Cranford took up his gloves. “Does that clarify the matter, then? You will approve the loan? I am nigh eight and twenty, as you know, Seequist, and I assure you the Trust has long since been terminated.”
“Of course, of course.” The bank manager rose and came around the desk to shake the hand of this young man for whom he harboured a deep admiration. Opening the door, he said gently, “All we will need, Mr. Cranford, is a clarification from General Lord Nugent, and we can proceed.”
A few minutes later, watching from the window as Cranford’s coach splashed through drenched Basingstoke, Mr. Seequist shook his head ruefully.
“Proper vexed, he was, sir,” murmured his assistant, carrying a sheaf of papers into the office. “Not like the Lieutenant to swear.”
“We may be thankful it was Piers Cranford I’d to deal with,” said Seequist, turning from the window. “If it had been that young hothead, Sir Peregrine, you’d have heard a deal more language, and a sight sooner!”
“I fancy he’s off to see the General. Then he’ll come back, eh, sir? You don’t think hell take offence?”
“I hope not.” Mr. Seequist took up the top letter and looked at it unseeingly. “I’d no choice in the matter, but I would hate to lose his business—or his friendship. For such a young fellow to be saddled with the responsibilities he’s had to cope with all these years… He saved his twin’s life during the Rebellion, did you know? Went back from the retreat at Prestonpans, crossed enemy lines to find him, then carried him out, got him home and managed to keep him alive when we all thought Peregrine was doomed. The estate was heavily encumbered and ’tis thanks to his efforts it wasn’t lost to them. He’s worked like a Trojan to keep things running smoothly—or at least to make it appear that way.”
“Is it not—er, ‘running smoothly’ sir?”
“Let us say, rather, that it has been a close-run thing. I honestly thought several times he was dished and would never be able to keep the property, but he juggled this, and manoeuvred that, and somehow hauled them out of the River Tick. It was an impressive feat for so young a man. I doubt his family knew the half of it… I just hope there’s not a cockroach in his ale, is all.”
His assistant watched him curiously. “Do you believe something is seriously amiss, sir?”
Mr. Seequist summoned a smile and declared in a rather hollow voice that he never entertained gloomy thoughts.
3
The following afternoon was ushered in by a blustery wind that carried occasional flurries of cold rain. Once again seated on the box of Piers Cranford’s rather shabby coach, Florian tucked his chin into the scarf about his throat and narrowed his eyes against a chilly gust as he guided the chestnut pair towards Mayfair. It was a pity, he thought, that they’d had to leave Muse Manor, but the Lieutenant—he still thought of Cranford by his military title although he’d left the service two years ago—had been in a fine rage yesterday when they’d reached the country home of his illustrious great-uncle, so it was perhaps as well they’d been advised that General Lord Nugent Cranford was not in residence, and was instead occupying his Town house.
This philosophical outlook came less easily to Cranford. Seequist’s polite but immovable request for a letter from his great-uncle had at first astonished, then infuriated him. The General, in his typically high-handed fashion, had likely deemed it unnecessary to remind the bank of the full details of the Trust. Irritated as he was, he knew he would have to tread carefully around the old fellow. General Lord Nugent had been decidedly testy of late. A distant relative of his late wife had tricked him into an involvement with the infamous League of Jewelled Men, and in all innocence he had enabled that traitorous group to further their plans. It was all smoothed over now, of course, but Lord Nugent had bitterly reproached himself for having been gulled. TU have to bear that in mind and keep calm’, thought Cranford. He tried always to be polite to his seniors, but this confounded stumbling block with the loan was enough to—No. He would be calm and not allow his temper to get the best of him.
He glanced idly at the passing traffic, noting that Florian was driving with his usual skill. Didn’t want the horses slipping on London’s wet cobblestones; a grand fellow with a horse was Florian.
The coach slowed, and here they were at last, pulling into the porte-cochère beside the General’s imposing Mayfair house, and the footman running to open the door of the carriage.
In the warm hall, Spiers, his great-uncle’s elderly butler, pink and round and unshakeable, greeted him with his customary suavity and assisted him to remove his cloak. He was advised that Lord Nugent would be pleased to see the Lieutenant. Perhaps he would care to wait in the morning-room?
