A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

" H mmm, although you’re not usually moved by adagios and crescendos, it appears that last evening's musicale helped banish the recent flatness in your mood." Rafael picked up the newspaper and poured himself some tea.

Adrian ceased his cheerful humming and looked up from his sketchbook. "What? Oh, er, yes." He couldn't help but grin. "I suppose I am feeling a bit more in harmony with things, Rafe."

Indeed, even though the streets outside their residence were enveloped in an oppressive grey fog, he felt as though some weighty mantle had been lifted from his own spirits. It made not a whit of sense, of course. His carefully chosen bride was about to elope with another man, he was on the brink of losing his beloved Woolsey Hall and the plans for the duke's gardens were still mere scribbles of ideas.

And yet, the coil of worry that had tied him in knots of late seemed to have unaccountably fallen away. Somehow, he found that he was almost looking forward to the challenges ahead.

His pencil hovered for a moment in mid-air as it suddenly occurred to him what else it was that he was looking forward to.

Another meeting with the deucedly distracting Miss Edwards. Her moods were nearly as quixotic as the Scottish weather, yet her intelligence and her passion overshadowed all her snappish words and hoydenish behavior. She intrigued him.

No, that was not entirely correct. He had to admit that what he was feeling was more than?—

"I take it your work is progressing well, then?" His friend had leaned over to glance at the rough drawings on the open page of the sketchbook.

Adrian pushed aside his musings. "Er, well, I must admit I am rather pleased with how everything is turning out so far."

"I'm glad to hear it." There was a faint rustling as Rafael turned to an article on latest news from the Continent. He read on for a bit, then slowly laid the newspaper aside when the humming began anew.

"Adrian, if I didn't know you better I would be sorely tempted to think you had been indulging in a wee nip of the local whisky before breakfast. It seems you are in remarkably good humor, given that along with everything else, you are set to finally match up with Hertford on the links tomorrow morning."

The melody died away. "Well, now that the moment is at hand, there is precious little point in stewing over it. I shall just have to trust my newly acquired skills—and my caddie."

"How very sensible." With a slight shake of his head, Rafael resumed his reading. "And I must say, this odd cheerfulness is a distinct improvement over the moody scowls that have darkened your phiz since we crossed the border."

A comfortable silence descended over the breakfast table. It was only when the servant returned a while later with fresh tea that the clink of china and cheerful humming were interrupted by a discreet cough.

"Yes, McCabe?" said Rafael, when his friend didn't even look up from his work. The man bent down and whispered something. Rafael rose abruptly and followed him from the room. It was only a matter of minutes before he returned.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat loudly enough that Adrian stopped his sketching.

"Is something wrong, Rafe?" asked the viscount on taking one look at his friend's rigid countenance.

Rafael sucked in his breath. "I'm afraid I’ve just received some rather disturbing news."

"What do you mean, they are gone!" Philp laid his file aside and hurried over to the crowded racks. "The viscount's clubs are always put away in the same place, Tommy."

The lad pulled at a lock of the carrot-colored hair that spiked up from his brow. "I know werry well where them's supposed to be, Mr. Philp, but have a look fer yerself. I tell ye, they ain't there."

The master checked along the entire row, needing only a quick glance to verify that Adrian's set of golf clubs was indeed missing. He continued on into the back room, and a deep frown slowly added another few wrinkles to his leathery face as he surveyed the small side door standing slightly ajar. Closer inspection revealed that the iron hasp had been pried away from the weathered wood, allowing someone to steal into the Argyle Street shop during the night.

"Hmmm." Philp reached into his pocket to pull out his pipe.

"Why, the dastard!" Derrien had appeared at his elbow and was now peering at the damage.

"It appears we have done our job a little too well." He blew out another ring of smoke. "Alexander Cheape mentioned that he had overheard one of Hertford's cronies making inquiries of one of the lads as to the viscount's recent scores." His eyes strayed to the splintered boards and a wisp of a smile played at his lips. "Apparently the numbers were not quite to his liking."

"This is nothing to jest about, Hugh," muttered Derrien. "How is Lord Marquand going to play without his clubs? There is no time for you to fashion another set—the match is to begin tomorrow at eight in the morning."

"I am well aware of the seriousness of the situation."

She bit her lip, feeling a sudden surge of outrage. All of them had worked too hard to let such a cowardly deed ruin everything. The viscount simply couldn't be allowed to be beaten in this manner.

