by Jo Beverley
Returning to the Hall, she gave in to an impulse and stopped at the vicarage to see Margaret.
Over tea, she soon found herself telling the whole story of the day’s events and then sketching in some of the previous excitement.
“Heavens above!” Margaret exclaimed, her cup of tea cooling untasted. “I never thought things like that happened in our country backwater. Perhaps Hector is right and having a rake in our midst will cause all sorts of commotions. What fun!”
Emily shuddered. “It wasn’t fun at the time, Margo, I assure you.”
“I suppose not,” said her friend unrepentantly. “But it makes a wonderful story. Just like a novel. And,” she said with a playful frown, “I haven’t missed the fact that you have apparently been hobnobbing with our local viper without a word to me.”
Emily looked a guilty apology. “There just didn’t seem a good time.”
“Now is an excellent time,” said her friend implacably. “Not, I gather, flea-bitten and on his last legs.”
“Definitely not.”
“Seedy? Debauched? Sallow and bloodshot from constant dissipation?”
Emily shook her head.
Margaret’s silence demanded an answer.
“He’s very good-looking,” Emily said feebly.
“Details,” demanded her friend.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” retorted Emily crisply. “The man’s a walking cliché.”
“Handsomer than Marcus?” asked that gentleman’s betrothed.
“Perhaps not in your eyes, Margo, but yes, I would say so.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted Margo. “What of Hector’s nasty stories? Is he a seedy reprobate?”
Emily gave this much thought. She could have given a lecture on the subject, but in the end she just said, “No.”
“I thought not. So,” asked her friend, bright-eyed. “Why haven’t you snared him already?”
Emily broke into tears.
When Margaret had finally calmed her and got some of the story of the morning’s interview with her father, she apologized. “I was only funning, dearest. You know how we’ve always teased about our beaux. How horrid to have your father think you’ve been throwing your cap at him.”
“And I haven’t, Margo,” declared Emily with a mighty blow of her nose. “Honestly. I know he’s wrong for me on all counts. It’s him . . . He kissed my hand, which is not at all a normal thing to do to a lady one meets on horseback.”
“He kissed your hand?” echoed Margo, wide-eyed.
“He fixed my bonnet, and smiled at me in that way he has.”
“Indeed.”
Emily looked up to see lively interest and distinct amusement on her friend’s face. “It isn’t funny, Margo. If I ended up smelling like a tart, it’s because he gave that horrid powder to the woman and then caused her such distress she hurled it at him. And then he tells my father I’m going around throwing myself at men. Oh, if only I had him here to give him a piece of my mind!”
Prompt to her cue, the vicarage housekeeper knocked and entered the parlor. “There’s a Mr. Verderan here to see the Reverend,” she said. “Shall I tell him he’s out?”
Margaret gave a little laugh and bit her lip.
“Margo!” Emily whispered urgently. “Don’t you dare!”
“Why don’t you show him in, Mrs. Findlay,” Margaret said. “I will have a word with him.”
Emily leapt to her feet and looked for an escape, but there was none other than the door that led to the narrow corridor down which Piers Verderan was now presumably walking.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she demanded of her friend, sotto voce.
“I want to meet him. And you did say you wanted to give him a piece of your mind.”
Then he was in the room, looking curiously at them. Margaret immediately rose and made introductions. Emily found herself obliged to give him her hand. If he dared to kiss it, she told herself, she’d blacken his eye.
“Miss Grantwich,” he acknowledged as if they were strangers. She realized he was going to allow her to dissociate herself from him.
Or was he trying to pretend they were strangers for fear she’d throw herself at him in a mad burst of passion?
“Mr. Verderan,” she said, hoping the ice in her voice would give him frostbite.
A brow twitched, but he turned to speak to Margaret, merely explaining that he was making himself acquainted in the area. He asked her to assure her brother that he would keep up the contributions his uncle had made to various charities, and would probably increase them if appropriate.
“Hector will be pleased to hear that,” said Margaret pleasantly. “There are many worthy causes in the parish. Won’t you stay and have tea, Mr. Verderan?”
After an inscrutable glance at Emily, he agreed.
“Then I’ll just go and fetch another cup,” Margo said brightly, and disappeared before either of her guests could object.
He turned from watching the speedy exit, faint surprise still on his face. “Do I gather you wish to speak privately with me, Miss Grantwich?”
Emily could feel her cheeks burn. “Never!” she declared. “I never want to speak to you again!”
His expression chilled. “Then your friend’s behavior is extraordinary.”
Emily emboldened herself and faced him straightly. “I did say I wished to speak to you,” she admitted curtly. “I suppose I may as well take this opportunity and get it over with. You will please keep away from my house, Mr. Verderan. If there is any need for us to communicate on business matters, I’m sure it can be accomplished by letter.”
She gathered up her hat, gloves, and whip and headed for the door.
He grasped her arm and stopped her.
“How dare you!” she gasped. “Release me!” His grip did not slacken.
All Hector’s warnings took on new life. “I have been warned that you cannot be trusted with a lady,” she snapped, pulling against his hold and only succeeding in hurting herself. “The warning is proved true!”
