Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
" N o, no, milord. You mustn't set that foot as if it were stuck in a bowl of porridge." Philp took up a stance and demonstrated what he meant. "Still, your swing is looking greatly improved." He placed another ball upon the ground. "Now, seeing as we are ready to make the turn, we will play the inward nine as if it were a real match. Your honors, sir."
Adrian stepped up and knocked a credible drive considerably past where Derrien was standing to keep watch on where the shot fell.
"A bit over one hundred sixty yards," remarked Philp with gruff approval as they caught up to her. "Excellent, sir, excellent. If your caddie has helped you make the same improvements in your short game, I, for one, should not care to bet against you."
"I believe Master Derry has done his best to whip me into shape," replied the viscount dryly.
Philp gave a short chuckle. "What say you, Derry? Are you satisfied with your man's progress?"
"Aye, Mr. Philp," muttered Derrien, ducking her head even lower to hide her reaction to the master's comment. "He has a chance."
Why was she blushing like a schoolgirl at his unintended reference to the viscount as 'her man?' He was nothing of the sort! Though it was true that she no longer held him in low regard. That he was intelligent, compassionate and not afraid of hard work to achieve his goals were qualities that had forced her to reevaluate her initial dislike. And of course, his interest in gardens was a decided mark in his favor.
After all, any man who knew the difference between hydrangea macrophylla and hydrangea aspera couldn't be all bad!
"An iron or the baffing spoon?"
Derrien looked up at Adrian's question. She took her time in eyeing the distance and the slight swell of hill in order to force her attention back to the game. "The spoon," she announced and handed him the club.
"Hmmm. I would have chosen the iron," he murmured, but took it without dissent.
"And then you would have risked not clearing that patch of tall grass at the crest,” she replied. “On this hole, it is better to be long than short."
Adrian studied the terrain for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Ah. I see what you mean."
Philp watched the brief interchange and chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe. The viscount set up, and after Derrien had murmured a reminder to keep his wrists firm but not stiff, his next shot rolled within several yards of the flag. Taking the proffered putter, he stepped to the ball and knocked it in the hole for his par.
"Well done, indeed, sir. We'll make a Scot of you yet."
They walked on to the next hole. "Now just aim down the center of fairway, for it is wide enough to be forgiving," said Philp.
Adrian stepped up to his ball and swung—but a bit indecisively. The ball arced up in a weak hook, landing in one of 'The Beardies,' a group of pot bunkers off to the left. "Hell and damnation," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't know what happened—I've been hitting so much better than that of late."
The master exchanged a knowing smile with Derrien. "Though you had it mastered, did you? Well, be assured that as soon as you begin to brim with such hubris, the golfing gods will take great pains to humble such pretensions. That is the one surety in the game."
At the viscount's sheepish expression, he laughed outright. "Now, I should like to see you marshal your thoughts and get out of that hazard. If you can learn to recover from a lapse of concentration, it will be a lesson of more value than any of the others you have learned so far." Philp fell in beside the viscount and after they had walked a few paces, he added, "I believe you are beginning to see that golf is quite a bit like life itself."
Adrian pulled a face. "Come now, Philp, it's just a bloody game."
"Yes, but one in which you must learn to face with both triumph and disaster without letting either affect you too greatly. You must be willing to weather adversity and not let a bad bounce or serendipitous gust distract you from your long-term goals. Just as you must not let a few good shots convince you that you will sail through the rest of the round without mishap. Golf requires patience, imagination, resolve and, above all a sense of humor." He paused to fiddle with his pipe. "As does life."
"Hmmph." The viscount made a noncommittal grunt, but his expression was rather thoughtful.
They reached the bunker and as Adrian stepped gingerly into the shifting sand, he couldn't help but note that a foursome of other golfers had hit their own shots on another hole and were moving to their balls, all of which had landed not far from where he was stuck. He set his jaw, intent on following Philp's advice to ignore any outside distraction. He reached for a lofted iron, then studied the height of the bunker's lip and the lie of his ball, trying to determine with just how much force and angle he had to swing in order to get clear of the steep side.
