A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (28 page)

Brewster’s slight frown indicated he was thinking much the same thing. He hurried over to the ball and bent down to check the marking.

“Ah ‘H’ with a dot below the crossbar—that’s our mark,” said Hertford’s caddie, shooting a sly smirk in Derrien’s direction. “You may see for yourself, sir.”

The judge straightened after a moment. “Yes, it appears it is,” he said grudgingly. His eyes narrowed with the suspicion that he had just been played for a fool, but since no one had witnessed any transgression, he was forced to allow the fortuitous discovery to stand. “In the future, both lads will wait for the rest of us to help with any search.”

The caddie bobbed his head in mock contrition. “Yes, sir.”

Marquand brushed a bit of sand from the sleeve of his jacket. “How extraordinarily lucky, Hertford,” he remarked dryly as the Marquess made his way toward the spot. “But then again, luck seems to have a way of appearing around you at the most opportune times.”

Several voices in the small crowd sounded in muted agreement with the not-so subtle implications of the taunt. Hertford’s face darkened but he made no reply. His next shot landed close to the green, and as Marquand also recovered from his spot of trouble, the hole ended in a draw.

“Luck my arse,” muttered Derrien when play was finished, this time drawing a strangled cough from the Viscount. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to let his thoughts—and eyes—shift to that interesting spot of her anatomy rather than remain focused on the task at hand. “It is no coincidence that Jimmy wears long trousers rather than breeches,” she added.

“Ah, is that how he did it?”

“Aye, I should have kept a closer watch, knowing what a weasel he is, but from now on, he’ll get away with no other tricks.” Her jaw set. “You’ve lost a hole because I didn’t do my duty well enough.”

Marquand wished he could hug her to his chest and tell her, in both words and action, how much her plucky loyalty meant to him, but all he dared was a quick pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret on it, Derry,” he said rather gruffly. “I have seen that look in a man’s eye on enough occasions, both in the ring at Jackson’s and facing the targets at Manton’s, to know what it means.” His lip curled upward. “Trust me, Hertford is beginning to get a little nervous.”

The match moved on to the seventh hole, where the Marquess edged ahead by sinking a long, snaking putt of over twelve feet. Marquand squared it on the next with a wonderful chip to within a foot of the hole, allowing him an easy tap in for par while his opponent needed an extra stroke to finish up. No blood was drawn on the ninth, and both the players and the spectators sensed the tension mount as the turn was made for home.

“Your friend is giving a good account of himself,” murmured Lord Bowmount as both Marquand and Hertford paused for some refreshment at a wooden crate set out with several earthenware jugs.

“Aye,” replied Ellington, noting with some interest that the Viscount sipped water while the Marquess took a long swig of ale. “But I don’t trust Hertford by half, Jamie. He has already cheated Adrian out of one hole and no doubt he has more tricks up his sleeve—or trouser leg.”

“We will have to hope that his caddie is a sharp lad, then, for—”

“You need not worry about Derry.” Philp took a moment to fill the bowl of his pipe and strike a flint. “You asked me to give Lord Marquand my best, and so I have.” He sucked in a mouthful of the fragrant smoke and let it out slowly. “Between the two of them, I have every confidence they’ll sort out the wheat from the chaff.” With that enigmatic statement, he moved off to answer a query on strategy from one of the other spectators.

Neither gentleman had much time to dwell on the master’s meaning, for Brewster called in a loud voice for play to begin on the inward nine.

It soon became evident that the Viscount’s observation had more than a grain of truth to it. Beneath the cocky sneers and smug grins for the benefit of his cronies, Hertford’s face began to take on a certain tautness around the mouth, and his step lost a bit of its swagger. The clever comments began to die away, replaced by a fierce silence between shots. And when he stepped up to his ball, there was none of the earlier casual nonchalance in his posture. On more than one occasion, when faced with a tricky shot, his knuckles went nearly white from gripping the club with such force.

