card-sharps in London,” he explained to her, “and I’ll wager half the ivories at Watier’s are loaded. Otherwise I must have won. I challenged a pair once, but somehow they substituted good dice and I was forced to apologise. I got my own back though.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Revenge, I took my revenge. I hired a bunch of bully-boys and had that cheating liar beaten half to death.”
The cold-blooded satisfaction with which he said this chilled Catherine and drove all possible responses from her lips. Lord Welch did not seem to notice her silence. He rattled on about games of hazard, macao, whist, and faro, long past and surely forgotten by the rest of the participants, congratulating himself on his minor successes, blaming his losses on trickery.
Angel, looking back, was delighted to see the couple deep in conversation. Later, as she and Catherine walked homeward, she asked what they had talked of.
“Nothing of interest,” said her cousin shortly.
Something private, thought Angel, satisfied. “And what did you speak of with the odious Sir Gregory? Why does he call you Kate? Not even Aunt Maria calls you that.”
“It is a silly joke, my dear. I wish he would stop it but he will not, and it is not worth teasing myself over.”
“He is quite the most provoking man I have ever met! I am very glad I thought to invite Lord Welch to come with us to the waterfall, are not you? He is a true gentleman.”
Chapter 8
To Angel’s relief, Saturday was not merely fine but cloudless. She sang over her morning chores, trying to sound as she imagined a linnet might, until her uncle thrust his head around the study door and begged her to stop.
At midday Sir Gregory and Lady Elizabeth arrived. Angel and Catherine joined them, and soon they were riding up a bridle path between bracken thickets, then into the dappled shade of the woods. The plash and tinkle of an invisible stream mingled with the songs of a multitude of birds.
A keen horsewoman, Angel was content just to feel the animal moving beneath her and to soak in the green-tinted sunlight, the odours of growing things and leaf mould. A lizard skittered from a rock beside the path; a jay flashed blue from tree to tree, screeching a raucous warning of their approach; a pair of red squirrels chased each other through the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. The theatres and ballrooms of London seemed far away.
In spite of her father’s huge estates in Kent, Angel had spent most of her life in the metropolis. The marquis’s involvement in politics had never allowed him to absent himself from the seat of government for long periods, and her mother could not bear to be parted from either husband or child. Angel had always enjoyed her brief stays in the country but thought it would be dull to live away from the amusements of the city.
On this perfect day, she began to wonder if it would really be so tedious. Beth seemed perfectly content and was never unoccupied, and her life was exceptionally circumscribed. Angel compared the beauty of her present surroundings with her memories of dusty, grimy London in July, where the only place to ride was the over-familiar parks, or streets full of smells from gutters and back alleys that made one gasp for fresh air. She breathed deep, filling her lungs with the scent of a honeysuckle vine running rampant over rocks and bushes.
Sir Gregory, who was in the lead, called back that he could see Lord Welch waiting for them ahead, and soon Angel saw him, standing beside his horse at a branching of the ways. Once again she noted his smartness, in contrast to the baronet’s casual dress. In fact he was the most fashionable gentleman of their acquaintance in Westmorland, precise to a pin. It did seem a pity that Beth could not return his regard.
The viscount broke the spell of the quiet woods with his inconsequential chatter. Angel responded, and the two of them soon fell behind.
“Let’s catch up,” she suggested. “I
“I beg your pardon?”
“Revenge, I took my revenge. I hired a bunch of bully-boys and had that cheating liar beaten half to death.”
The cold-blooded satisfaction with which he said this chilled Catherine and drove all possible responses from her lips. Lord Welch did not seem to notice her silence. He rattled on about games of hazard, macao, whist, and faro, long past and surely forgotten by the rest of the participants, congratulating himself on his minor successes, blaming his losses on trickery.
Angel, looking back, was delighted to see the couple deep in conversation. Later, as she and Catherine walked homeward, she asked what they had talked of.
“Nothing of interest,” said her cousin shortly.
Something private, thought Angel, satisfied. “And what did you speak of with the odious Sir Gregory? Why does he call you Kate? Not even Aunt Maria calls you that.”
“It is a silly joke, my dear. I wish he would stop it but he will not, and it is not worth teasing myself over.”
“He is quite the most provoking man I have ever met! I am very glad I thought to invite Lord Welch to come with us to the waterfall, are not you? He is a true gentleman.”
Chapter 8
To Angel’s relief, Saturday was not merely fine but cloudless. She sang over her morning chores, trying to sound as she imagined a linnet might, until her uncle thrust his head around the study door and begged her to stop.
At midday Sir Gregory and Lady Elizabeth arrived. Angel and Catherine joined them, and soon they were riding up a bridle path between bracken thickets, then into the dappled shade of the woods. The plash and tinkle of an invisible stream mingled with the songs of a multitude of birds.
A keen horsewoman, Angel was content just to feel the animal moving beneath her and to soak in the green-tinted sunlight, the odours of growing things and leaf mould. A lizard skittered from a rock beside the path; a jay flashed blue from tree to tree, screeching a raucous warning of their approach; a pair of red squirrels chased each other through the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. The theatres and ballrooms of London seemed far away.
In spite of her father’s huge estates in Kent, Angel had spent most of her life in the metropolis. The marquis’s involvement in politics had never allowed him to absent himself from the seat of government for long periods, and her mother could not bear to be parted from either husband or child. Angel had always enjoyed her brief stays in the country but thought it would be dull to live away from the amusements of the city.
On this perfect day, she began to wonder if it would really be so tedious. Beth seemed perfectly content and was never unoccupied, and her life was exceptionally circumscribed. Angel compared the beauty of her present surroundings with her memories of dusty, grimy London in July, where the only place to ride was the over-familiar parks, or streets full of smells from gutters and back alleys that made one gasp for fresh air. She breathed deep, filling her lungs with the scent of a honeysuckle vine running rampant over rocks and bushes.
Sir Gregory, who was in the lead, called back that he could see Lord Welch waiting for them ahead, and soon Angel saw him, standing beside his horse at a branching of the ways. Once again she noted his smartness, in contrast to the baronet’s casual dress. In fact he was the most fashionable gentleman of their acquaintance in Westmorland, precise to a pin. It did seem a pity that Beth could not return his regard.
The viscount broke the spell of the quiet woods with his inconsequential chatter. Angel responded, and the two of them soon fell behind.
“Let’s catch up,” she suggested. “I
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