Cranford knew the signs. “Another caller, Spiers?”
“As you say, sir.” The morning-room door was swung open. Spiers bowed and withdrew but not before Piers had glimpsed the twinkle in the faded brown eyes.
The morning room, a rather spartan chamber, was brightened by a small fire and two branches of candles. A tall young man was sprawled in a chair before the hearth. He turned his head and peered over his shoulder.
‘Oh, egad!’ thought Cranford. ‘The Deplorable Dandy!’
Gervaise Valerian rose with supple grace and bowed low. “My very dear coz,” he drawled. “But what a coincidence.” Sauntering forward, he held out one slender white hand on which gleamed a great sapphire ring.
Cranford returned the handshake reluctantly. At least the fellow did not have a limp grip, but that was the most that could be said in his favour. There were those, he knew, who would disagree with his sentiments, if only because Valerian wore his clothes well and, typically, was today the epitome of elegance. His wig was a work of art, as was the dark blue coat that hugged his broad shoulders as if molded to them. Beneath a paler blue satin and exquisitely embroidered waistcoat his breeches were pearl-grey, his stockings ornamented with blue clocks, and aquamarine buckles graced his high-heeled shoes.
Cranford ran a contemptuous glance over this magnificence, and thought, ‘Faugh!’ He met the light grey eyes then—famous eyes, darkly lashed under thick, soaring brows, set in a lean face that created havoc in innumerable female hearts and loathing in as many male ones.
Valerian sighed and waved his jewelled quizzing-glass in exaggerated dismay. “Alas, but I offend. As usual. Should you wish that I take myself off, coz?”
Feeling like a graceless oaf, Cranford said shortly, “Why should you think me offended? I am not master here. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, am I your cousin.”
“But my very dear fellow, we are related. So sad for you, I know. But my lovely grand mama was, I believe, second cousin—or was it once removed?—to the late Lady Eudora Cranford. Your great-aunt, that is. Or rather, that was.” Valerian smiled sweetly as he returned to his chair. “Forgive if I continue to offend by failing to pour you a glass of wine. I am a trifle fatigued, you know. Boredom, no doubt. Ah—” He waved the quizzing-glass gently at Cranford and drawled, “You are going to reiterate that you are not offended. But how am I to think otherwise when you scowl at me with such ferocity? I fancy it comes from your military background, but I declare ’tis quite frightening to a gentle individual of peaceful disposition. I shall probably be forced to seek a more serene atmosphere.”
Cranford stalked to the sideboard, and, refraining from suggesting the atmosphere that he considered to be most appropriate for this dandified wastrel, poured himself a glass of claret. “My apologies if I appear—disgruntled,” he said insincerely.
“But, of course, coz. You have—as usual—so much on your poor mind. I quite understand. And for you to be summoned… Oh, dear me!”
Well aware of the mocking laughter in Valerian’s eyes, Cranford chose a chair on the far side of the hearth and sat down. “Would you care to elaborate?”
His alleged “cousin” blinked. “How so? Ah, you mean as to your having been summoned! Well, you were, weren’t you? I mean, if not—why come?”
Cranford sip
ped his wine. “You came.”
“I am all dutiful obedience. Whereas you, although two—or is it three years?—my junior, are a dauntless and gallant war hero whom I had fancied impervious to the whims of aging tyrants.”
“I was not summoned. If you were, the General will doubtless wish to talk with you privately, so I’ll leave you to—”
“But the old gentleman and I have already—er, enjoyed our little tête-à-tête; I had supposed that was why you were called into the breach, as it were.”
Cranford stared at him. “If you’ve already talked to his lordship and are so averse to his company, you are doubtless eager to leave. Or do you stay to dine?”
