Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  She pushed away from the table, away from him. She put the width of the room between them. “You confuse me,” she complained.

  He stayed at the table, cradling his coffee cup. “That’s because you are confusing yourself. The part of you that’s been raised to be good, to be modest, to be meek, is fighting with the part that wants to be bold, adventurous, and free.” He put the cup down. “I’m offering freedom, Emily, so unfortunately I can’t, or won’t, force you.”

  She looked at him, her gaze level and uncompromising. “What are you doing now, then?”

  “Persuading,” he said with a smile and rose to come over to her. There was something in his eyes which made her take a few steps back until she bumped against the wall.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?” He stopped an arm’s length away.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “I do, and so do your senses.” His voice was as soft and mellow as a fine instrument. “I could seduce you here and now, Emily, and you know it. I could touch you,” he said softly, and his eyes began to wander caressingly over her body, “and flames would run down your nerves ...” She felt those flames come from his gaze and burn on her skin. “Flames that would join together to fill you with heat and send you shooting into the sky like the sparks from a Guy Fawkes bonfire.”

  Emily was lost in the fire and in his deep blue eyes. “I could stretch out my hand,” he said steadily, “and you would put yours into it ...”

  Belatedly, Emily realized she had done just that. She tried to tug free, but he drew her slowly towards him. “. . . and I could do with you whatever I would wish. . . . That however,” he murmured, when she was nestled in his arms, “would be forcing, no matter how cunningly done.”

  His voice took on a more normal tone. “You’re too vulnerable to this sort of thing, my dear.” He let her go and moved away. Emily wrapped her arms around herself, feeling vulnerable and frighteningly bereft. “So I can only persuade,” he said laconically. “I came to offer to handle the sale of your horses.”

  “What?”

  “Wallingford et al.,” he gently reminded her. “Christian is riding them. If there’s interest, and I’m sure there will be, I will handle the sale at the club. Do you have a minimum?”

  She shook her head, still struggling to make the transition to business.

  “You should. Let’s say eighty. If he runs well you’ll get a hundred. You’ll get more for Nelson. Possibly up to two hundred. Will that be enough?”

  “Lord Randal told you?” she asked.

  “Of course. How much do you need?”

  She disciplined her mind. “Three hundred in all,” she said.

  “That should be possible,” he agreed and prepared to leave.

  “Mr. Verderan,” she said sharply, and he turned.

  “I thought we’d progressed to Ver,” he complained.

  “Only when you’re risking your life over impossible obstacles,” she retorted.

  “What an interesting marriage we’re going to have, my smoldering ember. Are you going to marry me?”

  The question was tossed out so casually that it took a moment to register. When it did, Emily fought insanity and shook her head.

  He sighed, but did not seem to be crushingly discouraged, which in view of his recent demonstration of power was not surprising. “What were you going to say?” he asked.

  “What?” Emily couldn’t remember. Then she gathered her wits. “You are not to buy my horses,” she said.

  “Why not? I like the look of Nelson.”

  “It’s a wager. It wouldn’t be fair to fix it that way. You are not to buy them or arrange for them to be bought. I have to do this fair and square.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “As you will.” He came back to her and touched her cheek gently. “Think hard about freedom, Emily. It is not always easy to claim our liberty, but the pains are worth it. ‘Freedom has a thousand charms to show, that slaves howe’er contented, never know.’”

  “I am not a contented slave,” she protested.

  He chose deliberately to misunderstand. “Then there’s all the less reason to remain one.” Then he was gone.

  Emily couldn’t think of a single reason not to run after him and throw herself into his arms and into his keeping except a lifetime of proper behavior and restraint.

  Proper behavior and restraint seemed a damnable business all in all.

  For the first time the idea began to root that the next time he asked her to marry him she might say yes. That she might marry him and follow the whim of the moment. Might marry him and be cherished. Might marry him and let the passion in them both burn free.

  It was terrifying.

  It was exciting.

  It was, just possibly, inevitable.

