Cranford was still mulling over the General’s “terms” when he rode into Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the rather gloomy home of so many gentlemen of courts and the law. Enquiry of a porter took him to the north and brighter side of the buildings and he left Tassels with a hopeful page-boy who promised, crossing his heart several times, to let no one come near her.
Henry Shorewood, Esquire, had upstairs chambers into which Cranford was shown, with much bowing, by an elderly clerk. A few minutes later the barrister came into the room with a rush, and kicking the door shut advanced upon Cranford at such speed that his robe billowed out behind him. He was a big burly man, with heavy features and small pale eyes that contrasted sharply with skin so bronzed that Cranford thought he resembled a farmer rather than a learned man of the law.
“Shorewood!” he announced as though a hundred people listened eagerly in the courtyard below, and glancing at Cranford’s calling-card he boomed, “Cranford, eh? Heard that name before! Got a crippled brother, ain’t you? Did damned well in that sticky bit of treason last year! Damned well!” A ham-like fist shot out to enclose Cranford’s outstretched hand like a vise, then he marched to his desk, swept all the papers onto the floor and said, “Sit down, sit down!” while lowering his bulk into the large chair behind the desk.
“Now,” he said with a broad grin, “I can give you my undivided attention. Have to do it, y’know. Anything left on the desk, I start to look at it, then forget where I am! How the hell have you managed to hold on to that pretty estate of yours?”
‘Phew!’ thought Cranford. “You’ve seen Muse Manor, Mr. Shorewood?”
“Several times. A client drove me down there to look over a parcel of land. Wants to buy it. Finchley. Made several offers to the Westermans. Know ’em? An interesting lot. Are you in the basket?”
Cranford stared at him resentfully. “Absolutely not. Why would you think we’re in trouble?”
Shorewood’s great boom of a laugh rattled the casements. “Blunt, ain’t I? Don’t have time for backing and filling. Why are you here, then?”
“To try and discover if the Westermans have accepted an offer. I called on them but was unable to talk to Mr. Westerman.”
“Be remarkable if you were! Been dead these ten years!”
Taken aback, Cranford said, “But—Miss Westerman said he was out of the country.”
“Miss Celeste Westerman?” Shorewood chuckled. “Have a care, friend. She’s a huntress if ever I saw one! Pretty, though.”
“I meant Miss Mary Westerman.”
“Hmm. Ain’t met that one. Why d’you want to know about the offer? Want the property yourself? Understood you’d sold it.”
“We did, but I want it back. I’m—negotiating the loan now, but of course, if an offer has been accepted…”
“Ain’t, so far as I’m aware.”
“Did you know Finchley erected a fence around the cottage that fairly blocks access to the bridge, and has put up some damn great sign threatening to shoot trespassers?”
The pale eyebrows went up. Shorewood tore off his wig suddenly and hurled it across the room. “Has he, by God!” His eyes narrowed. With a sly grin he said, “I’ll wager it ain’t up now.”
Cranford chuckled. “You must have a crystal ball. The sign appears to have—er, fallen down. Can I be hauled up before a judge?”
“Not unless the sign went up by permission of the owners.”
“Miss Westerman said it was Finchley’s idea and she called it a great piece of impertinence.”
“Then the ladies likely think you did ’em a favour. That all?”
“No. I’d like to know who is bidding on our estate. Can you find out?”
“Don’t need to. I know. Can’t tell you though unless I’m give leave.”
Irked, Cranford said, “Can you tell me if there is more than one would-be buyer?”
The solicitor contemplated his wig thoughtfully. “Have you discussed it with your own solicitor?”
“Yes. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Barnabas Evans of Clifford’s Inn.”
“You hire him?”
“No. My great-uncle did, when he was made Trustee of the estate.”
“Hmm. Poor choice. Don’t like the fella, so I’ll tell you—yes, there are two interested parties. That’s all I can say.”
“My thanks. But as for the river parcel, if the ladies can’t do business, then who.”
“There’s a brother who lives abroad. At the moment they’re still arguing over the pros and cons. They enjoy arguing. If they ever make up their minds I can act for ’em. Liable to be a long wait unless we hear from the brother. Good day, sir. You can pay my clerk on your way out. I’ve another client due any second.”