"This should be rather amusing," said the gentleman nearest to him, in a voice quite clearly meant to be heard.
The viscount couldn't help but look up.
Lord Hertford was leaning casually on the hickory shaft of his long-nosed club. "Oh, sorry, Marquand. Didn't mean to disturb you," he murmured in mock contrition, then directed a sly grin toward his caddie. The fellow was a lad several years older than Derry, much broader in the shoulders and possessed of a squinty gaze that even now had locked on her.
"Hey there, Dirty Derry! Care to make our own wager on the outcome of the coming match—my gentleman against yours?" He gave a pointed look at the viscount's predicament and tittered.
"I'll gladly take your bet, for whatever stakes you care to name!" answered Derrien. "Now shut your gob, Jimmy, and let His Lordship play."
Seething with anger despite all his resolve to stay focused on the task at hand, Adrian took a vicious swing at his ball. The club bit deep into the sand several inches behind the ball, sending up an explosion of grains, but having little effect on the ball.
"The mines at Newcastle could use a man of your talents, Marquand," jested the Marquess. "You seem rather adept at digging holes."
His other companions gave a bark of laughter.
"But don't be too discouraged. Golf is an extremely difficult skill to master and I imagine that if you keep working on it, in a few years you shall be able to play a decent round." Another chorus of chuckles followed the veiled taunt.
"Perhaps you might show a bit of courtesy and stay quiet for a moment so we can continue our play, Lord Hertford," interrupted Philp.
"Of course." Hertford bowed his head in deference to the golf master, but not before allowing a smug snicker to slip from his lips.
Adrian took a deep breath and swung again. This time the ball popped straight up. It looked that it would at least clear the bunker, but at the last second it caught the edge of the lip and rolled back down the steep pitch, coming to rest not a foot from its original spot.
"Open the face of the club, sir, by shifting your grip to the right," murmured Derrien.
With that advise, he made yet a third try, and this time the ball sailed out and onto the fairway.
"That's a good out," said Philp quietly. "From there you can get home in one."
Adrian struggled out of the soft sand, well aware of how foolish he looked with his coat and hair dusted with a shower of fine grains.
"Five guineas," called Hertford's caddie after the marquess had lofted a perfectly struck drive that landed on the distant green. "What say you to those stakes?"
It was a staggering amount for two lads to wager, but Derrien showed not a whit of hesitation. "Done," she called. "And bring it in coin, for I'll not accept any promises from the likes of you."
The other caddie gave a jeering whistle as he turned to follow his man.
"That's a very brave wager, lad. Or a very foolish one," said Adrian softly. "I can't imagine you have five shillings let alone five guineas to your name."
"I don't intend to lose to that smarmy weasel." She lifted the clubs to her shoulder. “Do you?"
He chuckled. "It seems as if we are a well-matched team, Master Derry—indeed I do not!"
"Good. Then let's get back to work."
The fiddles sang out a lively country tune and the dancers capered through the steps with laughing abandon, their faces flushed with exertion and good cheer. Adrian stood off to one side, amazed that Honoria had agreed to partake in anything quite so rustic. He had to admit that with Ferguson's arm to guide her, her steps never seemed to falter. In fact, she appeared to be enjoying herself more than he would ever have guessed possible.
"Lady Honoria seems to showing a real knack for the Scottish reel," murmured Rafael as he placed a glass of champagne in his friend's hand.
Would that she would show such spirited animation with him, thought the viscount glumly as he watched her spin by yet again, looking up at the young professor with a glowing smile.
"If you will excuse me, Rafe, I think I shall steal a look at the botanical prints Mr. Cheape has in his library. He is said to possess an excellent collection of the local flora, including a number of rare species."
Rafael looked at him with a hooded gaze. "Suit yourself. However, I think I shall try my luck in asking that pretty redhead for the next dance."
