A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (24 page)

“Thank you, Adrian.”

“Thank you,” he murmured under his breath.

Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he turned their steps back toward the main house. “Er, I hope that Miss Edwards will not be, well, too hurt by your Mr. Ferguson’s sudden defection. It appears they have a certain rapport that the young lady might see as something deeper than mere friendship.”

Honoria gave him a rather odd look. “I don’t think you need worry about that. I am quite sure Charles is not the gentleman for whom Miss Edwards has a developed a tendre."

“Oh.” Marquand mulled over her words for the next few steps. He found himself strangely relieved that the young lady’s heart did not appear in danger of being broken by the young professor, yet Honoria’s words were not quite the complete reassurance he would have liked.

If Miss Edwards did not feel any romantic inclination for her friend Charlie, then who the devil was she interested in?

From their vantage point on the raised terrace, Derrien and Ferguson could just manage a glimpse of the shadowed couple by the fountain if they moved to the far comer of the railing.

“What’s happening?” asked the young professor in a nervous whisper as he made a show of admiring the view out over the lake. “You don’t think the Viscount is the sort of man to . . . strike her in a fit of rage, do you?” Derrien ventured a peek through the tall rosebushes and caught sight of Honoria throwing her arms around Marquand’s neck. “Ahhh, it does not appear that you have need to worry about that sort of physical contact.”

She hesitated for a fraction. “In fact, neither of them seems angry in the least.”

Her observation caused him to abandon all pretense of detachment, and he rushed over so that he might take a look as well.

“Ahhhem.” He choked down a strangled cough. “Well, it looks as though Nora was right, and Marquand is not going to kick up a dust over the news.”

Derrien bit back a tart retort as she watched the Viscount return the embrace of his intended bride—former intended bride, she reminded herself with some vehemence—then skim his lithe fingers across the flawless skin of Honoria’s face. The gesture, though gentle and tender, made her feel as if she had been slapped.

What a fool she had been! To imagine that the Viscount was not in love with the beautiful young English lady, just because she wished it to be so, was absurd. More than absurd, it was hopelessly naive. Hadn’t Marquand himself remarked that relations between those of his social standing were . . . not something she would understand. She had clearly misunderstood his words on the golf course.

Why, look at what was right before her very eyes! She forced her gaze back to the two of them, feeling a sudden stab of jealousy at seeing Honoria still in his arms. At this moment, he was probably trying to change her mind with another gentle caress and a declaration of undying affection. And even if he did not convince her to give up Ferguson, his own heart would no doubt always be in thrall to such a paragon of perfection.

She blinked, surprised to feel the sting of tears against her lids. The state of Marquand’s heart was really of no concern to her, she reminded herself. She need only worry about such things as the strength of his arms or the stamina of his legs.

“You are a lucky fellow, Charlie, to be so sure of your lady’s feelings—and your own.” She said in a tight voice, stepping back abruptly from the screen of roses. “Good luck on the morrow. I wish you all the happiness in the world.” Giving a quick peck to his cheek, she turned and made to leave.

His head jerked around. “Wait! You aren’t really abandoning me to face them by myself?”

“I’m certainly not needed here.” Her eyes pressed closed once more, just for an instant. “And I’m afraid something in the night air has given rise to a nasty headache, so if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall ask Aunt Claire to take me home.”

“But—”

Leaving him no time to finish his pleading, she hurried off toward the open French doors.

Ferguson was still puzzling over her odd behavior when Honoria and Marquand appeared at the edge of the terrace and came up the steps. As the young professor shuffled in awkward embarrassment, the Viscount reached out and gave him a firm shake of the hand.

“Congratulations, Ferguson. I hope that you realize what a truly fortunate man you are.”

Before he could answer, Honoria stepped around to his side and slid her hand in his. “Charles,” she said, looking up at him with face aglow. “Adrian has been most noble about all of this, and wishes us nothing but happiness.”

He stammered a suitable thanks while returning her rapturous smile.

“Is not Miss Edwards here with you?” inquired Marquand after a moment, searching among the potted roses for any sign of the young lady. “I thought I might offer to escort her in to supper so that you two might have a bit more privacy.”

