Emily and the Dark Angel (12 page)

Abruptly he let her go and moved away, appearing quite relaxed. “Very well. When shall I tell Jake Mulholland that you expect a call? I fear you will have to wait a day or two until he’s mobile again.”

“He won’t bother me again,” she said, but heard the uncertainty in her voice.

“That sort never take no from a woman, Miss Grantwich. His pride is on the line.”

Emily felt a chill. “He wouldn’t dare—”

“He won’t dare not to. He’ll be a laughingstock once the tale gets out, and your cousin is a notorious blabbermouth.”

“But—but won’t he be afraid of someone taking action?”

“You are very unprotected, Miss Grantwich, and used to going about unaccompanied. Whom is he to fear?”

Emily wouldn’t say it, but she looked up at him. He raised a brow. “Am I to kill him for you, then?”

Emily turned away from his taunting. “This is terrible. This can’t be true! Are you saying that I have to sign that man’s death warrant or go in fear?”

She looked back and saw distinct, teasing amusement come into his face. It worried her rather more than his anger. “There is a third choice,” he drawled. “If I made it clear you were of particular interest to me, Miss Grantwich, your attacker could probably save his pride on the grounds of not poaching on another man’s preserve.”

“What kind of interest?” Emily whispered.

He laughed briefly. “I hardly think I should set it about that you’re my mistress, but I’m afraid I’m not willing to go so far as to engage myself to marry you.” Emily felt her color flare and hated it.

“Let us just say,” he drawled, “that I could show a flattering interest—”

“It would not flatter me,” retorted Emily.

“It should,” he replied coolly. “It will make you unique.”

Emily smiled equally coolly. “I suppose by that you mean you have only previously connected your name with ladies of low repute, Mr. Verderan. I fear some will think it more likely that I have joined their company than that you have entered the number of the elect.”

He gave a sharp crack of laughter. “I knew we couldn’t avoid the religious for long, especially not in the vicar’s parlor. I’m certain your spotless reputation can withstand a brief brush with my sooty one. Well, Miss Grantwich?”

Brief. The word was both reassurance and a stab of agony. Emily took a brisk turn about the small room, then faced him again. “What exactly will this charade involve?”

“Nothing too unbearable,” he assured her. “I’ll drop a few hints. After all, despite my reputation, it will not be seen as impossible that I have a mind to marry. I have considerable properties and I’m heir to a viscountcy, though merely an Irish one.”

“A viscountcy,” Emily echoed. Ireland. Stolen money and impoverished relatives.

“Yes. My grandfather holds the title at present. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. The old man will live to be a hundred just to keep me out of his shoes.”

The insinuation that she was chasing him, and not only him, but a
title
, blew all other thoughts out of Emily’s mind. She projected loathing at him with all her might. “My only hope, sir, is that you and this whole debacle will prove to be a singularly nasty dream.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know, I don’t have the faintest idea why you’re ripping up at me, Miss Grantwich. You were not so heated this morning.”

“I find your intrusion into my life extremely distressing,” she said straightly. “I have not had a moment’s peace since I first encountered you, Mr. Verderan. You and your Violet Tart!”

All anger fled and he looked at her with delight. “I think your way of describing people is utterly delightful. Poor Renfrew is a Daffodil Dandy and Violet is a Violet Tart. Do you have a name for me, I wonder? Ah yes, for some reason, I’m a Flea-bitten Giraffe. Do you care to explain that? I never thought my neck to be extraordinarily long.”

Emily had no intention of being diverted into whimsical sidetracks. “I was a little confused,” she said discouragingly. “I do not need to christen you, Mr. Verderan. You are already called the Dark Angel, which sums you up very well.”

He managed to look hurt. “I think I prefer to be thought of as a flea-bitten giraffe. At least you might be sorry for me. Would you believe me if I told you I am not as bad as I am painted?”

The honest answer would be yes, but Emily hardened her heart and retorted, “You forget, I am witness to the truth, sir. You consort with loose women. You are a self-confessed rake. You manhandle women and you shoot unarmed men merely because they like sago pudding.”

