A Beguiling Intrigue Read online

  A flash of light dazzled him. An explosion rang in his ears. A bullet whipped through the leaves over his head. Heaven-sent? She gave every evidence of being a demon from hell.

  "Enough!” Willoughby cried, stepping forward into the revealing moonlight with his hands extended to his sides, his fingers spread wide. “I mean no harm."

  "Come closer,” she commanded him.

  After he had crossed half the distance separating them, she said, “Far enough. Stop."

  He stopped at once, and in the ensuing silence he sensed his unseen adversary appraising him.

  "Who are you?” she demanded.

  "Mr. John Willoughby, of Woodstock Street

  , Mayfair."

  "Willoughby?” Surprisingly, the tone of her voice made him suspect she recognized the name. “What are you doing here?"

  "I was on my way to the Griffith cottage,” he said as innocently as he could, “when I wandered from the lane and became lost."

  "And what, pray, was your purpose in visiting the Griffiths?"

  "Not so much visiting the Griffiths but rather to meet my cousin, Miss Justine Riggs. I wrote to Mr. Griffith requesting an interview."

  There was a long pause. Willoughby held his breath.

  "I happen to be Justine Riggs."

  "Ah.” For the last few minutes Willoughby had wondered if such might be the case. “May I speak to you here without fear for my life? Or, if you prefer, Miss Riggs, we might walk down the hill to your home."

  "Since I rarely shoot kin, Cousin John, your life is safe,” she said with amusement lightening her voice, “so let us talk here. The steps are to your right."

  He made his way toward the sound of her voice, saw the outline of a railing and climbed the steps to the walkway. Justine stood facing him, one hand on the rail, her head uncovered, her oval face framed by curling midnight-hued tresses, her eyes seemingly as dark as her hair. She was even lovelier than Willoughby had imagined.

  The sharp tang of gunpowder permeated the air, but Willoughby saw no sign of the pistol, if a pistol had, in fact, been her weapon.

  "Mr. Griffith is, to tell the truth, ill much of the time,” she told him. “He tends to be less than hospitable to strangers, at least when feeling as poorly as he has these past few weeks. I expect he never replied to your letter."

  "He did not."

  "I offer my apologies for firing my pistol into the trees over your head,” Justine said.

  "And I regret having frightened you."

  "You choose the wrong word, Cousin John. I may have been annoyed, but certainly not frightened. Annoyed because you interrupted me before I had hardly begun.” She turned from him to look up at the rising full moon. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?"

  "No,” he said softly and truthfully as his gaze encompassed both her and the moon.

  "Let me show you a remarkable sight, Cousin John.” Justine led him along the walkway to the far side of the small structure, stopping beside a mounted cylindrical object that tilted skyward. “Look through here,” she told him.

  Belatedly realizing that he stood in front of a telescope, he leaned down and peered into the eyepiece. A barren landscape in grey and black sprang into being before his eyes, a cratered sea-like expanse surrounded by what appeared to be volcanic peaks.

  "The mountains of the moon,” she said, “and the great waterless seas."

  He glanced at Justine and found her standing with both hands on the rail staring raptly up at the moon. Once more he became aware of the scent of roses. He made no reply; he wanted to remain here forever looking at her. After several minutes she frowned, perhaps becoming aware of his intent gaze, and turned to face him.

  Caught off guard, he glanced away. “Your guardian built this, this celestial observatory, for you?” he asked to conceal his discomfiture.

  "Oh, no. I did.” He heard the pride in her voice. “At least for the most part. Old Mr. Jeffries from the village helped a bit with some of the heavier work."

  Though he had been forewarned that her father had raised Justine Riggs as a boy, Willoughby was taken aback to be actually confronted by a young lady who practiced carpentry and fired pistols at strangers! He most assuredly did not approve of such behavior and the fact that Justine was a bewitching lass made it, in his mind, infinitely worse. Her unnatural abilities made him feel uneasy, almost threatened.

  "You came to Gravesend to speak to me?” Justine asked when Willoughby remained silent.

