by Jo Beverley
It was very tempting to seek to uncover it.
The next day, as he hacked into Melton, lost in thought, he came up with another rider on a fine, though fidgety beast.
“Good day to you, Christian. A handful?”
“You could say that, sir,” the young man said, laughing, ably discouraging his horse from nipping at Verderan’s mount. “But we’re coming to terms.”
“Busy this year?”
“Busier than ever. Seems everyone wants me to ride. Give up, Fly-By-Night!” he said to his mount as the horse tried to circle. With voice and viselike legs he held the horse steady. “You’d think he’d be ripe for a rest,” he commented wryly. “We’ve just done a five-mile run. He’ll be a fine one for a long day once he realizes who’s master.”
“Whose is he?”
“Just a coper’s, sir. I’m riding a prime piece of blood later in the season for Lord Stourbridge, though. Might be to your taste.”
“I’m not looking for more horses at the moment.”
“Pity. The Grantwich lot’s coming up too. The old man’s bedridden and the son’s dead in the war they say. Sorry business, but there’s a couple of fine horses there. Sir Henry had an eye for them. Had word asking if I’d ride for them. I’d like to oblige, being such a sad case, but I’m booked for most of the season.”
“Word from Sir Henry?” asked Verderan, alert.
“No, from the daughter. She runs things these days.”
It was a crazy impulse, but he didn’t fight it. “Do you have a couple of customers you don’t mind offending, Christian?”
The young man looked at him shrewdly. “A couple maybe.”
“A bonus of twenty guineas to take on the Grantwich horses. Just between the two of us.”
The young man’s eyes widened. “Twenty! You’re on, sir, and it’s a pleasure.”
Verderan saluted. “It’s my season for mad charities. I’ll send a draft to you. At the Blue Bell?”
“Aye, sir. And if you’ve any more such charities in mind, I’m your man.”
With a laugh, Verderan rode on.
Despite her resolution to avoid Piers Verderan at all costs, the next time Emily saw him he was a sight for sore eyes.
Five days had passed since their last meeting, and Emily had done her best to put him out of her mind. She had even had some success, as she had been busy. First there had been the matter of the tranquil movement of a few hundred sheep, then the disaster threatened by deliberate damage to one of the new threshing machines, and constantly the problem of getting the best price for the hunters.
Dick Christian had come out to see her and the horses. He was a handsome, sturdy young man with the confidence of one who knows he is the best at his trade, but with no flashy airs. Nor did it seem to bother him to deal with a woman. He had agreed to ride the horses for his standard fee for “casuals”—a guinea a ride. It seemed a small enough price to pay when a horse ridden by him was certain to show its finest paces. Being naturally cautious, however, Emily had fixed for him to ride Wallingford first in case his reputation was inflated.
To balance that positive step had been the news yesterday that the fence at High Burton was weaker than it looked and the newly installed sheep were beginning to wander. The shepherd had assured her that he and his dog could control the matter for a few days but repairs were clearly needed. Emily had not yet had time to look into that.
She was crossing the long drive on foot, taking a shortcut from the home farm to the orchards to discuss pruning, when she was almost run down by a recklessly driven travelling coach which had just swung in the gates. Alarm turned to fury when the coach hauled to a halt and her cousin and a dandified crony tumbled out.
Though never a prepossessing creature, Felix was at least dressed in standard wear of dark jacket, buff breeches, and boots. His companion was a more startling sight. He was a remarkably slender young man, dressed ludicrously for the country in yellow pantaloons and cream jacket over a cream and gold waistcoat. A tall, ornate cravat of bright green held his chin up high, and his hair was a clear butter yellow. He reminded Emily of nothing so much as a daffodil, but that was to insult the lovely flower.
The coachman climbed down from the seat. He wore a dusty, many-caped greatcoat, a slouch hat, and a Belcher. Despite his slovenly dress, the way he sauntered over to join the other two showed he was obviously a member of the party, not a servant.
