by Jo Beverley
Golden memories of the evening had been assured the trio when it was found that Lord Robert Manners had ridden over from Belvoir Castle and brought with him the great man himself, the legendary Thomas Assheton-Smith, who had succeeded Hugo Meynell as Master of the Quorn.
Assheton-Smith was a tall, elegant man with a quiet reserved manner, which surprised people who knew only of his daring reputation in the field. He was known to disapprove of drinking and gambling, and his very presence had exerted a moderating influence on everyone in the club this evening.
He suffered the adoring attention of the three young men with good humor, encouraging Chart Ashby to ask, “Is it true, sir, that Napoleon gave you a medal?”
Assheton-Smith laughed. “Don’t put that around, young man. You’ll have me under lock and key! No, no. It was during the Peace of Amiens, you know, back in eighteen-oh-two. We all thought the war was over then, and a lot of us went over. I was scarce older than yourself, but I’d been hunting a few years and had some good luck. Got myself a bit of a name, which had spread even to Paris. He sought me out to talk of the great sport.”
“And called you ‘Le Grand Chasseur Smit,’ did he not, Tom?” asked Lord Robert.
Assheton-Smith modestly agreed that to be so and turned back to Chart. “Will I be seeing you out with the Quorn, young man?”
Chart’s eyes shone. “Oh yes, sir. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good, good. You have the look of a fine rider and your bloodline’s good. Your cousin’s a fine man over fences, though he fails to take my advice to the full.”
Verderan saw Chart’s frank disbelief at this heresy. “I think Tom refers to Randal’s disinclination to take a fall unless absolutely necessary,” he explained dryly.
“A failing you have too, Ver,” said Assheton-Smith. “You know my dictum, ‘There is no place you cannot get over with a fall.’ It is only by throwing his heart over every fence that a man can keep up with my hounds.”
“Have you often found me lagging behind, Tom?” queried Verderan.
The great man laughed. “You have me there! But I still maintain that the only way to ride a hunt well is to stop for nothing.”
“I’m with you there,” said a small-statured man with a high voice and a pointed face. “Never mind prime blood. Courage is what a man rides in the field.”
Verderan felt his jaw tighten, for the comment was directed at him. He and George Osbaldeston had cordially hated each other since their first days at Eton, but had luckily rarely encountered each other since. Osbaldeston had been hunting-mad even back then, and ever since leaving Oxford he’d devoted himself to the sport, first in Yorkshire, then as Master of the Burton Hunt. Now he was Master of the Nottinghamshire Hunt, moving ever closer to his target, the Quorn. He’d even taken to calling himself “Squire” Osbaldeston.
When Osbaldeston managed to get the Mastership of the Quorn, Verderan rather thought his own hunting days in the Shires would be over. The place would become uninhabitable.
“Courage won’t take a cart horse over an oxer,” he pointed out, “and being brave while lying in the mud is not a game I want to play.” It was well known that the “Squire” couldn’t afford horses fine enough for his ambitions.
“Of course being able to afford fine horses can help anyone to make a show,” retorted Osbaldeston, looking at no one in particular. “Irish horses. Or Irish money.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the company at the insinuation, and Verderan was weighing the sheer pleasure of picking a fight with Osbaldeston against the amount of effort involved—and the small matter of bringing his family skeletons to center stage—when he discovered he had a champion.
“A good rider on a bad horse can make a show,” Harry Crisp said calmly, though he looked tense. “A poor rider merely ruins a good horse, Irish or not.”
Champions, in fact. Chart Ashby turned to Assheton-Smith. “I understand you rarely pay more than fifty guineas for a hunter, sir. You must be a wonderful judge of horseflesh.”
“Why, thank you,” said Assheton-Smith, quite kindly. He didn’t much care for Osbaldeston himself. “But it’s amazing,” he added with a twinkle of humor, “how many wonderful horses of mine turn back into slugs when I’ve sold ’em. It’s the right kind of horse, a rider who’ll work with a horse, and the courage to take risks. All that together makes a good man for hunting. You must not ask of your mount more than it can do, but you must ask of yourself everything. No hesitation, ever.”
