by Jo Beverley
Randal shrugged. “She seems to think I can control Ver and prevent him from having his evil way with little Emily.”
“How?”
“God knows,” he said with a laugh. “She admits she hasn’t seen this woman for nearly ten years. For all Chloe knows she may be the boldest piece in Leicestershire by now.”
Sophie frowned. “Let me see the letter.” He passed it over and she scanned it. “Chloe certainly was in a state when she wrote it, wasn’t she?” she chuckled. “All blotches and squiggles. But she says here that she and this Emily have been corresponding regularly. I would have thought she knows her friend’s character. Would Ver try to seduce a country spinster?”
“Seems unlikely,” admitted Randal. “Chloe’s always been excitable and she took a dislike to Ver at the wedding. Do you remember how that little hellion of hers would follow him everywhere? Ver is in Melton, though,” he added thoughtfully. “He was going to look into some property he’s inherited. If you need proof, he also has written to me.” He waved the other letter, rather brief and with clear, disciplined handwriting.
Sophie looked intrigued. “Let me guess. To say he was attacked by a desperate spinster throwing scented powder, and begging you to protect him?”
“Not at all,” said Randal. “If the incident occurred, Ver ain’t mentioning it. His reason for writing,” he said, pausing for effect, “is to ask me to make enquiries about the health and welfare of one Captain Marcus Grantwich of the Forty-third Light Infantry, supposedly missing in action after a minor engagement near Pamplona.”
Sophie looked at him blankly for a moment and then consulted Chloe Stanforth’s letter. “Grantwich!”
“Precisely.”
“What do you think’s going on?” Sophie demanded, bright-eyed.
“I don’t know,” said Randal, equally tantalized, “but I intend to find out. If Ver has a house there, he’ll put us up. Are you willing to risk roughing it in the Shires?”
“Of course,” said Sophie, always ripe for adventure. “May I ride the hunt?”
“No.”
Sophie cocked her head. “Why not?”
Randal pulled his wife to him and slid his hands up to the base of her skull. “You’re an old married lady now and should take heed to your reputation. And, little flame, I value your neck too much.”
She raised her arms around his neck. “I value yours too, you know. Rather a lot.”
“Then I won’t hunt either.”
Sophie leaned back and studied him. “Truly? But you love hunting.”
“I love you more,” he said simply.
Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes. “Randal Ashby, you’ve told me your devotion a hundred times or more, but never with such depth of meaning. I’m overwhelmed.”
“Good,” he said. “I like you overwhelmed. Let’s work on it.”
Piers Verderan walked into Hume House in the late afternoon and went in search of his unplanned guest. He found Kevin Renfrew, as he expected, in the library reading a book. It appeared to be a treatise on hound breeding. He’d discarded his waistcoat, jacket and cravat, which made his excessive thinness more obvious, but diminished any likeness to a daffodil.
Verderan couldn’t help smiling at Emily Grantwich’s names for people. He rather wished, however, he’d been able to resist the conversation about pudding. One of these days she was going to discover what it meant and be after him with a hatchet.
On the other hand, he thought with a chuckle, it would be a memorable encounter. How had he ever thought her a meek little mouse?
“Oh, hello,” said Renfrew, looking up. “Fascinating library. I never knew people put such effort into breeding dogs.”
“It’s a lamentable library,” said Verderan bluntly. “I doubt old Casper read anything except the papers and a couple of hunting books in his life.”
Renfrew looked around with childlike fascination. “But there’re hundreds of books I’ve never read,” he said.
“Because they’re the sort of books anyone with sense would throw out. What the devil were you doing with a character like Grantwich?”
“London was boring,” said Renfrew simply. “Grantwich said he was coming to Melton so I asked for a ride. Damned bad driver.”
Ver sighed, went over to a table, and poured two glasses of claret, wondering what he’d done to the fates to cause this influx of dependent young gentlemen. Renfrew had been another of his Eton fags, but at least not one needing protection. Kevin Renfrew could slide through any situation by simply ignoring it. His charming simplicity in the face of life’s trials was both endearing and infuriating.
