by Jo Beverley
She smiled up at Emily. She had a round face, tanned and toughened by much time spent out of doors, and creased with nearly sixty years. Her hair was short grey curls. Her smile was wide, warm, and generous.
“How was business?” she asked.
“Pretty fair. Griswold of Kettleby’s sheep suddenly came on the market, so I bought them.”
“Good idea. Where’ll you put them?”
“If I have to, on High Burton.”
Junia nodded. “Good for you. Why d’you smell like a tart?”
Emily laughed. “That’s exactly what Father asked.”
“Well, he would know,” Junia remarked. “What’s the answer?”
“I got hit by a box of Poudre de Violettes.”
Junia cleaned and laid down her brush, then turned fully to her niece. “It was flying along the street?”
Emily chuckled. “After a fashion. Propelled by an irate lady of questionable virtue.”
“A tart?” asked Junia.
“A Violet Tart,” Emily declared, finally finding delight in recollection of that encounter.
Junia swung around in her chair and grabbed a pencil and her drawing paper. In a moment a caricature appeared of a blowsy female, cheeks puffed up like a zephyr’s as she blew a box through the air down the street. Underneath, Junia wrote, “The Violet Tart.” Emily laughed out loud. It was worthy of Rowlandson.
“I’m afraid not, Junia. She merely threw it.”
“Shame. Mind, judging from the aroma still clinging to you, she showed some taste in throwing it away.”
“The only taste she showed was in whom she was throwing it at,” Emily replied. “An unsatisfactory lover, I suppose.” Even as she said it, Emily doubted that to be the reason for the attack.
Junia turned back again, eyes atwinkle with anticipation. “Tell me the whole,” she commanded.
By the time Emily had finished they were both in whoops of laughter.
“Oh,” said Junia, wiping her eyes. “I wish I had seen you promenading through town all covered with the stuff. Whatever his faults, that man must have a certain panache. Who was he?”
“A Mr. Piers Verderan.” Something flickered in Junia’s expression—awareness, coupled with alarm and amusement. Emily asked, “Do you know him?”
“No,” Junia said bluntly. “Is he a Meltonian, then?”
“I suppose so,” said Emily, wondering. For all that she stayed close to home, Junia gathered all the gossip. She may not know this Mr. Verderan, but she knew of him. Emily, however, had no intention of showing vulgar curiosity, even if she was tempted.
Really, she had disliked the man intensely, and that woman had clearly been afraid of him. But the boyish amusement she had first seen and that final devastating smile confused the picture and unsettled her.
She put the man and the incident firmly out of her mind and told her aunt of the sheep and the horses. “So now I have to get the best price for the hunters and I confess I’m at a loss. Even without the problem of the sheep it would pain me to let them go for a fraction of their worth, but you know how things are—if people realize I need to sell, the price will fall.”
“You need to get someone to ride them for you,” said Junia.
“But it would have to be a top rider to really make a mark, and they are largely Meltonians, not local men. If only Marcus were home.”
“If Marcus were home,” said Junia practically, “you wouldn’t need to sell them nor would he let you, for he’d want them for his own string.” She picked up the drawing and handed it to her niece. “A memento,” she said.
“Of what?” Emily asked uneasily, remembering her irrational desire to keep the bonnet and the temptation to question her aunt about the Violet Tart’s lover.
“Of an interesting encounter,” said Junia idly.
Emily wanted to disclaim any wish to remember her day’s adventure, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to completely forget. The possibilities ahead for adventure seemed limited. As she had gone all her life without meeting a man like Piers Verderan it seemed likely she would go the rest of her life without meeting his like again.
A little reminder wouldn’t come amiss. Emily took the picture and thanked her aunt with a kiss.
After Emily left, Junia Grantwich was thoughtful. She didn’t remember when she had last seen little Emily so aglow. She’d always thought it a crime the way the family loaded whatever role they wished onto Emily, but she admired the way the girl always came up trumps. She’d been a quiet, dutiful little mother’s helper, then, after Henry’s wife died, quiet little mother to baby Anne.
