Agnes looked doubtful.
“And yes,” Evelyn added, “I’m fully aware that it’s those very thoughts that put me squarely in the bluestocking column.”
But that was no one’s business but her own.
She wasn’t in Combe Regis anymore. She was in London—a place where no one knew her from Adam. If she must be put in a column, it would be one of her own choosing. Not wallflower or bluestocking, but horsewoman.
It was Mama who had given her the idea. She’d always said that one must approach a problem from a position of strength.
Evelyn had thought of that advice countless times since first formulating her plan to come to London. She knew she wasn’t likely to win a well-to-do husband in a ballroom or a drawing room. Unlike Fenny, she had no particular talent for dancing, music, or conversation. Her strength lay in riding. And it was on Rotten Row that she intended to wage her campaign.
“Will Mr. Malik do it, then?” Agnes asked. “Will he make you the same kind of habit he made for Miss Walters?”
“As to that . . . I don’t know yet.” Evelyn stood from her desk. “I expect I won’t, not until after he sees me ride in the morning.”
“I don’t like it,” Agnes said. “For him to set a test for you like that. What right has he to—”
“He’s an artist, and a male one, at that. One must excuse his impertinence for the time being.” Evelyn smiled faintly. “He’ll soon learn.”
Three
The following morning, Evelyn entered Rotten Row at a trot, her groom following close behind. Hephaestus’s muscles were tense beneath her. He pranced and sidestepped, ready to jump straight up into the air at the slightest provocation.
He’d never before been to London, let alone Hyde Park. And the weather wasn’t helping to calm him. It was foggy and drizzling, the sun breaking through the trees in cold ribbons of light that shone in her eyes. She was glad she wasn’t wearing her spectacles. The glare would have been unbearable.
Lewis rode up beside her on his steady chestnut gelding. He was a stocky man past middle age, with a wealth of horse sense hidden behind his bland expression. “He’s looking to bolt.”
“He’s fine,” she said. “A little hot, but manageable. All he wants is a gallop to clear away the cobwebs.”
There was time enough for it. Mr. Malik didn’t appear to have arrived yet. She looked for him along the fence line, where people usually stopped to survey the passing parade of horses and riders, but it was as empty as the rest of the park.
Hephaestus arched his thick neck and flared his nostrils, snorting great clouds of steam. She soothed him with a scratch on his neck.
“You reckon you can bring him back down from a gallop?” Lewis asked.
Were it anyone else, Evelyn would have been offended at having her skill called into question. But Lewis had known her since she was a little girl. “Of course I can.”
She shifted her weight very slightly in her sidesaddle and, tightening her reins, applied a subtle pressure with her seat and leg. Hephaestus sprang forward as if shot out of a cannon, half rearing as he surged into a ground-covering canter.
There was no one else around that she could see. No one who would object as she gave him his head and permitted him to lengthen his stride into a gallop.
The net veil on her hat whipped against her face, and the long skirts of her old black habit flapped back against Hephaestus’s powerful flanks.
“Easy,” she murmured. “Easy.”
Hephaestus was a Spanish-bred Andalusian. The breed was known for its sensitive temperament and the smoothness of its gait. Papa had once said that a person could hold a cup of tea while cantering on an Andalusian and never spill a drop. It was an exaggeration, of course, but it was nearer to truth than fiction. Hephaestus’s stride was as smooth as glass.
Evelyn’s gloved hands were just firm enough on the reins to maintain contact. She didn’t believe in riding heavy on a horse’s mouth. Control should come from the seat. A difficulty in a sidesaddle, but not impossible. Not with a horse as responsive as her own.
She slowly brought him back down, first to a trot and then to a walk, praising his obedience with a pat on his shoulder. “That’s better,” she said to him.
It was then that she saw they weren’t alone.
Another rider emerged from the trees ahead. A slim, raven-haired young lady mounted on an impossibly large black hunter. She held his reins loosely as he walked up the path, letting his head stretch free, as if cooling him off after a bout of rigorous exercise. Her groom rode not far behind her.
“Good morning,” the young lady called out.
Evelyn raised a hand in reluctant greeting. She’d hoped to avoid other people this morning. Her first appearance in the park was meant to be something special, not a hurly-burly dawn gallop through the mud, clad in an old wool habit. She prayed the other rider would pass on.
But the young lady didn’t oblige her. Quite the opposite. She slowed her mount to a halt, her wide gaze moving avidly over Hephaestus. “What a handsome stallion! Is he Spanish? He looks Spanish. Though I’ve never seen one that isn’t gray.”
“Blood bays aren’t common in the breed,” Evelyn said, “but they do appear from time to time.” Their rarity made them all the more valuable. It was one of the reasons Papa had bought Hephaestus, spending far more on the purchase than he could afford.
“And you ride him in a snaffle? Extraordinary. I consider myself something of a horsewoman, and I’d never ride Cossack in anything but a Pelham. Not here in the park.”
Evelyn smiled at the roundabout compliment. “Hephaestus has a soft mouth. I frequently ride him with a single rein.”
“But he’s a stallion!”
“A gentle stallion.”
“Lady Anne rides a stallion, too. But Miss Hobhouse prefers a mare. She has a gray Thoroughbred cross at the moment. A beautiful creature—almost completely white. The three of us often ride together of a morning. It’s more comfortable than the afternoons when everyone else is about.” A frown marred the young lady’s brow. “I haven’t seen you here before. I’d remember if I had.”
“This is my first outing. My groom delivered my horse to town only yesterday.” Evelyn turned Hephaestus in a half circle. He was still tense with energy and could use another canter. “Forgive me, but I must walk on.”
“By all means. You wouldn’t wish him to take a chill.” The young lady’s horse fell in step beside them. “Are you here for the season?”
“I am,” Evelyn admitted.