by Jo Beverley
“I haven’t met the man. He seems to minister to his congregation conscientiously, which is more than can be said of many.”
“True, but he’s a domestic fowl.” Junia wondered for a moment what species precisely. “Goose?” she mused. “Pullet . . . ?” She looked for an opinion and saw that he appeared dazed. People frequently did. Most people had such linear minds.
“Emily needs an eagle,” she explained, “not a caged cock-sparrow. Now you have confirmed my suppositions about your history, you seem a very satisfactory eagle to me. Persuade her to fly. I’m sure you are capable of it, and I will stand your friend.”
“Your faith is extraordinary,” he said with a frown. “Despite any whitewash you may have applied to it in your mind, my reputation is unsavory, and if I’m not exactly persona non grata in polite society, I am only encouraged to involve myself in a limited range of activities. Quite reasonably. I’m no saint and, to be honest, have no desire to become one. If I marry Emily, I will probably lead her into wickedness long before she manages to reform me.”
“But isn’t that just what I’ve been saying?” remarked Junia with a trace of impatience. “She needs some wickedness. Teach her to fly wild and free. But if you hurt her, I’ll shoot you myself.”
His lips twitched. “Another woman said that to me not that long ago. I think she meant it, too.”
Despite the lighter tone, he still looked stark, like a man rasped raw. Junia found herself touched far more than was agreeable. “Now go on,” she said in a schoolroom tone, “and prepare Henry’s very inelastic mind by trying to persuade him that his elder daughter is an attractive and competent young lady. He finds it impossible to believe.”
After a hesitation, he left without a word. Junia wondered vaguely whether she should change her dress but reflected that the dining-room chairs were plain wood and washable.
She really felt quite annoyed with Damon Verderan. He had sired a son, and doubtless surrounded him in that careless magic—the inspired impulses, the ready wit, the constant enthusiasm for life. Then he had left him unprotected to be flung from golden warmth into the iron cold of Lord Templemore’s jurisdiction.
Of course, no one ever thinks they will die young.
As for Helen ... Junia had disliked and envied Helen Sillitoe since they were both small—Junia robust, with a mass of dark curls, and Helen softly beautiful and fair. Piers Verderan had his coloring from his father but his elegant bones from his mother.
Helen had always been the gentle lady, with just enough playful high spirits to tantalize. Men had seemed compelled to adore and protect her.
Stupid men, thought Junia sourly, then laughed at her folly after all these years. No one had ever guessed that she’d lost her heart to Damon Verderan and they certainly wouldn’t now. But she would have done better by his son than Helen had.
She knew that her meddling, for good or ill, was as much for Damon’s son as for her niece. She hoped Damon was looking down from heaven and finally appreciating what he had missed.
7
VERDERAN LEFT Grantwich Hall a few hours later, grateful that his host tired early. He had taken Emily’s father in dislike. He supposed a conventional person might find a distaste for his beloved’s parent a disadvantage, but Verderan merely saw what Junia Grantwich had been talking about. Sir Henry, while a pleasant enough fellow of the older school, had irritated him every time the subject of his daughter had cropped up.
She was “playing” at running the estate and the place was falling into ruin. She was “an ape leader” and “turning funny,” as women did when they found themselves left on the shelf. As Sir Henry sank further under the influence of claret and brandy, Verderan had been slyly warned to expect some forwardness on the part of the “silly chit” and asked not to encourage her to embarrass herself.
The urge to tell the man that he wanted nothing so much as to have Emily be forward with him and encourage her to do her worst had almost overwhelmed him, but Sir Henry would doubtless have thought it a joke. He seemed able to ignore all the things Verderan said about Emily, or to twist them to fit his preconceptions.
Verderan wondered just what interpretation Sir Henry had put on his mild warnings about Jake and Felix. He could see now how they might have been turned into enough to bring out the virago in Emily. He didn’t regret it. Emily in a fury was a sight to dwell on with fondness.