When he smiled, Emily saw he had his front teeth filed to points in imitation of the professional coachmen, the better to fire globules of tobacco juice at innocent people. She knew the type; trust Felix to take up with such a rough customer. What a ludicrous trio they made.
She turned to her cousin. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Though not particularly fat, Felix Grantwich was soft and had a smooth, round face which could almost have been pretty were it not for the pouches under his eyes. He had full pink lips, and in response to her greeting he formed them into what she suspected was supposed to be a sneer. It looked like a pout.
“Why, Cousin dear. I have come to inspect my expectations.” He swept his arm around to encompass the open parkland, the stands of trees, the distant house, and all the rest of the Grantwich estate.
The movement unbalanced him and he giggled slightly. Emily realized with alarm that they were all the worse for drink. “I have been in anticipation,” Felix enunciated carefully, “of an invitation, but I’m sure everything must be at sixes and sevens with no man to take care of things.”
“I am quite willing to show you round, Felix,” Emily said, striving for a calm, authoritative voice, “but today is not convenient. And, of course, my father and I have every expectation of good news of Marcus.”
Felix put on a lugubrious expression. “My dear little Emily, I fear you delude yourself. Why, I checked at the Horse Guards before leaving London. They hold out no hope, no hope at all.”
Emily’s chest ached and she tightened her lips against a quiver. “That is not what they have told us,” she said firmly.
“Well, an invalid and a woman. They doubtless wanted to spare you further distress ...”
“How about sparing me distress, old boy?” slurred out the coachman. He swaggered forward. “I need a drink. And a wench.” He spat close to Emily’s feet and his bloodshot eyes roamed over her.
She glared at Felix with such outrage that he stirred himself to object. “Now, now, Jake,” he muttered nervously. “Don’t ogle my cousin. I’m sure there’s any number of maids who’d be honored—”
“Not in this house,” snapped Emily. “Felix, get out of here and take your revolting friends—”
Emily stopped because Jake had moved forward to loom over her. He was over six feet and of heavy build. An aura of violence, stale sweat, and brandy stole her voice. “You better watch your mouth,” he said flatly. “I don’t hold with uppity women.”
Though an attack of the vapors was immensely attractive, Emily would not let herself back down. It was inconceivable that she be attacked here on her own driveway. “I don’t care what you hold with, sir!” she declared, forcing herself to meet his horrible eyes. “This is my father’s property and here you behave as he says—”
Jake hooked a sausagelike finger in the neckline of her dress and pulled her to him. “Felix!” Emily screamed as she tried to stop her dress being pulled so far away as to reveal her breasts. “Do something!”
“Jake,” protested Felix in rather a high voice. “Do give over. You don’t want Emily, for heaven’s sake. She’s an old maid.”
Jake leered down Emily’s bodice, then let go only to pull her into a bear hug. “Looks to have all the right bits,” he said.
Struggle as she might, it was like being in a vise. As she screamed into his smelly jacket and writhed to no avail, the big man said calmly, “You don’t know women, Felix, my lad. When they face up to a man like this and spit and snarl, they’re just playing come-on. Your little cousin fancies me—don’t you,
sweetheart?”
Emily kicked and told him just what she thought of him, but even her sensible half-boots made no impression on his top boots and her words were swallowed by the rough wool of his coat. Her heart was pounding, and she was beginning to turn dizzy. This couldn’t possibly be happening!
Even in her terror she fixed the blame for this solidly where it belonged—on her cousin Felix. She loathed him as never before in her life. Visions of bloodthirsty retaliation flashed before her eyes . . .
“Let her go.”
The world suddenly went still. Emily found herself released, and she staggered out of reach, gasping for air.
She looked up at her erstwhile captor, but his attention was no longer on her but on the owner of that quiet voice. Jake appeared abruptly sobered but not a scrap less dangerous.
She turned to see Piers Verderan on his dark horse, a steady pistol aimed at the man’s heart. Looking at his face she knew why the Violet Tart had quailed and slammed the window shut, and she doubted he had looked at the woman with such deadly intent. When she tore her eyes away she saw her cousin transfixed like a trapped rabbit.
