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London—late winter, 1823
St John the Divine was entirely wrong about the end of the world. Prince Nikolay Baklanov had, in the last hour, arrived at a revelation of his own: the four horsemen of the Apocalypse weren’t men armed with swords at all, but, in fact, four young ladies, armed with formidable matchmaking mamas who would give those swords a run for sharpness. He was quite convinced, as he barked at Miss Ransome for the third time to get deep into the corners on her turns, that the world as he knew it would not be done in by widespread warfare and pestilence, but by the trampling to death of his patience over the course of several Thursday afternoons as the girls sawed on their horses’ mouths and disregarded his oft-repeated instructions.
‘Heels down, Miss Edgars, or you’ll come off your mount’s back at the slightest jolt! Miss Kenmore, remember the left-shoulder rule, unless you want a collision with Miss Ransome!’ He shouted orders from the centre of Fozard’s arena, home to one of London’s elite riding schools. But there was nothing elite about the skill of the four young misses trotting around him.
Make that three.
‘Miss Calhoun, why in heaven’s name have you stopped?’
‘My horse stopped, not I.’ The spoiled chit tossed glossy curls from beneath an expensive stovepipe hat and gave him a pout that had no doubt been practised far longer than her riding skills.
‘You are the master here, Miss Calhoun.’ Nikolay clung to the shreds of his patience. Surely their requisite hour was nearly up? Then just one more lesson for the day. Who would ever have imagined teaching four girls to ride was more difficult than marshalling an entire regiment?
‘But...’ Miss Calhoun began to whine. His temper flared.
But? She dared to argue with him? He, who was a Prince of Kuban? He, who had led and trained the Kubanian cavalry? A man who excelled on horseback? Nikolay raised his voice, overriding her excuses. ‘No buts, Miss Calhoun. Set your horse in motion or I will do it for you!’ The last was met with a significant amount of shocked rustling in the spectators’ gallery where the girls’ mothers and maids sat in vigilant attendance. He knew what they were debating in their heated whispers—the merits of questioning him for his harsh tone. Was it worth the risk of alienating him? Or did they allow him to scold Miss Calhoun in the hopes of securing his attentions?
He did not fool himself. That’s what they were here for: attentions, affections. It was what all his female pupils were here for, well-bred daughters of the British peerage, angling to snare a foreign prince, even one in exile from a place most had never heard of seemed to suffice, never mind that he wouldn’t be accepting any of those offers. He’d been in London for two months, since the Christmas holidays, and business at Fozard’s had increased exponentially—quite a feat considering much of London society was still in the country. The rustling ceased. The jury of mamas had decided to let his tone pass.
‘All right, ladies,
