The green, rolling farm country of Hertfordshire presented itself to the eye as they left Middlesex. It was a blazingly glorious day in early March. "Good English country," Swale remarked, looking around him approvingly. "Not too grand, not too pretty. Just what I like! The breadbasket of England!"
"Yes, my lord," Bowditch said expansively.
A scant two hours later, they came upon the sleepy, almost indolent village of Tanglewood Green. Of the three inns on the High Street, Geoffrey chose the Tudor Rose, a thatched box of the Elizabethan type, with black beams holding up its white plaster walls. A quiet, unassuming place, he thought, decked with ivy as old as England itself, and its back door was not twenty yards from the banks of a sparkling brook.
The landlord recognized the quality of his lordship's perfectly matched grays and set down the driver of the curricle, a burly, red-haired giant, as a man of wealth, though perhaps not a gentleman. Mr. Sprigge was never more surprised in his life than when he heard the manservant utter the words, "Very good, my lord," but he was not so shocked that he could not act. The best of food and drink was offered, and the private parlor was at his lordship's disposal, but nothing would please Swale more than to sit down in the common room and enjoy a tankard of Mr. Sprigge's ale and a slice of Mrs. Sprigge's rabbit pie.
The arrival of such greatness cast a pall over the usual good-natured liveliness of Mr. Sprigge's rustic customers. Who is this Lord Swale? they all asked themselves. What does he want with Tanglewood Green? Uneasy looks were exchanged, but no one spoke. Even Mr. Sprigge, whose lively tongue and easy manners made him well-suited to his duties as a host, fell silent, though he could not help but approve of his lordship's appetite. Swale himself seemed to desire more food and drink and less conversation.
Suddenly, the door opened, and a grizzled man in gaiters and breeches strode in. Over one arm was a broken rifle, and as he took what anyone could see was his customary seat near the fire, he dropped to the floor a handsome collection of dead rabbits tied with string. He took no notice of the illustrious Lord Swale, and therefore, his tongue was not shy. "I seen the Captain and Miss Julie riding together as far as the Manor," he announced with the air of one describing a particularly risky maneuver on a battlefield. "It would have been better for us all if old Mrs. Cary had left the estate to the Captain in the first place, as much interest as he takes in the place."
This intelligence meant nothing to Swale, but he welcomed the rabbits.
Mr. Sprigge, seeing that his lordship showed no signs of disapproval, ventured to speak. "Will they marry, do you suppose, Mr. Teal?"
The grizzled hunter drained his tankard. "Will they marry?" he repeated. "And why wouldn't they? His fortune he made fighting old Boney. Rich as you can speak, Mr. Sprigge!"
"I heard," said another man, emboldened by the effusions of Mr. Teal and Mr. Sprigge, "that Captain Cary went down to London to ask his cousin Mr. Wayborn if he would sell him the place."
Swale glanced up at the mention of the Wayborn name.
"Aye, and well he might," said Mr. Teal, "for he's rich enough, begad, to buy Tanglewood Manor five times over if he likes! Mr. Wayborn has let the place fall to rack and ruin. I'd not pay a farthing above a thousand pounds for it myself."
This last statement amused Mr. Sprigge. "You would not pay more than a thousand pounds, Mr. Teal? And where would you get a thousand pounds? You're only the gamekeeper!"
Mr. Teal flushed a dark red, and Swale was afraid he might storm out, taking his rabbits with him. This must not be allowed, of course; Mrs. Sprigge would need the rabbits for her pies. The situation called for prompt action.
"Is the Manor for sale, Mr. Sprigge?" he inquired.
Mr. Sprigge and Mr. Teal forgot one another and looked at him. Mr. Teal had not seen his lordship's spectacular grays and had no reason to think he was observing anything but an ordinary traveler with objectionable red hair.
"Is the place comfortable?" Swale asked, looking back at them innocently. "I have no objection to a comfortable place at this easy distance to London." While Swale did not often concern himself with the opinions of simple folk, he realized that his position might become awkward if the inhabitants of Tanglewood Green formed the impression he was up to no good vis-a-vis Miss Wayborn. Country bumpkins were prone to insanity, he knew; they might take it into their heads to form a mob and lynch him. House hunting seemed as good an excuse as any for skulking in the neighborhood. "In fact," he added, "I am traveling through Hertfordshire in search of just such a property."
