"There you are, Rayner," Lord Blackmoor nodded toward a grey Arabian mare that was being walked past by a groom. "There's a prime bit of blood for you."

"She is a fine one, isn't she?" Hank agreed, although he remained noncommittal. He acknowledged that Eric was a very fine judge of horseflesh the moment he saw the pair of matched blacks pulling the Marquis' curricle. They were both fine steppers and were identically matched, right down to the white stocking on their forelegs and the white blazes on their noses.

"I daresay this would be a good deal easier if one knew what you were looking for, Rayner."

"Hank."

"I beg your pardon."

"Hank. Call me Hank."

"A hank of what?"

Hank looked at him quizzically. "Just Hank. It's my name. It's short for Henry."

Eric arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "Very well, then why don't you call me Eric?" he said, then got back to the subject at hand. "Do you want a hunter, a racer or just a hack?"

Hank frowned. "I don't think I'd care to travel about London on something called a--"

Eric glanced at him as he broke off so suddenly and found that the young Viscount was totally absorbed in the sight of a large palomino stallion. A fine looking animal, Eric decided, even though it was hardly one he would ever purchase.

"That one," Hank said decidedly, nodding towards the palomino.

Eric stared at him in amazement. "Are you daft?"

"Why? What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing to look at him, I grant you," Eric admitted. "But look at the man leading him--that horse is American-bred," his tone suggested the horse may as well have worms.

"So am I," Hank said simply.

Eric winced, feeling more ashamed of himself than if Hank had become angry. "I beg pardon," he said, his manners coming to the fore. "That was insufferably rude."

Hank merely smiled and shrugged. "How do I let them know I want that horse?"

"Best check and make certain he's sound first," Eric raised his arm to catch the handler's attention.

Hank felt a moment's panic. Back home, his uncle had been teaching him about horses some, but on a farm, pleasure horses were hardly top priority. He felt certain he would appear inept. His uncle had only purchased plow horses. "Could you?" he requested. "I trust your judgement."

"Certainly," Eric replied, extremely flattered. As Hank took the bridle from the handler and held the horse's head, Eric ran his hands over the animal, checking for deflects or flaws. At length, he stood and slapped the horse lightly on the neck. "He's quite sound and in excellent condition, but I daresay he'll be quite a handful."

"Of course he will," Hank grinned. "He's American-bred, after all."

The handler, hearing Hank's accent, realized he was a fellow American and began laughing.

"What do I do if I'm going to buy him?" Hank turned back to Eric, still smiling.

"You can use our tents," Eric said as though he hadn't heard Hank's earlier remark or the handler's laughter. "Bring him to the MacArran tents," Eric said to the man. "One of my men is prepared to take charge of Viscount Rayner's acquisitions."

"Yes, sir," the handler nodded, leading the stallion away.

"Thank you, Eric. But how do we pay? You didn't even ask how much they wanted for him."

"Please give me your word that you don't intend to stoop so low as to haggle like a common fishwife. If you do, I wash my hands of you entirely. There's absolutely no need."

"There isn't?"

"Granted, if they try to bleed us, then a firm offer is necessary, but I hardly think you need worry about such things."

"How would you know?" Hank frowned.

"I know that the Earl of Masters would hardly allow his only heir to go about purse-pinched," Eric replied matter-of-factly. "Didn't Lord Ravenwood leave you anything from Masters?"

"Yes...several notes and what he called bills of exchange."

"I hope you had the presence of mind to bring one of the bills with you."

"Yes, I--"

"I don't need to see it," Eric held up a hand to stop Hank's search. "We'll simply sign it over when we've finished and Masters will take care of the rest. Are you done here?"

Hank hesitated, "If you would help me choose a matched pain as fine as yours...I'd appreciate it."

Eric grinned, a true rarity for him. "Plan to set up a carriage, do you?"

"Since Lord and Lady Ravenwood both think its necessary that I have a rig of some sort, I decided when I first saw a curricle that it was the rig from me."

"It sounds as though you've already purchased one."

"Lord Ravenwood took me to the carriage-makers the day after your visit. It may even be ready today."

Eric chuckled, "Then we ought to get you your matched pair as soon as may be. What colour?"

Hank started laughing. "I don't see how that could make a difference."

"You must have some preferences."

Hank considered this for several moments.

"What colour is your curricle?" Eric prompted.

"Dark blue, or midnight blue, as the carriage-maker calls it. Maybe white horses?"

"A blue carriage with white horses? You'll make everyone of the Fancy sick with envy. I'll warn you, though, matching whites are the most difficult to find."

"They don't have to be white. Just as long as they're fast."

"Excellent decision," Eric agreed with another grin.

