The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  “His friend is still very eager to acquire the item as a memento of their relationship—”

  “Yeah, that’s normal,” Chris muttered bitterly. He lifted his gaze and, quite unexpectedly, his eyes met Tarquin’s. And they didn’t move away. “Who wouldn’t want to remember their OAP boyfriend with a dead prince’s cock piercing?”

  “That’s as maybe, but I’ve been instructed to make you a confidential offer of fifty thousand pounds for the item,” Driscoll said. “Considerably more than you paid for it, I believe?”

  “Fifty…sorry, you did say fifty thousand?” Tarquin still didn’t look away from Chris. His blue eyes were filled with sunlight, like a jewel fashioned from sapphire and pearl. “What the devil…?” At last, Tarquin tore his gaze from Chris’. “It’s part of my collection now, though. I won’t lie, fifty thousand pounds isn’t to be sniffed at, but Prince Albert’s Prince Albert is the jewel in the crown. Well, a very particular, intimate sort of crown, you understand. And besides, Beardsley insisted I had won the item by unfair means, and even selling it to his mistress now would make me feel as if I’d lost. So no. It’s not for sale.”

  “She is a very wealthy lady,” the lawyer said carefully. “If you’re hoping a refusal will lead to an increased offer, I’d be more than happy to put that to her. Obviously, I would have to seek some recompense for my time, much as I wish that weren’t so.”

  Tarquin raised his square chin imperiously. “I’ve said no, Mr. Driscoll. The matter ends there.”

  “Well said,” Chris told him unexpectedly, and the Oracle gave a little snort of approval. “Who needs fifty grand when they can have a prince’s penis piercing instead? Good for you!”

  Tarquin grinned at Chris, even as a vague inkling dawned on him that Chris was mocking him. “And is this all the business you have with me today, Mr. Driscoll?”

  “It is.” He slipped the letters back into his pocket. “Don’t forget, Mr. Hardacre. One month!”

  Chris rose to his feet and said laconically. “I’ll mark it on my calendar, don’t worry.” He gestured with his hand, as though blocking out a headline in thin air. “Start house hunting.”

  “Oh no,” Driscoll said. “I wouldn’t expect you to start house hunting in one month. I’d expect you to fully vacate the premises.”

  Poltroon indeed.

  The Oracle reversed from Tarquin, oinking happily, her rump heading for Chris.

  “Chris, watch out!” Tarquin warned him. “She’s heavy, if she stands on your—”

  “Jesus bloody Christ!” Christ let out a howl of pain as her trotter stomped onto his foot. “Get her off! Bloody hell, get her off!”

  The Oracle squealed but didn’t move, only drumming her trotters instead. Tarquin swallowed his amusement as he reached around the Oracle’s middle to pull her away. She squealed in protest, clearly enjoying stamping on her new owner’s foot.

  “But you’re supposed to be making friends with her, Chris!”

  “Stupid bloody— I’ve broken my toes!” He hasn’t, of course. “How do you make friends with a pig? Is this a set-up? To get the Hardacres out of Bough Bottoms, you’ve turned the pig against me?”

  Tarquin had moved the Oracle aside and she now sat on her haunches, like a well-trained dog responding to sit. “Old Spots are independent beasts. I could no more turn her against you than make her like you. You just need to spend time with her. At the moment, you’re the stranger who yelled when she accidentally trod on your foot!” Unable to resist a jibe, though, Tarquin added, “Take her out for a row with a copy of Madam Fanny—she’d love that!”

  Chris glared at him, then warned, “I’m staying put, Bow—you won’t get rid of me so easily.”

  “Brush up your show tunes, Mr. Hardacre,” Driscoll added helpfully. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I shall communicate the matter of the royal gentleman’s jewelry to the lady concerned. Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Bye, then!” Tarquin said.

  As Driscoll headed for door, the Bough Towers gun-dog pack barked in chorus. Chris followed him, limping so theatrically that it seemed as though he’d suffered an amputation rather than a mildly bruised toe.

  “Mabel! Felicity! Giovanni! Bluebell! Chaz! Gladstone! Jasper!” Tarquin shouted. His dogs retreated one by one from their tangle on the doormat, and Tarquin opened the door for his guests. “I’ll see you soon, then. Bring a dozen apples, Chris, and that pig will be your friend in no time!”

