The daughter of the house reappeared at this point with an urgent request from her mother that his lor’ship’s friend be on his way. “We must not tire the poor genelman, zur,” she said apologetically.
Glendenning advised her that she would be welcome to tire him at any time, and having voiced a sinister threat to relay that provocative remark to his affianced bride, Cranford left him.
He delayed only long enough to seek out the mistress of the house and won her heart by insisting that she accept a generous sum for the extra work involved in caring for the injured man. “We will send word to his family and I doubt he’ll be with you longer than a day or two, ma’am.”
The lady was profuse in her gratitude and assured him that the poor gentleman would receive the best of care. “He might have to put up with my simple home cooking, zur,” she said shyly. “I doesn’t know how to cook Frenchy cargoes and suchlike.”
Knowing something of Horatio’s perilous days as a fugitive from the King’s justice and his diet of stolen carrots and berries, Cranford assured her that his lordship liked home cooking and would be very well pleased not to be offered such exotic dishes as “cargoes.” He left the farm, sure that Tio was in good hands, and went out into the wet afternoon once more.
At dusk the tap of the Golden Goose was crowded, and despite the storm that had returned to rage outside, was warm and cozy. Logs blazed and crackled on the wide hearth, pewter pots shone in the firelight, the air rang with talk and laughter, and the two comely serving maids were flushed and bright-eyed as they tripped nimbly among the company.
As winner of the steeplechase, Roland Mathieson ordered drinks all round, calling for another glass as Piers Cranford limped into the room.
“How does Glendenning go on?” he called.
Through the immediate well of silence, Cranford answered, “A dislocated shoulder, and one wrist is broken. But he’s doing pretty well.” His keen eyes raked the room, and he added a grim “No thanks to Gresford Finchley.”
Màthieson said coolly, “You cannot slaughter the flying Major tonight, Cranford. For some odd reason he ain’t among us.”
“And if he had been,” put in Valerian, de-mudded and immaculate as ever, “we’d have thrown him out, as he is doubtless aware.”
There was a chorus of agreement. Gresford Finchley was denounced for a cheat and a poor sportsman; dishonourable conduct that would, as Valerian observed, almost certainly result in his being blackballed at every club in Town. “I hear that Glendenning claims you saved his life, coz,” he drawled, sauntering to join Mathieson and Cranford.
Shocked, Mathieson exclaimed, “Jupiter! I’d not realized it was that chancy!”
Cranford, who had been staring at the dainty handkerchief now artistically pinned to the breast of Valerian’s dark purple coat, said, “Sufficiently so that I’ve a bone to pick with the flying Major! That’s a pretty thing you have on your coat, Valerian. Has it some special significance?”
“Oh, very special,” said Valerian with his sly smile. “A lovely lady bestowed it upon me for luck in our ridiculous race. Is this not your faithful groom?…”
Sudbury hovered nearby.
Turning to him, Cranford asked if a fast messenger had been sent off with his note to Florian. Being reassured on this point he added, “Were you able to find my hat?”
“Sorry I am, but no, sir. But the lad which I sent to Sir Perry-Green’s house this morning has come back, and he ain’t there, Mr. Piers, sir. Gone to see relatives, they told the boy.”
Peregrine had probably gone into the country to visit his fiancée’s parent. Logical enough, with the wedding so close. But Cranford experienced an uneasy qualm. He’d accepted his twin’s absence from the steeplechase as being due to his injury. On the other hand, if Perry was well enough to have gone all the way to Burford, one might think he could have detoured en route, at least to wish him luck in the race…
“… and said as I was to bring it to you, Lieutenant, sir.”
Cranford started. Sudbury was offering a folded note. As he took it, Valerian drawled, “Ah, so you’re invited as well, I see.”
Murmuring an apology, Cranford read a brief and beautifully penned invitation to dine with the Duke of Marbury and his guests at nine o’clock.
Glancing up, he found Valerian watching with evident amusement.
“’As well?” he echoed, with little hope that his assumption would prove to be erroneous.
“Quite so,” said the dandy, rearranging the snowy handkerchief over his heart so that the embroidered M was clearly visible. “I am so fortunate as to be one of the—ah, guests. That will cheer you, eh, coz?”
