The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (22 page)

“Why must you always speak of him so—so—”

“Contemptuously?”

“And behind his back,” she snapped, her accusation losing some of its force since the damaged finger was at her lips.

“I say much worse things of him to his face,” he said, truthfully if not diplomatically. “And if you will cast your mind back, you’ll remember that I merely said if the man with the hound had resembled Valerian, you’d have been able to describe his looks in great detail.”

“A snide remark if ever I heard one! Do you fancy ladies can only describe handsome gentlemen?”

“I wait with bated breath to be proven wrong.”

Mary frowned and set two more stitches with care.

Amused, he watched closely and, as he’d anticipated, she hummed a little tune and the tip of her tongue touched her upper lip. He’d learned to recognize those signs of concentration and he smiled to himself. It was kind of her to have visited him again. And it was good of the General to permit an unwed girl to be alone with him, even if he was now classified as an invalid—which was ridiculous because, aside from a persistent headache, he felt perfectly well today. He thought sardonically that Great-Uncle Nugent was allowing this breach of manners willingly enough, hoping that Mary’s presence indicated she looked more favourably upon his nephew as a prospective bridegroom.

“He wasn’t very tall,” she murmured at length,

“Aha! We progress! Dark? Fair? Well-bred? Well-dressed?”

“If you keep nattering at me I’ll forget him altogether!”

He said meekly,
“Peccavi.
I shall natter not.”

“Good. I don’t think he was dark… especially… though I did notice that his eyes were dark. Certainly, he was well-bred, but—um—neat but not elegant, is how I’d describe his garments.”

“Which could describe a thousand gentlemen,” he commented impatiently. “Surely you can recall
something
of his features? A large nose, perhaps, or a scar on his cheek?”

“Or a cutlass between his teeth and a hunchback? Your ‘natter not’ didn’t last very long! If I cannot recall more details it was, I suppose, because he was so…nondescript.”

Nondescript. A prime quality for an Intelligence officer. Cranford frowned uneasily. God send Tio had received his warning. The individual he’d glimpsed in the coach and the man with the hound might not have been Joshua Pedlar, of course, but—

“If ’tis so important that you must scowl like a cannibal,” said Mary, watching him, “you should have asked Mr. Shorewood to describe the gentleman.”

“I intended to. But I very stupidly fell asleep. Do cannibals scowl?”

She laughed her musical little trill of mirth. “Good gracious, how should I know?”

“I thought there might have been some on your island.”

“Oh. Well, there were not. My natives were very gentle people, else I’d likely have been eaten long ago.”

“You’d not have provided many meals,” he teased. “You’re too small and thin.”

“I wasn’t then. Polite friends told me I was plump. Honest acquaintances said I was fat.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Like that.”

He chuckled. “Tell me about the natives. Did you have any friends amongst them?”

She slanted a sideways glance at him and he corrected, “Among the female population, I mean.”

“Ah. As a matter of fact—Oh, no! Now see what you’ve made me do!” She held up the shirt-sleeve, the ruffles firmly sewn together.

He laughed, and regretting it, instinctively raised a hand to his pounding temple.

“Serves you right,” she said. “There is no cause to make mock of a simple mistake. I think you want for gratitude.”

“No, but I truly am grateful, and it was a splendid effort, ma’am.” Sitting up, he said, “Never mind. Mrs. Turner will remedy matters.”

“I can remedy my own matters. I’ll have this undone in no time. Lie down again.”

“You are more than kind.” He stood and said with a smile, “But I really must be on my way.”

She stared at him blankly. “On your way—where?”

“Firstly, to see my brother and—”

“And fib to him that you fell off your lovely Tassels, I suppose.”

He bowed and restrained the impulse to hold his head on when he straightened up. “Besides which, I must call on Mathieson and discover the route they’ve laid out.”

“What fustian!” Standing to face him, she exclaimed, “You are white as a sheet and cannot seriously mean to ride in that stupid race?”

“But of course I shall ride,” he said gravely.

She clasped his arm and protested, “No, Piers! You heard ’the doctor forbid it! You must not!”

Touched by her anxiety, he smiled down at her and patted the small hand on his arm.

From the open doorway, General Lord Nugent said, “But he must, Miss Stansbury. Your solicitude for my grandnephew is appreciated.” Briefly, his gaze rested on the hand that clasped Piers’ arm. With a broad smile he reiterated, “Greatly appreciated, but there have been wagers placed, and Piers is promised to ride.”

Mary stepped back, and looking from one to the other, argued, “But what if this rain persists? They’ll postpone the race, surely?”

“I expect they will,” lied Piers, striving to ease her kind concern.

The General spoilt his effort, saying with a snort, “Nonsense! I hope the Steeplechase Committee is not so wits-to-let as to wait for a sunny day, else we’ll wait till the months lose their r’s!”

Mary said dubiously, “I suppose that would mean May, at the soonest. But Tassels is such a dainty lady. I think she is not what my father would term a—a mudder?”

“Nor is this a really gruelling cross-country race, m’dear,” argued the General. “’Tis a difficult course, I grant you, but at this time of year will be held to not more than five miles. Piers has accomplished much longer rides at the gallop, and under fire, to boot!”

“Even so, I am sure that if the Committee knew he had been shot they would never expect it of him.”

“I don’t want it known that I was so clumsy as to put my head in the way of a bullet,” said Piers quietly. “Besides, the race is to be run on Saturday. I cannot withdraw at this late date. Do you see?”

“I see that you are eager to be rid of me,” she grumbled, gathering up the sewing-basket she’d borrowed from the housekeeper.

