A Perilous Undertaking by Deanna Raybourn

Author:Deanna Raybourn
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-11-17T10:59:16+00:00

CHAPTER

16

We entered Bishop’s Folly by the pedestrian gate on the far side of the property, winding through the extensive gardens and past the various follies and outbuildings until we came to the Belvedere. I nudged Stoker. “There is a caller on the doorstep.”

He took one look at the visitor and began to swear. “Bloody bollocking hell,” he started, but I put a hand to his sleeve and greeted our caller.

“Hello, Sir Rupert.”

Sir Rupert, second eldest of the Templeton-Vane sons and a knighted barrister, doffed his hat to me as he ignored his younger brother. “Miss Speedwell, a distinct pleasure.”

“It is nice to see you. Would you care to come inside?”

“He damned well would not,” Stoker protested.

Sir Rupert suppressed a sigh with some effort. “I can see he is going to be tiresome about this. Yes, Miss Speedwell, I should very much like to come inside rather than conduct our family business out here with witnesses,” he said with a glance to the rustling shrubbery.

“Oh, that’s only Patricia. You mustn’t mind her,” I told him, explaining about his lordship’s tortoise as we entered the Belvedere. Within a few moments I had unearthed a tin of biscuits and poured small glasses of whiskey.

Sir Rupert took a taste, rolling it over his tongue like a connoisseur. “I say, that is lovely. I was rather afraid you would offer me tea.”

“I remember we resorted to strong drink the last time we met,” I told him. “It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”

We exchanged conspiratorial glances and Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards before draining his glass. “Rupert, why have you come?”

Sir Rupert took another sip of his whiskey as I regarded Stoker thoughtfully. “You really have the most appalling manners, Stoker. Sir Rupert, was he always like this?”

“Impetuous? Boorish? Entirely self-involved? Yes. From the cradle. And there was never any improving him, no matter how hard Father tried. And stubborn as the devil, too. I recall upon one occasion, Father refused him permission to ride in a local point-to-point on the grounds that he wasn’t an experienced enough rider to take part.”

“I imagine he sulked. He has a gift for it.”

Sir Rupert shook his head. “Worse. He stole Father’s favorite horse, Tinchebray, and rode him without a saddle, blazing past everyone else in the field.”

“Father never criticized my riding again,” Stoker put in mutinously.

“That horse was never the same,” Sir Rupert told me. I smiled at him and he took another appreciative sip of the whiskey. “You have been far kinder than I deserve, Miss Speedwell. I heard of what transpired with young Merryweather, and I cannot offer enough apologies. The cub ought to be whipped for offering you such insult.”

“And where did he get the notion that Miss Speedwell deserved it?” Stoker demanded with silky menace.

Sir Rupert flushed delicately, just a hint of rose at the tips of his ears. “That was my fault, I am afraid. On the evening of Father’s funeral, we brothers gathered to toast him with the last of his Napoleon brandy.

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