Sir Henry had hinted that the sale of the hunters was important to Emily in some way, and there even seemed to be a wager on it linked to the running of the estate and Felix Grantwich, but the old man had been maddeningly obscure. Verderan was pleased, however, that he’d smoothed that road for Emily by bribing Dick Christian.
When the stolid maid showed him out he indulged his weakness and asked after the ladies.
“They’re in their rooms, sir,” she said.
He thought of asking to speak with Emily, but decided it would be better not to. There would be plenty of other opportunities and it would be wise to move slowly and steadily in coaxing this bird into freedom.
As he mounted Beelzebub, however, he could not resist looking up to try to guess which curtained window concealed her. He laughed and shook his head at such lovesick behavior.
As he trotted down the long driveway he felt restlessly unready for home and bed. Instead, on impulse, he set off for Melton. There was a half-moon, and a three-mile ride would do him good. With luck the company would be pleasant at the club.
By the time he reached there, a light rain was beginning and he wondered if he’d been unwise. He stabled the horse and shrugged. If necessary he’d put up in town for the night.
With hunting starting the next week, Melton was filling fast and the club was crowded with men, mostly young, younger even than he. Once they married, most men followed packs in their own parts of the country rather than spending the winter months in the Shires.
He was greeted affably, for this was a circle in which his sporting abilities outweighed any distasteful stories, and soon settled to a game of whist for the tame stakes of five guineas a trick. His partner was Henry Craven, and their opponents, Lord Alvanley and Quarley Wilson. Alvanley and Wilson were known as men who never shirked a fence, and they were friendly rivals in the field, friends off it.
As the play progressed evenly and was broken by general conversation, Verderan found himself thinking what a bunch of old fogies they were, commenting disparagingly on the younger, wilder set who were playing for high stakes and drinking deeper than they could handle.
It occurred to him, however, that he could do Emily some good here by whetting the appetite for her horses.
“I hear Grantwich is letting his hunters go,” he said idly as he shuffled the deck.
“Grantwich?” queried Alvanley. “Who’s he?”
“Local squire,” supplied Craven. “Always rides a steady animal. Why’s he selling?”
“Invalid,” said Verderan. “Some kind of accident.”
“Poor fellow. How’re they being sold?”
“I hear Dick Christian’s riding them, but you’ll have to look up Sir Henry or his daughter to strike a deal.”
“Interesting,” said Alvanley as he fanned his hand. “Not sure I’d want to deal horses with a woman, though. And the trouble with Christian is he makes the most vicious animal look like a sweet goer.”
There was a general chuckle and Verderan let the matter drop, confident that he’d guaranteed some interest when Emily’s horses did appear. He wondered if she’d let him sell them for her. It was surprisingly pleasant to be doing these little things for her.
It occurred to him that he could just go and buy her horses, thus presumably solving all her problems. He would think nothing of losing here the few hundred she would raise from the sale. After a moment, however, he decided she would be unlikely to appreciate such a deus ex machina intervention. If it was a wager, she would doubtless wish to win fair and square; he could always keep an eye on matters in case they grew desperat
e.
He wondered exactly how the sale of the horses was linked to Felix Grantwich.
Felix was in the club, half under the hatches, playing Hazard with the desperate air of one who is losing. At least none of Verderan’s youthful protégés were present to disturb his peace. Felix Grantwich could go to hell in a handcart for all he cared.
His feeling of mellow, tranquil respectability was shattered when George Osbaldeston stalked into the room, angry color in his cheeks. He looked at no one in particular and sat alone with a decanter of brandy.
Verderan directed an enquiring look at Craven.
The club president shrugged. “He was cock-a-hoop yesterday. Won the bidding for that little elf. Surprised you didn’t show.”
“No one informed me of the auction,” Verderan said, telling himself the fate of Violet Vane’s protégée was none of his concern. He’d spoken to her briefly and found her amusing but not as young or naive as she appeared. Titania, which was the name she claimed for herself, was shrewdly determined on a career as a high-class whore and couldn’t wait to get her first protector. Shame it had to be Osbaldeston, though.
