by Jo Beverley
“Yes, indeed,” said Junia severely. “It seems to me that you are insufficiently grateful to your rescuer, Emily.”
“Grateful!” burst out Emily, putting a distracted hand to her head. She was beginning to remember the things Hector had said about this man, and trying to make them mesh with the reality standing before her was making her head ache. “Of course I’m grateful,” she said, “but he shot a man, an unarmed man, just because of his taste in pudding!”
“Really,” said Junia, the collector of extraordinary facts. “I do know some people are of strong opinions. Personally I dislike sago intensely, but still . . . What pudding is it that so offends you, Mr. Verderan?”
“This whole conversation offends me,” he said with exasperation. “Perhaps we could discuss the weather,” he said, “or the war. Or,” he added, looking pointedly at Emily, “sheep on High Burton Farm.”
“Oh,” said Emily, snapped suddenly back to business. “Were you coming here after all?”
“Yes, Miss Grantwich, I was. I was hoping to discuss the matter with your father.”
Emily abandoned frailty, sat up, and swung her feet to the ground. “It has nothing to do with my father.”
“He does still own this estate, does he not?”
“Yes,” Emily said, “but these days he leaves the management to me. Especially Griswold’s sheep.”
Verderan was looking exasperated again. “Who is Griswold?”
“The man from whom I purchased the flock,” Emily explained. “From over Kettleby way. Everyone knows Griswold. He’s been breeding those sheep for decades, following the experiments Bakewell of Dishly did ...” She fell silent at the glazed look in his eyes. “Well,” she said defiantly, “every landowner ’round here knows these things. Or,” she added formidably, “should.”
Something flashed in his eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was amusement or something more dangerous. Perhaps it was fortunate that Mrs. Dobson bustled in at that point with a tray loaded with the makings of the tea, fresh scones and coconut cake.
Junia did the honors, and no one spoke as the cups and plates were passed around. Emily’s head was clearing and she eyed Piers Verderan surreptitiously. Violent nature. Yes, she had to admit that to be true. On the other hand, that violent nature had rescued her, for which she must be grateful. Now more than ever she could believe that he had killed men in duels but less than before could she believe he was a sneak thief.
One thing was certain, he did not fit in her placid world. From the corner of her eye Emily watched Piers Verderan sip from his teacup. Such a beverage should be so alien to a gazetted rake that it would be like Holy Water to a demon and cause him to dissolve into a heap of brimstone.
He suffered no ill effects, however, and looked at her to say, “If I should speak to you about the sheep, Miss Grantwich, then I will. The fence has been neglected and it appears possible for them to push through and invade the adjacent field.”
“I’m sorry,” said Emily, disguising guilt, for she should have looked into the problem immediately. “I am aware of the situation and will see to it as soon as possible. But as you do not use that field, Mr. Verderan, I can hardly see it as a matter of urgency.”
“The covert is in that field, Miss Grantwich.”
“What?” queried Emily with spurious innocence. “Are the sheep scaring the foxes?”
Verderan put down his cup and saucer with a sharp clink and rose. “You will please take steps, Miss Grantwich, to mend that fence immediately and hire an assistant for the shepherd so that you don’t come running to me with complaints when the foxes eat your newborn lambs, or the hunt draws that covert and scatters your flock.”
Emily too rose to her feet. “It seems to me, Mr. Verderan, that if anyone is running with complaints ...”
His eyes narrowed, but Emily found she wasn’t the slightest bit afraid. In fact, she was enjoying herself tremendously.
“I still would like to see your father, Miss Grantwich,” he said.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Perhaps to tell him what an unconscionable baggage his daughter is.”
Emily gasped and was aware of a pang of nervousness. What would her father do if he received a complaint?
Verderan suddenly smiled, and she knew he would never do anything so petty. “In fact, Miss Grantwich, merely to introduce myself as a neighbor. He does still receive visitors, does he not? He must welcome the diversion, and if I am to do business with his daughter I would think he would like to meet me. Of course,” he added with a twitch of his lips, “we can only hope he does not know of my reputation.”
