The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin

In Regency England, the eccentric Colebrook sisters are amateur detectives who use their wits and invisibility as “old maids” to fight injustice in this delightful and fiercely feminist novel of mystery and adventure from To most of Regency high society, forty-two-year-old Lady Augusta Colebrook, or Gus, and her twin sister, Julia, are just unmarried ladies of a certain age--hardly worth a second glance. But the Colebrook twins are far from useless old maids. They are secretly protecting women and children ignored by society and the law. When Lord Evan--a charming escaped convict who has won Gus’s heart--needs to hide his sister and her lover from their vindictive brother, Gus and Julia take the two women into their home. They know what it is like to have a powerful and overbearing brother. But Lord Evan’s complicated past puts them all in danger. Gus knows they must clear his name of murder if he is to survive the thieftakers who hunt him. But it is no easy task--the fatal duel was twenty years ago and a key witness is nowhere to be found. In a deadly cat-and-mouse game, Gus, Julia, and Lord Evan must dodge their pursuers and investigate Lord Evan’s past. They will be thrust into the ugly underworld of Georgian gentlemen’s clubs, spies, and ruthless bounty hunters, not to mention the everyday threat of narrow-minded brothers. Will the truth be found in time, or will the dangerous secrets from the past destroy family bonds and rip new love and lives apart?

Autorentext

Alison Goodman

Leseprobe
1

The gentleman riding on the bridle way in front of me had not noticed his horse was lame. The gray mare's head bobbed excessively and her gait was short and choppy on the compacted sand of Rotten Row. Clear signs of distress. It was no wonder; the man jerked upon the reins and his seat was deplorable.

"I think we must intervene," I said to Leonardo, leaning forward in my sidesaddle to stroke his chestnut neck. "Otherwise, he may ruin her."

My hunter tossed his head as if in agreement. A whimsical notion, perhaps, but I have always held that horses are creatures of great sympathy.

"Thomas, I am riding ahead," I called to my groom, who followed at a discreet distance on his own mount.

"Aye, my lady," he answered.

I shifted my weight in the sidesaddle and gently urged Leonardo into a trot, the sound of his hooves dull thuds upon the damp ground.

The dawn light had broken through the dense autumn fog, and the trees and paths of Hyde Park were finally visible around us. Most of the other riders on the bridle way were grooms exercising their highbred charges. Only a few members of the bon ton, including myself and the two men ahead, were flouting the royal order that allowed grooms-and only grooms-to gallop upon Rotten Row at daybreak. Since anything above a trot was forbidden at all other times, it was worth the early start and slight risk. Although if I rode as badly as Mr. Deplorable, I would not have bothered.

"Ho, ahead," I called, my breath misting in front of my mouth. "Stop! Your horse is lame."

I drew Leonardo alongside the two riders and matched their slower pace. I did not know Mr. Deplorable, but I certainly recognized the compact athletic man mounted on the bay beside him: Lord Milroy.

Damn, one of the most contrary men I had ever met. He had a reputation as a Tory kingmaker-always avoiding the forefront of politics, but highly influential nonetheless-and was well-known for his view that women had no place in the political sphere, even at the social periphery where we were relegated. Ironically, we came into each other's orbit quite frequently at the Berry sisters' soirees-the heart of informal political discourse-and he and I had clashed twice in the debates. So far, the score was one all, but I believed the money was on me to win the next bout.

"Lord Milroy, your friend's horse is lame," I said in greeting. "He should dismount before he does any more harm."

"Lady Augusta," Milroy said, saluting me with a bare nod, his voice a rumbling baritone of disdain. He liked to dabble in the theater-imagining himself, no doubt, another Kemble-and had learned to use his voice to excellent effect. "I see you do not confine your lectures to the debating ring."

The swords, it seemed, were already drawn. "This is not a lecture, Lord Milroy, it is a fact: the mare is lame."

He and his companion reined their mounts to a halt. I did the same, settling more firmly into my saddle. This was not going to be an easy rescue after all.

"We are most fortunate, then, to have your eagle eyes upon the situation," Milroy said, casting a droll look at his friend. "I had heard you liked to ride with the grooms, Lady Augusta-so singular for a lady of your rank. What is the attraction, I wonder."

I ignored his sly innuendo and the fact that he did not introduce his smirking companion to me as etiquette demanded. "I imagine it is the same as for yourself, Lord Milroy: the chance to gallop. However, your friend should dismount now."

My suggestion went unacknowledged. Instead, Milroy surveyed the impressive dimensions of Leonardo. "Such a large hunter for a woman. One wonders who advised you to purchase such an inappropriate mount." He touched his forehead under his beaver hat in a theatrical gesture of recall. "Ah, but of course, you are sadly without the guidance of a husband."

I matched his silky tone. "I think it is always best to ride a horse that matches one's skill." A glance at his smaller gelding brought home my double meaning. His mouth tightened. A pleasing result, but the mare had cocked her lame hoof and the suffering was plain in her eyes. Time to move this conversation to its goal. "You have not introduced your friend to me, Lord Milroy," I said firmly.

Upon such a blatant prompt, he had no choice. "Lady Augusta, allow me to introduce Mr. Charles Rampling, lately of Hertfordshire, who is currently my guest here in London."

"Lady Augusta, enchanted," the man slurred, and made a clumsy bow in the saddle, sending his poor horse into an unnecessary step upon her lame foreleg. It seemed Mr. Rampling was still quite foxed from the night before.

"You should dismount immediately, Mr. Rampling," I said briskly. How many times did I have to repeat myself?

"Dismount?" Mr. Rampling echoed. "Good God, no. I'd have to walk if I dismounted."

Perhaps he did not understand the urgency of the situation. "That would be the case, certainly, but if you do not, you could damage your mare permanently."

Mr. Rampling squinted at me, then giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched trill. "So, are you a horse physician, Lady Augusta?"

"Of course not," I said, pitching my voice over Lord Milroy's laugh. "Anyone with an ounce of knowledge would see-"

Rampling shrugged. "Then, begging pardon, my lady, this is my animal and I'll do with her as I please. I am not about to walk upon the Row like some Johnny Raw."

"Perhaps the effects of last night's revels are still with you, Mr. Rampling," I said sharply. "Only a fool would disregard such an injury to his horse and by doing so compound it. Surely you do not wish-"

"Are you scolding my friend, Lady Augusta?" Lord Milroy asked with mock jocularity. The angle of his long chin, however, held the jut of battle. "Perhaps it is not only this mare that needs a bridle."

I stared at him, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"He means a scold's bridle," Mr. Rampling slurred helpfully. He giggled again, his rocking mirth pressing the poor mare into another pained shift upon her lame hoof.

I drew a steadying breath. Every fiber of my being demanded that I tell Milroy exactly what I thought of him, but that would not help the horse. I had to get her away from these men at any cost.

"Mr. Rampling, I will give you seventy guineas for her if you dismount and han…