The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Read online

  Sherbrook and Marlowe, of course, would think it hilarious. If they believed it at all. They thought him the King of Stuffed Shirts, after all.

  As did Miss Honeywell, apparently, last evening notwithstanding.

  Last evening …

  His blood simmered. He reached down to tug off his boots. They were tall Hessians and did not disconnect so easily. He needed to sit down to take them off himself, and that was something he wasn’t about to do. The ground was rather damp.

  He stared down the racecourse, and his heart sank. He was going to be running barefoot in grass and mud for two miles? He was going to be more than damp by the end of it.

  Sir Wesley, seeing his predicament, came to his aid and offered his services as valet. The baronet was as incompetent in this as he was in everything else and ended up straddled over Montford’s outstretched leg, his backside thrust in Montford’s face, as he pulled off the first boot. It finally slid off with surprising ease, causing Sir Wesley to stumble forward and Montford to stumble backwards.

  Montford tried his best to ignore the ripple of amusement that ran through the crowd. Sir Wesley returned to remove the second boot, but Montford waved him off and tugged the bloody thing off himself, anger giving him the extra force required. His stockinged feet squelched in the damp ground, and he cringed.

  After several murmured oaths, he managed to tear off his stockings and toss them aside. He glanced down, his legs bared from his knees to his toes, and muttered another oath. He glanced up at his opponents, who were staring at him as if he had a tail.

  “You will not let me win,” he snarled at them. “I’ll not bloody well have this turn into any more of a farce than it is already.”

  Some of his opponents looked affronted he’d even suggested it. Some looked scared witless. Others nodded to him with newfound respect. A few of the brave suggested he do a bit of limbering up so as not to cramp. They demonstrated how, and Montford watched these contortions in a daze of incredulity.

  He did not take their advice.

  He moved stiffly to the starting line with the others and saw Stevenage, also equally barefoot, fall into place near his side. He gave Montford an uneasy salute and began to hop into place in some sort of attempt to loosen up. Stevenage didn’t seem to need it, as he looked, in Montford’s opinion, as loose as three sailors after a night out at the public house.

  Then Miss Honeywell appeared out of the throng and approached the start. She climbed an upturned barrel, took a stick wrapped with a red banner from the hands of a villager, and held it above her head.

  “What the bloody hell …” he muttered.

  “A Honeywell always starts the race,” Sir Wesley informed him, “It’s tradition.”

  Montford groaned and watched as she lowered the stick. The crowd went wild. The contestants started to sprint down the course. Stevenage tripped after only a few strides, picked himself up, and carried on, a dark stain on his rump. Sir Wesley loped off, looking like a giant, flightless bird, his elbows pumping at his sides.

  For a moment, all Montford could do was watch the spectacle before him, a knot in his stomach. He could not seriously follow all of these morons!

  Then he made the mistake of looking up at Miss Honeywell on the barrel with her red flag. She was smirking down at him from on high. It was as clear to him as if she had shouted for all to hear that she didn’t think he stood a chance in hell of winning.

  Which would never do.

  He glanced down the course at Sir Wesley, who was leading the pack, and he saw red. The thought of that idiot winning was insupportable. Montford had seen the way Sir Wesley had glanced in Miss Honeywell’s direction earlier, and he knew just what that idiot intended to do once he crossed the finish line first.

  Montford would be damned if he had to witness Sir Wesley kiss Miss Honeywell again. He would be damned if any of those idiots planted their lips on her. In fact, if any idiot were to be kissing Miss Honeywell, that idiot would be Montford and Montford alone.

  Not that he was going to kiss her again! Not that he wanted to …

  “Damnation!” he muttered as he found his legs carrying him down the course at lightning speed.

  He’d caught up to the rest of the pack after the first hundred yards. After the second hundred yards, the crowd’s cheers had dwindled to a distant roar in his ears, and his feet were beginning to feel the pain of the rocks, twigs, and other debris they encountered. He passed a few of the stragglers, and then a few more, though his accomplishment – such as it was – was rather diminished by the fact that these stragglers were the paunchy ones, or the short ones, or the ones – like Stevenage – who’d already had too much to drink.