She’d been an admiring ear to her brother and father and had soon become the ruler of the household without ever ceasing to defer to their masculine authority.
After Marcus went off to the war Emily had uncomplainingly assumed some of the role of son of the house, accompanying her father about the estate and acting as sounding board for ideas, and sometimes acting as deputy.
Now in these last few months she’d taken over the lot and was doing remarkably well. And blossoming. Perhaps it was the job, but more likely it was age. It did a woman a world of good, thought Junia, to reach the age where she stopped mooning for romantic love. Liberated her.
These days Emily had a firmness to her step and a way of meeting a person’s eyes frankly and smiling with unashamed humor. It would be a shame to see all this drowned if Marcus came home.
Junia wanted her nephew to survive the war, and she knew he would have only the kindest intentions towards his sister, but he was not an original thinker. It would never cross his mind that Emily might want more of life than the role of indulged maiden aunt.
Thus far, the only escape had seemed to be Hector Marshalswick, which was not a route that recommended itself to Junia. Now, however, there was Piers Verderan, who must surely be Damon Verderan’s son. Did he have a scrap of his father’s Irish magic?
Her mind slipped back thirty-some years to a magical summer of assemblies and rides, with Damon Verderan in the area, visiting his relative, Lord Althorpe. He’d married Helen Sillitoe, who’d had the same delicate beauty that had marked her aunt Clara, the lady who had brought such problems with her brief marriage.
At least Helen had proved more robust. She’d borne one healthy son and was still alive, one gathered, living in Ireland at her father-in-law’s estate, Templemore. Damon had died in a boating accident about ten years into the marriage. Junia couldn’t help feeling she would have taken better care of the man.
She gave a little laugh at such old foolishness. So, his son was among them now.
Junia had followed the career of Damon’s only child. She’d heard the rumors and knew he wasn’t the perfect English, or even Irish, gentleman; knew that he was excluded from the more select circles of Society. Even allowing for exaggeration, he was doubtless a rogue and could be a philanderer, but Emily’s reaction showed that he must have some of his father’s magic touch.
It was a chance in a million that Piers Verderan be the one for Emily or that he be free and willing, but it wouldn’t do any harm to find out. And if all that resulted was a little adventure for Emily to remember, that would be something to the good.
Junia went to her writing desk to compose a few letters.
Emily also decided to write a letter as she waited for her bathwater; a letter to her old school friend, Chloe Ashby. They had not met in person since their Cheltenham school days at Miss Mallory’s select establishment, but they had kept up a regular correspondence. Emily still felt as close to Chloe as she had when they had shared a room, and secrets, all those years ago.
Such different lives they had led, however. Chloe had eloped when seventeen and enjoyed all kinds of adventures before settling with her second husband in Lancashire. Her letters were full of her darling Justin and little Steven. Emily felt her own letters must be dull by comparison, for apart from her school days she had never left Leicestershire and she had no husband, had never even been kissed with m
ore than brotherly fondness . . .
Disgusted with her tendency to sigh over this, Emily reminded herself that at least now she could enliven one letter with a description of her encounter in the High Street with a rake and a Violet Tart.
3
THAT AFTERNOON, when Piers Verderan left the building on Burton Road that housed his uncle’s solicitor, he was a trifle bemused by the tangle in which Casper had left matters. It wasn’t as if it were a grand estate. Compared to the property he had inherited from his father, and that purchased on his own behalf since, this was a mere nothing, and yet someone had to sort it out. That was the trouble with inheritances. They generally brought more labor than profit.
“Ho! Verderan.”
He turned and sighed slightly as he saw three young bucks making eagerly towards him. Chart Ashby, Harry Crisp, and a stranger. The three young men were dressed identically in the latest fashion—blue jackets with brass buttons, buff breeches and top boots. They all had high beavers, leather gloves, and riding crops—and an air of excitement. Three young men hopeful of making their mark during the hunting season, hopeful of becoming accepted as true Meltonians, the elite of the hunting world.
