“You sound as if you hope your father will lose.”
“Not at all. I fully expect him to win—fencing is his sport. But His Grace is giving him a good run for his money.”
“The Duke of Thornborough appears to be trouncing Lord Marchthorpe. I find that a surprise.”
“Because of his age? But you see, he is reasonably fit, and even though he is a bit stiff in the knees, Marchthorpe hasn’t the heart for fencing. You can see he hesitates and holds back.”
“Perhaps they should have let his wife take his place,” Gilbey said with a chuckle that Nicholas echoed.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Ashurst. His humor is rubbing off on you,” the duke’s son chortled.
When it was their turn, both young men donned the protective coverings handed over by their predecessors and proceeded to win their respective bouts handily. Gilbey met nothing but affable good nature and poor skill in the colonel.
“He is almost too easy and amiable to be believed,” Gilbey complained afterward as he removed his chest protector and wire mesh mask. “I feel as if I learned nothing.”
“I doubt either of us will have the same complaint after this next round,” Nicholas commented. “I am pitted against Lord Wistowe, and it appears that you have the honor of contesting Lord Newcroft. Yours is an interesting casting of opposites, eh?”
Lord Newcroft clearly had no intention of joining the losers’ list so soon as the second round, and he let Gilbey know it immediately once they had made their salutes. His style was not elegant, but as Gilbey expected, it was aggressive and effective, rather like a bulldog’s. Gilbey mustered his powers of concentration and focused them all on his opponent. He did not particularly care if he won or not, but as the contest became more heated, he lost sight of that. His shirt, barely moist after the first round, was soon soaked, and perspiration dripped off his forehead.
Newcroft darted in and out, parrying constantly and matching Gilbey thrust for thrust, executing a number of impressively complex attacks and moving with challenging speed. But the smaller viscount’s thirst for victory ultimately cost him that reward. He redoubled, extending in a lunge and then as Gilbey retreated, lunging again. Newcroft could not pull back quickly enough to escape Gilbey’s long arm. With a supreme sense of satisfaction, Gilbey reached over his opponent’s foil and delivered the decisive coup.
His next round was against Lord Chesdale. The ex-cavalry officer fenced with a style totally different from Lord Newcroft’s, strong and decisive, yet very trained and disciplined, with none of the affected flamboyance Gilbey half expected. It was easier to compete against a style that was a bit more like his own, but Gilbey found Chesdale’s defense almost impenetrable. As their bout wore on, he began to wonder if they would still be at sword points when night fell. However, he respected the earl’s absolutely forthright manner. Unless I am no judge of human nature, Gilbey thought, this is no blackmailer.
The bout ended when the earl slipped. Gilbey generously waited while the man regained his balance, but apparently he had lost his concentration, for he left himself open and Gilbey scored. Victorious in the third round, Gilbey discovered he would next face the Duke of Roxley himself. Fortunately, a halt was called to allow the opponents to catch their breath.
Nicholas sauntered over. “I lost to Wistowe, then he lost to my father. I swear he cheated.”
“Your father?”
“Wistowe. He slapped his blade against me every time he passed. Probably how he defeated Ashurst in the first round, too, by distraction. Maybe we should put him back on the suspect list.”
“We can take Chesdale off. I am certain of it.”
“Based only on his fencing?”
“Utterly honest, thoroughly straightforward Thought he’d be more of a saber man, but he’s very good with a foil.”
“I won against Thornborough, but I can’t say I was able to read him so clearly. He could be utterly ruthless and wise enough not to let it show.”
“So you are alive in the losers’ list. Who is your next?”
“Newcroft.”
“Ah, He is his own worst enemy. If you are lucky as I was, his own aggressiveness will trip him.”
The break was over. Gilbey determined that it was both tactful and politically astute to make certain that the Duke of Roxley won their bout, but in the end he needed no special effort. The duke was obviously an expert in his element and enjoying it Gilbey put up a defense that convinced even himself.
When it was over, the two shook hands and the duke fell into step beside Gilbey as they left the center of the room. “You have been seeing a good deal of my daughter,” the older man stated flatly.
Botheration. Somehow Gilbey had sensed this was coming. The duke knew much of what went on in his domain, despite an appearance of disinterest. “Not intentionally, Your Grace. Circumstances seem to keep throwing us together.”
“Interesting choice of words. Should I be concerned that this trend will continue?”
How the devil should I know? “I trust not, Your Grace, but as I said, these events were not exactly planned.”
The duke nodded. “See that they remain so.” Just before he walked away he added, “Your technique is good, by the way. Your feint to the left shoulder tends to droop a little, however.”
***
Venetia watched her father while he walked with Lord Cranford. Perhaps he is complimenting Cranford on how well he fences, she thought optimistically. Fencing was her father’s favorite sport—surely it would help her cause that Cranford had proven himself so skilled. Certainly she was impressed. The expression on the tall viscount’s face was not that of a man who was receiving compliments, however, and the exchange between the men lasted only a moment.
Vivian turned to her. “Did you see how well Lord Ashurst fenced, Netia? Lord Upcott was no match for him at all.”
