The Varleigh Medallion

by Sylvia Thorpe

“Please,” she said with difficulty, “you must not call me that! I could not bear to be the cause of trouble between you and your family.”

  They had reached the gateway of Garth House, and Greydon did not reply until he had guided his team through the narrow entrance and gone far enough along the drive for the road to be out of sight. Then he brought the curricle to a halt and turned to face her.

  “Yes, I am troubled,” he said wryly, “and exceedingly dismayed that my grandmother is about to arrive at Rushbourne, but that is because of something which happened before I had the inestimable good fortune to meet you. I can see, however, that the only way to convince you of that is to tell you the real cause of my uneasiness. No—” for she had started to protest, “bear with me for a few minutes, Dione. There must be no misunderstanding between you and me.”

  Briefly he outlined the story of the Varleigh Medallion, its theft by Oliver Varleigh and Oliver’s subsequent disappearance. She listened in shocked silence, and when he had done, laid her hand on his arm.

  “I am so very sorry,” she said simply. “Will you be able to keep it from her, do you think?”

  “I do not know. It may be possible, for I doubt whether she has even seen the Medallion for a decade or more, but if she were to take a sudden fancy to have it fetched from the strong-room, to show to someone, perhaps, the truth would be bound to come out.”

  “I suppose,” Dione suggested diffidently, “that you could not have a replica made, so that Lady Varleigh need never know that your cousin stole anything but the money. I know it would not be quite honest, but for the sake of Lady Varleigh’s peace of mind—!”

  “The idea had occurred to me,” he admitted, “but unfortunately no sufficiently detailed drawing of the Medallion exists.”

  “You no longer have any hope of recovering it? Perhaps the Bow Street Runners—?”

  “They have had little enough success up to now. In London they have discovered nothing at all, while the fellow who was sent here has so far been able to tell me only that Oliver was heavily in debt, which I already knew, and in the clutches of an unscrupulous moneylender, which I did not know but which surprises me not at all. I am expecting the man to report to me again tomorrow, but have very little hope that he will have anything of importance to tell me.”

  “If he had,” Dione asked curiously, “and if you found your cousin and recovered the Medallion, what would you do about Mr. Varleigh himself?”

  “Pay his debts and ship him out of the country,” Greydon replied promptly. “I have no desire for revenge, only to be rid of him, and provided he never returned to England he would have nothing to fear from me.” He paused, quizzically regarding her. “Well, ma’am, have I succeeded in convincing you that my dismay at Vivyan’s news was not in any way upon your account?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “but not that if Lady Varleigh knew you had proposed to me she would not dislike it excessively.”

  “When she knows,” he corrected her gently, “for I have every intention of telling her, I do not deny that she will be displeased at first, but when she knows you, my love, it will be a different matter. I was not jesting when I said that you and she will deal extremely together, so do not fear that when you marry me you will be joining a family hostile to you.” She made a little gesture of protest, but he only smiled and shook his head. “You are going to marry me, you know.”

  “If only I could be sure of what I feel!” she said breathlessly. “You see, Eustace Winton wanted to marry me, too, and there was a time, just after we arrived at Garth House and found it so different from our expectations, when I almost decided to accept him. And I do not even like him.”

  “I am not in the least surprised,” Greydon agreed comfortingly. “I do not like him myself.”

  “But do you not see? If I could think of marrying a man I do not like, just because he would provide for me and my family, how can I be certain, when I like you so much, that that is not the reason—!” she broke off, halfway between tears and laughter. “And it is too bad of you to laugh at me, when I am so confused.”

  “My poor darling!” Greydon transferred the reins to his whip hand, and possessed himself of one of hers. “How can I help it, when you talk such nonsense? Never mind! I can see that I took you too much by surprise, so for the present I will ask only that you think about what I have said, though it is only fair to warn you that if I were not obliged to hasten back to Rushbourne—and if I could rid myself of these confounded horses—I would do my best to help you to arrive at a decision with no more delay.”

