A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (7 page)

“Then it sounds as if I shall have no trouble fitting in,” broke in Marquand.

His friend fell tactfully silent.

The coach bounced around a bend in the road. “What do you suppose they are hunting?” asked the Viscount, indicating two men on hands and knees in the middle of a broad swath of cropped grass. From a distance, they appeared to be poking about in a thick patch of willow herb and whin with several long, thin sticks. “Surely with the amount of racket they are making, any rabbit will have long since gone to ground.”

There was a hoot of laughter. “They are hunting a golf ball. That, my dear Adrian, is the hallowed links of St. Andrews.”

“Hmmph.” Marquand crossed his arms. “Not much to look at. Why, there’s hardly a tree in sight. What’s all this nonsense about hazards and strategy? Looks to me like there’s precious little to prevent you from simply standing up and giving the ball a sound whack straight ahead and straight back.”

“Indeed?” murmured Ellington with a wicked grin. “I shall remind you of those words in a week’s time.” “Hmmph.”

A short while later they rolled through the West Port arch and down South Street, past several intersections before turning right onto a snug street lined with linden trees. On both sides were a row of pleasant town houses, their weathered granite facades still wet from a passing shower. Modest in scale, the residences looked to have a solid, if not spectacular, comfort. Ellington consulted a piece of paper he had drawn from his coat pocket, then glanced again out the window.

“There it is up ahead, Number Eighteen.” He pointed to one with a large brass knocker in the shape of a thistle that distinguished it from its neighbors. “The housekeeper comes highly recommended and has already hired a staff suitable for our needs. Bowmont has also written to several of his acquaintances in town of our arrival so that we may expect to dine out several nights a week.” “Hmmph.” Marquand knew he should muster more enthusiasm than that. Tony had gone to a great deal of effort to secure decent lodgings and staff for their extended stay while he had been occupied with arranging his affairs for such a long absence. But the fact of the matter was, he was feeling even less sanguine about the prospects of this whole endeavor now that they had arrived. The task which had seemed daunting enough in London now appeared, in light of countless hours of rumination on the way north, to be a fool’s errand.

“Of course, August is hardly the height of the Season, and such entertainment as it is, especially here in Scotland, will hardly match the sort to which we are accustomed to in London. But Bowmont has assured me that he means to see us introduced to local Society . . .” His friend kept up a stream of pithy comments, but Marquand could not help but find his thoughts straying back to his own bleak reflections.

Fool, indeed! His lips compressed in a tight line. Nobody but a fool would imagine he could master a complicated sport in a few short weeks, much less best an opponent who had been playing the game for years. No, to have any hope of success, he would have to be extraordinarily lucky, and the thought of such dependence on serendipitous chance, rather than his own hard work, galled him no end. He had spent most of his lifetime as an unwilling thrall to the Lady of Fortune, witnessing how fickle her attentions could be. His father might have chosen to make her his mistress, but he had always sworn he would never be seduced by such promiscuous charms.

The coach creaked to a stop, and Marquand realized he hadn’t heard a word of what Ellington had been chattering about for the last few minutes. Quelling the urge to order the coachman to turn right around toward London without so much as setting a foot on the slippery cobblestones, he sighed and made to follow his friend in climbing down to the street.

“Come now, Adrian, you are not usually one to shy away from a challenge. Stop looking so mutton-faced!"

The problem was, he felt just like a sheep being led to slaughter.

Philp sucked in a mouthful of pungent smoke and ran a hand along the edge of his jaw. He sat for what seemed like an age, staring at the figure standing in front of him before finally speaking. “Turn around.” Marquand’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation but he did as he was told.

“Hmmm. Now face me again, if you please.” When the Viscount had complied, he went on. “Bend forward slightly from the waist, sir, and let your arms hang straight down.”

“What the deuce am I, an ape on display at the Tower Menagerie?” growled Marquand under his breath. He fell silent on catching a warning look from Ellington but his expression didn’t hide what he thought of the proceeding so far. His misgivings were only exacerbated when Philp came over and gave his wrists a shake. “Looser, sir. You must relax.” When he had complied, the older man wrapped the Viscount’s unresisting hands around a tapered stick.

“I thought you were going to teach me about golf,” he said with some impatience. “In case Bowmont did not make it clear, I have precious little time in which to gain any proficiency in the sport, so I would prefer not to waste even a morning of it.”

