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 MY LORD
THE ROTHVALE LEGACY II
RAINE MILLER
T a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.
N book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage
piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Purchase only
authorized editions.

Copyright © 2020 Raine Miller Romance

All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Regina Wamba
Editing: CC Readings
 CONTENTS

MY LORD
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Next Up: Heart & Arrow
Mr. Finnegan’s Irish Scones
A Request
Discussion Group
Historical Rothvale Legacy
Blackstone Affair
Join my Newsletter
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Raine Miller
MY LORD
 THE ROTHVALE LEGACY II

Priceless paintings…
Done in a master’s hand…
Revealed two centuries after they were created…
I E , 13 B R , would admit he's
the last person on earth who should have custody over a priceless
collection of art. British law affords him the title of 'Lord,' but
underneath all the trappings he's just a regular guy, despite being a
world champion in archery, and certain...proclivities of a private
nature. But Ivan’s public celebrity is merely a sham—a carefully
guarded secret borne out of the pain of betrayal. Even his cousin
Ethan Blackstone doesn't know the truth behind the man he
considers a brother.
Lord Rothvale has a plethora of problems piled up to his
aristocratic eyeballs, but that doesn’t stop him from complicating his
world further when a beautiful art conservationist shows up to
appraise his inherited collection of paintings. Once Ivan gets a taste
of Gabrielle Hargreave, mistaken identity or not, he can't think of
anything but how good the green-eyed beauty felt in his arms.
The chase is on, and Ivan's dominant side isn't taking 'no' for an
answer—but yet, Gabrielle might just teach our discontented lord a
thing or two about life, and about himself, and help them both
discover the undeniable truth in what it means to find something
genuinely... priceless.

A love beyond any price…

Lives intertwined over the ages…
Discoveries of the heart and of treasures hidden away…
 DEDICATION

For Dora

I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always

followed me. They have clung to me all my life.
— ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1809–1865)
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

I 2011. It was envisioned and

outlined before I ever penned Naked. Yes, it’s true. I have my
composition book with the original notes to prove it. It’s all there in
black and white. I treasure that simple book with the handwritten
ideas and scribblings about a reluctant Lord of the Realm and a
stubborn art conservationist. Of course, it all got put on hold when I
found my inspiration for Ethan Blackstone and Brynne Bennett’s
story in the Blackstone Affair… but I never forgot about my original
characters of Gaby and Ivan. In fact, I placed them smack dab in the
middle of my Blackstone world on purpose so I couldn’t forget about
them. I wrote their beginnings into the climax at the end of All In so
that I’d be forced to tell their story at some point.
Priceless was published six years ago now. It very much pains
me to type that number since it was left in a cliffhanger. (I do have a
heart in case you were wondering.) If you’re reading this, I want to
reach out and thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with
me for those six long years. I want you to feel my crushing, too-long
hug and the sloppy kiss to your cheek right now through whatever
device you’re reading these words on. Truly. I don’t even have the
words to express my thanks and gratitude for holding on for all that
time just to have the chance to read more about my kinky British
Lord and his feisty, but wounded Lady as they find their true
soulmate in each other.
I assure you they are precisely where you left them six years ago.
Like one second for each year you’ve had to wait. So six seconds of
time have passed since you last saw them in bed together “talking”
about what Ivan would like to have from Gabrielle.
I so love the ability to do magic like that as an author.
It’s a joy for me to be bringing the next part of their love story to
you now. Their’s is a very big, romantic story. So much more
complex than I ever imagined it when I first started it back in 2011.
But then an idea comes along and takes on a life of its own and I
have to just let the story take me where it wants to go, surprising
even me as I’m writing it. Ivan and Gabrielle’s tale is one of those.
It’s been a delight to be back in their romantic, kinky, sexy world
for sure. I hope you feel the same way.

xxoo R
sim·u·la·crum
[sim-yuh-ley-kruh m]
—noun
1. a slight, unreal or superficial likeness or semblance
2. an effigy, image or representation
 PROLOGUE