Diana surveyed herself critically as her maid applied the last few touches to her hair. Both she and Lady Wylde agreed that the pastels which were all the fashion did little to enhance Diana's dark colouring. So, as was their habit, both women simply ignored fashion. Diana was certain that no pale colour could have suited her so well as the deep amber silk she was wearing this evening.

The recent style for a tight-fitting bodice and bare shoulders was far less of a concern for Diana than for other young ladies of the ton. Her slender figure needed almost no lacing to acquire the 18-inch waist that fashion demanded. Her dark shoulders rose from the bodice's frothy trimming in a most flattering manner and only a thin amber ribbon broke the graceful line or her neck.

She turned her head to study the flowers Hortense had placed in her upswept curls. She didn't care for roses any more than she did for pastels and wore them just as rarely. When she discovered a new breed of narcissus being developed from an American wildflower, she loved it at first sight. Whenever she could, she wore these "tiger lilies," although such outrageous floral decorations were frowned upon by many older ladies in the ton.

Enough! Diana thought sternly when she realized she was adjusting yet another curl. One would think you were one of those simpering misses out to snare a titled husband. It's only a dinner party. She adjusted the curl and fussed with her gown's trim. Of course, it's a dinner party attended by a Duke, a Countess, a Marquis and a Viscount.

She was as curious as the other women in Society about the new Viscount Rayner who had yet to attend any major function. That he was reported to be very handsome, American and the owner of a new curricle drawn by a pair of beautiful matched greys only increased talk about him.

Of course, she was not dressing for this new Viscount, Diana told herself. Nor was she dressing for the Marquis of Blackmoor, no matter how much she had enjoyed meeting him. He is rather high in the instep, but I suppose that's to be expected when one is to inherit a duchy. He could likely see past his haughty ways if given the chance. It might even be possible to teach him, should I ever--

Diana's eyes flew open. What is wrong with you? You've met the man once! She shook her head, then looked at her maid. "Merci, Hortense. C'est tout."

"Oui, Mademoiselle," Hortense made a quick curtsey and left the room.

Diana rose from her dressing table, smoothed her skirt one last time and then left her chambers for the drawing room below.

She only had time for a few words with Lady Wylde before a footman entered to announce the Duke of MacArran and the Marquis of Blackmoor. Much to Diana's surprise, Blackmoor offered no flowery speeches about her beauty or compared her to a dazzling sunset as would most other young bloods of the ton. He didn't have to say anything--the frank admiration in his dark eyes as he bowed over her hand was a higher compliment than the most flattering sonnet.

"I am so glad you could join us, Lord Blackmoor."

"As am I, Lady Silverbridge," Eric replied.

He was still holding her hand when she began moving towards a settee and very happily allowed himself to be led. They sat down and Diana leaned forward slightly. "I understand you've met the mysterious new Viscount Rayner. Do tell me about him."

Eric's good mood all but disappeared at her words. "He's a good enough sort--for a Colonial."

Diana laughed. "Come now, Lord Blackmoor. America has not been a colony for some time. Is it true he set himself up with the most wonderful set of greys?"

"True indeed. I chose them for him," Eric felt it was important that the lady know that.

"Did you?" Diana's eyes widened.

"Yes, he asked my advice. I just hope he isn't cow-handed. I'd hate to see such beautiful steppers turned into bone-setters because of a bad driver."

Diana was silent and she looked intently at Eric. The Marquis wasn't sure whether he felt flattered or uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Finally, she spoke--"May I ask you a somewhat personal question, Lord Blackmoor?"

"Anything you wish, my lady."

"Why did you help Viscount Rayner choose such a fine pair if you dislike him so?"

Eric as at a complete loss for words in the face of such a straight-forward question. Apparently, the differences between Lady Silverbridge and other Society misses went beyond mere appearance. He couldn't think of any other young lady who would be concerned with such a question or would have dared to ask it. He was saved from having to explain himself, however, when the footman announced the Countess of Ravenwood and Viscount Rayner.

Diana excused herself and went to join Lady Wylde in welcoming the newcomers. Eric rose, but did not move forward, choosing instead to remain where he was and observe the introductions. He admitted reluctantly that the Viscount cut a dashing figure in his evening clothes and it was obvious from Diana's warm smile that she thought so as well.

When Hank turned from the Duke to greet him, Eric was surprised to see Hank's polite smile widen in recognition. Eric managed a slight smile in return. "Rayner."

Hank blinked in momentary confusion. "Eric," he replied with some hesitation. "It's good to see you again."

Diana glanced from one man to another. The new Viscount had used the Marquis' Christian name--something very rare amongst members of the nobility, and done only among close friends.