He couldn’t cut them, of course. Chart and Harry were cousins to his friend, Lord Randal Ashby, and Harry had been Verderan’s fag at Eton.
“Good day, Harry, Chart.”
“Day, Verderan,” said Chart, his grey eyes shining with the untarnished exuberance of youth. Verderan wondered if he himself had ever been so damned youthful. “Beg to present my friend, Terance Cornwallis.”
Verderan acknowledged the existence of the rather round young man who seemed out of place with the handsome, muscular cousins. Apart from the fact that Chart had dark curly hair while Harry’s was tawny, they could have been twins. Chart casually informed Mr. Cornwallis, “Piers Verderan, Corny. A regular neck-or-nothing. A true Meltonian.”
“Honored,” said Mr. Cornwallis, his ruddy face growing redder.
Verderan turned to stroll with the trio down the street. “In the Shires a bit early, aren’t you?” he remarked. “Unless you’re here for the cubbing.”
“Oh no,” said Harry Crisp, quickly denying any interest in such tame training work. “Come to look at Corny’s place. He’s inherited a bit of property between here and Oakham.”
Verderan glanced at the bashful young man, at last seeing why Chart and Harry had taken him up. “Remarkable good fortune, Mr. Cornwallis.”
“Old aunt,” blurted Terance. “Only a small farm, really.”
“Still. A place like that near Melton will save you, and your friends, a fortune. Last count, lodgings here were at least two hundred for the season and stabling costs a guinea a week. You’ll be bringing, what?—at least six horses each?”
“At least,” Chart said blithely. “Father would never sport the blunt for Melton, but now ...”
“But now you’ll be able to pool your resources,” Verderan completed. “Excellent idea.” He looked pointedly at Harry and saw his school-day training still held.
“Of course we’ll be paying our share at Corny’s,” Harry said quickly. “Food, fodder, and all that.”
Chart looked mildly surprised, but he was a kind-hearted young man, if careless, and he quickly assented. “Gods, yes. Good enough of Corny to put us up. No need to put him to extra expense.”
A few incoherent mumbles came from their host and were ignored. “So what are you doing here so early, Verderan?” asked Chart.
“Business,” said Verderan. “I too have inherited a place nearby. But for the moment I’m staying at the Old Club.” He looked at them and found himself saying, “If you promise not to blow your noses on the tablecloth you may dine with me there tonight.”
Despite their attempt at sophistication, three faces flushed with color and three pairs of eyes shone. “I say, that’s damned decent of you, Ver,” said Harry.
“Yes, it is,” said Verderan brusquely. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The trio correctly took this as dismissal and made themselves scarce while Verderan wondered if it was a sign of senility, this tendency to be so disgustingly kind to people. More likely it was a lingering effect of the morning’s adventure. He was never coming within a mile of Poudre de Violettes again.
The three ecstatic young men ducked into the nearest inn and commanded the best October ale.
“What a piece of luck!” declared Chart. He turned to Corny. “ Course we’d never have had a chance of dining at the Club if it was the season.”
“ ’Course not,” said Corny earnestly.
“Dining there’s only for the best. Might get in after for some drink and play, mind you, particularly if Randal were here.”
“Randal won’t be here,” pointed out Harry. “Just married.”
Chart looked shocked. “You think he’ll miss the whole season?”
“Unless he brings Sophie,” Harry said.
“Ladies don’t take to Melton much,” advised Corny.
“True enough,” said Chart, “but you never know with Sophie. Besides, you wouldn’t think Randal would want to be with her all the time, would you? Dashed queer, if you ask me, and devilish inconvenient. We need a sponsor to be in at the best.”
Chart and Harry started an analysis of their family and friends and found it singularly disappointing. They were both well connected. Chart was the grandson of the Duke of Tyne; Harry was the son and heir of Viscount Thoresby and connected through his mother to Lord Liverpool and the Tory establishment.
