win, Jonathan! I still consider this contraption outmoded and damned uncomfortable, but I will grant you it is faster than anything in my carriage house. So, slow down!” the fair-haired man, sitting beside the driver, gasped as he held on to his tall silk hat with one hand and the safety rail with the other. “We’ll never make that bend at this speed and if there’s anything coming the other way—”
“You’re starting to sound like my maiden aunt, Perry.” The Honourable Jonathan Lindsay laughed, but he pulled upon the reins and began to slow the team of matched bays, who were snorting and sweating profusely. “For someone who was cool as a cucumber when Boney’s old Guard came on at Waterloo, you’ve made an almighty fuss for the last twenty minutes about a little speed.”
“At nineteen, one has not developed the instinct for self-preservation one has at thirty-two,” Perry said, sighing with relief as his dark-haired companion brought the bays down to a trot. “And I can assure you, I was far from cool…” A faraway look came on to his fresh ruddy face. “Is it really fifteen years ago? I still have nightmares about the sound of the damned French drums as if it were yesterday. And at the time, I didn’t think either of us would see our twentieth birthdays.”
“No.” Jonathan Lindsay sighed. “Neither did I, and sometimes I begin to wish that I hadn’t—”
“Begad! You have been bitten by the black dog!” Lord Derwent said, giving him a sharp look from his brown eyes. “What the devil is up with Jono? First, you announce you are giving up the tables, next, that you are going to bury yourself in the country—” He stopped and gave a theatrical groan. “You have not been spurned by Charlotte?”
Jonathan shook his fashionably tousled dark head.
“Or Amelia, or Emily Witherston?” Perry frowned as Jonathan’s craggily handsome face remained impassive. “Tell me it is not that ghastly Roberts girl—”
“Margaret? Allow me some taste!” His friend sighed again. “I have not fallen in love, Perry, and I have not the slightest intention of doing so!”
“Then what is chewing at you?” Lord Derwent persisted in asking. “Go on like this and you will be in danger of becoming positively dull.”
“Exactly!” Lindsay sighed again, checking the bays as he looked ahead and saw a small ragged-looking child swinging precariously upon one of the gates that interrupted the run of stone walling here and there. “Don’t you feel it, Perry, creeping in from all directions since the old king died? And it’ll get worse if Wellesley steps down for these reforming fellows—”
“Feel what?” Lord Derwent looked at him blankly.
“Dullness, respectability, worthiness and rampant hypocrisy! You can’t enjoy an evening in a hell without these new Peelers turning it over. And as for society—the most innocent flirtation sends young women into a simpering panic, and let slip the mildest oath and the mamas look at you as if you have crawled out of the midden! Conversation is all of profit and industry, new inventions and good works—everyone fancies themselves an archaeologist or scientist or writer—no one confesses to idleness or sheer self-indulgence any more. I begin to think old Bonaparte was right—we’re becoming a nation of shopkeepers with a tradesman’s morality—damnation, I am even beginning to feel that I should be doing ‘something useful’ with my life!”
“But you do…you do lots of things. You hunt and fish, and you’re damned good company at the club—”
“Amusements, Perry, that’s all,” Jonathan said gloomily. “Amusements of which I am beginning to tire.”
Lord Derwent’s brow furrowed. “Well, you’re a Member of Parliament. That’s useful, ain’t it?”
“Parliament! I rarely visit the place and I’ve made one speech in five years—and that was for a wager to see if I could make old Beaufort’s face go as purple as that young Jewish fellow’s waistcoat.”
“Caused more of a stir than most, though.” Derwent laughed. “When I read it in The Times, I thought you’d become a raving revolutionary. If every landowner gave land to his labourers for their use, we’d all be penniless and I doubt they’d bother to work for us at all!”
“One can hardly blame them,” Lindsay answered drily. “The price of bread is up, wages are down, and the common land has been fenced in for sheep. Their work is being taken by machines in the name of profit and the poor relief has been cut to subsistence.”
“Well, at least they’re spared all that nasty dusty work—and the farmers do well out of it,” Lord Derwent said lightly. “All the clever chaps tell me that the health of the nation is dependent upon the creation of wealth—”
“And also, it would seem, upon the creation of paupers,” Jonathan said glancing towards the pinched face of the child as they passed him.
“The lower orders have always gone without when times are hard, they’re used to it. A bit of hunger toughens ’em up and keeps ’em grateful for what they do get. They’re not like us, Jono, they don’t have the finer feelings—look out!”
But Lindsay had already reined back the bays almost to their haunches as they rounded another bend, made blind by the gable end of a cottage built into the wall, and almost collided with a pony trap slewed across its width.
There was no sign of its driver. The reins were looped loosely about the post of a small gate to one side of the cottage, and the skewbald pony was nibbling at a weed growing in a crack in the wall.
“Damned silly place to leave it!” Derwent announced loudly. “All Curzon Street to ninepence that it’s driven by a woman.”
“The Rector’s wife or daughter, I’d wager,” Jonathan agreed wryly, glancing at the weathered straw hat with a plain ribbon trim that lay discarded upon the seat of the trap. “Calling upon the downtrodden and irreligious with some tract, no doubt. Jump down and move it, would you, Perry? Or we’ll be here all day. There’s a field gate a bit further on—put it in there while I pass—”
“Must I?” Lord Derwent looked down doubtfully at the chalky mud of the lane. “It took my man hours to get this finish on my boots.” His face brightened as he noticed that the tiny downstairs window of the cottage was open and leant across to pick up the whip. “No need, watch!”
He stretched out the whip and rapped upon the window sill. “I say, you there, would you like to earn a shilling—?”
“Go away! Go away!” A woman’s voice, choked with sobs, replied. “You’re murderers! All of you!”
“Murderers! I assure you, we are no such thing!” Perry shouted back cheerfully. “All we want is for someone to move this trap—surely you have a good strong lad—”
The woman’s sobs became a low keening wail.
There was a bang as a door was thrown open. A moment later, Janey was at the gate. Tall and slender in her grey gown and white apron, she glowered up at them, as she settled a grubby-looking infant more firmly upon her hip.
“Can you not just go away?” The voice was low, educated and furiously angry with the faintest of accents, which puzzled Lindsay for a moment. He had heard that accent before, but where? His brows furrowed for a moment. And then he remembered. Jack de Lancey, the young American officer who had served on Wellington’s staff at Waterloo