Marquand repressed a smile. So the pressure, more acute for its unexpectedness, was getting to the man. That was good. Very good. It was clear his opponent had expected this to be no more taxing than a stroll in the park, but what he had thought was firm ground had quickly turned into a quagmire beneath his feet. A bar of Beethoven’s Ninth nearly escaped from the Viscount’s lips. If he could keep up his level of play, he was sure the Marquess would soon be sunk.

Derrien seemed to sense his thoughts. “Just stay relaxed, sir,” she counseled, dropping back to walk by his side on the way to the next hole. “And don’t think overly on the score, or the next holes. You have only to play steady and avoid any mistakes.”

She ventured a look up at him and flashed a tentative smile, but it was the expression in her eyes that was worth untold words of encouragement. He could see she truly understood that this wager was about so much more than mere assets changing hands between two gamesters.

How he was fighting to save not merely    a    fortune    but

something that resonated so much deeper in his soul— the chance to fulfill a lifetime dream.

Then in a rush, it came to him that    he    no    longer

wanted Woolsey Hall just for himself anymore. He had been blindly, idiotically wrong to have thought that his life had room for only one passion. Just as he had been a fool to think the power of such emotion was in any way diminished by its being shared. In truth, divided it only grew stronger.

His breath caught in his throat as he realized it was love he was thinking about.

He had carefully drafted plans for his future with all his usual attention to detail, determined to leave nothing to luck or chance, and love had made a mockery of such hubris. He had drawn a perfect model of his intended countess, but all the straight lines and precise angles had been knocked askew by a brat in breeches, with unruly golden curls and an exuberant smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

Luck? Why, right now he counted himself the luckiest man in the world—

“Sir . . . Sir!”

His head jerked up.

“I said, remember there is that large bunker, the Principal’s Nose, hidden by the swale on the right,” she said in a low whisper. “Make sure to aim well to the left.” Her words trailed off as she fixed him with an odd look. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Er, yes. Couldn’t be better, actually.”

Her brows tweaked up in some skepticism, but she forbore making her usual tart rejoinder and simply reminded him once again to keep his mind on the next shot, nothing more.

Hah! Easier said than done. But as he stepped up to hit his drive, a strange sort of calm came over him. The stitched featherie looked as big as a cricket ball, and before he drew the club back, he knew for certain that the shot would fly true. All at once he knew that he was going to win, not because of his superior skill but because he was feeling, well, inordinately lucky.

After all, the ace of diamonds had already turned up in his hands.

Both drives had been well struck, as had the second shots. The two balls lay close to each other, well within range of the fluttering flag. Marquand was determined to be a tad farther from the hole, so he stepped up to hit first. His club swept back with perfect timing, but just as it started down, a sharp jangle broke the silence. The Viscount flinched slightly, not much, but enough to pull the clubface off-line. The ball popped up weakly, dribbling barely past the fringe of the green.

‘Terribly sorry,” smirked Hertford. “Don’t know how I was so clumsy as to drop my coin purse.”

A low buzz of protest rumbled through the small crowd. Brewster scowled as well, but there was nothing he could do about the bit of gamesmanship other than to issue a pointed warning. “May I remind both of you gentlemen that golf is a game based on honor and sportsmanship. It is meant to be played within the spirit as well as the letter of the rules.”

The Marquess bowed his head, more to hide a nasty grin than from any true contrition. His shot landed within easy range of the hole. If he were to make what looked to be an easy putt, he would go up by one with only two holes left to play.

Marquand marched up to his ball and took his time in studying the slope of the ground and the grain of the grass, knowing that his only chance for a tie was to make what looked to be an impossible putt.

“A moment, sir, while I go pull the flag for you.” Derrien started out in a straight line, then suddenly swerved to the left, so as to approach the hole in a roundabout fashion. The change in direction caused her steps to cross directly in the line between Hertford’s ball and the hole. A slight trip caused her heel to dig deeply into the soft turf.

A howl of protest escaped from the Marquess as he realized what she had done. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the visible gouge. “The damn brat has ruined my shot! I demand to move my ball.”