“I was too busy watching both Father and Nicholas.” Her reply was not untrue, just incomplete. “Did you notice Lord Cranford, Vivi? He has also been doing very well, although he could not defeat Father.”
“Not surprising. I did notice that he won against Lord Newcroft earlier. Nicholas lost.”
“Lord Cranford could have to fence with Lord Newcroft again. The four finalists will go against each other to see who will face Father.”
“Two more rounds and then the final? They have been at it all afternoon.” Vivian’s dismay was echoed by many of the other ladies.
“Father will win no matter which one of them it is. He always wins.”
***
The talk at dinner was all of the afternoon’s fencing, despite the efforts of the ladies to discuss anything else. The final round had been between Ashurst and the duke.
“I have used up all the compliments I know,” Venetia told her sister wearily when the ladies finally escaped to the drawing room. “Would you not think well-bred gentlemen had been taught better manners than to be so boorish at table? I am ready to wash my hands of the lot of them.”
Vivian giggled. “Those were not gentlemen at the table, Netia, there’s your mistake. That was a great lot of crowing schoolboys after an exciting afternoon.”
Mellowed by after-dinner port, the gentlemen in question behaved with more consideration as they played cards for the rest of the evening, limiting the number of comments related to the fencing match to what they deemed a reasonable number. Cranford and Nicholas even remembered their mission as sleuths and asked questions under the guise of polite conversation.
“Ever spent any time in this area before? It is very scenic, is it not? Beautiful hills and valleys, lovely little villages,” Nicholas would say.
“How long have you been acquainted with His Grace and the family?” Cranford would ask.
Venetia appreciated what they were doing, but she concentrated most of h
er attention on her cards and the Duke of Thornborough. She had arranged to be his partner with a bit of assistance from her aunt. Every now and again Aunt Alice would look over with an approving smile. The duke seemed to accept Venetia’s sudden interest as his due, prompted by his show of skill in the fencing match.
“Bad luck of the draw, I’d say, to have faced your father and then your brother in the second and third rounds,” he said. “No dishonor to be bested by them, I must say, my dear, but I could have made mincemeat of some of the others.”
“Venetia looked down at the cards in her hand while she adjusted her expression to reflect something that could pass for admiration. She had been dealt a poor assortment herself, but she still felt little sympathy for the duke.
You looked thoroughly winded by the end of the third round, she thought, yet she could hardly say so. She hated the flattery that came out of her mouth in response to most of his remarks, but it was clearly what he expected. She forced herself not to move her hand away every time he reached across to pat it. Could she spend the rest of her days living out a lie? Could she keep her sister from knowing the price she was ready to pay for her happiness?
“You were splendid, Your Grace. Just bad luck indeed. Of course no one was able to defeat my father.” Most probably no one had dared try.
***
As Thornborough seldom appeared before noontime, Venetia was spared having to suffer him at breakfast the next morning. Nicholas and Cranford were still finishing at one table, and when she and Vivian joined them, she was careful to sit beside her brother, leaving an empty seat next to the viscount for her sister.
Cranford greeted them politely and went back to polishing off the last of some kippers and freshly prepared trout on his plate.
Nicholas arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Wise decision of yours to go fishing this morning, old man. At the rate you have been consuming fish every morning, we undoubtedly need to replenish our supply.”
The viscount ignored his teasing. “A fine morning and a good trout stream are all the excuse I need, thank you.”
“You are going fishing this morning?” Venetia tried to conceal the disappointment in her voice. She had envisioned a number of possible activities which she had planned to suggest he and Vivian could pursue.
He nodded. “Getting a very late start, too.” Venetia thought she caught a twinkle in his eye as he added. “Did you know that the Countess of Duncross likes to fish? She is really quite a remarkable woman.”
“Must be all that hardy old Scottish blood in her veins.”
“Netia!”
“Why, Lady Venetia, you’ll make me think you are jealous, and we know that can’t be true.” He took a moment to grin at her and then, finished with his meal, he wished them a good morning and took his leave.
Venetia was not sure why the rude remark had popped out—she seemed to lose control of her tongue when she was around Lord Cranford. Maybe she was jealous. “Whatever possessed you to invite Cranford here, anyway, Nicholas?” she said in annoyance.
“‘Cranford’ is it now, Netia? You have become familiar quite quickly, I see.”
She felt the heat rush into her face and blushed all the more to think that she was blushing, a thing she rarely did. She should be more careful.
“I meant to say Lord Cranford.” I just have not been thinking of him in quite such a formal way.
Nicholas leaned close to her. “He is after more than one kind of fish, Netia. He hopes to have some enlightening conversation with Colonel. Hatherwick while he is at it.” He sat back smiling as his meaning dawned on her.
“Have you made some progress?” she asked in a low voice.
“Cranford wrote to his brother in London last night, and the letter went off very early this morning. Hope we’ll have something of our own to report to you this evening, if we can find an opportunity.”