This spun off into a lively review of the last season’s runs, of the places where a daring leap had been successful, and of others where it had caused delay or even left a rider out of the running. Or, as Verderan dryly pointed out, dead.
Osbaldeston brushed this off with a sneer. “What more glorious way to die, I ask, than flying over a rasper in the Shires?”
This was greeted by a roar of approval, and even Verderan had to give his old enemy his point. He was, one gathered, a skilled huntsman and a brave rider. What shame he was such a nasty little fellow.
They had crossed each other within days of Verderan’s arrival at Eton, when he’d come across Osbaldeston holding a younger, smaller boy face down in a puddle because he didn’t like his boots. The fight had been brief as Verderan had a good few inches on Osbaldeston and hadn’t felt it fair to continue once his man was clearly bested.
Osbaldeston had never had such scruples. A few days later, he and some cronies had cornered Verderan and beat him up, leaving him badly bruised and with cracked ribs. They’d thought to terrorize him as they had so many others, but they hadn’t realized what they were up against. Verderan had been taught endurance in a hard school, and he merely waited until he caught Osbaldeston alone and thrashed him, making a more thorough job of it than he had the first time.
Osbaldeston had realized, as many others had in time, that short of killing him there was no way of suppressing Piers Verderan. And he wasn’t easy to kill.
Verderan caught Osbaldeston’s eye and hoped he got the message that nothing had changed.
The covers had been drawn. Candle flames reflected in deeply polished mahogany, glowed back from buffed silver, and glinted in fine crystal. A fire burned in the grate, crackling and hissing and burnishing the room with a fine warm glow. Each man still had a port glass before him and the bottle made its lazy way around, but drinking wasn’t the order of the day.
The president of the Old Club, Major-General Henry Craven, had brought the cigarillo habit back from the Peninsula and persuaded a few of the other men to join him. The aromatic smoke curled above their heads. The rest, however, were sticking to the more traditional form of tobacco, snuff. There was a pot of snuff on the table, but most men preferred their own sort and the boxes were offered around.
Verderan offered his box to his three guests. Chart and Harry took a pinch elegantly enough and managed not to have a sneezing fit. Terance Cornwallis, who seemed awestruck by his circumstances, wisely refused. The three were behaving as well as any young men could be expected to. Verderan reflected that he was but six years their senior; he felt at least a dozen.
The conversation wound down to a hiatus and Osbaldeston spoke up again. “So tell us, Verderan,” he drawled. “Why, pray, were you seen squiring an upper servant through town, covered with a fine dusting of flour?”
Verderan discovered that he didn’t want anyone, least of all Osbaldeston, poking around Miss Grantwich’s reputation. “Good lord,” he replied nonchalantly. “How came you by that tale? I hardly thought any civilized person was about at that hour.”
The sharp little face, so like his quarry the fox, tightened at the slight. “You obviously were, Verderan.”
“But I have never claimed to be civilized, Osbaldeston,” replied Verderan, to a general chuckle. “And it was not flour but Poudre de Violettes.” Violet had said the “Squire” was after her favors. From the sudden color in his cheeks, for once she had not been lying.
Before Osbaldeston could r
espond, Chart Ashby exclaimed, “Violet Vane,” and then went red as he realized the knowledge his words implied.
“Can you afford her?” asked Verderan with interest.
“Hardly,” said Chart, recovering some of his carefully cultivated sangfroid. “I met her once and she asked for a gift of the stuff. I—I’d heard she was in town.”
“Did you give her any?” Verderan asked, curious.
Chart colored again as he said, “Yes.”
“Well,” said Verderan kindly, “I wouldn’t expect too much return on the investment. She obviously only collects it to use as ammunition.”
“But why was she attacking you, old man?” asked Henry Craven. “I’d—er—not thought you one to disappoint even the most demanding lady.”
Verderan raised his glass slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Perhaps I satisfied her too well. It was the fact that I did not want to make the association of longer duration that infuriated her.”
“Ah,” sneered Osbaldeston. “You’d found her servant more to your liking. Find yourself more suited by the below-stairs maid, do you?”
