“Now, now, Ver,” said Alvanley lightly. “Most of the men here were in on the betting at some point, myself included. Violet showed her off here, nicely togged out in a white silk dress fine enough for Almack’s. Have to confess, she’s a pretty thing. Made even
my
blood tingle, but if I’m bidding into the hundreds of guineas, it’ll be for a horse, not a filly.”
“I wonder what’s eating him, though,” asked Wilson, with an idle glance at Osbaldeston. “Think he’d be off riding his new filly.”
Osbaldeston’s eyes narrowed, and he rose to stalk over to them. “Are you discussing me?” he demanded, looking straight at Verderan.
“We were discussing cattle auctions and riding,” Verderan drawled. Unfortunately, Wilson sniggered.
“Suppose you’re bitter you missed the sale,” snapped Osbaldeston, his face going even redder. “I made sure of it, Verderan. My country, my covert, my vixen.”
“Then please go hunt her,” Verderan said dismissively, merely completing the hunting analogy.
Osbaldeston’s fist slammed down on the table, making the men’s glasses bounce. “What the devil do you mean by that!”
The room fell quiet. Verderan looked up coldly at his old enemy and was surprised by the lack of any desire to kill him. He was angry, yes, but not nearly as angry as the same affront would have made him only weeks ago. “Do that again and I’ll break your hand,” he said flatly. “I meant nothing of significance.”
Alvanley moved his glass from proximity to Osbaldeston’s fist. “Wondering why you’re not off enjoying your new filly,” he said. “That’s all.”
Osbaldeston flicked a glance his way, but didn’t reply. His attention swung back to Verderan as if drawn by a magnet.
Verderan couldn’t resist. “Been gulled, George?”
He held his opponent’s eyes, seeing him long to make another violent gesture; seeing him fight it. Osbaldeston knew that Verderan didn’t make idle threats, and if it came to a fight now it would be just the two of them. They were both crack shots. The winner would be in doubt.
With a visible effort Osbaldeston relaxed and took a light tone. “Not at all,” he said. “A rare piece of blood. But one has to go easy on a newly broken filly, you know. Can’t ride her like a five-year-old.”
“’Course not,” said one man who had obviously not been following the conversation. “Mount’d peck at the first in and out.”
A gale of laughter broke the tension and Osbaldeston was drawn into another group, but not without a vicious look at Verderan.
“What is it with you two, Ver?” asked Alvanley as he led a three of hearts for the next trick.
“Old history,” Ver said. “The gods have been kind and we haven’t clapped eyes on each other for years.” He put up his king and looked over to see Osbaldeston sitting next to Felix Grantwich at the Hazard table. It was a pairing he didn’t care for. Two new arrivals caught his attention, however. They were mere acquaintances, but they were very wet.
“It’s bucketing,” they gasped as club servants hurried forward with towels. “Roads are rivers of mud and it’s dark as Hades!”
“Got a corner for me here, Craven?” asked Verderan.
Henry Craven gathered in the trick. “’Course, old boy.”
When he cantered along towards Hume House at nearly midday the next day, Verderan was feeling at peace with the world. The night at the club had shown him that his taste for the wilder adventures of the younger set was definitely gone and unlamented. It had also, he hoped, shown that his temper was now under control. If he could endure five heated minutes with Osbaldeston without a fight perhaps he was going to settle down to being a quiet, sober gentleman. That would be a nine days’ wonder.
The weather, in fact, was not conducive to these mellow thoughts. The rain had stopped, but the sky was grey and heavy and everything was either dripping or soggy. It hardly mattered.
Verderan was merely bothered by the question of how soon he could see Emily Grantwich again, how she would react, and how soon it would be reasonable to ask her to marry him. A few weeks at least.
He rode Beelzebub round to the stables and entered the house through a side door. He was somewhat surprised to hear voices from the library. He wondered who his guests were and what they were making of Kevin Renfrew.
He opened the door and found Chart, Harry, and Cornwallis playing cards and drinking claret, all very much at home. Renfrew was nowhere to be seen.
He raised a brow.
