The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (30 page)

“He probably learned it from his gypsy,” murmured Valerian with a grin.

Cranford stiffened, then decided to ignore that barb. The dandy was evidently unaware of Mary’s close friendship with Laura Finchley and her consequent sympathy for his young steward. Valerian, he thought, had made a mis-step.

He was right, for Mary’s head had immediately tossed upward. Lowering the glass she had just lifted, she said, “If you refer to Mr. Florian Consett, sir, he was stolen by gypsies and not born into the tribe.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that is his claim,” drawled Valerian. “In truth, one could scarce blame him.”

“For what?” demanded Mary, firing up. “For saying he was
kidnapped? Or for the possibility that he lies and is actually of gypsy blood?”

Valerian shrugged. “Either. Though I care not, whatever the case.”

“Well, I do care,” said Mary, her eyes sparkling. “I number Florian Consett among my friends and I believe what he says. Even if it were a fib, as you evidently conclude, he is an honourable and upright gentleman.”

“Well said,” exclaimed Cranford.

“Jolly well said,” agreed Valerian, eyeing Mary admiringly. “I apologize, and beg your forgiveness, dear Miss Stansbury. Mr. Consett is pure as the driven snow!”

“Just because he has dark hair is not proof of gypsy blood,” put in Mrs. Lucretia, who had been considering the case. “Only look at yourself, Gervaise. Your hair is dark. Oh, ’tis powdered now, of course, which is charming, I’ll own, and quite in the mode, though you might do better to wear one of those high French wigs, like Muffin. Even so, you always look well, and are judged extreme handsome, as everyone knows, but your mama is very dark, being part French, or is it Italian? I forget, but Muffin will know, since his first wife was her cousin, as I recall. So only think how droll it would be if we fancied
you
to be a gypsy.”

Cranford had listened in awe to this muddled monologue but Valerian said earnestly, “If ’twould commend me to you and your lovely niece, ma’am, I’d wear golden hoops in my ears and learn the Romany tongue!”

“Oh, very good,” said Mary, laughing at him. “You may not wear golden earrings but you have a silver tongue, sir. At times.”

Valerian looked at her mournfully and lifted one hand as a fencer might do in acknowledging a hit.

“I agree,” said Mrs. Lucretia. “But Mr. Cranford is silent and has still failed to explain why he rode bareback in such an important race.”

Risking another of the duke’s warning glances, Valerian interpolated, “He claims the girth was cut. Which is—to say the least of it, most—um, odd.”

Mrs. Lucretia’s fan swung into action once more, creating quite a breeze.

Cranford, his eyes suddenly icy, drawled, “I feel sure you will explain what you mean by that, sir.”

Frowning, the duke set down his wineglass and murmured, “Gervaise…”

“I certainly do not imply that I doubt your word, cousin,” said Valerian hastily. “Acquit me of such a rude reaction. Everyone knows you are pure
et sans reproche.”
He smiled at Cranford, who met his angelic gaze with a steady stare. “The failure,” Valerian went on, “seems rather to have been Miss Stansbury’s.”

“Mine!” exclaimed Mary indignantly. “How so?”

“Come now, dear lady. You must own that your talismen, both of the dainty things, rather—er, fell down on the job!”

The duke laughed, Mrs. Lucretia giggled, and the tense moment slid past, nor was there another until they had moved into the adjoining room and were all enjoying an excellent dinner.

Conversation went along smoothly. Perhaps because of a warning glance bestowed on him by the duke, Valerian restrained his caustic tongue. Seated next to Mrs. Lucretia, Cranford chatted easily with her and began to suspect that she was not nearly so foolish as she appeared. His breeding forbade any revelation of inner anxieties, and no one would have guessed that although he gave the impression of hanging on her every word, he was inwardly plagued by the awareness that the dandy seated across the table from him was flirting so outrageously with Miss Mary that any well-bred individual might have expected either Mrs. Lucretia or His Grace to put a stop to it.

The second course was carried in. The duke rose and began to carve the roast beef while asking that Cranford tell them
more about the extraordinary race and how his saddle had been damaged.

The account was interrupted frequently, for Mary was full of questions, as was her aunt. Valerian looked thoughtful and commented that it certainly appeared as though some unknown person had not wanted his cousin to win the race. “Tassels was the runaway favourite,” he acknowledged.

