She went slowly down the stairs. Still absorbed in her problem, she entered the softly lighted library. Back to the mantel under the portrait of himself stood Nicholas Hoyt. His long-tail pink coat, expanse of white shirt and waistcoat above black trousers made him look even taller than he was.
“Haven’t you dash and sparkle enough in yourself without adding to the slaughter by wearing that corking gown?” he asked.
There was laughter in his eyes, a buoyant note in his voice which ran along Sandra’s nerves like quicksilver, an underlying firmness which made her feel thrillingly alive. “Forgive me for last night, Sandra. I—I—well, I nearly lost my mind when I saw you with Curt Newsome.”
“It was a spot-light situation, wasn’t it? Don’t apologize.” She mimicked his words to a tone. He laughed and put one hand into his pocket.
“I’m not apologizing. I’m—I’m explaining.” He had outmimicked her. “You will forgive me, won’t you?”
His voice was grave enough now—too grave—its vibrant depth was maddeningly disturbing. She hurried up reserves to barricade herself—from what, she wondered, even as she parleyed theatrically:
“I will consult the stars. If the signs and portents are propitious—I have been reading up on astrology—I will be magnanimous and forgive you.”
He caught her hands tight in one of his. “Do you know, sometimes I think you are a worldly-wise woman, Cassandra; at other times I think you are just a lovely kid.”
Her eyes reproached him from between sweeping, sooty lashes. “How archaic! Be modern. What you are trying to say is, I take it, ‘Is your assumed sophistication an immaturity defense?’ ”
His grip tightened. “Ever heard that children shouldn’t play with matches, beautiful? Wear my colors tomorrow, will you?”
He opened his free hand. On the palm lay a gorgeous diamond and emerald clip. Green and white! The Stone House colors. With difficulty Sandra dragged her fascinated gaze from the sparkling jewels.
“Of course not, in that form!”
“Why the horror? I didn’t steal it; I had it made for you. I shall have a little pocket money even if I lose the estate.”
“How—how can you jest about it when you have …” Her question was a whisper.
He looked quickly about the room. “Those letters? You’ve heard about the chap Nero who fiddled when Rome was burning, haven’t you? Why cast gloom on Mrs. Pat’s party?”
He slipped the clip into his waistcoat pocket. “We’ll let that ride for the present; I should have finessed. Drive to the ball with me, will you?”
Something from his darkly intent eyes plunged into her heart. Quiveringly responsive to his nearness, she thrust back the frightened thought that her soul was being drawn into his. She warned herself:
“Don’t let go! Don’t! Hang on to Philippe. If you turn him down now, he will be sure that you saw him by the hedge.”
She said aloud: “Sorry, but I’m going to the ball with Philippe Rousseau.”
“So he informed me, but only over my dead body you’ll go with him.”
“How thrilling! Will the papers have a spot marked X where the body was found?”
“Any horse that can run the last nine furlongs in twelve seconds, as that gray did last week in the practice run, is going to have things pretty much to himself tomorrow.” The coarse, exultant voice drifted in from the hall.
Sandra was bending over the puzzle table when Mrs. Newsome, in a backless black frock which glittered with an artistic design of brilliants, entered the library with Damon in conventional evening clothes and Jed Langdon in hunt pink. From under her lashes she could see Nicholas Hoyt standing, straight and uncompromising, with his hands clasped behind his back. He reminded:
“Still championing your guest horse, Pat? Hate to take the joy out of life, but Iron Man wasn’t the only oyster in that stew; I feel bound to remind you that Fortune was away slowest in a field of seven runners and that Sharp had him in front in fifteen strides—after that—well, you know what happened.”
“You needn’t remind me what happened, but it won’t happen again! You sure look like a million in that rig, Nick; doesn’t he, Mr. Damon?”
“He does. In my sombre black I feel like a sceneshifter caught on the stage as the curtain goes up on an exotic review. I hope that you won’t entirely neglect me for these gay young blades, Sandy?”
Sandra crossed the room to him.
“Don’t be foolish, Mr. B.D. Just as if you didn’t know that you go up five points every time I see you. Observe that I am getting my mind geared to run on stock quotations; I understand that almost every man I meet tonight will be a broker. I mean to be a riot.”
He shook his head. “I also notice that you are picking up our Americanisms. Don’t lose all your old-fashioned flavor, my dear.”
