Emily and the Dark Angel (15 page)

Verderan looked down at his fingers, white on the porcelain doorknob, and relaxed them. “It was in my father’s will,” he heard himself say woodenly. He had never spoken of this, except perhaps to Randal, in bits and pieces. He wasn’t sure why he was doing so now except that he clearly was mad. “It was a haphazard document, but it spelled that out clearly, at least.”

He left the door and walked around the small room. “My father was”—he sought for a word that conveyed the largely forgotten magic of Damon Verderan—“eccentric, at the very least. But he had a flair for business, and when he ran away from home he made his fortune. He left my mother and my grandfather handsome annuities if they obeyed his instructions as to my upbringing. Unfortunately those instructions were very vague, except that I was to go to Eton and Christ Church.”

“And once you left you refused to go back.”

Verderan didn’t answer. He was amazed at how painful he found all this, and deeply resented the woman who was stirring the old ashes into flame.

Junia looked at him and saw the angel she had drawn, but a tortured one. She wondered if for once she had grasped more than she could handle. “How did you support yourself?” she asked, but gently. “Even if your grandfather was compelled to pay your various fees, that is hardly enough on which to survive, and you were no more than a boy.”

He turned to face her, and it was as if he wore a mask. Junia realized she was a foolish old woman. Thinking only of Emily, she had not considered that all this might still hurt a grown and hardened man.

“Didn’t the rumor mill tell you?” he asked. “My grandfather is a miser. When I left home I took his hoard.”

There was nothing for it but to get to the end. “I heard the story. He still gives it today as his excuse for scrimping and saving.”

“You don’t believe him?” he asked with superficial amusement.

Had no one else ever doubted that tale? “My assessment of his character, albeit hasty, doesn’t grant him a forgiving nature. He would have had you clapped in jail.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” His smile widened, and there was a trace of genuine warmth behind it. “I did take his money, but he’d been stealing from my inheritance for years. He boasted of it to me all the time. If he’d prosecuted me, it would all have come out. He made up for it by continuing to swindle me until I came of age; my foray into larceny made it unwise for me to look into matters too closely then. I think we ended up about even, and he still receives the annuity my father left him. If he’s counting the candles and hoarding string it isn’t for want of the ready.”

There was one other thing to be raised, and Junia found herself strangely reluctant. “What of your mother? It’s said Helen’s in dire straits and you refuse to aid her.”

The mask was back, but it couldn’t quite hide the anguish. “My mother chooses to live at Templemore with my grandfather,” he said in a voice as flat and hard as ice. “If she is in dire straits it is her own fault. I have offered her a comfortable home on this side of the water, but I’ll give no money where my grandfather might get his hands on it. She prefers to cling to the old man.”

Junia nodded. “As I said, I knew Helen. She always swayed towards the most commanding presence. If you went there, you could sway her to your side.”

He faced her coldly, but a flame was burning in his eyes. “If I went there, I would kill him.” It was all the more terrible for being uttered with quiet certainty. “That’s one crime I do not need on my record. As for my mother ...” He took a deep breath and said in a clipped voice, “You are exceeding your brief by a large margin. What has this to do with Emily?”

She had what she wanted. It had been more painful for both of them than she had ever intended, but life frequently was. Junia stood and smoothed her skirts, smearing one of the orange leaves. She looked at it with a frown. “Oh dear. I thought they were dry.” She looked at the chair, which was splotched with blue and orange. “How fortunate I didn’t sit on an upholstered one.” She returned her attention to Verderan, who was staring at her printing experiment, dumbfounded.

“Emily,” she reminded him. “Emily should be freed from this cage before she’s too old to fly. Henry’s accident has let her exercise her wings a little, but I fear she’ll regress if Marcus returns home. Heaven knows what would happen if Felix took over . . . It really wouldn’t be such a good thing for her to carry on being her father’s deputy until Henry dies, one, ten or thirty years from now. And, of course, she shouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick.”

“I haven’t met the man. He seems to minister to his congregation conscientiously, which is more than can be said of many.”

