Unlaced

Chapter 1

1817, Glenfield, Essex

V eterinary arts? Jane asked with a gasp. Lucy, you must be mad.

I assure you I’ve all my wits about me, Lucy Abbington answered with a frown. No, she wasn’t mad, but her life was about to change—dramatically. She’d long since recognized this as the truth, ever since her father had packed her off to Essex in anticipation of her first London Season. But the frightful reality was only just beginning to set in on that dazzling April day as she swung down from her saddle and joined her dearest friend in the tall grass below. She shook her head, felt her unbound curls tickle her cheek, and sighed. If only she could make Jane understand.

It’s not as if I’d actually be studying at the college myself. Lucy huffed impatiently as she tossed her mare’s reins across its neck. I’m just hoping for some sort of... She shrugged as she searched for the right word. Well, tutelage, I suppose.

But why? It’s your first Season. Surely you can’t mean to spend your time with your nose in a book, or out in the stables with the servants as you do here at Glenfield. Jane shook her head in disapproval but Lucy saw the corners of her friend’s mouth flicker into a smile.

Lucy linked her arm through Jane’s as the pair ambled aimlessly around the meadow that sloped down toward the river. Only the smallest trace of chill remained in the air, daffodils and crocuses ruffling in the tender breeze.

The green, gently rolling landscape surrounding Glenfield was so very different from the dramatic wood and heath of Lucy’s Nottinghamshire home. She’d only been in Essex a fortnight and already her heart ached for home—the familiar, neat bricks of Ludlow House, the small but tidy barn that held her dearest treasures. She sighed wistfully as the sound of sheep bleating in the distance reached her ears.

I must try, at least, to make good use of my time in London. I simply cannot let these months go to waste. I do so appreciate your parents’ generosity, but truly I’ve no need of a Season. Despite the polite manners and her new, fancy frocks, Lucy knew her simple country background would betray her. Besides, poor Susanna’s forced to share my come-out. She’s putting on a good face, but surely she resents it.

Of course she doesn’t. Jane reached down and absently brushed a stray blade of grass from the folds of her mint-green skirts. Truly, she’s delighted to have someone to share it with.

Lucy knew Jane was right, and her cheeks burned with shame. How uncharitable of her to suggest Susanna was anything but generous. You must forgive me, Jane. I know I’ve been an odious creature of late, and I don’t know how you’ve borne it with such good grace. I simply cannot help my mood, though. Papa’s only sending me to London in hopes of marrying me off. It’s positively dreadful.

What’s so dreadful about it? Your grandfather was a baron, and it’s only fitting that you be introduced into society. In fact, it’s high time. You’re nearly one and twenty, after all.

Not quite a spinster yet, though you’d never know it to hear Aunt Agatha talk.

Your aunt just wants—

To see me married, and married well at that. I’ve heard it a dozen times. She’s been like a mother to me in so many ways, for so many years, and I fear I’m such a disappointment to her.

You could never disappoint her, Lucy. That woman adores you.

Perhaps. Lucy toed a rock and kicked it toward a clump of yellow blossoms. "But you must know I’ll never fit in with the ton."

Why not? You fit in so well with Susanna and me, even Colin. You always have. You’re like family.

It was true; the Rosemoors were like family. Jane, Susanna, and Colin were more like siblings than friends. And while family might find her eccentricities amusing and endearing, Lucy knew the ton would not be so indulgent.

Besides, I’ll wager you receive several proposals by the end of the Season, Jane added with a smile.

I know I should be flattered to receive any proposals at all, but truly I... She faltered, struggling to keep the maddening tears at bay. I won’t marry, not unless I find someone to love, someone who loves me so much in return that he gladly allows me to pursue my interests. You know as well as I that I won’t find such a man in London amongst the fashionable set. He doesn’t exist.

Hadn’t she already learned that painful lesson? Her blood boiled at the memory of that dreadful business two years back with Edward Allerton, youngest son of the Earl of Sherbourne. I could never marry a girl like you, he’d said, and she could still hear the scorn in his voice, see the contempt on his face.

Jane drew her from her dark thoughts with a gentle pat on the wrist. I’m not so certain he doesn’t exist. Besides, there is only one way to find out. Come with us to London. Enjoy your Season.