All Hector’s stories came back to her like an icy shower. “No hope of that,” said Emily. “The vicar has probably already told him, and though Father never goes to London, he’s been closely involved with the hunting here for years. He probably knows more than Hector. Somehow I don’t think you melt into the crowd.”
Mr. Verderan picked up his hat and gloves. “I take that as a compliment and am greatly heartened thereby,” he drawled. Emily’s speeding heart warned her that he was doing it again, creating that closeness that could one day steal her wits entirely. She found her hand was up at her throat, which seemed a very silly place for a hand to be.
“If he’s heard talk,” he said as if he never troubled his head about such things, “he’ll presumably have heard that I’m a fine hunter at least. If he’s a true man of the chase nothing else will matter. I’m sure your housekeeper can show me to his room, Miss Grantwich, so I’ll bid you good day.” He bowed to Junia. “And good day to you, ma’am. Make her rest.”
With that he was gone, and Emily found her knees were not as steady as she had thought. She sat down again with a bump, feeling as if she had run a race, not taken tea with a gentleman.
“How wonderful,” breathed Junia.
“What’s wonderful?” Emily asked bleakly, and repeated for Junia some of Hector’s warnings. “If Father knows what he is, knows he’s the Dark Angel, he may forbid me to speak to him. And how am I to do business like that?”
Apart from the fact that never speaking to him again seemed a fate worse than death.
She was mad.
Junia was looking strangely thoughtful, but she merely said, “I’ll be your go-between. I like a rake. What’s the Dark Angel got to do with it?”
I like a rake too, thought Emily, her brain seeming more like a dry sponge every moment. “He’s called the Dark Angel,” she said. “The devil. His horse is called Beelzebub. He shoots men who like sago pudding.”
“Seems fair. Only the lowest form of life would admit to liking such slimy stuff,” said Junia with a grin, but it faded when she looked closely at her niece. She clucked. “He was right. You really are shaken up, aren’t you, my dear? Come along and have a lie-down. You work too hard anyway.”
“But I should . . . He’s going to kill that man.”
“Good thing too, I should think, and fortunately the sort of matter we females are not allowed to know anything about. Come along. Bed.”
Emily allowed Junia to shepherd her to her room. As she made her way up the stairs she heard a loud burst of her father’s laughter. How long was it since she had heard her father laugh like that?
Could a bad man have such a good effect? But he’d shot that man in cold blood and he was going to . . .
Emily’s world had been set spinning so that she didn’t know up from down anymore.
5
EMILY CERTAINLY felt the need of a quiet rest, but unfortunately lying down in a darkened room did not calm her fretful mind. She was deeply concerned about what Piers Verderan would say to her father.
If he told Sir Henry about Felix and his friends it would probably squelch any notion of Felix taking over Grantwich but could mean restrictions upon her own movements.
If he complained about the sheep, Sir Henry would find out she’d put them on High Burton and have an apoplexy.
If Sir Henry liked him he’d be made free of t
he house, and she could be bumping into him all times of the day and night.
If Sir Henry took against him, or found his reputation too reprehensible, Emily could be forbidden to ever speak to the man again.
It was the last two possibilities which concerned her the most, and she wasn’t at all sure which of them was most to be feared.
There was also the problem that she was undoubtedly coming to like the man and he had just proved some of Hector’s warnings true. How perverse could a woman be?
He was a cold-blooded killer. Certainly she had been willing to contemplate boiling both Jake and Felix in oil, or hanging them up by hooks through their skin—all kinds of fanciful tortures. But she could never have fired a pistol ball into either of them.
And, as the final straw, it hadn’t even been over the assault on her, but over pudding.
She had run the confrontation through her head, to try to make sense of it, but it couldn’t be made to appear otherwise. Certainly she had been too stunned to follow the men’s words exactly, but she remembered Jake saying, “I don’t fight over my pudding.” And Piers Verderan had shot him.