  At the quarter mile marker, he encountered the first “station”, where a tankard full of ale was placed in his hands. He observed the other men around him guzzling their drinks in between gasping for their breath, and he cursed – or tried to. He was so winded he couldn’t seem to form a word.

  After a brief hesitation, he turned back his tankard and began to drink the first pint of Honeywell Ale he’d ever had. It was fizzy and rather bitter, and he wondered not for the first time why people liked the swill. But reflection was something he could not afford. Speed seemed to be the key to this farce, so he drank down the ale in two gulps, tossed aside the tankard like the other men, and continued to run.

  The ale sloshed about in his stomach, and a stitch started to form in his side, but he observed no other effect on his body, so he pushed through the discomfort. He let his fury carry him to the second marker, where he tossed back his second tankard, threw it aside, and continued to run across a footbridge spanning the Ryle and onto a knotty, muddy path through a field of grazing sheep. He had to dodge several of these creatures and nearly succeeded in twisting his ankle in a giant mudhole.

  By the next quarter-mile marker, his feet were numb, his lower body was caked in filth, his knees ached, his lungs burned, and his head was beginning to feel distinctly muddled. As he took his third tankard, he saw one lad doubled over by a nearby tree, losing the contents of his stomach, and another stretched by the side of the path, staring dazedly up at the sky. He hesitated, wondering what in the hell he was doing once more, but then he noticed Sir Wesley throwing down his tankard and taking off down the path, looking none the worse for the wear.

  Montford upended the tankard and gulped down the entire pint, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took off once more.

  He was a good thirty paces on when he realized he still held his tankard. He tossed it in some shrubbery and quickened his pace. He found himself in the middle of the pack, huffing along with the two fieldhands who’d assisted him in the ditch yesterday. They nodded in his direction, and he nodded back, keeping his sights on the baronet’s gangly form ahead near the lead position. He gritted his teeth and picked up his pace.

  He reached the fourth marker behind Sir Wesley but ahead of the two fieldhands and downed his pint, ale dripping down his lawn shirt, along with splattered mud and sweat. He found when he started to run again that he could no longer feel any pain in his feet or knees, and the stitch in his side seemed miraculously disappeared. He was pulling ahead of the majority of runners, aside from the pocket ahead of him that included Sir Wesley. He was encouraged.

  They began up a small incline, then down the other side and around, back in the direction of the Ryle. Everyone around him was stumbling and sliding along the route, and he felt like laughing at their clumsiness, until he realized that he too was stumbling and sliding. He hadn’t even noticed.

  The fifth marker was at the edge of another footbridge leading over the Ryle, back towards the village, but by the time he reached it, he didn’t really notice the river or the village up ahead. All he noticed was a tankard being placed in his hands. Gasping for air – why was he so out of breath? – he stared down into the ale, wondering what he was supposed to do with it.

  Oh, yes. He was supposed to drink it!

  Which he did wit
h great enthusiasm. He was suddenly very thirsty, and the brew was beginning to taste incredibly good. Honeywell Ale was not so bad after all. In fact, he decided, he rather liked it. No wonder Marlowe and Sherbrook swore by the stuff.

  He glanced around him to share this revelation with someone, but the only person he saw was a red-faced young man leaning against the tree, relieving himself.

  Montford felt a corresponding pressure below the belt and thought hazily that the lad had the right idea. He moved over towards the tree and began to unbutton the plackard in the front of his breeches, but then he noticed another lad running by him.

  Where was he off to in such a hurry? he wondered.

  Oh yes, the race!

  He decided his business with the tree could wait and started to run after the lad who had passed him by. He soon caught up with him, weaved around him, narrowly avoiding a tree – where had that come from? – and continued down the path.

