Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

“Heaven forfend!  Where is your aunt now?  Surely she has not allowed you out in the world alone?”

“No, unfortunately not.  She has remained in London, but I have an elderly cousin to bear me company.  She has gone just now to procure my water, but I warned her to take her time.  She will not dare to return whilst you are beside me.”

“Then I shall speedily remove myself.”

“Please don’t.”

He raised one quizzical brow, “Why did you call me over here?”

“You looked as bored as I – and you are quite the handsomest man I have encountered in Hanbury.”

He rose to his feet, grinning unkindly, “Bored yes, handsome, no!  You ought to behave yourself, Miss.  Before you can blink an eye, you are going to be up to your neck in trouble.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” she replied fervently.  He laughed and walked away to rejoin his friends.

*

CHAPTER SEVEN

(“In Cauda Venenum” – Watch out for the part you cannot see; literally, “In the tail is the poison”)

Observing Underwood’s grim visage, Toby was loath to break in upon his thoughts, but since they were so seldom completely alone, he had to take the opportunity when it arose, “Mrs. Underwood is growing restive.  She wants to know when we are to move into Windward House.”

Raising his eyes, but not lifting his chin from his chest where it rested, Underwood grunted non-committally.  It was late and he was sprawled comfortably in Mrs. Trent’s rocking chair before the kitchen fire.  The rest of the household was long abed and he and Toby were discussing the next step in their campaign.

“You are going to have to make a decision, my friend.”

Underwood took a long pull at the drink he held in his hand, then answered,

  “I have made the decision – the difficulty is explaining it to Verity without frightening her.”

“We are not going there then?”

“We most certainly are not!  If anything were to happen in our new home which we were unable to keep from my wife, then her peace there would be forever shattered.”

“Very true.  But how can we delay departure?  She grows more eager with every passing day.  She is desperate that the baby be born there – and she thinks all unpleasantness is at an end, since she believes nothing more has happened.”

“Something must be found to be wrong with the house.  Can you not find a hole in the roof or rats in the cellar?”

Toby grinned, “Rats in the cellar, by all means!  No lady would dare enter until they were cleared.  I’ll see to it tomorrow.  In the meantime, what do you intend to do about the invitation from Mr. Rogers?  I would have assumed it would see the back of the fire, but I know your mind does not work as other men’s do.”

“You are quite right, it does not.  Mr. Rogers shall have the pleasure of my company at his ball and firework display.  But unfortunately Verity will not be well enough to attend.  Do you mind very much missing the party and bearing her company for the evening?”

“Not at all.”

It transpired that Verity was to have more company than Toby alone.  Gil also felt he could not attend the party, for two reasons.  One was that Catherine was getting no better, her supposed quinsy had turned out to be no such thing, and the doctors were baffled.  His second reason was simple; he roundly despised Rogers, and refused to accept his hospitality.  Even this decision, however, was not so easy to make, for he was immensely fond of Mrs. Rogers, and she, in theory at least, was the hostess.  Once again he was forced to use Catherine as an excuse, and he was not proud of himself for doing so.

Dr. Russell, naturally, was only too delighted to bear Underwood company, for though the family, of course, were continuing with their daily lives, he was considering his stay in the light of a holiday, and was enjoying every moment of the entertainments Hanbury had to offer.

Gil took the precaution of hiring a conveyance for his brother and Dr. Russell.  He had no wish to witness the spectacle of Underwood driving to and from Hanbury Manor in his usual cow-handed manner, especially as it would be dusk on the outward journey and moonlight on the return.  The brother of Mrs. Trent’s late husband would perform the service admirably, for he had once been an ostler and still kept a carriage and horses for just such occasions, though he acted only for very special clients, having officially retired years before.

Hanbury Manor was a sight to behold when Underwood and Dr. Russell approached it, with every window lit and music already drifting across the gardens and surrounding fields.  Voices and laughter added the atmosphere of jubilation.  The setting sun stained the darkening sky with slashes of red and purple, and the evening star already shone, as though to show its brilliance before the moon rose and stole its thunder.

