“Confound it all, Grey! At such a time—Grandmama seemed to think it was as good as settled.” He saw that Sir Greydon was genuinely perplexed, and drew a deep breath. “Grey, you can tell me to go to the devil if you wish, but are you, or are you not, on the point of offering for Priscilla Marstow?”
Sir Greydon continued to regard him, but now the bewilderment in his eyes had been replaced by a kind of exasperated understanding.
“Is that what Grandmama told you?”
Vivyan nodded. “Said you had given her your word. Of course, I didn’t believe that, for I know what Grandmama is like in one of her high flights, and I cannot imagine that you would be influenced by anyone, or by anything but your own inclination, in such a matter, but something must have put the notion into her head.”
“Oh, yes!” There was a tinge of bitterness in Greydon’s voice. “You see, Vivyan, our grandmother is seventy-eight years old and in precarious health, and, as you know, she has this obsession about the Varleigh name. Ever since I can remember she has been plaguing me to marry and provide Rushbourne with an heir, and when she was ill last year, and in great distress, I promised her that I would find a wife within a year.”
Vivyan regarded him curiously. “And will you?”
“Naturally, since I have given my word, though not necessarily Miss Marstow. I wonder why Grandmama has fixed upon her?”
Vivyan grinned. “Because only the best will do for a Varleigh, and Miss Marstow is the Season’s most admired debutante. She has birth, beauty, a respectable fortune—!”
“And very little else.”
“Deuce take it, Grey! What more do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Greydon went to the table where decanters stood on a silver tray, and poured a glass of wine. “Vivyan, has it never occurred to you that all the girls from among whom we are expected to choose our brides are as insipidly alike as though they had been cast from the same mold? So full of feminine accomplishments that they have not one original thought in their heads, and must either coquet or languish. I have yet to meet one who is not hedged about by notions of propriety instilled by her mama and her governess until she is afraid to think or act for herself. At least—!” He paused, a sudden recollection bringing a reminiscent smile to his lips.
“At least—?” Vivyan was watching him, and spoke in a rallying tone. “Come, Grey, out with it! At least—what?”
“Oh, nothing of any significance. I was merely recalling a young lady whom I recently encountered. The first time was the other evening at the Royal George where, having alighted from the London stage at the Griffin, she had the temerity to approach Hobkin and seek to hire a carriage in which to complete her journey. Yes, and to take him severely to task when he refused to provide one!”
“Traveling alone by the stage?” Vivyan was disappointed. “I thought you said ‘a young lady.’ ”
“Unquestionably a lady. When we met, she was very properly chaperoned by a younger sister, and they were traveling, I gathered, with their mama and two younger members of the family, who were awaiting their return to the Griffin with the carriage.”
“Which I’ll wager they did not obtain from Hobkin.”
“There was a little difficulty,” Greydon admitted. “I was obliged to intervene, though I am not altogether convinced that the lady would not have prevailed, unaided, in the end.”
“Sounds an odd sort of female to me,” Vivyan remarked. “Was she pretty?”
“Pretty?” Greydon paused, considering an unexpectedly vivid memory of Miss Mallory. “No, not particularly. The younger sister would probably have appealed to you—one of those delicate, die-away blondes. But the truly odd circumstance was that they were bound for Brambledon. For Garth House.”
“What, old Mallory’s place? Dash it all, Grey, it’s a confounded ruin. What the devil could they want there?”
“I have since learned that they are the new owners. I recall that Mayhew told me there had been some difficulty in tracing Mallory’s heir, which is why the house has been standing empty ever since the old man died. Empty, that is, except for the Ibstone family.”
“Heaven help the new owners, then!” Vivyan remarked flippantly. “Wait a bit, though! You said you met this girl at the Royal George for the first time. Don’t tell me you have seen her since?”
“Yes, though I would scarcely describe her as a girl, for she is, I should imagine, in her early twenties. I encountered her less than an hour ago on top of Garth Hill.”
Vivyan eyed him suspiciously. “At this time in the evening? Grey, you’re bamming me!”