“Uh . . . I’m sure ...” gabbled Felix. The pistol moved to cover him and he fell silent.
Jake moved forward. “Come on, boyos! It’s only one man laying claim to our sport. Have at him!”
“No!” shrieked Felix, grabbing his arm. “It’s Verderan! The Dark Angel!”
He looked sick with terror, and Emily saw some of the same fear invade Jake, though he was less willing to give it rein.
“So?” he said, and stood wide-legged and arms akimbo to face up to the man on the horse.
“I would kill you here,” said Verderan in a conversational voice, “but I hesitate to make such a mess on Miss Grantwich’s driveway. You will hear from me later.”
The man licked his lips but continued with his bravado. “Will I? Well, if she’s your fancy dish, you’re welcome and I won’t meet you over her, boyo. I don’t fight over my pudding.”
The crack of the pistol made Emily jump. Jake let out a guttural scream and fell down in the dust, but he was yelling and cursing too much to be seriously injured. She saw he was clenching the top of his thigh where blood was welling.
Verderan holstered the pistol and slid smoothly off his horse to stand by Emily. “That won’t stop you meeting me,” he said to Jake in a drawl, “but if you don’t watch your manners I’ll fire higher next time and your pudding-eating days will definitely be over.”
He no longer had a weapon, but Jake and Felix were overtaken by an urgent need to depart. Felix pushed the cursing Jake into the coach and the Daffodil Dandy moved with a sigh to climb onto the seat and unwrap the ribbons. Emily realized he had stood back throughout as if the whole business had nothing to do with him.
“Pockets to let, Renfrew?” asked Verderan.
The man gave a slight smile. “As usual.”
“Wits gone begging as well, to let Miss Grantwich be so insulted?”
The man smiled sweetly. “My dear Ver, I saw you coming. You’re so much better at this sort of thing than I am. You know I can’t be unpleasant.”
Emily realized she was shaking and Mr. Verderan had put an arm around her, an arm that was too comforting to be rejected just yet. Her mind was trying to come to terms with the fact that he was talking about duels. And he killed men in duels . . .
“I should call you out too,” he said sharply to the dandy, “and teach you the virtues of unpleasantness.” But then he added, “I have a place here. Hume House. If you wish, you may move in.”
The dandy gave a small salute. “I’ll just take my erstwhile host home then. Least I can do.”
With that he drove the coach skillfully around in a circle and off back towards the road.
For some reason Emily thought of giraffes. The world had turned mad, and it wouldn’t surprise her to see giraffes and zebras and lions loping across the meadow . . . all wearing daffodils . . . Emily realized she was still standing in Piers Verderan’s arm and pulled away.
“You’ve invited that—that daffodil to live with you,” she accused.
He kept a supporting hand on her arm. “Daffodil? Are you all right, Miss Grantwich?”
“The Daffodil Dandy,” she explained. “What peculiar people you know, to be sure. Daffodil Dandies, Violet Tarts. And of course, you are a flea-bitten giraffe.”
He raised a brow. “Someday you must explain this conversation to me, Miss Grantwich, but for now, my offer to carry you over the threshold still stands.”
“I am quite able to manage,” Emily lied, for her legs felt like blancmange and her head seemed detached from her body. She looked at the security of her home and it was a discouraging distance away.
She turned her mind instead to a closer problem, her rescuer. She remembered Hector talking of his violent nature, and now she had the evidence of her own eyes. The worst thing was that he appeared perfectly calm and unruffled. “You—you shot that man,” she said.
“Creased him. Unless he takes an infection from his revoltingly dirty garments he’ll come to no harm from it.”
“But you couldn’t have been sure to hit him just there!” Emily objected, startled by how shrill her voice sounded. She searched his face for remorse, or even excitement, for some sign that he had done something out of the ordinary.