Scowling at that treacherous handkerchief, Cranford growled, “Not markedly, Valerian.”
13
Aliveried footman admitted Cranford to the suite the duke had reserved for his dinner party, thanks to the departure of several guests who had come just for the race. This was a surprisingly spacious area created by the removal of the door connecting two bedchambers. The beds had also been whisked away, replaced in one room by a good-sized dining-table tastefully adorned with snowy napery, and in the other by two sofas, small occasional tables, and three armchairs. Fires blazed on both hearths, and several candelabra sent their brightness to reflect on gleaming silverware and sparkling glasses. Small crystal vases held sprays of leaves and fern, with here and there the colourful splash of an early blossom or artificial flower. The rooms, which had previously been very clean but on the stark side, were now silent but eloquent testimonials to the artistry by which superior servants were able to transform the commonplace into the elegant for those who paid high wages for just such skills.
The instant the footman softly closed the door, Cranford realized that he was ill prepared for this gathering. The duke, known to dress in the height of fashion, was a vision of sartorial splendour in a magnificent French wig and a superbly tailored black velvet coat trimmed with gold lace. The heels of his shoes were very high and a great diamond-and-sapphire ring glowed on one thin hand. Scarcely less impressive, Valerian had chosen a coat of flame brocade threaded with silver; his thick hair was powdered and brushed into soft waves about his aquiline features, a silver patch accentuated the clear grey of his eyes and he wore a large ruby ring on one hand while the candle-light awoke glittering fires from the jewelled quizzing glass he swung idly by its silver chain. Cranford, who had not dreamt to find such a formal dinner party at a gathering of sportsmen, had bowed to fashion to the extent of requiring Sudbury to powder and tie back his hair, and had donned a simple dark blue habit. His only ornament consisted of the fine emerald ring his father had bequeathed him.
The duke welcomed him heartily, and apologized for the fact that his grandson had felt it necessary to return at once to his country home. “Just to be sure that his lovely bride and my great-grandson haven’t run away during his absence,” he said, a twinkle lighting his deep-set blue eyes.
Feeling like a country bumpkin, Cranford smiled responsively, but his smile faded as Valerian minced over to greet him with punctilious politeness—and with The Handkerchief pinned to the great cuff of his right sleeve. The quizzing glass was brought into play and Cranford was scanned from head to toe with studied insolence. “You military men,” the dandy murmured, his eyes full of mocking laughter. “Austerity and no nonsense—whatever the occasion.”
“Ah, here are our lovely ladies,” said the duke.
Turning, Cranford was momentarily struck to silence. Both ladies carried masks, which they lowered as they entered. Mrs. Lucretia tripped in, giggling mischievously. Miss Mary looked more like Miss Cordelia tonight—elegant in a satin gown of a rich shade of deep pink not usually worn by unmarried girls, but surprisingly pretty for all that. Mrs. Lucretia wore gold silk that billowed out over large hoops while her bosom threatened to billow over the extremely décolleté bodice.
“Lovely, indeed,” murmured Valerian, bowing over her plump little hand but with his eyes elsewhere.
>
“You are really thinking us very naughty to be here,” she said archly.
“Yes, but then naughty ladies are so fascinant. Do you overnight here, ma’am?”
“We had not intended to do so, but Muffin thought ’twould be more convenient since we are to dine quite late this evening.”
Touching his lips to Miss Cordelia’s fingers, Cranford wondered for the hundredth time why Valerian was the duke’s guest, and why Mary had given him a talisman after the way the clod had treated her. Not, he thought with a mental shrug, that it was any of his affair, of course.
They were ushered into what Marbury laughingly referred to as his “parlour pro tern,” and the footman appeared with a tray of decanters, claret for the gentlemen and ratafia for the ladies.
Marbury proposed a toast to the absent winner of the race, and having sipped from her glass, Mrs. Lucretia observed that the barn fire was “just too, too shocking,” and turning to Valerian, added, “I do not understand such horrid events, so you shall have to explain, dear boy, how that ghastly fire could have started.”