“As a result of which many people undoubtedly lost money,” observed the duke.

Cranford flushed, and admitted,
“Mea culpa.”

Mary said defensively, “Not only because of Tassels, Your Grace. You had high hopes of coming in first, Mr. Valerian. I hope you did not suffer heavy losses?”

“Not at all, lovely one,” he responded gaily. “In point of fact I came away with very plump pockets.”

The duke handed a platter of sliced roast beef to the footman and sat down, saying in mild surprise, “You wagered that Roland would win?”

“My apologies, but I did not, sir,” answered Valerian, chuckling. “I bet on my noble cousin—to lose.”

The duke’s right eyebrow shot up.

Mary exclaimed heatedly, “Well, I hold ’twas most unkind and shows a shocking lack of family loyalty!”

“But was so beautifully lucrative,” said Valerian, unrepentant.

“For shame, sir!” Mary pushed the little vase at the centre of the table towards Cranford. “To you go the honours, Lieutenant.”

Cranford said with a grin, “And are beyond price, ma’am. Flowers always brighten a table and these are arranged so charmingly.”

“I might have guessed that you harbour a passion for weeds,” mused Valerian.

“I grieve that my efforts do not please you,” said Mary tartly.

“For my part, I find your efforts delightful,” said Cranford. “You used fern here, I see, and admittedly the blue blossom is of silk, but the golden bloom is—”

“A dandelion,” chortled Valerian.

Mary said, “Well, ’tis winter-time. One has to use what is available. Besides, I think dandelions are very pretty.”

“And were created by the same Hand which gave us roses and lily of the valley,” the duke pointed out. “I commend your taste, Miss Mary, and thank you for adding beauty to our table—in more ways than one.”

“I couldn’t have said it better,” exclaimed Valerian, raising his glass to the duke.

“Very true,” agreed Cranford.

Mrs. Lucretia remarked with an amused gesture that they all were very droll, and in so doing overset her wineglass. Claret splashed in all directions. Valerian leaped to his feet and jumped back, dabbing at his waistcoat; Marbury moved his chair aside and rang for the footman; Cranford used his napkin to divert the flow from Mary, and Mrs. Lucretia squealed with mirth and declared she was quite soaked and she dared not guess what her maid would say.

“She will likely say that you are—very droll, ma’am,” said Valerian wickedly.

The lady was much too good-natured to take offence at this sarcasm, and laughed till she cried.

While the footman and a maid hurriedly replaced the covers, another maid led Mrs. Lucretia away to see what could be done to remove the claret from her gown. “Before it sets in proper-like, ma’am.”

Marbury said smilingly, “Well, my little supper party has been more entertaining than I could have hoped. Now tell me, Cranford, what’s all this about your trying to find a cat?”

“Would that be the mog you kicked in the stable, coz?” enquired the dandy.

Mary looked shocked, and Cranford said, “You really must
try to keep your facts straight, Valerian. Major Finchley was hastening to get his horse clear of the fire and the cat got in his way.”

“So he kicked the poor little kitty, of course.” Mary’s lip curled. “Typical! Was it hurt, Lieutenant? Is that why you’re trying to find it?”

“It was certainly very frightened. I’ve had my groom searching about, but I suppose, like all injured creatures, the kitten has found somewhere to hide itself.”

He had not intended his remark to be double entendre, and was surprised to find Valerian watching him with a narrowed glare.

Mary said, “How very kind you are. Pray let me know if you are able to find it.”

He promised to do as she asked, and seeing the genuine anxiety in her really quite lovely eyes, was touched and promised himself to try for a private word with her after supper.

His hopes were soon dashed, however. Mrs. Lucretia returned as the third course was being set out and said with a meaningful nod that a gentleman waited to see him and had just been shown to his room.

Florian must have ridden like the wind, he thought, and murmuring an apology, left them.

He soon found that his optimistic interpretation of Mrs. Lucretia’s nod was unfounded, for the gentleman who occupied the armchair in his bedchamber was several decades Florian’s senior. Closing the door, Cranford noted that General Lord Nugent was flushed, and his face like a thunder-cloud. Hoping for the best, he said, “Good evening, sir. I’d thought perhaps you and Herbert had left. I didn’t see you at the finish.”