  He quickly recovered from his bemusement. “I came hoping to renew our acquaintance after all these years. And to request a small favor."

  "A favor, sir?"

  Here was a young lady who would appreciate frankness, he decided. “This may appear to be a strange and presumptuous request, but I journeyed to Gravesend to ask you to ride in a race against a friend of mine. You do ride?"

  She smiled. “I love to ride; my father put me on my first pony before I was two.” Her smile faded. “You may be kin, but I find your request somewhat startling. Do you actually expect me to ride a strange horse in a race?"

  "Not only to ride, but to ride dressed as a boy."

  "How unusual."

  Realizing how bizarre his request must sound, he went on to explain the circumstances as best he could. “Lord Devon deserves a put down,” he concluded.

  "The notorious Lord Devon?” He thought he saw her grimace in distaste. “Even here in the country we hear tales of his escapades.” She paused. “And where would this race be run?"

  Willoughby had given no thought to that question nor, he was certain, had Alton. “In London? Certainly in London, perhaps in Hyde Park. Should you agree, my sister—your cousin Emeline Willoughby—has consented to be your chaperone."

  He had expected to be compelled to convince the Griffiths to allow their young charge to accompany him to town, had even been prepared to offer them a modest monetary inducement to obtain their cooperation, but now, having met Miss Justine Riggs, he realized she would undoubtedly insist on making her own decision. Idly, he wondered if the courageous spirit of the princess Pocahontas had been reborn in this fetching though decidedly unconventional young cousin of his.

  "London,” she repeated. “When I was a girl, I lived in London with my father, but since his death I have never even visited...” She let the sentence trail into a wistful silence.

  "You would be afforded ample opportunity to view the sights.” He had not the slightest notion what might appeal to this intriguing miss, so he offered no specifics.

  She turned away from him to again look up at the orb of the moon. Willoughby began to despair. “I assure you, cousin, that your horse will outrun even Devon's Invincible."

  Justine swung around to face him. “Then why do you insist on this masquerade? This wearing a boy's garb?"

  "For a most important reason. You must dress as a boy because Lord Devon would never deign to race against a young lady. In fact, from what I have had occasion to observe of him, I suspect he secretly despises women despite the compliments he lavishes on them. I suspect he considers women to be mere baubles, ornaments, like pretty roses plucked and put on display for a brief time before being discarded and replaced with fresher flowers."

  Since this characterization of his friend was somewhat exaggerated, Willoughby experienced an undercurrent of disquiet as he spoke, afraid he might be betraying Devon.

  But no, he decided, there was more than a grain of truth in what he had said. In fact, much more than a grain.

  "Imagine Devon's consternation, if you will,” he added. “Imagine his chagrin when he not only loses the race, but then discovers his vanquisher is a woman."

  "I despise his sort,” Justine said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to journey to London to race against him. And, Cousin John, I fully expect to win."

  CHAPTER 2

  "What an ungodly hour!” John Willoughby said to his sister, Emeline, and Justine as he drove his landau into the park. Lords Alton and Devon had agr
eed to race at six in the morning when Hyde Park would be deserted. “I have never in all of my twenty-three years been abroad at this time of the morning before."

  Justine watched Emeline pull her scarf tighter to ward off the damp chill.

  "All in all, John,” Emeline said, “this is quite a preposterous scheme. I fail to understand how you inveigled Miss Riggs to be a party to it. Costumed as a young man, indeed!"

  Justine said nothing since, truthfully, she was beginning to wonder what had led her to agree to ride in a race against Lord Devon. Granted, she relished the opportunity to visit London with its exciting hubbub and bustle, and she quite liked her Cousin John, although she had found herself wishing he would stand up to Lord Alton. Nor, since she had worn breeches many times before, did her riding costume discomfit her.

  Even the thought of the race itself failed to daunt her. In fact, now that it was only minutes away, Justine felt a pleasurable thrill of anticipation. She not only loved to ride, she had always enjoyed the challenge of competing with boys and she savored defeating them, which she often did. To outride the arrogant Lord Devon would give her more than a little satisfaction. She smiled at the prospect since, from what her cousin had told her, Devon had not merely crept into favor with himself over the years, he had run pell-mell into it.