Cranford was ushered out. Shorewood was irritating, but he found that he liked the man, even so. The liking was evidently mutual, because as he closed the door, Shorewood said, “If you change attorneys, sir, pray keep me in mind.”
Outside, it was cold and a thin mist had drifted from the river. Cranford acknowledged to himself resignedly that there was no use procrastinating; he must get on with his pursuit of the frigid Miss Cordelia Stansbury. The page-boy was some distance away, holding Tassels and talking with a gentleman who was stroking the mare. Cranford strode to them. “Are you—” he began.
Gervaise Valerian whipped around. “The devil! I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, his dark brows twitching into a scowl. “But it’s as well I did! We’ve a score to settle, cousin! No man kicks me and runs away clear!”
The page-boy drew back, looking frightened.
Cranford tossed him a coin and thanked him and the boy fled. “I didn’t run away,” he corrected. “And you deserved kicking, if only for the way you treat young Herbert Turner.”
Valerian pulled off his gauntlet and said softly, “Need I throw this in your face? Or are you man enough to meet me?”
“I am meeting you. Much against my better judgment. No, you can put back your glove. Since you’re challenging, I’ve choice of weapons and time and place—no?”
Valerian brightened, and bowed mockingly.
“Very well,” said Cranford. “I choose fists. And—here and now.”
Valerian stared at him glassy-eyed. ‘That—that is disgusting?’ he declared in a near squawk. “Gentlemen don’t fight with fists! You’re bamming me! Come now, Cranford, you must have some small knowledge of civilized behaviour. Swords or pistols?”
“I don’t consider duelling to be civilized behaviour. And from what I hear, you could kill me with either weapon.”
“Oh, yes.” A gleam came into the grey eyes, and pursing his lips, Valerian said, “Might not, y’know. I’d give you a sporting chance.”
“Thank you, but the odds are not in my favour, I think. I’m no amateur with pistols or steel, but I’ve not made duelling my career, as you appear to have done.”
“Fiend seize you—” snorted Valerian.
Cranford overrode his indignation. “On the other hand, I’m pretty fair with my ‘fives’ and it would do my heart good to squash that dainty nose of yours and, as my groom would say, ‘darken your daylights’”
“Barbarian!” With a shudder Valerian fingered his slim nose tenderly. “Tell you what,” he said, recovering as they walked across the courtyard side by side. “I’ll give you my word not to do you a serious injury if you’ll sell me your mare.”
Cranford halted, staring at him. “What, are you after her, too? Why? I’ve seen your black and he’s a dashed fine—And that reminds me! What the deuce were you doing riding across my land the other day?”
“Short cut from—ah, here—to there,” drawled the dandy airily. “Besides, I wanted to look over your estate. Member of the family, y’know.”
“If you consider yourself a member of my family, I wonder you didn’t stop and say hello. Certainly you saw us.”
“I caught a glimpse of a fellow in a horse and cart. Was that
you, coz? But how degradingly rural. I’d have rid over and enjoyed a good laugh had I only known. That’s what comes of not paying attention, alas. But I was in a hurry.”
“Too much of a hurry to come back when you heard that shot?”
“I assumed the yokel with the cart was shooting rabbits. I collect I was mistaken. Never say some bad man means to put a period to you? Zounds! What if he should try again and hit your pretty mare instead? I must save the dainty darling. See here, Cranford, I’ll double my offer. If you value her safety you’ll be eager to accept!”
“I value her too highly to entrust her to a dandified hedge-bird like you!” Starting to mount up, Cranford was astonished when Valerian caught his arm. Wrenching clear, he growled, “You silly block! Be off with you!”
“No! I tell you I must have her! Name your price!”
Puzzled, Cranford said, “There is no price on Tassels. Lord knows, of late I’ve had offers enough. Some even more dashed persistent than you!”
“And you cannot guess why?” Valerian said impatiently, “For the steeplechase, you clod. If you had an ounce of sporting blood you’d know of it. Several gentlemen have put up the purse. Last I heard it was a thousand guineas.”