  “Oh, we will!” Chris said brightly, then he narrowed his eyes and leaned very close to Tarquin. So close it made his trousers feel suddenly oddly tight. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Just wait until you hear my show tunes.”

  “Oh, yes,” Tarquin murmured, his chest rising and falling with each difficult breath. “I’m waiting.”

  His nemesis quirked an eyebrow then strolled out onto the driveway and led the lawyer off down the drive, breaking into a surprisingly rousing rendition of Oh What a Beautiful Mornin’ as he went. And there at Tarquin’s heel, lazily chewing on one of Petunia’s Louboutins, the Oracle of Delphi looked on with interest.

  Of course he can sing. The annoying bastard.

  Chapter Three

  Squire Tarquin Bough never felt more at home than when he was under the respectful gaze of Bough Bottoms’ residents. Even if he was standing next to a child-sized chalkboard that he’d helped himself to from the playgroup’s toys.

  The village hall was full of people eager to hear about the drag hunt. Tarquin always enjoyed following the dogs as they raced off after the fake scent. No fox was involved, nothing was killed and everyone had an exciting ride out across the fields. Since Beardsley Hardacre’s demise, the hunt had no official master, and who else but Tarquin could replace him?

  Certainly not Chris!

  Tarquin, elevated on the village hall’s stage, gestured with a stick of chalk to his audience of tweed- and padded gilet-clad locals. “Shall we get under way, then?”

  There was a polite smattering of applause that ebbed until the only sound was the occasional chink of a spoon on a saucer or the slight munch of dentures on rich tea. What a respectful, pleasant bunch the residents of the Bottoms were, so much nicer than his showy new neighbor. What a peaceful corner of England they had created here, away from the hustle and bustle of the world.

  “So, as you know,” Tarquin began, “while Mr. Hardacre was in his dotage, I had responsibility for the Cleopatra Cup Drag Hunt while he was nominally the hunt master. I’m sure we’re all happy to keep the date of the drag hunt as-is, even if it’s not technically in the hunt season, thanks to Beardsley moving it to fall on Cleopatra’s birthday—whoever she may be. It’s become a village tradition, after all.” Trust Beardsley to move the hunt so he could name it after a mistress. “Now, I haven’t heard any complaints regarding my management of the hunt, and so I am happy—if you are—to continue running the hunt, and perhaps, if you feel it would be right, now that the position of hunt master is vacant, I officially take over that role.” Tarquin rocked back and forth on his brogues, roving his confident glance over the Bough Bottoms residents.

  None of them will say no.

  At the back of the room, a hand went up. A liver-spotted hand whose arm was contained in a wax jacket.

  “Am I not right in thinking,” asked Mr. Longfellow, who had enjoyed many a glass of brandy with the late Beardsley Hardacre, “that there is a new Hardacre in Bough Bottoms?”

  Tarquin chuckled. “There is, yes, but I doubt he’d know a horse’s ears from its tail! And he isn’t here this afternoon, so I can only assume he’s not in the least interested in such country pursuits as ours.”

  “Did anybody notify him of the meeting?” Longfellow lifted his head and looked pointedly at Tarquin. “Did you?”

  Tarquin’s mouth fell open. “I…that is to say… He was in the midst of a party yesterday, and that was the first I knew of a new Hardacre being in residence. I hadn’t the opportunity to tell him about the meeting.”

>   Even though I saw him this morning.

  “Then it’s lucky that I did,” Longfellow crowed, folding his arms across his chest. “But don’t let that throw you off your stroke.”

  Tarquin tried to smile, but he was fairly sure that it looked more like a grimace to his audience.

  And Shobna drastically improved the moment by piping up, “He’s coming here? Good-oh!”

  Just you wait!

  “Well, Mr. Longfellow, you might have invited him but, as I suspected, he hasn’t turned up, so in the absence of anyone else as hunt master…?” Tarquin raised an eyebrow. It was a fait accompli!

  “Have you started without me?” The door flew open and there, standing on the threshold, was Christopher bloody Hardacre, looking for two pins as though he’d come to save the day. Every head swiveled to look at him, every mouth curved into a smile and Mr. Longfellow even gave a little welcoming cheer.