  Why then did she feel this sense of wrongness, of somehow being at sixes and sevens? Could it be because of her ominous dream, a dream that had haunted her for years, the most recent recurrence coming only the night before?

  She had dreamed she was imprisoned in a cage like a beast in a menagerie. A throng of people stared between the bars at her, the men and women mocking her, the children hurling stones.

  As she huddled in a corner of her cage, the crowd suddenly quieted, drawing back and then fleeing as a hooded figure brandishing a sword stalked toward them. Approaching the cage, the figure sheathed his sword. Taking a large silver key from his robe, he unlocked and opened the cage door. As she rose and reached out to him in gratitude, he turned and relocked the door. Swinging around to face her, he slowly drew his sword. She shrank away. He strode toward her and she awoke with her own screams echoing in her ears.

  Becoming aware that John Willoughby had spoken to her, Justine roused from her disturbing reverie with a start. Emeline still sat beside her, but Cousin John stood on the ground beside the open door of the landau offering her his hand. Beyond him the grass glistened with dew while the trees in the distance were shrouded in the morning mist.

  News of the match race must have spread rapidly. Despite the early hour, spectators on horseback and in carriages, waited nearby in expectant clusters, passing the time by making wagers on the outcome.

  Justine focused her attention on John Willoughby. “Would you offer to hand your jockey down if he were a young man?"

  Willoughby stared, then smiled and shook his head ruefully as he stepped aside. As Justine was about to leave the carriage, Emeline leaned to her and whispered, “How I envy you your courage."

  Too surprised to answer, Justine stepped to the ground and followed John Willoughby to a stableboy holding her mount beneath an oak.

  "Ah,” Willoughby said, patting the horse's flank, “here we have Excali—that is Bonny Prince Charlie."

  Lord Alton hurried up to them, nodded perfunctorily to Justine, turned to Willoughby, looked back at Justine, staring for a moment and then shaking his head as he again turned to Willoughby. “No one has seen Devon as yet,” he told him. “Could he have gotten wind of my scheme?"

  "Most unlikely,” Willoughby assured him.

  "Now then, Miss Riggs,” Alton said to Justine, “let me explain the conditions of the race.” He waved vaguely toward a large Scotch elm. “That tree marks the starting line; Willoughby here will begin the race by firing his pistol into the air. The course is a mile in length, more or less, well marked by red flags and with old Mr. Stewart posted at the finish marker. You had an opportunity to ride the Prince yesterday, I earnestly hope?"

  Justine nodded curtly, barely able to conceal her annoyance at Lord Alton's peremptory manner. During her brief time astride Bonnie Prince Charlie, she had felt a bond starting to form between the spirited horse and herself. She loved horses both for their own sakes and because riding always brought back fond memories of her father. What marvelous rides they had taken across the heath when she was a child! What good times they had shared!

  "Ahhh!” The sound, the simultaneous exhalation of many breaths, rose from the spectators gathered near them. Justine glanced over her shoulder.

  At the entrance to the park, a lone horseman emerged from the rising mist. As the rider approached them, the rising sun broke through the haze to envelop him in its shimmering light so that, for a moment or two, Justine was almost convinced he wore a silver coat of mail. As he drew closer, holding his black stallion to a walk and the glow—the strange aura—faded away to reveal a gentleman of the beau monde garbed in gray from his narrow-brimmed hat to his waistcoat and trousers. Though his face was in shadow, she had the impression of fair hair, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes.

  "Justine!” Willoughby hissed as he grasped her arm, turning her so her back was to the roadway.

  Belatedly she remembered her cousin had warned her to avoid Lord Devon—surely this was Lord Devon riding toward them astride Invincible—prior to the race. “You must not under any circumstances speak to him or all of our efforts will have been in vain,” he had warned her.

