A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  He paused by the mantel and picked up a small miniature framed in silver. Staring at the earnest young face depicted there, it struck him that even as a child he had felt the weight of the world on his small shoulders. The only times he had felt truly carefree as a boy was romping through the stately rooms of the Hall, or running through its magnificent grounds. Aside from the solitary dreams that had flowered there, he had, for the most part, had precious little to smile about.

  Well, it was certainly not going to begin now, he thought with some resignation. Though resentment and anger still welled within his breast, it was tempered by a grudging forgiveness for the past. On catching a glimpse of what lay behind the excesses and the bravado, it seemed as if the old man had suffered nearly as much from all the pain he had inflicted on the rest of his family. It was impossible to feel hate, only a pinch of sadness at a life that must, at bottom, be as empty as the glass that stood by the trembling fingers.

  The Earl’s gaze was focused on the small painting as well. “You were always the strong one, Adrian, even as a lad,” he whispered, a tentative smile ghosting over his lips. “I have always been so proud of you, though I could rarely express it.” He bowed his head. “I’m . . . sorry. I had no right to entangle you in a snare of my own making. Perhaps I can convince Hertford to reconsider and accept another hand of cards. This time, I swear I shall come to table sober and be on guard for any—”

  “No!”

  Chittenden fell silent.

  “If Woolsey Hall is at stake, I prefer to trust to my own skills to wrest it free from Hertford’s grasp. But on one condition, Father.”

  “Only name it.”

  “If I win, you will sell the Hall to me.”

  “Sell!” The Earl made as if to rise from his chair. “Even I am not such a dastard as to make you pay for what will rightfully be yours anyway when I shuffle off this mortal coil. Consider it yours.”

  Marquand shook his head. “I have no intention of helping you meet your Maker, nor of asking you to give up such an asset as Woolsey Hall without recompense. I would be as guilty of manipulation as Hertford for taking it from you in such a manner. So I am making you a business proposition, Father. It is the only way I can, in good conscience, permit it to be done.”

  The Earl thought for several moments. “Very well, if it must be as you say, I imagine that you need for me to name a price.”

  Marquand’s fingers tightened around the small frame. “It will, naturally, have to be a goodly sum, considering the value of such a fine estate.

  “Naturally.”

  “I cannot think of where you might get that kind of blunt,” persisted his father. “I’m well aware of how paltry an inheritance was left to you by your grandfather.” He hesitated for a fraction. “Just as I well know that you have never frequented the gaming establishments or other even less savory hells where money might be made. And however plump in the pocket Hylton is, I doubt his daughter’s dowry will cover such a large expense.”

  A cynical smile played on the Viscount’s lips. “Not gaming, no. But I’m afraid I have been engaged in another pursuit that would be considered by many a far worse vice for a gentleman, though I’ve been quite discreet about it. Suffice it to say that I think I shall manage to meet your terms, so long as they are not unduly high.” The Earl looked as if to say more, then bit off the words and began to drum his fingers on the table. “Well, then if you insist, here is what I propose,” he said after a lengthy pause. “If you win at Hertford’s game, you will redeem not only Woolsey Hall but all the other vowels in his possession. They are, I regret to say, considerable. And by all rights, they will belong to you for the victory—”

  “I don’t want them—”

  It was Chittenden’s turn to interrupt. “I have a modicum of pride too,” he said with some emotion. “If you will not accept Woolsey Hall from me outright, than I certainly won’t allow you to wipe the slate clean of my debts. And since I will never take a farthing from you to buy your own birthright, we are at a stalemate. Unless you agree to the terms I suggest.”

  “Which are?”

  “You may return my vowels to me in exchange for the Hall.”

  “An even trade?” Marquand’s hand came up to rub at his jaw as he considered his father’s suggestion.

  “Think of it as the business proposal you wish it to be. You will be paid for your efforts, that’s all. It is a reasonable solution.”

  The Viscount replaced the picture on the mantel and resumed his pacing.