“Jupiter! I collect every horseman in London is riding!”
“It’s a limited field. Competition is fierce and the word’s gone out that your Miss Tassels is very fast. I saw you at the gallop when your brother was at the Manor, and I believe it.”
“So that’s why you’ve been lurking about! You’re entered, I take it?”
“Of course. I can put that fat purse to good use, and I’m a sportsman to the core.”
“Not how I’d describe you—cousin. And much you need a fat purse. You’re heir to one of the largest fortunes in the land and spend money like water.”
“Untrue.” Valerian added broodingly, “My old curmudgeon of a sire gives me a niggardly allowance.”
Cranford doubted this. He had met Sir Simon Valerian on a few occasions, and both he and Peregrine admired him as an honourable gentleman with a kindly and generous nature. Scarcely the type to begrudge adequate financial support for his son and heir. Unless rumour spoke true and Gervaise had broken his father’s heart.
“Your father being a man of impeccable morals, you likely brought it on yourself,” he said. “I’ll wager you offended him by refusing to honour your promise to Miss Stansbury. If that’s the root of it I’d think your logical course would be to marry the girl.”
Valerian scowled. “Logical for a dull dog like yourself, with little to offer any lady, except perhaps a Cit’s daughter. No, when I take a bride she will be a diamond of the first water, afflicted by neither baby fat nor spots.”
“Charming,” said Cranford drily. “But while your lack of gallantry is only to be expected, it is somewhat surprising. I found the lady to be slender and er—spotless. And quite as foolish a slave to the whims of fashion as your so elegant self.”
Ignoring the contemptuous mockery in Cranford’s words, Valerian stared at him and said incredulously, “Cordelia Stansbury? Elegant? By Gemini, your judgment is even more faulted than I’d suspected! The chit is a mouse!”
“She may have been when you knew her. She’s no mouse now.”
“Nor is she an heiress,” jeered Valerian. “And you need an heiress, do you not?”
Someone was hailing them in a weak, warbling tenor.
Valerian exclaimed, “Curse it all! I forgot my appointment with the strident Shorewood and he’s sent his ancient clerk tottering after me. Last chance, Cranford! Name your price and I’ll double it!”
“A hundred thousand gold doubloons,” said Cranford, laughing at him. “And I give you fair warning, if the steeplechase offers such a large purse I just might ride Tassels myself.”
Valerian scowled, then laughed and started away, walking trippingly on his high heels. “I hope you do, dear coz. Truly, I hope you do.”
Cranford called, “Tour sire is a superb horseman—does he ride in this steeplechase?”
“If I thought there were a chance of that,” declared Valerian bitterly, “I’d not venture within a mile of the course!”
Cranford thought of his own father, loving and loved, and so sadly missed down through the years. Gervaise Valerian didn’t deserve the fine gentleman who had sired him and for whom he could never find a good word. His lip curled. “Ramshackle court-card,” he muttered contemptuously, and turned Tassels in the direction of St. James’s Park and the home of the redoubtable Mrs. Regina Stansbury.
There had evidently been some kind of event at the Opera House; traffic was unusually heavy. Horsemen, carriages, and carts jostled for space, and apprentices and lackeys darted recklessly among the vehicles. Tassels tossed her head and snorted, and Cranford muttered, “I agree, my lady,” and turned off the Strand onto a quieter thoroughfare. It was no better paved than the pot-holed and muddy streets he’d traversed since leaving Lincoln’s Inn, but there was less traffic to be contended with.
The scattering of elegant shops seemed well patronized; a young couple was entering a jewellery shop, two gentlemen escorted an elderly lady from an emporium with a discreet sign in the window announcing a specialization in “Rare and Precious Items from the Mystic East.” A luxurious carriage pulled up outside the establishment of a modiste—a shop he recognized since his sister had once asked him to collect a package from there. He glanced idly at the matron who was handed from the carriage. The door to the shop opened as she approached and a young lady came out and stood aside respectfully, allowing the older woman to pass. Aside from a haughty glance, she received not so much as a nod of thanks.