Lucy nodded. It wasn’t as if she had any choice. Jane’s parents had graciously offered to sponsor her, and her father had accepted Lord and Lady Rosemoor’s invitation on her behalf. There’d been no room for arguments; even tears hadn’t swayed Papa’s firm resolve to send her away. He’d accused her of spending far too much time with Mr. Wilton, reminding her that she could never study at the Veterinary College as he was. She was a female, he’d repeated, and females her age read novels, painted landscapes…found suitable husbands.

No, she had no choice but to follow her father’s dictates, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t formulate a plan of her own. She would prove to everyone that she didn’t need a husband, that her ambitions were more than a passing fancy. Her father hoped, of course, that she would form a tendre for some fancy gentleman and willingly abandon her aspirations. But she would show him—show them all—that Lucy Abbington was no fickle girl. She knew what she desired in life—independence, the freedom to learn, and maybe, just maybe, the opportunity to build her own informal veterinary practice.

The approaching sound of thundering hooves broke Lucy’s reverie, and she raised one hand to shield her eyes from the glittering afternoon sun. Colin, both women said in unison as Jane’s brother rode into the clearing and reined in his bay.

I was sent to fetch you girls, he called down to them. It’s growing late and I’m to remind you we’re having a guest for dinner tonight.

Jane nudged Lucy’s side and smiled slyly at her.

Ah, yes, Lucy muttered. How could I forget? The famous Lord Manderley.

Mandeville, Jane corrected with a scowl. He’s mysterious and moody, especially after that scandal three years past. Nevertheless, Papa thinks highly of his character.

Lucy was intrigued. A scandal, you say?

Oh, it was certainly the scandal of the Season. Lord Mandeville was betrothed to Miss Cecelia Layton, you see, and then mere weeks before the nuptials she was caught in a—Jane shook her head and dropped her voice to a whisper—most compromising position with Mr. Ridgeley. Her voice returned to its usual timbre. A man far beneath the marquess’ position, to be sure. Lord Mandeville’s heart was broken, it’s said. Anyway, he’s quite the horseman, which is why I hoped you’d have the chance to meet him before we left for London. You shall have much to converse about, and I’m looking forward to seeing Mama squirm when the conversation inevitably turns to breeding.

Lucy suppressed a giggle.

Besides, Jane added, he’s not so hard to look at, either.

Ahem. Colin cleared his throat as he swung down from his mount.

Sorry, Colin. Jane turned toward Lucy. You see, my dear brother cannot bear to hear another man spoken of appreciatively in his presence.

Colin rolled his eyes. I was only reminding you that it’s rude to gossip about our illustrious neighbor.

Were you, now? Jane asked, her voice thick with sarcasm. Anyway, I thought you liked Mandeville.

I like him well enough. I just can’t understand why it is that seemingly sensible young ladies turn silly in his presence.

Now, Colin, don’t be surly, his sister warned.

Me, surly? Besides, I’ve told you before, Mandeville’s not looking for a bride, and even if he were, well, er... Colin broke off, scratching his head and looking most uncomfortable. I say, he’s an ambitious sort of fellow and he’d be looking for an earl’s daughter at the very least. You’d do well to keep that in mind, Lucy, no matter what my matchmaking sister might whisper in your ear.

Lucy shrugged, smiling wryly. I’ll do my best to remember.

Colin nodded approvingly, but his blue-gray eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled from Lucy’s uncovered head to her boys’ breeches and finally down to her boot-clad feet. Where the devil did you get those clothes?

Lucy grinned in reply. They’re Nicholas’s. My brother may be but twelve, but he’s already as tall as I am. I managed to steal these into my trunks after Auntie packed them.

Colin shook his head. Nothing you do should surprise me after all these years. But how did you manage to escape the house dressed like that?

Lucy cocked her head toward her horse, the red folds of her cloak draped across the saddle. My cloak. Where’s Susanna?

At home. Resting for dinner as proper young ladies do.

Lucy threw her head back and laughed. So I’ve only managed to corrupt one of your sisters. And I suppose you’ll be tattling on me to Aunt Agatha, won’t you, that I’m out riding in breeches?

And riding astride, no less, I’m sure.

Of course, she said with a shrug. Riding sidesaddle is not truly riding. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. As if I couldn’t properly sit a horse.

Anyone who’s seen you ride knows you can properly sit a horse, side-saddle or not, Jane suggested with a smile. "But you must admit it is a bit more ladylike."

