The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  Once again mystified, Piers stared at him blankly.

  “Gad! Do you pay no heed to Society affairs—er, matters? Cordelia Stansbury. She is betrothed to Valerian. Oh, I make no doubt he was trapped into the match. The chit is no beauty and I have to admit don’t compare to the incomparables he usually takes under his protection. But that is neither here nor there. The fact is that the gel’s mama, a scheming harridan if ever there was one, contrived to discover your cousin most improperly tête-à-tête in a locked room with Miss Cordelia, and quick as a wink rushed off a betrothal announcement to every newspaper in Town.”

  “Yes…I do recall something of the sort,” said Piers slowly. “But that was more than a year since, I believe?”

  “Just so. Mrs. Stansbury claims that the gel felt duty-bound to obtain her father’s consent to the match, so she sent her off to Egypt, where Nathan Stansbury putters about in the sand. A stupid move, because the ship was lost in a fierce storm. Went down reportedly with no survivors.”

  “Poor lady. Then Valerian escaped? How does this—”

  “If you’ll hold your tongue for a minute, I’ll tell you how. If Valerian had an ounce of wit, he’d have chose himself a more acceptable bride at once, just in case. He didn’t. Now, the Stansbury chit has been rescued from some God-forsaken uncharted island, and has come home. He’s honour-bound to wed her. All England knows of their betrothal.”

  This, Piers thought, must be the affair Aunt Jane had spoken of. So Valerian was properly caught. Amused, he asked, “Does Miss Stansbury not want him? Has she found someone else, perchance?”

  “A cannibal chieftan, per no chance! But that matchmaking mama of hers has no intention of taking her claws out of Valerian. He and his sire have been at daggers drawn for years, but the boy is the legal heir, and when Sir Simon goes to his reward, Gervaise inherits the title and the fortune. Mrs. Stansbury will use every means at her command to force Valerian to honour his promise.”

  Then I’d say he is properly caught.”

  “So would I. So would any man of honour. Not that worthless rake!”

  “Gad! Do you say he means to draw back? Surely not. The poor girl will be ruined.”

  The General snorted, “Of course she’s ruined. Nigh a year on a desert island! Unchaperoned! With only heathen savages for company? You may be sure her virginity is a thing of the past. That she would dare show her face in England at all is beyond belief.”

  “She’s here, sir? In London?”

  “Aye. And every gabble-monger in the three kingdoms in transports over the juicy scandal and agog to see what Valerian will do. Any other female would pack the gel off into a convent, but not the Stansbury tabby! She’ll force the slowtop to wed her daughter if she can. And he flatly refuses even to call on her. If it were left to him, our family name would be trampled in the mud!”

  “So that’s why he’s here,” murmured Piers thoughtfully.

  “You’ve spoken with him?”

  “Briefly. I gather you were unable to change his mind.”

  The General said nothing, but stared at him with grim fixity.

  In belated and horrified comprehension, Piers exclaimed, “No, Uncle! You never mean to suggest that I—”

  “Why not? You are unwed, and to the best of my knowledge your heart has not been attached. For many reasons it is imperative that our name not be linked to any more scandal.”

  “But—but Valerian does not share our name.”

  “That don’t mean the ton is unaware of the relationship. I’ve already been kindly reminded of it. Damned gabble-mongers! ni not have it, I tell you!”

  “Because of your contretemps with The League of Jewelled Men?” asked Piers with blunt daring.

  The General’s face became near purple and he fairly gulped with rage. “I said—many reasons,” he rasped, as if fighting for control. “And it is my understanding that you wish to buy the river parcel for your brother.”

  Also enraged, Piers came to his feet. “Your pardon, sir. I mean no disrespect, but I cannot think Perry would expect me to offer for the lady under such circumstances.”

  “The decision is yours, of course.” With a smile that held nothing of mirth, his lordship snarled, “And must depend on the depth of your fondness for poor Peregrine, and for Muse Manor.”

  “He never did?” Lounging on the morning-room sofa, brandy glass in hand, Gervaise Valerian threw back his handsome head and gave a shout of laughter. “Why, the slippery old codger! I hope you drove a hard bargain, coz.”