1 st May 1862
London

D earest Augusta,
I hope my letter finds you, my dear, loving niece, in
good health and all is well within your family. I am writing
to share with you an experience of great inspiration and
enlightenment for me. Last month I was pressed upon by my friend,
Mr. Victor Rampling, to accompany him to a dinner party in
Warwickshire at a grand estate, hosted by none other than Sir
Tristan Mallerton. As you know he is nearing the twilight of his life,
but I was graced with his companionship and counsel for the course
of a whole evening, which was remarkable in itself, but what I saw
and learned that night within his company, so inspired and marked
upon my spirit that I shall remember it to the very end of my life.
Gavandon, Warwickshire is the country home of Lord Rothvale
IX, who if you might recall, is a founding member of the National
Gallery we talked about before, a greatly respected politician in the
upper house, and also a patron of the arts in word and deed. He has
gifted many personal works to the Gallery over the years since its
founding in the year of our lord, eighteen and twenty-four.
 The Rothvales have since retired to their country estate in Ireland
at Belfast. It is not expected that they shall ever live permanently in
England again, preferring instead to live out their remaining days in
peace and tranquility in that country, in reflection of a long and
productive life as a public servant to the crown. Sir Tristan Mallerton
is long associated with the Rothvales, being as close as any family
member of blood would be, having lived with or near to them for
most of his life. He was charged with the closure of their estate at
Warwickshire and was in the process of preparing to move some
works of art from Gavandon House for shipment to the Rothvales in
Ireland. One painting he showed to me held great personal
sentimentality to Lord and Lady Rothvale, who were so beloved of
the work individually, which spoke to their desire to have it for the
walls of their home in Ireland rather than left behind in Warwickshire.
Augusta, I must describe for you this magical work of purest art
and beauty—a priceless treasure that I cannot ever forget from my
memories no matter how long my life may be. It appears in my
dreams still and calls to me all the time that I must paint my own
version from this exquisite creation of colors and canvas. I will not do
it now, of course, while Sir Tristan is still a living artist of legend.
Having no wish to disrespect his great vision, I will wait until an
appropriate time for presenting my simulacre of his resplendent
conception to the world.
I have made many notes and some sketches though, so I may
not forget a single detail of the otherworldly beauty which I was
blessed to witness that night. The work is of a woman sleeping in a
chair wearing a splendid yellow gown. Her feet are tucked up
underneath her as she sleeps, her faithful dog at her feet, and also
her writing desk and pen and journal. She has the most
extraordinary Indian shawl of a gold and orange threaded design
wrapped about her, and her golden hair is loose upon her shoulders
as if she floats upon a lake. It is ethereal in its presentation of the
beautiful subject reminiscent of a goddess at her slumber, dreaming
of things only a goddess would dream. Sir Tristan shared with me
that the subject is none other than Lady Rothvale herself, painted
shortly after her marriage to Lord Rothvale in the year of our lord,
eighteen and twelve, more than fifty years ago. His love for her is
there in the paint, Augusta. It is as clear to see even if the person
who looked at it were nearly blind already. Sir Tristan told me he
painted her in June on a summer's day when her husband happened
upon her by chance and decided he would like to have it as a portrait
of his beloved bride. A boy was sent with a message to bring Sir
Tristan immediately to the house where he set about taking over
from Lord Rothvale's preliminary sketching onto a canvas where the
initial shape and form of her was put down already by his hand. Lord
Rothvale discovered her asleep in her pose, and then had the
forethought to have Sir Tristan set it on canvas in his masterful hand.
Sir Tristan told me that he never even spoke to his friend about what
he was to do on the day. It was an unworded understanding between
the two men. He simply entered the solarium where Lady Rothvale
was sleeping and knew exactly what he was being tasked to do.
They also had no wish to awaken her, so they remained silent as
they worked at a furious pace. Sir Tristan told me Lady Rothvale
slept on for such time as the two of them were able to get enough of
her form drawn that first day to finish the portrait from later sittings he
arranged with her. He called his painting, "Sleeping Imogene" when
he presented it to me, and I could sense his deep attachment to this
singular work as a very special one to the great man himself. Lady
Rothvale is called Imogene by her Christian name. He said it with
such affection and remembrance of love it was apparent to me, even
in my novice days as an artist, of the deep friendship and bond of
love between them.
It was truly "something of the marvelous" my darling, to quote the
words of another, Aristotle, I believe. I only wish you could have seen
it with your own eyes. I know you would have appreciated the beauty
and magic the portrait evokes upon the eye and within the heart.
I look forward to seeing you in the autumn and viewing your own
work and hopefully to collaborate on a project as we artists must do,
just as we must continue taking our next breath. Be well, my dearest.