Valerian said airily, “Ask my cousin, dear ma’am. He was there at the time.”
“Whereby I was able to get my groom and my horse out,” said Cranford, directing an irked glance at him. “Besides which, you made a remarkably prompt appearance.”
“But of course.” The picture of injured innocence, Valerian asked, “What did I say to provoke you, coz? Have I been so gauche as to already ruffle your military feathers?”
“Oh, but are they not droll?” trilled Mrs. Lucretia, waving her wineglass at the duke. “And so different. One would never take them for cousins, would one?”
“Distant—cousins,” said Cranford with emphasis.
“Alas—he don’t want us,” sighed Valerian to no one in particular. “My withers are wrung.”
His lips tight, Cranford indulged in a few scenarios on what he would like to do to the dandy’s “withers.”
“While you recover of your withering,” said Mary, “perhaps Mr. Cranford will tell us of his friend’s progress. My aunt and I were unable to see that area, but we heard about Lord Glendenning’s accident. I trust he is not badly injured?”
“Fortunately no, and he is receiving excellent care.” Cranford looked at her curiously. “Do you say you did see part of the race?”
“Pray do not shock the poor fellow by admitting such a breach of etiquette!” exclaimed Valerian, laughing. “My cousin—your pardon, Cranford—distant cousin places a high value on propriety.”
“As do I, Gervaise,” put in the duke. “And since I am responsible for the presence of these ladies, I hope you do not accuse me of a—how did you put it?—a breach of etiquette?” His tone was mild, but one eyebrow lifted and the glance slanted at Valerian caused that young man to become rather red in the face.
Mrs. Lucretia began to wield her large fan with nervous rapidity, and Mary said, “We were forbidden to attend the race, which I think very silly in this modern age. But His Grace was so kind as to loan us a glass and have us escorted to the top of Norman Hill.”
“So that we were able to see some of it, at least,” said Mrs. Lucretia. “How thrilling when your grandson came in first, Muffin!”
“But I suspect your wagers were not on Roland,” the duke said with a smile. “Someone else flew your colours, eh, Mary?”
“And at least one of my champions still wears my talisman,” she said pertly.
“You may believe that the other was most grateful for your good wishes” said Cranford.
“And although I treasure your talisman and shall keep it always, I have to own that I would treasure it more had I been the sole recipient of such a gift.” Valerian sighed heavily. “Cruel, lovely one.”
Clearly unrepentant, she said, “I have heard it said that there is safety in numbers. But much good it did me. Neither of you came near to winning. Indeed, one returned covered with mud, which is not at all romantical, and the other rode in muddy and bareback, which is even less romantical! So disappointing!”
Marbury laughed delightedly.
“Oh, I disagree, child, and think it indeed romantical.” Curious, Mrs. Lucretia asked, “I cannot help but wonder why ever you did such a droll thing, Lieutenant Piers? I would have supposed it to be most difficult to ride without a saddle. Indeed, I am sure I never could do it! You must be a very skilled horseman.”
“He probably learned it from his gypsy,” murmured Valerian with a grin.
Cranford stiffened, then decided to ignore that barb. The dandy was evidently unaware of Mary’s close friendship with Laura Finchley and her consequent sympathy for his young steward. Valerian, he thought, had made a mis-step.
He was right, for Mary’s head had immediately tossed upward. Lowering the glass she had just lifted, she said, “If you refer to Mr. Florian Consett, sir, he was stolen by gypsies and not born into the tribe.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that is his claim,” drawled Valerian. “In truth, one could scarce blame him.”
“For what?” demanded Mary, firing up. “For saying he was kidnapped? Or for the possibility that he lies and is actually of gypsy blood?”
Valerian shrugged. “Either. Though I care not, whatever the case.”
“Well, I do care,” said Mary, her eyes sparkling. “I number Florian Consett among my friends and I believe what he says. Even if it were a fib, as you evidently conclude, he is an honourable and upright gentleman.”
“Well said,” exclaimed Cranford.
“Jolly well said,” agreed Valerian, eyeing Mary admiringly. “I apologize, and beg your forgiveness, dear Miss Stansbury. Mr. Consett is pure as the driven snow!”
