Emily and the Dark Angel (6 page)

The other two looked at him in shock. “Oh no. Too risky,” said Chart. He leant forward slightly. “Word to the wise, Corny. He’s a dangerous man.”

Terance’s look was a question.

“Dueler. Killed his man twice. Never lets anyone cross him.”

Terance swallowed. “Seemed . . . seemed a pleasant sort of fellow.”

“Yes,” said Chart thoughtfully. “Damned strange.”

“Oh, come on,” protested Harry. “He can be dashed pleasant. I tell you, I was grateful to get him at Eton. Never ran me ragged, and though he’s got a tongue like a knife, he never laid a hand on me.”

“Had a running feud with Osbaldeston that’s the talk of the school still,” pointed out Chart. “Broke his arm. Went after Swallowton and flogged him when he wouldn’t fight.”

Harry went a little red. “Well, Osbaldeston was always a bully and Swallowton . . . that was on my account. He was . . . bothering me, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” said Chart. “Still, you can’t deny our families would throw fits if we’re forever in his company. Probably try to order us home. My mother almost had a spasm to have to be in the same room as him at Randal’s wedding.”

“Doesn’t like dueling,” said Corny wisely. “Mothers are all the same.”

“Oh, doubt she knows about that kind of thing. Man’s stuff, after all. And it never came to law or anything. Both his victims were warts on the body of society and everyone was delighted to see them go. And though Ver’s not exactly accepted, he’s damned rich and connected to all the right people. Even if,” he added thoughtfully, “they hope he won’t turn up to claim acquaintance ...”

“But why?” asked Corny. “Rich, well-turned out, Meltonian .. .”

Chart shrugged. “Stories. There was rumor at Eton he’d run away from home with his grandfather’s strong-box. But I ask you. If
you
were going to run away from home, would you run
to
Eton?”

The other two shook their heads.

“They say he won’t have anything to do with his mother. I just wish I could do the same to mine.”

“I’ve heard,” offered Harry uneasily, “that she’s living in poverty in Ireland because he stole the family fortune. He’s here in luxury and she’s living on boiled potatoes.”

“Not good,” said Corny, who was actually rather fond of his mama.

“Doubtless a hum,” said Harry quickly. “After all, if he was a thief, the law would have something to say, wouldn’t it? People make up these stories about him and he won’t bother to deny them.”

“As for what turns the matrons sour,” broke in Chart with a grin. “Just about everything. He’s rude to anyone if it suits him, has a damnable temper, and won’t tolerate fools. When the mood takes him he gambles madly, though he nearly always wins—”

“Collects exotic mistresses,” broke in Harry, “and rarely just one at a time.”

“Had the whole opera ballet at his Hampshire place once,” came back Chart. “Can you imagine?”

It was obvious from Corny’s face that he was trying hard.

“And a harem of Arabians.”

“And two American Indians.”

“And Swedish triplets.”

“All at the same time?” asked Corny blankly, causing them all to dissolve in laughter.

“In fact,” said Harry when he’d recovered, “one day I’ll pluck up the courage to ask Ver the truth.”

“Well,” said Chart, “just don’t pick tonight. He may not be the most likely prospect, but he’s the only contact to the inner circle we’ve got as yet, so it’s clean faces and charming innocence, my lads!”

 

 

That evening, Verderan found the meal at the Old Club drawing to a close without any obvious disaster having taken place. Well trained by Eton and Christ Church, his three guests had the precise blend of ease and deference which made them invisible to the lions they ate with. They listened with flattering absorption to the hunting tales of the old hands and made just sufficient contribution to the conversation to avoid being apostrophized as nodcocks.

Verderan rather thought he could see them taking mental notes for their memoirs—or for tales for their grandchildren.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I dined at the Old Club with Assheton-Smith ...?”

Golden memories of the evening had been assured the trio when it was found that Lord Robert Manners had ridden over from Belvoir Castle and brought with him the great man himself, the legendary Thomas Assheton-Smith, who had succeeded Hugo Meynell as Master of the Quorn.

Assheton-Smith was a tall, elegant man with a quiet reserved manner, which surprised people who knew only of his daring reputation in the field. He was known to disapprove of drinking and gambling, and his very presence had exerted a moderating influence on everyone in the club this evening.