With an artistic shudder, Valerian said, “Perish the thought! His cook, my dear! Dreadful! And with your usual perspicacity you guessed rightly, I am eager to depart. But I was shattered, quite levelled by my—er, great-uncle’s choler. Such language you soldiers use! Though I comprehend that you are no longer—how is it the Scots say?—of that ilk! So quaint. Where was I? Oh, yes—being shattered, so that I judged it necessary, nay, vital for one of my delicate constitution, to rest and—ah, recuperate before venturing into the rain. And when I saw your coach roll in, I felt it my bounden duty to stay and warn you.”
“Indeed?” drawled Cranford, not bothering to conceal his boredom.
“But yes, coz. I am a very loyal fellow, you know. And it seemed unfair to let you go trusting and unarmed, as it were, into the lion’s den. Especially since my own regrettable moral standards have brought about—” He paused as the door opened and Spiers returned, followed by a maid carrying a tray of buttered scones, sliced cold meats and cheese, and little cakes.
“Aha!” Valerian sat straighter as the girl blushingly set the tray before him. “Bless you, my pretty one! The condemned man—or should that be the reprieved man? Yes, I feel that is more apropos. The reprieved man shall eat a hearty meal!”
The maid’s giggle ended in a squeak and she moved hurriedly from the vicinity of the chair, shaking her head chidingly at Valerian’s grin.
Fixing the clearly unrepentant culprit with a stern stare, the butler dismissed the girl and said, “His lordship will see you now, Lieutenant Cranford.”
Valerian quoted softly, “‘There is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible as the conscience that dwells in the heart of every man…’ Sadly, I acknowledge it. Do pray keep that in mind, coz.”
Ignoring him, Cranford followed the butler.
In the wainscoted withdrawing-room General Lord Nugent Cranford stood before the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind him as he gazed into the fire. A man of large frame, he dressed conservatively, his one bow to the current whims of fashion being the high French wig he wore. The Indian sun had weathered features more often described as “daunting” than “handsome,” an impression heightened by a large nose and prominent chin. Above a pair of keen hazel eyes, bushy eyebrows betrayed the fact that earlier in life his hair had been red.
He turned as the door opened and his flushed countenance told Cranford that this would be a stormy interview.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” he began, coming forward to endure the older man’s numbing handshake.
“Glad you’re here,” boomed the General. “Would have sent for you at all events.” He motioned his grandnephew to a fireside chair and offered a glass of Madeira, which Piers declined politely. Pouring himself a glass, his lordship grunted, “But I forget m’manners. A courtesy call, m’boy?”
“One is certainly overdue, sir.” Piers could almost feel the older man’s wrath, and he said cautiously, “I’m glad to find you well.”
The General glowered, took a deep breath, and barked, “And what of you and your charges? Dimity, or Mitten, as you call her, has done well for herself, eh? A title and a fine estate. All serene in Farrar’s household, I trust? And Peregrine? Going to wed the Grainger chit, still? Could have aimed higher, there.”
“They are deep in love, sir. In fact, it’s partly because of their impending marriage that I’ve come to consult you.” Piers added hastily, “Besides wanting to visit you, of course.”
Lord Nugent occupied an adjacent chair and waved his wineglass impatiently. “Why should you seek my opinion of your twin’s marriage now? Shutting the barn door after the horse has fled, is it not?”
Nerving himself, Piers launched into his carefully rehearsed explanation. Those heavy and expressive eyebrows shot up when he mentioned “three hundred acres” and drew down sharply when he spoke of his plans for the river parcel, the proposed bank loan and the necessity to confirm the dissolution of the Trust. “For, as you know, sir, my father intended those provisions to remain in force only until I attained my majority.”
The General uttered two deafening barks of sound that vaguely resembled coughs. “Are you not forgetting that I funded the educations of yourself and your twin?”
Startled, Piers replied, “No, indeed, sir! We both are extreme grateful, and—”
“And that it was my generosity that bestowed a decent dowry on your sister?”
“We are very aware of that also, Uncle, and will never forget your kindness. Which is why I did not approach you for a loan in this matter, but—”
“But plunged ahead with ill-considered plans to purchase another parcel of land without even determining whether it might be more to the point to sell the estate?”