“Hello, Ver,” said Chart cheerfully. “Rotten weather. Made a dash over here last night. Corny’s roof leaks.”
That young man expressed deepest apologies.
“Not at all,” said Verderan. “Does this roof
not
leak? It hasn’t been tried since I moved in, and it would be the only part of the house in good repair.”
“Not in my room,” said Chart blithely.
“Hope you don’t mind,” said Harry, just a little ill at ease. “Thing is, it’s closer to here than to Melton or Oakham, and no guarantee there’d be a vacancy there this time of year. We brought the man that looks after Corny’s place and Chart has Quincy with him, so we’re helping out.”
Verderan wondered what three new guests and two new staff were doing to Mrs. Greely, but couldn’t shake his mellow feeling. “I’m glad of the company,” he said, and found he meant it. “This is a gloomy house. Where’s Renfrew?”
“Don’t know,” said Harry. “He came down when we arrived about midnight—wearing the most amazing yellow satin thing—fixed up rooms for us, then went back to bed. Haven’t seen him since. Strange fellow.”
“Always was,” said Chart. “Harmless enough, though.”
Verderan told them to make themselves at home, which seemed superfluous, and went to check out the situation. To his surprise he found Mrs. Greely in high gig with two new servants to command, though he noticed she was careful in her handling of Quincy, Chart’s superior but accommodating valet. He wondered if the woman might not have been soured by simple boredom after years serving the misanthropic Casper Sillitoe.
At least his own man, Ludlow, should now have a crony below-stairs.
He arranged with Mrs. Greely for extra supplies to be brought in, and when she told him “young Mr. Renfrew” had said she should have two extra maids and she’d sent for her sister’s girls, he didn’t argue.
He then went up to the garrets and discovered the roof did in fact leak, but only slightly in two places, both of which had basins beneath to catch the drips.
He returned to the lower floors, whistling. The place was becoming quite bearable. Hume House was going to make a perfect hunting box with a little refurbishing, and he supposed Emily might like to have a house close to her family home.
When he had changed into fresh clothing he thought he might as well see what his uninvited guests were up to. The trio were trying out the old billiard table and cheerfully announced that the rips in the baize merely made the game more exciting.
“Men after my own heart,” said Verderan, and watched in amusement as they calculated shots not only to hit the correct ball but to avoid the hazards.
After a while he said, “Not that I’m trying to throw you out, but do you intend to see to the fixing up of Cornwallis’s place?”
“Corny’s riding over later,” said Chart as he lined up to pocket a red off a side cushion. “Roof leaked in a score of places, though. We’d wondered why the old lady lived on the ground floor.”
Verderan saw that Cornwallis was feeling an intruder. “You’re entirely welcome here,” he said to the portly young man. “I appreciate the company. You may as well take your time and have the roof fixed properly before moving back in.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Cornwallis.
“Yes,” said Harry, and cocked his head. “Hope you mean it about appreciating company, Ver,” he remarked. “I hear a coach. Expecting someone?”
“These days I expect anything,” said Verderan, and went out to the hall. Deciding he might as well take charity to extreme lengths, he saved his servants’ legs and went to open his own front door.
A curricle lurched up to the door over the pitted drive and came to a listing stop in a well-worn depression. It was driven by George Osbaldeston and his passenger was Violet Vane. The groom leapt down from the back to hold the horses and the occupants climbed down.
Verderan waited for them without a greeting. He could see Violet was nervous, which showed she had some sense. Osbaldeston had a nasty expression of self-satisfaction, which usually meant he thought he had someone in his power.
“Good day to you, Verderan,” he said.
“And to you exactly the sort of day you deserve,” Verderan replied. “Lost your way?”
“Found it, more like,” said Osbaldeston, taking Violet’s arm and leading her forward to where Verderan stood. Dragging her might be more apposite.
Violet was dressed very smartly in her characteristic shade of purple, a high feathered bonnet on her glossy curls. She still looked unmistakably like a whore.
“I’m sorry, Violet,” drawled Verderan. “I thought I’d made it clear that I’m no longer interested in your services. If you need a reference—”
She sucked in her breath. “You scheming Irish bastard,” she hissed. “You’ve stolen my girl. If you want her, you pay for her and you pay double!”