“Not at all,” said Verderan. The desire to pick a fight with the man was becoming pressing, but that would only draw attention to the whole incident, which hardly seemed fair to poor little Miss Grantwich. If Osbaldeston was going to haunt Melton, there were bound to be other opportunities.
He changed the subject before Osbaldeston’s vulpine nose picked up the scent of a scandal. “Care to lay odds, gentlemen, on who mounts Violet as his mistress next? And perhaps more intriguing, who’s going to enjoy the tender morsel she’s grooming? Ethereal little thing with a cloud of silver-blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.”
“Ha!” shouted Craven with a laugh. “Now we see why Violet was so enraged. Not the below-stairs maid but her apprentice. No doubt who’s already laid claim to the little vixen.”
Verderan saw a flash of fury in Osbaldeston’s face. So that was his quarry, not Violet at all. What a revolting thought. Such a charming morsel deserved a gentle hand.
“If you say so,” said Verderan blandly. “But I assure you the cover’s undrawn as yet, so who’s to say in which direction the vixen will break? Lay your bets, gentlemen.”
That was enough to distract the whole group from the identity of the lady seen in his company that morning. The betting book came out and hundreds of guineas were wagered on the disreputable futures of Violet Vane and her promising little protégée.
But though they joined in, Verderan and George Osbaldeston were weighing other odds and making other silent wagers.
In the cool of the next morning, Emily stood in the pleasant pungency of the stable yard and surveyed her assets.
The family stock consisted of two hacks which could also be harnessed to the gig or small carriage; Emily’s own riding horse, a grey gelding called Corsair; and six hunters. Three had been bred by her father for eventual sale, the others bought as yearlings or two-year-olds. There were never enough hunters, and Sir Henry had reckoned to make a tidy profit while ensuring himself and his son fine mounts for the season.
Three of the horses were still too young to hunt; they probably would have to be sold but would bring very little. Three, however, were in their prime: Nelson, Wallingford and Oak-apple. Sir Henry had ridden Wallingford and Oak-apple, and two others that he’d sold, the year before. This would be Nelson’s first time out. They could all be worth a lot of money, but the whole scheme depended on someone riding them in the field and handling the subsequent gentlemanly bargaining.
Emily went over and fed a windfall to the pride of the stables, Nelson. He was a chestnut with a deep chest, well-sloped shoulders, and strong quarters. He could jump almost anything.
“Oh, you could go like the wind, Nelson,” she said as she rubbed his forehead. “If they once saw you in action, all those silly Meltonians would be bidding their all to own you.”
The big chestnut gently butted her and she laughed. “Yes, of course I’ll ride you today. I wish I could ride you in a hunt but it isn’t done, you know. Even if I were to be so bold, I couldn’t go to the Old Club and get the best price. And anyway, all those arrogant men would refuse to be impressed by a mount ridden by a female. It would be demeaning, wouldn’t it, to sell you for a hundred or so as if you were just another horse?”
Nelson tossed up his head and snorted at the very idea.
Haverby, the groom, came out of the tack shed. “Want me to saddle ’im, Miss Emily?”
“Yes, please.” Emily suddenly realized that soon these magnificent horses would be gone. She hadn’t looked ahead so far in her plans. How empty, how ordinary, the stables would seem without them.
She went the rounds, dispensing largesse and paying particular attention to Corsair so he wouldn’t be jealous, until the groom led out Nelson ready for her. “We’re going to have to sell them, you know, Haverby,” she said.
He was stoical. “Better so, I reckon. No life for them stuck here.”
“I think I’ll have to hire someone to ride them, though. Do you know of anyone?”
“You want a roughrider, miss. Dick Christian’s best, they say, but I doubt you’ll get him this close to hunting.”
“I’ve heard of him. He rides for the horse-copers and sometimes for gentlemen?”
“That’s right. There ain’t a horse born he can’t ride, and ride well. He’d make even old Venus there”—he nodded at the oldest hack—“look like prime blood.”