Your most loving uncle,

Frederic
CHAPTER 1
 GABRIELLE

25th August
Donadea, Northern Ireland

M y heart dropped, as I froze against Ivan. He sensed

me stiffening and held onto me a little tighter. Unable
to move away or do anything much more than just
stare at him, I memorized every feature of his face, the gorgeous
green eyes; the mole on his upper left cheek, the natural part of his
hair and the way it fell along the side of his face, the color of his lips
and the shape of his jaw. All parts of him I was just beginning to
know by heart.
All of him beautiful to me to the point I almost couldn’t look away.
His burning gaze held me anyway, just as much as his arms were
doing. Ivan held onto me because he expected me to run away and
freak out. He was only reacting to what he'd come to expect from me
based on his experience. I’d been trying to run from him nearly every
time we’d been in the same space together since our very first
meeting. His powers of deduction didn’t have to work overtime to
figure me out. He also had no trouble trying to convince me to stay
with him longer. Ivan Everley was a master of persuasion.
I want you submissive when we fuck, Gabrielle.
 I shivered at the thought… and the implications of what he meant
by those very direct and potent words. Imagery flickered through my
brain and threatened to short it out. This man had a powerfully
mysterious hold over me that I'd never experienced before, and I
needed to exercise extreme caution. My rational mind knew this of
course, but I also knew I was in danger of tossing said extreme
caution to the proverbial wind.
The confidence with which he made his request inferred this thing
we'd started would be continuing indefinitely. As much as it sounded
wonderful to be with Ivan for longer than just a weekend of
uninhibited sex and sensual pleasure, my rational side told me I was
a fool if I thought I could pull this off with him. There was no way I’d
make it out unscathed. He would twist me up into all sorts of knots.
Add in the fact I didn’t deserve any kind of relationship with him…or
with anyone really. My sins still hung heavy on my heart and the self-
flagellation was something I couldn't let go of just yet. Someday
maybe, I might be able to forgive myself for what I'd done four years
ago.
I want so badly to have that…with you, Gabrielle.
When he’d said that second part to me there was a definite
yearning in his voice. I’d heard it clearly. I’d also sensed a loneliness
in him. I think I picked up on it because feeling lonely was my
favorite flavor these days. Could Ivan and I fill those lonesome
feelings for each other? Was it right for me to give in to the desire I
felt with him? Or was I fooling myself?
I’d guessed right about Ivan. He was a dominant even though I
was certain he had mostly suppressed his natural inclinations
whenever we’d been together thus far. I’d caught glimpses of the
Dom behavior of course, but then, coming from him, it turned me on
wildly because Ivan Everley pushed every one of my sexual buttons.
I liked how Dom Ivan operated far too much.
Dominants can spot a submissive when they find one, so he'd
guessed right about me, too. I couldn’t hide my submissive nature
from him any more than I could keep the urges buried any longer
when I was with him like this—i.e., naked in his bed weak from hours
of attention from his cock and his hands and his mouth. I could
barely hold onto a coherent thought, let alone keep my true desires
under wraps.
He just knew.
“What are you asking me to—to do with you?” I still had to know. I
needed to hear him lay it all out on the line before us. For me. I
needed to hear it in order to go forward. I could literally feel my heart
pounding in my chest as I waited for his response.
“I think you know, Gabrielle.” He traced down the side of my face
with his finger, and then down my jawbone, further still to my chin
before slipping onto the side of my neck to rest it over my pulse
point. He pressed in, his finger sinking into the flesh of my neck. “I
can feel the blood pumping under my finger. Your pulse is racing.
Your perfectly flawless skin is flushed. The idea of my suggestion
turns you on.” He pressed his finger just a little harder. “Doesn’t it,
Gabrielle?”
Yes. I was in such deep trouble with this man.
His green eyes bored into mine as the pressure of his finger held
me frozen, totally under his spell, powerless to turn away from his
embrace any more than I could deny the truth in his words. That’s all
it took. Just one finger infused with the command of presence that
Ivan Everley owned as certainly as he owned the handsome looks
and the talented moves in the bedroom. Or art gallery storeroom. Or
wedding reception dance floor. Or the interior of a sea plane.
As an involuntary shudder overtook me, the awareness of the
strength of my attraction to him, to his wildly unexpected proposal,
was very unnerving.
It was also so very tempting.
His response was to bring his lips closer and say, “Don’t
overthink. I know that’s what you’re doing.” The press of his lips was
as gentle as his kiss, firm but settling. With his tongue licking into
me, he breathed, “Trust me, Gabrielle. Just trust me and say yes.”
Damn, he was good.
How in the hell could I resist when we were naked in his bed with
his lips on my skin promising more pleasure than I’d ever known? An
impossible feat for a woman much stronger than me I am sure. I
knew I wasn’t ready to give an all-encompassing yes to his proposal,
but I could give him an honest answer to his question.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
board! Pray, what's that? Do you not mean the basket?”[7] “Oh no,
sir,” says John, smiling; “no such thing on the road now. It is the
hind-dickey, as some call it; where you'll be as comfortable as
possible, and can sit with your back or your face to the coach, or
both, if you like.” “Ah, ah,” continues the old gentleman; “something
new again, I presume.” However, the mystery is cleared up; the
ladder is reared to the hind wheel and the gentleman safely seated
on the gammon board.
‘Before ascending to his place our friend has cast his eye on the team
that is about to convey him to Hartford Bridge, the next stage on the
