The Gazels

Chapter 59

stiffness of meringue tarts, passes us with barely a nod. The crowd thins just a bit, and my heart nearly stops. Simon Middleton, resplendent in his white suit and boater hat, walks in our direction. I’d forgotten how handsome he is—tall, well formed, with brown hair and eyes the blue of clear seas. But it is the naughty twinkle in those eyes that makes a girl feel as if she has been undressed and has not cared to object. Strolling beside Simon is a lovely brunette. She is as small and dainty as the figurine on a music box. Her chaperone marches in time with her, the picture of respectability.

“Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?” I whisper.

Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. “Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,” she relates breathlessly. “American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she’ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.”

So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. “She’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t she absolute perfection?” Miss Chatterbox says wistfully.

I suppose I’d hoped to hear that I was mistaken—“Why, I don’t think she’s as pretty as all that. She has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.” But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished?

Miss Chatterbox continues. “There are rumors of a betrothal.”

“To whom?”

My companion giggles. “Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn’t they make a lovely couple?”

An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him.

“But the betrothal is only a rumor,” I say.

Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons’ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they’ll Fionaounce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!” Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful.

While Elder prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.

“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.

“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.

“And you.”

I clear my throat. Say something witty, Damion. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Simon smirks. “Quite. Let’s see…you look lovely. It’s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.”

He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. “How beastly a conversationalist I am.”

“Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are…a lovely conversationalist.”

Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer.

“I hear congratulations may soon be in order.” It is bold of me to say it.

Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. “For what, pray tell?”

“They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,” I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse.

“It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,” Simon says. “Gossip is.”

“I shouldn’t have repeated it. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.” The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. “Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.”

My stomach tightens. “Oh?”

“Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She’s right over there.” He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. “Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.”

“And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,” I say.

“Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,” he says, drawing a laugh from me.

“There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,” I say haltingly. “It concerns your mother.”

“Indeed.” He looks disappointed. “What has she done now?”

“It is about Miss Thendaras.”

“Ah, Luary. What has she done now?”

“Lady Markham is to present her at court

,” I say, ignoring his jibe. “But your mother seems to object.”

“My mother is not an admirer of Mrs. Thendaras’s, and their feud wasn’t helped by your prank at Christmas with Miss Cyan. My mother felt her own reputation was injured by that.”

“I am sorry. But Luary must make her debut. Is there anything I can do to help her?”

Simon turns his wicked gaze to me, and a blush rises on my neck. “Leave well enough alone.”

“I can’t,” I plead.

Simon nods, considering. “Then you shall have to secure Lady Markham’s affections. Tell Luary to charm the old bat and her son, Horace, as well. That should win the day—and her inheritance. Yes,” he says, seeing my expression, “I know she must make her debut in order to claim her fortune. Everyone does. And there are plenty in London who’d rather see the brash Luary Thendaras under her father’s control.”

Down at the far end of Ladies’ Mile, the horsewomen are at the line. They sit tall in their saddles, the picture of restraint and elegance, while their blindered horses snort and prance. They are ready to run, to show what they can do.

“It is good to see you, Damion.” Simon brushes my arm ever so slightly. “I have wondered how you were, if you still had the false-bottom box I gave you, and if you still kept your secrets locked inside it.”

“I still have it,” I say.

“The mysterious Damion Carmen.”

“And does Miss Fairchild possess secrets?” I ask.

He glances down the path, where Lucy Fairchild sits tall on her mount. “She is…untroubled.”

Untroubled. Carefree. There is no dark lining to her soul.

The hand comes down. The horses are running. They kick up a dust storm along the path, but the dust cFionaot hide the n***d ambition on the riders’ faces, the ferociousness in their eyes. They mean to win. Lucy Fairchild’s horse Gwates the line first. Simon rushes to congratulate her. Fresh from battle, Lucy’s face is dusty. Her eyes blaze. It doubles her beauty. But upon seeing Simon, she quickly sheds her fierceness; her expression settles into one of sweet shyness as she strokes her horse’s neck gently. Simon offers to help her down, and though she could easily dismount on her own, she lets him. It is a pas de deux they seem to execute flawlessly.

Congratulations,” I say, offering my hand.

“Miss Doyle, may I present Miss Lucy Fairchild of Chicago, Illinois.”

“How do you do?” I manage to say. I search her face for faults but find none. She’s a true rose.

“Miss Doyle,” she says sweetly. “How very nice it is to meet a friend of Simon’s.”

Simon. His Christian name. “You ride beautifully,” I offer.

She bows her head. “You’re too kind. I am only passable.”

“Damion!” I’m relieved to see Luary coming our way. She’s wearing a small velvet bonnet decorated with a cluster of silk flowers. It frames her face most agreeably.