  Cranford directed a narrow-eyed glare at him. “Do you,” he said savagely. “So you waited here to enjoy the outcome of your damned disgraceful antics.”

  “But of course. Best pour yourself some of this excellent cognac, dear boy. You look—ruffled.”

  Advancing on the sofa, Cranford said with soft menace, “I’ll ruffle you—coz!”

  “Temper, temper!” With a lithe twist Valerian darted away. “Only play your cards right, and you can wheedle whatever you want out of the old curmudgeon.”

  “You lecherous blackguard—”

  “Oho!” Dodging Cranford’s advance, Valerian chuckled. “We resort to name-calling. Unfair. Did I not most gallantly stay here to warn you? Had you only paid heed—”

  “To what? Your miserable treachery? You’re the one offered for the poor lady. Had you an ounce of decency, you’d honour your word!”

  “And so I would have, had she not rushed off to sea and disappeared for a year or so.” Valerian winked and hooked one leg over the far end of the sofa. “That gave me my chance to outwit her dreadful mama and escape the bonds of matrimony with—No! Stay back! Only put yourself in my shoes, Cranford. I didn’t want a fat and spotty bride in the first place, and—”

  “But, spots or no, you weren’t averse to so compromising her that when you were caught you had no choice but to offer for her. And now you mean to jilt the poor lady and complete her ruin!”

  “She’s already ruined. I’ll not wed some heathen savage’s cast-off! No one would expect it of—Whoops! Almost had me there, dear old boy!”

  “You are—despicable,” snarled Cranford. “The lady may be dishonoured, but so will you be! All London will scorn you for the unscrupulous libertine you are!”

  The faintest frown disturbed Valerian’s classic brow and for an instant a steely glint replaced the mockery in his eyes. “Do you know—I really dislike to be named a—libertine,” he murmured. “But, have no fear, coz. Our proud old General will never let the whole tale be told. And since you feel so pious in the matter, you’ll be more than willing to ride to the rescue and save the maiden, eh?” He sprang up to put an armchair between them, and with eyes again alight with laughter, said softly, “Spots and all…”

  Cranford was so infuriated when he left the morning-room that he stamped across the entrance hall and snatched his hat and cloak from the hands of the footman without a word. It was unlike him, and the footman exchanged a glance with the housekeeper as she came in her soft-footed way from the kitchen passage.

  “Has something upset you, Mr. Piers?” she asked, watching him anxiously.

  He took a deep breath and managed a smile. Eliza Turner had been housekeeper here for as long as he could remember. She was nearing fifty now; a plump, sad-eyed woman with greying hair who bore little resemblance to his childhood memories of her. She’d been a pretty widow in those days, and proud of the little son whom Lord Nugent allowed to live with her. Herbert had been a fine lad then, but at the age of ten he’d been severely injured in a riding accident. He had recovered his health, and at twenty was a splendid-looking young fellow, but his mind remained that of a child and all too often he was the target for cruel taunts and mockery.

  Bending to kiss the housekeeper’s cheek, Cranford said, “Nothing I cannot deal with, Eliza. And before you ask, as I know you will, my brother is well, and soon to be wed.”

  She gave a little cry of delight and clung to his hand. “I am so glad. I was afraid hi
s lordship was vexed with you. Of late he has been rather—er—” She broke off, stepping back a pace as Valerian sauntered into the hall. “Are you leaving us also, sir?” she asked, her eyes admiring as they rested on the dandy’s elegance.

  “I must tear myself away, alas,” he drawled, directing a sly grin at Cranford that said he knew he was safe from reprisals in front of the servants.

  The footman hurried to offer Valerian’s cloak and enquire if he wished a chair to be summoned.

  “I was about to ask my cousin to take me to my club,” said Valerian, adding with a heavy sigh, “but I see he is not in a generous mood this afternoon, so, yes, you’d best call up a chair.”

  “I’ll be main glad to pole up a pair and drive you to the Madrigal, sir.” The offer came from Mrs. Turner’s son, Herbert, who stood humbly in the kitchen passage, his hopeful gaze on his idol.

  “Thank you—no,” said Valerian curtly.