great western road, and he perceives it to be of a different stamp
from that which he had seen taken from the coach at Bagshot. It
consisted of four moderate-sized horses, full of power, and still fuller
of condition, but with a fair sprinkling of blood; in short, the eye of a
judge would have discovered something about them not very unlike
galloping. “All right!” cried the guard, taking his key-bugle[8] in his
hand; and they proceeded up the village, at a steady pace, to the
tune of “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” and continued at that pace
for the first five miles. “I am landed,” thinks our friend to himself.
Unluckily, however, for the humane and cautious old gentleman, even
the Regulator was about to show tricks. Although what now is called
a slow coach, she is timed at eight miles in the hour through a great
extent of country, and must, of course, make play where she can,
being strongly opposed by hills lower down the country, trifling as
these hills are, no doubt, to what they once were. The Regulator,
moreover, loads well, not only with passengers, but with luggage;
and the last five miles of this stage, called the Bridge Flat, have the
reputation of being the best five miles for a coach to be found at this
time in England. The ground is firm; the surface undulating, and
therefore favourable to draught; always dry, not a shrub being near
it; nor is there a stone upon it much larger than a marble. These
advantages, then, are not lost to the Regulator, or made use of
without sore discomposure to the solitary tenant of her gammon
board.
‘Any one that has looked into books will very readily account for the
lateral motion, or rocking, as it is termed, of a coach, being greatest
at the greatest distance from the horses (as the tail of a paper kite is
in motion whilst the body remains at rest); and more especially when
laden as this coach was—the greater part of the weight being
forward. The situation of our friend, then, was once more deplorable.
The Regulator takes but twenty-three minutes for these celebrated
five miles, which cannot be done without “springing the cattle” now
and then; and it was in one of the very best of their gallops of that
day, that they were met by the coachman of the Comet, who was
returning with his up-coach. When coming out of rival yards,
coachmen never fail to cast an eye to the loading of their opponents
on the road, and now that of the natty artist of the Comet
experienced a high treat. He had a full view of his quondam
passenger, and thus described his situation.
‘He was seated with his back to the horses—his teeth set grim as
death—his eyes cast down towards the ground, thinking the less he
saw of his danger the better. There was what is called a top-heavy
load—perhaps a ton of luggage on the roof, and it may be not quite
in obedience to the Act of Parliament standard.[9] There were also
two horses at wheel, whose strides were of rather unequal length,
and this operated powerfully on the coach. In short, the lurches of
the Regulator were awful at the moment of the Comet meeting her. A
tyro in mechanics would have exclaimed, “The centre of gravity must
be lost, the centrifugal force will have the better of it—over she must
go!”
‘The centre of gravity having been preserved, the coach arrived safe
at Hartford Bridge; but the old gentleman has again had enough of it.
“I will walk into Devonshire,” said he, as he descended from his
perilous exaltation. “What did that rascally waiter mean by telling me
this was a slow coach? and moreover, look at the luggage on the
roof!” “Only regulation height, sir,” says the coachman; “we aren't
allowed to have it an inch higher; sorry we can't please you, sir, but
we will try and make room for you in front.” “Fronti nulla fides,”
mutters the worthy to himself, as he walks tremblingly into the house
—adding, “I shall not give this fellow a shilling; he is dangerous.”
‘The Regulator being off, the waiter is again applied to. “What do you
charge per mile posting?” “One and sixpence, sir.” “Bless me! just
double! Let me see—two hundred miles, at two shillings per mile,
postboys, turnpikes, etc., £20. This will never do. Have you no coach
that does not carry luggage on the top?” “Oh yes, sir,” replies the
waiter, “we shall have one to-night that is not allowed to carry a
band-box on the roof.”[10] “That's the coach for me; pray what do
you call it?” “The Quicksilver mail, sir; one of the best out of London
—Jack White and Tom Brown, picked coachmen, over this ground—
Jack White down to-night.” “Guarded and lighted?” “Both, sir;
blunderbuss and pistols in the sword-case;[11] a lamp each side the
coach, and one under the foot-board—see to pick up a pin the
darkest night of the year.” “Very fast?” “Oh no, sir, just keeps time,
and that's all.” “That's the coach for me, then,” repeats our hero;
“and I am sure I shall feel at my ease in it. I suppose it is what used
to be called the Old Mercury.”
‘Unfortunately, the Devonport (commonly called the Quicksilver) mail
is half a mile in the hour faster than most in England, and is, indeed,
one of the miracles of the road. Let us then picture to ourselves our
anti-reformer snugly seated in this mail, on a pitch-dark night in
November. It is true she has no luggage on the roof, nor much to
incommode her elsewhere; but she is a mile in the hour faster than
the Comet, at least three miles quicker than the Regulator; and she
performs more than half her journey by lamplight. It is needless to
say, then, our senior soon finds out his mistake; but there is no
remedy at hand, for it is the dead of the night, and all the inns are
shut up. He must proceed, or be left behind in a stable. The climax of
his misfortunes then approaches.
‘Nature being exhausted, sleep comes to his aid, and he awakes on a
stage which is called the fastest on the journey—four miles of
ground, and twelve minutes the time! The old gentleman starts from
his seat, having dreamed the horses were running away with the
coach, and so, no doubt, they might be. He is determined to convince
himself of the fact, though the passengers assure him “all's right.”
“Don't put your head out of the window,” says one of them, “you will
