Emily and the Dark Angel (19 page)

Emily scowled. “Does the whole county know everything?”

“Don’t they always?” Junia spooned up some soup, then continued. “What next? A bit of a dry patch—nothing but rumors, which appear incidentally to have been spread by our Felix—then I hear you and Hector were seen galloping towards Hume House
ventre à terre
and that later the town couple were seen heading back to Melton at a fancy pace without their daughter, if daughter she ever was . . . ?”

“Daughter indeed,” said Emily, pushing away her scarce-tasted soup. “She’s a whore. A tartlet. Junia, he
bought
her for a hundred and fifty guineas, then had the nerve to ask me to marry him!”

“Hmm,” said Junia. “I did get a garbled tale to that effect. That’s what caused me to be late. Betty Wrigley is Mrs. Greely’s niece and she’s only in day service. Just as I was passing she arrived home with a tale of Piers Verderan paying the girl’s parents for her. And you, apparently, sending the vicar off with a flea in his ear when he tried to intervene. Then you stayed in the place and disappeared with the author of all evils.”

Emily hid her face in her hands. “I’ll never live it down.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Junia. “On the whole, people think it’s fine to have some excitement and Hector’s not very popular, you know. He disapproves of so many country amusements. In fact the greatest impression on Betty Wrigley’s mind seemed to have been made by a fur worn by some other young woman.”

Emily looked up. “Sables,” she said wistfully. “Absolutely ravishing sables. Lord Randal Ashby turned up with his wife. I thought she was a whore too, at first. He’s Chloe Stanforth’s handsome cousin, younger son of the Duke of Tyne.”

Junia ignored most of this ramble. “If you marry Piers Verderan, he’ll doubtless deck you in ravishing sables too.”

Until that moment Emily had not admitted how Randal and Sophie had affected her. They so clearly adored one another and their love had set them free. Randal delighted in his wife’s every action; Sophie moved through life, his care a golden shield between her and all unpleasantness. Emily just knew carping criticism and improving guidance had no part in their lives. But she could not believe such magic was for her.

She couldn’t face food. Even as Mary came in with the next course, she stood up abruptly. “You can’t expect me to marry a man who buys children.”

Mary stopped dead, mouth agape.

“It depends what he does with them, I suppose,” said Junia. “Put that tray down, Mary, before you drop it.” The maid did so and left in a hurry. “More gossip,” murmured Junia. She eagerly investigated the food beneath the silver covers.

“I would have thought it was obvious what he was going to do with this one,” snapped Emily.

“Doesn’t do to leap to conclusions,” said Junia. “You should eat. The pork chops are done as you like them.”

Before Emily could respond, Mrs. Dobson stalked in, working apron on and stirring spoon in hand. “Miss Emily,” she declared, “I hope I know my place, but I can’t and won’t stand by to see you throw yourself before swine! Mary says you’re going to marry Casper Sillitoe’s nephew. Him as has all those loose women up there. And children too, Mary says.”

“It’s not true, Dobby,” Emily protested.

“What isn’t?”

“Any of it. At least,” she admitted, “there’s one loose woman. But no children and I’m not going to marry him.”

With that, she fled to the miserable privacy of her room and thought longingly of being wrapped in the angel-wings of Piers Verderan’s love.

And, it must be admitted, of being wrapped in sables and kissed whenever and wherever the mood took them.

As the hours chimed away on the hall clock, she imagined the progress of the evening at Hume House, coming to the time when she could no longer delay the thought of Verderan leading his purchase upstairs to finally earn her keep.

 

 

In fact, Verderan had provided Titania with a room with a lock and key, but beyond that he had no intention of interfering in her life. He hadn’t even tried to find out what she and Kevin Renfrew had been up to since her arrival late the previous evening.

It should have been obvious; yet with Renfrew one never knew, and Titania’s behavior to the young man made it clear she did not regard him as a potential protector, more as a brother.

Despite the sudden influx of visitors, dinner had been surprisingly adequate. Mrs. Greely had merely produced enormous quantities of well-cooked plain food, which was exactly to the tastes of the six healthy young men. With the addition of Casper Sillitoe’s excellent cellar and the presence of two pretty, charming, and undemanding women, the meal had been a roaring success.