Wilson chuckled. “You must have annoyed dear Violet for her to miss the chance of one of the richest men in town.”
“Or she knew I wouldn’t be interested. I gave up any taste for children when I ceased being one myself.” He deliberately raised his voice a little, hoping Osbaldeston would catch it.
“Now, now, Ver,” said Alvanley lightly. “Most of the men here were in on the betting at some point, myself included. Violet showed her off here, nicely togged out in a white silk dress fine enough for Almack’s. Have to confess, she’s a pretty thing. Made even my blood tingle, but if I’m bidding into the hundreds of guineas, it’ll be for a horse, not a filly.”
“I wonder what’s eating him, though,” asked Wilson, with an idle glance at Osbaldeston. “Think he’d be off riding his new filly.”
Osbaldeston’s eyes narrowed, and he rose to stalk over to them. “Are you discussing me?” he demanded, looking straight at Verderan.
“We were discussing cattle auctions and riding,” Verderan drawled. Unfortunately, Wilson sniggered.
“Suppose you’re bitter you missed the sale,” snapped Osbaldeston, his face going even redder. “I made sure of it, Verderan. My country, my covert, my vixen.”
“Then please go hunt her,” Verderan said dismissively, merely completing the hunting analogy.
Osbaldeston’s fist slammed down on the table, making the men’s glasses bounce. “What the devil do you mean by that!”
The room fell quiet. Verderan looked up coldly at his old enemy and was surprised by the lack of any desire to kill him. He was angry, yes, but not nearly as angry as the same affront would have made him only weeks ago. “Do that again and I’ll break your hand,” he said flatly. “I meant nothing of significance.”
Alvanley moved his glass from proximity to Osbaldeston’s fist. “Wondering why you’re not off enjoying your new filly,” he said. “That’s all.”
Osbaldeston flicked a glance his way, but didn’t reply. His attention swung back to Verderan as if drawn by a magnet.
Verderan couldn’t resist. “Been gulled, George?”
He held his opponent’s eyes, seeing him long to make another violent gesture; seeing him fight it. Osbaldeston knew that Verderan didn’t make idle threats, and if it came to a fight now it would be just the two of them. They were both crack shots. The winner would be in doubt.
With a visible effort Osbaldeston relaxed and took a light tone. “Not at all,” he said. “A rare piece of blood. But one has to go easy on a newly broken filly, you know. Can’t ride her like a five-year-old.”
“’Course not,” said one man who had obviously not been following the conversation. “Mount’d peck at the first in and out.”
A gale of laughter broke the tension and Osbaldeston was drawn into another group, but not without a vicious look at Verderan.
“What is it with you two, Ver?” asked Alvanley as he led a three of hearts for the next trick.
“Old history,” Ver said. “The gods have been kind and we haven’t clapped eyes on each other for years.” He put up his king and looked over to see Osbaldeston sitting next to Felix Grantwich at the Hazard table. It was a pairing he didn’t care for. Two new arrivals caught his attention, however. They were mere acquaintances, but they were very wet.
“It’s bucketing,” they gasped as club servants hurried forward with towels. “Roads are rivers of mud and it’s dark as Hades!”
“Got a corner for me here, Craven?” asked Verderan.
Henry Craven gathered in the trick. “’Course, old boy.”
When he cantered along towards Hume House at nearly midday the next day, Verderan was feeling at peace with the world. The night at the club had shown him that his taste for the wilder adventures of the younger set was definitely gone and unlamented. It had also, he hoped, shown that his temper was now under control. If he could endure five heated minutes with Osbaldeston without a fight perhaps he was going to settle down to being a quiet, sober gentleman. That would be a nine days’ wonder.
The weather, in fact, was not conducive to these mellow thoughts. The rain had stopped, but the sky was grey and heavy and everything was either dripping or soggy. It hardly mattered.