In a very strange place.
It was clear she just didn’t understand men. Could Hector have done such a thing? Assuredly not. On the other hand, he would have been as useless as the Daffodil Dandy. If Hector had come upon the scene he would have preached at Felix and Jake about the error of their ways. Emily had no faith that such an approach would have secured her release unharmed.
What of Marcus? He was more of Verderan’s stamp—a man’s man, a devotee of hunting and shooting and a fine shot. No, she couldn’t imagine him acting so, either. He would have plunged in with his fists, then rehashed the fight for hours after as he applied steak to his black eye and cold cloths to his bleeding nose.
Thoughts of her brother made tears trickle down Emily’s face, and she brushed them away. Had Felix been telling the truth? Had the government given up hope of Marcus’s safe return? It was very likely. Emily knew from the newspapers what horrors were left after a battle. It was a wonder so many soldiers were ultimately accounted for. If Marcus lived they should have had word of him. It was too temptingly convenient to imagine that he might have lost his memory.
Oh, enough of this, she told herself angrily, sitting up in bed. Falling into a fit of the dismals would help no one. When the big old clock in the upstairs hall boomed out the hour for the second time, Emily abandoned all attempt to rest and plotted instead how she was to escape the house without an interview with her father. She dressed in her habit and crept downstairs, hoping to be well on her way to Somerby before she was spotted, but Mrs. Dobson was alert.
“Your father wants you, Miss Emily,” the woman said brusquely but giving Emily a comprehensively searching glance to make sure she was up to any stresses and strains.
Emily sighed. “Now?”
“An hour ago,” said the woman with a warning look.
Emily sighed again but made her way to her father’s room.
She knocked softly and peeped around the door, hoping Sir Henry might be asleep. Her eyes met his—very much awake.
“What you creeping about for? Come on in. I want to talk to you.”
Despite a tendency for her knees to knock, Emily reminded herself she was a grown woman, and walked with dignity to the bedside chair. “Yes, Father?” She sat down, back straight, hands in lap.
“‘ Yes, Father. Yes, Father.’ Anyone’d think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”
Emily felt her color flare. What had that man said? “What do you mean, Father?”
His eyes narrowed as he tutted more in sorrow than anger. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re of an age to turn silly. First you drench yourself with cheap perfume; then you fling yourself at any man you see.”
Emily thought she was going to faint. He’d said . . . “I deny it!” she declared. “How dare—”
“Oh, give over,” said her father wearily. “It’s my fault for not marrying you off years ago. Selfish of me. Good to have a woman around the place, and God knows, Junia’s no use. I suppose I’ll have to bring Marshalswick to the point.”
“No!” cried Emily, leaping to her feet. Then she clamped control on herself even though she was burning with fury. “Don’t you dare, Father. I wouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick if he was the last man on earth. I will never marry any man!” Her voice was shrill and she took a deep breath. “I don’t care what that—that rake told you, Father. I am not throwing myself at men, especially not at him. I am not drenching myself in cheap perfume. That was all his fault. I—I—”
She fought back words which would be much better left unsaid.
“What?” said her father in blank astonishment. “You trying to tell me now Verderan’s been sniffing at your skirts? You’ll catch cold at that, my girl. I know the type of woman he favors, and you’ve never been that type, even when you had youth on your side.”
“I said no such thing,” gasped Emily from a black pit of hurt and rage. “I know he wouldn’t . . . Father ...” She put a hand over her eyes as if to press back the tears that threatened.
Her father made an embarrassed growl, then said with gruff kindness, “ ’Course he wouldn’t. Now stop having the vapors, girl, and sit down.” Emily had herself in hand again and faced him, but remained resolutely standing. He frowned and said, “As you wish. This is what comes of letting a girl play a man’s role. Addled your wits.”