But it wasn’t just righteous anger over the golf match that was heating her blood. She understood what Woolsey Hall meant to Lord Marquand, and how important it was to him to restore it to its former glory with his own hands. And she was determined to see that he had a chance to fulfill his dream… even though the thought of the viscount bringing a bride to his ancestral estate caused a lump to form in her throat. Granted, it was not going to be Lady Honoria Dunster, but it would be someone equally beautiful and polished. How could it not be, given his title and his position in Society?

Still, Derrien wanted more than anything to help him win back his home. Far from being the arrogant, jaded, selfish gentleman she had expected him to be, she had come to see him as a kindred soul.

A friend.

She bit her lip. Actually, she had come to see him as much more than that, despite all her previous resolve, and the utter hopelessness of her true feelings.

"Hugh," she said in a steely voice. "I have an idea."

"And what news is that?" Adrian's gaze had already returned to the page of his sketchbook.

"The devil take it, Adrian, this is deucedly hard." Rafael ran a finger around his collar. "That was one of Hylton's servants at the door. He had an extremely urgent message regarding..." His words trailed off in some confusion. "Er, perhaps you should read the note that he brought." He hastily pushed the sealed missive across the polished pine table.

Adrian took it up and, after a cursory look at the handwriting, dropped it by his cup. He began to add some shading around the outlines of a fountain.

"Good Lord, Adrian!" sputtered his friend. "I really think you had better read the damn thing. I doubt you will be bursting into song when you have learned its contents."

The viscount looked up, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "On the contrary, Rafe. I am delighted that Honoria and Mr. Ferguson have found such happiness with each other. I imagine that by now, they are safely wed and finally free of all interference from her unbearable parents."

Rafael's jaw dropped in astonishment. "You know?"

"Yes. She told me last night."

"And you are not upset? Or angry at how all your carefully constructed plans have come crashing down like a house of cards?"

Adrian's smile became more pronounced. "Well, I suppose I have learned the foolishness of counting on cards to do one's bidding."

His friend shook his head. "Is there something bewitching in the Scottish air? Or has Hecate and her witchly cronies added some special potion to your tea? You hardly sound like the same fellow who left London with me."

"Perhaps I am not," he said softly, surprising himself as much as his friend.

Philp rubbed at his jaw. "You think it possible?"

Derrien gave a nod.

"Well, it's worth a try."

The two of them slipped out through the damaged door into the small alleyway behind the shop. Making their way through the swirling fog, they followed one of the narrow cobbled streets down to the harbor. The weather had caused a number of fishermen to delay their departure, so despite the early hour, the tavern next to the docks was nearly full.

"Wait here," ordered Philp as he turned to enter the place.

"But—" Derrien decided not to argue on seeing his expression.

After what seemed like an age. Philp finally reemerged from the smoky confines of the public room, two hulking fellows trailing in his wake.

"Willie Kidd, ye say, Hugh? Aye, I know where we're most likely ta find the scamp." One of the men flexed his bulging biceps as he spoke. "Ye think he's mixed up in sommink havey-cavey with Lord Hertford?" When Philp nodded, the man's broad mouth twisted in a ferocious frown. "Then Angus and me will have it out of him, see if we don't."

"It's the clubs we want, Jock, not just his deadlights darkened," piped up Derrien. "Remember to give them the purse, Mr. Philp."

As the leather sack exchanged hands she went on. "You find that coins will work even better than threats with Willie. Use both, and I'm sure he can be convinced to tell us where the clubs are." She paused for a fraction. "Of course, they might have been tossed in the Bay, but I don't think so. Not yet."

"That's right smart of ye, Derry me lad," growled Jock. "I'd wager as well that the clubs haven't been destroyed, even if that's wot the marquess ordered. Willie would figger they're too valuable not to stow away for some future profit."

"We appreciate your help, Jock," said Philp. "Somehow I think you and Angus will manage to be a tad more persuasive than myself and Master Derry."

Angus gave a short guffaw and shifted his prodigious weight from foot to foot. "Aye, don't ye worry. We members of the Society of St. Andrews Golfers must stick together, especially when someone dares go up against the likes of you, Hugh. Go on now, you and the lad head back te yer shop. Wee Willie will turn over them sticks if he has 'em, or he'll at least tell us wot he knows. Count on it."

A quick grin flickered over his meaty features. "What say ye ta owing us each one of those bonny long nosed putters ye make if we find yer man's clubs?"

Philp nodded. "Auch, with pleasure."

"Now the scamp has no chance of wiggling out of trouble," said Jock. He turned to his companion. "Let's be quick about it."

"That was bonny thinking, lassie, to enlist the two of them to help out," said Philp as they started back up the hill toward the shop.

