Lizzy's green eyes narrowed. “Whatever has Mrs. Grey got up to now?”

“Mrs. Grey?”

“The banker's wife. She is capable of anything, I believe—”

“She has just struck the gentleman by the phaeton with her riding whip. Are you acquainted with him?”

“Not at all.” Lizzy sounded intrigued. “I have never seen him before in my life. A gentleman from Town, perhaps, come down to Kent on purpose for the races.”

“He is possessed of the most extraordinary countenance,” I whispered. “But why should she abuse him in so public a manner? I cannot believe he offered her an insult — there was neither heat nor drunkenness in his looks.”

Not a commanding figure, to be sure — for he was slight and taut as a greyhound, in his elegant coat of green superfine and his fashionable high-crowded hat. A young man of perhaps thirty, whose auburn hair fell loose to his shoulders, like a cavalier's of another age. In these respects, he looked very much like any other gentleman of breeding who strolled about the race grounds; but in his aspect there was something more: an air of nobility and unguessed powers, that demanded a second glance.

“Perhaps he has declined the offer of Mrs. Grey's favours,” Lizzy murmured, “and she could not abide the affront. It would be in keeping with her reputation, I assure you.”

As we watched, the scarlet-clad woman pushed angrily past the man she had injured, and hastened from the phaeton. He gazed after her a moment, his countenance devoid of expression, and then drew a handkerchief from within his coat. This he applied to a great weal standing out above the line of his neckcloth; and then, rather thoughtfully, his eyes shifted towards our own. He held our gaze some few seconds, and then, quite deliberately, raised his hat in acknowledgement.

“Yes, Jane,” Lizzy breathed, “self-possession and nerve are in all his looks. I would give a great deal to know his name.”

“Fanny,” Anne Sharpe said abruptly from the seat opposite, “you are crumpling your mother's dress. Do come and sit by me, dear, and partake of the jellied chicken. I am sure this litde fit of temper is entirely due to your nerves. They cannot withstand such heat, you know, if you refuse Cook's excellent luncheon.”

“Some jellied chicken, Lizzy?” I enquired.

“Every feeling revolts,” she said dismissively. Her eyes were still trained on the elegant young man, who had moved off through the crowd in the direction opposite to Mrs. Grey. “I shall never make a patroness of the turf, my dear Jane, for I find the stench of dust and dung very nearly insupportable. Without the parade of fashion that always attends such events, I should be bored to tears.”

“Are you perhaps increasing again?” I enquired delicately.

“Lord, no! That is all at an end, I am quite sure,” she retorted; but I thought her voice held a note of doubt. Lizzy's ninth child is as yet a babe in arms; but at the age of two-and-thirty, she might expect any number in addition. “Perhaps some raspberry cordial.”

I secured her the collation. “Fanny? Miss Sharpe? Some cake and cordial, perhaps?”

My niece raised a tear-stained cheek. “I could not stomach a bite, Aunt Jane, from all the anxiety attendant upon his prospects.”

“His prospects,” her mother repeated in some perplexity. “Whose, my dear?”

“I believe she means the horse, ma'am,” Miss Sharpe supplied in her gentle voice.

“Such elevated language! You have been lending Fanny your horrid novels, Miss Sharpe, I am certain of it.”

“Indeed not, I assure you, madam — merely Mrs. Palmerstone's edifying letters to her daughters.”[3] Anne Sharpe raised eyes full of amusement to my own, and I could not suppress a smile — for we had debated the merits of such writers as Mrs. Radcliffe and Madame D'Arblay for nearly an hour in the schoolroom, with Fanny pleading to borrow my subscription volumes of Camilla. I had pressed them, instead, upon Anne Sharpe — and did the governess often resort to horrid novels, I should be the very last to blame her. With the schooling of two small girls in her charge, and limited reserves of strength or health to aid her, she must find in the Austens' exuberance a trial.

Particularly since the Commodore had come to plague us all.

A fearsome, snorting chestnut steed of nearly sixteen hands, the Commodore might be termed my brother Henry's latest folly. Being a man of some means, well-established in banking circles, and possessed of an elegantly-aristocratic wife in my cousin Eliza, Henry aspires to the habits of the Sporting Set, and has gone in for horse-racing in its most vicious form. Not content with losing breathless sums at Epsom and Newmarket, he has gambled his all on a dearer stake — the possession of an actual beast.

Knowing little of horseflesh, and still less of such points as action or blood, I have been rendered mute in almost every conversation since Henry's arrival in Kent a week ago. He is full of nothing but the subject; and it has been all a matter of furlongs and oat mash and Tattersall's betting room for a se'nnight.[4] The children have caught a dose of the fever; Neddie himself is hardly immune; and never have I found dear Henry's company so profoundly tedious. The flight of his wife, the little Comtesse Eliza, to a shooting party in the North, suggests that she is as impatient for the fad's decline as any of us. And so I prayed that the Commodore might stumble to his ruin in the present race, or perform as wretchedly as a carter's nag, and thus save us all the trouble of adoring him.

“It is too bad!” Fanny was craning over the carriage's side for a view of the course. “In sitting at such a remove, we shall be denied the smallest glimpse of the Commodore's triumph. I believe my heart shall break!”

“My dear Fanny.” Miss Sharpe laid a gloved hand on her charge's arm. “We are privileged in attending the meeting at all. Recollect that ladies must never approach the rail — it is not the done thing, and is left to the province of such hoydens as may claim neither rank nor breeding among their charms.”

“Mrs. Grey may claim rank and breeding, Sharpie, and yet she is allowed the liberty of the grounds,” Fanny retorted. “I should not be so nice as you are, for a kingdom! Mrs. Grey for me!”

And, indeed, the child spoke no more than the truth. The dark-haired beauty in the scarlet riding habit was strolling freely among the assembled carriages, with the eye of more than one gentleman lingering upon her wistfully. As we watched, she caught the banter of one and returned it playfully, her countenance alive with laughter. The brutal cut of a few minutes earlier was plainly forgotten. She appeared a ravishing young lady of exuberant spirits — forward, perhaps, but entirely in command of her circumstances.

“Perhaps we should read a little of Palmerstone aloud,” Miss Sharpe suggested, with a slight note of reproof. She drew a volume from her reticule and patted the empty seat beside her. “Sit down by me, and endeavour to attend. I believe we left off at letter number twelve.”

“Mrs. Grey has never read Palmerstone,” Fanny retorted darkly, but she sank down next to Miss Sharpe.

“Mrs. Grey is not the pattern I should choose for your conduct, Fanny.” Lizzy's words had the tenor of a scold, but I observed her mouth to twitch. “However dashing in moments, Mrs. Grey has not been gently reared. She is a Frenchwoman, moreover, and her manners must be very different from ours.”

Miss Sharpe commenced to read, in a quiet tone; and at that moment, I caught a glimpse of scarlet as Mrs. Grey passed to the rear of the governess's bent head. As Lizzy and I watched her wordlessly, she approached a shabby-looking chaise but a hundred feet from our own. It was equipped with neither footman nor tyger, and but for its sweating team of matched bays, appeared all but deserted. At Mrs. Grey's swift knock, however, the carriage door was thrust open by an unseen party within. With a swift glance about, the lady disappeared into the darkness, and the door closed softly behind her.