"It’s very well to move your person from one point to the next in a ladylike fashion, but I enjoy a more...shall I say vigorous ride."

Colin groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. God help us all if you go around London saying such things.

Lucy felt her cheeks burn.

"It is getting late, Jane said. We should get back to the house and prepare for dinner."

Lucy nodded as she sauntered to her mare, who was grazing lazily beneath a willow, munching the new spring grass. You two go on ahead, she said, retrieving her cloak and fastening it around her neck. I’ll be along shortly. I promise, she added, seeing them both grimace.

The afternoon sun waned, and Lucy shivered as she watched Jane hurry to her own mount and ride off behind Colin. With a frown, she reached up and felt her tangled, windblown hair. Yes, she should return to the house to begin preparations for the evening meal, but not before she enjoyed one last ride. She mounted her horse with practiced precision and spurred the mare toward the river.

Now, if you will excuse me, Mother, I am expected for dinner at Glenfield. The viscount and I have some matters to discuss, and I don’t wish to keep him waiting. Henry Ashton, the sixth Marquess of Mandeville, hastened to leave. The sight of his mother sitting at his late father’s mahogany desk made his stomach roil, and he wished to be finished with the discourse.

Henry, I must insist you take this suggestion into consideration. It is time you put this nonsense with Miss Layton behind you, and Lady Charlotte is a lovely girl, quite appropriate. She would make a fine marchioness.

Henry flinched and stopped in his tracks. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to face his mother once more. "This nonsense, as you call it, with Miss Layton is most certainly behind me, dear mother. And allow me to remind you once more that I would not marry Lady Charlotte Haverford if she were the last maiden in all of bloody England."

Do not swear at me. Disapproval darkened her face. And do not be so hasty to judge. You are the Marquess of Mandeville, and with that title comes certain obligations. It is high time you settle down and take a wife. Produce an heir. It is what your father most desperately wanted. Her cold blue eyes narrowed as she surveyed him from head to toe with pursed lips. With your poor health and weak constitution, I should think you would be more concerned with ensuring the marquessate.

He felt the blood rise in his face. Was she calling his manhood into question? Doubting his ability to produce an heir? He swallowed his rage, refusing to rise to her bait. When he returned his gaze to hers, he made sure his eyes were guarded, veiled of emotion. Empty.

Besides, she said, you were away nearly three years, and Lady Charlotte has matured considerably in that time.

Yes, matured into a spinster, he thought uncharitably. How interesting that no man had yet snatched her up, despite her wealth and breeding.

I am well aware you do not love her, but love will come in due time. She rose from the chair with an exaggerated sigh and stood to gaze out the study’s window, one gloved hand across her breast. Not every marriage begins as a grand love affair. What your dear father and I had was quite rare.

He shuddered as she turned to face him with a disingenuous smile. She had been a remarkable beauty in her youth and was, Henry thought objectively, still a striking woman. Yet so unattractive in character. How had his father been so blind, so foolish?

He’d been brilliant, after all. As a young earl, Henry’s father had been poised to wed Lady Margaret Spencer, a baroness in her own right whose family connections and wealth were immeasurable. Yet he had been a slave to his traitorous heart, obeying his emotions instead of his honor, his duty. Instead of wedding Lady Spencer, he’d eloped with the vicar’s beautiful daughter. His mother.

And for what? Love, Henry thought with a sneer. Worse yet, the object of his father’s misguided affection had been less than worthy. Henry coldly eyed his mother—a woman incapable of loving another, unable to grasp the meaning of fidelity; a woman who hated her own son from the moment he was born. Nevertheless, his father had loved her so desperately he’d been unable to see the truth. That error had cost him both power and influence—it had kept him from realizing his potential.

No, the current Marquess of Mandeville would not repeat his father’s mistakes.

I’ve spoken with Lord Hathorne and he’s quite agreeable to the match, his mother was saying as she absently plucked at her gown’s sleeves. He has provided a sizeable dowry for her. You would do well to take that into consideration.

Henry choked back indignation. If and when he chose to marry, he would marry well. No doubt about it. Unlike his father, he wouldn’t be led by his heart. Instead, he would select a woman of impeccable breeding, perfectly suited to the role of marchioness, wholly capable of furthering his own circumstance. Yes, Charlotte Haverford certainly fit the bill, but it would be a woman of his own choosing, not his mother’s. He would not give her the satisfaction.