It wasn’t that he was a lack-wit. He was in some ways brilliant but seemed to have a philosophical objection to ordering his studies in any way that made sense to the rest of the human race. Since obtaining a modest degree at Oxford he had been floating along on a small allowance from his bemused family and the endless goodwill of nearly everyone else.
He had once explained to the Prince Regent that he wore yellow because it was like sunshine and brightened even the dullest day.
Verderan had to admit that Renfrew’s entrance into Casper Sillitoe’s dusty, dirty old house was already brightening it. He passed the young man his glass of wine just before he drifted back into the book.
“I have to warn you, Renfrew, there’s only three indoor servants, including my man. The food is plain, and the whole place is damp and dirty. I shan’t do anything much to improve it until I decide what to do with it. If it’s to be lived in, it needs extensive repairs.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Renfrew and took a sip. “The claret’s rather good, anyway. I already had a word with your housekeeper, Mrs. Greely. Very warmhearted lady and makes an excellent loaf of bread. She sent that maid to air a bed for me. That’s all that matters.”
Ver considered the run-ins he’d had with the said lady, who always claimed crippling rheumatism or the maid’s bad feet when asked for anything beyond the minimum. He also realized the bread in the house was good and he’d taken it for granted.
“Excellent,” he said. “I put you in charge of ensuring we have a modicum of decent food and clean, dry beds. If you can persuade the surly gardener to rake the drive as well, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Of course,” said Renfrew with amiable vagueness. “But Whistler has too much to do, you know.”
“Another friend, is he? Of course he has too much to do, but I haven’t asked him to do much. He can let the gardens, such as they are, go to wilderness as far as I’m concerned, but one of these days someone’s going to break an axle in the driveway.”
“But he likes gardens and doesn’t like driveways,” Renfrew pointed out. “Why not hire a couple more men? You can afford it.”
Verderan could feel Renfrew’s universal goodwill creeping around him like a miasma. “Because then Mrs. Greely will want a couple more maids. It’ll be bad enough when my horses and grooms turn up. Soon I’ll have a household of servants in a place I may leave or sell in weeks.”
“Very nice hunting box,” said Renfrew, gazing round and almost investing the smoke-blackened walls and gap-planked floors with the elegance he saw in them.
“Next door to Grantwich Hall,” said Verderan, and then was surprised by his own words. He had been seriously thinking of keeping Hume House as a hunting box . . .
“Not like you to run from Felix Grantwich,” said Renfrew, and then smiled. “Oh, of course. The beautiful damsel in distress. Are you running from her?”
“Of course not,” said Verderan, determined not to be thrown off balance by Kevin Renfrew. “In fact,” he added dryly, “we’re as good as engaged to be married.” He drained his glass and put it down. “You can stay here as long as I’m living here and make yourself at home. You can take your pick of the stables—Casper had a few good horses—so long as you don’t touch Beelzebub. Now, I have work to do.”
As he left the library, he heard Renfrew murmur, “Right-o,” and knew the y
oung man would, as always, do as he pleased.
Verderan went into the small room Mrs. Greely designated as the estate office, though this merely seemed to mean that assorted estate records and publications had been left to molder there for the last fifty years. He might as well do a further stint at sorting through it all until it was time to ride over to Grantwich Hall for dinner.
The solicitor assured him that it was merely necessary to sweep the contents of the estate office out the door and burn them, and it would certainly be possible to hire someone to undertake the task, but Verderan had come to regard sorting the documents as a way of keeping out of trouble. Once the hunting started he’d abandon it, but in the meantime, idleness increased the likelihood of taking up with someone like Violet Vane or hanging around the Old Club, drinking and gambling.
Or giving in to the temptation to search out Emily Grantwich.
It was perhaps as well that she had finally seen his true colors and taken him in aversion. After all, she’d make no kind of wife for him.
