Free Escapade by Joan Smith

emotions in them.
    It was the needle-sharp Belle Prentiss who recognized the long stride of the Duke as he paced along the street. This alone made the trip worth the bother, but he was not alone. He was accompanied by a young person of ravishing beauty, a blonde girl, well-built, with her face trustingly turned towards her protector, adoration in her pretty blue eyes. For this Belle would have ridden a hundred miles. She inadvertently gave a yank on her reins when she saw them, and her mount reared up. She was not aware of the fine scene she made, controlling her frisky animal without the least difficulty. Neither were her friends aware of it; they too had spotted Clare now, and were all staring at him as though turned to stone. They were not sure he had seen them, but as he immediately bolted into the door of the closest shop—Martin's Drapers it was called—and slammed the door after him, they were inclined to think he had.
    “So he did not stay with the sketching party,” Sherry said. “Mama made sure he was carrying on a flirtation with Lady Sara."
    There was a little smile of triumph on Belle's animated face. “Did any of you recognize her?” she asked the others.
    “No,” and “Never saw her before in my life,” were the responses from the gentlemen. Sherry was momentarily beyond speech.
    “Dashed pretty wench,” Harley said, to no one in particular.
    “Regular Incomparable,” Peters agreed, still staring at the door through which the apparition of loveliness had vanished.
    Sherry was returned to reality by the medium of jealousy. “What a very plain old gown she wore,” she said.
    “My dear,” Belle told her in a knowing manner, “she was not a lady."
    “Oh, what could he be doing with such a person?” Sherry wondered aloud.
    “Let's go and find out,” Belle suggested, smiling a challenge at them all.
    “Better not,” Peters cautioned, already making ready to turn his horse about to retire from the village.
    “Cowards!” Belle taunted. Sherry looked about waiting for someone to decide what she was to do.
    “Peters is right.” Harley backed him up. “He won't be half pleased at us for seeing him. Best to get back to the palace and say nothing."
    “But I don't understand what he is doing here with her,” Sherry repeated herself.
    “What do you think?” Harley asked angrily.
    “Maybe she works for him,” Peters advanced, with some intention of concealing what was clearly to him an amorous rendezvous.
    “Ha ha. Maybe she makes up his jackets, since they are gone into the draper's shop,” Belle laughed. “He will start a new style. Weston and Stultz will no longer be the first tailors of London."
    “It could very well be that she is a seamstress, doing some work for the Duchess,” Peters suggested, having improved on his former excuse that she worked for Clare.
    “And Clare, of course, goes with her to choose the muslin,” Belle laughed ironically. “Why don't we go in and talk to him then, if it is so innocent as that?"
    “Don't be such a greenhead, Belle,” Peters said curtly. “Not the thing for us to be spying on him, and I for one intend to go back home and say nothing about it."
    “Yes, my girl, and you'll do likewise if you're half as clever as you think you are,” Harley added.
    These strict warnings were enough to convince Sherry. With three horses being turned about in the middle of the road, Belle had either to join them, or go alone into the shop and accost Clare and his ladybird. Brazen as she was, she was not quite up to this, so she went along with her companions. The gentlemen killed open speculation on the way home by refusing to discuss the subject but, all the same, it was uppermost in everyone's mind.
    Sherry worried to herself that Clare was showing a partiality for blondes. The young person in the village was, of course, not a threat, being of the lower orders, but Lady Honor was a blonde and the daughter of a Marquis. This point rated nearly as highly