Feeling unsettled, Adrian made his way down the corridor, hoping the delicately colored engravings would serve as a tonic to his spirits. Though the heavy oak door was open, the library appeared to be deserted, just as he had hoped. However as he stepped inside and drew near to the carved bookcases, he caught sight of a figure seated on the sofa, head bent in earnest study of a large leatherbound volume. He bit back an oath, then realized it was Miss Edwards.
She looked up abruptly, sending a small sketchbook sliding from her lap to the floor. "Oh!"
He bent down to retrieve it, just beating her outstretched fingers in scooping it up. "Most young ladies would prefer to spend an evening partnered by a young gentleman rather than an old book," he remarked dryly.
"I-I was just making a few notations in between sets," she stammered. "Besides, I am not at all like most young ladies."
"I shall not argue with you on that account," he said with a smile. As he spoke, he stole a look through several of the smudged pages of the notebook and his eyes widened slightly in surprise. The drawings were a mixture of skillful plant renderings along with schematic plans for their use. Even a cursory glance revealed a marked talent for detail and a bold sense of design. "Why, these are quite good," he murmured.
Derrien tried to snatch the book from his hands. "Please sir, give it back. Those drawings are not meant for anyone but me."
He ignored her plea and flipped to a double page plan. "Is this for something specific?"
"I—"
Her answer was interrupted by the arrival of another person. "Well, well, forgive me if I am intruding on some private meeting." Lord Hertford paused to light up a thin cheroot. "Though I must say, Marquand, if I were engaged to such a paragon of beauty as the lovely Lady Honoria I should keep my breeches tightly buttoned until after the wedding. Innocents can be quite unreasonable about such things, until they are taught the way of the world"
Derrien's cheeks turned flame red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Adrian wasn't sure. But before he could make a reply, she snapped her own quick retort. "It is obvious where your thoughts tend to dwell, sir, but Lord Marquand and I were simply discussing gardens."
"Really?" The marquess's lip curled up at one corner as he let out a lazy puff of smoke. "Have you an interest in such things as sowing seeds, Miss Edwards?"
"That's quite enough, Hertford.,” warned Adrian. “I suggest you finish blowing a cloud out on the terrace before I am forced to demand an apology to the young lady."
He feigned a look of innocence. "Apology? My dear Marquand, I was merely asking Miss Edwards about her interest in gardens." He turned to Derrien and made an exaggerated bow. "Forgive me, Miss Edwards, if you have misunderstood my words. I have heard from some of the locals that you have a talent for creating some very pretty designs. In fact, why not stop by Gravely Manor sometime to discuss what flowers might be added to my collection. Naturally, I would be willing to pay for your services."
"Hell will freeze over before I set foot anywhere near your estate," she said under her breath. In a louder voice she answered, "I doubt our tastes would suit."
"Oh, my tastes are very eclectic, Miss Edwards."
Her face twisted into an expression of disgust. "Your tastes are of no interest to any civilized person."
Hertford's brows arched up. "Dear me, these Scottish lasses may have a certain prettiness but their manners do tend to be a bit rough on the edges, don't you think, Marquand?"
Adrian took a step toward the other man, one hand curling in an involuntary fist. The Marquess gave a negligent flick of his cheroot, letting the ash fall onto the thick Oriental carpet. "Oh, no need for you to work yourself into a lather. I would have thought you had done quite enough of that out on the links this afternoon." Before the viscount could make an answer, the other man turned and strolled from the room.
"Odious beast," she muttered.
"I'm sorry you had to endure such vile remarks, but it would only have caused an unpleasant scene all around had I planted him a facer."
Derrien flashed a brief smile. "No doubt you would have enjoyed knocking the smirk off his face for his behavior on the golf course?—"
Adrian spun around, wondering how in the devil she could possibly be aware of the earlier confrontation. "How do you know about that?" he demanded, fixing her with a searching look.
"Err..." She swallowed hard. "Well, Mr. Philp stopped by my aunt's house... on his way home and mentioned something of the matter." Quickly changing the subject, she held out her hand once again. "My drawings, if you please, sir. I would really prefer that you give them back immediately."