  Junia came in and looked at her. “Why are you grinning like a simpleton? Ah,” she said after a minute. “Excellent.”

  Emily didn’t see Piers Verderan for days. She took to riding out more often than was necessary and heading in the direction of Hume House. She never encountered him.

  She found herself listening for any scrap of gossip about him and his house party, and there was certainly plenty of that but all very tame. From the local point of view it was rather disappointing, but Emily found it comforting.

  Titania had apparently left the house along with the Daffodil Dandy, who was apparently a Mr. Renfrew. The rumor was that she’d gone to London to become a famous actress, but Emily could easily think of simpler explanations. She was very relieved to think the girl was away from Verderan.

  As for the young men, they ate, rode, ate, gambled, ate, drank, and ate. Mrs. Greely was having a wonderful time, one gathered, catering to such healthy appetites.

  On Saturday, Sophie came over to visit, accompanied only by a groom. Randal and Verderan, she explained, were off shooting, which she found very unpleasant.

  “So I thought it would be enjoyable to have some female company for a change. If you’re not too busy.”

  “Of course not,” said Emily, taking in Sophie’s elegance with some envy. Her blue habit was very stylish, but it was her short burnished curls and a general air of polish which were utterly unprovincial. Emily would not have the slightest notion of how to achieve such an effect. All her doubts seeped back. Titania and the Violet Tart were Verderan’s type of woman; Sophie was doubtless his type of lady. Emily had neither the style nor the beauty to compete with either.

  She rang for tea. “If you and Lord Randal would find it more comfortable to stay with us here, Lady Randal, we would be delighted to have you.”

  “Oh no, Miss Grantwich,” said Sophie merrily. “It’s great fun at Hume House. I’m sure you would enjoy it tremendously, too. In fact,” she confessed with a wrinkle of her charming nose, “it’s wonderful not to have ladies disapproving of me all the time. Gentlemen are generally more relaxed about things. And I would like it if you were to call me Sophie. Lady Randal always sounds like someone much grander and older than I.”

  “I would be pleased to. And I hope you will call me Emily.”

  Thus relaxed, they were soon engaged in chatter over tea and Mrs. Dobson’s most buttery tea cakes. Emily sought extra news of Chloe and was amused by the stories of Verderan and Chloe’s young son, Stevie. When, however, Sophie related how Verderan had stripped almost naked in the middle of a picnic to rescue the child’s wooden horse from the river, she couldn’t help but be shocked.

  “You mustn’t look so,” said Sophie. “It was so hot he was an object of envy, not horror. Next year, Randal’s going to teach me to swim.” After a moment, she added, “I hope you don’t think this impertinent, but I do hope you can bring yourself to marry Ver.”

  “You too? Everyone in the world . . . well,” said Emily, incurably honest, “not Hector, I’m sure.”

  Sophie chuckled. “Is he the outraged vicar? I wouldn’t marry him,” she advised. “He’d want to improve you.”

  Emily sigh
ed. “I always thought improvement to be desirable.”

  Sophie cocked her head. “Self-improvement. Perhaps even mutual improvement. But does he think you’re going to improve him?”

  Emily’s mind boggled. “I hardly think so,” she admitted. “Have you improved Lord Randal then?”

  Sophie frowned slightly. “Sometimes too much. It’s hard not to coddle someone one loves so very much, Emily. He’s not hunting because of me. I’ve decided the only thing is for us both to hunt. I’m going to work on it.”

  “But ladies don’t,” Emily protested.

  “If I hunt and anyone tries to claim I am not a lady,” said Sophie with unconscious arrogance, “they’ll receive short shrift from many quarters. There are ladies who follow the hounds, you know—the Marchioness of Salisbury is Master of the Hatfield Harriers, and both Queen Elizabeth and Queen Anne were very partial to the sport. If I persuade Randal,” she said with a twinkle, “will you come too?”

  Emily felt a flash of panic at the thought. “I couldn’t, Sophie.”