"And who might you be?" demanded Mr. Teal, eyeing him with dislike.
"Be quiet, you old fool," Mr. Sprigge said roughly. "That is my Lord Swale from London. Don't you mind him, milord. He's only Squire Mickleby's gamekeeper."
"I collect it must be Mr. Cary Wayborn who owns the place-the Manor?"
Mr. Teal seemed embarrassed.
"Oh, is your lordship acquainted with Mr. Wayborn?" Mr. Sprigge asked nervously. "I daresay Mr. Teal did not mean to imply any disrespect for Mr. Wayborn-"
"Yes, I'm a little acquainted with the family," Swale replied with an ironic smile. "You say ... did I hear you say that Miss Wayborn is in the neighborhood? How odd. I thought she was in London. Visiting her cousins, I suppose? The Reverend Dr. Cary?"
"Yes, milord," said Mr. Sprigge, impressed by the stranger's knowledge.
"And this Captain of hers with whom she rides and whom she may or may not marry, that would be Captain ...
"Her cousin Captain Horatio Cary, milord. The Vicar's son and a fine young gentleman. He's to be knighted, they say."
Swale frowned. He had not expected to find a rival on the scene, much less a Naval officer with a sizable fortune. But what, he reasoned, would a man like that want with the Wayborn? He suspected that the villagers were merely exaggerating for their own amusement the relationship between the cousins. "I expect I must pay my respects to this young lady," he told Mr. Sprigge. "Would you be good enough to direct me to the Vicarage?"
Mrs. Cary, who was meeting with her housekeeper, turned white as a sheet when the Marquess's card was brought to her. Men of rank did not often come to visit her husband, and she knew she was not equal to the encounter. Indeed, Dr. Cary had often blamed her timidity for the fact that despite his own merits, no bishopric had been thrown his way. In a state almost of terror, she attended his lordship in the small drawing room where her husband displayed the better part of his porcelain collection in several cabinets that were much too large for the cramped space.
When she had left her little drawing room the night before, she had not noticed the superfluity of ribbons, feathers, paper flowers, and balls of yarn scattered about, but as the nobleman stood looking about him like a Viking invader, she could see nothing else.
How could Cynthia and Juliet leave the place so untidy? she fretted silently.
To her dismay, the information that Dr. Gary was not home failed to repel the large, angry-looking man with bristling red hair. "I have come to see Miss Wayborn," he announced, declining the seat she offered.
`Juliet?" she repeated blankly. "Your lordship has come to see Juliet?"
"I have something very particular I wish to say to her," he explained.
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Cary, coloring up like a schoolgirl. It had been more than thirty years since Dr. Cary had had something particular to say to her, but she had not forgotten the fateful words that had changed her life forever. It seemed to her she had been mistaken in thinking his lordship an angry man. Rather, he was a man in the grips of the divine passion. Her fear of him gave way almost to pity. It must be difficult for such a proud, disagreeable man to admit that his heart was no longer his own, she thought sympathetically.
"I'm very sorry, my lord. Miss Wayborn is not at home. She has walked to the church with her cousin."
"Captain Cary, I collect? She walks alone with him, does she?"
Mrs. Cary detected definite signs of a passionate jealousy and hastened to correct his lordship. "No,
my lord. She is with my daughter. As for my son, they are second cousins, nothing more. They have known one another their whole lives. Why, they are like brother and sister, so your lordship must not be discouraged."
Swale grunted, pleased.
"They will be returning very soon," said Mrs. Cary. "Or .... shall I send Mary to fetch them back, my lord? I know Miss Wayborn would not wish to inconvenience your lordship."
Heaven knows, she thought, if he does not propose now, he might lose his courage, go away, and never come again!
"Mary!" she cried. "Go and fetch Miss Juliet at once. She has an important visitor!"
Twenty minutes later, a nymph-like young lady with soft blue eyes and golden ringlets was performing a curtsey in the little drawing room. Swale stared at her in amazement.