As he entered the magnificent hallway, Underwood decided he was going to enjoy himself more than he had been imagining.  Many friends were gathered there to greet him and he noticed each one in turn and with growing pleasure.  The Wablers were all surrounding Lady Cara, vying for her attention, as she flirted with her fan and laughed at their elaborate gallantries.  Mr. and Mrs. Gratten, with their eldest daughter Georgiana, were chatting to Lady Hartley-Wells and her companion Miss Cromer.  Adeline Thornycroft was talking, apparently quite happily, to Rogers, not in the least put out by her husband’s pursuit of Lady Cara Lovell.  She knew where his heart really lay and no amount of flirting was ever going to change that fact.

The advent of the newcomers was greeted with delight and Underwood soon found himself borne off to join the dancers in the ballroom.  Dr. Russell renewed his London acquaintance with Mrs. Rogers and Jeremy complained vociferously when Lady Cara claimed Underwood for the first dance, wilfully ignoring his protests that he never indulged.

The steps of the dance continually moved the pair apart, a circumstance which Underwood found intensely wearing, but which delighted Lady Cara, allowing her to say outrageous and provocative things, but then not having to face the embarrassing consequences until the dance brought them together again several moments later, by which time the sting had been removed.  This was one of the things Underwood hated about dancing, for he always thought of a witty reply just too late to deliver the riposte, and by the time he re-met his partner, the moment was long gone.  He felt, quite rightly as it happened, that he did not shine on a dance floor.  He was far too self-conscious, convinced that every eye in the room must be upon him, whilst in reality, he rarely merited a second glance because his dancing was so uninspired.

“I had no idea Hanbury contained anyone quite like you, Mr. Underwood.  You are a revelation, my dear sir.”  They naturally moved apart at this point and Underwood watched her glide away from him, a stunned expression on his face.

“What did you mean by that?”  he asked, as she floated back towards him, several seconds later, “By what?”  she asked innocently.

“That I am a revelation.”

“Did I really say so?  How very impertinent of me.  You must think me quite, quite incorrigible.”

Underwood had no opinion of her whatsoever, except that she was damnably difficult to converse with, but he had no chance to tell her so, for the steps swept her away again.

“Tell me, sir, would you rather be dancing, or walking with me on the terrace I noticed outside these very windows?”

“Walking,” he asserted succinctly, as she departed.  He would have preferred to point out that he would rather be doing anything in the world rather than clod hopping around a highly polished floor, but time forbade his expanding upon this theme.  It was therefore impossible to resist her drawing him towards the tall windows when at last his torture was over.  Leaning against the stone balustrade he breathed deep of the cold evening air, more from relief than any other cause.  She stood beside him, her back to the view, her eyes fixed on his face.  She felt it was a physiognomy full of character; the forehead was perhaps a little high, the nose a little long, but an intelligent face, the grey eyes humorous and kindly, the lips sensuous.

“Do you find me beautiful, Mr. Underwood?”  she asked suddenly.  He glanced sharply down at her, then grinned.  He had a vague notion she knew he was married and was merely being provoking – as indeed she had been all evening.

“Good God, no!  You are not my style at all, young lady.”

She thought he was flirting, and was delighted with his answer – so much more interesting than breathy, amorous declarations of unsophisticated boys.  She smiled in return, “Quite right!  You are not my style either.  We shall have to agree to find each other exceptionally unattractive.”