"Why?" Instead of returning the sketchbook, he thumbed back to the design that covered two facing pages. "This is quite wonderful. Is it for somewhere real or simply a place that you see in your mind's eye?"
She hesitated, and then released a sigh. "It is a part of a plan for Rossdhu House, on Loch Lomond. A good friend—a male friend, naturally—has garnered a commission from the Laird of the Calhoun Clan to design a garden along the water's edge. One of his assistants has been taken ill, so he asked me to lend a hand with part the project. These are some sketches for a section that is to incorporate the ruins of a sixteenth century stone tower."
"And this?" His finger pointed to an irregular shaded area that appeared in several places on the plan.
"Rhododendron bushes. The Laird has a fancy for them and wishes to have as many as possible incorporated into the final design."
"Ah yes, we all must—" He gave a slight cough to cover up the slip of the tongue. Damnation, he must be careful, but it was remarkably easy to talk freely with Miss Edwards. "That is, all designers must learn to accede to the requests of their patrons." He took a seat beside her on the sofa. "What is that line?"
Derrien laid aside the heavy leatherbound volume of prints. "Oh, that."
Her nose scrunched up in a certain way that caused the viscount to search his thoughts for where he has seen such an expression before. It was awfully familiar, and yet he couldn't quite place it.
"I'm afraid I'm having a bit of difficulty deciding how to deal with the path along the loch. I had thought of a low yew hedge, but it feels too... heavy."
Adrian grabbed up her pencil and without thinking turned to a blank page. "Had you considered..." His hand flew in a few deft strokes, sketching in a rough outline of what he had in mind.
She stared at the bold squiggles and delicate shadings and drew in a sharp breath. "Good Lord," she whispered. Her eyes slowly rose to meet his. "You are... him , aren't you?"
With a silent oath, he dropped his gaze and snapped the sketchpad closed. How could he have been such a gudgeon as to let his childish enthusiasm sweep aside all common sense! In an instant, he had put all his of hard work at risk, for he couldn't afford to have his identity revealed quite yet, at least not until his commission for the Duke was completed.
"I don't know what you are talking about," he said coolly, handing the book back to her.
"Oh yes, you do." Her eyes remained locked on his rigid features. "You are Chitley. I would recognize that style anywhere."
He swore again, this time out loud, as he realized the futility of further denial. She was too sharp by half to be taken in by any farriddle he might try to spin. "Well, now you know my dirty little secret, Miss Edwards. However, I would appreciate it greatly of you would not mention it to anyone else."
"But why on earth would you wish to hide the fact that you are one of the most gifted garden designers in all the realm?" she blurted out.
"Because, my dear Miss Edwards, a gentleman does not dirty his hands in trade. You think I would be showered with accolades by my peers? Not likely! I should be looked upon with scorn, forfeiting what little respect the Linsley family name still has after the escapades of my two rackety parents."
He raked a hand through his hair. "No, until I have finished the large commission I am working on and am firmly established in my ancestral home, I cannot afford to have my real identity revealed."
It was a moment before she spoke. "As you know, sir, I am very good at keeping secrets. You needn't fear that I will tell anyone—that is, on one condition."
A stab of disappointment knifed into him at her last words. From her, such a mercenary proposal was somehow unexpected, and thus hurt all the more. "And what is that?” he asked in a hard voice. What could she possibly want out of him?
She hesitated on seeing his grim expression. "I was hoping you might give me some further advice on how to deal with the walkway," she said in a small voice. "But if you are too busy to be bothered?—"
The tight press of his lips relaxed into a true smile. The idea of helping Miss Edwards with her project was infinitely appealing, and the prospect of what promised to be a lengthy time together nearly caused him to grin like some idiotic schoolboy.
"No, really—I should be delighted to give you a more detailed opinion. Let me think on it for a bit so that I might give you more than just a passing impression."