  Of course he did.

  “Just in time for sums!” Chris nodded toward the small chalkboard. “I’ll just sit quietly at the back, squire, you won’t know I’m here.”

  “Ah…erm…” The floor seemed to drop from under Tarquin’s feet. He couldn’t, as a squire, appear rude in front of everyone to the infuriatingly attractive fellow. Protocol had be followed. “Right, time for introductions. If you are yet to meet our new arrival, this is Mr. Christopher Hardacre, great-nephew of the late Beardsley Hardacre, a man whose loss we all felt bitterly, I’m sure.” Cobblers to that. “There’ll be time at the end for you to say your hellos, but if we could keep to the program, please. As I was saying, I’m sure you’d all be happy for me to take over as the master of Boughton Bottoms’ drag hunt.”

  Time at the end. So sit down and shut up.

  And Chris went too quietly, Tarquin realized, as his neighbor took a seat at the back of the hall. He crossed his legs, clasped his hands neatly in his lap and said, “Hear hear, squire. What better man could there be to lead the dogs than you?”

  Tarquin nodded. “Thank you.”

  Well, that wasn’t too hard.

  A scrape of seats against the hall’s parquet floor warned Tarquin that someone was on the move—and that someone was Shobna, her voluminous chestnut hair that made her resemble a Red Setter catching the light as she headed for the vacant chair beside Chris.

  Shobna patted Chris’ knee. “Are you sure you won’t take up your uncle’s place as Master of the Hunt, Mr. Hardacre?”

  “Me?” He pressed his hand to his chest, whispering as though this was a classroom. “I couldn’t trample all over the squire in his own village.”

  “Oh, it’s only Tarqs!” Shobna brayed with laugher, her hand moving a fraction higher up Chris’ leg until it rested on his thigh. That toned, firm thigh. Yet still he shook his head. Perhaps there is a decent Hardacre, after all.

  “Just out of interest,” Chris said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “How does the new Master of the Hunt get the job? I presume there’s a democratic election?”

  “Democratic?” one of the older ladies of the village remarked. “We don’t engage in modern nonsense like that.”

  Tarquin wondered what she meant by modern. Had she not heard of the Ancient Greeks?

  “We…well, it’s a gentleman’s agreement, really,” Tarquin said.

  But if it came to a vote, surely Tarquin would win it hands down. Christopher was an unknown quantity—although Shobna was doing her best to know him.

  Another scrape of chair legs on the floor indicated that she had moved closer to Christopher. Whatever they chuntering about now, it really was too quiet to hear, but they were definitely deep in conversation about something.

  Plotting.

  “Come on!” Longfellow called. “I’ve got sheep to bring down, I can’t sit here all afternoon!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Longfellow. I’m waiting for our friends at the back there.” Tarquin folded his arms. “Shobna, Chris? Care to share your scintillating discussion with us all, or is it too X-rated for public airing?”

  And the look Chris gave him in reply could only be described as…well, saucy. He tipped his head and widened his eyes, peering up at Tarquin from his seat as though butter wouldn’t melt and all the time there was that half-smile, that slight look of amusement that was as annoying as it was— No. It was just annoying. Nothing more than that.

  Shobna nudged him. “Go on, Chris,” she purred.

  And slowly, annoyingly, he unfolded his arms and raised his hand into the air.

  Dare I just ignore it?

  But that lovely square hand.

  Tarquin noisily cleared his throat, then nodded toward Chris. “Yes, Mr. Hardcastle?”

  “Hardacre,” he corrected with that same bloody half-smile. “I have a question, Squire Bow.”

  Just as well I didn’t say Hardcock by mistake!

  “Right, yes, what?” Tarquin asked, his tone brisk.

  “Now, I’m brand new to the Bottoms but I really want to bring something to the village that I hope will be my home.” The sound of approval went round, led by the smirking Longfellow. “My great-uncle established the drag hunt sixty years ago. He abhorred blood sports as much as he loved the village and I wondered— if nobody objects, of course— I’d like to be considered for Master of the Hunt. As the next generation of Hardacres in the Bottoms.”