“I do not—” He took a breath and looked at her with a shake of the head. “As a matter of fact, I can think of worse reasons. It’s a revolting dish.” Then he smiled at her with boyish mischievousness. “Frog spawn.”

Emily chuckled. “Did you used to call it that, too?”

Then she realized he was bamboozling her again and wiped the smile off her face. It was no laughing matter. Still, she could not resist an attempt to bring him to his senses. “Mr. Verderan,” she said gently, “no matter how much you dislike it, it is not rational to shoot someone over sago. It is not rational to become disturbed about any kind of pudding.”

“Not at all?” he asked dubiously, but hilarity still twinkled in his eyes.

He was mad. How terrible. “Not at all,” she assured him patiently. “You should try not to be so stirred up about it.”

“I will try, Miss Grantwich,” he said soberly. “But it will be hard in some situations. And with some kinds of pudding.” The twinkle had returned to his eyes, and now it conquered his lips and he laughed. “Do you know, dear Emily, I find the notion of sharing some pudding with you extraordinarily appealing.”

She took a step back. “I fear you are deranged.”

He shook his head. His voice was unsteady as he said, “I fear so, too. I’d better escape before this situation gets any worse ...” He turned at the door. “By the way, your father invited me to dine with him tonight. Do I now have your permission? It would further our appearance of having a particular relationship.”

“As you will,” Emily said grudgingly. “The alternatives seem to be worse. But I wish to make it clear that I have absolutely no interest in you as a husband and therefore cannot pledge myself to give even a passable appearance of fondness.”

He stopped to look at her for a moment, and Emily felt as if she had issued an unwise challenge. “In other words, I am definitely sago,” he murmured.

“What?”

He smiled slightly. “I just wondered if we were likely to have sago tonight.”

And he kills people who offer him sago pudding, Emily thought wildly. She really should warn her father just what kind of man this was. “Of course not,” she assured him. “That is a nursery dish.”

He nodded, appearing quite normal except for a wild glint in his eyes. “And we want something much more suitable for adults. Tart, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said warily, wondering if he expected to have the Violet Tart served up for dinner. He was a rake, after all, and he and her father would be eating alone. She’d heard rumors of these bachelor dinners. She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe we are to have
apple
tart, Mr. Verderan. With cream.”

His lips twitched, but his face was straight as he responded, “Always a tasty dish, Miss Grantwich.” With a slight bow he took his exit. Emily was sure she heard the sound of laughter as he walked down the corridor.

Margaret bounced into the room with suspicious alacrity. “I waited until he left. Did you give him a piece of your mind? I could hear you shouting at one point.”

“Margo, if you ever pull a trick like that again—”

“Oh, come on. You’re alive, aren’t you? And judging from the flush in your cheeks, you’re not in the dismals as you were before. He’s utterly gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“He’s impossible!” Emily declared. “Margo,” she added in a whisper, “I fear he’s insane. He was going on again about pudding, and laughing. Was he laughing when he left?”

Margo nodded. “I thought you’d parted on a great witticism. Perhaps you should learn more of his family.”

“Since I have no intention ...” Emily stopped this disavowal when she remembered their strange arrangement. “The thing is, Margo,” she explained uneasily, “he’s persuaded me the only way to deal with that horrid man who assaulted me—other than killing him, that is—is for me to appear to be . . . well, Mr. Verderan’s friend. Close friend.”

Margo’s mouth fell open. “Emily!
Are
you going to marry him?”

“No!” Emily shrieked, then shook her head. “Margo, it is all pretense. But you can put it about, if you like, that he’s . . . oh, paying me attentions, I suppose. He’s dining with Father tonight. Not with me,” she hastened to point out. “With Father. But the gossips won’t know that.”

Margo was giving her a bright-eyed, speculative look. “Did he kiss you?”

“Of course not!”

“Pity. Before this is all over, Emily, you should see if you can arrange that he kiss you at least once. I’m sure he’s very good at it.”

So was Emily, and she pokered up against temptation. “Margo, I think you are lost to all decency.”

Margo suddenly looked bereft. “The trouble is that I’m all too decent. I
miss
Marcus,” she suddenly cried. “And one of the things I miss is the way he kissed me.”