“It would be, by far, the safest thing,” he told her, with perfect gravity.  Lady Cara thought she had never met a more accomplished philanderer.  Her stay in Hanbury was looking set to be one of her more enjoyable adventures.  She could almost fall in love with this man, though she had assiduously avoided this foolishness in the past.  Her parents desired nothing more than marriage and babies for her, but she was determined to enjoy herself first.  She travelled about the country, tolerating only the company of her duenna because her father, indulgent as he was, would not hear of her complete solitude, and she stopped along the way as her fancy took her and for as long as her whim dictated.  She had met some very satisfactory men, though sadly the less money and position in life a man had, the more interesting he was forced to be.  The sort of prospective husbands of which her father approved were dead bores, but even the shallow and self-centred Lady Cara had more sense than to fall in love with a penniless rogue, even though she had led more than one to believe she might.  Underwood was different – very different indeed.  His apparent disinterest piqued her, his calm demeanour intrigued her, and his very presence attracted her more than she wanted to admit, even to herself.  She could see for herself that he cared nothing for convention, dressed, as he was, with his usual casual elegance, which showed he cared for his appearance, but not enough to prove he suffered a surfeit of vanity.  How could she know, never having been told, that he owed much of his present style to his loving Verity?  Lady Cara had only ever seen him alone, and she did not know anyone well enough to ask questions about him.  She had made the fatal error of assuming much and discovering little.  As for Underwood, it never occurred to him for a moment that this titled, rich, fashionable young woman had any interest in him at all, apart from her obvious friendliness.  The one thing he had vastly underestimated all his adult life was his curious attractiveness, and not only to the female of the species.  He wrongly thought that beauty in the male or female form was all that counted in romance.  The notion he might be far more riveting than some well-built Adonis would have both amused and shocked him.

“Tell me about Hanbury, Mr. Underwood.  Have you lived here for very long?”

“No, only a few months – but already it feels like a lifetime.  There is an aura about the place which suits my temperament.  The lack of true convention, the friendliness of the natives, the ever changing population – yes, I think of Hanbury as my home now, after many years of rootlessness.”

It was unfortunate that Jeremy should choose this moment to come to the window and call out to Underwood, for Lady Cara was about to remark upon his need for the solid roots only a wife can provide.  The interruption meant that she was to continue in ignorance of Verity’s existence for some time to come.

                 Jeremy hoisted Underwood off to the card room, though he knew Underwood never gambled, “I’m saving you from yourself, my dear fellow.”

“What the deuce do you mean by that?”

“Lady Cara Lovell,” commented Jeremy succinctly.

“What about her?” asked the ever naïve Underwood, genuinely puzzled by this remark.

“God!  Was there ever a man so slow on the uptake?” lamented the experienced ladies’ man, “She is on your trail, my friend, and she won’t quit until she has you cornered!”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, stop talking in riddles,” said Underwood testily.

“Very well.  I shall be as plain as I can be.  The woman wants you.”

Underwood laughed, “Now, that is where you are wrong, Thornycroft.  She told me herself this evening that I am not her ‘sort’.  Your trouble is, you don’t believe in Platonic friendships – for you there must always be a hint of romance.”             

“Take my word for it, Underwood, she’s never heard of Plato.”

There was already a game in progress when the two companions made their entrance into a small withdrawing room just off the hall.  Rogers, unsurprisingly, made one of the four players.  Underwood settled himself into an armchair and accepted a glass of wine from a hovering footman.  He had no intention of playing, but he certainly had no objection to watching the game for half an hour or so – it took him neatly away from the dance floor and gave him the chance to observe Rogers without being too obvious.

Elliott threw in his hand and happily allowed Jeremy to take his place at the table.  He had been assured that Miss Knight had sent her acceptance card and though she could always be expected to be tardy, she must, sooner or later, put in an appearance.  He took himself off to see if he could find her and persuade her to take a turn about the room with him.

The game was evidently being taken very seriously by those involved, and Underwood smiled to himself as his eyes raked the intense faces of the four young men about the table.  He wondered that a game of chance should stir such passion.  Surely the tactics of the battlefield could be no less vital.  Rogers especially was totally engrossed, his eyes flicking about, determined not to miss the dealing of a card of the reaction of the recipient of that card.  Perspiration bedewed his brow and there was the faintest tremor in his fingers when he reached for his cards.  He was losing – and losing heavily.  There came a moment when his pile of ivory counters was gone and he pulled a small notepad and silver pencil from his pocket.  Jeremy threw him a glance which even Underwood thought was chilling.  Suddenly he understood Thornycroft’s success as a soldier.  His eyes were as cold and dead as a fish – the eyes of a killer.  Thornycroft would never draw back from what he had to do – no matter what the consequences.  There was a smile on his lips, but the warmth never spread further than the glinting teeth.  It looked more like a snarl in the candlelight, “Don’t do it, my friend.  Don’t embarrass a guest under your own roof by offering a note of hand which you know can never be redeemed.”