A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  “Hardly, sir. I should hope I would never give his lordship reason to quarrel with me,” she responded primly. “He writes that it has something to do with a ... a family matter.”

  A sigh of relief escaped the Baron’s lips as he fell to slicing off a goodly chunk of the broiled kidney on his breakfast plate. “Good gel, I know we may depend on you to act with the utmost of sense, especially now that you have managed to bring the fellow up to scratch.” “Yes. Of course you may,” she murmured.

  Her father smiled through his chewing. “To think that you will soon be a Countess, my dear. And future mistress of one of the oldest estates in England.” His expression then darkened considerably. “That is, if the old reprobate Earl doesn’t manage to make a muck of things by tossing what little he has left of his fortune onto the gaming tables. Especially Woolsey Hall. The devil take him if he ever—”

  “Fitzwilliam! Please reserve such vulgar language for your clubs,” chided Lady Hylton, a moue of distaste on her thin lips.

  “Er, sorry.” He took a large swallow of tea and turned his attention back to his daughter. “But there is always the possibility that the old rakehell might squander away what is left of his fortune. In fact, I was almost of a mind to have you look to one of your other admirers for a proposal, given Marquand’s recent family history.” “Don’t be silly, Fitzwilliam, you know quite well that the Linsley Earldom is one of the oldest and most respected titles in the land. It cannot be gambled away,” spoke up his wife in a tight voice. She shot another quick glance at her daughter and seemed to be somewhat reassured by the absence of any visible emotion. “No matter that the behavior of the Viscount’s father is beyond all that is shocking, Honoria did very well by attaching him. From all that we have seen and heard, he is a true gentleman and cares a great deal for his heritage, as well he should. I cannot think he would ever allow Woolsey Hall to slip through his fingers.”

  Honoria broke a crust from the untouched toast on her plate. “As to that, perhaps you had better read Lord Marquand’s note, Father.”

  The fork hung poised in midair.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Lady Hylton rang for the butler and ordered the silver letter tray to be brought in without delay. The baron broke the wax wafer and scanned the short note. “Hmmph!”

  His wife grew a shade paler.

  “Just as I feared. Something havey-cavey is going on.” His eyes came up from the thick cream parchment. “It seems Marquand is required to leave for Scotland this very morning in order to engage in some . . . sporting endeavor to save Woolsey Hall.” After another moment of careful perusal, he laid the note aside and jabbed at the scrap of Yorkshire ham still left on his plate. “Well, I suppose we must consider it our duty to lend him a measure of support,” he announced, spearing the morsel on the point of his knife. “I was already engaged to visit Jolliffe’s estate near Kelso at the start of shooting season. It isn’t that far out of the way to make a short visit to St. Andrews first. Might as well keep an eye on what is going on.”

  “All of us?” demanded his wife.

  “Don’t see why not.” He pushed back from the table and signaled for the footman to remove all but his teacup, which he waved like a white flag before his daughter’s nose “But if he should fail, I’ve a good mind to tell him he’s forfeited his chance and that you are going to cry off from the engagement. No matter how old and respected his title is, it ain’t nearly as valuable without a grand country estate attached to it, eh, missy? And with your looks, my dear, you can always look higher than an impoverished Earldom. Why, I could tell the Marquess of Pierson would be interested if given a little encouragement.”

  “But, Father—” She caught herself and fell silent. “He’d be a fine catch, even if he is a tad older than you are.”

  “If that is what you want, then I shall of course abide by your wishes,” replied Honoria softly. Her father seemed oblivious to the subtle note of irony in her voice, but Lady Hylton cast a searching look at her daughter and fell to twisting at the rings on her fingers.

  “Well,” he continued after slurping off the last bit of his tea. “I suppose it won’t hurt to wait and see how Marquand fares before we make any final decisions. Time enough to cast him aside for a better prospect if things don’t work out to our advantage.”