  “Why not?”

  “What would people say?”

  “Why should you care?”

  “I have to live here.”

  “Not if you marry Ver.”

  Emily found her hands gripped together. “It’s not the sort of thing I do,” she admitted. “I never make a scene, or shock people. It—it would be like throwing oneself in the river in the belief one would float.”

  “Or find a solid raft,” said Sophie. “Ver’s already out there, Emily. He’d look after you.”

  “How solid a raft has he got?” Emily asked dubiously. “Has he done all the things they say?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Sophie. “Probably. But the ones I’ve heard of aren’t so very terrible—”

  “Shooting people?” Emily queried.

  “Nasty people. I heard quite a bit about Brightly Car-stock, for example, because one of his victims was at school with me. He persuaded her to elope, then let her father buy him off. But he’d already had his way . . . to be honest, he’d raped her violently. I don’t think she ever recovered. I gather she wasn’t the only one, and he used to fleece innocent young men out of their money. I don’t know why he and Verderan finally came to dueling, but you can see why people were willing to pass the whole thing off.”

  “I suppose so,” said Emily, but a part of her said it wasn’t right, any more than killing Jake Mulholland would be right.

  “Anyway,” said Sophie, “Ver’s changed too. He’s more—more relaxed these days. Less acidic. He’s floating in calmer waters. It would be a shame to see him back among the shoals.”

  She leant forward, suddenly more serious and sober. “I want Ver to find happiness, Emily. I really do believe he deserves it but”—she shrugged and frowned as she sought for words—“it’s as if he and Randal are part of each other. Until Ver is settled, Randal will never be. I don’t mean settled in a boring sense, but just at ease in their hearts. In some way it’s Randal’s finding me that’s calmed them both, but Ver has to find his own love to complete it. You are that love.”

  There was something frightening about this intensity, this complexity. “How can you be sure?”

  “How can I not be?” Sophie said. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

  “You were reluctant too?” asked Emily.

  “I?” said Sophie with a laugh. “I pursued Randal relentlessly from the schoolroom, probably from the nursery. But it’s the same. You can no more get rid of Verderan now than you could cut out your heart and live.”

  To Emily this sounded terrifyingly true.

  Sophie rose and drew on her gloves. “I don’t think I can work on Randal by the first meet. But by the time the Quorn meets on Tuesday I hope to have done the trick. Will you come with us?”

  “What will Verderan think?” Emily asked as she stood.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Sophie. “If you think he’d object, then you don’t know Ver. If you care, you have a long way to go.”

  “Oh really,” said Emily sharply, resenting this tone from a girl a good eight years her junior. “Well, if I don’t know Mr. Verderan, I’d be a fool to marry him, wouldn’t I? And if I go hunting, I’ll be the talk of the area for years to come and I’ll have to marry him.”

  “Good,” said an unrepentant Sophie. “So, shall I tell Ver that if you join the hunt on Tuesday next, you’ll marry him? If he objects, I wouldn’t marry him anyway.”

  Emily gaped. “I—I can’t ...”

  Sophie’s bright blue eyes challenged her. Emily remembered other darker blue eyes challenging her to take risk, taste danger . . .

  “Yes,” she said harshly. “Let the challenge stand. This can’t go on forever. But I still don’t know which I’ll do, Sophie, and you still have to get your husband’s permission.”

  “Not permission,” pointed out Sophie. “Agreement. And he’ll be sure to agree with such a tempting situation as a reward.”

  With that Sophie was off, leaving Emily aware that she had been cleverly manipulated into a do-or-die situation come Tuesday.

  Back at Hume House, Sophie greeted Randal and Ver on their return with the news. “Emily Grantwich says that if she turns out with the Quorn next Tuesday, she’ll marry you, Ver.”

  Randal for once looked slightly bemused. Verderan looked nearly as dangerous as his old self. “What have you done, Sophie?”

  “Are you threatening to whip me again?” she asked saucily, but moved closer to Randal just in case.

