When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) by Elisa Braden

seats. It was a phaeton, speeding recklessly toward their position. A dark-coated gentleman and a bonneted female sat on the high-perch driving bench, the man struggling to regain control and the woman keening her distress and gripping the man’s arm.
    Swiftly redirecting his horse nearer the wooden fence bordering the Row, James squinted to get a view of the driver’s face. His eyes widened as recognition settled in.
    “It’s Wallingham.” Lucien had fallen in behind James on his own mount. “What the devil?”
    The driver was Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham—Lady Wallingham’s son. James shared Luc’s incredulity. Lord Wallingham was among the foremost horsemen of the aristocracy. His stable was legendary, his skills as a driver nonpareil. In his youth, the man had co-founded one of the most exclusive driving clubs in London. Further, his air of quiet dignity and competence virtually precluded any act of recklessness—of which losing control of one’s high-perch phaeton on Rotten Row whilst accompanied by a frightened female constituted a perfect example.
    “He lost hold of the reins,” James called to Lucien as the carriage careened toward their position. The pair of white horses galloped as though they’d been bit, eyes rolling, reins dragging and whipping as they skipped along the horses’ flanks and grappling legs.
    Above the escalating clatter of wheels and hooves, warnings from Wallingham, cries of distress from his companion, and exclamations from other riders fleeing the carriage’s course, James shouted to Luc, “We must slow them!”
    Nudging his own horse forward, he pointed to indicate Luc should take the right side then accelerated to match the pace of the approaching carriage. Soon, the phaeton pulled between them, the white pair heaving and pounding as though the devil himself were waving a torch at their backsides. Eyeing the path ahead and the pace of the horses, calculating that he had perhaps thirty seconds to slow the vehicle before it careened into a sedate barouche, James inched his mount closer, patting the animal’s neck to reassure him as they drew within feet of the frightened carriage horses. He levered carefully up in the stirrups, steadying himself with a hand on the pommel, then reached across to the mid-back of the carriage horse, taking pains not to frighten it further. Slowly, he reached out, brushing the rein terret with gloved fingers. Light leather reins flicked and slid through the metal loop. The horse shied, its pace faltering for one heart-stopping moment.
    “Bluidy hell,” he muttered before edging close once again, repositioning himself until, at last, his fingers slid between hard metal and writhing leather, taking the strings in his fist.
    “James! You have it?” shouted Lucien.
    “Aye! Slow them easy, beginning now!”
    Simultaneously, he and Lucien tugged the reins. James focused on slowing both the phaeton and his own mount, balancing his weight in the saddle to maintain his seat. The pounding pace of all four horses eased gradually to a walk and, finally, a stop. The barouche sat a mere thirty yards away.
    “Tannenbrook. Atherbourne,” uttered a pale but otherwise remarkably calm Wallingham. “I am in your debt.”
    Lucien’s half-grin was wry, his breathing still fast from the sudden sprint. “We accept payment in horseflesh, Wallingham.”
    “Done.”
    Laughing, Lucien shook his head. “A jest, my good man.” He nodded toward James. “Tannenbrook here has a penchant for heroics.”
    Frowning at his best friend, James touched the brim of his hat and nodded to the pair. “It is reward enough to see you and your companion are safe.”
    Wallingham’s companion, an attractive blonde whose bloodless lips currently matched her lavender pelisse, shrugged against the comforting arm wrapped around her slim shoulders. While Wallingham did not release her, he did introduce her. “Gentlemen, may I present Lady Willoughby.” James watched