  Cranford had started towards the front door, but the small exchange brought him to a halt. It was typical of Valerian’s arrogance that he should snub the lad who so obviously adored him. And it was typical also that this revolting individual could so easily send his own temper flaring. He turned back and asked kindly, “How do you go on, Herbert? Well, by the look of you—”

  “Oh—well enough, thank you, sir.” The tall youth gazed wistfully after Valerian’s departing figure and when the door had closed behind him, walked despondently back along the passage.

  Mrs. Turner sighed, and driven by a sense of responsibility for the unkindness of his alleged “kinsman,” Cranford said, “Your son has a fine pair of shoulders, Eliza. Does he still tend my great-uncle’s garden?”

  “Aye, sir. And loves doing it, though I wish he would find a situation that might offer a better future for him.”

  “No, but the grounds here do him credit. If ever he leaves his lordship’s employ he could very well become the head gardener on some great estate. Or else you may send him to me. We would be glad of him at Muse Manor.”

  She brightened at this and patted his arm, murmuring that he was “very good.”

  Leaving her, he stepped out into the rainy afternoon. Florian stood at the heads of the pair, talking with Valerian, who turned abruptly and strolled to join Cranford. “I could not depart without wishing you joy of your wooing,” he taunted.

  Yearning to deck him, Cranford held on to his temper. “You might better bring some joy to young Turner. The poor lad worships you and you begrudge him so much as a kind word.”

  With a curl of the lip Valerian said, “To worship any man is to be a sorry fool. He fits that role, certainly. Besides which, dear coz, the last time I gave him a kind word I’d to endure a stammered lecture on the delights of ferns. Ferns! Gad! And here are my chairmen. Adieu, your nobility!”

  As he bent to enter the sedan chair, Cranford yielded to temptation. He took a long step and “slipped.” His boot rammed home on the seat of the dandy’s breeches. Valerian uttered a howl of rage as he was slammed forward and barely avoided shooting out of the far side of the chair.

  “My poor coz” called Cranford, walking towards the grinning Florian. “A stumble, alas. I was clumsy past permission. You cannot guess the depth of my… distress.”

  He climbed into his coach, hearing Valerian’s profane assessment of his “distress” fading into the distance.

  Leaning back against the squabs, he chuckled to himself. His day, he decided, had not been a complete loss.

  4

  My poor little girl.” Regina Stansbury sighed deeply as she poured tea for her afternoon caller. “Who ever could have imagined such a frightful tragedy would chance?” she mourned, refilling her own cup and indulging a mental sneer as she heard the creak of her guest’s corset. She had not expected Mrs. Coffey on this wet afternoon, though had she known the woman was in town she’d have guessed the old busybody would come nosing around. Wanted to earwig out how they were to escape this hideous fiasco into which Cordelia had plunged them, that’s why Evaline Coffey had come, purring like the smug tabby she was! Much good may it do her! Still, thought Regina, it was fortunate that she had worn the rose-pink robe à la française with the wide Watteau back pleats; her gown was far more fashionable than the purple satin over those great hoops that made poor Evaline look even more monstrous. It was quite comical to hear her creak as she moved. If she would but put off five or six stone, she’d still be a fat old—

  “So affecting,” said Mrs. Coffey, her sharp eyes taking in the ridiculous French wig affected by her hostess. As if any wig could render those hatchet features one whit less harsh. And Regina Stansbury might simper and sigh all she pleased, but the pushing creature couldn’t hide the fact that she was seething—positively seething—because she’d not only lost a fine catch for her mouse of a daughter, but was now saddled with the disgraced gel and with not a chance to fire her off respectably. “I suppose that wretched boy has seized his opportunity to cry off,” she said sadly. “Poor Cordelia would be heartbroken if she had cared for him deeply. But I fancy she’s forgotten all about Gervaise after the excitements of her—adventures… eh?”

  ‘Horrid cat!’ thought Mrs. Stansbury. Her temper was seldom far from the surface and betrayed her into saying with a snap, “Cared for him deeply? Why, the sweet child adores him! She always has. When he offered she was in alt. I promise you, ma’am, that through all these months he has been enshrined in her heart.”