Verderan had suggested that Titania be asked to dine elsewhere, but Sophie would have none of it and Randal raised no objection, so he had merely kept an eye on her to make sure she behaved. In fact, she did very well, so perhaps Violet had earned her commission.

He had no intention, however, even if Randal’s tolerance stretched that far, of having the ladies go apart after dinner. He initiated a game of loo for penny points, which most of the company were still young enough to enjoy, after which he sent Titania to bed.

He hadn’t noticed any assignation being made.

Shortly after, Sophie went up to the room allocated to the Ashbys and Randal escorted her. Verderan abandoned the young set at that point and sought his own room. He had a fire, some brandy, and books, and at last an opportunity to think of Emily.

Just how disastrous had the whole scene been? Despite her outrage, despite her blunt rejection of his suit, there was that kiss.

God, he’d known there was passion in her, but he’d never dreamt they would come together like pitch and flame. If it hadn’t been for Randal and Sophie, inadequate chaperones though they were, he might have surrendered to the fire then and there. . . .

As if summoned by the thought, Randal knocked and entered, dressed in a cream and gold banjan.

Verderan grinned and said, “You’ll be putting Renfrew’s nose out of joint.”

“Impossible to do,” Randal said, subsiding elegantly into a chair by the fire and accepting a large glass of brandy. “You appear to have the only truly habitable room in the house, you know.”

“Are you complaining? What else can unexpected guests expect?”

“I’m not complaining. The standard of entertainment so far has been excellent. I’ve come to report on Marcus Grantwich.”

“It necessitates a midnight tryst?”

“After a fashion. Took a bit of doing, sorting all this out . . .”

“Is he alive?”

“As far as anyone knows. Stop interrupting, and let me relate the great efforts I expended on your behalf. Government circles ain’t my usual milieu, you know. In fact,” he confessed, “if Chelmly hadn’t turned up to speak on some agricultural bill, I’d have been stumped.”

“How is he?”

“Pretty good and reassessing his life busily. The mere thought that I might have inherited if his injury had proved fatal has given him a new enthusiasm for marriage. The trouble is that he can’t seem to find anyone to his taste. Even attended a few ’do’s, but the sight of all those wide-eyed ingenues salivating over his future coronet panicked him.”

“Don’t blame him. But what about Emily’s brother?”

“Chelmly turned a few rocks and discovered amazing things. Captain Marcus Grantwich, you’ll be pleased to hear, is not missing in action at all, Ver. He’s been involved for the past year with something mysterious.”

“Undercover work?”

“Very undercover, probably underhand. Something to do with smugglers and highwaymen on the south coast and definitely not to be recorded in dispatches.”

“Oho. But he must have had word of his father’s accident.”

“Apparently not. Whatever he’s been doing was going so well that his commanding officers thought it best not to disturb him with trivialities. They’ve been persuaded otherwise by now—one gathers his project was coming to a natural end anyway. You can expect him, I would think, any day.”

Verderan leaned back with a smile. “Good,” he said. “Thank you for your efforts.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“About it being good,” said Randal. “Talking to people, I got the feeling Captain Grantwich is a fire-eater who’d defend his womenfolk to the death. He may not take to his sister marrying you, and today’s little drama isn’t going to raise your reputation in the neighborhood.”

“Emily’s of age. He can’t stop her from marrying me if she decides to do so.”

Randal raised a skeptical brow but made no further comment. “Care to relate the background history to all of this?”

So Verderan told him the events leading up to the day’s histrionics.

“I didn’t realize you had a mind to settle down,” commented Randal.

“Nor did I until the
Poudre de Violettes
addled my brain,” said Verderan dryly. But then he added, “I think it’s all your fault, actually.”

“
I
didn’t fix you up with Violet Vane.”