She nodded and her fingers toyed with the cover of her pad. "You may not be able to acknowledge in public the praise that is due you, but at least Lady Honoria must be very proud of your accomplishments."
A harsh. "Neither she nor her parents would be in the least amused if they knew I was Chitley."
"How can she not know?" cried Derrien. "Surely when you talk about gardens she must sense the truth."
He shook his head. "Honoria cannot tell a rhododendron from a rosebush. Nor does that fact trouble her in the least." Why was it that of late, that truth was troubling him more than he cared to admit?
She stared at him in disbelief. "That is awful—" She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, forgive me," she mumbled through her fingers. "There I go again, about spout off on something that is none of my business."
"No, indeed it is not," he replied, but there was no real sting to his words. "Perhaps it would be best if?—"
For the second time, their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of others seeking a bit of respite from the music and dancing. It was Charles Ferguson who stepped into the room, Honoria close by his side. A rosy color had replaced the usual marble whiteness of her cheeks and a soft laugh sounded from her lips at something the young professor had just whispered in her ear.
Adrian blinked several times, but before he could speak, Derrien shot to her feet.
"Charles!" she squeaked in warning, afraid that her friend and his companion might fail to notice that the room was not deserted.
Ferguson's head jerked around and it was his face that took on a deathly pallor. "Er, Derrien—" he began, but Honoria's rather brittle voice overrode his own meek attempt to speak.
"Adrian! I had been wondering where I might find you, and then Mr. Ferguson suggested I might try the library and offered to show me the way."
The viscount got to his feet as well, feeling a sudden stab of disappointment that his tête-à-tête with Miss Edwards was at an end. He drew in a trouble breath, his emotions clouding in confusion. The lovely lady before him had all the attributes he desired in a wife—beauty, wealth, rank and impeccable manners.
And yet the prospect of escorting her back to the lilting music left him feeling decidedly flat.
He gave himself a mental shake, trying to banish such disquieting thoughts. It was the dratted wager that had his mind in a whirl, he assured himself. Once it was over, everything would return to normal.
"I'm sorry, my dear," he said, forcing a smile to his lips. "I hadn't realized I had been gone so long. Miss Edwards was showing me Mr. Cheape's botanical prints."
"Yes," chirped in Derrien.
"Ah," murmured Ferguson.
"Mmmm." That was the only sound from Honoria.
The four of them shuffled and glanced rather awkwardly at each other for a moment before Adrian forced himself forward and offered his arm to his intended. "I hope you have saved a place on your dance card for me?"
"Yes, of course." She moved away from Ferguson's side and placed her hand on his sleeve. He was surprised to find it felt cold as ice.
"My thanks, Ferguson, for escorting Lady Honoria to me," he added, with a slight nod in the professor's direction. "Now, if you will excuse us..." He turned to Derrien as well and sketched a quick bow.
"Of course," chorused both of them at once. After another brief exchange of pleasantries, he and his intended bride left the room.
Ferguson made to follow, but Derrien grabbed his elbow. "Not so fast, Charlie. I want a word with you."
"Ahhhh..."
"No 'ahhhs' about it. Something very smoky is going on here and you're going to tell me what it is."
"I can't." He tried once again to move toward the door, but she slid around to block his way.
"Er, maybe later."
She crossed her arms.
A harried sigh escaped his lips. "Can you keep a secret?"
"As if I would even dignify that question with an answer!"
Ferguson slumped onto the sofa and ran his hands through his ginger hair. "Lord, what a horrible tangle."
"What is?" Derrien sat down beside him. "Oh, no. Don't tell me you've developed a hopeless tendre for Lady Honoria."
He looked up, a bleak expression in his eyes. "Worse than that. I'm in love with her. Completely, irrevocably in love with her. But thankfully, her sentiments are much the same. We are going to elope as soon as I can make all the arrangements."
There was a heavy silence as she stared at him in disbelief. "You are foxed," she finally said.
His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. "I wish I were."
"Then you are mad."