  He glanced up at the sky as he ran, and saw that it was a wonderful, vibrant blue, the exact shade of one of Miss Honeywell’s eyes. The comparison made him giggle. Or try to giggle. He was too winded to manage anything but a little wheeze, and the sound amused him even more. He was still staring up at the sky when one of his feet caught underneath something hard – a tree root, he imagined – and he went flying through the air. He landed with a thud in a patch of tall grass, the contents of his belly lurching up his throat, his hands clutching at the earth. He rolled over, wheezed again, and shot back to his feet. He began running again, but then he saw the runner he had just passed coming in his direction at a dangerous speed.

  Now why was the lad running at him?

  The lad pointed ahead of him in an urgent manner. “This way, gov,” the lad rasped as he passed him.

  Montford turned around, not really understanding what had happened until he reached the sixth marker.

  He’d been going the wrong way.

  “I got turned around,” he said to the lad in amazement.

  The lad, who could not speak by then, just nodded, and took up his tankard, swaying back and forth.

  Montford was doing much the same. He drank deeply of his ale, sputtered at the end, and lurched onwards.

  He passed several more bodies strewn about the pathway, some groaning, some retching, and some unconscious. He had the sense that he was looking for someone in particular, but he couldn’t remember quite who it was, so he continued on his way as quickly as he could in the hopes his memory would be restored.

  Soon he came to an open stretch with some brick buildings swaying up in the distance. He decided they warranted further investigation, so he hurried his pace, occasionally picking himself off the ground, but otherwise having a fine time.

  An exhilarating time.

  In fact, Montford could not remember any time in his life he’d ever felt so … wonderful. So free. He couldn’t feel the entire lower portion of his body, and his head felt as if was floating about ten feet in the air. He’d forgotten why he was running in the first place, but he was certainly glad he was. It was a fabulous mode of exercise, he decided. He’d have to do it more often. He’d introduce the practice when he got back home – wherever that was. He’d start a rage.

  Running. Sprinting. Leaping through the air, over puddles and tree roots and bodies.

  Wait. He’d just jumped over a body. Not a dead one, he hoped. He tried to glance back, but this motion threw off his balance, sending him sprawling in the mud.

  He hauled himself up and stumbled onwards.

  He rounded a bend in the path and nearly collided with another person.

  “So sorry –”

  “Pardon me –”

  He righted his balance and trotted onwards, looking to his side. The person he’d collided with bobbed in and out of his line of vision. The fellow was nearly his height, he thought, and lanky, with a shock of reddish hair.

  It was Sir Wesley, weaving along, his face cherry red, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He glanced over at him, his eyes bugged out, and his mouth curled in a wobbly grin. He raised his hand and tried to doff his hat, even though he wasn’t wearing one. “Mont – ford! Haloo, old – chap. Fancy – us – last – ones – standing –” Wesley broke off as he swayed to the left, then the right, nearly running into Montford.

  Montford didn’t know what the hell Wesley was babbling on about. But he knew it was important not to let the idiot out of his sight. Or better yet, to put the idiot behind him.

  He concentrated on making his legs work, even though he couldn’t feel them, and he gritted his teeth, his good mood vanishing with each puff of air Sir Wesley expelled next to him.

  Really, did the man have to breathe so hard?

  But why were they running in the first place? And what was that fellow doing up ahead with the cups?

  He reached the man’s side, and the man thrust a large cup in his hand, and then one in Sir Wesley’s. Sir Wesley started to drink his, so Montford did the same, having no idea what it was, but not liking how it felt going down. When he finished it, he started to run on, but the man stopped him and shoved another cup in his face.

  “What-the-bloody-hell—” This exclamation came out as one word, one syllable.

  “Two this time ‘round, Yer Excellency. Last leg,” the man explained, grinning broadly.

  Montford glared at the man and drank the beverage in his hand. It didn’t taste like water to him. It didn’t feel like water going down his throat, burning his insides.

  Wesley choked on his last sip, looking a little green beneath his red face.

  Montford threw down his cup and swayed on his feet. Now that he wasn’t moving, the world seemed to be turning around him.