“Of course I could,” he said. “I think we should get you to the house, Miss Grantwich, and force some hot sweet tea down you before you have the vapors.” He looked up at the Hall. “I’m somewhat surprised your servants haven’t appeared to assist you.”
“It’s the end of harvest and we’ve had trouble with some of the machines. All the men are out helping and some of the women too . . . If it’s not one thing it’s another ...” Emily found herself unable to think straight. He swept her up into his arms and strode towards the house, saying crisply, “Come, Beelzebub.” After a startled moment, Emily realized he was addressing his horse.
“Beelzebub?” she queried faintly. She hadn’t been carried since she was a child.
“Second in rank to Satan in Paradise Lost,” he explained. “I could hardly call him Satan when I’m the Dark Angel myself.”
Emily remembered the horror in Felix’s voice when he had said that name. She was truly in the devil’s grasp. At least, she thought prosaically, he was a very strong devil and in no danger of dropping her.
As he approached the house he shouted loudly, bringing Mrs. Dobson hurrying from the kitchen to open the door. She stood in goggle-eyed silence at the sight of her mistress in the arms of a tall, dark, handsome stranger followed by a black horse that seemed to have every intention of coming into the house.
Verderan turned, and Emily saw with a giggle that Beelzebub had his front hooves on the lower steps, following his master’s command to the letter.
“Stay, Bel,” said Verderan, and the horse retreated to stand quietly in the drive.
“I can walk,” protested Emily, beginning to recover and feeling more than a little ridiculous.
“I might as well carry you to a comfortable sofa,” he said, and looked a query at the housekeeper.
“In here, sir,” said the woman quickly and led the way to the morning room, where Verderan placed Emily carefully on the chaise. “Sweetened tea,” he ordered. “Your mistress had an accident. I’m sure she is unhurt, but a little shocked.”
It was clear to Emily that Dobby was brimming over with questions, but something in his manner sent her off obediently on her mission. Was there no one in the world willing to say boo to this man? How very strange that must be.
It brought something to mind, however. He was proposing to fight a duel over her. No, intending to kill the man called Jake.
“I do appreciate your assistance, Mr. Verderan,” said Emily, “but I must insist—”
“What excitement!” declared Junia as she hurried into the room. She was wearing full, loose purple trousers, a fitted black spencer jacket, and at least two mu
lticolored shawls. A paintbrush was pushed behind her right ear, and a streak of yellow ochre ran down her cheek like Indian war paint.
“What do you mean?” asked Emily, thinking something else must have occurred.
“Why, you and Felix in the driveway. It was as good as a play, and when you shot that rogue, young man, I positively cheered! I—er—couldn’t exactly see. You didn’t . . . ?”
“No,” said Verderan frostily. “I didn’t. It didn’t occur to you, ma’am, to come to Miss Grantwich’s assistance?”
Junia looked up at him with her open smile. “Of course it occurred to me. But I could see you riding up and by the time I had come downstairs, found Henry’s pistols, cleaned, loaded, and primed them, and got out there to do anything, it would doubtless have all been over, so I decided to watch instead. You appear to be a very competent gentleman. You are Piers Verderan, I suppose?”
He bowed slightly, and Emily could see annoyance and amusement warring in him. It was a common reaction to Junia. “I am, ma’am.”
“Oh, good,” said Junia as if she had just received confirmation of something wonderful. “Very good. And I’m Junia Grantwich, Emily’s aunt. She’s normally most punctilious about introductions and such, Mr. Verderan, I assure you. I’m sure all that was a bit of a shock for an innocent young thing.” The last three words were issued with all the subtlety of a battering ram.
Emily winced. “Junia, please sit down. There is tea coming. Mr. Verderan, however, may wish to be about his business.” She realized this sounded discourteous and hastily added, “Not that he is not welcome to stay, of course. There will surely be enough tea . . . or brandy . . . or whatever a rake drinks—” She caught herself and looked up in despair. There was distinct and warm amusement in his face.
“Tea will be delightful, Miss Grantwich,” he said smoothly. “So kind of you to offer.”