Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  “And yet presumably you like to ride.”

  “I can ride as much as I want, sir, without having to chase an animal to death to get pleasure from it.”

  “That only shows that you’ve never ridden in a hunt,” he drawled in that tone which made her want to contradict everything he said.

  Before she could think of an abrasive response, he looked out over the misty landscape stretched around them, the rolling grassland and high fences that made the Shires ideal hunting country. When he spoke, it was in a soft, thoughtful voice.

  “There’s a challenge in the chase, Miss Grantwich, and the greatest treasure in life—an unpredictable ending. The fox will lead where a sane horse and rider would never go of their own volition, and despite his reputation for cunning, the fox does not twist and hide. He runs straight and fast and long, and he who hesitates in his wake is well and truly lost.”

  He turned and looked at her. “Therein lies the challenge, Miss Grantwich, which you will never get when out hacking. The speed, the danger. And the glory of facing fears and conquering them. And,” he added with a smile, “surviving.”

  Though Emily’s head advised that he described insanity, her faster breathing and a rapid heartbeat showed she was in danger of Bedlam too. She, who had always been so sensible, so careful, so moderate, suddenly wanted to take a risk, face a terrifying challenge, and achieve a dizzy triumph.

  He spoke again in a normal, offhand voice. “If you’re going to condemn that horse to tame canters along bridle paths, Miss Grantwich, it will be a damn shame.”

  Emily stared at him, startled by the word. “I beg your pardon?”

  He was coolly unmoved. “Do you expect an apology for a mere ‘damn’? You must surely hear worse as you go about your father’s business.”

  That was true, but she was nettled that he did not think her worthy of common courtesy. “Another religious reference, Mr. Verderan?” she asked tartly. “You’ll have me thinking you a man of the cloth.”

  “You are far too intelligent to think anything so absurd, Miss Grantwich.”

  And that was true, thought Emily. With his crisp dark curls and sardonic features, Piers Verderan brought the devil to mind, not God. The notion of him in a pulpit exhorting the local farmers to honest labor and charitable works was totally impossible.

  “Lost for words, Miss Grantwich?” he challenged.

  Emily was perilously close to it. Nothing in her life had prepared her for Piers Verderan. “All I can say, Mr. Verderan,” she said primly, “is that your conversation is not that of a gentleman.”

  “Ask anyone,” he said with a slight smile. “They’ll tell you it’s been my life’s work to avoid being anything so tedious as a gentleman.”

  Emily was utterly confused. “What pray are you, then?”

  His smile widened into that devilishly charming one, and it was as if little flames sparked in his eyes. “Why, Miss Grantwich, haven’t you guessed? I’m a rake. And I’m also Casper Sillitoe’s heir. I believe this land is contested between our two estates. I’ll have to consider carefully this matter of your sheep.”

  Before she could say a word, he turned his horse and set it back the way he’d come at a gallop, flying over a fence with elegance. Emily felt Nelson twitch with the urge to follow and challenge that dark beauty. She felt the same urge herself, but it was not a riding challenge that called her. It was something else.

  She’d never met a man who behaved quite as Piers Verderan did. Though she couldn’t exactly say he offered her insult, he did not treat her as a gentleman should treat a lady. Just by a gesture or a tone of voice he seemed to suggest they were already more than that.

  Surely he could mean nothing by his manner with her, even though it created in her a feeling of intimacy which was turning her giddy.

  “You’re twenty-six,” she reminded herself, “and plain, and unromantic, and businesslike ...”

  No amount of self-debate helped. “Damn,” she muttered, using just the word she’d objected to from him, as she set Nelson back towards Grantwich Hall at a good speed.

  She spent the whole canter home obsessed by the man. A self-confessed rake. A libertine of the first water. Doubtless a gambler and drunkard. She had never met a rake and never wanted to. No sane and decent woman would want anything to do with a man who consorted with loose women, drank himself under the table every night, and wagered his all on a fly on the window or the parentage of some poor lady’s child.

