Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  Verderan looked up at Emily, and she obediently slid off Bel and into his arms.

  “Here now,” said Sir Henry. “There’s people watching!”

  Neither Emily nor Verderan paid any attention and when they finished the thorough kiss, the friends and neighbors who’d come along broke into applause.

  “Do you still want to hunt?” Ver asked.

  The promise in his eyes of other things they might do sent a shudder through her, but she said, “After the trouble I’ve been to to get here? Of course I do!”

  He took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to her. “Very well, but I wouldn’t read that until you’re safe home again.”

  “Is it going to burn a hole in my pocket?” she asked.

  “More than likely. The old desk went up in smoke in the night.”

  She was laughing as he tossed her into the saddle. His groom rode up on a rangy dun, and he swung into the saddle just as the horn blew and the hounds started out.

  “Then let’s hunt,” said Ver and they turned to join the field.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I wrote this book my sister was living near Melton Mowbray and I often stayed with her, so it was natural for me to think of setting a story in “The Queen of the Shires.” After all, if the young ladies of the Regency period dreamed of waltzing at Almack’s, their brothers dreamed of riding to glory with the Quorn.

  In fact, since nearly all the rich, wellborn young males of England spent November to April in the shires hunting, I began to wonder why the husband-hunting mamas didn’t move into the area along with them. But then I decided those wily matrons (also wives and mothers) knew that even a “diamond of the first water” would not receive so much as a glance when paraded next to a “bang-up bit of blood and bone.”

  Horses, not ladies, were the true passion of the Regency male.

  Hunting has always been popular with the English, but until the eighteenth century, the quarry of choice was the deer. With increasing population and agricultural land use, deer became scarce and the fox came into its own. It is said that in 1762 the Duke of Beaufort was returning from a disappointing day’s hunt when he threw his hounds (a technical term, not an indication of brutality) into some rough growth and drove out a fox. The subsequent chase was memorable, and hunting foxes slowly gained in popularity.

  There were still two factors that prevented the development of foxhunting, however. One was that hounds lacked the speed and endurance to stay with foxes. The other was that foxes are nocturnal, and to catch them men had to rise before dawn, which was not much to the liking of the aristocracy.

  It was the great Hugo Meynell, who inherited the position of Master of Fox Hounds of the Quorn in 1753, who solved both problems. First he began to copy some of the famous breeding experiments of the agricultural revolution to improve the hounds. Then he employed earth stoppers. These men would go around a selected area before dawn and stop up any burrows they found. Some foxes would be forced to seek hiding aboveground in gorse or thick undergrowth called a covert (pronounced kә-vәrt) where, if the hounds were lucky and the fox was not, one of them would be found.

  The fox was not to be killed there, I hasten to point out. That is called “chopping a fox in covert” and is considered a terrible waste. The aim is to have the fox break and run, and hopefully run for hours over challenging country so the riders who follow the hounds will have an exciting ride. After all, when Oscar Wilde described foxhunting as “the unspeakable in full pursuit of the inedible,” he summed it up pretty well. The fox is not hunted for food, but for the sport it gives.

  Regency and Victorian hunters claimed that the purpose of foxhunting was to kill vermin, but this is exposed as spurious by their efforts to preserve the foxes for their enjoyment. Tom Assheton-Smith believed that to kill a fox other than by hunting was a heinous crime. If worse came to worst, some masters would even resort to bag foxes—those purchased from other areas or even from abroad.

  For the hunting enthusiast such as a Meltonian, the ride was everything; he didn’t mind if the fox finally won free and lived to provide a run another day. (Lord Alvanley is reputed to have remarked, “What fun hunting would be if it were not for the damned hounds.”) If the fox was caught, however, the hunter’s greatest wish was to be in at the kill, to show that he could keep up with fox and hounds over twenty to thirty miles and many hours of the most challenging riding imaginable. Many fell. Many horses and men were injured. Many died. It was an exercise in machismo.