  “And fair, more than fair. To me, at least,” continued his father. “Perhaps I might find the sense to take better care of my holdings,” he added softly. “You would be doing me a great favor, Adrian, though I have little right to expect it. What say you? Do we have a deal?” Marquand’s breath came out in a harried sigh. “I suppose we do.”

  “Well, at least I feel I have made one good bargain in my life.”

  “That has yet to be decided,” cautioned the Viscount. He made another turn, then stopped to take up the poker and give the dying embers a good jab. “So what is it to be?” he asked dryly. “Sabers at dawn? Pistols at twenty paces? You still have not told me just what I must do to win this damn wager.”

  “Oh, nothing so dangerous as that,” replied the Earl with forced heartiness.

  “Well then, what? And why in the name of Hades must I travel to Scotland to do it?”

  Chittenden toyed with the loose ends of his cravat. “Well, er, it is a tad out of the ordinary . . .”

  “Are we to test our prowess on the grouse moor? Stalk roe deer in the Highlands? Race curricles along Hadrian’s wall?”

  “Actually you are to play a round of golf. At St. Andrews.”

  “Golf! Hell’s teeth, I’ve never played golf!” exclaimed Marquand. “And what the devil is a ‘round’ of it?” “Dunno. But it’s a game that involves hitting a ball with a stick—how difficult can that be?” reasoned his father. “You’re a dab hand at cricket. You’ll master it in a trice.”

  Marquand muttered something under his breath. Chittenden couldn’t repress a twitch of his lips. “Did my high stickler of a son just say what I thought he said?”

  “Never mind.” He had a mind to take a swat at the nearest object with the poker, regardless of whether it was round or not. “When, may I ask, is this event scheduled to take place?”

  “In little more than a month’s time.”

  The oath that followed was even more scathing than the first.

  “Er, St. Andrews is accorded to be a very civilized sort of town. University and all that, you know.”

  The Viscount stalked to the sideboard to retrieve his hat and gloves. “Ah, well, then I should have no trouble finding a book on the bloody rules.”

  “Where are you rushing off to?”

  “To check myself into Bedlam. Where no doubt I belong.”

  “Adrian, if you wish to reconsider—”

  “Just a little gallows humor, Father, though it appears I may well be strung up before this is over. Hertford has spent most every summer of his life in Scotland. I imagine he is an expert at whatever this game of golf entails, else he wouldn’t have made the wager. Still, it looks as if I shall have to give it a shot, if I am to have any chance of keeping Woolsey Hall.” Tucking his walking stick under his arm, Marquand started for the door. “Hell’s teeth, the timing could not be worse for certain of my other endeavors.” He sighed, “However, there is nothing to be done for it now. I suppose I had better consider heading north as soon as possible if I am to entertain any hope of success. You had best wish me . . . well.”

  He chose to avoid the world “luck,” as he felt even less in charity with the word at that moment.

  “Golf!”

  Marquand nodded glumly. “My sentiments exactly.” He picked up a heavy, stitched leather cricket ball from his friend’s desk and hefted it from palm to palm. “How difficult can that be?” he repeated, mimicking his father’s throaty tones with some asperity
. “Easy for the old fellow to say.” He tossed the ball high into the air, casually catching it with one hand as it came down. “Any idea how big a golf ball is?”

  “Rather smaller than that.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “And stuffed with feathers, I believe.”

  Another snort sounded, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “A sport for the birds,” he muttered. “What sort of bat is used?”

  “Club,” corrected Ellington. “And there are more than one.”

  Marquand pulled a face. “The devil you say. Why?” “It depends where the ball is lying.”

  The Viscount’s head jerked around just as the cricket ball began its descent. It caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, then slipped through his fingers and bounced across the polished parquet. “You’re joking. It’s not moving? It just sits on the ground?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you can just step up to it and give it a thwack?” “Something like that.”

  Marquand stooped to retrieve the errant cricket ball. “How difficult can that be?” He resumed his game of catch. “So perhaps there is hope yet. After all, I have a keen eye and a steady hand.”

  His friend gave a dry chuckle. “Trust me, Adrian, it is not quite so simple as it may sound. There is some technique involved. And strategy.”