He suffered the adoring attention of the three young men with good humor, encouraging Chart Ashby to ask, “Is it true, sir, that Napoleon gave you a medal?”

Assheton-Smith laughed. “Don’t put that around, young man. You’ll have me under lock and key! No, no. It was during the Peace of Amiens, you know, back in eighteen-oh-two. We all thought the war was over then, and a lot of us went over. I was scarce older than yourself, but I’d been hunting a few years and had some good luck. Got myself a bit of a name, which had spread even to Paris. He sought me out to talk of the great sport.”

“And called you ‘Le Grand Chasseur Smit,’ did he not, Tom?” asked Lord Robert.

Assheton-Smith modestly agreed that to be so and turned back to Chart. “Will I be seeing you out with the Quorn, young man?”

Chart’s eyes shone. “Oh yes, sir. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good, good. You have the look of a fine rider and your bloodline’s good. Your cousin’s a fine man over fences, though he fails to take my advice to the full.”

Verderan saw Chart’s frank disbelief at this heresy. “I think Tom refers to Randal’s disinclination to take a fall unless absolutely necessary,” he explained dryly.

“A failing you have too, Ver,” said Assheton-Smith. “You know my dictum, ‘There is no place you cannot get over with a fall.’ It is only by throwing his heart over every fence that a man can keep up with my hounds.”

“Have you often found me lagging behind, Tom?” queried Verderan.

The great man laughed. “You have me there! But I still maintain that the only way to ride a hunt well is to stop for nothing.”

“I’m with you there,” said a small-statured man with a high voice and a pointed face. “Never mind prime blood. Courage is what a man rides in the field.”

Verderan felt his jaw tighten, for the comment was directed at him. He and George Osbaldeston had cordially hated each other since their first days at Eton, but had luckily rarely encountered each other since. Osbaldeston had been hunting-mad even back then, and ever since leaving Oxford he’d devoted himself to the sport, first in Yorkshire, then as Master of the Burton Hunt. Now he was Master of the Nottinghamshire Hunt, moving ever closer to his target, the Quorn. He’d even taken to calling himself “Squire” Osbaldeston.

When Osbaldeston managed to get the Mastership of the Quorn, Verderan rather thought his own hunting days in the Shires would be over. The place would become uninhabitable.

“Courage won’t take a cart horse over an oxer,” he pointed out, “and being brave while lying in the mud is not a game I want to play.” It was well known that the “Squire” couldn’t afford horses fine enough for his ambitions.

“Of course being able to afford fine horses can help anyone to make a show,” retorted Osbaldeston, looking at no one in particular. “Irish horses. Or Irish money.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the company at the insinuation, and Verderan was weighing the sheer pleasure of picking a fight with Osbaldeston against the amount of effort involved—and the small matter of bringing his family skeletons to center stage—when he discovered he had a champion.

“A good rider on a bad horse can make a show,” Harry Crisp said calmly, though he looked tense. “A poor rider merely ruins a good horse, Irish or not.”

Champions, in fact. Chart Ashby turned to Assheton-Smith. “I understand you rarely pay more than fifty guineas for a hunter, sir. You must be a wonderful judge of horseflesh.”

“Why, thank you,” said Assheton-Smith, quite kindly. He didn’t much care for Osbaldeston himself. “But it’s amazing,” he added with a twinkle of humor, “how many wonderful horses of mine turn back into slugs when I’ve sold ’em. It’s the right kind of horse, a rider who’ll work with a horse, and the courage to take risks. All that together makes a good man for hunting. You must not ask of your mount more than it can do, but you must ask of yourself everything. No hesitation, ever.”

This spun off into a lively review of the last season’s runs, of the places where a daring leap had been successful, and of others where it had caused delay or even left a rider out of the running. Or, as Verderan dryly pointed out, dead.

Osbaldeston brushed this off with a sneer. “What more glorious way to die, I ask, than flying over a rasper in the Shires?”

This was greeted by a roar of approval, and even Verderan had to give his old enemy his point. He was, one gathered, a skilled huntsman and a brave rider. What shame he was such a nasty little fellow.