  Perhaps Wellington and the other senior officers on the Peninsula were not so eccentric as it seems when they encouraged their cavalry officers to hunt, even allowing them furlough to return to England during hunting season. If Wellington truly said that “the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton,” he may well have added, “and on the rolling fields of the shires.”

  There are any number of interesting characters from the world of Regency hunters, but I have used only Assheton-Smith and Osbaldeston in this book.

  George Osbaldeston was probably as unpleasant as I portray him here, but he was also a great sportsman. He once shot one hundred pheasant and ninety-seven grouse with one hundred ninety-seven shots and he rode one hundred miles in ten hours to win a bet of one thousand guineas. He achieved his goal and became Master of the Quorn in 1817.

  The Meltonians of the Regency were fairly civilized men who took their hunting seriously. Things got out of hand as the century progressed and wild pranks were common off-field amusements. In the 1830s the Marquis of Waterford and some friends took it into their doubtlessly drink-sodden heads to daub a large part of Melton with red paint. This is the origin of the phrase, “to paint the town red.”

  The development of the railway system changed hunting as it changed the whole of England. Now people could come and go more easily and were less likely to turn to foolishness when there was no hunting. Now the more sober elements of society, who were unable to dedicate months to the sport, could come up for a few days. Ladies, even, began to accompany their men and join the field. The shires entered a more respectable, and even more glorious, phase of their history.

  But the Melton hunting society of the Regency has its own special character and charm, and I found it an ideal setting for the story of Piers Verderan and Emily. After all, in what other location would such a quiet, conventional person as Emily be likely to encounter the Dark Angel and actually find they had something in common?

  Incidentally this, like all novels, is a blend of fact and fiction, but the incident of the balloon coming down into the Cottesmore hunt on November 1, 1813 occurred just as I have described.

  I’m delighted that this story is back in print and I hope you have enjoyed it. There are other novels connected to this one, all recently republished by New American Library.

  Three come before:Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed

  The Stanforth Secret

  The Stolen Bride

  Set after this one, and published together as Lovers and Ladies are:The Fortune Hunter and Deirdre and Don Juan.

  I have written many other historical romance novels set in Regency and Georgian England. There’s a complete list on my Web site at www.jobev.com, and you can also sign up there to receive my occasional newsletter by e-mail.

  All best wishes,

  Jo Beverley

  Please read on for an excerpt from

  FORBIDDEN MAGIC

  Available in trade paperback for the first time from

  Signet Eclipse in February 2011

  London, 1812

  OWAIN CHANCELLOR opened the bedroom door, hoping Sax was alone. He usually got rid of his women before falling asleep, but every now and then one managed to linger. This morning, however, the Earl of Saxonhurst was sprawled over the entire width of his enormous rumpled bed, his disordered tawny hair and sleek muscles making him look like a sated lion.

  It probably wasn’t hard for him to persuade his lovers to leave. They’d only have to once experienc
e his greedy dominance of the whole bed.

  Owain pulled back the gold brocade curtains at one of the long windows to let in crisp, winterish sunshine.

  Sax stirred, muttered a sleepy complaint, and opened one eye. “What?” It was delivered flatly without a hint of alarm, but contained the trace of a warning. There’d better be a good excuse.

  “A letter from your grandmother.”

  The other eye opened and the head turned to the mantel clock—the one set in the belly of a fat, white, oriental figure. It made Owain think of an enormous grinning maggot. “You woke me before ten for that? It can only be a deathbed plea for mercy and understanding.”

  “I regret to inform you that the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield is in her usual health. But I think you’ll want to read this without delay.”

  Sax closed his eyes again. “What an extraordinary assumption.”

  Owain rang the bell and waited. Soon a powdered and liveried footman backed in bearing a tray containing a silver coffeepot and accompaniments. He was almost bowled over from behind by a huge, enthusiastic, ugly hound, who charged in to rest his head on the high bed by Sax’s head, teeth showing as if he’d found the tastiest meal.