"You heard Angus—golfers stick together. And they are the biggest golfers I could think of, not to speak of being the toughest fellows around the docks. Why, the only men who dare get in a fight with them are each other." Her nose crinkled in some satisfaction. "It would serve Willie right if they wring his traitorous little neck."

"Let us simply hope that they return with Lord Marquand's clubs."

Sure enough, not an hour had passed before Jock and Angus appeared at the shop door, a large bundle wrapped in oilcloth carried between them.

"Nary a scratch on them, Hugh, " said Jock in a low voice as he handed the clubs over.

"You could almost say the same for Willie," added his companion with a short chuckle. "He's taken off to pay a wee visit to his aunt in Dunfirmline. Decided the climate would be a bit better for his health."

"Well done, my friends." Philp began to unwrap the wet cloth and wipe the beads of moisture from the varnished hickory. "Come around in a week's time for your putters. However, you both must promise me they won't end up knocking up against each other's skulls."

"Auch, no Hugh. A club fashioned by your hand is far too valuable to risk damaging in that way," replied Jock with a grin. "Gud luck in besting Lord Hertford. We had best be getting down to the boats now that the weather looks to be breaking."

Derrien came over to help inspect the viscount's clubs as the two men headed back down to the harbor. They were indeed undamaged, save for a slight tear in one of the sheepskin grips, which could easily be repaired. Philp went to trim up a piece of new leather, and when he returned to his bench, he found that she had already cut the old one away and was carefully rewrapping the underlisting.

"Don't wind yourself too tight, Derry," he cautioned, taking in the pinch of worry on her face. "There’s really nothing more you can do now, save going out and helping him play a good round tomorrow."

"I know that, Hugh." She looked up, her blue eyes darkened by the crosscurrents of concern and some other, more unfathomable emotion. "But it... means so much to him."

"And to you, lassie. Does it mean so much to you, now?"

Derrien ducked her head without answering.

"Hold the shaft firm while I apply a layer of glue," he said after a moment's pause. Though he pressed her no further, his expression had become quite grave, though he, too, bent low to hide his thoughts.

The work was nearly done when the viscount walked into the shop. His hair was damp from the lingering mist, drops clinging to the raven locks that curled over his brow and against the collar of his upturned jacket. Derrien had to force her eyes away from his chiseled profile and muscled shoulders.

Fool! She must get a grip on such wayward thoughts. It wouldn't do to see the viscount as aught but a golfer who needed her skill and expertise. She must never show that she... loved him.

Her fingers tightened around the tapered shaft with such force that her knuckles went white.

There—she had finally admitted it, if only to herself.

She had done the unthinkable and fallen in love with the English lord, despite all her resolve to the contrary. The mere sight of him was enough to set her heart to fluttering, no matter that her feelings would never be reciprocated. But somehow, she must keep yet another secret hidden away, at least for one more day.

That should not be so impossible—after all, she had a good deal of practice in the art of disguise.

"Is something amiss?" The viscount's gaze shifted from Philp's drawn features to Derrien's rigid shoulders.

"A slight accident, but nothing to be concerned about, milord." Philp held the club out at arm's length and inspected his handiwork. "It's already fixed."

"Good, for I should like to get in one more round of practice before tomorrow." His lips curled into a faint smile. "That is, if it agreeable to you, Master Derry?"

"Of course," she mumbled, turning to gather up the rest of his clubs from one of the other workbenches.

"Mr. Philp," continued the viscount. "I wondered whether you might have the direction of Mrs. McDare and her niece, as I have been given to understand that you are a friend of the family?"

A long spoon clattered to the floor.

"Er, yes, I am." Philp took a moment to light his pipe.

On seeing the older man's furrowed brow, Adrian added an explanation. "Miss Edwards was taken ill last night, and I thought I might inquire as to how she is feeling when I am finished here."

"Oh, as to that, I happened to stop by their home on my way to the shop this morning so I can assure you that Miss Edwards is fully recovered," he replied in some haste. "Enough that she has gone out for the day. I don't believe she is likely to return before dusk."

"I see." He shrugged. "Well, I'm happy to hear it is nothing serious."

Nothing serious , thought Derry as she opened the door. Perhaps it was true, and that as soon as the viscount returned to London, her heart would indeed fully recover. But somehow she doubted that the image of his intriguing eyes and sensuous smile would be quite so easy to banish as a bout of sniffles.

As he lingered in conversation with Philp, she ventured another surreptitious look at his face, searching for some sign of bruised emotions. Ferguson had sent word that he and Lady Honoria had slipped away before dawn, so surely the viscount would have heard of it by now.