He had not, of course, expected to find a dustcaked Miss Wayborn still dressed in a man's purple greatcoat and a man's purple tricorn hat, but a gauzy concoction of sprig muslin seemed rather outside the range of possible alternatives. As for the adorable heart-shaped face, the milk-and-roses skin, and the golden ringlets-he could only stare at the vision in disbelief. He had supposed Miss Juliet Wayborn to be something drawn along the lines of Michelangelo's Sistine Sibyls, brawny and mannish, perhaps with a budding mustache and the sinews of a prizefighterin short, the type of female likely to be surprised by and grateful for any sort of masculine attention. Instead, she was the belle of the county!
"My daughter, Miss Cynthia Cary," said Mrs. Cary, and Swale nearly laughed. Of course this angelic creature with the speaking blue eyes was not the loathsome Wayborn!
"Miss Gary," he said, giving her a sketch of a bow.
A second young female entered the room, and again in defiance of his preconceived notions, she was no musclebound amazon. This must be Miss Wayborn, he decided glumly. While it was true she lacked her cousin's soft, vulnerable beauty, her clear-cut patrician features and flawless complexion were undeniable. The feminine version of the Wayborn nose was straight; thin; and, without calling too much attention to itself, wonderfully precise. He could readily understand his father's desire to add it to the Ambler profile. Unfortunately her wide-set eyes were as gray, cold, and inhospitable as the frozen steppes of Russia. She seemed to have few pretensions to fashion, but her dark brown hair was curled over her ears and knotted at the nape of her neck in the Grecian style. Dressed quietly and simply in a dark blue dress trimmed in black ribbons, she appeared anything but grateful to find herself the object of his attentions. At the sight of this imposing female, all thoughts of making her fall in love with him vanished in a puff of smoke.
He recognized the type: a Parthenon goddess of the cruel variety. He'd have better luck with the exquisite Miss Cary-she at least could be made to pity him.
"Come, Cynthia," Mrs. Cary said, bubbling with girlish excitement. "His lordship has something particular to say to your cousin!"
Cynthia protested against leaving her cousin alone with the infamous Swale, but Mrs. Gary prevailed, closing the door behind them.
Juliet regarded her visitor with the coldness he deserved. He was larger than she had realized; at least, he seemed larger in the small drawing room, with shoulders fully as wide as the bow window. She had only gotten a fleeting look at him on the day of the race, but a closer scrutiny did nothing to improve his looks. His nose was too short, his mouth too wide, his chin too square. And that hair! A shade of red more often seen in nightmares than in nature, and he would wear it long, hanging in his eyes, tangled in his collar, and polluting the sides of his face with the most revolting sideburns she had ever seen. His eyes, however, were an interesting grayish green, and they were fixed on her with an intensity that a less spirited girl might have found disconcerting.
'Well, Swale? Have you come to break my arm?" she asked rudely.
The nettlerash sprang instantly to his cheeks, and he was heartily sorry she was not a man. "Cheat! " he growled at her, his teeth gritted.
This unseemly display of emotion seemed to amuse her. She sat down calmly upon the settee and rather languidly began winding some loose yarn into a ball. "I beg your pardon, Swale? I did not quite catch your remarks?"
"You know damn well you won that bloody race by cheating! That was a mean trick you served me, and you are a damned, unnatural female freak besides! "
She smiled, observing his massive fists opening and closing. How difficult it must be for him to use words instead of those enormous fists of his! she thought contemptuously. "In what way have I cheated?" she inquired pleasantly. "Besides by taking my brother's place, I mean."
"Well, what the devil do you call coming to a full stop just as I was about to pass you?"
"You, Swale?" she said mockingly. "About to pass me? I'm afraid I don't recall that. In any case, is it against the rules to come to a full stop?"
He glared at her, seething with anger, but no cutting rejoinder occurred to him immediately. It was not, strictly speaking, illegal to come to a full stop during a race, but it was damned irregular. "Damned irregular, that's what it was! "
With perfect composure, she completed one ball of yarn, placed it into a basket, and reached for another that had come unraveled. "Well, Swale?" she said presently. "You told Mrs. Cary you had something to say to me. If you have finished saying it, I wish you would go. I am excessively busy at the moment, as you see. It is of the utmost importance that I wind this yarn."