  “We in trouble, then?” the footman asked cheerily, setting his tray down. The short stature, lively face, and big eyes had given him the nickname Monkey, and, truth to tell, the dog looked to weigh more than he did.

  Sax didn’t open his eyes. “You will be, Monk, if you sound so cheerful at this hour.”

  “Some of us ’as been up since dawn, milord. Can’t stay miserable for ’ours just to suit you. Message from the dowager duchess, they say.”

  “Have they managed to read it yet?”

  “Mr. Chancellor’s not let it out of ’is fingers, milord.”

  “Plague take you all. I don’t know why I had you taught to read. Go away.”

  Cheerfully, the footman left.

  Owain poured a cup of the blisteringly strong coffee and stirred in three lumps of sugar.

  Sax inhaled.

  His eyes opened, and he snarled amiably at the hound’s teeth, causing the shaggy tail to thump on the floor like a drum. Then he rolled to sit up, stretched just like a big cat, and took the cup.

  He wasn’t actually an enormous man, and in fine clothes he looked elegantly well built, but he was all muscle like a healthy predator, and nakedness made the most of it.

  He drank the whole cup in silence and held it out to be refilled, casually greeting the dog, Brak, with his free hand. Only then did he glance at the letter. “Since you’re not a fool, Owain, I am visited by a sense of deep foreboding.”

  Owain offered him the unfolded sheet of paper. Sax took it but fingered it as if trying to sense the contents. “The old monster can’t affect my income or my freedom. So . . . ? She’s not trying to visit, is she?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, the duchess is celebrating the season at Daingerfield Court.”

  “Thank God.” He was coming to wakeful alertness almost visibly, Owain thought, changing from lion, to tiger, to his most dangerous form—intelligent man.

  Sax drained his second cup of coffee before finally opening the letter and reading it. Owain watched with interest, for he had no idea how his friend would handle this predicament.

  “Plague and damnation,” Sax said at last, but dazedly. Braced for one of the famous Saxonhurst rages, Owain breathed a sigh of relief.

  When Sax looked up, for once he looked rather lost. “When’s my birthday?”

  “Tomorrow, as you well know. New Year’s Eve.”

  Sax almost levitated from the tangled sheets to pace the room magnificently naked. “The old bitch!”

  It was said angrily, yes, but with a hint of admiration. Sax and his grandmother had been waging war for fifteen years, ever since she’d taken over the raising of him. It was a war for power between two of the most stubborn, arrogant people Owain had ever met.

  And two of the fiercest tempers.

  He should have known the storm would come, especially since Brak was already wriggling backward under the bed.

  Sax wrapped a gold curtain around his hand and pulled, bringing the rail half off the wall. Another fierce tug had it down in a shower of plaster dust.

  Owain sighed and tugged the bell rope again. Then he picked up his friend’s gold and black banjan and threw it to him. Sax put in on without comment, still pacing and almost growling.

  “I think she’s got you this time.”

  Sax casually backhanded a squat, purple vase to shatter on the floor. “Devil take her, she has not. I promised to marry by my twenty-fifth birthday, and I will. A Torrance breaks many things, but never his word.”

  “By tomorrow?” Owain said, trying desperately to keep some sanity in the room. “Can’t be done. Why the devil did you make such a knuckleheaded promise?”

  “Because at twenty I was a knucklehead, like most men. And twenty-five seemed a dim and distant future!” The matching vase shattered. “Back then I was sure I’d soon fall in love with the perfect, pretty maiden.” He impatiently kicked a shard from his path. “I’ve certainly done my best to find her.”

  “I thought you avoided maidens like the plague.”

  “Only since I discovered that they’re after one thing: a coronet.”

  After a moment’s thought, Sax plucked a yellow china cow off the mantel and threw it to shatter on the floor at the feet of the bunch of servants who had burst through the door armed with brushes, cloths, mops, and expectant expressions.