  She should have guessed, however, that a rake would have skills expressly designed to set the most sensible lady’s head spinning like a whirligig.

  4

  EMILY GALLOPED the last mile to the Grantwich Hall stables to let Nelson have his head and to try to blow a certain man out of her own. The ride was wonderful, but thoughts of the man lingered. He was surely a Meltonian and would stay for the season, living at Hume House—Casper’s old place—and therefore their nearest neighbor. How was she to avoid him? Did she want to avoid him?

  And to add to her problems, as an avid hunter he’d probably set up more coverts for foxes and positively encourage the hunt to work this part of the country. That meant trouble.

  Not that Emily was fond of foxes. They were vermin and an utter nuisance, but traps and guns would get rid of them more efficiently than a hundred men and twenty couple of hounds chasing one poor beast for hours. In fact it was getting to the point where people were carefully preserving the foxes to ensure good sport and heaven help anyone who destroyed one. The world was assuredly mad.

  For all that, she needed the hunt to win her wager with her father and preserve the estate from Cousin Felix. The hunt would make Nelson worth a small fortune if she could only display him. His smooth, ground-eating gait, his endurance, and his agility over all kinds of obstacles made him a princely hunter.

  If Piers Verderan were to ride him he’d bring a high price, said a mischievous voice in her head.

  “Emily Grantwich, you are suffering moon-madness,” she muttered to herself as she dismounted outside the stable.

  The horse shook his head.

  “You don’t think so?” she queried.

  The horse tossed his head up and down as if in agreement. Emily wondered if she truly were going mad.

  Haverby came over to take the reins.

  “Have you ever wondered,” Emily asked him, “whether these horses understand everything we say?”

  “Surely they do, Miss Emily,” he replied. “Like ‘Giddyup’ and ‘Whoa.’”

  “Do they—er—talk back?”

  The groom looked at her in concern. “You all right, Miss Emily? Nelson toss you on your head?”

  Emily glanced at Nelson, who seemed to have a very meaningful glint in his big dark eyes, and looked hastily away. “No, no,” she said quickly. “I just wondered ...”

  “You’d be best to go and have a nice lie-down,” said Haverby, shaking his head as he took the horse. “But there’s company.”

  “Who?”

  “The Reverend and Miss Marshalswick.”

  It was strangely early for a visit and Emily had a busy morning planned, but she would be pleased to see her friend Margaret, if less pleased to see her suitor, Hector Marshalswick. She hurried to her room and changed into a simple blue-sprig muslin. Then she went down to the morning room, where she found Junia lackadaisically entertaining their guests. As soon as Emily arrived, her aunt made her excuses.

  Both Hector and Margaret were looking puzzled.

  “Forgive me, Emily,” said Hector bemusedly, “but is your aunt—? She talked only of toads.”

  Hector was a solidly handsome young man: square hands, square shoulders, square face. His dark hair curled pleasingly and his eyes were large and sensitive, though Emily wondered sometimes if that wasn’t a misleading impression. His only fault was that he was rather short, but that made him well suited to her own meager height.

  After all, she wouldn’t want to marry a tall man and forever have to twist her ne
ck to look him in the eye. A picture of a certain tall man instantly presented itself.

  “Oh dear,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid Aunt Junia always speaks of whatever is uppermost in her mind. She did say she was reading up on toads for use in controlling garden pests. Many people round here leave out milk, you know, in the hopes of attracting a toad to their garden.”

  “If they’re not leaving it out to appease the boglins,” said Margaret with a mischievous twitch of her lips. She too was short but fortunately more delicately built than her brother. On her the curly dark hair and large dark eyes were decidedly fetching.

  “That is possible,” agreed Emily, and they shared a mischievous look, knowing that the superstitions of the local people greatly annoyed solid, practical Hector. “How are you both?”

  “We are very well, thank you,” said Hector. “We stopped by so early because we felt we must give you a warning. We have a viper in our midst.”

  “Snakes?” queried Emily in confusion, her mind still on toads.