  FIVE

  A little less than the two hours predicted by Vivyan had passed when Lady Varleigh’s luxurious traveling carriage drew up before the main door of Rushbourne Abbey, but her reception left nothing to be desired. Dobson, the butler, and his wife, who was the housekeeper, had risen nobly to the challenge presented by Mr. Calderwood’s announcement, and had urged their numerous underlings to such activity that her ladyship’s apartments were ready to receive her, even to fresh flowers in the vases, while the chef was rapidly revising the planned dinner to include some of the dowager’s favorite dishes.

  Her ladyship, preceded by her maid and assisted by a footman, alighted from the carriage and paused for a moment, looking about her with narrowed eyes, absorbing the fact that her arrival had not, after all, flung the household into the expected consternation and confusion. Then Sir Greydon, with Vivyan at his heels, emerged and came down the steps to welcome her.

  It might have been supposed that two such grandsons were a sight to gladden any old lady’s heart, but gladness was not the most evident expression in the dowager’s face as she watched them approach. When Greydon bent dutifully to kiss her hand, and said that he was delighted to see her, she replied shortly:

  “Easy enough to say, and your manners are always excellent, even if your behavior is not.” She transferred her attention to Vivyan. “I understood that you were at Newmarket.”

  “Came back yesterday, ma’am,” he answered, kissing her hand in his turn and only realizing the imprudence of the admission when she said grimly:

  “So that’s it! I have you to thank for announcing my approach. I suppose you have been springing your horses all the way from London to be beforehand with the news.”

  “Let me take you indoors, ma’am,” Greydon put in soothingly. “You are tired from the journey, and should not be standing in this hot sunshine.”

  “It is no thanks to you, sir, that I am not prostrate from exhaustion,” she informed him testily. “It would not have been my choice, let me tell you, to make the journey from London during the hottest weather we have had this summer.”

  She then allowed them to escort her into the house, but when Greydon would have led her to one of the saloons, said testily that she would go instead to her own apartments, which no doubt (with another darkling glance at Vivyan) had been made ready for her. She needed to repose herself before dinner.

  “But before that, I will see you, Greydon, in my drawing room. Present yourself at six o’clock. Now take me upstairs.”

  He did so, with a rueful grin at Vivyan, who, finding himself ignored, beat a hasty and thankful retreat to the library. He was fond of his grandmother, but when she was in this sort of mood he went in considerable dread of her sharp tongue. Grey, he thought, was in for a rare trimming from the old lady.

  Sir Greydon himself was of the same opinion, and though he did not find the prospect alarming, as Vivyan would have done, he was conscious of very uncharitable feelings towards Mrs. Elverbury, whose interference had done nothing to ease a difficult situation. His grandmother, he knew, would not at first take kindly to his choice of a bride; it had been his intention to make the Mallory family known to her, so that she and Dione could become acquainted and, as he was confident they would, friends, before informing her ladyship that this was his future wife. Now he had no choice but to put her immediately in possession of the facts, in eluding the unpalatable one that he had not yet s
ucceeded in persuading Dione to accept him.

  On the stroke of six he entered her ladyship’s drawing room, immaculate in the long-tailed coat, knee-breeches and silk stockings which she was old-fashioned enough to consider the only suitable evening wear for a gentleman. His grandmother was seated by the window which looked out over the Italian garden with its statues and formal flowerbeds, flooded now with golden evening light, and he saw with relief (for in spite of her testiness she had looked exceedingly fatigued on her arrival) that her face was less pinched and drawn, and that since she now wore an evening gown she obviously felt well enough to join him and Vivyan at dinner.

  “Come now, this is much better,” he said, taking her hand and smiling affectionately down at her. “I do not like to see you looking as tired as you did when you arrived here.”

  “Do not imagine,” she retorted sharply, “that you can fob me off with these caressing ways. I want an explanation, Greydon, and I want it immediately.”

  “An explanation of what, ma’am?”