***
Venetia decided that Cranford’s plans to go fishing did not necessarily void all of her own plans. As she sipped her second cup of chocolate, she conceived a new scheme to put him together with Vivian after enough time had passed for his talk with the colonel. She pushed any vague misgivings about the idea to the back of her mind.
“Lord Cranford has the right of it about the morning, Vivi—it is a fine one,” she began casually. “A perfect morning to go sketching down by the lake. Shall we? We have hardly had any chance to indulge ourselves since all these guests arrived. Let us just go off by ourselves—it will only be for a few hours.”
If Vivian suspected any ulterior motive, she gave no sign but simply agreed with a nod of her head. Thus it happened that a short while later, Lady Venetia and Lady Vivian set off across the south lawn armed with parasols, sketch pads, and paint boxes, followed by a diligent footman lugging an easel.
They arrived at the edge of Rivington’s scenic lake a few minutes later. The lake was manmade; in the previous century a branch of the river had been diverted into a hollow at the foot of the vast, sloping lawns and dammed up. It was quite large enough for boating and other pleasures—it even boasted a pair of small islands. After so many years, it appeared quite natural and was fringed with reeds, yellow flag, and other moisture-loving wildflowers. Venetia studied the scene and frowned.
“No, not here,” she decided. “We have painted and sketched this far too many times.”
So saying, she marched off again, with Vivian and the footman following in her wake.
“Truly, Netia, what is the matter with any of these places?” Vivian finally said some while later. They had been trudging along the riverbank for quite a distance. “By the time you settle on a spot, we will have no time left for sketching. Have you forgotten the driving race is supposed to begin at one o’clock? We do have to be there to watch the start and finish.”
“I have not forgotten.” None of these places had yet yielded a certain fisherman. Almost as if she had conjured him, however, Venetia just then caught sight of Lord Cranford peacefully fishing on the riverbank ahead. He appeared to be alone. The simple sight of him caused a small thrill of anticipation to lift her spirits. How was she ever going to rid herself of such reactions?
“Why, look, there is Lord Cranford! Do let us go and see if he has met with any success.” She ignored the audible sigh that came from their footman as she set off once again.
More difficult to ignore was the unmistakable expression of dismay on the viscount’s face when she hailed him. Oh dear. The niggling suspicion that she was making an error suddenly swelled into a full-blown conviction. Too late now. Nothing for it but to charge ahead. She armed herself with a devastating smile.
“Why, Lord Cranford, you do not appear pleased to see us. What sort of greeting is that?”
“You truly do not care a fig about fishing, do you, Lady Venetia? Would it matter to you to know that you have in this past minute destroyed anyone’s chances of fishing along this stretch of river for the next several hours?”
She knew her smile wobbled. “Why, I don’t know how we could have done that. Certainly that was never our intention.” Dear God, she sounded just like Aunt Alice again. Turning to the footman, she said, “Here, Robert. This will do nicely. You may set it up and leave us, thank you.”
Cranford sighed. “Trout, my dear woman, are very wary creatures. Particularly in slower, deep water like this stretch along here. They hide in under the bank, and any unusual vibrations, such as those made by marauding lady artists and their servants marching along the riverbank, will put them off feeding for hours until they believe it to be safe again.”
“Oh dear. I am truly sorry. We had no idea. Perhaps you should teach us more about fishing. What do you think, Vivi?”
Vivian had already laid out her sketching materials and had seated herself on the mossy bank. “I think it is a shame that we have come all this way to disturb both t
he fish and Lord Cranford. The least we can do is make an attempt at sketching, which was supposedly our purpose in coming.”
Dear, practical Vivian. There was definitely a hint of irritation in her voice.
“Perhaps the trout won’t stay in hiding as long as you think, Lord Cranford,” Venetia said. They were still talking about fish were they not? “If we are quiet, may we stay?”
“It is your riverbank,” he replied. He eyed his line and the perfectly cast fly playing along the surface of the water. “They say every true fisherman is an optimist. I suppose it is true.”
And we are all fishermen of some kind, Venetia thought.
She was not at all comfortable standing near him. The fact that he was displeased with her did not seem to have any dampening effect on her feelings. The sunlight made his hair gleam almost white and her fingers itched to touch it. The black silk kerchief casually knotted around his neck looked invitingly soft. His lips . . . Really, she could not just go on staring at him. Where were her wits?
“Did you have any success with the rest of your morning’s plan? Nicholas mentioned Colonel Hatherwick.”
He never took his eyes off the river, which she thought was just as well. “I had quite a frank conversation with him. He would be very well pleased to marry either one of you—loves you both like daughters. He doesn’t harbor much hope in changing that, but assumes he had nothing to lose by putting his hat in the ring. If he is our blackmailer, he is supremely crafty and a better actor than Kean.”
Venetia shook her head. “We have known the colonel for too many years. I cannot imagine that he is anything other than just what he seems.”
“After fencing with Lord Chesdale yesterday, I have come to doubt that he is our culprit, either. So you see, we are making some progress.”
“What was it about Lord Chesdale?”
“Just an instinct, I suppose. A man’s fencing style reveals a good deal about him. His was very honest and straightforward.”
Gail Eastwood Page 18