I am afraid that suggesting I would even consider wedding Lady Charlotte was a grievous error on your part, Mother, he said levelly. One I recommend you rectify immediately. I bid you good night. With a curt bow, he turned and strode out of the study.

Minutes later, the groom had Phantom saddled and awaiting his master in the drive. Thank you, McLaren, Henry called, swinging easily upon the back of his well-muscled stallion.

Yes, my lord. McLaren bowed stiffly and handed up the reins. Lord Mandeville?

Yes, McLaren, what is it? He was impatient to be off.

I only thought ye might wish to know that Medusa appears ready to foal. Perhaps by morning time.

Is that so? Thank you, I’ll check with you as soon as I return this evening, then. He dismissed the groom with a nod and swung Phantom’s head around, digging his heels into the horse’s sides.

Rather than take the road, he guided the stallion toward the southeast corner of his property. He could save time by cutting through the orchard and riding along the riverbank toward the Rosemoors’ neighboring estate.

As they raced through the budding fruit trees, Henry’s thoughts were unpleasantly drawn back to his mother and her ridiculous suggestion. Damn her. He was a grown man, and he certainly did not want nor need her playing matchmaker on his behalf. He prodded Phantom on as they reached the water’s edge, seething all the while at his mother’s poor taste. Charlotte Haverford? Her father, the Earl of Hathorne, was a cunning fop with loose morals, and Lady Hathorne was nothing short of simpleminded. Their eldest daughter was ambitious, high in the instep, and enough like his own mother to earn Henry’s rancor. He disliked her immensely. Yes, she was certainly attractive, but in an icy way—not the sort to keep a man warm in bed at night.

As far as he was concerned, his sister was the single only lady whom he could unequivocally trust. Eleanor was a rare exception, her character above reproach. Of course, the many women of questionable repute who frequented Henry’s bed were most definitely not ladies, and therefore were exceptions, as well. They, at least, were honest in what they expected in return for his attentions. A night here, a trinket there. It was all very straightforward and businesslike. He looked forward to renewing several such acquaintances in London.

But the marriageable ladies, the ones from whom he was supposed to choose a bride...they were a different matter altogether. The debacle with Cecelia Layton had proven that to him. And Charlotte Haverford was perhaps the worst of the lot. He didn’t care how large her dowry was or how well connected her father might be. Marry her? Never.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he tapped the horse’s flanks with his crop. In no time they sailed over the unruly hedge marking the boundary between his and Lord Rosemoor’s property, and galloped across a wide-open field toward the house.

Without warning Henry felt his horse’s gait falter. He reined in the stallion with a curse, and Phantom slowed to a trot. Even from his seat he felt the pronounced limp, and his ire cooled abruptly as concern for his favorite mount supplanted it. He halted the horse and swung down from the saddle. With a frown, he gingerly examined each dark hoof, finding nothing amiss. Shaking his head, he reached for Phantom’s reins and led the horse on foot through the park. Minutes later Glenfield rose up in the distance, the familiar gray stones weathered to a pleasing silvery patina. Just a bit further, he told the horse as they approached, and I will have the viscount’s groom examine you.

Sir, your horse! a decidedly feminine voice called out from the shadows, startling him. Please, stop at once. He is injured. Henry looked to see who was issuing the order and saw a small slip of a girl, not much more than five feet tall, striding purposefully toward him. She was wrapped in a scarlet cloak, and even in the fading light he was certain he had never laid eyes on her before.

He has only just begun to limp, he called out through clenched teeth. I will have him examined by the Rosemoors’ groom, Miss... I am sorry, I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, he said, attempting a polite smile.

She threw off her cloak and hurried to Phantom’s side. Henry’s jaw dropped. The chit was wearing breeches! Fawn-colored wool clung to shapely legs, tapering down to black knee-boots. A loose-fitting, white linen tunic skimmed her hips. Golden hair, loose and uncovered, tumbled down her back in rippling waves. The fading sun cast a warm, orange glow upon her anything-but-girlish form. Obviously, she was not so young as he first supposed.

Sir, I must insist you let me take a look. There, she said, on the left foreleg, between the knee and fetlock. A tendon, I think.