lose your hat to a certainty”: but advice is seldom listened to by a
terrified man, and next moment a stentorian voice is heard, crying,
“Stop, coachman, stop—I have lost my hat and wig!” The coachman
hears him not—and in another second the broad wheels of a road
waggon have for ever demolished the lost headgear.’
That was the Road at its best: the poetic side we have in mind when
we speak of the good old days of coaching. The following passages
refer equally to the ‘golden age’; their very baldness has an
eloquence of its own. It is true that the winter of 1836-37 is
conspicuous in history for the exceptionally heavy snowfall; but as
Nimrod has shown coaching at its best, there is no injustice in
presenting these glimpses of coach travel at its worst:—
‘Tabor, guard of the Devonport, who left London with the mail on
Sunday and returned on Wednesday, reports that a mile and a half
from Amesbury they got completely blocked. The leaders dropped
down, but rose again; the near wheel-horse fell and could not be got
up. The coachman procured a pair of post horses, but they could only
get the wheel-horse out of the snow; it was impossible to get him on
his legs. Four more post horses and four waggon horses were
requisitioned, and with their assistance the mail was extricated by
daylight. Then they travelled with the six post horses across the
Downs. They were again blocked near Mere. About a hundred men
were at this time employed a little distance off in digging out the
Subscription and Defiance coaches. After being extricated by some
labourers they resumed their progress from Mere with four fresh
mail-horses and two posters. Between Ilchester and Ilminster the
post horse leaders fell in a snow drift, and were run upon by the mail
leaders.’ (Bell's Life, January 1837).
‘The Estafette coach from Manchester on Sunday morning did not
reach London until Tuesday night, having been dug out of the snow
twelve times. It was the first coach from Manchester of the same day
that arrived in town. The guard attributes his success to the exertions
of four sailors, outside passengers, who lent a hand at every
casualty.’
‘A gentleman who left Sheffield by the Hope coach of Sunday week
reports that the coach did not complete its journey until Saturday
afternoon. Between Nottingham and Mansfield, close to the Forest,
they came upon three coaches blocked in the snow, which was lying
9 feet deep. The Hope left Mansfield with eight horses and was
driven into Nottingham with ten. They picked up a poor boy nearly
perished with cold. The boy was got by a gentleman jumping down
while the coach was in motion, for the coachman declared that if he
came to a dead stop he would not be able to get the wheels in
motion again.’ (Bell's Life, 8th January 1837).
Highway robbery was still practised at this time, but the armed
horseman with crape mask and pistols had gone out of fashion, and
thefts were accomplished by craft. ‘The Stirling mail has been robbed
of notes to the value of £13,000 in the following manner:—A man
took his seat at Stirling as an outside passenger. The mail was
followed closely from Stirling by a gig containing two men. When the
mail arrived at Kirkliston the guard stopped to take out the customary
bags to leave there. The gig also stopped there, and the two men in
it went into the house. The guard had left the mail box open, in
which the parcels were, and the outside passenger easily abstracted
the one containing the notes. He then left the coach. The gig with
the two men took the Queensferry Road. The parcels were not
missed until the mail reached Edinburgh. On the Queensferry Road
the two men were joined by their accomplice, the outside passenger.
They left the gig and took a post chaise for Edinburgh. They
discharged the chaise before entering the city and gave the post-boy
£3.’ (Bell's Life, 2nd January 1825).
Great improvements in all matters connected with coaching were
made during the first two decades of the nineteenth century: these
were due to the rage for driving that prevailed about this time. The
King was deeply interested in coaching, was himself no mean whip,
and he set the fashion. It did not last very long. Nimrod, writing in
1835, remarks that about 1825 ‘thirty to forty four-in-hand equipages
were constantly to be seen about town: one is stared at now.’
The driving clubs held ‘meets’ in George the Third's time much as
they do at present, but the vehicles used were ‘barouche landaus,’
and the drive taken was much longer than that in vogue to-day.
Bedfont beyond Hounslow, and Windsor were favourite places
whither the coaches—‘barouche landaus’—drove in procession to
dine. Very particular attention was paid to dress. This was the
costume in which members of the Whip Club, founded in 1808 as a
rival to the Benson, mounted their boxes on 6th June 1808, in Park
Lane, to drive to Harrow:—
‘A light, drab-colour cloth coat made full, single breast with three tier
of pockets, the skirt reaching to the ancles; a mother of pearl button
the size of a crown piece; waistcoat blue and yellow stripe, each
stripe an inch in depth; small clothes corded silk plush made to
button over the calf of the leg, with sixteen strings and rosettes to
each knee. The boots very short and finished with very broad straps
which hang over the tops and down to the ancle. A hat three inches
and a half deep in the crown only, and the same depth in the brim
exactly. Each wore a large bouquet at the breast, thus resembling the
coachmen of our nobility who, on His Majesty's birthday, appear in
that respect so peculiarly distinguished.’[12]
Grimaldi the clown, then at the zenith of his fame, burlesqued this
get-up so mercilessly that a less conspicuous garb was adopted.
The fifteen barouche landaus which turned out on this occasion,
driven by ‘men of known skill in the science of charioteering,’ were
well calculated to set off the somewhat conspicuous attire of the
members: they were ‘Yellow-bodied carriages with whip springs and
dickey boxes; cattle of a bright bay colour with silver plate ornaments
on the harness and rosettes to the ears.’
The meets of the driving clubs appear to have roused a spirit of