  “Oh come now, Tony, don’t wax melodramatic. We are talking of striking a ball, not of Wellington maneuvering his troops on the field of battle.”

  “We are talking of putting a ball in a hole—a rather small hole—in the face of the same sort of hazards that can flummox the best of generals, such as wind, rain, trees, ditches, and the like. And you must do it with fewer strokes than your opponent.” Ellington poured himself a glass of sherry. “Sounds suspiciously like a war to me. After a sip he added, “You know what competition is like. When the stakes are sufficiently high enough, it can turn the playing field into a real battleground.” Marquand pursed his lips and frowned. “It sounds as if you have actually played the game.”

  “Remember the trip I took with Bowmont last summer to visit his family in Kelso? Well, his father is an avid player. He actually has several holes laid out along an old Roman viaduct that crosses their lands along the River Teviot.”

  “Roxbourghe plays golf?”

  “Quite well I am told, though I’m scarcely one to judge. I took my hacks at it, and felt rather foolish most of the time. Jamie, though, shares the Duke’s enthusiasm and when we traveled up the coast, we stopped at St. Andrews for a few days so he could play the course there.” He pulled a sour face at the memory. “Can’t say I enjoyed it much. Every evening over our claret I had to listen to him either rave about a glorious shot he made or moan about some unfair twist of luck that had caused the ball to bounce askew. Lord, I’d almost rather listen to a fellow talk about his latest mistress than wax poetic about golf.”

  The cricket ball bounced against the wood paneling with a resounding crack. “The devil take it, Tony, what am I to do if the cursed game is truly so difficult to master? I have only a month’s time before I stand to lose Woolsey Hall.”

  The glint of humor in Ellington’s eyes died away, replaced by a flare of sympathy. He put aside his drink and rubbed at his jaw as if, like some character from an Arabian tale, he might conjure up a genie to solve his friend’s dilemma by mere friction. “I think Jamie is still in Town,” he said after mulling it over for a bit. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit. After all, he is well acquainted with the town and many of the locals, so he might have an idea.”

  Marquand looked dubious, but as he had nothing better to suggest, they took themselves off.

  It took several hours to trace the Marquess of Bow-mont’s movements from a small dinner party with friends to the theater to one of the rooms at White’s. He was seated in a comfortable chair before a roaring fire, an ironed newspaper open to an account of the recent peace talks in Vienna, a decanter of rich burgundy by his side. At Ellington’s greeting, his head raised from the creased pages, a decided glimmer of relief apparent on the angular features.

  “Tony, how delightful. You have saved me from having to read the rest of this interminable column. I must admit, it may as well be Greek to me for I don’t understand a jot of what they are squabbling about.” The Marquess tossed the paper aside and motioned for them to join him in a glass of wine. “I hope you wish to talk about something more interesting than the fine points of international diplomacy.”

  “Golf,” replied Marquand.

  Bowmont’s eyes lit with a rather rapturous light. “Pull up a chair! Did I tell you about the marvelous course in Dornach, up in the Highlands, where I played in a roaring gale—”

  The Viscount gave an inward wince, wondering how anyone could speak of such an experience as if it had been in the least pleasant.

  Ellington cleared his throat, “Er, yes, I believe you did, Jamie. Several times, in fact. What we were hoping for, actually, was some advice ...” He went on to outline their particular problem.

  “Hmmm.” Bowmont passed a speculative eye up and down Marquand’s tall form for several moments. “Hmmm. Good set of shoulders. Strong legs.” He stee-pled his fingers under his long, aristocratic nose and let his hooded lids fall to half mast. “Hmmm. I’ve seen you wield a racquet at Hampton Court and it appears you have balance and timing as well. Hmmm . . .”

  Finding his usual reserve stretched past its limit, Marquand could bear the hemming and hawing no longer. “Well? Can you help at all?” he snapped.

  At enigmatic smile came to the Marquess’s full lips. “Patience, my dear Viscount. Patience is one of the first things you must learn about golf. It does not do to get in a temper on the course.”