Stunned, Piers stared into the eyes that glared ferocity. “Sell—Muse Manor?” he gasped. “Absolutely not! Under no circumstances! It has been home to our family for centuries, and—”
“Times change!” The General stood and stamped over to the mantel again. In a rasp of a voice he said, “There was a codicil to your father’s will that I kept from you. I admired the way in which, despite your lack of experience, you took on the responsibility for your brother and sister, and I had no wish to interfere until—or in case—it became necessary.”
“A—codicil, sir?”
There was steel in the young voice now, and a glint of anger in the blue eyes. ‘Natural enough’, thought the General, and the level of his own voice rose as he said, “You did not know, perhaps, that a year or so prior to his death, I loaned your father a large sum, with Muse Manor estate as collateral. I could be said to have a—a vested interest in the property.”
Speechless, Piers watched him.
“Which is why,” resumed Lord Nugent, I was appointed legal counsellor to my nephew’s children until the eldest reaches thirty years of age.”
“Legal counsellor?” Recovering his wits, Piers exclaimed, “But—even if that were so—”
“Do you dare doubt my word?” Lord Nugent’s boom rattled the prisms on the lamp. “By God, sir, but you’re an impertinent young bounder! Were you under my command and had implied—”
“I apologize. I—I can only suppose there is some misunderstanding here.” Struggling to comprehend this sinister development, Piers said, “I have the most profound respect for you, Uncle. But this is so—new to me, and—and at all events, I doubt a legal counsellor has the right to—”
“He can counsel against any hare-brained decisions that would work to the detriment of the estate. And he can—if necessary to protect the heirs of his deceased nephew and in his own interest—order the property sold. In case of—er, emergency.”
Piers sprang to his feet and demanded explosively. “What emergency? I’ve worked like hell to restore our finances! I do not know the sum of these vested interests you speak of. Indeed, I was unaware that my father had borrowed ’gainst the estate. But you will be repaid, sir! And you may believe I’ll challenge in the courts if anyone tries to take the estate away from us!”
The General stamped to face him, and roared, “And you may believe, Lieutenant Sauce, that if I so decide, Muse Manor will be sold! In its entirety! And I promise you that, when the facts become known, no court in the land will oppose me. On the other hand…” He sat down again, and avoiding his great-nephew’s enraged glare, sa
id in a calmer tone, “If you are willing to abide by my wishes, that would, of course, change matters.”
Piers, who had been about to demand the “facts” the old gentleman had implied, was thrown off-stride, and asked instead, “And what are these “wishes” of yours, Uncle?”
“They concern—But sit down, m’boy, so we may be comfortable.”
Still seething with shock and resentment, Piers thought, ’Comfortable? but he took his seat again, and waited.
The General pondered a moment, then said heavily, “It is a matter of honour, I regret to say—or the lack of it! A matter involving your cousin.”
Piers ran the faces of his cousins through his mind’s eye. His mother’s two brothers had families, one residing in Wales, and the other in Leicestershire. He’d never met his Welsh cousins but knew there were a sickly youth and three girls. The Leicestershire Guilds were a successful farming family, and Aunt Jane, who corresponded with her brother’s wife several times a year, had sometimes remarked that their elder son, Adam, had been “a source of worry” to his parents.
“Adam Guild?” asked Piers thoughtfully. “I’d heard he is a handful.”
“Who the deuce is—Oh. Your mama’s brother’s boy, oh? No, no. I refer to Valerian.”
“Valerian? That fellow is scarce a cousin of ours, sir! I fail to see how—”
“Evidently. I wish I could agree. Gervaise Valerian is a mountebank, a rogue, a—a posturing popinjay, the despair of his unfortunate sire, and all but disowned by his lovely mother, whom he drove to live in France rather than endure his nonsense! Regrettably, his grandmama was cousin to your grandmother, and the confounded disrespectful here-and-thereian means to drag our proud reputation through the mire!”
“What—another duel, Uncle? Which lady’s husband is after his blood this time?”
“The lady has no husband. And if her father weren’t off frippering around some pesthole t’other side of civilization, he should be calling out the young scoundrel! I see you are confused. You surely knew that Miss Stansbury has been rescued?”
The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 4