  “Oh, the poor dear!” Mrs. Coffey held a tiny handkerchief to her tearless eyes and enquired brokenly, “How ever shall you… comfort her, Regina?”

  Yearning to slap her, Mrs. Stansbury uttered a shrill titter. “But why should I feel obliged to comfort her, dearest Evaline? Although the gossips among us whisper their wicked lies and insinuations, my Cordelia is as innocent and—untouched as the day she was born. Gervaise Valerian would not dare to cry off, for he would certainly be held in contempt by all London if he did so dishonourable a thing!”

  “Untouched?” Mrs. Coffey blinked. “But—my love! Surely… all those months… alone on an island with only savages for company… and no one to protect the child…?”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Stansbury gripped her teacup so hard that it was remarkable the handle did not break. “But you have been listening to a lot of fustian. You should not do so, naughty girl. The savages worshipped my lovely Cordelia! They’d never before seen a lady with fair hair. Quite logically, they thought she was a goddess and laid not a finger on her. Not one!” Her rather large teeth were bared in a smile, but a hard stare challenged her guest.

  Undeterred, Mrs. Coffey drew a deep breath and fired off her next volley. “How splendid, my love! You will, I am assured, have explained matters to poor Gervaise, and all those unkind rumours about his crying off are—”

  “So much jealously! Valerian adores my Cordelia, and knowing of her unswerving devotion, has uttered not a hint of drawing back.” (Which was no lie, she thought, since the graceless wretch had not had the common decency to call upon Cordelia since her return!)

  “I am so glad! Then—may we look forward to bridals in the near future? I fancy Gervaise will be anxious to make Cordelia his own. Now she is so—ah—famous, she will have awoken the—um—the interest of other young rascals, I am very sure.”

  “Much chance they will have. Cordelia is as loyal as she can stare, and nothing would induce her to settle for another!” Mrs. Stansbury sank her teeth into a macaroon and thought, ‘He had better wed the stupid chit, or he’ll rue the day!’

  Mrs. Coffey was quite aware of the frustration simmering behind that awful travesty of a smile. Gratified, she soon took her leave, eager to advise her friends that poor Cordelia Stansbury was hopelessly on the shelf and that her mama might very well strangle her.

  As she was leaving the entrance hall, another caller arrived. He bowed politely and stood aside to let her pass. A tall, good-looking young fellow with a hint of the military about his bearing. It was a simple matter to claim to have
mislaid her glove, and while a lackey was searching about for it, she heard the newcomer answer the butler in a pleasant voice, “I am Piers Cranford. Would you be so good as to take my card up to Mrs. Stansbury and say I beg a private word with her?”

  Mrs. Coffey’s ears tingled. “A private word!” It was a word she longed to overhear, but the glove having been discovered with irritating promptness under the credenza where she had kicked it, she was obliged to depart. Walking out to her waiting carriage, she was titillated by the knowledge that she had another fascinating on-dit to impart to her cronies. The name “Cranford” was familiar, though for the life of her she could not place it just now. Still, someone would know who he was, and all they’d have to learn then would be why he was calling on Regina Stansbury. Was it possible this young gallant cried friends with the dashing Valerian and had come to convey the rascal’s regrets and end the betrothal? She gave an involuntary little squeak of excitement. That was the root of it, no doubt. Poor dear Regina must have known it was inevitable. Still, she would be enraged, and, shrew that she was, one could only feel sorry for her unfortunate daughter.

  “I am well aware of your connection to the Valerian family.” Mrs. Stansbury’s tone was acid.

  Cranford, who tended to be shy in the presence of unknown females, felt transfixed by her piercing glare, and noting the two spots of colour high on her cheeks, dreaded lest this volatile lady fly into one of her famous rages and succumb to strong hysterics.

  “I collect you are here in behalf of dear Gervaise,” she went on, “to arrange the terms of the marriage settlement.”

  Her fierce stare dared him to deny this, but he said quietly, “No, ma’am. It was my understanding that you had been advised of the termination of the betrothal between Valerian and your—”

  “What?”

  Deafened by her screech, he shrank back in his chair.