Philp only gave an enigmatic smile and continued to make a number of marks on the length of hickory with a piece of chalk.

However the slender figure seated in the shadows of the workroom gave an undisguised snort of derision. “Perhaps the gentleman has no more brains than a monkey, Mr. Philp, if he has so little faith in your knowledge and expertise.” The words were spoken just loudly enough for Marquand to hear them. “As you have often said, even a monkey may be taught to strike a golf ball. But to be a real player he must be willing to listen and learn. And trust that his teacher knows what he is talking about.”

“Derry,” warned Philp in a low voice as Ellington stifled a chuckle.

A faint flush rose to the Viscount’s cheeks. “Who is the brat?”

“Don’t take offense, sir,” murmured Philp as he straightened and began to measure the width of Marquand’s palm and the length of his fingers with a piece of narrow canvas tape. “The lad may have a sharp tongue”—he directed another pointed look at Derrien— “but he possesses a knowledge of the game that is equally well-honed. He’s going to serve as your caddie these coming weeks.”

“The devil he will! If you think I’m going to allow some impudent—”

“Ahem.” Ellington cleared his throat with deliberate loudness, causing the Viscount to bite off the rest of his retort. “Mr. Philp does come highly recommended, Adrian, and we are quite fortunate to have his help. I think we may trust his judgment in matters of golf.” Marquand fixed Derrien with an icy glare but remained silent. Her look of disdain was much more obvious, however a sign from Philp to bring over a bundle of unfinished clubs forestalled any further comment from her lips as well.

“And though you may chafe at the delay, my lord, a set of clubs tailored to your stance and height will greatly add to your chances of performing well. After all, you wouldn’t attempt to ride to the hounds in a pair of boots several sizes too large, or a saddle whose girth was too tight around your hunter, would you now?”

The Viscount acknowledged the sense of Philp’s words with a curt nod. “Your pardon, Mr. Philp. I did not mean to imply I doubted your expertise, and I shall try to refrain from questioning your methods,” he said rather stiffly.

“One of my men will finish up a number of these to your specifications by morning, sir,” continued Philp, picking out a selection of scrapers, middle spoons, and cuttys from Derrien’s arms. “In the meantime, if you return here this afternoon at two, I shall take you out back of the shop and we may begin working on the rudiments of the stance and swing.”

Despite the assurances he had just uttered, Marquand couldn’t refrain from another sharp question. “Why not out on the course? I am anxious to see what a real fairway—or whatever the deuce it is called—is like.”

Philp smiled. “In good time, my lord, in good time. When you see the sort of exercises I have in mind, you will not object in the least to our first lesson taking place in a more private venue.”

Marquand took his snugly tailored jacket back from Ellington and slipped it back over his fine linen shirt.

“Oh, and it would be best to wear a loose-fitting shirt, with only a Belcher neckerchief, as well as a shorter jacket, sir. You are going to be . . . exerting yourself more than you might think.”

“More likely he’s used to starched shirtpoints that come up past the ears and a cravat that requires half the Royal Navy to tie in a knot.” Derrien snickered from behind Philp’s back.

The Viscount pretended not to hear the remark, though in truth it took a concerted effort to stop himself from informing the impertinent little urchin that he had never in his life dressed as such a ridiculous poppinjay.

Ellington’s hand on his shoulder quickly propelled him toward the door, ensuring that he could have no second thoughts about remaining silent. “Er, thank you, Mr. Philp. I shall have his lordship back here promptly at two.”

It took a discreet elbow to Marquand’s ribs to elicit a civil good-bye from him as well. Once they had reached the street, he turned and regarded his friend with a look of bemused surprise. “What has got into you lately,

Adrian? I don’t believe I’ve seen you display your pique like that in all the years I’ve known you. Lord, you are usually the very picture of control, and not at all given to any show of emotion. But since we left London, I vow, you have been most unlike your regular self.”

“Sorry, I—”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” His lips quirked upward. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing at all. You know, your work fairly blossoms with exuberance and life, and yet, if you don’t mind me saying, in public you choose to appear a . . . rather dry stick, though I know you are not.” Ellington hesitated for a moment and slanted a look of concern at his friend. “There is nothing wrong with allowing an occasional curse to shoot forth. A laugh or two might serve to lighten your spirits as well.”