“Just one moment, my lord,” said Brewster firmly as Hertford’s caddie made to bend down. “It is an unfortunate accident, sir, but you know quite well that the rules do not allow you to take relief from such a thing. You will have to play it as it lies.” Then, trying mightily to wipe the look of suppressed amusement off his features, he turned to Derrien and waggled a stem finger under her nose. “As for you, lad, you should know better than to tread in the line of a putt. See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the titter of the spectators had died away, Marquand took his putt, rolling the ball close enough that he had no trouble finishing out in two. Grabbing up his own putter with a muttered oath, the Marquess stepped up for his attempt to take the lead in the match. The alignment was dead-on, the speed was perfect and the ball started off straight toward the center of the hole. Then, as it hit the heel mark, it gave a little jig to the left and Hertford could only stare in white-faced fury as it missed the lip by a scant two inches.

“Terribly sorry, Hertford,” murmured the Viscount on brushing past the other man. “Don’t know how my caddie was so clumsy as to interfere with your shot.” He let out a mournful sigh. “Bad luck.”

Behind him, the dull thwock of the putter head caused the heel mark to become a good deal deeper.

The Marquess was not the only one venting his anger. The spectators had already moved ahead with Brewster to the next hole, leaving the players and their caddies to follow along, so when Marquand rounded a tall stand of prickly whin, there was no one to witness that the much larger Jimmy had the collar of Derrien’s jacket wrapped in his fist.

“Try sommink like that agin, an’ I’ll pound yer gob so deep in the mud, ye’ll be picking sand outter yer eyeballs fer weeks, Dirty Derry,” he growled. He had dropped all of his clubs but one, which cut through the air in threatening swipes, coming closer and closer to Derrien’s head.

Marquand started forward at a run, but before he could interfere, Derry’s knee came up with lightning quickness, catching the other caddie flush in the groin. With a high-pitched squeak, he dropped to the ground as if struck by a bolt from the heavens.

“If you are trying to keep my thoughts from dwelling too heavily on my game, you are doing an excellent job,” quipped the Viscount as his own hand took hold of her and hurried them past the whimpering lad. “Where on earth did you learn that?”

“Ahhh, Charles thought it might be a useful thing for me to know, seeing as I have occasion to wander the moors alone.”

Marquand found his estimation of Ferguson rose another notch. “Very useful indeed. But pray, stay close to me for the rest of the match. My physical prowess is being tested quite enough without having to excavate you from a bunker or fish you out of the sea.”

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped defensively. He stifled a chuckle. “Yes, I can see that, but still, let us not chance it. You see, I would really hate to have to lug around my own clubs.”

A grin chased away the lines of tension pulling at her mouth. “It’s only two more holes,” she teased back. “I’m sure you could manage by yourself.”

His hand gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Go it alone? No, I don’t think I care to try. For whatever it’s worth, we are in this together. Until the very end.”

It was worth a great deal. More than he would ever realize. She made a show of shifting the clubs from one shoulder to the other so that he would not notice the spasm of emotion his casual words had elicited. He could not know how much it meant to her that he, too, saw the two of them as a team, at least for next little while. Her throat suddenly tightened. And after that?

It didn’t bear thinking on.

She set her jaw, determined to heed her own advice about concentrating on the task at hand rather than thinking on the past or the future. There would be time enough for long reflection when he was gone from her life. But now, they had a match to win.

Marquand had already hit and Brewster had begun to stomp in some impatience by the time Hertford appeared, followed by his whey-faced caddie, who was moving in such a gingerly fashion that every few steps drew a bark of rebuke from the Marquess. The long spoon already in his hand, he took a practice swing, casting a murderous look at Derrien as the club cut a swath through the low stubble, before stepping up to make his drive. The ball bounced off into the low rough, but the Viscount’s effort had not been one of his better shots so neither man had the advantage.

It remained that way over the course of play. Marquand’s second shot found a pot bunker on the left, but Hertford failed to capitalize on the error by putting his own ball in a cart rut near the edge of the road. Both gentlemen took a shot to recover, so they reached the green all square. Two putts later, it remained that way, so the hole was halved.