of their pistol.’
‘Damn it, it was a good prank.’ Ashe gave his gun a rueful glare as if the weapon alone were to blame for ruining the gambit. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here, waiting?’
‘Waiting in the sun is dusty business,’ Riordan put in.
‘What were you doing, waiting at all?’ Merrick pulled his horse alongside his two friends and they continued down the road three abreast.
‘We saw your horse outside the inn last night and the ostler said you were headed over to Folkestone’s for the party,’ Ashe admitted with an impish grin. ‘Since we’re going, too, we thought we’d plan a little reunion.’
‘We could have reunited over a pint of good ale and rabbit stew last night,’ Merrick put in. Accosting friends with pistols was a bit demented even for Ashe.
‘There’s no fun in that; besides, we were busy with the barmaid and her sister.’ Riordan pulled out a pewter flask and took a healthy swallow. ‘There hasn’t been any fun all Season. London’s been an absolute bore.’
So boring that even a house party in Kent held more charm? It seemed unlikely. Merrick peered closely at his friend. Riordan’s face bore signs of weariness, but there was no time to pursue that avenue in the wake of Ashe’s next pronouncement.
‘How about a bathe?’
Merrick’s head swivelled in Ashe’s direction. ‘What? A bathe?’ Had Ashe finally gone around the bend? He’d long suspected Ashe wasn’t as sane as the rest of humanity, always the risk taker.
‘Not in a tub, old chap,’ Ashe replied, easily reading his mind. ‘Out here, before we get to the house party. There’s a pond—a small lake, really—over the next rise and off the lane a bit, if I remember this stretch of road right. It will be a chance to wash off the grime of the journey, a last chance to exist in nature before we embrace the unnatural formality of a country party where...’ Ashe paused for effect and went on with great exaggeration ‘...everything should be natural, but most unfortunately is not.’
‘Splendid idea, a bathe is perfect. What say you, Merrick? A bathe before high tea and the ladies?’ Riordan voted with his heels, spurring his chestnut hunter into a canter, letting the light breeze ruffle his dark hair. Riordan called back over his shoulder, ‘Race you! I’ve got the flask!’
‘But you don’t know where you’re going!’ Ashe and Merrick yelled in unison. This had always been the case; even at Oxford, Riordan had been heedless of the details, seizing the pleasure of the moment, ignoring the consequences. Merrick exchanged a knowing look with Ashe.
‘All the better to race me....’ The words floated back over the pounding of hooves on packed dirt. They needed no further encouragement to kick their horses up to speed and follow.
They found the pond as Ashe remembered it: a cool, shady oasis fed by a quick-flowing stream and perfect for the odd summer bathe. It was hidden from the casual eye by leafy willows and Merrick raced the others, wasting no time in divesting himself of his clothes, suddenly overcome with a desire to feel the cold water on his hot skin. He dived in, refusing to cautiously test the waters first.
The water closed over his head and he felt absolution. He reached out into the water with long strokes and began to kick, every stroke taking him further from London, from his father, from his ongoing battle for the freedom to be himself even if he didn’t precisely know who that was. In the water he was clean. Unfettered joy took him and he surged to the surface, shaking the water from his hair. Ashe was watching him, posed gloriously naked on a rock like a sea-god. Merrick reached up, grabbed Ashe’s leg and pulled. ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’
Ashe gave an undignified yelp as gravity and Merrick took him sliding into the pond. ‘Riordan, get in here and help me!’
There was a swift movement on the banks as Riordan grabbed for a sturdy vine and swung into the mêlée. Chaos ensued—the good kind of chaos that washes away years and trouble. They wrestled in the water; they scrambled up the banks, making the dirt into mud with their dripping forms; they ran the perimeter of their sanctuary with loud whoops of pure exuberance, only to jump back in and start all over. For all the sophistication of London and its entertainments, Merrick hadn’t had this much uncontrived fun in ages. London’s haut ton would cringe to see three of their members behaving with such careless, naked abandon. But why not? There was no one to see.
Thank goodness no one could see her now. Dressed in a loose, serviceable gown of drab olive and scuffed half-boots, Alixe knew she didn’t look at all like a proper earl’s daughter. The family would have a fit. Another fit. The family wanted to have as few fits as possible. Which was probably why they’d let her go out wandering in the first place, despite guests arriving for the long-anticipated midsummer house party.
At the moment, Alixe didn’t care if the king himself was scheduled to arrive. She had a precious afternoon of freedom entirely to herself. The weather was fine and she was enjoying her tramp to the furthest edges of the family property, perhaps a bit beyond because she was feeling a little naughty. She had a destination in mind—an old summer house on the nebulous fringes of the estate, where she could settle in with her books and her work, all carefully packed in a cloth bag looped over her shoulder.
She was getting close to the summer house. The path was increasingly overgrown with fern and nearly obscured from plain view as she ventured further into the wooded area. She smiled and pushed aside some of the rampant undergrowth. It was cool here beneath the trees. Ah, there it was. She quickened her pace, taking the crumbling steps to the entrance two at a time.
Alixe opened the door and sighed. The old place was perfect. She should make a retreat out of it. She could scavenge odds and ends from the attics. Alixe put her bag down and surveyed the open-air room. It was more like a gazebo than an actual house, but it had infinite possibilities—a place where she could be alone, away from the family’s odious neighbour Archibald Redfield, away from everyone and all their expectations for her life. Alixe closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Ah, yes, she was blessedly alone.
Then she heard it: the sound of not being quite alone. Alixe turned her head towards the sound. A bird call? It came again—distinctly not a bird. It sounded like a human shout.
Oh, dear.
The lake.
Alixe was galvanised into action. Someone might be in trouble. She tore through the woods, running towards the shouts.
* * *
Alixe crashed into the lake clearing and came to an abrupt halt too late to rethink announcing her presence once it became patently obvious the only thing in risk of drowning were her sensibilities. Three men cavorted—really, that was the only word for it—cavorted in the water. They dove, they wrestled, they noticed her.
Oh, lord, they noticed her.
She didn’t want to be noticed. This was not what she deserved for playing the good Samaritan. She’d run pell-mell to the aid of three men swimming nude in a hidden lake. Someone could at least have the decency to actually be drowning.
‘Hello, are we making too much noise? We didn’t think anyone was around,’ one of them said easily, unfazed by her sudden appearance. He separated