Marquand clamped his curly-brimmed beaver more firmly on his dark locks. “Hmmph! It’s hardly a laughing matter. My entire future is riding on a damnable game of golf! Not to speak of the other undertaking I must finish while I am here.” He shook his head. “However you’re right about losing my temper back there. It’s absurd to let some muddy-faced urchin with a tongue as loose as that floppy tweed cap on his head get under my skin.” He walked on for a few more steps before another snort escaped his lips. “Hmmph! The notion that a pipsqueak of a lad could teach me anything . . His words trailed off into an unintelligible grumble that went on until they turned the corner. Suddenly the Viscount stopped in his tracks. “This Mr. Philp seems to have some decidedly odd ideas. You do not think he is truly out to make a monkey of me?” he demanded.

Ellington pursed his lips. “I cannot think Bowmont would suggest him if he was. Jamie wants to see Hertford beaten nearly as badly as you do, and it’s clear he thinks very highly of Mr. Philp. No, I believe we may trust this man.” He slanted a sideways glance at Marquand’s frowning face. “Adrian, I also believe that you are going to have to get used to a number of odd notions here in Scotland, if you wish to have any hope of securing your future ... happiness.”

The Viscount’s expression darkened to match the low clouds scudding in from the sea. “I shall do my best, you may count on it.” Under his breath he added, “But that doesn’t mean I shall like it in the least.”

That evening a weary Marquand couldn’t help but wonder if his best was going to be anywhere near good enough. Easing his lanky frame into the overstuffed chair by the banked fire in the library, he rubbed absently at his aching shoulder while contemplating the lunacy of embarking on such a cork-brained quest. Not only had he looked like a monkey for the past several hours, but he had felt like the verriest of fools. Why, he must have appeared a complete cawker, with his ungainly movements and precarious balance.

He winced on recalling his more awkward cuts at the little ball lying on the turf. Good Lord, he had actually missed it outright on several occasions, and it wasn’t even moving! It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up on his rump, for he had nearly lost his footing on a number of swings. How his friends would have whooped with laughter to see one of London’s leading Corinthians stripped down to his shirtsleeves, flailing furiously at a perverse little sphere of stitched leather that refused to budge from the stubbly grass.

But worse than merely looking like an idiot was the disquieting feeling that perhaps he was not up to meeting the challenge, both physical and mental. Excelling at such sporting endeavors as riding, boxing, shooting, and cricket had always been easy for him, so he supposed he had taken it for granted that he would learn golf with little difficulty. The past afternoon had been a rude awakening. He had been awful. Truly awful. That the game looked so maddeningly simple only exacerbated his sense of frustration.

Hell’s teeth. What was he going to do?

If things didn’t improve rapidly, he might as well slink home with his proverbial tail between his legs, for ignominious defeat, and with it the loss of his beloved Woolsey Hall, seemed inevitable. With a bitter grimace, he raked a hand through his still-damp locks, then rose a bit stiffly and went to pour himself a generous glass of the local spirits. As the heat of the whiskey rolled over his tongue, he couldn’t help but feel in danger of being drowned by a fear far deeper than failure.

Was he a coward as well? A number of Ellington’s recent words echoed in his ears. Much as he wished to deny it, his friend’s sharp observations had begun to chop away at the carefully constructed walls that guarded his true feelings. He had always prided himself on the ability to keep all emotions locked safely away, but perhaps, as Ellington hinted, he had only created a prison rather than a place of refuge. His hands came up to rub at his temples and he found the fiery brew was having little effect on the cold knot that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

With all the precision of a skilled architect, he had drafted a plan for his future, sketching in the exact measurements of its main components with an eye to making an impregnable structure. His bride-to-be could not fit in more perfectly, and yet somehow, as his friend forced him to stand back and scrutinize the whole, the proportions of what he had wrought were looking slightly out of kilter. He shook his head, as if a slight jiggling could serve to straighten everything back to its proper place. But still, he could not seem to erase the feeling that the foundations were not as sturdy as he imagined. Perhaps the uncharacteristic moodiness that had colored his behavior since their departure from London had as much to do with his own flawed choices as those of his father, and he was just too afraid to admit it.