Venetia by Georgette Heyer Page A

glad to know that he had left the Priory. It was certainly a bore to be confined within the bounds of the park, and that, she had decided, must be her fate, unless she rode with Aubrey, for however little heed she paid to Nurse’s dark warnings she was fully alive to the possibility of Damerel’s lying in wait for her, and had no doubt that if he were to find her walking by herself he would believe her to be courting his advances. On the whole, she thought, she would be glad to know that he had gone away. He was dangerous; his conduct had been inexcusable; and to meet him again might be demoralizing to one who had led so cloistered a life as hers had been.
    But when a week crept by without a sign from him she was piqued. He was still at the Priory, but he was making no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with his neighbours. The village gossips, much astonished, reported that he was actually interesting himself in the business of the estate; and Croyde, his long-suffering bailiff, permitted for the first time to lay before him all the crying needs that were never filled, was indulging a flicker of optimism: though his lordship had not yet authorized expenditure he was at least listening to advice, and seeing with his own eyes the slow decay of good land under bad husbandry. Edward, a sceptic, said that the only thing that might induce Damerel to spend a groat on repairs or improvements would be the hope that he might wring back from the estate a greater yield to squander on his amusements. Venetia would have suspected that his sudden interest in his inheritance was nothing more than an excuse for remaining at the Priory had he made some attempt to seek her out. She thought it would not have been difficult for him to have found a pretext for calling at Undershaw; and being far too innocent to realize that Damerel, an expert in the art of dalliance, was employing tactics which none knew better than he to be tantalizing, she was forced to conclude that he had not been as strongly attracted to her as she had supposed. There was nothing in store at Undershaw for his lordship but a set-down, but it was disappointing to be granted no opportunity to deliver this. She found herself imagining a second encounter; and, between disgust at herself and resentment at Damerel for holding her so cheap, became so nearly cross that Aubrey asked her if she felt quite the thing.
    And in the end it was neither she who brought about a second meeting, nor Damerel, but Aubrey.
    Damerel was riding home with Croyde after one of his tours of inspection when a faint cry for help made him break off what he was saying, and look round. The cry was repeated, and Croyde, standing in his stirrups, so that he could see over the hedge that straggled beside the lane, exclaimed: “Good God, it’s Mr. Aubrey! Ay, I thought as much!—that nappy young chestnut of his has come down with him, like I always said he would! If your lordship will excuse me , I’ll have to attend to him.”
    “Yes, of course. Is there a gate, or do we push through the hedge?”
    There was a gate a little farther along the lane, and in a very few moments both men had dismounted, and Croyde was kneeling beside Aubrey, who was lying just clear of the ditch which, with the hedge above it, separated the stubble-field from a stretch of pasturage. At a little distance his horse was standing; and when he moved nervously away from Damerel’s advance it was seen that he was dead lame.
    Aubrey was sickly white, and in considerable pain. He said faintly: “I came down on my weak leg. I can’t get up. Think I must have stunned myself. Where’s Rufus? Jumped off his fore. I hope to God he didn’t break his knees!”
    “Never you mind about that clumsy brute, sir!” Croyde said, in a scolding tone. “What have you broken, that’s what I want to know?”
    “Nothing. For God’s sake, don’t maul me about, or I shall go off again! I’ve twisted my other ankle—that’s the devil of