Page 53 of The Siren of Sussex

“If there is, Mr. Hartford is the proprietor of it.” Lady Anne pointed her whip in the direction of an approaching gentleman driving a high-sprung sporting gig. Dressed in plaid trousers and a cloth sack coat, he was tall and well-made. Dashing, even, with a devilish quirk to his mouth. “That’s him there. The swine.”

Catching sight of Lady Anne, Mr. Hartford tipped his hat to her. “Greetings, fair Fury.”

“Ignore him, Miss Maltravers,” Lady Anne said. “There’s nothing more trying than a rattle who imagines himself a wit.”

Mr. Hartford only grinned. His gaze moved from Lady Anne to Evelyn. “Miss Maltravers is it? A horsewoman, too, I see.”

Evelyn inclined her head as they passed him, uncertain whether a snub was entirely called for. She didn’t know him, after all, and it was rather early to burn her bridges.

“Good day, ma’am,” he called after her with exaggerated civility. “And to you, my lady. Give my regards to your sisters.”

“Infuriating beast,” Lady Anne muttered the moment they were out of earshot. “And no, I haven’t any sisters. He’s talking about Miss Wychwood and Miss Hobhouse. It was he who began all that foolishness about calling us the three Furies.”

“Perhaps he thinks he’s being funny?”

“You give him too much credit. He’s the most provoking man I’ve ever met. Always nettling a person with his japes and gibes. Always assuming he knows what’s best for them.”

Evelyn cast Lady Anne a speculative glance. “It sounds as though you know him rather well.”

“I know enough. He’s too puffed up with consequence for his own good. Most of the younger gentlemen are during the season. They’d far rather ogle the Pretty Horsebreakers than pay court to respectable young ladies.” Lady Anne’s features tightened. “And there they are, like clockwork, drat them. Putting us all in the shade.”

Evelyn couldn’t help but look at them herself as she rode past. There were only two Horsebreakers today—a dark-haired courtesan and a brassy blond. One was perched atop a gleaming chestnut, the other mounted on a dappled gray. Both women wore formfitting black riding habits that emphasized their tightly corseted waists.

Had Mr. Malik designed them? Evelyn didn’t think so. Though the women’s riding costumes served to emphasize their assets, there was nothing truly special about them. They didn’t possess the elegant sensuality of Evelyn’s own habit, nor that elusive Parisian flair.

“I wish they’d refrain from riding at this hour,” Lady Anne said crossly.

“You don’t approve of them?”

“I don’t approve of any females who diminish my friends’ already-dwindling chances of matrimony.”

Evelyn gave her a curious look. “What about your own chances?”

Anne shrugged. “Given the choice, I’d be content to remain a spinster.”

“But you’re taking part in the season, aren’t you?”

“What else am I to do? Mama and I live in London nearly all the year round. I’d die of boredom if I didn’t move about in society.” She frowned. “No. It’s Miss Wychwood and Miss Hobhouse’s chances I worry for. They must find husbands this year. Yet how can they distinguish themselves with the Horsebreakers swanning about? See how the gentlemen stare at them? Like dogs outside a butcher’s shop.”

“We’re not competing with the Horsebreakers,” Evelyn said. “And even if we were . . . their riding isn’t so impressive. Only look at the dreadful bit the chestnut is wearing. She has him entirely behind the vertical. And what about the gray? He’s not engaging his hindquarters at all.”

“Do you think men care about such things when a rider has bosoms like that? Or when she boasts a seventeen-inch waist?” Lady Anne huffed. “I suppose we must be thankful that Miss Walters isn’t among them. It would be worse if she were. All the young men would be out in force.”

Evelyn glanced back. Lady Anne was right. The famous Catherine Walters was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was somewhere with her protector—a man rumored to be the Marquess of Hartington. “There must be some gentlemen who can resist their charms.”

“No one between the ages of fifteen and fifty. If you’re intent on marrying in your first season, you’d do better to look for an old gentleman in his dotage. They’re kind enough. Almost fatherly. Or you could try a retired military man. Rumor has it that Captain Blunt is in town, seeking a new bride to raise his brood of illegitimate children.”

“Captain Blunt?”

“The infamous Hero of the Crimea,” Lady Anne said. “And the Earl of Gresham arrived only yesterday. He’s on the lookout, too, I’ve heard. Newly widowed, and casting about for a fertile female to deliver him an heir.”

Evelyn suppressed a grimace. Her prospects were starting to sound rather bleak. “Do you know everyone hereabouts? All the gentlemen?”

“Most of them.” Lady Anne made a soft sound of reprimand as she tugged at Saffron’s reins, narrowly preventing him from nipping Hephaestus’s neck. “There’s Mr. Phillips, riding with Mr. Edgeware, both perpetual bachelors, and hopeless wagerers at the track. That large man in the barouche is Sir Newton, a hunt-mad baronet from Hampshire, intent on marrying a fortune. And that gentleman . . . Hmm. That’s strange. I don’t recognize him. Though he appears to recognize you.”

Evelyn followed Lady Anne’s gaze. A fair-haired man stood along the viewing rail. He was pale and slim and startlingly familiar.

A shiver traced down her spine.