The unlikely notion made Emily smile. “I’d like to get the best. Can you get word to him that I’d like to hire him? It does no harm to ask. And see who else may be suitable as well?”
“Right you are,” he said and tossed Emily into the saddle. “Where you be off to, then, Miss Emily?” he asked. It was the only restriction put on Emily these days, to let someone know where she was heading.
“Up to High Burton,” she replied and gave Nelson the office to go.
She took it slowly for a while, letting the horse stretch and settle, and then began to try his paces. They cantered over a fallow field, and she set him at an easy woven hedge. He hopped over it and tossed his head.
“Too tame for you, is it?” she chuckled. “Very well.”
She let him have his head and they raced across grass towards a higher fence with a ditch behind. She collected him, then set him at it. It was like flying with a smooth, controlled landing at the end.
“Oh, you beauty!” she said, laughing, and they raced on to the next obstacle.
In a little while she reined him down to a trot, then to a walk. “You could go on for hours, couldn’t you, my fine fellow? But that’s enough for now. I want to look at the land.”
He obediently walked along, his step as light and frisky as if he had just come out of the stable, as Emily looked over the disputed property. It needed the sheep. The grass had grown long during the wasted months. In Two Oak Field the gash in the earth was unrepaired after old Casper’s attempted plowing, but already grass and weeds had disguised the damage.
Two Oak bordered directly onto the Sillitoe estate and Emily saw that the field beyond contained a well-tended covert of gorse and ferns. She wasn’t surprised, for Casper had been a great supporter of hunting, and if you wanted foxes available for the chase you needed coverts for them to hide in when their earths were stopped.
It was a bother, though. She hardly wanted to encourage foxes to lurk next door to her flock. As she frowned over the brush fence at the covert she heard the thumping of hooves and looked up. A fine dark horse ran easily up the sloped field towards her. As it came closer she recognized with a tremor of alarm that the rider was Mr. Piers Verderan. Reacting perhaps to an involuntary jerk of her hand, Nelson jibbed and sidled away as the horse and rider drew up on the other side of the fence.
Mr. Verderan raised his hat. “Miss Grantwich. What a pleasant surprise.” He sounded as if he meant it, and Emily thought the surprise part was doubtless honest. How different she must look now,
dressed in a bright green habit and a small-brimmed hat with a trailing veil. And mounted on what he must recognize as a handsome bit of blood.
She had been slow to respond. His smile cooled. “I must apologize. I did promise not to encroach, didn’t I? Shall we assume we have never met?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly and extended her hand over the fence. “My mind was just slow to turn away from the problem of that covert, Mr. Verderan.”
To her surprise he raised her gloved hand briefly to his lips before turning to look at the large area of gorse and fern. “Problem? It looks to be in fine shape.”
That out-of-place salute of her hand flustered Emily even though it clearly had no significance for him. There had been no speaking look, no lingering over the touch. So why had he done it?
The part of her mind that was still rational responded to his comment. “But the foxes will eat the lambs.”
He raised a brow and gazed about at empty fields.
She smiled at her foolishness. “The lambs born to the sheep I intend to put on these fields, Mr. Verderan,” she explained.
That caught his attention. “Do you indeed? You will need a good shepherd, then, to care for your flock.” His elegant lips twitched. “How very pious that sounds, to be sure.”
Emily knew she was smiling in return. “But I hardly expect to receive divine intervention, sir,” she remarked. “Definitely a case in which God helps those who help themselves. I will certainly need a good shepherd.”
“Forgive my curiosity, Miss Grantwich,” he said, “but is this land yours?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, seeing no point in regaling a stranger with the sorry story of the dispute. “Or, at least, my father’s. I manage the estate for him.”
A finely curved brow quirked. “Do you know, Miss Grantwich, you are a creature of infinite surprises. Next you will be telling me you hunt that fine beast.”
His tone reminded her that she’d found this man insufferably arrogant. Emily’s spirit sparked in response to the challenge she detected, and she raised her chin. “I would hunt Nelson if I had any wish to do so,” she retorted, who had never considered such an outrageous thing before. “As it is, I have no taste for the sport.”