Eric smiled involuntary, unable to be angry at the American simply because he had gained the lady's admiration. "And you, Hank. I've been hearing all about your matched greys, so there's no need to inquire after them, but how do you find the mount you purchased?"

Hank laughed, "My Celestial Knight is by far the fastest horse I've ever seen, let alone ridden."

"Celestial Knight? What a fanciful name," Diana commented, having never expected an American to come up with such a name.

"I thought so," Hank laughed. "I wanted to name him Lightning or Sun Dancer, because he was so fast, but Lady Ravenwood thought them too ordinary. She said his colouring reminded her of a celestial being, and I tacked on 'Knight.' She was very pleased with it, so I decided to keep it."

"To please Lady Ravenwood?" Eric arched an eyebrow.

"It seemed like a small thing to do after their kindness to me."

Diana shot him an admiring glance.

Eric couldn't help feeling a little nettled. "Fastest animal you've ever seen, you say? But then you've never seen my Chevalier run, have you?"

Hank immediately rose to the challenge. "If you are suggesting a race, all you have to do is name the place and time."

"My lords," Diana spoke up. "If you are to have a race, there is one thing I absolutely must insist upon."

"And what is that, Lady Silverbridge?" Eric smiled, assuming she was concerned with their safety.

"That I be allowed to ride my horse--Stargazer--in the race as well."

Hank's smile widened while Eric's disappeared completely.

"Well?"

"By all means, Lady Silverbridge," Hank agreed.

"Are you daft?" Eric was aghast.

Before anymore could be said on the subject, however, a footman appeared with the announcement: "Dinner is served."

Even though they were a small dinner party, Society's rules immediately came into play. As the highest ranking man in the room, the Duke of MacArran offered their hostess his arm. Eric, being of the next highest rank, was duty-bound to take the Countess of Ravenwood down to dinner. Normally the situation wouldn't have bothered Eric in the least, but tonight it meant that Hank would be escorting Lady Silverbridge to dinner.

No doubt Rayner's acceptance of her offer to race made him quite splendid in Lady Silverbridge's eyes.

"Best start looking for the extra help now, Greeves. His Grace will want everyone well-trained before the Masque."

Sheila paused outside the quarters of the butler, George Houghton, when she heard that odd statement.

"Yes, sir," Greeves was agreeing.

"Ask amongst the staff first, as always. That generally stands us in good stead."

"I will, sir." Greeves nearly bumped into Sheila on his way out of the room.

Mustering her courage, Sheila knocked softly on the half-opened door.

"Enter."

Sheila stepped inside. "Beg pardon, Mr. Houghton, but I heard you tellin' Greeves that we were t'be needin' extra help for the grand ball."

"Yes. Do you know of anyone?"

"Aye, sir. One, mayhap two, boys who could serve as pages."

"Pages do tend to be difficult to hire. Are they good workers? Fast-to-learn?"

"Aye, sir, to both questions."

Houghton nodded. "Have them here first thing tomorrow morning."

"Aye, sir," Sheila smiled, bobbing a quick curtsey for good measure. "Thank you, sir."

Houghton waved her on, obviously having other things to attend to.

Sheila was tempted to perform a triumphant reel right there in the hallway, but managed to restrain herself. Instead, she began to hum "The Washerwoman" softly as she returned to her duties. She wanted to finish as soon as she could, so that she could get to Covent Garden while Bobby was still awake.

Eric was relieved that the subject of horse-racing did not come up again during the excellent eight-course meal set forth by Lady Wylde's staff. He knew that by the time they adjourned to the drawing room for tea and port, the subject would be forgotten. He had not expected the lovely Lady Silverbridge to suggest something even more shocking. Only one reply was possible and Eric tried his best to sound properly outraged--

"My dear Lady Silverbridge, I daresay you have quite lost your wits."

"Have I?" Diana chuckled. "Then so had half the ton, for I hear it is quite the rage right now."

"Many young men look upon it as a new sport, I grant you, but no young lady--"

"Have you ever gone?" Diana asked.

"Certainly not," Eric replied.

"And you, Lord Rayner?" Diana turned to Hank. "But then I don't suppose you've been in London long enough."

"That, and I really don't see the point of it," Hank replied with disarming honesty.

"But aren't you curious to know if the tales of the East End and St. Giles are true?"

Hank shrugged. "I've known people back in America who had fallen on hard times. Sometimes all they had to eat was what little game they could catch."

Eric and Diana could only stare at him in surprised silence--neither of them had ever had any experience with people below the nobility or gentry. Finally, Diana spoke, "But there is no game in London. What do you suppose they live on?"

Hank frowned and looked at Eric questioningly.

"They live on anything they can acquire," Eric said repressively. "Why do you take such an interest in it, Lady Silverbridge?"