  Honoria ducked her head to hide her expression. Calmly folding her napkin into a neat square, she set it beside her plate and rose. “Shall I begin packing?”

  Chapter Three

  Ohhh, that’s a bonny hit, if I say so mesself, Derry.” The gray-haired man shaded his weathered face with a calloused hand and watched the small sphere sail in a graceful arc over the patch of gorse. It landed not a yard away from a small flag fluttering in the gusting sea breeze. “You’re getting to be a dab hand at knocking the ball up and over a tricky hazard like The Principal’s Nose,” he said with a nod of gruff approval. “And you’ve judged the wind exactly right.”

  The slight figure by his side tucked the hickory-shafted baffing spoon in the crook of one arm. “Well, I’ve had a decent-enough teacher.” An impish grin stole forth. “Once I knock it in, that will give me a”—there was a slight pause for a bit of mental arithmetic—“a six.” The announcement was made with a note of triumph to its tone, followed by an even wider smile. “And as you can’t do better than a seven, even if you put your ball in the hole on the fly, I’ve won yet another hole on this second nine. Before long, Hugh, I shall be beating you at your own game, see if I won’t!”

  The two of them began walking along the wide expanse of close-cropped green that paralleled the road leading in from Leuchars. “Auch, is that so?” replied Hugh Philp with a mock jeer. “You may be ready to take a shilling from Jamie or old Da, but rest assured, you will be sprouting a long beard ere you’ll be taking a coin from my pocket, my wee friend.”

  The remark elicited a peal of laughter from the older man’s companion. Fingers slender yet strong came up to run over a cheek smooth as churned cream, the lightly tanned complexion unmarred by any hint of an incipient stubble. “Well, that day still appears far off, so I guess I had best not start to count my farthings.” Their boots clattered over the stones of the small bridge crossing Swilkan Burn. “Still, I am at least making you work just a little to beat me, am I not?”

  “Indeed you are, Derry.” On regarding the eager expression of the upturned face, he felt his throat constrict and turned away to watch a solitary gull flap its way out over the foaming waves. “I daresay you’ve become the best of all of them that hang around the shop, for you are willing to listen, and to work hard at it. You may not be as strong as Jamie or Tom, or as talented as Angus or Gordie but you make up for it with pluck and imagination. And to my mind, that’s the true mark of a good golfer.” He stopped for a moment to withdraw a pipe and flint from his pocket. “Aye, I daresay you’re on your way to becoming a real player.”

  His companion’s head dipped in awkward embarrassment at the uncharacteristic direct praise. “Thank you, Hugh,” came the low reply as Derry removed the flagstick from the diminutive hole in the ground and set up to tap the feathery ball into its circular depth. “But I’ve still much to learn.” The freckled nose wrinkled in some consternation. “If only ...” The faint words trailed off to the soft twock of wood on leather.

  Philp squinted up at the slate gray clouds scudding in from the Bay. “Best we hurry if we mean to finish the last hole without a soaking, for there promises to be a spot of rain afore long.” He cleared his throat and reached down to retrieve the stitched ball from its shadowed resting place. “Seeing as you are feeling on top of your game, do you care to make the finish interesting, say with a small wager on the outcome on eighteen?”

  A keen twinkle came to Derry’s eyes. “Just what do you have in mind, Hugh?”

  “Oh, as to that, if you win, you may choose a new club from the shop.” There was a momentary hesitation as he fingered the sheepskin grip of his long spoon. “And if I win, you will .
.. do me a small favor.”

  All of the mischievous humor disappeared from his companion’s features, replaced by a look of great seriousness. “You know very well you don’t have to win any favors from me, sir. You have only to ask and I should be more than delighted to do anything of your bidding.” “Not this, you won’t,” murmured Philp under his breath. In a louder voice, he replied, “Nay, I should prefer to do it this way, fair and square.” It was quite clear from his manner that he was uncomfortable having to ask anyone for aid, especially the person by his side.

