“I should stop this,” Clonmere said, swinging down from the saddle and passing Annis his reins. “They’ll both get bloody noses, traffic will snarl, somebody will say something they regret, those blacks are about to bolt, and—”
A woman marched forth from the crowd. She was tall, dark-haired, attired for driving, and wearing the sort of flat, straw skimmer Clonmere associated with boating parties on hot summer days. Her ensemble was years out of date, but the older style suited her height.
“Gentlemen.” She waited a moment, while the combatants exchanged a puzzled glance. “Surely you don’t intend to engage in fisticuffs over a minor mishap?”
That was the voice of an older sibling or a mama, though the lady wasn’t matronly. She was, in fact, very nicely put together, and she had the attention of both parties.
“My dear lady,” Amherst said, drawing himself to his entire five and half feet of height. “Destroying my new phaeton through careless disregard is not a minor mishap. If Mr. Dersham had used an ounce of sense, instead of careening recklessly right down the middle of the street—”
“You was the one in the middle of the street, Amherst. Tell the lady how you planted your nags so nobody could get past in either direction, because you’re so mad keen to show off that derelict dog cart to anybody who’s never seen a proper conveyance.”
“Derelict dog cart?” Amherst puffed out his chest. “I’ll tell you who’s derelict— ”
The tall woman stroked the neck of Amherst’s off-side black. “I truly would not want to see the watch summoned over an accident, but I fear if you gentlemen must debate the origins of your contretemps at any greater length, a bent wheel will be the least of your worries.”
The horse was settling, and the combatants appeared entranced by the caress of a worn driving glove over a muscular equine neck.
Clonmere stepped forth, prepared to seize the moment of relative calm and spread ducal fairy dust over a pair of dunderpates. If that required knocking their heads together a time or two, that was the least consolation he was due for his troubles. He’d moved a yard closer to the damaged vehicle when the lady caught his eye and gave a slight shake of her head.
A warning. Nobody warned Clonmere of anything, firstly, because he didn’t require warnings, secondly, because he was usually the party handing them out. He warned his siblings of crooked gaming hells. He warned his mother away from elderly bachelors looking to flatter their way to a comfortable dotage. He warned his head groom away from windbroken teams going on the block at Tatt’s.
For the sheer novelty of the experience, he heeded the lady’s admonition and remained where he was.
“Call the watch?” Dersham repeated, dropping his fists. “No need for that. A gentlemen’s disagreement should be kept private.”
The lady sent a pointed glance to the crowd. “Your grooms can mind your teams,” she said, “while you gentlemen repair to The Happy Heifer to discuss the situation over a civilized pint.”
Amherst scowled at his wheel. “Damn thing’s useless. Papa will read me the Riot Act.”
“Perhaps Mr. Dersham will lend you his curricle while the wheel is being repaired.”
Oh, she was good. She tossed out that casual suggestion while repositioning her hat, as if the slanting afternoon sun was of more moment than the potential for broken noses and criminal charges.
Amherst left off visually lamenting his bent wheel and walked over to Dersham’s bays. “Prime goers. They can’t help who’s at the ribbons.”
Dersham apparently had sense enough to detect a resolution to his troubles that wouldn’t jeopardize his fine tailoring.
“Got ’em off Greymoor,” Dersham said. “Everybody wants the matching white socks and fancy bloodlines. Greymoor says it’s more important to have sound conformation and matching minds.”
Rather like marriage.
The crowd was drifting away, and again, Clonmere shifted forward, prepared to clap each good fellow on the shoulder and shove him toward the pub, but the lady’s glower gave him pause.
Her reproach was fleeting and aimed only at him, also startlingly ferocious. For one instant, green eyes promised him a verbal thrashing that would make fisticuffs in the street look like a mere squabble among chickens.
Clonmere took a step back.
“Greymoor knows what he’s about,” Amherst said. “D’you fancy an ale? I fancy a turn with your bays.”
“The day is a trifle warm,” the woman murmured. “A cool pint would appeal to anybody.”
Clonmere abruptly became thirsty for a tall pint of summer ale, though the day was only warm by English standards.
“Isaacs,” Dersham called, “walk the boys to Amherst’s mews and see them settled.”
“Show him the way,” Amherst said to his tiger. “Try to put the phaeton up without letting the whole world see that wheel.”
Forelocks were tugged, teams led off, and if Clonmere hadn’t been staring directly at her, he would have missed the tall woman melting back into the passing foot traffic.
“Not so fast,” he said, planting himself in her path.