However, far from exhibiting any brooding sighs or mournful sighs, he looked to be in excellent spirits as he traded a quip with the master.

Her brow furrowed. It was odd—he certainly was not acting like a gentleman whose heart had just been broken.

She shifted the clubs on her shoulder and quickly resolved to keep her thoughts from straying off the fairway. Golf, for all its maddening nuances and frustrations, was at least a game whose rules she understood.

Adrian surveyed the terrain that lay between him and the distant flag. "Ditch skirting the right side fairway, those two bunkers, 'The Spectacles,' guarding either side the far approach, and a tricky swale sloping off behind the flag," he muttered under his breath. After tossing up a few blades of grass in order to better gauge the direction of the breeze, he turned to Derrien with a questioning look. "I think the best play is to lay up with the heavy iron and count on the baffing spoon to get me close on the next shot."

She handed over the club with a bob of her head. "Very good, sir. You are beginning to think like a true golfer."

He chuckled. "High praise indeed, Master Derry." Having finally eliciting some reaction other than a curt yea or nay, he was now trying to pry a smile from lad, but to no avail. The young caddie merely lowered his head in the face of the gusting wind, the floppy tweed cap hiding even more of his smudged face than usual, and hurried off toward the ball. Adrian followed at a more leisurely pace, thinking not for the first time what an odd fellow the lad was. But at the moment, his thoughts were not inclined to dwell on a boy, odd or otherwise.

Quite the opposite.

Though he knew it was important to stay focused on his golf, it was deuced difficult not to let the image of unruly wheaten curls dancing in the breeze come to mind. Or a pert, freckled nose. Or alluringly expressive lips.

The devil take it. Adrian closed his eyes for an instant. This would never do—he must banish all thoughts of that intriguing face, at least until after tomorrow.

And then? With a harried sigh, he forced that question out of his head as well. It was the state of his golf swing that should be of utmost concern at the moment, not the mysteries of his heart.

The ball lay just where he meant to place it, perfectly positioned for an easy chip over the bunker and gentle roll down to the flag. His caddie was already holding out the baffing spoon. Taking deep breath to steady his concentration, Adrian stepped up, studied the distance and let fly with an easy stroke. The stitched featherie arced up over the hazard and came to earth on the fringe of the green, its spin pulling it to within a scant foot of the hole.

The viscount repressed a wry grimace—perhaps he should let his mind wander after all!

"I hope you are saving a few of those for the morrow," Derrien said rather gruffly.

He strolled over to his ball and tapped in for his par. "Never fear, Master Derry, I am beginning to feel as if Lady Luck is not such a fickle harlot after all."

It seemed that a strange look flickered over the caddie's half hidden features. "That's a strange sentiment, coming from a gentleman whose intended bride has just run off with another man," she blurted out.

There was dead silence for a moment, then his lips quirked upward. "Yes, I suppose it is." He handed the putter over and slowly took the scorecard from his pocket. "You seem to be as skilled at ferreting out information as you are in driving one of Mr. Robertson's featheries. But be that as it may, the subject is not one I intend to discuss with a mere child."

"I'm not a child—" she exclaimed, then bit back any further words as she bent over to retrieve the ball.

"Come, let's keep our attention on golf and not brangle with each other," he said lightly. "We've only to endure each other's company for another day. Surely we can do that without the usual fireworks."

Derrien didn't answer. Shouldering the clubs with an exaggerated hitch, she turned and stalked off toward the next hole without a glance in his direction.

Adrian deliberately finished filling in his score before following. He let out a low oath, chased by an exasperated sigh, as he regarded the angry tilt of the shoulders up ahead and the peculiar sway of the slim hips?—

Hell's teeth, those hips!

What was it about them that seemed so hauntingly familiar?

Suddenly he froze in his tracks. Some mad impulse made him call out the caddie's name, for the first time omitting the word 'master' before it.

"Derry!"

The shout caused her to stumble. The clubs spilled to the ground as she spun around, shock and confusion evident on the set of her lips.

Those lips!

Adrian covered the distance between them in a few quick strides. As he took hold of her arm and bent closer to the dazed face, it occurred to him that if he was wrong?—

It took only an instant to know he was not about to be committed to Bedlam. The lips parting under his were most definitely not those of a lad.

Pulling her closer, he deepened his kiss. For a moment, she seemed unsure of how to react, but then her mouth softened in response to his embrace, a bit hesitantly but with an undercurrent of the same hot passion he felt flaring up inside him.

