“Gladly. Later, though. I’ve kept Marbury waiting as it is!” With a grin and a wave to his friend, Cranford started away, then turned back to ask with proper nonchalance, “Have you seen Tio Glendenning?”
“Yes, indeed. He’s entered, in fact. Fine chestnut mare called um…”
“Flame. Yes, I know.” Turning to the door, Cranford’s smile died abruptly. He thought, Tio, you idiot! Did you not get my warning?…’
The stables were crowded and buzzing with talk; the race, the odds, the points of the various horses, the merits and expertise of the riders being the only topics of conversation. In a centre stall the Duke of Marbury was caressing Tassels and chatting with Daniel Sudbury, Muse Manor’s head groom. A sturdily built man in his late forties, Sudbury curried the mare and answered the duke respectfully. As Cranford made his way through the throng and came up with them, he heard Marbury say, “… doesn’t appear capable of showing her heels to my grandson’s Rumpelstiltskin, but the word is she’s a very fast little lady.”
“’Tis a word you may believe, sir,” said Cranford. “And speaking of ladies, I’m told you have several in your party.”
The duke smiled faintly as they exchanged a handshake, but said nothing. His early marriage had been disastrous. After his wife’s death, many handkerchiefs had been dropped for him, for he was the possessor of a great fortune. He had eluded every “parson’s mousetrap” set for him, however, although through the years several beauties were known to have enjoyed his protection. Only five months ago he had astonished Society by wedding the widowed Lady Clorinda Ericson, his childhood sweetheart.
Wondering if the ducal eye was already wandering, Cranford dared to murmur, “I suppose I must not ask if one of your fair companions is your charming lady wife?”
“Certainly not,” declared the duke. “Can you believe I would bring the duchess to an event intended for vulgar male creatures?”
Tassels snorted and tossed her head, impatient for Cranford’s caress. He moved at once to stroke her velvety nose and assure her she was as lovely as ever. The duke looked amused and Cranford said with a grin, “She is all female, sir, and demands her share of affection.”
“Yes, I can see that your Miss Tassels is properly devoted to you, though I suspect the feeling is mutual. What a pretty creature she is, to be sure. And you are agog with curiosity to know whom I have escorted today. I promise you, my boy—” Marbury glanced around and lowered his voice. “I promise you I have—er, mended my ways. I refused to offer these ladies my escort unless they were veiled as propriety demands, and I’ve no intention of revealing their identities.” He chuckled and dug an elbow in Cranford’s ribs. “There are very few of the fair sex here today, and Roland will be beside himself with curiosity. Now tell me: Is it truth that you are in the basket?”
The duke had spoken softly, but the abrupt and typical shift of subject took Cranford off-stride. He flushed and glanced around, embarrassed. “Not quite that, Your Grace. The fact is that I am in hopes of enlarging the estate but seem to have encountered some determined opposition.”
“From Lord Nugent? Why? Yes, am I not the rude old gentleman? Never mind, here come my ladies, so you are reprieved.”
Cranford’s relief at the timely interruption was short-lived. Two ladies approached, each with a hand tucked into the arm of the gentleman who walked between them. They wore warm cloaks and were, as the duke had said, heavily veiled. Their cavalier, the epitome of elegance, minced along on high red heels and made no attempt to restrain the mocking grin that curved his beautifully shaped mouth.
“Valerian!” thought Cranford with revulsion.
“How glad I am that the look in your eyes is not aimed in my direction,” remarked the duke sotto voce. “But I’ll warrant you cannot name the lovely creatures on the arms of the—er, “deplorable dandy’”
So His Grace knew of his sobriquet for his unwanted kinsman. Irritated, Cranford wondered if these ladies, who defied convention by coming here, were the latest victims of Valerian’s much-vaunted “charm.”
“Well, well,” drawled the dandy. “If it ain’t my gallant military cousin come to lose the race.”
A familiar giggle sounded, and one of the mysterious ladies trilled, “How droll you are, Gervaise!”
“Deuce take it!” gasped Cranford, the mystery resolved. “Mary! What on earth are you doing here?”