Verderan slid an amused glance to his old enemy. “Oh dear, George. You have been gulled, haven’t you?”
Osbaldeston’s hands clenched. “We just want the girl back, Verderan,” he said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea where she is,” responded Verderan in a bored tone. “I have no interest in her whatsoever.”
“Oh, really?” sneered Violet, her careful accent slipping slightly. “I haven’t forgotten you sweet-talking her—straight out of my bed! She begged a lift out of Melton yesterday with a carter and we’ve tracked her. The last news we have leads her straight here!”
Verderan merely quirked a brow. “Why the heat? If George bought her and she’s skipped, it’s his problem, not yours.” Then he smiled. “Or did you take his note? My dear Violet, I always thought you had a head for business.”
Violet was turning puce. “It’s none of your affair!” she said shrilly. “I was only doing the chit a favor, introducing her to a better class of gentleman. I was only claiming my expenses back and getting her a cut to set her up ...” She trailed off and looked over his shoulder. Her eyes grew round and her color deepened. “You almost had me fooled, you bastard.”
Guessing what he would see, Verderan turned. Kevin Renfrew was coming down the wide staircase, chatting amiably to the lady on his arm—a tiny, stylishly dressed female with an aureole of silver-blonde hair and big blue eyes. “I think you’d better come in after all,” he said with a sigh, and led the way.
Violet surged forward. “Why, you little slummer—”
Verderan gripped her arm. “We will all behave with decorum, I think.” He looked over at the ethereal couple. “Come here.”
Emily spent the morning expecting a summons from her father and fresh recriminations, but nothing occurred. Because of the continuing rain followed by universal wetness she decided to stay at home and attend to domestic tasks and bookkeeping, but unfortunately these left too much time to think.
He had said he
wanted
to kiss her. No matter if he said later it was a mad impulse, for a moment he had wanted to kiss her.
She really shouldn’t feel so radiant just because a rake wanted to kiss her, especially with his violent tendencies and his peculiar behavior to take into account. His mental instability was very sad but probably incurable.
As Emily was sitting at her desk chewing the end of her pen and staring sightlessly at a ledger, Junia scratched and entered bearing a tea tray.
“Are you very busy, Emily?” she asked. “I thought we could have a little chat. Such dismal weather.”
“I could welcome a break,” said Emily, smiling. But she was wary. It had not escaped her that during dinner the previous night and afterwards, Junia had not once mentioned Piers Verderan or Emily’s flight to her room.
They sat beside the leaping, crackling fire and sipped the tea. “I wondered how you were feeling,” said Junia. “Last night you seemed a little overset.”
I knew it, thought Emily. “Mr. Verderan is a very over-setting person,” she said.
“I find him quite pleasant,” Junia countered. “But then I have age on my side.”
“I am hardly a green girl,” Emily said sharply, remembering her father’s comments.
“You still seem young to me,” replied Junia. “So, what did Piers Verderan say, or do, to overset you, dear?”
Emily took another drink from her cup and thought of all sorts of evasive answers, but then she admitted in a mumble, “He kissed me.”
No shock. No outrage. “Was it pleasant?” Junia asked.
Emily almost choked. “Junia!”
“It seems a perfectly reasonable question to me. If you liked it, that means one thing. If you didn’t, it means another.”
“I liked it,” admitted Emily reluctantly. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that he’s mad and bad. So, what does that mean?”
Junia smiled. “I think it means that you should follow your heart, not what people say.” She picked up the pot and refilled their cups. “I knew his parents, you know, and over the years I’ve followed the family gossip in an idle kind of way. When he turned up here I fired off a few letters and I’ve had replies. He may be bad but he ain’t mad.”
Emily stared at her aunt. “Junia, it’s almost as if you’re trying to push us together. He isn’t . . . he can’t be
interested
in me in that way. He’s just amusing himself.”
“Time will tell,” said Junia. “And that is for you to work out together. I merely think you should know that he isn’t known to be insane, and it’s possible he is not as wicked as he’s made out to be.”
“But you admitted he was bad,” Emily pointed out.