The Lady Next Door by Laura Matthews Page A

perplexity, or wonder was uppermost in his mind, the earl could not decide. He turned his energies instead to calculating whether it would be socially acceptable for him to call on her the next day—to inquire as to her well-being after such a harrowing adventure. Not that she had seemed the least discomposed by it, but still . . .
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Latteridge had forgotten, in his preoccupation, that he had a match scheduled with Sir Reginald Barrett the next day at the Knavesmire track. Neither gentleman chose to ride his own horse in the race, as Latteridge’s weight was too great, and Sir Reginald’s foppish taste recoiled at the spectacle he would present. On the other hand, neither of them was content to observe the proceedings from Carr’s standhouse, since last minute instructions had to be given the jockeys. A goodly number of viewers lined the course, on foot, on horseback, as well as the ladies in carriages.
    The two horses were well-matched, a chestnut and a bay, and a hundred guineas rode on the outcome. At the start, Sir Reginald’s colors of purple and silver preceded the earl’s scarlet and gold, but Champignon quickly gained on the showy Challenger until the two ran neck and neck for most of the course. A handkerchief fluttered onto the track, startling Champignon, who broke stride and lost just enough ground to be defeated by a neck. The earl was resigned; Sir Reginald was jubilant.
    “What did I tell you, Latteridge? Fastest horse in the North, by God! And not even at his best today. I’ve seen him faster, you know. Outran that nag of Fotherby’s without even trying.” Sir Reginald minced over to his triumphant steed, but hesitated to stroke the sweaty neck, having a great admiration for his spotless pearl-gray gloves. The victory, however, put him in charity with his opponent and he allowed his tongue to wander on thoughtlessly. “Saw you yesterday in the promenade when you dragged that sailor out of the river. Ruined your clothes, I’ll be bound. And the woman was Miss Findlay, wasn’t it? Can’t miss that vulgar red hair of hers. She acted like some five-pound maid rescuing a prize gosling from a pond!” He leaned toward the earl, whose expression he entirely misread, in a confidential manner. “I think your brother has a mind to set her up. I’ve seen him go into her house several times. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about her! Next thing you know the place will become a regular bordello. Not that it’s not a handy situation for your brother, but the neighborhood . . ."
    “As usual, you have imposed your own prurient thought on the situation,” Latteridge informed him coldly. “Miss Findlay’s aunt has been dangerously ill, and Harry has kindly visited to inquire as to her progress. You will be delighted to hear that the aunt is recovering now."
    “Delighted be damned,” Sir Reginald muttered, his face suffused with color. “I still think she doesn’t belong in the neighborhood. Any number of the first families of the county have houses in Micklegate, Latteridge, and there she sits in that run-down shambles with her lodgers.”
    "The house looks a great deal better than I remember it. True, it is small, but the broken gutters have been replaced and the window trim painted. Actually, I think it makes both of our residences appear the more to advantage, in contrast to its moderate size.”
    Sir Reginald had not considered this facet of the matter, but he was undaunted. “She’s not a lady, Latteridge! No gentlewoman would have gone to the assistance of some ragged sailors.”
    “Nor walked home with a gentleman in my miserable condition, I suppose,” suggested the earl placidly, a gleam in his eye which should have warned the obtuse Sir Reginald, but did not.
    "She should give her right arm to be seen in your company, disarrayed or not! You are too easygoing, Latteridge. Such upstarts should be put firmly in their place. The next thing you know she’ll be telling her