They had crossed each other within days of Verderan’s arrival at Eton, when he’d come across Osbaldeston holding a younger, smaller boy face down in a puddle because he didn’t like his boots. The fight had been brief as Verderan had a good few inches on Osbaldeston and hadn’t felt it fair to continue once his man was clearly bested.

Osbaldeston had never had such scruples. A few days later, he and some cronies had cornered Verderan and beat him up, leaving him badly bruised and with cracked ribs. They’d thought to terrorize him as they had so many others, but they hadn’t realized what they were up against. Verderan had been taught endurance in a hard school, and he merely waited until he caught Osbaldeston alone and thrashed him, making a more thorough job of it than he had the first time.

Osbaldeston had realized, as many others had in time, that short of killing him there was no way of suppressing Piers Verderan. And he wasn’t easy to kill.

Verderan caught Osbaldeston’s eye and hoped he got the message that nothing had changed.

The covers had been drawn. Candle flames reflected in deeply polished mahogany, glowed back from buffed silver, and glinted in fine crystal. A fire burned in the grate, crackling and hissing and burnishing the room with a fine warm glow. Each man still had a port glass before him and the bottle made its lazy way around, but drinking wasn’t the order of the day.

The president of the Old Club, Major-General Henry Craven, had brought the cigarillo habit back from the Peninsula and persuaded a few of the other men to join him. The aromatic smoke curled above their heads. The rest, however, were sticking to the more traditional form of tobacco, snuff. There was a pot of snuff on the table, but most men preferred their own sort and the boxes were offered around.

Verderan offered his box to his three guests. Chart and Harry took a pinch elegantly enough and managed not to have a sneezing fit. Terance Cornwallis, who seemed awestruck by his circumstances, wisely refused. The three were behaving as well as any young men could be expected to. Verderan reflected that he was but six years their senior; he felt at least a dozen.

The conversation wound down to a hiatus and Osbaldeston spoke up again. “So tell us, Verderan,” he drawled. “Why, pray, were you seen squiring an upper servant through town, covered with a fine dusting of flour?”

Verderan discovered that he didn’t want anyone, least of all Osbaldeston, poking around Miss Grantwich’s reputation. “Good lord,” he replied nonchalantly. “How came you by that tale? I hardly thought any
civilized
person was about at that hour.”

The sharp little face, so like his quarry the fox, tightened at the slight. “You obviously were, Verderan.”

“But I have never claimed to be civilized, Osbaldeston,” replied Verderan, to a general chuckle. “And it was not flour but
Poudre de Violettes
.” Violet had said the “Squire” was after her favors. From the sudden color in his cheeks, for once she had not been lying.

Before Osbaldeston could respond, Chart Ashby exclaimed, “Violet Vane,” and then went red as he realized the knowledge his words implied.

“Can you afford her?” asked Verderan with interest.

“Hardly,” said Chart, recovering some of his carefully cultivated
sangfroid
. “I met her once and she asked for a gift of the stuff. I—I’d heard she was in town.”

“Did you give her any?” Verderan asked, curious.

Chart colored again as he said, “Yes.”

“Well,” said Verderan kindly, “I wouldn’t expect too much return on the investment. She obviously only collects it to use as ammunition.”

“But why was she attacking you, old man?” asked Henry Craven. “I’d—er—not thought you one to disappoint even the most demanding lady.”

Verderan raised his glass slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Perhaps I satisfied her too well. It was the fact that I did not want to make the association of longer duration that infuriated her.”

“Ah,” sneered Osbaldeston. “You’d found her servant more to your liking. Find yourself more suited by the below-stairs maid, do you?”

“Not at all,” said Verderan. The desire to pick a fight with the man was becoming pressing, but that would only draw attention to the whole incident, which hardly seemed fair to poor little Miss Grantwich. If Osbaldeston was going to haunt Melton, there were bound to be other opportunities.

He changed the subject before Osbaldeston’s vulpine nose picked up the scent of a scandal. “Care to lay odds, gentlemen, on who mounts Violet as his mistress next? And perhaps more intriguing, who’s going to enjoy the tender morsel she’s grooming? Ethereal little thing with a cloud of silver-blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.”