  “Of whatever is going on here. Of your extraordinary behavior in leaving London at a moment’s notice, at the height of the Season, when you had I know not how many engagements. Of suddenly abandoning your courtship of Miss Marstow, just when I was quite convinced that you were on the point of making her an offer!”

  “You convinced yourself of that, ma’am. I did not, for I had no such intention.”

  “It is small wonder,” the dowager said bitterly, gesturing to him to be seated, “that you are looked upon as a dangerous flirt. Careful mothers are warning their girls against taking seriously any attentions you pay them. Yes, you may laugh, but I am inclined to agree with them.” Her eyes narrowed, and she switched disconcertingly to another matter. “What brought you to Rushbourne at this time of year?”

  “As I told you, Grandmama, a matter of business.”

  “Business!” she repeated with the utmost scorn. “You have an agent to deal with that.”

  “As I am sure you have informed yourself, ma’am, it was Mayhew who brought the matter to my attention. He did not feel qualified to deal with it.” He saw that she still looked disbelieving, and decided that it would be prudent to disclose at least some of the facts. “To tell you the truth, it concerns Oliver.”

  “Oliver?” She stared at him. “What scrape is he in now?”

  “It would appear,” Greydon said carefully, “that he has absconded to evade his creditors. He was in deep water—deeper, I fancy, than ever before, for he had fallen into the clutches of a cent-per-cent. Not an accredited moneylender, but a back-alley rogue no better than a criminal. I have reason to believe that when Oliver failed to settle, this scoundrel or his henchmen threatened him with violence, and he took fright. At all events, he made off and has not been heard of since.”

  “Good riddance!” her ladyship said heartlessly. “Something of the kind was bound to happen eventually, and if he has involved us in no worse scandal than this, we may be thankful. I always maintained, and I always will, that your grandfather was mistaken in his handling of that affair. Oliver should have been fostered by some respectable family, taught a trade or profession and assisted to make his own way in the world. He should not have been reared at Rushbourne, in circumstances which were bound to bring out all his worst characteristics.”

  “I heartily agree. With the kindest intentions, Grandfather served Oliver the worst possible turn. I should mention, by the by, that only Mayhew knows that he has gone. Oliver told the other servants that he would be away for a few days, and though by now they must suspect the truth, nothing has yet been said.”

  She nodded. “Very proper. Let us hope that he never returns to plague us again! Well, sir, that explains why you left London, but you could have settled Oliver’s affair and been back in town within a week.” She paused inquiringly, but when he made no reply added sharply: “Who is this young woman with whom you appear to have become entangled?”

  “Vivyan tells me,” Greydon said ironically, “that I am indebted to Mrs. Elverbury for noising my affairs abroad, so I feel quite certain you are well aware that the lady you speak of is a relative of old Jonathan Mallory. Her little brother, Theodore, inherited Garth House, and the family have come to make their home there.”

  “Very odd people they must be, to take up residence in a house which, by all accounts, is likely to fall into ruins about their ears!”

  “Not odd, ma’am. Merely poor,” he replied with a smile. “Mrs. Mallory is the widow of a naval officer.”

  “Shabby-genteel, I suppose,” her ladyship said scornfully. “That is all very well, but what I do not understand is why you have chosen to interest yourself in such people, beyond the demands of common civility. According to Harriet Elverbury—not that I set any great store by what she says—you are at Garth House every day, you squire Miss Mallory about the county, you have even been seen taking the boy driving.”

  “Mrs. Elverbury has indeed been busy!” There was an edge now to Greydon’s voice. “Let me assure you that her information is accurate, though what concern that is of hers—or, for that matter, of anyone except Miss Mallory and myself—I fail to perceive.”

  “Don’t try to give me one of your famous set-downs,” the dowager warned him tartly. “No concern of Harriet’s, I agree, but you will admit that I have some right to be perturbed when you seem bent upon stirring up the kind of scandal I most deplore.”