Her hands came up to his shoulders and, at firs,t he thought she meant to shove him away. Then suddenly they were entwined in his hair, pulling him into an even more intimate embrace.

A muffled groan escaped his lips he found her tweed cap and yanked it off so that his fingers might revel in the sensuous silkiness of her curls..

Her soft whisper of his name shattered whatever was left of his self-control. With a groan, he kissed her again.

It was sudden passing shower of rain that finally brought them both back down to earth.

With a sudden squeak of embarrassment, Derrien pulled away. Adrian swayed, then managed to steady himself.

For several moments they stared at each other in awkward silence. It was Derrien who wrenched her eyes away first, and then kicked at the shaft of the long spoon that had fallen close by her feet.

"Bloody hell and damnation!"

Though the tension between them was nearly as thick as the low bank of fog rolling in from Eden Estuary, Adrian couldn't help but give a twitch of a smile at her curses.

A month ago he would have been shocked beyond words, he admitted. But now, he found himself wondering why all the perfectly behaved misses from the sparkling ballrooms seemed rather flat and faceless in comparison to her pluck and passions.

"You know, Miss Edwards, only men are supposed to swear like that, not proper young ladies."

"Well as you can clearly see, I am hardly a proper young lady," she replied, slapping at a cluster of curls that had fallen over her cheek.

"The sporting of breeches and boots might raise a few eyebrows, I admit," he said in a low voice. "But let me assure you that other than that, you are most definitely a real lady."

Her face turned a dull scarlet as she bit at her lower lip, still swollen with the passion of his kisses. "T-This wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered, struggling to hold back tears.

"But it did." He raked a hand through his own disheveled locks, hoping the gesture would help restrain the urge to pull her close once more and soothe the confusion from her face. "Lud, it’s as if your Scottish witches of yore are making sport with us mere mortals, what with all the misunderstandings and masquerades that have been going on," he muttered. "The problem is, this little charade certainly changes?—"

"No!" She forced her eyes back to meet his. For a moment he was awash in the tempest of emotion swirling in their blue depths. "Please, you must not tell! Why, it would ruin everything! "

"Miss Edwards, by all rights, I should be furious at your deception."

"Why?"

He hesitated and felt himself sinking, as if caught in the shifting sands of the deepest pot bunker. "Well, er?—"

"Hugh asked me to do this because I'm the best caddie here." She bent to pick up her cap. "What does it matter that I'm not a male? Has my advice or guidance been any less valuable?"

Adrian stare down at the tips of his boots.

As if sensing that things were turning to her advantage, she pressed on. "Besides, you are hardly in a position to criticize me for disguising my true identity in order to engage in something I'm good at."

"Miss Edwards, that's playing unfair, to use my?—"

She raised her brows. "Look, you want to win, don't you?"

He drew in a deep breath. "So you are suggesting we continue as if... none of this has happened?"

"As you said yourself, it's only for another day, then we can both forget about the entire thing. I've already agreed with Hugh that it is time for Master Derry to disappear from St. Andrews."

Adrian tried to fathom her expression, but once again, her features were submerged in shadows due to the replacement of the damn cap. Would she really find it so easy to forget their time together?

His jaw tightened as he shifted his gaze from the subtle contours of her face to the myriad nuances of the linksland. Here they had traded taunts, shared laughter, endured frustration, made mistakes, and sweated through hard work in order to celebrate some small measure of progress. At times it hadn't been easy, but they had somehow managed to see it through together.

He knew it would be no simple matter for him to simply excise these few weeks from his mind, as one would tear an unsatisfactory page out of a sketchbook and toss it away.

But perhaps she did not care for the broad strokes and delicate shadings of their relationship. After all, he knew quite well what her sentiments were regarding titled English lords.

What he wished he knew more clearly were her sentiments regarding him .

"And anyway," she continued in a halting voice. "I imagine that what just happened between us was only due to the fact that you are upset over Lady Honoria."

"You think I kissed you because I was thinking of Lady Honoria?"

Derrien swallowed hard. "W-why else? She is a perfect picture of a fine, highborn lady—beautiful, poised, and n-not a hair out of place." His fingers fumbled to tuck another errant ringlet up under the wool brim. "While I am an outspoken country brat in breeches."

He took a quick step closer so that he could reach out and cup her chin. "Lady Honoria Dunster may be beautiful, poised, and perfectly groomed, but she can’t swing a long spoon, loft an errant shot out of the briars, or knock the ball to within a foot of the flag on the 18th hole.”

He flicked a raindrop off her cheek. “Pick up the clubs, brat. We have work to do."