“You needn’t bother, sir. Derry said the evening chill was making her feel a trifle ill, so she’s gone home.” Loath to admit that they had indulged in a bit of spying, Ferguson omitted any mention of what they both had observed down by the fountain.

The Viscount’s brow creased slightly. “Ill? She didn’t seem in the least ill—” His words suddenly cut off. “What did you call her?”

Ferguson looked confused. “You mean Derry?” he repeated. “Why, it’s just an old childhood nickname that some of her good friends still use at times.

Marquand’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. Lord, what a devilishly odd evening! The night air must be affecting his own head as well, to have him imagining, even for an instant, that there was any connection. . . .

No. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

He cleared his throat, hiding his disappointment at finding her gone by carefully straightening the folds of his cravat. “Well, it is a shame that Miss Edwards—or Derry, or whatever she prefers to be called—has succumbed to some malady. I have the feeling that it is not often that she allows anything, most especially a mere megrim, to get the better of her.”

"Well, although you are not usually moved by adagios and crescendos, it appears last evening’s musicale has served to help banish the recent flatness in your mood.” Ellington picked up the newspaper and, with a small smile at the Viscount’s bent head, signaled to the lone servant to bring him some tea.

Marquand ceased his cheerful humming and looked up from his sketchbook. “What? Oh, er, yes.” He couldn’t help but grin. “I suppose I am feeling a bit more in harmony with things, Tony.”

Indeed, even though the streets outside their residence were enveloped in an oppressive gray fog so thick that its weight was nearly palpable, the Viscount felt as though some heavy mantle had been lifted from his own spirits, leaving him feeling more unfettered, more carefree than he had felt in ages. He nearly chuckled out loud. It made not a whit of sense—his carefully chosen bride was about to elope with another man, he was on the brink of losing his beloved Woolsey Hall, and the plans for the Duke’s gardens were still mere scribbles of ideas. And yet, the coil of worry that had tied him in knots of late seemed to have unaccountably fallen away. Somehow, he found he was almost looking forward to the challenges ahead. His pencil hovered for a moment in midair as it suddenly occurred to him what else it was that he was looking forward to.

Another meeting with the deucedly distracting Miss Edwards. Her moods were nearly as quixotic as the Scottish weather, yet her intelligence and her passion overshadowed all her snappish words and hoydenish behavior. She was hardly the pattern card of predictability that he had thought was desirable in a young lady, and yet she intrigued him.

No, that was not entirely correct. He had to admit that what he was feeling was more than—

“I take it your work is progressing well, then?” His friend had leaned over to glance at the rough drawings on the open page of the sketchbook.

Marquand’s thoughts were jerked away from his mus-ings. “Er, well, I must admit I am rather pleased with how everything is turning out so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” There was a faint rustling as Ellington turned to an article on the latest news from the Continent. He read on for a bit, then slowly laid the newspaper aside when the humming began anew, this time louder and distinctly recognizable as Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Ignoring the pot of tea whisked in from the kitchen, he fixed the Viscount with a quizzical look. “Adrian, if I didn’t know you better I would be sorely tempted to think you had been indulging in a wee nip of the local spirits before breakfast. It seems you are in remarkably good humor, given that along with everything else, on the morrow you are set to finally match up with Hertford on the links.”

The melody died away. “Well, now that the moment is at hand, there is precious little point in stewing over it. I shall just have to trust my newly acquired skills— and my caddie.”

“How very sensible.” With a slight shake of his head, Ellington made to pick up where he had left off reading, yet his expression clearly indicated that the sudden change in his friend’s disposition was still a matter of puzzlement. He forbore further mention of the subject, however, deciding that whatever the reason, the odd cheerfulness was a distinct improvement over the moody scowls Marquand had been wearing since they had crossed the border.

Both gentlemen waved away all but the simplest offerings from the cook and a comfortable silence descended over the meal, each one turning his attention to the paper in front of him. It was only when the servant returned a while later with fresh tea that the clink of china and faint notes of the Ninth Symphony were interrupted by a discreet cough.