“True, but he’s a domestic fowl.” Junia wondered for a moment what species precisely. “Goose?” she mused. “Pullet . . . ?” She looked for an opinion and saw that he appeared dazed. People frequently did. Most people had such linear minds.

“Emily needs an eagle,” she explained, “not a caged cock-sparrow. Now you have confirmed my suppositions about your history, you seem a very satisfactory eagle to me. Persuade her to fly. I’m sure you are capable of it, and I will stand your friend.”

“Your faith is extraordinary,” he said with a frown. “Despite any whitewash you may have applied to it in your mind, my reputation is unsavory, and if I’m not exactly
persona non grata
in polite society, I am only encouraged to involve myself in a limited range of activities. Quite reasonably. I’m no saint and, to be honest, have no desire to become one. If I marry Emily, I will probably lead her into wickedness long before she manages to reform me.”

“But isn’t that just what I’ve been saying?” remarked Junia with a trace of impatience. “She needs some wickedness. Teach her to fly wild and free. But if you hurt her, I’ll shoot you myself.”

His lips twitched. “Another woman said that to me not that long ago. I think she meant it, too.”

Despite the lighter tone, he still looked stark, like a man rasped raw. Junia found herself touched far more than was agreeable. “Now go on,” she said in a schoolroom tone, “and prepare Henry’s very inelastic mind by trying to persuade him that his elder daughter is an attractive and competent young lady. He finds it impossible to believe.”

After a hesitation, he left without a word. Junia wondered vaguely whether she should change her dress but reflected that the dining-room chairs were plain wood and washable.

She really felt quite annoyed with Damon Verderan. He had sired a son, and doubtless surrounded him in that careless magic—the inspired impulses, the ready wit, the constant enthusiasm for life. Then he had left him unprotected to be flung from golden warmth into the iron cold of Lord Templemore’s jurisdiction.

Of course, no one ever thinks they will die young.

As for Helen ... Junia had disliked and envied Helen Sillitoe since they were both small—Junia robust, with a mass of dark curls, and Helen softly beautiful and fair. Piers Verderan had his coloring from his father but his elegant bones from his mother.

Helen had always been the gentle lady, with just enough playful high spirits to tantalize. Men had seemed compelled to adore and protect her.

Stupid men, thought Junia sourly, then laughed at her folly after all these years. No one had ever guessed that she’d lost her heart to Damon Verderan and they certainly wouldn’t now. But she would have done better by his son than Helen had.

She knew that her meddling, for good or ill, was as much for Damon’s son as for her niece. She hoped Damon was looking down from heaven and finally appreciating what he had missed.

V
ERDERAN LEFT Grantwich Hall a few hours later, grateful that his host tired early. He had taken Emily’s father in dislike. He supposed a conventional person might find a distaste for his beloved’s parent a disadvantage, but Verderan merely saw what Junia Grantwich had been talking about. Sir Henry, while a pleasant enough fellow of the older school, had irritated him every time the subject of his daughter had cropped up.

She was “playing” at running the estate and the place was falling into ruin. She was “an ape leader” and “turning funny,” as women did when they found themselves left on the shelf. As Sir Henry sank further under the influence of claret and brandy, Verderan had been slyly warned to expect some forwardness on the part of the “silly chit” and asked not to encourage her to embarrass herself.

The urge to tell the man that he wanted nothing so much as to have Emily be forward with him and encourage her to do her worst had almost overwhelmed him, but Sir Henry would doubtless have thought it a joke. He seemed able to ignore all the things Verderan said about Emily, or to twist them to fit his preconceptions.

Verderan wondered just what interpretation Sir Henry had put on his mild warnings about Jake and Felix. He could see now how they might have been turned into enough to bring out the virago in Emily. He didn’t regret it. Emily in a fury was a sight to dwell on with fondness.

Sir Henry had hinted that the sale of the hunters was important to Emily in some way, and there even seemed to be a wager on it linked to the running of the estate and Felix Grantwich, but the old man had been maddeningly obscure. Verderan was pleased, however, that he’d smoothed that road for Emily by bribing Dick Christian.