  “Very well. Then of course I accept.” An edge had crept into Derry’s voice, betraying a trace of bruised feelings at being denied the chance to help outright.

  A wisp of a smile flitted over the leathery face, and he threw his arm around the smaller set of shoulders. “Don’t be falling into a fit of girlish vapors—it doesn’t suit you in the least, my friend. Besides, I wouldn’t have thought you intended to lose.”

  That drew a reluctant twitch of the lips from his companion. “I don’t. However, as you have seen fit to name your own prize, I should like the right to do the same.” The older man opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped short on seeing the stubborn jut of his young friend’s jaw. It was a look he recognized all too well, just as he recognized the futility of arguing the particular point. “I suppose I can guess what it is,” he grumbled in grudging resignation. At the confirming nod, his breath came out in a sigh, “Well then, it looks as if the match is dormied before it starts.”

  Derry’s head cocked in mute question at the strange word.

  “It’s one of our more obscure golf expressions,” explained Philp. “It means, in a broad stroke, that I cannot lose. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Believe me, you would have vastly preferred that new heavy iron that just arrived from Bobby Kirkaldy’s forge as your prize.” “Then I shall just have to win it some other time.”

  A drop of rain splashed on the tip of the older man’s beaked nose. With one more glance at the ominous skies, he shrugged in exasperation and decided there was little point in avoiding the other inevitable black cloud that was going to descend over his head. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bad-enough humor without these old bones getting chilled to the marrow. Why don’t we forego the eighteenth and return to the shop?”

  “Aye, and you can tell me what it is you wish me to do on the way.”

  It was well enough that the large workroom was deserted, for the oath that rent the air redolent with wood shavings and linseed oil as the two of them entered the side door was best left unremarked by any bystander.

  “I should cuff both your ears for such language,” muttered Philp, his fierce scowl directed as much at himself as at the figure who was glowering back with an equally disgruntled expression. He had known it was going to be difficult to explain things without causing a storm, but he hadn’t anticipated quite such a clap of thunder. “Lud, your aunt is leery enough of what you are doing here, without her thinking I’m turning you into a veritable savage.”

  The thick tweed cap was yanked off with some impatience and Miss Derrien Edwards shook out a mass of damp curls. “I’m not such a gudgeon as to forget myself in front of her or any of proper Society, but if Willie and Fergus can say such things when they are angry, why can’t I?”

  “You know exactly why, lassie.”

  She made an unladylike sound but then fell silent, her fingers fiddling angrily with a length of tarred twine. After a few minutes she looked up again, her hazel eyes flashing with fresh indignation. “Why must you feel obliged to teach some visiting lord to play golf because of some stupid wager? And an English lord at that?” “Because Bowmont asks me to.”

  She gave what sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Since when have you become so ... so spineless as to be ruled by the whim of a fancy toff, no matter that he is a Marquess and his father a Duke—”

  Philp’s response was no less emphatic for its quietly measured tone. “I do it not because he is titled, but because he is my friend,” he interrupted, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to his full height. “On the golf course, I’ve always held that a man earns respect not for his birth or position but for his character and skill. Bowmont has both. I am honored that he should seek my help.”

  A rush of color flooded Derrien’s face and she ducked her head in shame. “I had no right to say such a horrible thing. Forgive me, Hugh. I fear I let myself become overset for a moment.”

  “I know, lassie.” His tone softened considerably. “I wouldn’t have even considered asking you to be involved, if there was aught else I could think of.”

  As he spoke, his gnarled fingers raked through his graying hair, as though some other answer might be hidden amid the wiry strands that sprung up from his wide forehead. He knew enough of her family tree to understand the roots of her aversion to any Englishman, especially one that sported a title. Her mother had been perhaps a year younger than Derrien’s age, and just as full of dreams that soared far above the stone and mortared walls of her own little shire, when the dashing young officer had seduced her with lofty promises of a life rich with all manner of new experiences. Unfortunately for the impressionable auburn-haired beauty, his words were as bankrupt as his morals and purse, once the current quarterly allowance from his family had been squandered in gaming and the pursuit of the fairer sex. When the gentleman’s father discovered the extent of his son’s profligate habits in the north and demanded an immediate return to Town, where a closer eye could be kept on such excesses, the heir was quick to slink back to London, leaving her with only a brief note and swelling womb as the sole concrete tokens of his pledges of undying affection.