"I am addressed properly as Lord Swale," he informed her sullenly.
"Yes," she sniffed. "I expect you are."
"You may address me as my Lord Marquess, your lordship, or simply, my lord."
"And so I would," she replied, "if I had any intention of addressing you properly."
He glared at her almost in disbelief. No one had ever spoken to him with such impertinence. Most people were afraid of rousing his anger. Even her insufferable brother Sir Benedict had shown deference to his rank, if not to his person.
"It is a courtesy title, or so I understand," she said, calmly winding her yarn. "I have decided you deserve no such courtesy. I shall call you Swale if I like. I shall call you Ginger if I like-"
"Will you, by God!" he said violently. "Ginger, by God! If you were a man, madam, I would make you sorry for that remark!"
"Indeed, I shall call you Ginger until you are dead," she said, smiling. "It will be good for you. Well, perhaps it will be good for you, Ginger," she amended. "Either you will learn to control your temper, Ginger, or you will die of apoplexy."
"I should dearly like to break your neck," he said bitterly. "If you dare call me Ginger again, I shall break your neck! You should know I flattened the last fellow who tried to call me Ginger."
"Would you prefer Carrots?" she inquired.
"Now look here, you harpy! " he said forcefully, if not eloquently. "If you wish to trade insults, you must allow me to tell you that you have the conduct of a Barbary ape!"
"How dare you!" she said, her eyes flashing and a crimson stain appearing in her cheeks.
"Quiet!" he growled.
"Don't you tell me to be quiet," she snapped. "You orangutan! "
"Shut up then, if you prefer," he said roughly. "You obviously have not communicated with your brother Sir Benedict. If you had, he would have told you I am innocent. Which I am."
Juliet recoiled. "You, Ginger? Innocent? Ha!"
"Ha, yourself!" he wittily rejoined. "All this nonsense about a broken arm. When I want a man's arm broken, I shall break it myself, my girl. I don't go about hiring people to do my dirty work."
"Is that so?" she said sharply. "If it was not you who hired them, then who?"
"Ask your brother," he returned. "Sir Benedict will tell you it was Lord Redfylde."
"Lord Redfylde! That is ... that is vile slander," she said, flinging a ball of yarn at him.
He caught it and threw it back at her.
"Lady Redfylde," she said, catching the yarn and throwing it back as hard as she could, "happens to be the cousin of a dear frie
nd of mine. How dare you accuse her husband!"
"He hates me," Swale explained, dodging the yarn.
"I expect everyone hates you," she answered. "I certainly do."
"Your brother Cary beat him in a race."
"Cary beats everyone," she scoffed. "Except you, you snake! " She snatched up another ball of yarn and prepared to pitch it at him.
"Redfylde wagered ten thousand pounds that I would beat your brother's chestnuts."
Juliet's arm froze in midair. "What did you say?"
"You heard me right," said Swale.
"But that's as good as throwing money away," she protested. "Ten thousand pounds! Unless-" She sat down abruptly, and her hand fluttered up to her mouth, which had fallen open.
"Unless he knew somehow that your brother would have to forfeit." Swale scooped up the ball of yarn she had flung at him earlier and returned it to her. It struck her on the tip of her patrician nose, but she did not notice.
"But-but he is a marquess!" she protested.
"So am I," he reminded her. "You had no trouble believing it of me."
"But they said you sent them," she wailed.
"Heaven forfend a murderous brute should lie," he scoffed.
Juliet was shattered. Bad enough if she were wrong, but to be obliged to make an apology to this redhaired, snub-nosed maniac-! Her soul withered at the thought.
She narrowed her eyes and studied him for a long moment. Except for his rumpled clothing, he might have just stepped off a Viking ship a thousand years ago, his face as hideous as any emblem those barbarians used to paint on their shields to frighten peaceful English farmers. "Do you swear you had nothing to do with the crime?" she demanded.
"You'd like me to swear, wouldn't you, Miss Harpy? Well, I wouldn't swear to my own father. I see no reason I should swear to someone whose good opinion means so little to me."
Her cheeks were bright red. "If I have wronged you, Ginger," she said slowly with a little toss of her head, "I am sure I am sorry."
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