As her friend burst into tears, Emily hurried over to comfort her, wondering whether men were really worth all the trouble they caused poor females.

I
N A CHARMING house in North Audley Street, Mayfair, Lady Randal Ashby and her husband were sitting on a striped-silk sofa, reading their post. Eighteen-year-old Sophie looked up from her own correspondence to see her handsome husband of only two months puzzling over two letters, one held in each hand.

“Is someone writing to you in anagrams, Randal?”

He grinned. “Not precisely, though they do present a curiosity. This,” he said, waving a long letter much covered by flowing handwriting, “is from Cousin Chloe. She’s in a pother because her sweet, shy, demure little school friend, Emily Grantwich of Melton, has had a run-in with Ver. Apparently he showered her with perfumed powder—”

“In public or private?” interrupted his fascinated wife. “And were they ...”

He touched her auburn curls gently with the letter. “You have a naughty mind, minx,” he said with that special smile which was guaranteed to encourage such a feature. “I confess Chloe’s secondhand telling of the tale is a little incoherent, but since the incident took place in the street I doubt your more lurid imaginings are possible.”

“With Ver one never knows,” said Sophie darkly. “Why is Chloe telling you this story?”

Randal shrugged. “She seems to think I can control Ver and prevent him from having his evil way with little Emily.”

“How?”

“God knows,” he said with a laugh. “She admits she hasn’t seen this woman for nearly ten years. For all Chloe knows she may be the boldest piece in Leicestershire by now.”

Sophie frowned. “Let me see the letter.” He passed it over and she scanned it. “Chloe certainly was in a state when she wrote it, wasn’t she?” she chuckled. “All blotches and squiggles. But she says here that she and this Emily have been corresponding regularly. I would have thought she knows her friend’s character.
Would
Ver try to seduce a country spinster?”

“Seems unlikely,” admitted Randal. “Chloe’s always been excitable and she took a dislike to Ver at the wedding. Do you remember how that little hellion of hers would follow him everywhere? Ver is in Melton, though,” he added thoughtfully. “He was going to look into some property he’s inherited. If you need proof, he also has written to me.” He waved the other letter, rather brief and with clear, disciplined handwriting.

Sophie looked intrigued. “Let me guess. To say he was attacked by a desperate spinster throwing scented powder, and begging you to protect him?”

“Not at all,” said Randal. “If the incident occurred, Ver ain’t mentioning it. His reason for writing,” he said, pausing for effect, “is to ask me to make enquiries about the health and welfare of one Captain Marcus Grantwich of the Forty-third Light Infantry, supposedly missing in action after a minor engagement near Pamplona.”

Sophie looked at him blankly for a moment and then consulted Chloe Stanforth’s letter. “Grantwich!”

“Precisely.”

“What do you think’s going on?” Sophie demanded, bright-eyed.

“I don’t know,” said Randal, equally tantalized, “but I intend to find out. If Ver has a house there, he’ll put us up. Are you willing to risk roughing it in the Shires?”

“Of course,” said Sophie, always ripe for adventure. “May I ride the hunt?”

“No.”

Sophie cocked her head. “Why not?”

Randal pulled his wife to him and slid his hands up to the base of her skull. “You’re an old married lady now and should take heed to your reputation. And, little flame, I value your neck too much.”

She raised her arms around his neck. “I value yours too, you know. Rather a lot.”

“Then I won’t hunt either.”

Sophie leaned back and studied him. “Truly? But you love hunting.”

“I love you more,” he said simply.

Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes. “Randal Ashby, you’ve told me your devotion a hundred times or more, but never with such depth of meaning. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Good,” he said. “I like you overwhelmed. Let’s work on it.”

 

 

Piers Verderan walked into Hume House in the late afternoon and went in search of his unplanned guest. He found Kevin Renfrew, as he expected, in the library reading a book. It appeared to be a treatise on hound breeding. He’d discarded his waistcoat, jacket and cravat, which made his excessive thinness more obvious, but diminished any likeness to a daffodil.

Verderan couldn’t help smiling at Emily Grantwich’s names for people. He rather wished, however, he’d been able to resist the conversation about pudding. One of these days she was going to discover what it meant and be after him with a hatchet.