  There was little sympathy from her strict Presbyterian mother, even less from a straitlaced father who declared with solemn finality that his youngest daughter had, quite simply, ceased to exist as far as he was concerned. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of her oldest sister, married and living some distance away in the university town of St. Andrews, Derrien’s mother might have been cast out to a life on the streets. Instead she was offered a refuge where she might have a chance to put such a calamitous mistake behind her and begin life anew.

  The new mother and child were welcomed into a home of rather more progressive ideas than existed in most Scottish households. Anyone who asked about her history was simply told that the young lady had lost her husband. Her brother-in-law, a professor of semantics at Union College, had regarded that as true enough. The extended family was a close-knit one, with little Derrien becoming as doted upon by her childless relatives as by her natural mother. When a bout of influenza carried away her own parent two years later, there was no question as to who would care for the young child.

  As Philp watched the gamut of emotions that washed over Derrien’s expressive features, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had done the right thing in broaching the matter. Though he owed a good measure of loyalty to a generous friend and patron such as Bowmont, his deep feelings for the young lady far overbalanced any sense of debt to the Marquess.

  “Nay, it’s I who should apologize. I can see that I was wrong to bring it up,” he continued after some time. “The trouble is, I can fit the fellow with a decent set of clubs and show him a thing or two about the basic swing, but for what he needs to learn in the space of a few weeks, he must be out on the course every day with someone to offer both advice and instruction. I have lately received a number of important commissions and cannot spare the time without doing irreparable harm to my business, something I simply can’t afford, no matter how much I value Bowmont’s friendship.” He drew in a long breath. “Willie might have been able to do a credible job, but he’s broken his leg, helping his father gather mussels in Eden Estuary. Fergus has the right sort of knowledge, but he’s prone to tossing back more than his share of our local whiskey. Why, he would as likely show up in a tavern in Dundee as on the first hole. Mayhap Tommy—”

  Derrien bit her lip. “I’ll do it, Hugh.”r />
  Philp answered with a heavy sigh. “No, no, there must be someone else, but strike me down with a long spoon if I can think of who.” He began to fiddle with his silver-rimmed spectacles. “It must be a fellow who knows the course and all its nuances as well as the basics of technique. Even more importantly, it must be someone with a good head on his shoulders, for this English lord is going to need a clever caddie if he is to have any hope of besting an opponent of greater skill and experience.” There was a short pause, then his face brightened considerably. “Ahh! What about Charlie Kidd?”

  She gave a shake of her head. “That won’t fadge at all. Though Charlie takes great pains to appear a fine fellow, I’ve seen enough of him to know his loyalty can be bought by the highest bidder. When he caddies for Mr. Heatherington, he will use his boot to improve the ball’s lie if passed an extra penny.” Her lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. “I wouldn’t trust him farther than I can kick a featherie on the strand.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I suppose that rules him out . .

  “I said I’ll do it, Hugh.”

  Philp held up his hand and cleared his throat. “Er, now that I think of it, there’s one other thing I hadn’t properly considered. There’s too great a risk that our little secret may be discovered.”

  Derrien dismissed the matter with a derisive snort. “Oh, come now. None of the locals has the foggiest notion that I’m not a lad, and they see me all the time. No English lord is going to suss it out in the course of a few weeks. No doubt he’s so puffed up with a sense of his own consequence he’ll waste no time looking at the likes of me. Besides, I take great care to wear a floppy hat and have enough smudges obscuring my face that I’m known as “Dirty Derry.”

  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—”