A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  Her friend looked torn. “People here don’t notice because they have grown so used to seeing you hang around the shop since you were a wee thing, not much different than a lad—”

  “People see what they wish to see.” Her voice had a raw edge to it as she slowly wound the thin cord around her thumb. “Let us cease to argue about it. I’m the best one for the job and you know it. That’s why you asked in the first place.”

  “You are, Derry,” he admitted. “And I would dearly like for us to triumph in this match, but are you sure it is not asking too much? I can always write to Peter McEwan in Edinburgh to see if he might be able to suggest a good lad from up his way—”

  “No!” Her voice came out in a sharp cry. “If it must be done, I’d rather it was me working with you.” After a moment, a certain keen curiosity gave rise to a probing question. “Why is a victory so important, Hugh? I know you well enough to sense it is something more than a cordial acquaintance with Lord Bowmont that has stirred your competitive fires.”

  He gave a ghost of a smile. “Like I said, you are too sharp by half, lassie. The fact is, it matters to me because the opponent is Lord Hertford.”

  Derrien’s face paled considerably. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” she demanded in a near whisper. “To thwart that dastard I would be willing to caddie for Lucifer himself.”

  “I wished to know first if you could truly endure the idea of working with an English lord. If not, I would have found some other alternative. But I admit, I should rather have you on our team.”

  “Then the matter is settled.” She pulled the twine tighter. “When does this gentleman arrive?”

  “Any day now.”

  “Has he any aptitude for sport? Or is he some preening peacock, with need to resort to padding in his stockings?” She gave a grimace. “Perhaps he is someone whose most pressing concern is the cut of his coat or the color of his waistcoat. If so, then our task may prove hopeless, despite our best efforts.”

  “Bowmont’s note states he is not some mincing dandy, but rather a tall, handsome figure of a man, who rides, shoots, and boxes with the best. And apparently he wields a fierce bat in cricket and a skillful racket on the tennis court, so things do not look entirely bleak.”

  Handsome as sin, a man of leisure, and given the reason for his journey to St. Andrews, a reckless gamester. Derrien hated him already.

  However, she gave a curt nod of her head. “Good. Then between us, we should be able to whip him into adequate shape.” Her eyes strayed to the battered clock that rested atop one of the long workbenches. “I had best get home before Aunt Claire thinks I’ve been swallowed by a sand trap.” She reached for her cap and began to tuck her unruly curls back under its cover. “Don’t worry, Hugh,” she added with a grim smile on catching sight of his furrowed brow. “You’ve done the right thing. We’ll manage to pull this off.”

  As Philp watched her stride toward the door, the gently rounded outline of her slim hips mercifully hidden by the baggy pair of breeches, he wished he could feel quite as sanguine.

  The rain was falling harder, but Derrien was almost grateful for the chill drops, in such marked contrast to the heat of the emotions still flaming inside her. Of course, there had never really been any question as to whether she would help her dear friend. Hugh Philp, her uncle Alistair’s good friend and mentor on the links, had become nearly as much a father to the young orphaned girl as the professor, encouraging her natural physical talent for the game of golf as well as the agility of her inquisitive mind, no matter that most of Society thought both traits unacceptable for a female. When it became clear that her interest—and skill—in swinging a club had far exceeded the confines of the family garden, it was Philp who had come up with the idea of disguising her as a lad so she would have a chance to play the real course at St. Andrews.

  She couldn’t help but smile on recalling how she had quickly discovered the trick very useful in other ways, as it allowed her to hang around the University without attracting undue notice, and to sneak into the odd lecture once in a while. Even when such irregular behavior had come to light, Philp had been just as willing as her uncle to discuss the sorts of things that interested her, whether it be the latest advances in botany, the aesthetics of garden design, or even so radical a topic as the ideas of Mr. Franklin, the statesman from America who possessed a Doctor of Law degree from St. Andrews. He had never once scoffed at her opinions during the long conversations that accompanied their play on the course or the meticulous shaping and sanding that took place at his workbench. Instead he had treated the young girl as though her thoughts were as of equal merit as his own.