  “You’re a married lady now,” Verderan said. “I’ll leave such matters to your husband.”

  “How stuffy you sound,” Sophie retorted. “I’ll report this back to Emily,” she warned, “and then she’ll never marry you.”

  “What have you done, Sophie?” asked Randal, but more gently.

  Sophie began to feel slightly uneasy. “Emily admitted she needed to take a plunge. She’s going to teeter on the edge forever if someone doesn’t give her a push. I said I wanted to ride with the hunt next Tuesday and asked her to come along.”

  “I think Ver can do his own pushing,” said Randal with a look in his eye she didn’t much like. “And we’re not hunting.”

  “Emily won’t go without some support,” Sophie said. “I promise not to take risks.”

  “You’re taking quite a few at the moment, minx. Why do you think we should hunt?”

  “Because you want to really, and so do I, and if we always stay safe it’s going to be a long life but boring, Randal.”

  “I’m sorry you’re finding it tedious,” he said with an edge.

  Sophie colored. “Randal!”

  Verderan cleared his throat. “If this is going to turn into a domestic dispute with the predictable reconciliation, I think I should leave. On the whole, I think Sophie’s maneuver is masterly, Randal. Emily does need to be pushed. I think I can also—not being above devious devices—give the situation a few twitches of my own. The first is to draw it to your attention that a certain Mr. Sadler of Nottingham intends to launch a balloon on Monday from a site this side of Leicester. Keep an eye on the winds, my friends. I’m sure Emily could be persuaded to ride out to watch for such a sight. My other piece of meddling I can handle for myself.” With that he left them.

  Sophie watched him leave, then turned to Randal with a mixture of belligerence and nervousness.

  After a second he laughed. “Disputes are so tedious, aren’t they? Let’s skip that part. Come and be reconciled, love.”

  11

  VERDERAN WENT into Melton in search of Dick Christian. He was fortunate enough to run his man down without too much trouble in his favorite haunt, the Blue Bell.

  Christian nodded when Verderan sat down beside him. “Taken by another charitable urge, Mr. Verderan?” he asked hopefully.

  “In a way,” said Verderan, ordering ale for them both. “You’re to ride Wallingford for the Grantwiches on Monday?”

  Christian nodded.

  “What sort
of horse is it?”

  “Neatish, sir,” said Christian readily. “Good rump and hocks. Forelegs well afore but perhaps a little thin in the shoulders. Responds well. None of those horses seems to have been handled rough-like.”

  “I have a feeling you won’t have to ride any of the others,” Verderan said and took a pull of his ale. “What I’d like, without any injury to the horse, is for you to make your run on Wallingford to look dangerous, particularly if there should be observers about. Particularly,” he added, “if one of those observers should happen to be Miss Grantwich.”

  The man looked at him shrewdly. “Dangerous to me or the horse?”

  “To the horse.”

  The roughrider drank his ale. “I could probably bring him down without hurting him, sir. That kind of thing?”

  “Yes. But not to break his spirit.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to a horse, sir. Not for a thousand guineas.”

  Verderan took the hint and passed over another twenty.

  “And you don’t think I’ll be called on to ride the others?” Christian asked as he pocketed it. “I have plenty would take up the spot.”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m sure Miss Grantwich will send word.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” said Christian. “And,” he added with a grin, “you know where to find me if you need me again.”

  Verderan continued his waiting game, knowing it would be more effective than pressure. He saw Emily only when he and the whole party at Hume House went to Sunday service in the village. The Reverend Marshalswick was decidedly cool, though his sister was friendly when not under her brother’s eye.

  Verderan got to shake Emily’s hand, which was better than nothing. “You are looking a little peaked,” he remarked. “Working too hard?”

  “How very unflattering,” she retorted sharply. “And you know it is decisions which prey on me, not labors.”

  “I never flatter,” he countered. “You stir my senses to delirium even when peaked, dear one. And I didn’t force you into accepting ultimata. Renege if you wish.”