He swung her around, and his hands settled hard on both her shoulders. His fine features were etched sharply with cold anger and showed no trace of remorse. “I warned you myself, Miss Grantwich,” he said curtly. “Be that as it may, this morning I saved you from a fate worse than death. A modicum of gratitude would be more becoming than a tirade.”
“Are you lecturing me on good behavior?” she demanded. “How absurd.”
“I am lecturing you on common decency.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “That is even more absurd!”
His eyes flashed a warning, and Emily’s instincts told her she was in dangerous waters. His lips were tight as he said, “I am doubtless going to have to kill a man on your behalf, you little termagant—”
“No choice of mine, sir! I abhor violence.”
His hands tightened and he smiled unpleasantly. “You desire to further your acquaintance with the estimable Jake?”
She would have hit him if his hands had not still confined her. He probably felt the twitch. “I merely demand that you give up any idea of duelling over me.”
Abruptly he let her go and moved away, appearing quite relaxed. “Very well. When shall I tell Jake Mulholland that you expect a call? I fear you will have to wait a day or two until he’s mobile again.”
“He won’t bother me again,” she said, but heard the uncertainty in her voice.
“That sort never take no from a woman, Miss Grantwich. His pride is on the line.”
Emily felt a chill. “He wouldn’t dare—”
“He won’t dare not to. He’ll be a laughingstock once the tale gets out, and your cousin is a notorious blabbermouth.”
“But—but won’t he be afraid of someone taking action?”
“You are very unprotected, Miss Grantwich, and used to going about unaccompanied. Whom is he to fear?”
Emily wouldn’t say it, but she looked up at him. He raised a brow. “Am I to kill him for
you, then?”
Emily turned away from his taunting. “This is terrible. This can’t be true! Are you saying that I have to sign that man’s death warrant or go in fear?”
She looked back and saw distinct, teasing amusement come into his face. It worried her rather more than his anger. “There is a third choice,” he drawled. “If I made it clear you were of particular interest to me, Miss Grantwich, your attacker could probably save his pride on the grounds of not poaching on another man’s preserve.”
“What kind of interest?” Emily whispered.
He laughed briefly. “I hardly think I should set it about that you’re my mistress, but I’m afraid I’m not willing to go so far as to engage myself to marry you.” Emily felt her color flare and hated it.
“Let us just say,” he drawled, “that I could show a flattering interest—”
“It would not flatter me,” retorted Emily.
“It should,” he replied coolly. “It will make you unique.”
Emily smiled equally coolly. “I suppose by that you mean you have only previously connected your name with ladies of low repute, Mr. Verderan. I fear some will think it more likely that I have joined their company than that you have entered the number of the elect.”
He gave a sharp crack of laughter. “I knew we couldn’t avoid the religious for long, especially not in the vicar’s parlor. I’m certain your spotless reputation can withstand a brief brush with my sooty one. Well, Miss Grantwich?”
Brief. The word was both reassurance and a stab of agony. Emily took a brisk turn about the small room, then faced him again. “What exactly will this charade involve?”
“Nothing too unbearable,” he assured her. “I’ll drop a few hints. After all, despite my reputation, it will not be seen as impossible that I have a mind to marry. I have considerable properties and I’m heir to a viscountcy, though merely an Irish one.”
“A viscountcy,” Emily echoed. Ireland. Stolen money and impoverished relatives.
“Yes. My grandfather holds the title at present. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. The old man will live to be a hundred just to keep me out of his shoes.”
The insinuation that she was chasing him, and not only him, but a title, blew all other thoughts out of Emily’s mind. She projected loathing at him with all her might. “My only hope, sir, is that you and this whole debacle will prove to be a singularly nasty dream.”
His eyes narrowed. “You know, I don’t have the faintest idea why you’re ripping up at me, Miss Grantwich. You were not so heated this morning.”
“I find your intrusion into my life extremely distressing,” she said straightly. “I have not had a moment’s peace since I first encountered you, Mr. Verderan. You and your Violet Tart!”
All anger fled and he looked at her with delight. “I think your way of describing people is utterly delightful. Poor Renfrew is a Daffodil Dandy and Violet is a Violet Tart. Do you have a name for me, I wonder? Ah yes, for some reason, I’m a Flea-bitten Giraffe. Do you care to explain that? I never thought my neck to be extraordinarily long.”
Emily had no intention of being diverted into whimsical sidetracks. “I was a little confused,” she said discouragingly. “I do not need to christen you, Mr. Verderan. You are already called the Dark Angel, which sums you up very well.”
He managed to look hurt. “I think I prefer to be thought of as a flea-bitten giraffe. At least you might be sorry for me. Would you believe me if I told you I am not as bad as I am painted?”
The honest answer would be yes, but Emily hardened her heart and retorted, “You forget, I am witness to the truth, sir. You consort with loose women. You are a self-confessed rake. You manhandle women and you shoot unarmed men merely because they like sago pudding.”
“I do not—” He took a breath and looked at her with a shake of the head. “As a matter of fact, I can think of worse reasons. It’s a revolting dish.” Then he smiled at her with boyish mischievousness. “Frog spawn.”