“Never that. You are more than kind to have come and kept me company.”

Mary tossed her curls and walked to the door, where she paused and turned back. “Don’t expect me to come and see you fall off Miss Tassels.”

He chuckled. “Such a blunder would make your friend happy. Perhaps you should come.”

She stared at him. “My—friend?”

“Valerian,” he teased.

His great-uncle gave an exasperated snort.

“Oh—pooh!” exclaimed Mary, and left them with her small nose held high.

“My goodness! These modern damsels want for manners,” murmured the General, looking askance at the swing of her skirts. Recovering, he amended hastily, “But at least her mama has failed to crush all the spirit from her.”

“She has spirit and to spare,” agreed Piers.

Brightening, his great-uncle asked, “You like her?”

Piers said slowly, “She is a delight.”

The General rubbed his hands together happily. “By Jove, but that’s much better, my boy! You’ll win her yet, or I’m a Dutchman!”

“I tried to stop him.” Sitting beside Peregrine in the parlour of his comfortable flat, Zoe Grainger watched her brother hand Piers a glass of Madeira. “He was convinced something had happened to you,” she said. “If you’d not come just now, he would be on his way to Hampshire.”

Fully dressed, but looking very worn, Peregrine eyed his twin without approval. “You look as if you’d been dragged through a blackberry bush,” he said bluntly. “And what the deuce have you done with your hair? If that’s the latest style, I’ll not bow to it!”

Piers had been cautioned by the doctor not to wear powder, and had persuaded Lord Nugent’s valet to so arrange his thick hair that it would conceal the only partially healed gash on his head. Mrs. Turner had said the final effect was “charming.” Piers did not share the loyal housekeeper’s opinion, but it was the best they’d been able to achieve. “Unkind!” he said in an injured manner. “You should pay more heed to fashion, twin.”

“Fashion, my eye! Don’t try to fob me off! You’ve been in
a turn-up, or something of the sort. I sensed it yesterday, but when I sent Townes around to the Madrigal, they claimed not to have seen you since Tuesday.”

The blue eyes were stern. Piers abandoned his carefully constructed tale of a fall down some area-way steps. Perry was far from well yet, but the bond between them was too strong for him to be hornswoggled by an outright fabrication. He said, “It’s to do with this upcoming race.”

“Jupiter, but all the south country is wagering on it,” exclaimed Travis Grainger. “I’d give anything to be entered!”

Peregrine said, “I hear Tassels is a favourite. Are you still besieged by offers? Or did some enterprising rogue try to steal her?”

“I am most certainly still receiving offers. Even Gervaise Valerian tried to buy her. I refused, of course.”

“Does he mean to ride, then?” asked Zoe.

“So he says.”

Travis refilled Peregrine’s glass, then sat on the end of the sofa, still holding the decanter. Clearly taken aback, he said, “You never think
Valerian
tried to steal her?”

“That would be pointless,” said Peregrine. “Her colouring is too well known; he wouldn’t dare to ride her.”

“Is it possible,” asked Zoe, “that he meant only to keep her from running?”

Travis said, “I cannot believe that of Valerian. Whatever else, he is a gentleman. And you’ve no proof he was behind it, have you?”

“I don’t accuse our graceless cousin.” Piers shrugged. “But
somebody
sent ruffians out to steal her. When I objected, my head paid the penalty.”

“So that’s why you look out of curl,” exclaimed Peregrine, leaning forward intently. “Did you recognize the louts?”

“No, but Miss Stansbury had a better look at them than did I.”

Intrigued, Zoe said, “Cordelia Stansbury? You know the poor lady?”

Piers nodded, and Peregrine murmured, “Wasn’t Valerian betrothed to her? Or am I thinking of someone else?”

“No. You’re in the right of it. But they are no longer betrothed.”

“To his shame,” said Zoe with disgust.

“Aye. Well, I grant you he has small acquaintance with that word,” said Piers drily.

Peregrine grinned. “And that properly throws him into the discard! But then you’ve never liked him, and I’ll own he’s harum-scarum. In the opinion of our venerable great-uncle he is a conceited, dandified popinjay.”

“Bravo,” said Zoe. “The old gentleman is a good judge.”

Travis laughed. “Well, I like him, even though I am outnumbered.”

Piers put down his glass and stood. “Forgive this short visit, but I’ve to send word to Florian to bring me funds and more clothes. Cannot keep borrowing your wardrobe, twin. And then I must get to the stables.”

Disappointed, Peregrine grumbled, “Must you rush off? I’d hoped you might stay for luncheon. I want to hear all that is going on at home.”

“Your brother is concerned for his horse, dear,” said Zoe, and added demurely, “At least, I
think
’tis his horse he’s hurrying to…”

Followed by hoots and laughter, Piers fled.

Despite the unremitting pounding in his head, Cranford instructed the chairmen to set him down at a good distance from the stables. This morning’s rain had stopped, but the afternoon was cold and a mist was beginning to swirl over the wet cobblestones. London looked grey and wintry, and already flambeaus
were being lit here and there, creating small islands of brightness in the gloomy afternoon. Cranford walked slowly, apparently deep in thought, but with his keen gaze alert for any suspicious loiterer or vagrant.

He reached the stables without incident. Tassels had been well cared for. She greeted him fondly, and the head-groom assured him that there had been no sign of anyone watching the stables.

“No strangers lurking about?” asked Cranford.

The groom’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Not that ’zackly, sir. One new customer, is all. An’ the gent only left his hack here fer a coupla hours.”