  One maid started to sweep up pottery fragments. Men-servants hurried to deal with the curtain. Owain noted wryly that all the indoor servants except the cooks had felt called to the tasks. No one liked to miss a Saxonhurst rage. He’d never grown accustomed to the way Sax let his strange bunch of servants intrude on his private affairs like meddling relatives.

  “She planned it, you know,” Sax said, ignoring his staff and still pacing. He was also ignoring the fact that his loosely tied robe was scarcely decent, but then all the servants had seen everything before. That didn’t stop the maids from casting appreciative glances.

  One—Babs, who made no attempt to pretend shame about her previous profession—pulled a sprig of mistletoe from her pocket and tucked it optimistically into the deep fringe hanging around the tester bed.

  “She deliberately sent that letter to arrive today to give me a day of anguish before the hour of doom.” Sax picked up the matching orange bull from the other end of the mantelpiece. “Susie. Catch!” He tossed it to the one-eyed maid, who wore a patch. She shrieked and grabbed for it. Then, quite deliberately, she let it fall. With a cheeky grin, she said, “I had a crown on that one.”

  “That’s cheating, my girl.”

  “You must have caught me on my blind side, milord. But watch where you’re marching.” She set to brushing the sharp fragments out of the way of his bare feet.

  Sax duly stalked through the cleared path, seized a very real saber from the wall, unsheathed it, and impaled a pink satin cushion with the point. He then tossed it up and sliced it in two as it fell so that downy feathers burst out to fill the room.

  Laughing, Owain leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the bed, and surrendered. It was a performance, really, and they all knew their parts.

  Sax only ever allowed himself tantrums in this room, so they didn’t keep any of the good stuff here. In fact, the servants scoured London for pieces worthy of destruction and placed them there, ready. As Susie implied, they had a lottery going below-stairs on which piece would be next for destruction.

  The whole household regarded Sax’s occasional fiery outbursts with a kind of proprietal pride. Owain rather enjoyed them himself. He had a guinea riding on his belief that a simpering shepherdess on a small bamboo table would survive till Easter. Sax was generally very kind to women.

  His grandmother being the notable exception.

  Cook had bet an equal amount that the table itself would go. It was an unf
ortunate piece lacquered in lurid green and pink. Owain watched his friend eye it and his sword. Could he destroy it without smashing the shepherdess?

  Perhaps that’s why Sax dropped the sword on the bed and turned instead to a large portrait of a very ugly, sour-faced monk. Would he . . . ?

  He jerked it off the wall so the hook flew through the air, then smashed it over the back of a ponderous chair.

  Owain offered a prayer of thanks. He’d been ready to smash the thing himself. How anyone could sleep, never mind make love, with that warty, scowling face looking down, he didn’t know.

  “A Torrance,” repeated Sax, slightly out of breath, sweeping blond hair off his forehead, “breaks a great many things, but never his word.”

  “So it’s said.”

  Sax turned on him. “So it is.” He scanned the audience of servants. “Where’s Nims? Nims! ” he bellowed. “Come and shave me, you damned idler!”

  Since most of the show was clearly over, the servants set to cleaning up properly. But slowly, in case there might be an encore.

  Sax’s stocky valet backed in from the next room, agile despite a wooden leg, steaming water jug in hand, cloth over arm. “I’m coming. I’m coming! How could I be expected to be ready for you at this hour, then?” He looked around and rolled his eyes. “That much trouble, eh? Sit down. Sit down. You want shaving, or you want your throat cut?”

  A grey-blue parrot flew in behind him and landed on Sax’s shoulder. “Hello, my lovely,” it said in Sax’s voice exactly.

  Sax relaxed and smiled, letting the adoring bird nuzzle his ear. “Hello, my lovely.” Then he sobered. “Devil take it. Knox will throw a fit.”

  Indeed, Knox the parrot was glaring at the servants. “Women! Women! Road to hell.”

  As Sax sat in a chair so he could be shaved, Babs sashayed over, taking a hazelnut out of her pocket. “Go on, Knox—you love me, really.”

  The bird eyed her, swaying. “Eve. Delilah.”