  “Rakes!” declared Margaret cheerfully. “Or rather one rake. You’ll never guess who Casper Sillitoe’s heir is, Emily. Poor Hector fears for the souls of his flock.”

  “Margaret,” said her brother with a frown, “this is not a subject for levity. It is bad enough to have an annual influx of wild young men with nothing better to do than waste ridiculous amounts of money on a pointless sport, but to have one take up residence as our closest neighbor ...”

  “Who is this man?” asked Emily, knowing perfectly well.

  “A certain Mr. Verderan,” said Hector sourly. “The worst example of the type.”

  “Goodness,” said Emily. Her scarce-acknowledged hopes that he had been teasing when he described himself as a rake crumbled. “What—what do we know about him?”

  “I would not sully a lady’s ears with what I know,” said Hector, much to Emily’s disappointment. “Suffice it to say that he is unfitted for any lady’s company.”

  Emily remembered Mrs. Dobson’s warning and wondered nervously if Hector would wash his hands of her if he discovered she had walked the length of Melton on the man’s arm. Then she reminded herself that it was as yet none of his business.

  “Hector,” she said firmly, “I’m afraid I can’t cut anyone’s acquaintance without reason. If he’s Casper’s heir he is our neighbor and I’ll doubtless have business dealings with him.”

  Hector stiffened. “Emily, I ...” Emily knew he had been about to say, “I forbid it,” but had realized that he did not have the right. “I will speak to your father,” he said weightily and rose.

  “Hector, that may not be wise,” warned Emily. “Any mention of the Sillitoes upsets Sir Henry.”

  “Then he will be all the more anxious to keep you away from the man,” he retorted. “It is time your father was brought to realize that he must hire someone competent to run the estate.”

  Emily watched tight-lipped as he left. It would do no good to protest further unless she wanted to alienate Hector. And apart from his status as possible husband, Margaret was her dearest friend.

  Margaret moved quickly to take her hands. “I am sorry, Emily. But you know Hector.”

  “Yes, indeed.” At times like this Emily knew she would be insane to even think of marrying him. “I do wish he wouldn’t upset Father, though. And yet on the other hand, Father seems to relish a good fight now and then.”

  “I don’t think it will do him any harm,” agreed Margaret. “But I’ll be surprised if Hector sways him, which means you probably will get to meet the rake. What fun. I’m dying to see him myself.”

  “Why? You surely would never be interested in such a one, Margo.”

  “I’m only interested in Marcus,” said Margaret firmly, if wistfully. “But it’s like a giraffe at the zoo,” she went on with determined good humor. “I just want to see what a rake is like. It will doubtless be a dreadful disappointment, just like the giraffe I saw when we went to London. Flea-bitten, and on its last legs.”

  Emily thought of Piers Verderan and giggled. “No, really, Margo. A flea-bitten rake?”

  Margaret nodded. “Port wine nose. Gout. Corsets.”

  Emily had great trouble not to laugh out loud and discovered an urgent desire to share this with a certain lean, handsome, healthy gentleman of her acquaintance. “Is he old then?” Emily asked innocently.

  Margaret grinned. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she admitted. “Since all I have are Hector’s annoyingly guarded warnings, I’ve been indulging in the most absurd flights of fancy. It’s as good as a novel and someday I’ll be able to see how close my suppositions are to the truth. After all, we’re sure to at least see him in passing. He may even come to church.”

  “A rake at Evensong?” queried Emily.

  “Old Sir Bertram comes every Sunday, and he’s the greatest rascal out.”

  “Well, Margaret,” said Emily conspiratorially. “Promise. Anything you find out, tell me.”

  “Of course,” whispered her friend as they heard a door close rather loudly across the corridor. “And you the same?”

  “Of course,” Emily promised, guiltily aware that she was already concealing a great deal from her friend.

  At that moment Hector returned, looking disgruntled. “Your father grows more unreasonable every day, Emily. I offer earnest prayers for your brother’s safe return.”

  “Thank you, Hector,” said Emily meekly. “So do we all. But I do wish you could give me a hint as to what this Mr. Verderan has done. To put me on my guard,” she assured him.