Emily chuckled. “Did you used to call it that, too?”
Then she realized he was bamboozling her again and wiped the smile off her face. It was no laughing matter. Still, she could not resist an attempt to bring him to his senses. “Mr. Verderan,” she said gently, “no matter how much you dislike it, it is not rational to shoot someone over sago. It is not rational to become disturbed about any kind of pudding.”
“Not at all?” he asked dubiously, but hilarity still twinkled in his eyes.
He was mad. How terrible. “Not at all,” she assured him patiently. “You should try not to be so stirred up about it.”
“I will try, Miss Grantwich,” he said soberly. “But it will be hard in some situations. And with some kinds of pudding.” The twinkle had returned to his eyes, and now it conquered his lips and he laughed. “Do you know, dear Emily, I find the notion of sharing some pudding with you extraordinarily appealing.”
She took a step back. “I fear you are deranged.”
He shook his head. His voice was unsteady as he said, “I fear so, too. I’d better escape before this situation gets any worse ...” He turned at the door. “By the way, your father invited me to dine with him tonight. Do I now have your permission? It would further our appearance of having a particular relationship.”
“As you will,” Emily said grudgingly. “The alternatives seem to be worse. But I wish to make it clear that I have absolutely no interest in you as a husband and therefore cannot pledge myself to give even a passable appearance of fondness.”
He stopped to look at her for a moment, and Emily felt as if she had issued an unwise challenge. “In other words, I am definitely sago,” he murmured.
“What?”
He smiled slightly. “I just wondered if we were likely to have sago tonight.”
And he kills people who offer him sago pudding, Emily thought wildly. She really should warn her father just what kind of man this was. “Of course not,” she assured him. “That is a nursery dish.”
He nodded, appearing quite normal except for a wild glint in his eyes. “And we want something much more suitable for adults. Tart, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said warily, wondering if he expected to have the Violet Tart served up for dinner. He was a rake, after all, and he and her father would be eating alone. She’d heard rumors of these bachelor dinners. She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe we are to have apple tart, Mr. Verderan. With cream.”
His lips twitched, but his face was straight as he responded, “Always a tasty dish, Miss Grantwich.” With a slight bow he took his exit. Emily was sure she heard the sound of laughter as he walked down the corridor.
Margaret bounced into the room with suspicious alacrity. “I waited until he left. Did you give him a piece of your mind? I could hear you shouting at one point.”
“Margo, if you ever pull a trick like that again—”
“Oh, come on. You’re alive, aren’t you? And judging from the flush in your cheeks, you’re not in the dismals as you were before. He’s utterly gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“He’s impossible!” Emily declared. “Margo,” she added in a whisper, “I fear he’s insane. He was going on again about pudding, and laughing. Was he laughing when he left?”
Margo nodded. “I thought you’d parted on a great witticism. Perhaps you should learn more of his family.”
“Since I have no intention ...” Emily stopped this disavowal when she remembered their strange arrangement. “The thing is, Margo,” she explained uneasily, “he’s persuaded me the only way to deal with that horrid man who assaulted me—other than killing him, that is—is for me to appear to be . . . well, Mr. Verderan’s friend. Close friend.”
Margo’s mouth fell open. “Emily! Are you going to marry him?”
“No!” Emily shrieked, then shook her head. “Margo, it is all pretense. But you can put it about, if you like, that he’s . . . oh, paying me attentions, I suppose. He’s dining with Father tonight. Not with me,” she hastened to poi
nt out. “With Father. But the gossips won’t know that.”
Margo was giving her a bright-eyed, speculative look. “Did he kiss you?”
“Of course not!”
“Pity. Before this is all over, Emily, you should see if you can arrange that he kiss you at least once. I’m sure he’s very good at it.”
So was Emily, and she pokered up against temptation. “Margo, I think you are lost to all decency.”
Margo suddenly looked bereft. “The trouble is that I’m all too decent. I miss Marcus,” she suddenly cried. “And one of the things I miss is the way he kissed me.”
As her friend burst into tears, Emily hurried over to comfort her, wondering whether men were really worth all the trouble they caused poor females.
6
IN A CHARMING house in North Audley Street, Mayfair, Lady Randal Ashby and her husband were sitting on a striped-silk sofa, reading their post. Eighteen-year-old Sophie looked up from her own correspondence to see her handsome husband of only two months puzzling over two letters, one held in each hand.
“Is someone writing to you in anagrams, Randal?”
He grinned. “Not precisely, though they do present a curiosity. This,” he said, waving a long letter much covered by flowing handwriting, “is from Cousin Chloe. She’s in a pother because her sweet, shy, demure little school friend, Emily Grantwich of Melton, has had a run-in with Ver. Apparently he showered her with perfumed powder—”
“In public or private?” interrupted his fascinated wife. “And were they ...”
He touched her auburn curls gently with the letter. “You have a naughty mind, minx,” he said with that special smile which was guaranteed to encourage such a feature. “I confess Chloe’s secondhand telling of the tale is a little incoherent, but since the incident took place in the street I doubt your more lurid imaginings are possible.”
“With Ver one never knows,” said Sophie darkly. “Why is Chloe telling you this story?”