Verderan was merely bothered by the question of how soon he could see Emily Grantwich again, how she would react, and how soon it would be reasonable to ask her to marry him. A few weeks at least.
He rode Beelzebub round to the stables and entered the house through a side door. He was somewhat surprised to hear voices from the library. He wondered who his guests were and what they were making of Kevin Renfrew.
He opened the door and found Chart, Harry, and Cornwallis playing cards and drinking claret, all very much at home. Renfrew was nowhere to be seen.
He raised a brow.
“Hello, Ver,” said Chart cheerfully. “Rotten weather. Made a dash over here last night. Corny’s roof leaks.”
That young man expressed deepest apologies.
“Not at all,” said Verderan. “Does this roof not leak? It hasn’t been tried since I moved in, and it would be the only part of the house in good repair.”
“Not in my room,” said Chart blithely.
“Hope you don’t mind,” said Harry, just a little ill at ease. “Thing is, it’s closer to here than to Melton or Oakham, and no guarantee there’d be a vacancy there this time of year. We brought the man that looks after Corny’s place and Chart has Quincy with him, so we’re helping out.”
Verderan wondered what three new guests and two new staff were doing to Mrs. Greely, but couldn’t shake his mellow feeling. “I’m glad of the company,” he said, and found he meant it. “This is a gloomy house. Where’s Renfrew?”
“Don’t know,” said Harry. “He came down when we arrived about midnight—wearing the most amazing yellow satin thing—fixed up rooms for us, then went back to bed. Haven’t seen him since. Strange fellow.”
“Always was,” said Chart. “Harmless enough, though.”
Verderan told them to make themselves at home, which seemed superfluous, and went to check out the situation. To his surprise he found Mrs. Greely in high gig with two new servants to command, though he noticed she was careful in her handling of Quincy, Chart’s superior but accommodating valet. He wondered if the woman might not have been soured by simple boredom after years serving the misanthropic Casper Sillitoe.
At least his own man, Ludlow, should now have a crony below-stairs.
He arranged with Mrs. Greely for extra supplies to be brought in, and when she told him “young Mr. Renfrew” had said she should have two extra maids and she’d sent for her sister’s girls, he didn’t argue.
He then went up to the garrets and discovered the roof did in fact leak, but only slightly in two places, both of which had basins beneath to catch the drips.
He returned to the lower floors, whist
ling. The place was becoming quite bearable. Hume House was going to make a perfect hunting box with a little refurbishing, and he supposed Emily might like to have a house close to her family home.
When he had changed into fresh clothing he thought he might as well see what his uninvited guests were up to. The trio were trying out the old billiard table and cheerfully announced that the rips in the baize merely made the game more exciting.
“Men after my own heart,” said Verderan, and watched in amusement as they calculated shots not only to hit the correct ball but to avoid the hazards.
After a while he said, “Not that I’m trying to throw you out, but do you intend to see to the fixing up of Cornwallis’s place?”
“Corny’s riding over later,” said Chart as he lined up to pocket a red off a side cushion. “Roof leaked in a score of places, though. We’d wondered why the old lady lived on the ground floor.”
Verderan saw that Cornwallis was feeling an intruder. “You’re entirely welcome here,” he said to the portly young man. “I appreciate the company. You may as well take your time and have the roof fixed properly before moving back in.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Cornwallis.
“Yes,” said Harry, and cocked his head. “Hope you mean it about appreciating company, Ver,” he remarked. “I hear a coach. Expecting someone?”
“These days I expect anything,” said Verderan, and went out to the hall. Deciding he might as well take charity to extreme lengths, he saved his servants’ legs and went to open his own front door.
A curricle lurched up to the door over the pitted drive and came to a listing stop in a well-worn depression. It was driven by George Osbaldeston and his passenger was Violet Vane. The groom leapt down from the back to hold the horses and the occupants climbed down.
Verderan waited for them without a greeting. He could see Violet was nervous, which showed she had some sense. Osbaldeston had a nasty expression of self-satisfaction, which usually meant he thought he had someone in his power.