“Just because he has dark hair is not proof of gypsy blood,” put in Mrs. Lucretia, who had been considering the case. “Only look at yourself, Gervaise. Your hair is dark. Oh, ’tis powdered now, of course, which is charming, I’ll own, and quite in the mode, though you might do better to wear one of those high French wigs, like Muffin. Even so, you always look well, and are judged extreme handsome, as everyone knows, but your mama is very dark, being part French, or is it Italian? I forget, but Muffin will know, since his first wife was her cousin, as I recall. So only think how droll it would be if we fancied you to be a gypsy.”
Cranford had listened in awe to this muddled monologue but Valerian said earnestly, “If ’twould commend me to you and your lovely niece, ma’am, I’d wear golden hoops in my ears and learn the Romany tongue!”
“Oh, very good,” said Mary, laughing at him. “You may not wear golden earrings but you have a silver tongue, sir. At times.”
Valerian looked at her mournfully and lifted one hand as a fencer might do in acknowledging a hit.
“I agree,” said Mrs. Lucretia. “But Mr. Cranford is silent and has still failed to explain why he rode bareback in such an important race.”
Risking another of the duke’s warning glances, Valerian interpolated, “He claims the girth was cut. Which is—to say the least of it, most—um, odd.”
Mrs. Lucretia’s fan swung into action once more, creating quite a breeze.
Cranford, his eyes suddenly icy, drawled, “I feel sure you will explain what you mean by that, sir.”
Frowning, the duke set down his wineglass and murmured, “Gervaise…”
“I certainly do not imply that I doubt your word, cousin,” said Valerian hastily. “Acquit me of such a rude reaction. Everyone knows you are pure et sans reproche.” He smiled at Cranford, who met his angelic gaze with a steady stare. “The failure,” Valerian went on, “seems rather to have been Miss Stansbury’s.”
“Mine!” exclaimed Mary indignantly. “How so?”
“Come now, dear lady. You must own that your talismen, both of the dainty things, rather—er, fell down on the job!”
The duke laughed, Mrs. Lucretia giggled, and the tense moment slid past, nor was there another until they had moved into the adjoining room and were all enjoying an excellent dinner.
&nb
sp; Conversation went along smoothly. Perhaps because of a warning glance bestowed on him by the duke, Valerian restrained his caustic tongue. Seated next to Mrs. Lucretia, Cranford chatted easily with her and began to suspect that she was not nearly so foolish as she appeared. His breeding forbade any revelation of inner anxieties, and no one would have guessed that although he gave the impression of hanging on her every word, he was inwardly plagued by the awareness that the dandy seated across the table from him was flirting so outrageously with Miss Mary that any well-bred individual might have expected either Mrs. Lucretia or His Grace to put a stop to it.
The second course was carried in. The duke rose and began to carve the roast beef while asking that Cranford tell them more about the extraordinary race and how his saddle had been damaged.
The account was interrupted frequently, for Mary was full of questions, as was her aunt. Valerian looked thoughtful and commented that it certainly appeared as though some unknown person had not wanted his cousin to win the race. “Tassels was the runaway favourite,” he acknowledged.
“As a result of which many people undoubtedly lost money,” observed the duke.
Cranford flushed, and admitted, “Mea culpa.”
Mary said defensively, “Not only because of Tassels, Your Grace. You had high hopes of coming in first, Mr. Valerian. I hope you did not suffer heavy losses?”
“Not at all, lovely one,” he responded gaily. “In point of fact I came away with very plump pockets.”
The duke handed a platter of sliced roast beef to the footman and sat down, saying in mild surprise, “You wagered that Roland would win?”
“My apologies, but I did not, sir,” answered Valerian, chuckling. “I bet on my noble cousin—to lose.”
The duke’s right eyebrow shot up.
Mary exclaimed heatedly, “Well, I hold ’twas most unkind and shows a shocking lack of family loyalty!”
“But was so beautifully lucrative,” said Valerian, unrepentant.
“For shame, sir!” Mary pushed the little vase at the centre of the table towards Cranford. “To you go the honours, Lieutenant.”
The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 21