‘Shabby treatment’, thought Cranford, and then grinned as the young lady dropped a distinctly mocking curtsy to the closing door. She turned about, clearly vexed.
“Now, by Jove!” he muttered, and reined Tassels into the kennel. Swinging from the saddle, he raised his tricorne and cried eagerly, “Miss Westerman! What luck to meet you here!”
She halted, staring at him. He had a momentary impression that she was flustered, but she smiled warmly as they shook hands. “Yes, indeed. Are you often in the City, Mr. Cranford?”
“Not really. May I carry your bandbox? Or is this your carriage approaching?”
She relinquished the box and said that the carriage was not calling for her. Cranford glanced about and she added mischievously, “No, I have not brought my abigail or footman. Nor am I a green girl.”
The afternoon was chill, and noting that she slipped both hands into the large muff she carried, he asked if she had far to go. “Perhaps I should call up a chair for you?”
“I might take a chair in a little while, but I enjoy to walk about London. There is so much to see.”
The lady did not bow to convention, evidently, but with those three shatter-brained aunts to guide her, one could scarce wonder at it. “Very true,” he agreed. “Am I permitted to accompany you?”
“Please do. I heard the King may drive out today. Is that why you came this way? I never have seen him wearing his crown and riding in his coach and eight, with all his high officers and the guards around him.”
“I believe he only takes the whole lot when he’s bound to or from Parliament, ma’am.” Leading Tassels, he walked on beside her. “His other jaunts are a little less ostentatious. As for me, I went to see your solicitor, Mr. Shorewood. Quite an interesting fellow.”
“Yes.” There was an outburst of shouting nearby and she had to raise her voice slightly so as to be heard. “Was he able to tell you about the sale of our property?”
“Not really. He confirmed that Gresford Finchley has put in a strong bid, but until your uncle returns or your aunts make up their minds, he cannot act.”
She glanced at him from under the hood of her cloak. “My—uncle?”
“Yes. No! What a clunch I am! I suppose he must have been referring to your father. Do you correspond with him, Miss Mary? Dare I beg that if I am able to make a decent
offer you will intercede for me?”
“I will be glad to do whatever—” The level of commotion had been rising and she abandoned her attempt to finish the sentence. As they reached Whitehall and turned the corner, they became part of a noisy throng. People were all about them, pushing and shouting in good-humoured excitement. Cranford drew Miss Mary closer to him, and edged Tassels back.
“What’s to do?” he asked a man who had climbed the rail fence around an area-way and clung rather precariously to a flambeau. “Is the King to pass by?” The response was incoherent, but a bright-eyed linkboy said, “That’s it, guv’nor. Big weddin’ at St. George’s, there was. All the ’ristocrats like to get leg-shackled there, ’cause it’s new.”
Mary climbed two front steps, but wailed that she couldn’t see above the crowd.
“Whyn’t yer give the lidy a ’eave-up, yer worship?” shouted the linkboy.
Cranford said with a smile, “Good idea, lad. By your leave, ma’am,” and handing the bandbox to the boy, he lifted Mary to his saddle.
She gave a squeal, but did not protest, and when he had retrieved her bandbox and rewarded the boy he climbed the steps and had a fair view of the procession.
As he’d expected, the King rode in a sedan-chair today. He was preceded by six gorgeous footmen. Six Yeomen of the Guard walked majestically on either side of the monarch. The sedan-chair was an elaborate affair much embellished with gilded scrolls and the royal arms. Miss Mary would be disappointed, thought Cranford, because the King did not wear a crown. A powdered wig of the latest French fashion lent distinction to his heavy features and a blue coat richly embroidered with gold thread did its best with the florid royal figure. Leaning back against the squabs, King George smiled fixedly and raised a languid hand from time to time in acknowledgment of the shouts of his subjects, though not all those shouts were complimentary.
Next came the coaches of the officers-in-waiting, and since there were many of these and the pace of the procession was not rapid, Cranford began to think they would be trapped in the crowd until dark. At last, however, the parade came to an end, the onlookers began to disperse, and he was able to lift Miss Westerman from the saddle.
The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 12
