a good man for hunting. You must not ask of your mount more than it can do, but you must ask of yourself everything. No hesitation, ever.”
This spun off into a lively review of the last season’s runs, of the places where a daring leap had been successful, and of others where it had caused delay or even left a rider out of the running. Or, as Verderan dryly pointed out, dead.
Osbaldeston brushed this off with a sneer. “What more glorious way to die, I ask, than flying over a rasper in the Shires?”
This was greeted by a roar of approval, and even Verderan had to give his old enemy his point. He was, one gathered, a skilled huntsman and a brave rider. What shame he was such a nasty little fellow.
They had crossed each other within days of Verderan’s arrival at Eton, when he’d come across Osbaldeston holding a younger, smaller boy face down in a puddle because he didn’t like his boots. The fight had been brief as Verderan had a good few inches on Osbaldeston and hadn’t felt it fair to continue once his man was clearly bested.
Osbaldeston had never had such scruples. A few days later, he and some cronies had cornered Verderan and beat him up, leaving him badly bruised and with cracked ribs. They’d thought to terrorize him as they had so many others, but they hadn’t realized what they were up against. Verderan had been taught endurance in a hard school, and he merely waited until he caught Osbaldeston alone and thrashed him, making a more thorough job of it than he had the first time.
Osbaldeston had realized, as many others had in time, that short of killing him there was no way of suppressing Piers Verderan. And he wasn’t easy to kill.
Verderan caught Osbaldeston’s eye and hoped he got the message that nothing had changed.
The covers had been drawn. Candle flames reflected in deeply polished mahogany, glowed back from buffed silver, and glinted in fine crystal. A fire burned in the grate, crackling and hissing and burnishing the room with a fine warm glow. Each man still had a port glass before him and the bottle made its lazy way around, but drinking wasn’t the order of the day.
The president of the Old Club, Major-General Henry Craven, had brought the cigarillo habit back from the Peninsula and persuaded a few of the other men to join him. The aromatic smoke curled above their heads. The rest, however, were sticking to the more traditional form of tobacco, snuff. There was a pot of snuff on the table, but most men preferred their own sort and the boxes were offered around.
Verderan offered his box to his three guests. Chart and Harry took a pinch elegantly enough and managed not to have a sneezing fit. Terance Cornwallis, who seemed awestruck by his circumstances, wisely refused. The three were behaving as well as any young men could be expected to. Verderan reflected that he was but six years their senior; he felt at least a dozen.
The conversation wound down to a hiatus and Osbaldeston spoke up again. “So tell us, Verderan,” he drawled. “Why, pray, were you seen squiring an upper servant through town, covered with a fine dusting of flour?”
Verderan discovered that he didn’t want anyone, least of all Osbaldeston, poking around Miss Grantwich’s reputation. “Good lord,” he replied nonchalantly. “How came you by that tale? I hardly thought any civilized person was about at that hour.”
The sharp little face, so like his quarry the fox, tightened at the slight. “You obviously were, Verderan.”
“But I have never claimed to be civilized, Osbaldeston,” replied Verderan, to a general chuckle. “And it was not flour but Poudre de Violettes .” Violet had said the “Squire” was after her favors. From the sudden color in his cheeks, for once she had not been lying.
Before Osbaldeston could respond, Chart Ashby exclaimed, “Violet Vane,” and then went red as he realized the knowledge his words implied.
“Can you afford her?” asked Verderan with
This spun off into a lively review of the last season’s runs, of the places where a daring leap had been successful, and of others where it had caused delay or even left a rider out of the running. Or, as Verderan dryly pointed out, dead.
Osbaldeston brushed this off with a sneer. “What more glorious way to die, I ask, than flying over a rasper in the Shires?”
This was greeted by a roar of approval, and even Verderan had to give his old enemy his point. He was, one gathered, a skilled huntsman and a brave rider. What shame he was such a nasty little fellow.
They had crossed each other within days of Verderan’s arrival at Eton, when he’d come across Osbaldeston holding a younger, smaller boy face down in a puddle because he didn’t like his boots. The fight had been brief as Verderan had a good few inches on Osbaldeston and hadn’t felt it fair to continue once his man was clearly bested.
Osbaldeston had never had such scruples. A few days later, he and some cronies had cornered Verderan and beat him up, leaving him badly bruised and with cracked ribs. They’d thought to terrorize him as they had so many others, but they hadn’t realized what they were up against. Verderan had been taught endurance in a hard school, and he merely waited until he caught Osbaldeston alone and thrashed him, making a more thorough job of it than he had the first time.
Osbaldeston had realized, as many others had in time, that short of killing him there was no way of suppressing Piers Verderan. And he wasn’t easy to kill.
Verderan caught Osbaldeston’s eye and hoped he got the message that nothing had changed.
The covers had been drawn. Candle flames reflected in deeply polished mahogany, glowed back from buffed silver, and glinted in fine crystal. A fire burned in the grate, crackling and hissing and burnishing the room with a fine warm glow. Each man still had a port glass before him and the bottle made its lazy way around, but drinking wasn’t the order of the day.
The president of the Old Club, Major-General Henry Craven, had brought the cigarillo habit back from the Peninsula and persuaded a few of the other men to join him. The aromatic smoke curled above their heads. The rest, however, were sticking to the more traditional form of tobacco, snuff. There was a pot of snuff on the table, but most men preferred their own sort and the boxes were offered around.
Verderan offered his box to his three guests. Chart and Harry took a pinch elegantly enough and managed not to have a sneezing fit. Terance Cornwallis, who seemed awestruck by his circumstances, wisely refused. The three were behaving as well as any young men could be expected to. Verderan reflected that he was but six years their senior; he felt at least a dozen.
The conversation wound down to a hiatus and Osbaldeston spoke up again. “So tell us, Verderan,” he drawled. “Why, pray, were you seen squiring an upper servant through town, covered with a fine dusting of flour?”
Verderan discovered that he didn’t want anyone, least of all Osbaldeston, poking around Miss Grantwich’s reputation. “Good lord,” he replied nonchalantly. “How came you by that tale? I hardly thought any civilized person was about at that hour.”
The sharp little face, so like his quarry the fox, tightened at the slight. “You obviously were, Verderan.”
“But I have never claimed to be civilized, Osbaldeston,” replied Verderan, to a general chuckle. “And it was not flour but Poudre de Violettes .” Violet had said the “Squire” was after her favors. From the sudden color in his cheeks, for once she had not been lying.
Before Osbaldeston could respond, Chart Ashby exclaimed, “Violet Vane,” and then went red as he realized the knowledge his words implied.
“Can you afford her?” asked Verderan with
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