  Resisting a strong impulse to glance behind her, she followed Willoughby to where Bonnie Prince Charlie now stood pawing the dirt of the roadway. With Willoughby standing by, Justine stroked the horse's neck, enjoying his answering nuzzle.

  She ignored the murmur of men's voices behind her until one voice rose strong and clear above the others. “By God, Alton, do you mean to say you deny me the opportunity to greet my challenger?"

  Justine tensed, waiting and listening, but Alton's response was too low for her to make out.

  "Ha, now I understand your little ploy.” There was the lilt of triumph in Lord Devon's deep voice. “You thought to catch me by surprise but, by God, you have failed. Failed utterly."

  Justine heard Willoughby catch his breath and from the corner of her eye saw him stiffen with apprehension.

  "I warned Alton not to underrate Quentin,” Willoughby muttered.

  "You take great pains to hide the identity of your rider from me,” Quentin said, “for the simple and obvious reason that he is, in fact, a jockey of some repute. You have brought a professional to race against myself, a mere amateur."

  Willoughby sighed with relief.

  "Who is your mysterious master of the turf?” Quentin asked. “Could he be none other than Mr. Leopold Nannini, the Tuscan magician of the whip? Or perhaps your jockey is Mr. Sam Chifney who intends to defeat me in the final few feet with his famous Chifney Rush? You need not answer, Alton, I have no hesitation in racing against your chosen jockey, whoever he might be."

  "Whoever she might be,” Willoughby corrected under his breath.

  Lord Alton held both of his hands aloft. “Horses to the starting line, gentlemen, if you please."

  Justine put her booted foot in Willoughby's cupped hands and swung herself into the saddle. When he offered her a whip, she shook her head. “I prefer to race without the whip."

  He cocked an eye, but made no attempt to dissuade her. “Remember, at the three-quarter mark the course veers sharply to the left before the straightaway two furlongs to the finish."

  Nodding, she leaned forward to murmur words of encouragement in the Prince's ear as Willoughby took the ribbons to lead horse and rider to where the starting line had been drawn in the dirt of the road. The Prince seemed to understand what she was telling him, for he raised his head and danced sideways before allowing Willoughby to lead him toward the line.

  When Justine saw Lord Devon waiting for them at the start, she pulled the visor of her red cap down low on her forehead to shield her face while at
the same time looking away. She heard Devon laugh.

  "Do your damnedest to win, Chifney, or whoever you may be,” he said in his low taunting voice. “The better the jockey I outrace, the more I shall savor my victory."

  And if you happen to lose not to a jockey but to a mere female? Justine asked silently. What will you say then, my good Lord Devon? Even as she pictured his flush of humiliation, to her surprise a tremor of disquiet coursed through her. I should never have agreed to ride in this race, she rebuked herself as a long-held yet long-suppressed secret fear, a fear from long ago, struggled to surface. Drawing in a deep breath, she shook her head in an angry albeit unsuccessful attempt to banish her doubts.

  "This is a girl?” Even after all these years, Lady Golden's high-pitched cry of disbelief still echoed in her mind.

  "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Riggs,” Lady Golden went on, “that this young dandy is your daughter and not your son?"

  Her father had dismissed the incident with a shrug, but Justine had never forgotten her humiliation.

  She had agreed to the match race against Lord Devon as a lark, as an escape from the dreary routine of her life at Gravesend with a cousin-by-marriage who resented her presence and her cousin whose “illness” left him, more often than not, besotted by drink. Now she regretted her foolish impulse to agree to masquerade as a boy. When young she had enjoyed the love and companionship of her father, believing she might lose that love unless she pleased him by behaving like a boy. But even then she yearned to be loved for what she was—a girl.

  Very soon, whether she won or lost the race, she would be revealed as being female but remembered unfavorably by her cousins, John and Emeline, by Lord Alton and, yes, Lord Devon, as the girl who masqueraded as something she was not. Glancing surreptitiously from the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Devon looking not at her but watching Willoughby as he loaded his starting pistol.

  How handsome Devon was! She frowned, surprised at her sudden interest in this arrogant, blond-haired gentleman.