An Unwilling Conquest Part 10

"Dash it all, Harry--don't be such a dog-in-the- manger. You're not interested in the younger chit--let me take her off your hands."

Harry blinked at his brother. It was undoubtedly true that any discussion of Mrs Babbacombe's situation would proceed a great deal more openly in the absence of her stepdaughter.

"Very well--if you insist." Within Em's purlieu, Gerald could be relied on to keep within acceptable bounds.

"But don't say I didn't warn you."

Almost gleefully, Gerald swung up to the curricle's seat. The instant he was aboard, Harry clicked his reins.

The greys shot forward; he had to exert all his skills to thread them through the traffic throng' rag the High Street. He let them stretch their legs once free of the town; Em's leafy drive was reached in record time.

A stable boy came hurrying to take charge of the curricle. Together, Harry and Gerald mounted the steps to Em's door. The oak door was set wide open, not an uncommon occurrence. The brothers wandered in.

Harry tossed his gloves onto the ormolu table.

"Looks like we'll have to go hunt. I expect my business with Mrs Babbacombe will take no more than half an hour. If you can keep Miss Babbacombe occupied until then, I'll be grateful." ,"

Gerald c.o.c.ked an eyobrow.

"Grateful enough to let me tool your greys back to town?"

Harry looked doubtful

"Possibly--but I wouldn't count on it."

Gerald grinned and looked about him.

"So where do we Start?"

"You take the gardens--I'll take the house. I'll call if I need help." With a languid wave, Harry set off down one corridor. Whistling, Gerald turned and went out of the main door.

Harry drew a blank in the morning room and the parlour. Then he heard humming, punctuated by the click of shears, and remembered the small garden room at the end of the house. There he found Em, arranging flowers in a huge urn.

At his languid best, he strolled in.

"Good morning, Aunt."

Em turned her head--and stared in stunned surprise. "Devil take it--what are you doing here?"

Harry blinked.

"Where else should I be?" "In town. I was sure you'd be there."

After a moment's hesitation, Harry conceded with the obvious.

"Why?"

"Because Lucinda- Mrs Babbacombe--went into town half an hour ago.

Never been there before-wanted to get her bearings. "

A chill caressed Harry's nape.

"You let her go alone?"

Turning back to her blooms, Em waved her shears. "Heavens, no--her groom accompanied her."

"Her groom?" Harry's voice was soft, urbane, its tone enough to send chills down the most insensitive spine.

"The young tow-headed lad who arrived with her?" He watched as a tell-tale blush spread over his aunt's high cheekbones.

Disconcerted, Em shrugged.

"She's an independent woman--it doesn't do to argue overmuch." She knew perfectly well she should not have let Lucinda go into Newmarket this week without more tangible escort, but there was a definite purpose to her ploy.

Turning, she surveyed her nephew. " You could try, of course."

For an instant, Harry couldn't believe his ears--surely not Em? His eyes narrowed as he took in her bland expression; this was the last thing he needed--a traitor in his own camp. His lips thinned; with a terse nod, he countered,

"Rest a.s.sured I will."

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room, down the corridor, out of the door and around to the stables.

The stable boy was startled to see him; Harry was merely glad the horses were still harnessed.

He grabbed the reins and leapt up to the seat. His whip cracked and the horses took off. The drive back to town established a new record.

Only when he was forced to slow by the press of traffic in the High Street did Harry remember Gerald. He cursed, regretting the loss of another to aid in his search. Taking advantage of the crawling pace, he carefully studied the crowded pavements from behind his habitually unruffled when. But no dark head could he see.

He did, however, discover a large number of his peers--friends, acquaintances--who, like himself, were too experienced to waste time at the track today. He entertained not the slightest doubt that each and every one would be only too willing to spend that time by the side of a certain delectable dark-haired widow--not one would consider it time wasted.

Reaching the end of the street, Harry swore. Disregarding all hazards, he turned the curricle, missing the gleaming panels of a new phaeton by less than an inch, leaving the slow-top in charge of the reins in the grip of an apoplectic fit.

Ignoring the fuss, Harry drove quickly back to the Barbican Arms and turned the greys into the loving hands of the head-ostler. The man confirmed that Em's gig was in residence. Harry surrept.i.tiously checked the private par lout and was relieved to find it empty; the Arms was the favourite watering-hole of his set. Striding back to the street, he paused to take stock. And to wonder what 'getting her bearings' meant.

There was no lending library. He settled on the church, some way along the street. But no likely looking widow haunted its hallowed precincts, nor trod the paths between the graves. The town's gardens were a joke-no one came to Newmarket to admire floral borders. Mrs Dobson's Tea Rooms were doing a brisk trade but no darkly elegant widow graced any of the small tables.

Returning to the pavement, Harry paused, hands on hips, and stared across the street. Where the devil was she?

A glimmer of blue at the edge of his vision had him turning his head.

Just in time to identify the dark-haired figure who sailed through the street door of the Green Goose, a tow-headed boy at her back.

Pausing just inside the inn's door, Lucinda found herself engulfed in dimness. Musty dimness. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she discovered she was in a hall, with the entrance to the tap on her left, two doors which presumably led to private parlours on her right and a counter, an extension of the tap's bar, directly ahead, a tarnished bell on its scratched surface.

Suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose, she swept forward. She had spent the last twenty minutes examining the inn from outside, taking due note of the faded and flaking whitewash, the clutter in the yard and the down-at-heel appearance of the two customers who had crossed its threshold.

Extending one gloved hand, she picked up the bell and rang it imperiously.

At least, that was her intention. But the bell emitted no more than a dull clack.

Upending it, Lucinda discovered the clapper had broken.