His tone turned kind again, however. “Oh, Emily-chick. You’ve doubtless fallen head over heels for the man, which ain’t surprising, given his phiz. But if I let you go bothering him, you’ll not thank me when you come to your senses. His tastes don’t run to country spinsters. And though he’s a fine man in the field he isn’t husband material for any respectable woman. But if you do something foolish,” he said bitterly, “there’d be damn-all I could do about it from here, would there?”
Emily’s rage lessened in the face of her father’s anguish. Plenty of it remained, however, stored up for Piers Verderan when next they had the misfortune to meet.
She was able to answer calmly. “There will be no need for you to do anything.” She laid a hand over his. “Truly, Father, I don’t know what he said, but it is all moonbeams. I’ve only met the man twice before today, and both times we merely conversed, with a digression into mild disagreement. You know me, Father. Would I ever look to a rake for a husband?”
Sir Henry eyed her doubtfully. “Not in your right mind, no. But women tend to fall out of their wits with remarkable speed around men of his ilk, especially women past their last prayers. I could tell you stories—-” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first plain miss to throw her cap at a handsome rake and have it caught. But only for a brief amusement. That’s all you’d be to him.”
Emily was shocked by the pain his words caused her; she’d always known she was plain, and attractive only for her comfortable dowry and practical skills. Why did it hurt so to have it pointed out so bluntly? She fought to remain impassive. If the only thing she had left in the world was her pride, she would at least hold on to that.
“Father, I have no interest in the man,” Emily said tightly. “You trust me with your business. Can you not trust my good sense?”
His eyes suddenly widened and he chuckled admiringly. “Oh, now I get it. Business, oh? Realized you’ll need someone to hunt those horses. But you’ll catch cold with Verderan, Emily. He’s got his own string, every one a prime bit of blood and you’re hardly likely to besot him into doing you a favor. Now, this friend of Felix’s may be a better bet, but from the story I’ve heard it’s clear you don’t know how to wheedle a man. You should be able to turn him up sweet and still keep the line.”
Emily wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. Now she wasn’t a man-mad spinster, she was a failed seductress with mercenary motives. Well, she could put an end to this.
“I’ve hired Dick Christ
ian to ride the horses,” she said coolly, “starting with Wallingford at the first meet.”
“Christian?” Sir Henry repeated blankly. “But he has his regulars.” His eyes narrowed. “And what did you offer him, eh?”
Emily ignored the disgusting insinuation, though she could feel her cheeks heat. “A guinea a day,” she said crisply. “His normal fee, I believe.”
“And he just said yes,” scoffed Sir Henry. “I don’t know what deep game you’re playing, my girl, but if you bring shame on us I’ll wash my hands of you, damned if I don’t.”
Emily had had enough. She headed for the door.
“And keep away from Verderan,” Sir Henry shouted. “You’re not up to his weight. He’s doubtless bored, and if you show your ankles once too often he’ll break them for you!”
At the implication that she’d end up with a bastard, Emily gave in for once to her baser urges and slammed the door.
She stormed down to the stables. What she needed was space and time to come to terms with her pain. She stopped in the shrubbery and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She had felt warmly about Piers Verderan. Had it been so obvious to everyone? To him? Had it unconsciously translated into pathetic seductive gestures? Had she been the source of that uproarious laughter?
She wanted to die.
She’d seen women simpering and fluttering around an attractive man. Had she done that without even being aware of it? Even so, did he have to laugh?
She went on to the stables, desperate only for escape. She managed to present a calm face as she mounted Corsair and rode out, then muttered and cursed for a good two miles, berating herself for being such a ninny and him for being a conceited, arrogant swine.
Eventually she steamed herself dry and could no longer summon the passion. She wearily concentrated on her duties instead. She rode into the village to inspect some leaking roofs.
That accomplished, she found that anything was better than returning home, so she rode a slow circuit to see how the last of the harvest was coming. The dry weather would soon break, but another day should see all the crops in. All seemed well with her world, as far as estate management went, at least. But, passion was returning, accompanied by intense embarrassment, and she was torn between a desire to avoid Piers Verderan for life or to seek him out in order to drive a long sharp knife into his cold, arrogant heart.