“It’s the truth, I give you my word. She had mislaid her young brother, and climbed up through the woods searching for him.” Greydon laughed at the expression in his cousin’s face, and went on to describe his second encounter with Miss Mallory.
Vivyan was amused, but gave it as his opinion that such unconventional conduct would do her no good in some quarters. “Can’t see her being received by some of the old tabbies around here,” he said brutally. “That crony of Mama’s, Mrs. Elverbury, for instance.” He paused, regarding his cousin with some indignation. “Grey, why are we discussing Miss Mallory?”
Sir Greydon’s lips twitched. “I changed the subject,” he explained kindly. “It seemed to me that we were getting into somewhat deep waters.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Calderwood intelligently. “Telling me to mind my own business. I don’t blame you, but tell me also what tale I am to carry to Grandmama. My orders were to command you back to town immediately.”
“Impossible!” Sir Greydon said decisively. “Present my compliments to Grandmama, and assure her that I will inform her as soon as I find myself able to leave Rushbourne.”
“That won’t do! Ten to one you will have her posting down here herself.”
“God forbid!” Greydon exclaimed fervently. “I am devoted to Grandmama, but she must not be permitted to come to Rushbourne at present. Besides, why the devil should she? Even if I intended to offer for Miss Marstow, it is surely not a matter of urgency?”
“Ah, but it is, according to Grandmama! There are half a dozen men trying to fix their interest with the girl, and though she may have been waiting for you to cast the handkerchief in her direction, if she feels you have slighted her by going off in this fashion, it’s quite likely that she will accept someone else. Riversdale’s after her, and it’s no secret that the Marstows favor him.”
“Have a fancy to see their daughter a countess, have they?”
“The title’s one consideration, of course,” Vivyan admitted with a grin, “but I’m told they regard him as a more stable character than Sir Greydon Varleigh. You, my dear fellow, may be a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, a buck of the first head, a nonpareil—!”
“Cut line, Viv, for God’s sake!” Greydon protested, between amusement and annoyance. “When have I ever claimed to be any of these?”
“Oh, you don’t have to, Grey! It’s a well-known fact, and though it may appeal to Miss Priscilla, it don’t appeal to her parents. Devilish straitlaced, the Marstows, and Riversdale’s a deuced dull dog, as you know. So, according to Grandmama, if you don’t bestir yourself you may find Miss Marstow betrothed to him by the time you do return to town.”
Greydon shrugged. “Priscilla Marstow is not the only eligible female in London.”
“That’s damned cold-blooded!” Vivyan protested. “Don’t you care one way or the other, even though you have been paying court to the girl?”
“My dear Vivyan, you are surely not suggesting that a romantic attachment is necessary, or even desirable, when it comes to marriage? Miss Marstow is very pretty and amiable, and no doubt would make a suitable wife, but the same can be said—though in varying degrees, I admit—of at least half the marriageable girls in town.”
Mr. Calderwood was silent, dubiously regarding his cousin. He would have supposed Greydon to be jesting, had his voice not held a harshness that Vivyan had never heard in it before. It could be
, of course, that he was regretting the promise he had made and irked by the prospect of giving up his bachelor existence, yet he must always have known that it was his duty to marry one day, for his parents and elder brother had died together, tragically, while he was still in the nursery, and there was no other direct male heir. Moreover, in the world in which he moved it was not necessary for marriage to make a great deal of difference to a man’s life. He was expected to provide generous marriage settlements; beget, if possible, heirs to his estates and fortune; and appear with his wife on all appropriate social occasions. Otherwise they were free to go their separate ways.
Nor was it that he disliked women, or they him. Vivyan, whose adolescent hero-worship of his soldier cousin had deepened since Greydon left the army into a strong and comfortable friendship, wondered sometimes just what quality Grey possessed to attract women of such widely differing types as (for instance) the modest and well-bred Miss Marstow and the dashing Cyprian who was currently enjoying his protection. The cynical would say it was his great wealth; Vivyan did not believe this was the only reason. Yet the attraction could scarcely be supposed to lie in his looks, for though he possessed an undeniably splendid physique, his features bore little resemblance to the popular conception of a handsome man, being of an aquiline cast, and a naturally olive complexion which his years of soldiering had darkened to a gypsy swarthiness. He had eyes of a brown so dark that it seemed almost black, deep-set below black brows that slanted upwards, thick and strongly marked; lean cheeks and a strong, determined jaw. It was a face that had seemed old for its years at twenty, had aged very little in the ten years since then, and would probably look much the same at fifty, or even sixty. Not, one would imagine, a face to set female hearts fluttering, and yet flutter they undoubtedly did.