When the stolid maid showed him out he indulged his weakness and asked after the ladies.

“They’re in their rooms, sir,” she said.

He thought of asking to speak with Emily, but decided it would be better not to. There would be plenty of other opportunities and it would be wise to move slowly and steadily in coaxing this bird into freedom.

As he mounted Beelzebub, however, he could not resist looking up to try to guess which curtained window concealed her. He laughed and shook his head at such lovesick behavior.

As he trotted down the long driveway he felt restlessly unready for home and bed. Instead, on impulse, he set off for Melton. There was a half-moon, and a three-mile ride would do him good. With luck the company would be pleasant at the club.

By the time he reached there, a light rain was beginning and he wondered if he’d been unwise. He stabled the horse and shrugged. If necessary he’d put up in town for the night.

With hunting starting the next week, Melton was filling fast and the club was crowded with men, mostly young, younger even than he. Once they married, most men followed packs in their own parts of the country rather than spending the winter months in the Shires.

He was greeted affably, for this was a circle in which his sporting abilities outweighed any distasteful stories, and soon settled to a game of whist for the tame stakes of five guineas a trick. His partner was Henry Craven, and their opponents, Lord Alvanley and Quarley Wilson. Alvanley and Wilson were known as men who never shirked a fence, and they were friendly rivals in the field, friends off it.

As the play progressed evenly and was broken by general conversation, Verderan found himself thinking what a bunch of old fogies they were, commenting disparagingly on the younger, wilder set who were playing for high stakes and drinking deeper than they could handle.

It occurred to him, however, that he could do Emily some good here by whetting the appetite for her horses.

“I hear Grantwich is letting his hunters go,” he said idly as he shuffled the deck.

“Grantwich?” queried Alvanley. “Who’s he?”

“Local squire,” supplied Craven. “Always rides a steady animal. Why’s he selling?”

“Invalid,” said Verderan. “Some kind of accident.”

“Poor fellow. How’re they being sold?”

“I hear Dick Christian’s riding them, but you’ll have to look up Sir Henry or his daughter to strike a deal.”

“Interesting,” said Alvanley as he fanned his hand. “Not sure I’d want to deal horses with a woman, though. And the trouble with Christian is he makes the most vicious animal look like a sweet goer.”

There was a general chuckle and Verderan let the matter drop, confident that he’d guaranteed some interest when Emily’s horses did appear. He wondered if she’d let him sell them for her. It was surprisingly pleasant to be doing these little things for her.

It occurred to him that he could just go and buy her horses, thus presumably solving all her problems. He would think nothing of losing here the few hundred she would raise from the sale. After a moment, however, he decided she would be unlikely to appreciate such a deus ex machina intervention. If it was a wager, she would doubtless wish to win fair and square; he could always keep an eye on matters in case they grew desperate.

He wondered exactly how the sale of the horses was linked to Felix Grantwich.

Felix was in the club, half under the hatches, playing Hazard with the desperate air of one who is losing. At least none of Verderan’s youthful protégés were present to disturb his peace. Felix Grantwich could go to hell in a handcart for all he cared.

His feeling of mellow, tranquil respectability was shattered when George Osbaldeston stalked into the room, angry color in his cheeks. He looked at no one in particular and sat alone with a decanter of brandy.

Verderan directed an enquiring look at Craven.

The club president shrugged. “He was cock-a-hoop yesterday. Won the bidding for that little elf. Surprised you didn’t show.”

“No one informed me of the auction,” Verderan said, telling himself the fate of Violet Vane’s protégée was none of his concern. He’d spoken to her briefly and found her amusing but not as young or naive as she appeared. Titania, which was the name she claimed for herself, was shrewdly determined on a career as a high-class whore and couldn’t wait to get her first protector. Shame it had to be Osbaldeston, though.

Wilson chuckled. “You
must
have annoyed dear Violet for her to miss the chance of one of the richest men in town.”

“Or she knew I wouldn’t be interested. I gave up any taste for children when I ceased being one myself.” He deliberately raised his voice a little, hoping Osbaldeston would catch it.