  “Scandal?” he repeated sternly. “Enlighten me, ma’am, if you please.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Greydon!” she retorted impatiently. “I have never before censured your behavior, nor will I as long as you are content to amuse yourself in London with high-fliers like the one I saw you with at the beginning of the Season. I will not remain silent, however, when you involve yourself, in our own village, with a young woman of respectable family.”

  There was a little silence, and then he spoke in a tone of voice she had never heard from him before.

  “If anyone but you, ma’am, had dared to say such a thing—!” He left the sentence unfinished, and after another brief pause, during which she had time to recognize and be startled by the depth of his anger, he continued evenly: “Both you and Mrs. Elverbury mistake the situation. I intend to make Miss Mallory my wife.”

  Lady Varleigh gasped, stared at him as though questioning whether or not he was in earnest, decided that he was, and then, after another stunned pause, opened the flood-gates of her wrath. She spoke at some length, of designing minxes and masculine folly, of undutiful grandsons, of irresponsibility and of what was due to an ancient name. Greydon heard her in silence, leaning back in his chair with his gaze fixed on the quizzing-glass which he was swinging to and fro at the end of its ribbon, and when at length she paused, said in the same level voice:

  “I feel sure that outburst has relieved your feelings, ma’am, and done you a great deal of good, so now let us consider the matter calmly. How can you possible pass judgment upon a girl you have never met?”

  “I do not need to meet her to know that she is no fit bride for a Varleigh of Rushbourne!”

  “That is sheer prejudice. You admit that her birth is respectable, while the fact that she has no portion is immaterial, since I am not hanging out for a rich wife.”

  “You are the most perverse creature alive!” her ladyship informed him furiously. “I could understand it better if you had lost your head over a beautiful face, but Harriet says that Miss Mallory’s looks are no more than passable.”

  “No,” he admitted with a smile, “she is not beautiful. She would probably tell you herself, as she has already told me, that she is ordinary and unaccomplished and quite ineligible. What she would not tell you is that she is also gallant and courageous, and faces all her considerable difficulties with a dignity and humor which will, I am quite sure, win both your respect and your admiration. I am convinced that had you met her with your judgment unclouded by Mrs. Elverbury’s malice, you would have taken an instant liking to he
r.”

  The dowager was nonplussed. She had watched him flirt expertly with ladies of fashion, both debutantes and young matrons, and had regarded, with the tolerance of a less affected generation, the various Cyprians who had enjoyed his protection, but this was something entirely different. She had never before known him to speak of a woman in just that tone of voice, or with such a look in his eyes.

  “I do not understand you,” she said querulously. “There have been at least a dozen girls, any one of whom you could have had for the asking, who would have made you a suitable wife. Priscilla Marstow was only one of them. Yet you choose a young woman with no experience of the world you live in, who has neither looks nor fortune, but only a tribe of brothers and sisters to be provided for.”

  “Scarcely a tribe, ma’am,” he replied patiently. “Two sisters and one brother.”

  “More than enough!” she retorted implacably. She was silent for a moment, regarding him with a frown, and then said abruptly: “Nearly a year ago, Greydon, you made me a promise. I release you from it.”

  He shook his head, smiling at her with affectionate understanding. “My dear Grandmama, that makes no difference. I have always regarded with aversion the sort of marriage made solely for worldly convenience, with no more than lukewarm tolerance upon either side, but if I had not met Dione I would have entered into just such a marriage in order to keep the promise you speak of. But I did meet her, thank God, and whether or not you hold me to that promise makes not the smallest difference in the world. As soon as I can persuade her to accept me, I shall marry her.”

  A gleam of hope appeared in the dowager’s eyes. “So you have not yet offered for her? No, of course you have not, or you would not be foolish enough to speak of persuading her!” She gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Much persuasion she will need, if she is in the difficulties you say she is!”

  “You are mistaken, ma’am. It is precisely because of those difficulties that she would not accept my proposal. She fears, you see, that she might be marrying me merely to solve her problems, and for no other reason.”