  He took a solid stance before the window, hands tucked behind the tails of his black coat. “I have made it my business to find out about the man,” he said weightily. “It has been most distasteful. There are any number of sordid tales, going back, if you will believe this, even to his school days, but I will not repeat them for they are unsubstantiated gossip. It is commonly acknowledged, however, that he gambles for large sums. He—and I hesitate to say it before innocent ears—he regularly consorts with loose women. He is known for his violent nature and has even fought in duels.”

  “Oh,” said Emily, unimpressed. Surely many people committed foolishness during their school days; if such things were the worst being said about a grown man, that told a tale in itself. A taste for gambling, women, and duels merely described the larger part of the fashionable men of England.

  Hector obviously read her expression. “I see I will have to be blunter. You may think such fashionable vices as play and pistols romantic, Emily, but this man’s crimes are more sordid. I spoke with a Mr. Osbaldeston, who was at school with this Verderan. He told me that Mr. Verderan swindled a large amount of money from his grandfather and as a consequence the old gentleman and Mr. Verderan’s own mother live in poverty in Ireland while he idles here in luxury.”

  “That is hard to believe,” said Emily. “The law would surely have something to say about it.”

  “I can only assume that his family has too much sensibility to take it to court. Perhaps they yet hope to appeal to a better nature he clearly does not possess.” Hector frowned at Emily. “I have to wonder why you are so determined to act as this man’s advocate.”

  Emily stiffened at his tone, aware that she had flushed. “Christian charity,” she retorted. “You are regaling me with a great many rumors, Hector, most of them hard to believe.”

  He colored slightly. “You cannot believe, Emily, that I would take any man’s good name lightly. Some facts are not disputed at all. In fact, in the eyes of the men I have spoken with, they are seen as matters of some admiration. It is apparently a fact that Mr. Verderan has not only taken part in a number of duels, he has killed two of his opponents.”

  Margaret gasped. Emily went cold. “Killed two men?” she repeated. “That cannot be. He would have been charged.”

  “He is apparently very rich. He is also connected to some of our highest families, though his reputation is such that he is not accepted in Society. Given the l
ax state of the Fashionable World, I have to ask what we must think of a man even they cannot tolerate.” He saw that his words were finally having an effect and nodded. “We know how these things work in this corrupt world, Emily. The poor man feels the full weight of the law for stealing a rabbit, while this rich man walks free after stealing his mother’s means of sustenance and two men’s lives. And I ask,” he wound up, in the tone he used in his pulpit, “can such a villain, so lost to the most fundamental type of human decency, be trusted to behave correctly with a gently born lady?”

  “I suppose not,” said Emily numbly, exchanging a sobered look with Margaret. Such a man in the neighborhood was decidedly not a subject for levity.

  She went through the motions as her guests discussed local matters for a little longer and then took their leave. Why, she wondered, was she so deeply distressed?

  Because she did not want Piers Verderan of the dry wit and smiling blue eyes to be a true, blackhearted villain.

  She could dismiss Hector’s stories as nonsense, as nonsensical as Margaret’s picture of the decrepit libertine. Tales grew in the telling and could spring from nowhere at times. But so many tales?

  And she had to be fair—Hector was not a man to spread malicious rumor.

  Moreover, though Emily found it nearly impossible to believe that Piers Verderan was a thief, she could believe that he had killed two men. She was strangely certain that he was skilled with blade or pistol and would not hesitate to use them if the mood took him.

  She remembered the instant, accurate retaliation he had taken against the Violet Tart and the sudden look of fear on the woman’s face. No doubt she too had been fooled for a while by that glint of intimate amusement, that ridiculously charming smile, and had learned later of his evil side.

  Emily shuddered and made a firm resolution to avoid Mr. Piers Verderan on all occasions in the future.

  Piers Verderan, on the other hand, found himself tantalized by Emily Grantwich. On the surface she was such a conventional, quiet person, yet he sensed so much more. There was wit and spirit and, he’d go odds, passion buried beneath that conventional exterior.