A plump little hand emerged from its muff and Lucretia Westerman scolded teasingly, “Naughty, naughty boy! You should address me first, you know.”
Ignoring his cousin’s amused chuckle, Cranford bowed over Mrs. Lucretia’s fingers and apologized. “But you should not have brought her, ma’am. This is not a suitable meeting for a lady to attend without inviting notoriety.”
Miss Mary twitched away a corner of her veil and briefly her eyes twinkled at him. Small wonder her eyes were so sparkling, he thought. She must be in alt to be on the arm of her idol.
“I am already notorious,” she asserted pertly. “Besides, the duke was so kind as to offer us his escort. You will surely not find fault with His Grace for bringing us here?”
“Touché!” exclaimed Valerian, laughing. “Well done, Cordelia. Wriggle out of that, if you can, cousin mine.”
Cranford ignored him. “Of course I don’t find fault with the duke’s kindness, but you must be aware, Mrs. Lucretia, that it is not—”
“—the thing,” interposed Miss Stansbury. “La, but what a piece of work you make of it, Lieutenant. I’d think you might be grateful because we came to cheer you on when your lovely Tassels wins.”
“He wants for gratitude, my love,” trilled Mrs. Lucretia. “Did I not say it?”
Valerian shook his head. “Such lovely creatures to come so far and be spurned for their loyalty! For shame, coz!”
Feeling a veritable ingrate, Cranford flushed and declared that he was most grateful for the support of the ladies.
“Good, for we have put down some guineas on you, thanks to Muffin,” imparted Mrs. Lucretia, evidently sufficiently acquainted with the duke to use his nickname. “Oh, but it is such fun to be naughty!”
“Alas, but your fun will cause you to lose your money,” said Valerian. “Although my cousin tries to pretend I am not here, he will have no choice but to see me win.”
“I very much doubt that,” snapped Cranford, yearning to wipe the smirk from those classically perfect features.
Valerian said thoughtfully, “No, you’re probably right.
I doubt you’ll stay the course. I am banking on it, in point of fact.”
“Betting on yourself, eh?” inserted the duke, amused by the barely contained animosity between the two young men.
“I’m not that sure of success, sir,” said Valerian. “I am betting, however. Large wagers. Against my cousin.”
His Grace’s eyebrows lifted.
Cranford gave a contemptuous shrug.
Mary, however, drew away from the dandy, and said sharply, “What an unkind and disloyal thing! To wish harm to your own kinsman!”
Valerian said with a grin, “I did not say I wish the poor fellow harm, my dear Cordelia. To judge from those bruises, one might suppose the harm to have been already done, but—”
“I am not your ‘dear’ anything!” she intervened.
“My apologies.” With a low bow, Valerian went on, “I am merely wagering that your self-righteous friend will either come in last or be thrown and not come in at all!”
Disgusted, Cranford said, “Spoken like a true sportsman. Or did you perhaps attempt to secure your wager by employing the London vandals who tried to do Tassels an injury?”
“The devil!” exclaimed Marbury, shocked.
Valerian’s smile vanished and for an instant his face was very grim. Then he drawled, “Dash it all! I never thought of it!”
His fists clenching, Cranford stepped forward.
Marbury said sharply, “I feel sure you will remember there are ladies present, gentlemen!”
<
br /> “Mr. Valerian,” said Mary icily, “you are the one should hang your head in shame. I wish I could think you knew it. Lieutenant, your arm, if you please.”
Cranford’s anger was replaced by delight. Offering his arm with a flourish, he said—and meant, “My very great pleasure, ma’am.”
The duke crossed to Mrs. Lucretia, who was stroking Tassels. Accompanying him, Valerian murmured an amused “Who’d have dreamt the little wallflower could show such spirit?”
“I think you’ve missed a good deal more than dreams,” said the duke softly. “Including your chance to win a genuinely delightful young woman.”
Cranford’s hopes that he would be invited to dine with the duke’s party were dashed when His Grace said that tonight they stayed at the nearby home of his bride’s cousin and must not arrive late for dinner. His footman announced that a fresh team had been poled up and the ducal coach was ready at His Grace’s convenience. There was a small embarrassment when Mrs. Lucretia managed somehow to trip despite the Duke’s supporting hand, and the contents of her reticule scattered and had to be gathered up again. Predictably, she giggled, and accepting the hair comb the footman handed her, remarked that all in all it had been “an interesting day. A very droll day!”