“Yes, Rusher?” said Ellington, noticing that his friend didn’t even look up from his work. The man bent down and whispered something that caused the English lord to rise abruptly and follow him from the room. It was only a matter of minutes before Ellington returned and took his seat, though his expression betrayed the fact that the breakfast room was perhaps the last place on earth he wished to be at the moment.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat loudly enough that Marquand stopped his sketching.

“Is something wrong, Tony?” asked the Viscount mildly, on taking one look at his friend’s rigid countenance.

Ellington sucked in his breath. “I’m afraid I have just received some rather disturbing news.”

“What do you mean, they are gone!” Philp lay his file aside and hurried over to the crowded racks. “The Viscount’s clubs are always put away in the same place, Tommy.”

The lad pulled at a lock of the carrot-colored hair that spiked up from his brow. “I know werry well where them’s supposed to be, Mr. Philp, but have a look fer yerself. I tell ye, they ain’t here.”

The master checked along the entire row, needing only a quick glance at the myriad shafts and grips, all of his own handiwork, to verify that Marquand’s set of golf clubs was indeed missing. He continued on into the back room, and a deep frown slowly added another few wrinkles to his leathery face as he surveyed the small side door standing slightly ajar. Closer inspection revealed that the iron hasp had been pried away from the weathered wood, allowing someone to have entered the Argyle Street shop during the night.

“Hmmmm.” Philp reached into his pocket to pull out his pipe.

“Why, the dastard!” Derrien had appeared at his elbow and was now peering at the heavy padlock which hung useless from the damaged metal.

“It appears we have done our job a little too well.” He blew out another ring of smoke. “Alexander Cheape mentioned that he had overheard one of Hertford’s crones making inquiries of one of the lads as to the Viscount’s recent scores.” His eyes strayed to the splintered boards and a wisp of a smile played at his lips. “Apparently the numbers were not quite to his liking.”

“This is nothing to make a joke of, Hugh,” muttered Derrien. “How is Lord Marquand going to play without his clubs? There is no time for you to fashion another set—the match is to begin tomorrow at eight in the morning.”

“I am well aware of the seriousness of the situation.”

She bit her lip, feeling a sudden surge of outrage. All of them had worked too hard to let such a cowardly deed ruin everything. The Viscount simply couldn’t be allowed to be beaten in this manner. Not only had her dear friend Philp promised Lord Bowmont that they would do their best, but she had given her word as well, that she would do all in her power to see the dastardly Hertford defeated.

But it was not merely anger that caused her chin to jut out in defiance of the odds. She understood perhaps better than anyone what Woolsey Hall meant to Marquand, and how important it was to him to restore it to its former glory with his own hands. It was no matter that he had chosen another young lady to reign over it with him, she was determined to see him free to fulfill his dream.

The thought of the Viscount bringing his bride to his ancestral estate caused a lump to form in her throat. Oh, it was not going to be Miss Honoria Dunster, but it would be someone equally beautiful and polished. How could it not be, given his title and his position in Society?

Still, she wanted more than anything to help him win back his home. Far from being the arrogant, jaded, selfish gentleman she had expected him to be, Marquand had proven himself to be kind, capable, and intelligent. More than that, he had also revealed himself as a remarkable talent, possessing a sensitivity and creativity far beyond any she had ever dreamed of discovering in any man, much less an English lord. She had come to see him as a kindred soul. A friend.

She bit her lip. Actually she had come to see him as much more than that, despite all her previous resolve, and the utter hopelessness of her true feelings.

'Hugh,” she said in a steely voice. “I have an idea.”

“And what news is that?” Marquand’s eyes had already returned to the page before him.

“The devil take it, Adrian, this is deucedly hard to begin.” Ellington ran a finger around his collar. “That was one of Hylton’s servants at the door. He had an extremely urgent message regarding . . .” The words trailed off in some confusion. “Er, perhaps you should read the note that he brought.” His fingers hastily pushed the folded paper across the polished pine table as if it were a hot coal.