“Blue-deviled, Grey?” Vivyan suggested tentatively at length.
“Something more than that,” Sir Greydon admitted. He hesitated, but then appeared to come to a sudden decision. “Oh, the devil! Since you are here I may as well tell you, for God knows how much longer I can keep the matter secret. The reason I came so hurriedly to Rushbourne, Viv, and why I am still here, is that the Medallion has been stolen.”
Vivyan’s eyes widened, and he stared at his cousin in shocked disbelief; after a moment he said uncertainly:
“You cannot be serious!” Then, immediately correcting himself: “Of course you are! You would not say that in jest. My God, Grey, what a thing to happen! Does anyone else know?”
“Only Mayhew, for it was he who discovered the theft. As my agent he holds a key to the strong room, where, as you know, the Medallion was kept in its iron casket. I have one of the only two keys to that—the other is lodged with my lawyer—and on the last occasion that Mayhew visited the strong room he found that the casket had been forced open and the Medallion removed. He came at once to me, and naturally I lost no time in getting here.” He paused, and then added with grim meaning: “You perceive that I could give no adequate reason for my abrupt departure, least of all to our grandmother.”
“No, by God!” Vivyan agreed. “Grey, if she knew—if she found out—!”
“It would almost certainly kill her,” Greydon concluded as Vivyan hesitated. “You know how implicitly she believes in the legend.”
“Can’t really wonder at that, I suppose,” Vivyan said reluctantly. “Not after what happened.”
Sir Greydon agreed, though with a touch of impatience. The Varleigh Medallion was the family’s most treasured heirloom, a massive circle of pure gold, strangely wrought and set with precious stones. It had been brought to England by that Elizabethan seafarer who founded the family fortune, and the tale that had been passed from generation to generation was that it had been bestowed upon him by an Aztec prince whose life he had saved. Whether this were true, or whether the Medallion was merely one of the prizes of a piratical affray against Spain, would never now be known, but it was indisputable that the earlier Sir Greydon had regarded the Medallion as the source of the great good fortune that followed his acquisition of it. On his deathbed he had warned that it must never upon any account be removed from the abbey, or disaster would follow; his heir believed him and laid a similar command upon his own son, and so a tradition and a legend had been born. The Varleigh Medallion was synonymous with the Varleigh luck, and if the old seadog’s more skeptical descendants regarded this as no more than a quaint, archaic superstition they had nevertheless, with one notable exception, abided by it. The exception was Sir Andrew Varleigh, the grandfather of Greydon and Vivyan, who on one occasion had taken the Medallion to his London house. It could have been only a tragic coincidence that, within a week, Sir Andrew’s only son, his wife, and the elder of their two little boys died in an accident, but the tragedy convinced Lady Varleigh of the truth of the legend, and that conviction had never wavered. Even Sir Andrew’s skepticism had been shaken. The Medallion was returned with all speed to its rightful place and had never again left it. Never—until now.
“Wait a minute!” Vivyan had been thinking over what Greydon had told him, and now perceived something odd. “You said that the casket had been forced open, but what about the door of the strong room?”
“That had been opened with a key. I should have explained that to you, and also that, besides the Medallion, a very considerable sum of money is missing.” Sir Greydon paused, and then added in his driest tone: “And so is Cousin Oliver.”
“Well, I’m damned!” Vivyan said softly. “Mind you, I never liked the fellow, but I would not have supposed—wait, though! Didn’t you and he have a quarrel some time last winter?”
“We did,” Greydon agreed rather grimly. “It had been brewing for a long time, ever since I sold out, and it finally came to a head.”