  Derrien’s smile deepened into something more complex than amusement. Perhaps it was because he sensed a kindred soul in her, no matter the rather obvious differences between them. Philp had a passion for what he did. His work transcended mere craftsmanship. The perfection of his clubs, their exquisite balance and graceful curves, had serious golfers speaking about him in the same tones of hushed reverence that art connoisseurs reserved for the Old Masters. Bowmont preferred to liken his friend’s creations to the work of another maker of performance instruments, a gentleman by the name of Stradivarius, saying both men were true artists. Philp scoffed at such lofty sentiment, saying he was just a man who paid attention to detail, but Derrien knew the Marquess’s words were true. Philp saw things in ways other men didn’t. One of his workers might lay aside a club as finished, only to find, hours later, the master engrossed in carving and sanding until the minute flaw that was apparent to only his eye was fixed.

  Philp must have recognized the same dedication in her, not only to a game such as golf, but to the other passion that had blossomed up in her life. She must have been not more than twelve when her uncle had brought home the picture book on gardens. From that moment on, she had been captivated, reading everything she could get her hands on regarding the theory and practice of landscape design. Walls had been scaled in the dead of night to view some rare specimen planting and agricultural tomes had been ploughed through to learn the basics of growing techniques. Her aunt and uncle had been more supportive than most guardians of a young female’s interest in something other than knitting or embroidery, with only the occasional gentle reminder that there could be no future for her in such things.

  But it had been Philp who had truly understood what it was to have a passion take root, how no amount of effort could weed it out of one’s breast. During the countless hours she had watched him hunched at work, putting the finishing touches on his own masterpieces, they had talked of her dreams, of the marvelous gardens she could create only in her mind. He had always encouraged her to cultivate such dreams, saying that with a little luck nothing was impossible. For that she would always be grateful, and so she would never turn her back on him, no matter how onerous the challenge.

  But why did it have to involve an Englishman, and a titled one at that?

  She gave an inward curse, one even more fiery than the words uttered aloud earlier. Her boots rang a peal over the slick cobblestones as she passed the Tron in Market Square and turned down the narrow lane leading to her aunt’s home. Well, there was nothing she could do about it, she reminded herself on catching the reflection of her scowling face in a rain-streaked shop window. It was silly to succumb to pointless anger, and indeed, she had a feeling she had better start practicing a measure of self-control. No doubt she was going to need every ounce of it during the coming weeks.

  There was one other thing of which she had no doubt. Her aunt might smile wistfully and say she possessed the same delicate beauty and unquenchable spirit as her mother, but she would never make the same naive mistake. Miss Derrien Edwards was not going to be seduced by a titled Englishman, no matter what sort of charm or prowess he was said to possess.

  Especially if he couldn’t play a decent game of golf.

  Marquand stared glumly at yet another field filled with sheep. A driving rain had turned the road from Ed
inburgh into a veritable quagmire, so that the progress of the coach had been painfully slow. The landscape had seemed one interminable pasture with only mossy dry-walls or the occasional stand of forest to break the monotony of hay, thistle, and sodden wool on the hoof. He vowed if he had to endure one more greasy meal of stewed mutton he would fall on his hands and knees and begin baahing like a lost lamb.

  Which is exactly what he felt like at the moment— alone and helpless. And unlikely to survive the coming few weeks.

  He had come to the conclusion that his situation was even bleaker than the weather. Not only did he face having to master an entirely new discipline in a woefully inadequate amount of time, but the skills he already possessed would be sorely tested as well. Of all the devilishly bad luck, the commission he had been fervently hoping to attain for the past six months had come through just days before his forced departure from Town. The deadline for its completion was tight, so somehow he would have to manage to come up with a suitable inspiration while here in Scotland.