ribaldry in unregenerate youth. One day in March 1809 a young
Etonian made his appearance in a low phaeton with a four-in-hand of
donkeys, with which he brought up the rear of the procession as it
drove round Grosvenor and Berkeley Squares.
The Driving Club was the Benson, which had been founded in 1807.
Sir Henry Peyton was the last survivor of the ‘noble, honourable, and
respectable’ drivers who composed it. Thackeray described him in the
last of his papers on The Four Georges as he appeared driving the
‘one solitary four-in-hand’ to be seen in the London parks. He was
then (1851) very old, and attracted attention as much by his dress,
which was of the fashion of 1825, as by his then unique turn-out.
The Benson Club came to an end in 1853. The Whip Club, otherwise
the Four Horse Club, came to an end in 1838. The Defiance Club, for
members who had been ‘lately permitted to retire’ from the other
two, was projected in 1809, but it does not appear to have come to
anything. The Richmond Drag Club was founded in 1838, but it did
not survive for many years; the members to the number of fifteen or
sixteen used to meet at Lord Chesterfield's house. These were the
principal clubs.
Some of the amateur whips of a century ago were addicted to coach
matches. Here is the account of such a race from the Sporting
Magazine of 1802:—
‘Mail Coach Match.—On Thursday, May 20th, the London Mail, horsed
by Mr. Laud, of the New London Inn, Exeter, with four beautiful grey
horses, and driven by Mr. Cave Browne, of the Inniskilling Dragoons,
started (at the sound of the bugle) from St. Sydwell's for a bet of Five
Hundred Guineas against the Plymouth Mail, horsed by Mr. Phillipps,
of the Hotel, with four capital blacks, and driven by Mr. Chichester, of
Arlington House, which got the mail first to the Post Office in
Honiton. The bet was won easy by Mr. Browne. A very great
concourse of people assembled on this occasion.’
In 1811 Mr. George Seward undertook to drive a four-in-hand fifteen
miles in fifty minutes. He selected the road from Hyde Park Corner to
Staines, and started at six in the morning. He failed to accomplish his
undertaking, but only by three minutes twenty seconds.
There was more originality about the competition arranged in May
1805 between Mr. Charles Buxton, inventor of the bit known by his
name and one of the founders of the Whip Club, and a horse-dealer:
—
‘One of our most celebrated whips Charles Buxton, Esq., has
concluded a bet of 500 Guineas with Mr. Thomas Hall, the dealer in
horses. The object of the wager is to decide which of the two is the
best driver of four unruly horses. The wager is to be decided by two
friends of the parties, who are to pick out eight horses from
Spencer's, Marsden's, and White's. Lords Barrymore and Cranley are
chosen as the umpires. The horses selected are only to be those
which have not been broken in. The friend of each charioteer is to
pick the horses alternately until the number agreed on is selected.
The parties are then to mount the box and proceed to decide the
wager. The bettings already are said to be considerable. Neither the
scene of action nor the day when the contest is to take place are yet
determined on. Mr. Buxton is said to be so certain of success that he
has offered to double the bet.’
Though the law of 1820 made racing a criminal offence, the practice
was one which could not be wholly put down, and on May-day the
law was set at naught by popular consent, rival coaches on that day
racing one another without disguise: the May-day race became an
institution of the road, and seems to have been winked at by the
authorities. Some wonderful records were made in these contests on
the macadam. Thus, on 1st May 1830, the Independent Tally Ho ran
from London to Birmingham, 109 miles, in 7 hours 39 minutes. It was
not rare for a coach to perform its journey at a rate of fifteen miles
an hour on May-day. We may compare this with the time made in the
Leicester-Nottingham race of 1808 mentioned on page 17.
It is seventy years since the carriage of the mails was transferred
from coach to railway train, and there are yet living men who can
remember the last journeys of the mail-coaches, some carrying little
flags at half-mast, some displaying a miniature coffin, emblematic of
the death of a great institution. Yet the mail-coach survived until a
much later date in some districts, where the line was slow to
penetrate. Mr. S. A. Kinglake, in Baily's Magazine of 1906, gave an
account of the Oxford and Cheltenham coach, which only began to
carry the mails in 1848, and made its last trip in 1862, when the
opening of a new branch line ousted this lingerer on the roads.
The interregnum between the last of the old coaches and the modern
era was not a very long one: indeed, taking the country as a whole,
and accepting the coach as subsidiary to the railway, the old and the
new overlap. Modern road coaching dates from the later 'sixties,
when the late Duke of Beaufort, with some others, started the
Brighton coach. This was the first of several private ventures of the
same kind: their primary object was to enable the owners to enjoy
the pleasure of driving a team, and the financial side of the business
was not much regarded. The subscription coach was a later
development, with the same object in view, pleasure rather than
money-making, and the large majority of the coaches which run from
London to Brighton, St. Albans, Guildford, and other places within an
easy day's journey are maintained by small syndicates of subscribers,
who take turns on the box. American visitors patronise these vehicles
extensively, and no doubt to their support may be traced Mr.
Vanderbilt's venture on the Brighton road.
The modern coach travels quite as fast as its predecessor when
required: as witness James Selby's famous performance on 13th July
1888. He left the White Horse Cellar at 10 A.M.; arrived at the Old
Ship, Brighton, 1.56 P.M.; turned and reached town at 5.50; the
journey out and home again being accomplished in 7 hours 50
minutes; part of the way between Earlswood and Horley he travelled
at a rate of twenty miles an hour.
 Modern Coaching: In the Show Ring
Painting by G. D. Armour.