“Young Turner’s gone off.” With those barked-out words it became clear that brandy had played a large part in the General’s evening. “Good thing. Though I didn’t give him leave—to er, to Heave. Prob’ly in a bottle somewhere if he was’s embarrassed as I was. That was a damned disgraceful exhibition
you made of yourself, Left’nant, I don’t scr-scruple t’tellya.”

Cranford’s heart sank. It had been a long day, and suddenly he ached with tiredness, but he said quietly, “Do you refer to the race, sir?”

“What the devil else would I refer to? It was—was dashed humiliating, I c’n tell you, to hear my friends laugh when you rid in bareback like some blasted performing cl-clown!”

Piers’ jaw tightened. “The saddle girth broke, Uncle, and—”

“Then where in hell were your grooms? If you’d taught the lazy louts to take proper care of your equipment—”

“Your pardon, sir. Sudbury is a good man, but the girth was cut nigh through, probably at some time after he’d tightened the straps.”

“Was the clod blind, then? If you’d used your wits you’d have had men watching the mare every m-minute. You certainly knew more than one rogue wished you ill.”

“As you say, sir. I trust you did not lose a large sum.”

The General grunted and shifted in his chair. “Did. But I didn’t bet on you, at all events.” Glowering, he added, “Nor did I expect to—to watch you make a curst cake of yourself!”

“My apologies.” Piers clenched his hands and reminded himself of the times this man had helped his family, but his voice was clipped when he asked, “If that is all you came to say I should be going back to—”

“Do not
dare
use that tone to me!” The General stood, rocking slightly, but his eyes flashing wrath. “You came begging my aid once again, and tried to wriggle out of what I asked of you in return. Oh, I know that you counted on this stupid race to rescue you! Instead of which—”

Standing also, Piers said, “Instead of which I disgraced you—and the family, is that it, sir? Would you perhaps have preferred that I let Viscount Glendenning suffocate, as he surely would have done had I not stopped to—”

“In which case,” roared the General, his flush deepening alarmingly, “Br-Britain would have rid herself of a rascally traitor
who fought under the banner of that Scottish upstart!”

Piers said sharply, “Not so loud, sir, I beg! Those charges have never been proven ’gainst Tio—”

“And if they were,” said Lord Nugent, lowering his voice and glancing uneasily to the door. “If they were—’twould be another disgrace to our name, would it not? I know curst well that you all protected that fire-eater when he came within a whisker of being hauled off to the Tower. You’d be damned lucky not to lose your heads—the whole reckless lot of you! Much we owe to the Glendennings!”

Piers said doggedly, “The viscount has been our friend since we were in short coats. A sorry turn I’d have dealt him had I ridden past and left him to die.”

“Well, a sorry turn he has dealt you, for you might very well have won the race in despite everything.”

Meeting those accusing eyes, Piers said slowly, “Perhaps. But do you know, Uncle, I think your words are harsher than your heart. Had you been in my place you’d likely have done the same.”

Mollified, the General sat down again and growled, “Do not think to turn me up sweet with your clever diplomacy. I’m alive on that suit! But—that’s neither here nor there. Have you no brandy to offer me?”

Smothering a grin, Piers crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses.

The General accepted the drink and stared down at it for a moment, saying nothing.

The old fellow was trying to compose himself. Something of import was coming. Piers waited.

“At all events, you are reprieved, m’boy.” The tone now was benevolent and a faint smile was levelled at him. “It seems that Gervaise has—has seen the error of his ways and is willing to live up to his bargain and wed the Stansbury chit.”

The glass sagged in Piers’ hand. He gasped, “He told you as much?”

“Not personally. But his man chances to be related to my fellow and—”

“Servant-hall gossip…”

“Never look down your nose at it. Tis reliable as—er, as the Archbishop of Canterbury! Now why do you frown? Have you heard something unsavoury about the Archbishop?”

“I merely wonder what causes you to trust the likes of Gervaise Valerian.”

“Trust that dandified rake-shame? Do you take me for a flat? Tis said nobody knows a man like his valet. That I do trust. Gad, but you’re a hard man to fathom. I thought you’d be delighted.” The reddened eyes scanned him suspiciously. “Ain’t taken a fancy to the gel yourself, have you?”

It was a home question. Like a flash of light it dawned on Piers that he had indeed “taken a fancy” to Cordelia Mary Westerman Stansbury. All of ’em! He felt his face growing hot, and he said firmly, “Valerian doesn’t deserve her.”