“No, but you inveigled me into polite society for your wedding,” said Verderan, lounging back in his chair and watching the dancing flames in the hearth. “It was strange, but I found I liked it. Out of consideration for you, I suppose, I was accepted. I met young women who didn’t shrink in horror or throw themselves at me”—he flashed a look at Randal—“or anyway, not as much as usual. I saw you and Sophie . . .”

He laughed, and refilled their glasses. “I must admit that at first I thought any man must be mad to let a woman tangle him in such a coil. Now, however, I find it has its own masochistic appeal. Especially with the hope of better days to come.”

“And do you have such hopes?”

Verderan slanted him a humorous glance. “Do you doubt me?”

“I was wondering,” mused Randal, “when you were going to explain all about pudding.”

Verderan laughed. “Not until my wedding night if I can help it. And I’ll make sure there are no lethal weapons to hand.” But then he sobered and rose to his feet. “I have no doubt I can snare her, Randal. I’ve all the tricks of seduction, God knows, and she’s so vulnerable—both naive and passionate. But should I? I’m ready to settle down, but that can never change what I have been. Nor will it wipe out what people think I am.”

“Perhaps you ought to sort out your grandfather once and for all.”

Verderan went to lean against the window frame, to look out at clouded dark. “That’s a book better left closed.”

There was a silence broken only by the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire.

“I decided to marry Sophie,” said Randal at last, “because I realized I could never trust any other man to love her as I would love her, to keep her safe and at the same time set her free. Is there another man you can trust to do the same for Emily Grantwich?”

Verderan turned sharply and met his friend’s eyes. “No,” he said. “There isn’t.” He stood in thought for a moment, then shrugged. “So be it.”

Randal rose and put down his empty glass. “So be it. And speaking of love, Sophie awaits.” At the door, he kissed his fingers to Verderan. “Sweet dreams, my friend. I, however,” he added, “have the reality. Envy me.”

Verderan laughed. “‘A brave man or a fortunate one is able to bear envy,’” he quoted. “And I am brave and hope to be fortunate. Go away before you tax my tolerance.”

As soon as the door closed he leant his head against the cold window glass and relived that extraordinary kiss, cursing softly. He’d not felt such burning frustration since his school days.

 

 

After a restless night Emily arose the next day clear about one thing only. She must be out of the house when Piers Verderan called. She knew it would be no good to merely deny herself. A man like that would ride roughshod over poor Mary.

The sun had returned and the outdoors beckoned. She would go to High Burton and attend to the matter of the broken hedge. Surely after that she could think of other business to keep her away from home. She chose to ride Nelson since he would so soon be sold.

At least that was one matter which was in order. Griswold would want his money by the middle of the month, but by then all three horses should have been ridden by Dick Christian in a hunt, and hopefully sold well. Next Monday would see the first run of the season, a Quorn meet, and that would be Wallingford’s turn.

She didn’t feel easy until she was on Nelson and well away from the house. She wouldn’t put it past that man to turn up before decent folk were through with their breakfasts. It wasn’t so much that she was afraid to meet him, but she had said she wouldn’t be in when he called, and was determined to keep her word.

As she galloped across a field she saw the red flash of a fox, late home to its earth.

“Enjoy the day,” she said to herself. “By next week you will only be amusement.”

At High Burton, she found the sheep mostly in their proper places and inspected the fence with the shepherd. It was a simple matter and couldn’t be stretched out to take the morning, even with a prolonged chat about the flock’s illustrious breeding lines.

Next she remembered a minor problem to do with a tenant farmer four miles away and set off at a gentle pace to attend to it. Hopefully, as it was in the opposite direction to Hume House, the gossip wouldn’t have reached there.

The farmer’s wife, Letty Edwards, had an outstanding claim against the Cottesmore Poultry Fund for chickens lost to foxes nearly a year ago. As landlord, Emily promised to take the matter up with the fund manager. She also accepted an invitation to eat, and shared a hearty steak and kidney pie with the family. As she hadn’t eaten dinner or breakfast, she enjoyed this thoroughly.

Until Farmer Edwards said, “Hear tell you’re to marry that Lunnon man, as has taken over Sillitoe place, Miss Grantwich. Take you away, I reckon. Sir Henry put in a manager, you reckon?”