  It would be no easy task under the best of conditions, he reminded himself morosely. As if to echo his mood, a pelting rain rattled against the carriage window, sounding for all the world like a hail of bullets. Marquand winced. The notion of standing before a firing squad seemed uncomfortably real.

  He forced his attention back to the pile of papers on his knees. At least he had found plenty of time to study the sheaf of plans he had brought along, as well as begin some preliminary sketches. Still, the enormity of the task was daunting, even if he could devote his full efforts to it.

  “Did you know there is a yew said to be nearly three hundred years old in one of the private gardens in St. Andrews?”

  Ellington’s voice jerked the Viscount from his pessimistic thoughts. “No doubt it will be the real highpoint of our visit to the city,” he replied, hoping his voice did not sound quite so waspish to the other man’s ear as it did to his own.

  His friend merely arched one brow in mild surprise and went back to reading the book m his lap. It was some miles before he looked up again. The clouds had finally broken up, allowing a shaft of pale afternoon light to pick out the ripples and eddies on a body of fast-moving water that paralleled the muddy road. “Ahh, at last,” remarked Ellington with some satisfaction. “Look, Adrian, we are about to cross the River Eden. That means we are not far from our destination.”

  Marquand bit back a sarcastic retort. It felt more like he was about to pass over the River Styx into Hades rather than enter any sort of Paradise. However, as Tony had chosen to accompany him north for no other reason than a bond of friendship that stretched back to the time they were both in leading strings, he decided it would be most churlish of him to continue venting his ill-humor. His friend had endured the rigors of the journey with his usual unflagging good spirits. He owed it to such a stalwart companion to try to appear less crotchety than he felt.

  “How very encouraging,” he replied, trying hard to keep a note of asperity out of his voice. “Now if only the Good Lord will grant us a minor miracle after such an epic journey and allow the heavens to remain unclouded for more than a passing moment. Perhaps then it might be possible to begin swinging a cursed spoon or mashie, or whatever the devil you call the clubs. That is, if I can manage to straighten my spine after this interminable confinement.”

  Ellington grinned. “Oh, come now, stop talking as if you wear corsets and walk with the aid of a stick. And besides, any odd cricks or spasms are no doubt due to the fact that you have spent most of the hours hunched over your books or your sketchpads. A hot bath along with a night’s rest on sheets that are moderately clean and free of crawling bedfellows will put you right as rain.”

  “I should prefer you don’t mention that particular word,” he muttered, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. It was hard to remain blue-deviled in light of his friend’s banter.

  He allowed himself to be further coaxed out of his sullens by a running commentary on the sights leading into town. “Look,” cried Ellington, craning his neck to peer out of the rain-streaked glass. “You can just make out St. Rule’s Tower if you bend your head just so. It was partially destroyed during the Reformation of 1559—” “Then I imagine it will survive another quarter of an hour, until I may alight from these cramped quarters and take a proper peek,” he said dryly.

  A chuckle sounded from his friend. “Since I have been forced by the lack of congenial conversation to immerse myself in a history—a rather thick history, I may add— of the town, you might at least indulge me for a bit and listen to my prattle about the famous landmarks and such.”

  “Very well. What else should I know?”

  Ellington thought for a moment. “Since this is your first visit across the border, you should be aware that the Scots are a wee bit different from those of us used to the ways of London. They can be quite reserved—some may even go so far as to consider them dour. And they have little tolerance for frivolous behavior—”

  “Then it sounds as if I shall have no trouble fitting in,” broke in Marquand.

  His friend fell tactfully silent.

  The coach bounced around a bend in the road. “What do you suppose they are hunting?” asked the Viscount, indicating two men on hands and knees in the middle of a broad swath of cropped grass. From a distance, they appeared to be poking about in a thick patch of willow herb and whin with several long, thin sticks. “Surely with the amount of racket they are making, any rabbit will have long since gone to ground.”