"Perhaps." He shrugged. "But all I know is that I shall truly go out of my mind if I let her slip away again."
"I think you had better start from the beginning."
Ferguson sighed and leaned back against the plump cushions. "When I finished my studies at Cambridge, I had little money and few real prospects for employment. When an offer was presented to me to tutor the young son of an English lord, I had little choice but to accept. Besides, it afforded me the chance to live in London for a time, something that I, as a raw youth, thought would be exciting."
He brushed at a wrinkle on his sleeve. "The position was decent enough. The lad was a trifle spoiled, but at least he was not a total dullard. My employer was not unkind, but as a penniless tutor, I was hardly important enough to engage his attention. As you can imagine, I saw very little of the family—that is, except for the daughter." His eyes pressed closed. "Nora—Honoria—was as starved for intelligent conversation as I was. I suppose. We began to exchange books, then to meet in the library to discuss our ideas. She had a sharp mind and was eager to learn..." Another sigh followed. "Well, you can imagine what developed between a lovely sixteen year old schoolgirl and a callow tutor of twenty two."
It didn't require much imagination.
"Right out of the covers of a Minerva Press novel, isn't it?" he continued with a self-deprecating laugh. "Naturally, it was impossible for me to make an offer, given my rank and purse. So we decided, with the rashness of youth, to elope. However, her lady's maid raised the alarm not more than an hour after we had stolen away." His lips twitched in a near wince. "Her father caught up with us before we had gone too far—before we had... passed a night together on the road. I allowed myself to be convinced that a union with me would utterly ruin Nora's life. So I promised to keep silent about the whole affair, as well as to quit England. A position was arranged for me in Ireland."
There was a slight pause as he pressed a hand to his brow. "Just to be sure I understood the terms of the bargain, I was beaten to within an inch of my life before being tossed on board the ship in Liverpool."
"Oh, Charlie." Derrien leaned closer and gave him a quick hug.
He smiled. "Don't look so stricken. In some ways, it was very good for me—it forced me to develop a certain strength of character if I wished to survive. After a year or two, I found I had been left a tidy inheritance by a distant uncle, so I returned to Scotland, determined to establish myself at a university. Well, and you know much of the rest." He tugged at the end of his cravat. "Though not a day passed that I didn't think of Nora, I would never have thought to contact her. I naturally assumed she had long ago forgotten her rash, youthful infatuation and was happily married to some man of her own rank. But then she arrived in St. Andrews, a proof that the bones of our town's patron saint do indeed work miracles."
A beatific smile spread across his face. "I'll not give her up this time."
Derrien swallowed hard. "But Charlie, she is engaged to Lord Marquand."
He looked rather uncomfortable. "Would you have her marry a man she does not love?"
S he realized with a sudden start that she definitely thought the match between Lady Honoria and the viscount was all wrong.
Now why was that? Her fingers twisted the strings of her reticule into a series of knots. Perhaps because she felt that he deserved someone who would appreciate his magnificent talents, someone who would share his interests.
Derrien tried to push such thoughts from her mind, along with the less noble sentiment that if Lady Honoria were not around, Marquand would have that much more time to spend discussing gardens with her.
"No," she answered out loud. "Of course, I should not wish for anyone to be forced to marry where there is no love. But what of Lord Marquand's feelings? Won't he be terribly hurt and humiliated by such a public jilting?"
Ferguson's expression was a mixture of guilt and defiance. "We both wish there was some way to avoid it, but..." He seemed to be searching for some excuse. "Nora is not even sure how strongly his feelings are attached," he added lamely.
"And what of the consequences to you, Charlie? Have you given a thought to how such a scandal will affect your standing at the University? Despite a certain aura of intellectual give and take, the people here—including your colleagues—are extremely straightlaced when it comes to matters of morality."
"I know that, Derry." His jaw set. "But I am willing to accept the consequences, no matter what they are."
Derrien heaved a sigh. "Oh dear," she added under her breath. "It is going to take some very skillful play to get out of the rough."