Mr. Calderwood nodded wisely. “I’m not surprised. Thought last time I was here that you’d not be able to endure his insolence for much longer. In your place, I’d have drawn his cork long since.” He added hopefully: “Did it come to that?”
“I am ashamed to admit that it did. It was a sordid business altogether, concerning an unfortunate girl in the village, hardly more than a child herself. I told Oliver to his head that I had had a surfeit of his scoundrelly conduct, and that unless he mended his ways he would leave Rushbourne for good. I will admit that I did not spare his feelings, but it was really very foolish of him to try to plant me a facer.”
“Suicidal, I should call it,” Vivyan retorted with a fleeting grin, for Sir Greydon was known in sporting circles as a first-rate amateur pugilist. “Oh well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Thought so for a long time.”
“Perhaps, but it is not an incident in which I take any pride. For one thing, Oliver is nearly ten years older than I and by no means up to my weight, and for another, his circumstances are devilish difficult, and have been from the day he was born.”
“I’d say he has been damned fortunate all his life, thanks to Grandfather.”
“Would you?” Greydon spoke reflectively. “I wonder? It’s true he has been adequately provided for, but there are other considerations to take into account. You know, Viv, as a child I detested Oliver, but when I grew old enough to appreciate how equivocal his situation is, I began to feel sorry for him.”
“I’ll lay odds he don’t appreciate your sympathy.”
“Good God, no! Had he ever suspected it, which I trust he never did, he would have resented it bitterly. Just as he has always resented me.”
“Queer thing, that!” Vivyan observed. “I mean, why should he resent you? It’s not as though you had cut him out of the inheritance, or anything of that kind. He has no rights at Rushbourne.”
“Precisely! He has lived here on sufferance all his life, simply because of Grandfather’s affection for Great-aunt Olivia, and he has never been able to forget that. He resented me because I was the heir, just as I am sure he would have resented my brother had he lived. One cannot blame him. It is a damnable situation to be in.”
“I suppose so,�
� Vivyan agreed soberly. “Can’t say I had ever considered it before, but I can see that you are right.”
They were silent for a while, each contemplating the unenviable situation of Cousin Oliver. He was the son of Olivia Varleigh, who forty years before had celebrated her seventeenth birthday by eloping with a plausible rogue whose company had been strictly forbidden to her. Of all her outraged family only her half-brother, Sir Andrew, twenty years her senior and looking upon her as a daughter rather than a sister, was prepared to stand by her, and instead of utterly disowning her and expunging her name from the family records, at once caused a search to be made. Since he was her legal guardian no one could gainsay him, even when the affair turned out to be even more scandalous than had at first been supposed. A month elapsed before the fugitives were found—or rather, before Olivia was found, for the man, getting wind of the pursuit, abandoned her and fled for his life—and it was left to Sir Andrew to break the news that the wedding ceremony she had gone through meant nothing, since the ‘bridegroom’ already had a wife.
In the face of family disapproval he brought her home to Rushbourne, and when her child was born it was given the name of Oliver Varleigh and placed in the nursery with Sir Andrew’s own youngest children, tolerated but never accepted by Sir Andrew’s wife. Olivia died while her son was still in a toddler, but the boy continued to be brought up with his cousins, educated, though not at the same school as Sir Andrew’s sons; and finally provided with a modest income from that portion of the Varleigh fortune which had been set aside for his mother, who in looks he greatly resembled. It was unfortunate that in all other respects he took after his good-for-nothing father.
“A damned devilish thing to happen!” Vivyan remarked at length. “Grey, what are you going to do?”
“It has been difficult to know what to do,” Greydon replied slowly. “The whole damnable business must be kept secret if possible, for apart from the danger of Grandmama getting wind of the theft, you can imagine with what glee the gossip mongers would seize upon so unsavory a morsel, and that, to a great extent, has tied my hands. Add to that the fact that Oliver has completely disappeared, and you will begin to appreciate the quandary in which I find myself. And Oliver has disappeared, literally without a trace. He left Rushbourne on the morning after the theft, telling the servants he expected to be away for several days, and has not been seen since.”
The Varleigh Medallion Page 6