interest.
“Hardly,” said Chart, recovering some of his carefully cultivated sangfroid . “I met her once and she asked for a gift of the stuff. I—I’d heard she was in town.”
“Did you give her any?” Verderan asked, curious.
Chart colored again as he said, “Yes.”
“Well,” said Verderan kindly, “I wouldn’t expect too much return on the investment. She obviously only collects it to use as ammunition.”
“But why was she attacking you, old man?” asked Henry Craven. “I’d—er—not thought you one to disappoint even the most demanding lady.”
Verderan raised his glass slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Perhaps I satisfied her too well. It was the fact that I did not want to make the association of longer duration that infuriated her.”
“Ah,” sneered Osbaldeston. “You’d found her servant more to your liking. Find yourself more suited by the below-stairs maid, do you?”
“Not at all,” said Verderan. The desire to pick a fight with the man was becoming pressing, but that would only draw attention to the whole incident, which hardly seemed fair to poor little Miss Grantwich. If Osbaldeston was going to haunt Melton, there were bound to be other opportunities.
He changed the subject before Osbaldeston’s vulpine nose picked up the scent of a scandal. “Care to lay odds, gentlemen, on who mounts Violet as his mistress next? And perhaps more intriguing, who’s going to enjoy the tender morsel she’s grooming? Ethereal little thing with a cloud of silver-blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.”
“Ha!” shouted Craven with a laugh. “Now we see why Violet was so enraged. Not the below-stairs maid but her apprentice. No doubt who’s already laid claim to the little vixen.”
Verderan saw a flash of fury in Osbaldeston’s face. So that was his quarry, not Violet at all. What a revolting thought. Such a charming morsel deserved a gentle hand.
“If you say so,” said Verderan blandly. “But I assure you the cover’s undrawn as yet, so who’s to say in which direction the vixen will break? Lay your bets, gentlemen.”
That was enough to distract the whole group from the identity of the lady seen in his company that morning. The betting book came out and hundreds of guineas were wagered on the disreputable futures of Violet Vane and her promising little protégée.
But though they joined in, Verderan and George Osbaldeston were weighing other odds and making other silent wagers.
In the cool of the next morning, Emily stood in the pleasant pungency of the stable yard and surveyed her assets.
The family stock consisted of two hacks which could also be harnessed to the gig or small carriage; Emily’s own riding horse, a grey gelding called Corsair; and six hunters. Three had been bred by her father for eventual sale, the others bought as yearlings or two-year-olds. There were never enough hunters, and Sir Henry had reckoned to make a tidy profit while ensuring himself and his son fine mounts for the season.
Three of the horses were still too young to hunt; they probably would have to be sold but would bring very little. Three, however, were in their prime: Nelson, Wallingford and Oak-apple. Sir Henry had ridden Wallingford and Oak-apple, and two others that he’d sold, the year before. This would be Nelson’s first time out. They could all be worth a lot of money, but the whole scheme depended on someone riding them in the field and handling the subsequent gentlemanly bargaining.
Emily went over and fed a windfall to the pride of the stables, Nelson. He was a chestnut with a deep chest, well-sloped shoulders, and strong quarters. He could jump almost anything.
“Oh, you could go like the wind, Nelson,” she said as she rubbed his forehead. “If they once saw you in action, all those silly Meltonians would be bidding their all to own you.”
The big chestnut gently butted her and she laughed. “Yes, of course I’ll ride you today. I wish I could
“Hardly,” said Chart, recovering some of his carefully cultivated sangfroid . “I met her once and she asked for a gift of the stuff. I—I’d heard she was in town.”
“Did you give her any?” Verderan asked, curious.
Chart colored again as he said, “Yes.”
“Well,” said Verderan kindly, “I wouldn’t expect too much return on the investment. She obviously only collects it to use as ammunition.”
“But why was she attacking you, old man?” asked Henry Craven. “I’d—er—not thought you one to disappoint even the most demanding lady.”
Verderan raised his glass slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Perhaps I satisfied her too well. It was the fact that I did not want to make the association of longer duration that infuriated her.”
“Ah,” sneered Osbaldeston. “You’d found her servant more to your liking. Find yourself more suited by the below-stairs maid, do you?”
“Not at all,” said Verderan. The desire to pick a fight with the man was becoming pressing, but that would only draw attention to the whole incident, which hardly seemed fair to poor little Miss Grantwich. If Osbaldeston was going to haunt Melton, there were bound to be other opportunities.
He changed the subject before Osbaldeston’s vulpine nose picked up the scent of a scandal. “Care to lay odds, gentlemen, on who mounts Violet as his mistress next? And perhaps more intriguing, who’s going to enjoy the tender morsel she’s grooming? Ethereal little thing with a cloud of silver-blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.”
“Ha!” shouted Craven with a laugh. “Now we see why Violet was so enraged. Not the below-stairs maid but her apprentice. No doubt who’s already laid claim to the little vixen.”
Verderan saw a flash of fury in Osbaldeston’s face. So that was his quarry, not Violet at all. What a revolting thought. Such a charming morsel deserved a gentle hand.
“If you say so,” said Verderan blandly. “But I assure you the cover’s undrawn as yet, so who’s to say in which direction the vixen will break? Lay your bets, gentlemen.”
That was enough to distract the whole group from the identity of the lady seen in his company that morning. The betting book came out and hundreds of guineas were wagered on the disreputable futures of Violet Vane and her promising little protégée.
But though they joined in, Verderan and George Osbaldeston were weighing other odds and making other silent wagers.
In the cool of the next morning, Emily stood in the pleasant pungency of the stable yard and surveyed her assets.
The family stock consisted of two hacks which could also be harnessed to the gig or small carriage; Emily’s own riding horse, a grey gelding called Corsair; and six hunters. Three had been bred by her father for eventual sale, the others bought as yearlings or two-year-olds. There were never enough hunters, and Sir Henry had reckoned to make a tidy profit while ensuring himself and his son fine mounts for the season.
Three of the horses were still too young to hunt; they probably would have to be sold but would bring very little. Three, however, were in their prime: Nelson, Wallingford and Oak-apple. Sir Henry had ridden Wallingford and Oak-apple, and two others that he’d sold, the year before. This would be Nelson’s first time out. They could all be worth a lot of money, but the whole scheme depended on someone riding them in the field and handling the subsequent gentlemanly bargaining.
Emily went over and fed a windfall to the pride of the stables, Nelson. He was a chestnut with a deep chest, well-sloped shoulders, and strong quarters. He could jump almost anything.
“Oh, you could go like the wind, Nelson,” she said as she rubbed his forehead. “If they once saw you in action, all those silly Meltonians would be bidding their all to own you.”
The big chestnut gently butted her and she laughed. “Yes, of course I’ll ride you today. I wish I could
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