A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (20 page)

“This should be rather amusing,” said the gentleman nearest to him, in a voice quite clearly meant to be heard over the short distance.

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 figure. “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! 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, Marquand took a vicious swing at his ball. The club bit deep into the sand several inches behind the stitched featherie, sending up an explosion of grains, but having little effect on the intended target.

“The mines at Newcastle could use a man of your talents, Marquand,” joked 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 taught.

“Perhaps you might show a bit of courtesy and stay quiet for a moment so we can continue our play, my lord,” interrupted Philp.

“Of course.” Hertford bowed his head in deference to the golf master, but not before allowing a smug snicker to play at his lips.

The Viscount took a deep breath and swung again. This time the ball popped straight up. It looked at least to clear the bunker, if not advance much farther, 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 Derry.

With that advice, 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.”

The Viscount 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 traveled nearly to the fringe of the distant green. “What say you to those stakes?”

It was a staggering amount for the like of two lads, 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. I can’t imagine you have five shillings let alone five guineas to your name.”

“Hmmph.” She lifted the clubs to her shoulder. “I don’t intend to lose to that smarmy weasel. 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, faces flushed with exertion and good cheer. Marquand 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.

“Miss Dunster seems to show a real knack for the Scottish reel,” murmured Ellington as he placed a glass of champagne in his friend’s hand.

Would that she would show any such spirited interest in any concern of his, thought the Viscount glumly as he watched her spin by yet again, smiling up at the young professor with an animation that nearly caused him to choke on a mouthful of the bubbly spirits.

“If you will excuse me, Tony, 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.”

Ellington looked faintly puzzled by the unaccountable edge to the Viscount’s words, but merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. However, I think I shall try my luck in asking that pretty redhead for the next dance.”

Marquand made his way down the corridor, wondering himself exactly why his mood had taken a turn for the worse. Well, a bit of time spent perusing the delicately colored engravings would no doubt serve as a tonic to his spirits. Though the heavy oak door was open, the paneled room 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 leather-bound volume. He bit back an oath, then realized it was Miss Edwards who was engaged in looking at the book.

Her head came up with a jerk, the abrupt movement sending a small sketchbook sliding from her lap to the floor. “Oh!”

He bent down to retrieve it, just beating her own 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 defensively. “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 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?”

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 Miss Dunster 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 it.”

Derrien’s cheeks turned red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Marquand 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 comer 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. 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.”

She choked down a snort. “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?”

Marquand 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, Hertford 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—”

Marquand spun around, wondering how in the devil she could possibly know about that. “How do you know aught of that?” he demanded, fixing her with a searching look.

“Ahhh . . .” 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?”

“It is a part of a plan for Rossdhu House, on Loch Lomand. 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 of 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 leather-bound volume of prints. “Oh, that.” Her nose scrunched up in a certain way that caused the Viscount to search his thoughts for where he had 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.”

Marquand 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 of his 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 Banbury Tale he might try to spin. “Well, now you know my dirty little secret, Miss Edwards. I should appreciate it greatly if 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.” His hand raked through his locks. “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 ... 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 line of his lips had 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 Miss Dunster must be very proud of your accomplishments.”

A harsh laugh sounded. “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, it was troubling him more than he cared to admit?