Nor are modern horse-keepers less ‘nimble fingered’ than those of

whom Nimrod wrote. At the International Horse Show of 1908 Miss
Brocklebank's grooms won the Hon. Adam Beck's prize for ‘Best
coach and appointments and quickest change of teams’: the change
was accomplished in forty-eight seconds. During James Selby's
Brighton drive horses were changed at Streatham in forty-seven
seconds. The road coachmen of the present day do not aim at
lightning changes of team: the work is done in leisurely fashion, and
passengers enjoy the opportunity afforded them to get down for a
few minutes.
The Four-in-Hand Club, founded in 1856, for many years used to
meet in the Park at quarter to five in the afternoon, but the hour was
changed to half-past twelve in order to avoid the inconvenience
inseparable from meeting at the time when carriages are most
numerous.
The Coaching Club was founded in 1870, and held its first meet at
the Marble Arch in June the following year.
SONG OF THE B.D.C.[13]

You ask me, Gents, to sing a song,

Don't think me too encroaching.
I won't detain you very long,
With one of mine on coaching.
No rivalry we have to fear,
Nor jealous need we be, Sir,
We all are friends who muster here,
And in the B.D.C. Sir.

Horace declares the Greeks of old

Were once a driving nation;
But Shakespeare says ‘The World's a stage’—
A cutish observation.
The stage he meant, good easy man,
Was drawn by nine old Muses;
But the Mews for me is the B.D.C.,
And that's the stage I chooses.

I call this age the Iron Age

Of railways and pretension.
And coaching now is in a stage
Of horrible declension,
The day's gone by when on the fly
We roll'd to Alma Mater,
And jovial took the reins in hand
Of the Times or Regulator.

Those were the days when Peyton's grays

To Bedfont led the way, Sir,
And Villebois followed with his bays
In beautiful array, Sir.
Then Spicer, too, came next in view
To join the gay procession.
Oh! the dust we made—the cavalcade
Was neat beyond expression.

No turnpike saw a fancy team

More neat than Dolphin sported,
When o'er the stones with Charley Jones,
To Bedfont they resorted.
Few graced the box so much as Cox;
But there were none, I ween, Sir,
Who hold the reins 'twixt here and Staines
More slap up than the Dean, Sir.

Those are the men who foremost then

To coaching gave a tone, Sir,
And hold they will to coaching still,
Tho' here they stand alone, Sir—
Then drink to the coach, the B.D.C.,
Sir Henry and his team, Sir,
And may all be blowed right off the road
Who wish to go by steam, Sir.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] Robert Poynter drove the Lewes stage for thirty years without
an accident.
[2] 30 Geo. III., c. 36.
[3] The old gentleman's conjecture was not far wrong. At this
time, 1835, it is true fewer men of good birth occupied the box
than had been the case a few years before—if we rightly interpret
Nimrod's own remarks on the point. When the box had been set
on springs or made an integral part of the coach-body, when the
roads had been made worthy of the name and fast work the rule,
coach-driving became popular among men of social position.
Some drove for pleasure, horsing the coaches themselves, others
took up driving as a profession and made good incomes thereby.
These gentlemen coachmen did much to raise the standard of
conduct among the professionals of humble origin. Lord Algernon
St. Maur (Driving, Badminton Library) says that Mr. Stevenson,
who was driving the Brighton Age in 1830, was ‘the great reformer
who set a good example as regards punctuality, neatness, and
sobriety.’
[4] Until Macadam was adopted the streets in London were
cobbled or paved.
[5] John Loudon Macadam was a Scotsman by birth. In 1770,
when fourteen years old, he was sent to the care of an uncle in
New York, whence he did not return till he was twenty-six years of
age; hence the mistake in describing him as ‘an American.’
[6] It was not unusual for retired race-horses to end their days ‘on
the road.’ A notable instance is that of Mendoza by Javelin.
Mendoza won eight races at Newmarket in his three seasons on
the turf, 1791-2-3; then the Duke of Leeds bought him as a
hunter; and after a few seasons with hounds he made one of a
team in the Catterick and Greta Bridge mail-coach. Mendoza was
still at work in 1807, but had become blind.
[7] The early coaches were equipped with a huge basket slung
over the hind axle wherein passengers were carried at lower fares.
[8] Only the mail-coach guard carried a horn; stage-coach guards
used the key-bugle, and some were very clever performers on it.
[9] 50 Geo. III., c. 48 came into operation in 1810. This enacted
that on a four-horse coach baggage might be piled to a height of
2 feet. To encourage low-hung coaches this law allowed baggage
to be piled to a height of 10 ft. 9 in. from the ground.
[10] The conveyance of ‘trunks, parcels, and other packages’ on
the roof of a mail-coach was prohibited in the Postmaster-
General's circular to mail contractors of 29th June, 1807. As the
mails increased it became impossible to enforce this regulation,
and the bags were carried wherever they could be stowed. ‘The
Druid’ says of the Edinburgh mail-coach: ‘The heaviest night as
regards correspondence was when the American mail had come
in. On those occasions the bags have been known to weigh above
16 cwt. They were contained in sacks seven feet long and were
laid in three tiers across the top, so high that no guard unless he
were a Chang in stature could look over them ... and the waist
(the seat behind the coachman) and the hind boot were filled as
well.’
[11] It must be remembered that the old gentleman speaks by the
light of his knowledge of nearly a century earlier, when highway
robbery was very common, and it was not usual for coaches to run
at night. At the period to which Nimrod refers highwaymen had
not entirely disappeared from the roads (William Rea was hanged
for this offence, 4th July, 1828), and not every stage-coach carried
a guard. Mail-coaches, all of which carried guards, were, of
course, unknown to Nimrod's old gentleman.
[12] This refers to the ‘mail-coach parade,’ which was first held in
1799 and for the last time in 1835. The coaches, to the number of
about twenty-five, were either new or newly painted with the
Royal Arms on the door, the stars of each of the four Orders of
Knighthood on the upper panel, and the name of the town whither
the coach ran on the small panel over each door. Coachmen and
guards wore new uniforms and gentlemen used to lend their best
teams—often also their coachmen, as appears from the passage
quoted. A horseman rode behind each coach to make the
procession longer. The ‘meet’ took place in Lincoln's Inn Fields and
the coaches drove to St. James's, there turning to come back to
the General Post Office, then in Lombard Street.
[13] Benson Driving Club.
TANDEM DRIVING

Tandem
Painting by G. D. Armour.
It is said, but I must confess failure to trace authority for the
statement, that tandem driving was invented as a convenient and
sporting method of taking the hunter to the meet. History has not
handed down to fame the name of the man who first hit upon the
idea of driving tandem; it was in vogue over a century ago, and at
Cambridge ranked as a grave offence: witness the following edict
dated 10th March 1807:—
‘We, the Vice-Chancellor and Heads of Colleges, do hereby order and decree
that if any person or persons in statu pupillari shall be found driving any
tandem and shall be duly convicted thereof before the Vice-Chancellor, such
person or persons so offending shall for the first offence be suspended from
taking his degree for one whole year, or be rusticated, according to the
circumstances of the case; and for the second offence be liable to such
further punishment as it may appear to deserve, or be expelled the university.’