  “I see.” Tarquin pressed his lips together tightly. Then he turned to the chalkboard. On the top left, he scratched out the initials TMB, and on the right, CH. Then he squatted, his tweed straining uncomfortably across his bottom, as he drew a line down between them, forming two columns.

  Tarquin then stood and addressed the audience. “Would a show of hands suffice, do we think? A vote? Now, Ursula, I realize you said you’re not fond of democracy, but let’s just…” Because I’ll bloody win. “Chris, would that be all right?”

  “Well, I don’t actually know anyone here, but I am a Hardacre and I believe that counts for something here in the village.” He uncrossed his legs then patted his hands on his denim-clad knees. “Let’s throw it to the vote. Bow versus Hardacre, as I believe it’s been since the Doomsday Book!”

  “It was definitely Boff in the Doomsday Book, Chris, but I won’t get too hung up about it.” Tarquin laid the chalk on the top of the board and brushed the white dust from his hands. “Perhaps you’d like to come up here and stand at the front so everyone can see you, eh?”

  “I’d love to!” Shobna squeezed Chris’ arm as he bounded to his feet and made his way toward the front of the hall. For some reason he ignored the few steps onto the stage and instead put his hand on the edge and vaulted up, earning a ribald cheer from a few of the more game ladies.

  Git.

  Once he was on the stage he turned slightly from the audience and asked Tarquin in a whisper, “Can I say a few words to them just so I know I’ll get one or two votes? We both know you’ll win, it won’t hurt.”

  “One or two, eh? As many as that?” Tarquin leaned toward Chris, raising an eyebrow. An extraordinary, spell-binding cologne rose up to meet his nostrils and for a moment Tarquin entirely forgot why he and Chris were on the stage of the village hall. “Erm…right…sorry. Everyone, a few words from Mr. Hardacre.”

  Tarquin clapped, then folded his hands neatly behind his back.

  Chris gave Tarquin a wink, then turned back to the hall and cleared his throat.

  “I’m Christopher Hardacre,” he told them with a winning grin, “and I like to think I’ve come home. It certainly feels like it.”

  How presidential.

  “I don’t want you to vote for the Hardacre name, nor in memory of my great-uncle, who loved this village although he didn’t always show it, nor do I want you to vote for me because I’ve just signed an agreement to fund the replacement of that battered old bus shelter on the village green with a brand-new one, complete with heating and WiFi. No, I ask only that you vote for me because I love nothing more than a good, fast, hard ride. Thank you, Bottomers!”

 
That’s quite an image—concentrate!

  An interested murmur ran through the room. Ursula, apparently now willing to embrace the newfangled concept of democracy, nodded vigorously. The word bus shelter was on everyone’s lips.

  And all Tarquin could see was the bus shelter containing Chris in his swimming shorts, one thumb tucked teasingly just inside the waistband.

  Tarquin cleared his throat and clutched his hand in front of him.

  “Right, well, that’s very nice of you to tart up the bus shelter, Chris, but unless you can charm the pig who is currently rolling about in my shrubs, you won’t see it very often, will you?” Tarquin chortled. Then he gestured toward their audience. “So shall we vote? First of all, a show of hands for Chris.”

  Tarquin didn’t bother looking at the audience. Even with the promise of a fancy bus stop, he knew the Bough Bottomsers. And they knew Tarquin Bough.

  “Oh my— Thank you!”

  What the bloody buggering hell?

  Tarquin counted the raised hands. There weren’t just one or two, there were…half the room! Half the room had voted for Chris.

  “Fourteen votes for Chris,” Tarquin said, the chalk squeaking as he crouched down to write the number on the board. “And a show of hands for me, Tarquin Bough, who lends his donkey each year for the village nativity play.”

  The hands went up again. Fourteen. Tarquin closed his eyes.

  Bugger the bus shelter.

  Tarquin blinked at his nemesis. His handsome, charming, bus shelter-upgrading nemesis. “Chris, would you mind counting as well. I see fourteen hands, do you?”

  Chris took his time, one finger dancing in the air until he nodded and confirmed, “Fourteen.” Then he gave a benevolent smile and asked, “Should I vote for you? Give you a push over the line?”

  Tarquin couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard Chris say. But he shook his head. “No, you don’t have to do that, Chris. We could—”