Wife? Where had that notion come from?
For God’s sake, if he was going to marry, the only sane choice, probably the only choice open to him, was a hardened sophisticate like himself. Little Emily would have a fit if even half the rumors about him reached her ears, never mind the evidence of her own eyes. She doubtless thought that after Violet and Jake she’d seen his worst colors when she’d seen only their palest shades.
And that was without all the stories that crept across from Ireland. What would Emily think when they came to her ears, as they were bound to? He’d thought he’d long since armored himself against all that, but now he felt as if he were stripped down to his nerves, sensitive to everything.
And all because of a woman, a rather ordinary woman . . .
He picked up a pile of yellowed, mouse-nibbled pamphlets and coughed as dust billowed up. It turned into a laugh as he remembered their conversation about pudding. The temptation to pull her into his arms and give her a “sweet” lesson had been almost overwhelming, but of course one couldn’t do something like that with Miss Emily Grantwich of Grantwich Hall, particularly in the vicar’s parlor.
Why not?
Well, the vicar’s parlor would not be a good location, but . . .
He dropped the pamphlets back unconsidered and went to look out at the autumn garden. He realized for the first time that it was in tolerable order and rather attractively laid out in a casual style. What was the gardener’s name? Whistler. Trust Renfrew to have got to the heart of the matter there. It was a genius he had. Pity there wasn’t a way to make it paid employment.
But then again, perhaps it was. Why else did everyone in the world welcome him when he moved in and keep him happily until he decided to wander elsewhere?
What had he said? He’d described Emily as “the beautiful damsel in distress.” Verderan thought few people had seen the beauty in Emily Grantwich’s unspectacular face. Then he’d said, “Are you running from her?”
An interesting question.
Was he being chased?
If so, Verderan didn’t want to run. He realized with blinding suddenness that he wanted Emily Grantwich for himself. And Emily, he suspected, was more a fish out of water in this quiet corner than even she knew.
Visions filled his mind of setting Emily free and showing her the world, and adventures, and the many varieties of pudding . . .
He reviewed their few encounters and saw reason to hope. Of course, their most recent one might daunt a less resolute gentleman, but Emily had at least agreed to their charade.
And a gentleman couldn’t expect a woman to do all the chasing, after all. The least he could do was woo her a little and put the question. Hope that in her eyes he was something better than sago on the dessert menu of life . . .
Renfrew came wandering through the door. “I thought I heard you choke.”
“Dust,” said Verderan, maintaining a straight face with difficulty.
Renfrew looked around. “Nasty stuff,” he said, but immediately began to riffle through a nearby pile of papers, driving up a cloud of it. “Here’s someone claiming a guaranteed cure for disturbances of the mind. Sounds fiercesome stuff. Was your uncle batty?”
Verderan came over and took the sheet. “It runs in the family,” he said. “Either that or it’s Poudre de Violettes. Beware, young Renfrew, beware. That stuff has terrible effects. And they’re permanent.”
“Then the only thing to do is to enjoy them,” said Renfrew simply, moving on to another pile.
Verderan looked up at the cracked ceiling and smiled. “Precisely what I had decided.”
Emily went back to Grantwich Hall and first tried to explain the situation to Junia.
“Are you saying you’re going to marry the man?” Junia asked.
“No,” said Emily, repressing the desire to scream. “Do listen, Junia. He says he’ll have to kill that Jake if I don’t belong to someone like him. Mr. Verderan, I mean.”
“I thought he was going to kill Jake,” Junia remarked. “It seemed like an excellent idea.”
“Junia, you can’t approve of such a thing.”
“What use is Jake? And I’ll go odds he goes around attacking women, few of whom have protectors able to stand up to such a bully.”
Emily blinked. “But still . . . it’s not right.”
“As you wish,” said Junia with a shrug. “Mr. Verderan’s solution seems to solve your problem, at least.”