Cranford was disappointed by their early departure, although Mary made a point of wishing him every success in tomorrow’s race. He handed her into the coach and said his farewells, acknowledging to himself that it was as well, since he must at once seek out Tio Glendenning.
Lost in thought, he watched the coachman guide the team from the inn-yard, and was startled when a voice purred in his ear, “I’ll thank you to guard your tongue, cousin. Miss Stansbury defies convention, but may yet establish herself creditably, unless this latest little escapade should be bruited about, and—”
“Now damn your eyes, how dare you!” exclaimed Cranford, swinging around to face Valerian’s sardonic grin.
“Is that a ‘thunderous look,’ I wonder?” The dandy tapped a jewelled quizzing glass against his chin and said musingly, “Faith, but did one couple your lovesick gaze with that fiery reaction, one might—almost—suppose you nourished a tendre for the lass.”
“As opposed to your inability to nourish a tendre for anyone save your magnificent self?”
“Aha! An attack, which is, or so I’m told, the best means of defence.”
Turning away, Cranford said curtly, “Good day to you.”
“Now you don’t really mean that, do you, cousin?” murmured Valerian. “And will mean it less if I ‘enter the Lists,’ as it were, in declaring my admiration for a lady I appear to have most shortsightedly underestimated.”
Cranford paused, his jaw tightening. He said pithily, “But then you admire so many ladies, Valerian, that ’twould be hard to know which one is to be so singularly honoured. I can say only that she has my sympathy.”
He bowed and walked away, somewhat mollified to note that the smug grin had quite vanished from his cousin’s handsome features.
His search through the uproarious coffee-room and the adjacent gardens drew a blank. In the stables Glendenning’s fine mare, Flame, was being curried by a groom who was unable to shed any light on his master’s present whereabouts. Cranford wandered back inside and joined the group he’d left earlier. He was welcomed so heartily that the pounding in his head increased, but while answering a barrage of eager questions about Tassels he contrived to scan the crowd often. There was nothing to indicate that he was being watched. He had sufficient experience with Military Intelligence, however, to know that if agents had indeed been set to observe his movements he’d have small chance of spotting them.
Florian joined him and they found a comparatively quiet spot in the coffee-room and ordered a light supper. Florian had brought a note with a fond message from Jane Guild, who wrote that she enjoyed her usual good health but missed him. His young steward then launched into a detailed report on the progress at Muse Manor. Plans for the repairs to the roof of St. Mark’s were almost completed and would be ready for Cranford’s approval when he returned. The rebuilding of Ezra Sweet’s cottage was being delayed because of the old man’s constant fault-finding and interference. “If he had his way, sir,” said Florian wryly, “you’d be building a palace rather than a cottage! When you come home, you’ll be able to reason with him, I’m sure.” Work on clearing the debris from the river was going well, the flood waters were receding, and the rebuilding of the bridge had proved to be less involved than originally feared. Oliver Dixon and his men had succeeded in clearing out the farmyard and barns. His report on the roof of the Manor was not as favourable; preliminary repairs had begun, only to be halted when it developed that there was more damage than they’d hoped.
Florian hesitated at this point.
Apprehensive, Cranford prompted, “More costly, I take it.”
“I fear so. Will I tell the builder to postpone, sir?”
“Heaven forfend! My poor aunt has been dripped upon for too long!”
Wondering how on earth he was to pay for it all and still buy the river parcel for Perry, Cranford adjusted his plans and said cheerfully that his steward should at once return home and be sure these various projects went along smoothly. He was mildly surprised when Florian did not put in a very strong bid to be allowed to stay until the race was run. Not until the youth had left did it dawn on him that Major Finchley was entered in the race and would certainly have left his daughter at home. “Blast!” he muttered, and could only hope that Florian would heed his warning and keep away from his admired lady.
