot after all these years.â
Harryâs lips quirked. Realising that Dawlish, riding on the box behind him, couldnât see it, he gave into the urge to smile. Dawlish had been with him forever, having, as a fifteen-year-old groom, attached himself to the second son of the Lester household the instant said son had been put atop a pony. Their old cook had maintained it was a clear case of like to like; Dawlishâs life was horsesâhe had recognised a master in the making and had followed doggedly in his wake. âYou neednât worry, you old curmudgeon. I can assure you Iâve no intention, willingly or otherwise, of succumbing to any sirenâs lures.â
âAll very well to say so,â Dawlish grumbled. âBut when these things happen, seems like thereâs no gainsaying them. Just look at Master Jack.â
âIâd rather not,â Harry curtly replied. Dwelling on his elder brotherâs rapid descent into matrimony was an exercise guaranteed to shake his confidence. With only two years separating them, he and Jack had led much the same lives. Theyâd come on the town together more than ten years ago. Admittedly, Jack had less reason than he to question loveâs worth, nevertheless, his brother had been, as Dawlish had observed, a most willing conquest. The fact made him edgy.
âYou planning on keeping from London for the rest of yore life?â
âI sincerely hope it wonât come to that.â Harry checked the greys for a slight descent. The heath lay before them, a haven free of matchmakers and dragons alike. âDoubtless my uninterest will be duly noted. With any luck, if I lay low, theyâll have forgotten me by next Season.â
âWouldnât have thought, with all the energy youâve put into raising a reputation like you have, that theyâd be so keen.â
Harryâs lip curled. âMoney, Dawlish, will serve to excuse any number of sins.â
He waited, expecting Dawlish to cap the comment with some gloomy pronouncement to the effect that if the madams of society could overlook his transgressions then no one was safe. But no comment came; his gaze fixed unseeing on his leaderâs ears, Harry grudgingly reflected that the wealth with which he and his brothers, Gerald as well as Jack, had recently been blessed, was indeed sufficient to excuse a lifetime of social sins.
His illusions were fewâhe knew who and what he wasâa rake, one of the wolves of the ton, a hellion, a Corinthian, a superlative rider and exceptional breeder of quality horseflesh, an amateur boxer of note, an excellent shot, a keen and successful huntsman on the field and off. For the past ten and more years, Society had been his playing field. Capitalising on natural talents, and the position his birth had bestowed, he had spent the years in hedonistic pleasure, sampling women much as he had the wines. Thereâd been none to gainsay him, none to stand in his path and challenge his profligate ways.