“Except that it puts me in an awkward position,” Emily complained. “Do I explain to Father, or do I let him think I’m continuing to chase after—Ooh!” she said, leaping to her feet. “When I think of the position I’m in, and none of it my fault at all, I could kill someone!”
“Then you kill Jake,” said her pragmatic aunt.
Emily flung up her hands. “Everyone in the world’s run mad! You want me to shoot someone. Margaret, the vicar’s sister no less, is advocating improper behavior. And that man was talking about pudding again and laughing. Dark Angel, indeed. He belongs in the dark house. He’s fit for Bedlam.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Junia, and looked through her drawings. “Ah, here.” She whipped out a sheet of paper and gave it to Emily. “A Dark Angel.”
Emily looked, transfixed, at the drawing of Piers Verderan. It was not a caricature but an ink-wash sketch. It showed him as an angel, fiery sword in hand. Despite a flowing gown and wings there was nothing feminine or even androgynous about him. He looked like a warrior capable of any act in defense . . . of what? Right or wrong?
That was the only question the drawing left in question.
Did it portray Michael or Lucifer?
Piers Verderan approached Grantwich Hall that evening in a state of considerable anticipation. Though he was supposedly dining with the invalid there would be some opportunity to speak with Emily. He would make sure of it.
He had not, however, expected to be accosted by her before he had even plied the door-knocker, and dragged off into a private room.
When she quietly but firmly closed the door, he said, “My dear Emily. Am I going to have to defend my virtue?”
The ready color flared in her cheeks and she looked delicious. If he was to keep his sanity he must keep his mind off food. “Mr. Verderan,” she said sternly, “you do not have leave to use my name, and ladies do not attack gentlemen.”
“Miss Grantwich, then,” he said agreeably. “And what a very sheltered life you’ve led, to be sure.”
She was wearing a blue wool dress with lace trim that would have looked dowdy on anyone else. Her soft brown hair was simply scooped back into a knot and her only ornament was a circle of rather paltry pearls. Even as he instinctively imagined her in more becoming outfits he knew it didn’t matter. She could dress as she wished. She could dress like her eccentric aunt if that was her taste.
“I have led a normal life, sir,” she said. “I’m sure your raffish companions are capable of any sort of strange behavior ...”<
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“Did you drag me in here just to tear a strip off me?” he asked, enjoying every minute. “I’m desolated.”
“I dragged you in here—” Emily caught herself. “No, I did not! You really are an infuriating man.”
“I know,” he admitted. He had to at least touch her. He took her hand and led her to a small sofa, sat her down, and took the space beside her. What would she do if he kissed her? He told himself firmly to remember that she was a shy country creature.
“Now,” he said. “Why do you need to speak to me?”
Emily had the feeling matters were slipping out of control. She had merely wanted to discuss their arrangement before he went into her father and said something to make her life even more difficult. Now, however, she was sitting beside him, very close beside him, and her hand was still tingling from when he had held it. And more than that, it was just something in the air, like the electricity before a summer storm.
Why did she want to speak to him? She couldn’t remember.
With what sounded like a small sigh he leant forward and brushed his lips against hers.
Electricity.
Emily jerked away. “What are you doing?”
“I was kissing you,” he pointed out. “Now I’m thinking of kissing you again.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“You can’t just go through life doing whatever you want,” Emily said as if it were gospel truth.
He smiled. A simple smile of pleasure. “Why not? I usually do.”
It was unfair that he be so handsome. She’d never known eyes could be so clear and deep a blue, lips so beautifully shaped. Emily couldn’t think. She certainly couldn’t think of an answer to whatever question he’d asked.
“Of course,” he said, and took her hand in his again, his thumb rubbing gently against her fingers, “if you don’t like it I would have to take that into consideration.”
Emily looked down at his long brown hand, warmly tantalizing hers, and remembered Margaret’s outrageous advice. “I suppose you’re very good at it,” she whispered. “Kissing, I mean.” She looked up to see a singularly sweet smile.