There was still no sign of Glendenning and he embarked on another stroll through the various rooms, meeting ever more raucous enthusiasm. The wine was flowing freely, which had much to do with the increased volume of the celebrants. He accepted a glass and carried it about with him untouched, very aware that he must keep a clear head for tomorrow’s race.
Major Gresford Finchley had no such inhibitions. Catching sight of Cranford, he deliberately blocked his path through the crowded tables and stood weaving before him, declaring thickly that he had placed a large wager on his “goo’ neighbour.” Having said which, he broke into howls of mirth and added, “T’lose! V’ler’an an’ me! Both goin’ t’make lots a money, on my goo’ neighbour!” His hilarity at this fine joke was not shared. Never popular, this unsportsmanlike behaviour caused many to turn from him in disdain. Cranford shrugged and attempted to pass. Resentfully aware that he had little support from these men, Finchley’s hot temper soared. He seized his “good neighbour’s” arm and started to snarl threats and insults. His speech was blurred and for the most part incoherent. Cranford gave him a sharp push and the Major reeled back, collapsed into a chair, and promptly fell asleep.
Cranford’s hand was gripped and held high by Lord Bertie Crisp, who pronounced his friend “the winner and (hic!) new champion!” Cheers rocked the rafters and seemed to split Cranford’s head. He abandoned his search, and as soon as he could decently manage it, escaped and retreated to his room.
Suddenly he was crushingly tired, and it seemed to take an inordinate length of time to reach the upper landing. Arriving at last, he negotiated the passage, opened the door, and stopped dead.
Looking up from the newspaper he was reading while lounging on the bed, Lord Horatio Glendenning waved a tankard at him.
Cranford whipped the door shut. “Are you gone demented?” he demanded angrily. “Or did you not receive my message?”
“I did. And I thank you, dear boy.” Sitting up, the viscount drawled, “Thing is, I was already entered. Couldn’t in good conscience draw back.”
It was a decision Cranford had also faced. Crossing to the chest of drawers and the decanter and glasses Florian had left there, he poured himself a glass of Madeira and sank into the solitary wooden chair, saying testily, “But my life wasn’t at stake.”
Mystified, Glendenning stared at him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What the deuce are you talking about? Yo
u must find another barber, Piers. Your hair looks as if it harbours a bird’s nest.”
Instinctively, Cranford ran a hand through his untidy locks, then winced and swore.
The viscount said shrewdly, “Been in another turn-up, have you? Unwise, just before a race, y’know.”
“I’d a turn-up all right, with some rogues who tried to steal Tassels.”
“Did they, by Jove! When was this?”
“In—or rather—near Hyde Park, two days since.”
Glendenning whistled softly. “Since they broke your head but didn’t get your mare, I presume someone was with you to lend a hand?”
“Miss Stansbury.”
“You surely don’t mean Cordelia?”
“Yes. Though I know her as Miss Mary.” Cranford brightened. “Gad, but she was splendid, Tio! Had it not been for her, you’d be burying me today!”
Incredulous, the viscount exclaimed, “That slip of a girl drove the thieves off?”
“Don’t be a gudgeon. She warned me so that I was able to avoid taking a ball through my head. Luckily, her family solicitor chanced to be nearby. He’s the one… the one who drove off the ruffians.” Cranford’s head was throbbing so viciously that he found it difficult to think, and he paused frowningly. “There was something else, though… Ah, yes. I remember now. It was the fellow who was with him. I think you were right about the pedlar in Muse Village.”
Dismayed by his friend’s obvious confusion, Glendenning said uneasily, “Do you? In what way?”
Cranford glanced to the closed door and lowered his voice. “I’ve a notion the fellow is either from Bow Street, or is Military Intelligence. I saw him having what looked to be a very serious talk with Valerian a week or so ago.”
“Hmm. I know you’ve little use for your cousin, but what the deuce does Valerian have to do with my—er, checkered past?”
Cranford said impatiently, “You must know the answer to that. You told me you’d seen him on the battlefield, which means he probably saw you also and would be aware you fought for Prince Charles. He’s the kind of unprincipled rascal would sell any information for a price. Of late he seems to make a habit of riding across my lands. When I taxed him with it he gave me a nonsense answer, but if he’s seen you and—”
The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 17