He crouched down and looked where the girl pointed. He grimaced—it did look swollen. However had he missed that? Silently, he cursed himself for his carelessness.

The girl pulled off her gloves and knelt to feel Phantom’s leg. It’s warm. A bowed tendon, I’m sure of it. She stood and reached for the powerful animal’s muzzle, offering her hand for the horse to smell. Phantom licked her palm and lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder. You poor beast, she cooed, stroking his mane.

Henry blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. Phantom was wary of strangers, tremendously head shy. He’d never seen him behave this way, and it was more than a little unsettling. However did you do that?

Do what? she asked, dragging her gaze from Phantom to Henry with an irritated flash of impossibly green eyes.

Who was this odd girl who had so bewitched his horse, and what was she doing out near dark in boys’ clothing? Perhaps one of the Rosemoors’ servants, he thought, then shook his head. No, not a servant. She speaks like a lady. But she couldn’t be, not dressed as she was.

...some mud, and perhaps some peppermint oil, she was saying.

He realized she was still speaking to him. I beg your pardon. What were you saying?

A poultice, sir, she said impatiently. I was saying I need to ice the leg and then apply a poultice. She shook her head with a scowl. I must ask Cook at once if she has any peppermint oil.

Surely you realize what an odd situation this is? he sputtered. In case you have not noticed, you are a female, and females do not generally possess the ability to diagnose equine injuries—

"In case you have not noticed, sir, I just did."

—much less the skills to treat them.

Oh, but I do.

He raised a brow. "But you are a female?"

Undoubtedly.

I thought so. The corners of his mouth twitched. "I just wanted to make sure you knew it."

He saw her bite her lower lip, perhaps suppressing a smile?

I can assure you I’m in possession of many years of informal training in veterinary arts, and if you’ll allow me to lead your horse...what was his name?

Phantom.

If you’ll allow me lead Phantom to the stables, I’ll see to his care with the utmost attention. If you doubt me, please feel free to inquire with Lord and Lady Rosemoor.

Henry’s head was spinning. This was madness, and yet...he felt certain she did know of what she spoke. Reluctantly, he nodded his assent and handed her the reins. I accept your word, Miss...ahhh...

Do you, now? How lucky for me. This time her smile was evident and it lit her eyes like freshly polished gems. He couldn’t help but grin foolishly in reply.

Without a backward glance, she led Phantom away, her own horse following docilely behind. Henry shrugged in bewilderment as he stared at her shapely backside, so clearly defined, swaying ever so enticingly with her feminine gait.

No, not a lady, but certainly comely enough.

He started to follow, but stopped to fish out his watch from his waistcoat. Checking the time, he saw that he was more than a half hour late for his engagement with the viscount. With a surprising certainty that Phantom was in capable hands, Henry hurried toward the house’s wide front steps, taking two at a time, and promising himself he would return and check on the horse at the earliest opportunity.

Chapter 2

W e’re in agreement on that count, Mandeville. It’s glad I am to have young men like you on our side. It’s an outrage, and I’ll speak with Lord Grey as soon as we arrive in Town. Lord Rosemoor’s gray brows were drawn into an angry line.

As will I, Rosemoor. It’s insupportable. I must say, I’m looking forward to taking my place in Parliament. I’ve spent these past few years in Scotland thinking about what needs to be accomplished. First and foremost is educational reform. Let us get the children off the streets, little thieves, and get them into schools, instead. It’s the only hope we have for our future—educating England’s children, no matter their station. ‘But if you ask what is the good of education in general, the answer is easy; that education makes good men, and that good men act nobly.’

Ah, the wise words of Plato. You think like your father. Lord Rosemoor smiled as he set down his glass.

Perhaps, but unlike my father, I will see the vision to fruition. We need to gain the ear of easily swayed men and win them to our side. The time is ripe for a Whig government, if we play our cards right.

True. It does not bode well for our country if the damn Tories—ah, but here are the ladies, so our business must be concluded. Lord Rosemoor stood and snuffed out his cheroot. Lord Mandeville, you must now properly meet our dear friend and guest. I present to you Miss Lucy Abbington.

Henry looked up from his sherry in surprise as Lady Rosemoor approached with a young lady on her arm. The girl wore a gown of pale-blue gauze trimmed in green. Her curls were piled atop her head, a ribbon the color of emeralds woven artfully through the arrangement. His