  The man who had dispensed the drink gestured to his right. “Well, go on, gov, go on!”

  Wesley stumbled forward, righted himself, and stumbled on. Montford did the same. They rounded another curve in the path, and then suddenly stretched before him was a sea of people making the most god-awful racket he’d ever heard.

  Wesley, some paces ahead, waved him onwards. “Well – come on, old man – hic – not – hic – gonna let – you win.”

  “Winwhat?” he belched.

  “Th’race – hic – wanna – hic – kiss – hic – Miss A – Miss A – ” Wesley gave up on his speech and puffed out a breath, taking off at an unsteady lope towards the ocean of screaming people.

  Montford wasn’t sure he wanted to go in that direction – what were they carrying on about? – but instinct told him he couldn’t let Wesley go without him, so he lunged forward. Then forward again, one foot in front of the other, or as near as he could manage. He was having the devil of a time even making out his feet.

  He was engulfed on all sides by screaming plebs, waving banners and all sorts of strange objects in his direction. They surged around him like driftwood on a sea, and he tried to block them out. They made him feel – strange – in his stomach. As if he were going to cast up an entire sea himself.

  He did not feel so good.

  He heard a strange sound to his left. Sir Wesley had curled up on all fours and seemed to be hacking at the ground with his head.

  Montford spun away and tried to focus on something. He stumbled forward, and when he felt something thwack him across the backside – he wasn’t that numb – he lengthened his stride, which may or may not have been a mistake, for he was suddenly falling against several bodies. They pushed him upright and shoved him forward.

  Something loomed a few feet in front of him. A blue line, floating above the ground. What on God’s green earth was that? And how was it floating? He reached it, stopped, and extended his arm to touch it. Several attempts later, his finger at last connected with it. He poked it, and it stretched back.

  A ribbon. A blue ribbon. What was it doing here?

  He felt someone shove his shoulder, and he stumbled through the ribbon, snapping it with the weight of his body.

  Well, that was a shame, to ruin a perfectly good rib
bon.

  The crowd, which he had forgotten, erupted into a cacophony of catcalls, laughter, applause, and whistles. He tried to gather up the ribbon, but was mobbed by people who insisted on slapping him on the back or shaking his limp hands, congratulating him for something.

  He looked at one well-wisher, a man with beady black eyes and a balding pate, who was shaking his hand and smiling at him in a way that reminded Montford of a cat just before it pounced on a mouse. “What the devil are you shaking my hand for?” he demanded, or tried to demand. The words didn’t sound quite right.

  “You’ve won, Your Grace,” the man explained.

  “Won? What’ve I won?”

  “The race.”

  He vaguely remembered now.

  “Ah yes. Race.”

  Then he tumbled forward.

  ASTRID WATCHED with a mixture of horror and amusement as the Duke of Montford, mud-splattered, red-faced, and entirely perplexed, poked his finger at the finish line ribbon, as if it were some new species of animal, and swayed forward and backwards on wobbly-looking legs. Then someone pushed him through the finish line – he was the clear winner, as Sir Wesley was sprawled out in the grass some twenty paces back and no one else had yet to appear around the last bend of the course – and he swiveled about, trying to save the ribbon from the mud.

  The crowd went wild. Even those who had wagered against the Duke seemed well pleased with the result. Who could not be? A peer of the realm was standing barefoot and drunk, wet with sweat and ale and mud, looking about as regal as a stable boy after sneaking gin from his master. Astrid’s nerves jangled when she saw Mr. Lightfoot among this throng shaking Montford’s rather droopy hand, and she finally remembered that odious man’s horrid threats against her and the Duke.

  She started forward. She had to warn Montford. But the crowd was thick. She could not get by.

  Montford seemed unconcerned by Mr. Lightfoot, and Astrid realized he was in no condition to digest her imprecations. In fact, the Duke attempted to say something, laughed, and fell on top of Mr. Lightfoot, nearly bringing them both to the ground.