"I have no notion," Diana admitted. "Except to say that I find it truly fascinating. Only think what one might see."

"Very little from one's carriage windows, I would imagine," Eric replied dryly. "Young men might think it entertaining to drive through St. Giles or the East End while they're foxed, but I'll wager none of them have ever been befogged enough as to actually step out into the slums."

"And so what harm could come if we stayed in the carriage?"

"Never say you're contemplating a tour of the stews," Eric was horrified.

"Actually, I thought one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to take me," Diana flashed her most charming smile.

"Out of the question," Eric said firmly.

Diana turned to Hank.

"I don't think it would be a very good idea."

Diana let out a disappointed sigh. "Very well. I though it would be more enjoyable with company, but I resigned to touring alone if I must."

"Alone?!" Eric exclaimed. "You cannot do that!"

"It appears I must."

"I agree with Eric, Lady Silverbridge," Hank said after a moment's silence. "If you're bound to go, then I'll go with you. If these places are as bad as you say, I wouldn't feel right knowing you've travelling through them alone."

"How noble of you, Lord Rayner," Diana inclined her head gracefully in Hank's direction. "I vow, I do not know how to thank you for your kindness."

Eric was grinding his teeth in frustration. "Devil take it, Hank, what do you know about driving through the stews?"

"As much as you, probably," Hank returned. "You said you'd never gone before."

"Of course I've never specifically gone touring, but at least I've--" Eric sighed, "Bloody hell. I'll arrange to take both of you in the MacArran carriage, then."

"Tonight?" Diana asked hopefully.

"Very well, Lady Silverbridge, if nothing else will please you," Eric sounded resigned.

"I am very relieved to hear you say that, my lord," Diana grinned. "I vow, for a moment I was afraid you would turn out to be a crashing bore after all."

Despite rushing through her duties, night had fallen by the time Sheila reached Covent Garden. She was determined that Bobby and Preston report to Kelthorne Hall for the posts as pages. If Bobby proved himself a good worker, there might even be a chance that he would be hired at Kelthorne permanently.

She paused momentarily on the street when she reach Drury Lane to allow all the lords and ladies who were leaving the theatre to walk to their carriages uninterrupted. Sheila watched the processions with wide eyes. She knew she would never wear silk dresses or ostrich plumes in her hair, and that Bobby would never own black Hessian boots or a beaver hat, but a lass could dream, couldn't she?

Sheila pulled her coarse woolen shawl more securely around her shoulder as she began walking again. Society could have their satins and furs, she soon decided, she would be completely content if Bobby were employed at Kelthorne Hall with her. At least the, she would no longer have to worry about whether he was eating well or what he did with his days.

The Costers' lodging, when she finally reached it, looked even more grimy and ramshackle than she remembered. More determined then ever to get Bobby out of Covent Garden, Sheila stepped up and knocked sharply on the door. No one answered, even though she could hear voices within. Boldly, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The single-room dwelling was filthy, and there was no sign of her brother. The only occupants were the man and woman sitting at a table in the middle of the room with a bottle between them. Sheila felt a sudden rush of anger. Where was the food she was paying for? Where was the fire in the hearth? Most importantly, where was her brother?

It obviously took the couple several moments to recognize her, but finally Coster staggered to his feet. "Thair's our pretty little Paddy," he smiled, revealing several missing teeth.

"Didja bring the week's rent, gel?" Mrs. Coster demanded.

"Certainly not," Sheila replied, her eyes shooting daggers at the drunken woman. "I've come to speak to my brother. Where is he?"

"Don't put on any o'your grand airs 'ere, y'little Paddy tart," Mrs. Coster squawked. "Y'ain't payin' us enough t'go huntin' the brat h'every night."

Mr. Coster added-- "But fer a little h'extry blunt, I'll find the little Mick fer ye."

Sheila grimaced as the stench of stale gin rolled off both Costers in waves. "Blessed St. Patrick! I cannot believe I trusted me own brother to the likes of you! I'd neva hand the dog of me worst enemy to such as yourselves!"

"Cor! Ain't we the bold one!" Mrs. Coster exclaimed. "Who're y'liftin' yer skirt fer t'make y'think ye can talk t'us li'that, Paddy?"

Sheila was incensed. "You foul creature! May wild dogs devour the both of you, and may those dogs be eaten by the devil himself!"

"None of your curses here, you Irish witch!" Mrs. Coster stood up.

"Six loads of graveyard dirt upon the both of you!" Sheila returned before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind her. Once outside, her anger left her, replaced by panic. Bobby out alone on the streets? Dear St. Patrick, where could he be? She realized there was on person who might know and set off to find him, running as fast as she could.

On to Part IV
Back to Bard's Cavern