Free Emily and the Dark Angel by Jo Beverley Page B

had to be fair—Hector was not a man to spread malicious rumor.
    Moreover, though Emily found it nearly impossible to believe that Piers Verderan was a thief, she could believe that he had killed two men. She was strangely certain that he was skilled with blade or pistol and would not hesitate to use them if the mood took him.
    She remembered the instant, accurate retaliation he had taken against the Violet Tart and the sudden look of fear on the woman’s face. No doubt she too had been fooled for a while by that glint of intimate amusement, that ridiculously charming smile, and had learned later of his evil side.
    Emily shuddered and made a firm resolution to avoid Mr. Piers Verderan on all occasions in the future.
     
     
    Piers Verderan, on the other hand, found himself tantalized by Emily Grantwich. On the surface she was such a conventional, quiet person, yet he sensed so much more. There was wit and spirit and, he’d go odds, passion buried beneath that conventional exterior.
    It was very tempting to seek to uncover it.
    The next day, as he hacked into Melton, lost in thought, he came up with another rider on a fine, though fidgety beast.
    “Good day to you, Christian. A handful?”
    “You could say that, sir,” the young man said, laughing, ably discouraging his horse from nipping at Verderan’s mount. “But we’re coming to terms.”
    “Busy this year?”
    “Busier than ever. Seems everyone wants me to ride. Give up, Fly-By-Night!” he said to his mount as the horse tried to circle. With voice and viselike legs he held the horse steady. “You’d think he’d be ripe for a rest,” he commented wryly. “We’ve just done a five-mile run. He’ll be a fine one for a long day once he realizes who’s master.”
    “Whose is he?”
    “Just a coper’s, sir. I’m riding a prime piece of blood later in the season for Lord Stourbridge, though. Might be to your taste.”
    “I’m not looking for more horses at the moment.”
    “Pity. The Grantwich lot’s coming up too. The old man’s bedridden and the son’s dead in the war they say. Sorry business, but there’s a couple of fine horses there. Sir Henry had an eye for them. Had word asking if I’d ride for them. I’d like to oblige, being such a sad case, but I’m booked for most of the season.”
    “Word from Sir Henry?” asked Verderan, alert.
    “No, from the daughter. She runs things these days.”
    It was a crazy impulse, but he didn’t fight it. “Do you have a couple of customers you don’t mind offending, Christian?”
    The young man looked at him shrewdly. “A couple maybe.”
    “A bonus of twenty guineas to take on the Grantwich horses. Just between the two of us.”
    The young man’s eyes widened. “Twenty! You’re on, sir, and it’s a pleasure.”
    Verderan saluted. “It’s my season for mad charities. I’ll send a draft to you. At the Blue Bell?”
    “Aye, sir. And if you’ve any more such charities in mind, I’m your man.”
    With a laugh, Verderan rode on.
     
     
    Despite her resolution to avoid Piers Verderan at all costs, the next time Emily saw him he was a sight for sore eyes.
    Five days had passed since their last meeting, and Emily had done her best to put him out of her mind. She had even had some success, as she had been busy. First there had been the matter of the tranquil movement of a few hundred sheep, then the disaster threatened by deliberate damage to one of the new threshing machines, and constantly the problem of getting the best price for the hunters.
    Dick Christian had come out to see her and the horses. He was a handsome, sturdy young man with the confidence of one who knows he is the best at his trade, but with no flashy airs. Nor did it seem to bother him to deal with a woman. He had agreed to ride the horses for his standard fee for “casuals”—a guinea a ride. It seemed a small enough price to pay when a horse ridden by him was certain to show its finest paces. Being naturally cautious,