Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(2)
“If you do not fear unpopularity is contagious,” she’d replied, and had instantly wished to bite her tongue. Her mother had warned her that she was too quick to snap.
Instead of taking offense, he’d laughed and eased into the chair, stretching an apparently stiff knee in front of him. “The contagion spreading this evening is inanity. I’ve recently been inoculated.” He gestured at his limb. “Tried to outrace a mail coach while riding another man’s steed. Never again.”
Honora tried not to compare the misshapen lump of his knee and weakened leg with his more muscular and shapely other leg. “The horse was a poor one?”
“It was as stupid as its rider and veered at a coney. I ask you, what kind of animal is afraid of a rabbit?”
Honora winced. “A poorly trained one, it seems. Did the horse’s owner know it was so badly behaved?”
“Most likely,” he said with a shrug. “A wager is a wager, and I was the dupe.”
His self-deprecating air was refreshing, and the hours passed swiftly as they exchanged gossip and opinions and developed a friendship that had lasted the season. But he’d done just as he’d sworn he would from the first—left London and never returned. He’d always been honest.
“It’s Meath now, viscount, if you please,” he said, limping toward the track. “My father died, but yes, as usual, we adorn the wall. And as usual, we’re the only ones to observe.”
Although she remembered Mr. Burke—Lord Meath—as entertaining that first spring after his accident, he was not amused now. After ten years, he’d become a powerful man with an unshaven scruff and thick muscles. When he frowned at the backs of the gentlemen surrounding the fallen jockey, she shivered at his fierceness.
“But we’re no longer helpless children,” she announced with a confidence she’d not possessed a decade ago. He may have shattered her foolish heart back then, but they had both grown up since. She marched toward the track. The viscount’s limping stride matched her short one as he fell in with her.
“True,” he agreed with his more familiar humor. “Bell has taken worse falls, but losing this race is a catastrophe for her family and not the Christmas gift they’d hoped.”
“You know the jockey’s family?” she asked in surprise.
“Earl of Wexford’s daughter, Lady Isabell. She’s been a handful since birth, but she’s the one who has been keeping food in the mouth of her little sisters. I don’t suppose you’ve married Croesus?” he asked in a harsh tone.
A lady, daughter of an earl, riding astride! Honora tried not to gape in astonishment while she gathered her wits. Harrow could have killed an earl’s daughter! She had thought forcing the bosky toad to pay for the girl’s injury and the horse’s loss would be sufficient, but this required a whole new round of thought.
“No, I’m not married, but I’m my uncle’s hostess. Belden is richer than Croesus, and Harrow is one of his miserable friends. Someone must be made to pay.” She gripped his arm and winced as a group of men lifted the unconscious lady jockey from the mud.
“That’s her father weeping,” Lord Meath said without judgment. “It’s hard to say whether he weeps for his daughter, the horse, or the debtor’s prison he faces.”
Honora set her lips, poked a few broad backs with her umbrella, and forced her way through the mob in the direction they carried the girl.
Without the confinement of her riding cap, the jockey’s rich mahogany hair spilled down her shoulders. The girl looked much too young to be in this crowd. A few reputable females clung to their husbands’ arms, but in general, it was a rowdy lot unsuitable for very young misses.
“My lord, your carriage is closest,” Honora called to her uncle. “Let us take her to the manor and call a physician.” Finally reaching her goal, she dropped Meath’s arm to take her uncle’s and nudge him into directing the men carrying the unconscious lady.
“Hmpf, yes, of course, a physician. Do they have physicians here?” Belden inquired, gesturing peremptorily at his footman. Of average height and unprepossessing figure, he spoke with an authority that had lesser men stepping out of his way.
“This is Ireland, not Africa,” Lord Meath said in amusement, falling into step with them. He used his cudgel to herd bystanders away as they progressed in the direction of the carriage lane. “Wexford, have you sent for Callahan?” he shouted to the weeping man following his daughter.
The older, slender gentleman stopped and wiped at his face with a handkerchief as he waited for them to catch up. “Meath, good to see you, lad. Are you with his lordship’s party?”
“Introduce us, my lord,” Honora whispered. Her uncle could be a pinch-penny unless confronted with reality. She was determined to set matters right since it was his inebriated party responsible for this disaster. And it was almost Christmas and the lady’s young sisters were at risk!
Lord Meath raised his caramel-colored eyebrows at her imperious command but did as told. “Lord Belden, Miss Honora Hoyt, may I introduce you to Glendon Boyle, Earl of Wexford.”
Belden harrumphed. Honora dropped a hasty curtsy and told the earl, “I’ll attend your daughter if you can help us reach the carriage before we’re crushed in this crowd.”
That gave the men direction. Meath cleared a path with his cudgel, while Wexford straightened his spine and escorted them toward the lane. The crowd parted in their wake, and they arrived in time for Honora to catch up and add propriety to the patient being loaded into the open carriage.