  There was a hoot of laughter. “They are hunting a golf ball. That, my dear Adrian, is the hallowed links of St. Andrews.”

  “Hmmph.” Marquand crossed his arms. “Not much to look at. Why, there’s hardly a tree in sight. What’s all this nonsense about hazards and strategy? Looks to me like there’s precious little to prevent you from simply standing up and giving the ball a sound whack straight ahead and straight back.”

  “Indeed?” murmured Ellington with a wicked grin. “I shall remind you of those words in a week’s time.” “Hmmph.”

  A short while later they rolled through the West Port arch and down South Street, past several intersections before turning right onto a snug street lined with linden trees. On both sides were a row of pleasant town houses, their weathered granite facades still wet from a passing shower. Modest in scale, the residences looked to have a solid, if not spectacular, comfort. Ellington consulted a piece of paper he had drawn from his coat pocket, then glanced again out the window.

  “There it is up ahead, Number Eighteen.” He pointed to one with a large brass knocker in the shape of a thistle that distinguished it from its neighbors. “The housekeeper comes highly recommended and has already hired a staff suitable for our needs. Bowmont has also written to several of his acquaintances in town of our arrival so that we may expect to dine out several nights a week.” “Hmmph.” Marquand knew he should muster more enthusiasm than that. Tony had gone to a great deal of effort to secure decent lodgings and staff for their extended stay while he had been occupied with arranging his affairs for such a long absence. But the fact of the matter was, he was feeling even less sanguine about the prospects of this whole endeavor now that they had arrived. The task which had seemed daunting enough in London now appeared, in light of countless hours of rumination on the way north, to be a fool’s errand.

  “Of course, August is hardly the height of the Season, and such entertainment as it is, especially here in Scotland, will hardly match the sort to which we are accustomed to in London. But Bowmont has assured me that he means to see us introduced to local Society . . .” His friend kept up a stream of pithy comments, but Marquand could not help but find his thoughts straying back to his own bleak reflections.

  Fool, indeed! His lips compressed in a tight line. Nobody but a fool would imagine he could master a complicated sport in a few short weeks, much less best an opponent who had been playing the game for years. No, to have any hope of success, he would have to be extraordinarily l
ucky, and the thought of such dependence on serendipitous chance, rather than his own hard work, galled him no end. He had spent most of his lifetime as an unwilling thrall to the Lady of Fortune, witnessing how fickle her attentions could be. His father might have chosen to make her his mistress, but he had always sworn he would never be seduced by such promiscuous charms.

  The coach creaked to a stop, and Marquand realized he hadn’t heard a word of what Ellington had been chattering about for the last few minutes. Quelling the urge to order the coachman to turn right around toward London without so much as setting a foot on the slippery cobblestones, he sighed and made to follow his friend in climbing down to the street.

  “Come now, Adrian, you are not usually one to shy away from a challenge. Stop looking so mutton-faced!"

  The problem was, he felt just like a sheep being led to slaughter.

  Chapter Four

  Philp sucked in a mouthful of pungent smoke and ran a hand along the edge of his jaw. He sat for what seemed like an age, staring at the figure standing in front of him before finally speaking. “Turn around.” Marquand’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation but he did as he was told.

  “Hmmm. Now face me again, if you please.” When the Viscount had complied, he went on. “Bend forward slightly from the waist, sir, and let your arms hang straight down.”

  “What the deuce am I, an ape on display at the Tower Menagerie?” growled Marquand under his breath. He fell silent on catching a warning look from Ellington but his expression didn’t hide what he thought of the proceeding so far. His misgivings were only exacerbated when Philp came over and gave his wrists a shake. “Looser, sir. You must relax.” When he had complied, the older man wrapped the Viscount’s unresisting hands around a tapered stick.

  “I thought you were going to teach me about golf,” he said with some impatience. “In case Bowmont did not make it clear, I have precious little time in which to gain any proficiency in the sport, so I would prefer not to waste even a morning of it.”