Extravagantly high gigs were much in favour among the ‘bloods’ of

the day, and these were often used for tandem driving, a purpose for
which they were by no means unsuitable, always provided the road
was fairly level.
As a matter of course, when tandems became numerous and drivers
clever in handling them, races against time came into fashion.
Matches on the road, whether trotting in saddle or driving, were
usually ‘against time’ for obvious reasons. On April 14th 1819 the
famous whip, Mr. Buxton, backed himself to drive tandem without
letting his horses break their trot, from Hounslow to Hare Hatch,
distance twenty-four miles, in two hours. His horses, however, were
not well matched, and ‘broke’ before they had gone six miles. As
breaking involved the penalty of turning the equipage round and
starting afresh, and breaks were frequent, Mr. Buxton occupied over
an hour in going ten miles and gave up, forfeiting the hundred
guineas he had staked on the task.
On 19th May 1824 a match was thus recorded in the Sporting
Magazine:—
‘Captain Swann undertook a tandem match from Ilford, seven miles
over a part of Epping Forest. He engaged to drive 12 miles at a trot
and to back his wheels if he broke into a gallop. This happened only
once in the seventh mile, which he nevertheless completed in 33
minutes. On his return the pacing of the horses was a picture. The
match was won fairly with two minutes and six seconds to spare.’
A Mr. Houlston in the same year drove his tandem twelve miles on
the Winchester Road in one minute thirty-nine seconds under the
hour allowed. By this time tandem drivers had come to the
reasonable conclusion that the turning penalty (proper enough in
trotting matches, whether in shafts or saddle) was excessive for their
sport, and ‘backing’ had been substituted therefor. Any one who has
had occasion to turn a tandem on the road without assistance will
admit that the abolition was wise.
Long journeys against time were sometimes undertaken. In 1824
‘Captain Bethel Ramsden undertook to drive tandem from Theale to
London, 43 miles, in 3 hours and 40 minutes. The start took place at
four o'clock in the morning, and in the first hour the captain did 12½
miles to between Twyford and Hare Hatch. He did in the next hour 12
miles and upwards, and got the horses' mouths cleaned at Slough.
He had 5½ miles to do in the last forty minutes, and performed it
easily with eleven minutes to spare.’
The cult of the trotting horse stood high in those days when so much
travelling was done in the saddle: there are innumerable records of
trotters doing their fifteen and sixteen miles on the road within the
hour, sometimes under very heavy weights. Mr. Charles Herbert's
horse, in 1791, trotted 17 miles in 58 minutes 40 seconds on the
Highgate Road, starting from St. Giles' Church. The road is by no
means a level one, and the only advantage the horse had was the
hour selected—between six and seven in the morning, when the
traffic was not heavy.
A famous whip of the 'thirties was Mr. Burke of Hereford—he was also
an amateur pugilist of renown, but that does not concern us here. In
June 1839 he made his thirty-fifth trotting match, whereby he
undertook to drive tandem forty-five miles in three hours. The course
was from the Staines end of Sinebury Common to the fifth milestone
towards Hampton: he did it with four and a half minutes to spare.
The horses used in this match were both extraordinary trotters: the
wheeler, Tommy, had covered 20 miles in 1 hour 18 minutes two
months earlier, and the leader, Gustavus, twenty-four years old, had
done his 20 miles in 1 hour 14 minutes.
Though not a tandem performance in the strict sense of the term, Mr.
Thanes' feat on 12th July 1819 is worth mention. He undertook 'to
drive three horses in a gig, tandem fashion, eleven miles within the
hour on the trot, and to turn if either horse broke.' Fortunately none
of the three did break, and he did the eleven miles, on the road near
Maidenhead, with three minutes to spare.
Tandem driving seems to have gone out of fashion to a certain extent
about 1840, though some young men ‘still delighted in it.’ The re-
establishment of the Tandem Club, soon after the close of the
Crimean War, marked a revival which made itself felt at Cambridge;
for on 22nd February 1866 the Senate passed another edict, this time
forbidding livery-stable keepers to let out on hire tandems or four-in-
hands to undergraduates. This was confirmed in 1870.
 Transcriber's Note
The illustrations which were plates in the book have been moved near to the text they
illustrate.
Footnotes in the Coaching chapter have been moved to the end of the chapter.
This book contains inconsistent hyphenations. No spellings have been changed, but
apparent printers' errors have been corrected.
Changes that have been made are:

Footnote 11 “s peks” changed to “speaks”,

Footnote 11 “robaery” changed to “robbery”,
Page 33 Quotation mark added to start of “and take care of yourselves”.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COACHING DAYS &
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