None of this, however, was the slightest use in Melton. Here one needed a connection to Belvoir, Lord Lonsdale or Sefton, Assheton-Smith or Pierrepoint. All of which were depressingly lacking.
“Mr. Verderan?” offered Terance tentatively.
The other two looked at him in shock. “Oh no. Too risky,” said Chart. He leant forward slightly. “Word to the wise, Corny. He’s a dangerous man.”
Terance’s look was a question.
“Dueler. Killed his man twice. Never lets anyone cross him.”
Terance swallowed. “Seemed . . . seemed a pleasant sort of fellow.”
“Yes,” said Chart thoughtfully. “Damned strange.”
“Oh, come on,” protested Harry. “He can be dashed pleasant. I tell you, I was grateful to get him at Eton. Never ran me ragged, and though he’s got a tongue like a knife, he never laid a hand on me.”
“Had a running feud with Osbaldeston that’s the talk of the school still,” pointed out Chart. “Broke his arm. Went after Swallowton and flogged him when he wouldn’t fight.”
Harry went a little red. “Well, Osbaldeston was always a bully and Swallowton . . . that was on my account. He was . . . bothering me, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh,” said Chart. “Still, you can’t deny our families would throw fits if we’re forever in his company. Probably try to order us home. My mother almost had a spasm to have to be in the same room as him at Randal’s wedding.”
“Doesn’t like dueling,” said Corny wisely. “Mothers are all the same.”
“Oh, doubt she knows about that kind of thing. Man’s stuff, after all. And it never came to law or anything. Both his victims were warts on the body of society and everyone was delighted to see them go. And though Ver’s not exactly accepted, he’s damned rich and connected to all the right people. Even if,” he added thoughtfully, “they hope he won’t turn up to claim acquaintance ...”
“But why?” asked Corny. “Rich, well-turned out, Meltonian .. .”
Chart shrugged. “Stories. There was rumor at Eton he’d run away from home with his grandfather’s strong-box. But I ask you. If you were going to run away from home, would you run to Eton?”
The other two shook their heads.
“They say he won’t have anything to do with his mother. I just wish I could do the same to mine.”
“I’ve heard,” offered Harry uneasily, “that she’s living in poverty in Ireland because he stole the family fortune.
He’s here in luxury and she’s living on boiled potatoes.”
“Not good,” said Corny, who was actually rather fond of his mama.
“Doubtless a hum,” said Harry quickly. “After all, if he was a thief, the law would have something to say, wouldn’t it? People make up these stories about him and he won’t bother to deny them.”
“As for what turns the matrons sour,” broke in Chart with a grin. “Just about everything. He’s rude to anyone if it suits him, has a damnable temper, and won’t tolerate fools. When the mood takes him he gambles madly, though he nearly always wins—”
“Collects exotic mistresses,” broke in Harry, “and rarely just one at a time.”
“Had the whole opera ballet at his Hampshire place once,” came back Chart. “Can you imagine?”
It was obvious from Corny’s face that he was trying hard.
“And a harem of Arabians.”
“And two American Indians.”
“And Swedish triplets.”
“All at the same time?” asked Corny blankly, causing them all to dissolve in laughter.
“In fact,” said Harry when he’d recovered, “one day I’ll pluck up the courage to ask Ver the truth.”
“Well,” said Chart, “just don’t pick tonight. He may not be the most likely prospect, but he’s the only contact to the inner circle we’ve got as yet, so it’s clean faces and charming innocence, my lads!”
That evening, Verderan found the meal at the Old Club drawing to a close without any obvious disaster having taken place. Well trained by Eton and Christ Church, his three guests had the precise blend of ease and deference which made them invisible to the lions they ate with. They listened with flattering absorption to the hunting tales of the old hands and made just sufficient contribution to the conversation to avoid being apostrophized as nodcocks.
Verderan rather thought he could see them taking mental notes for their memoirs—or for tales for their grandchildren. “Did I ever tell you about the time I dined at the Old Club with Assheton-Smith ...?”
