Emily and the Dark Angel (10 page)

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 multicolored 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.”

“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.

E
MILY 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 the 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.