  “You need not worry on that score, Bowmont,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I assure you that I am more than capable of keeping my emotions under tight rein.”

  “Adrian is top-of-the-trees when it comes to facing down the odds,” added his friend.

  The Marquess darted a quick look at Ellington. “So I have heard,” he replied softly. “It takes a cool fellow indeed to face a crack shot such as Darlington and put a bullet in his shoulder.”

  “It was what he deserved. I don’t have much tolerance for liars and cheats.”

  “Yes, I have heard that as well. Just as I have heard that you have little tolerance for the sort of debaucheries favored by a fellow like Hertford—or your own father. Is that true?”

  Marquand’s jaw tightened. “I should hope my own reputation would be answer enough to that question.” There was a perceptible pause. “If you are satisfied, perhaps if you could spare an hour or so, we could ride out to Houndslow Heath in the morning and you could show me a thing or two about knocking the ball—”

  “No, I’m afraid that would be of little help.” He held up his hand to forestall the retort he saw forming on the Viscount’s lips, and went on. “First of all, I’m not so sure I would be very good at explaining all the nuances of the golf swing as I’m rather a neophyte at it myself. And most importantly, one of the keys to a good round of golf is being familiar with the course—the terrain, the prevailing winds, the position of the bunkers—” “Bunkers?”

  “Pits of sand,” piped in Ellington. “Nasty. Very nasty.” “My advice to you is to head to St. Andrews as soon as possible,” continued Bowmont. “I know a excellent chap up there who is not only the finest clubmaker in all of Scotland, but an excellent teacher to boot. Although he’s in great demand, at my request I’m sure he’ll be able to rig you out with just the right mashies, spoons, and niblicks for your size and swing.”

  Marquand was beginning to feel he was listening to a foreign language.

  “And best of all, he is on intimate terms with all the local caddies—”

  “Caddies?”

  “The fellows who tote your clubs,” explained Ellington. “Aye,” added Bowmont with a nod. “But a good one

  is much more than a mere pack mul
e. In addition to simply helping find an errant ball and judge distances, he can save you several strokes a round through knowing the nuances of the course and the local conditions. That may well be the difference between victory and defeat.” He grinned. “Trust me, Marquand, for a man in your position, an experienced caddie will prove more than invaluable. I daresay he’ll become the best friend and ally you have. And Philp will be able to make sure that you have the most skilled one of the lot. I shall write to him tonight and see to it.”

  “We can’t thank you enough for your help, Jamie,” said Ellington. “It’s more than sporting of you.”

  The Marquess took a long sip of his burgundy as he regarded the Viscount. “You may repay the favor by thrashing that smarmy bastard’s hide,” he said quietly. “Hertford’s unsavory reputation extends well beyond London, and his presence at his estate near St. Andrews is about as welcome among the local folk as a storm from the North Sea blowing down the Firth of Forth.” His voice dropped even lower. “There are murmurings that he’s forced himself on more than one respectable girl from the town. The people there have become my friends, and if I had a shred of proof that would stand up in court, I’d see him clapped in irons just as quickly as I can swing a bottle-nosed driver.” His broad mouth compressed in a tight line, squeezing away all traces of his earlier good humor. “With such despicable behavior, it is no wonder the English, especially ones of title, are not much welcome across the northern border. So make short work of him, Marquand.”

  “I promise you I shall do my best, Bowmont. Of that you may be sure.”

  “St. Andrews?” Baron Hylton set down the delicate Sevres teacup in surprise, sloshing half its contents on the damask tablecloth and turned his startled gaze upon his daughter. “St. Andrews?” he repeated, his tone becoming, if anything, even more incredulous. “In Scotland?”

  “Yes, Father.” Lady Honoria carefully rearranged the napkin on her lap. “That is what Lord Marquand’s note said. He has written one to you as well.”

  Noting how his wife’s pinched face had already tightened in concern, he leaned his considerable bulk forward in his chair. “You haven’t by chance already . . . quarreled with the Viscount?” His eyes narrowed. “Good Lord, I’ve just sent the announcement into The Gazette—”