“Not necessarily old-fashioned, Mr. B.D., the flavor of Dad and his friends.” Sandra bit her lips to steady them. “Wait, let me help!”
She crossed swiftly to Mrs. Newsome who, struggling with a long court earring which had become twisted, was jerking her head with the impatience of a racer under restraint.
“I don’t know why I wear the pesky things, I, who loathe doodads,” she fumed. “Curt likes them—but would he put on a tail-coat tonight like Nick’s to please me? He would not; he’s wearing hunt clothes. I don’t know why I’m going to this ball either.”
“Keep your head still just a minute. You are as restless and twitchy as one of your blue-ribbon horses. There—I have it! It’s all right now.”
Mrs. Pat shook her earrings violently. “That’s better. Thanks, Sandra. I hope the Lord lets you stay with me as long as I have to do the social act.”
“I believe you are developing nerves,” Nicholas teased. “I never have seen you like this before. Anything wrong?” There was no hint of laughter in the curt question.
“Of course there’s nothing wrong. I—I—well, I’ve got a lot at stake.”
Did he suspect, as she herself suspected from her manner, that Mrs. Pat was plunging heavily on this race, Sandra wondered.
“Buck up, Pat. Less than twenty-four hours to wait before we know whether you have been entertaining a champion or I own one.”
One would not suspect from Nicholas Hoyt’s laughing voice that in less than twenty-four hours after the race he would be in court defending his inheritance. Never before had she seen him so debonair. Weren’t his high spirits slightly premature? Wasn’t he overdoing the “Nero” act? Suppose he lost? The blow would be so much harder. Not that it mattered to her which way the Court decided, Sandra assured herself; it was only that his light-heartedness on the eve of a crisis made her shiver. Mrs. Pat responded gamely to his mood.
“I wish I were as sure of heaven as I am that Iron Man will clip Fortune’s best time.” Her laugh of triumph broke in the middle. She pointed.
“Well, look who’s here!”
Philippe Rousseau, in pink evening dress differing a little in cut from that worn by Nicholas Hoyt, stopped on the threshold. His face was white with anger; his eyes smoldered at the hint of ridicule in the voice of his hostess. Even with that scene at the hedge fresh in her mind, Sandra’s tender heart smarted for him. After all, he had a right to get any information he could to help his case. How could Mrs. Pat be so raw? She smiled a welcome.
“At last, Philippe. I began to think that I might be obliged to drive myself to the ball.”
The color came back to his face. “As I had the regalia of my own Hunt Club here, I decided to wear it. Hope that I haven’t infringed on the social code of this neighborhood, Mrs. Pat?”
“Course you haven’t. Have you forgotten that I’m to be in the receiving line tonight? Guess I’m important enough to take any one I like,” Mrs. Newsome boasted, with a none too tactful emphasis on “any one.” “Why doesn’t Curt come? Here he is!”
She cast a swift, suspicious look at the hall behind him as her husband entered. His hair and skin seemed fairer in contrast to the pink
of his hunt coat. He was in one of his gay moods. His white teeth flashed in an engaging smile; his blue eyes widened as he looked about.
“Good gosh, am I late? You’re not waiting for me, are you? I was at the stables. Mac Donovan had just returned from the track. He had Iron Man on his mind, wanted to make sure that the men he had sent with the gray were on the job. Gathered from what he said that you motored over there after you left Stone House this afternoon, Pat. You shouldn’t have done it. Some day you’ll snap if you keep such a pace.”
“Nonsense, Curt, I’m strong as a horse. What did Mac say?”
“He said to tell you that he had talked with Sam and everything was O.K. What’s in that message to turn you chalky?”
Unbecoming color patched his wife’s face. “Don’t be foolish, Curt. As Iron Man had been in my stable, I wanted to be sure that everything possible had been done for his comfort and security. You may bet your life that I’ll never again take in another person’s horse, too much responsibility. The Thoroughbred was on my nerves and Mac knew it. If he says everything is O.K., it is O.K.”
“I’ll bet it is. Say, Pat, you look swell! I like all that rhinestone stuff. You’ll put their eyes out tonight.”
“Dinner is served, Madame,” Huckins announced suavely at the door. Sandra had a terrified suspicion that his eyes rested upon her for an instant.
Mrs. Newsome started forward and paused. “Where’s Estelle?” she demanded brusquely.
“Mrs. Carter passed me on the stairs as I came down. She was in riding breeches and a dark pullover. Perhaps she had been at the stables too,” suggested Philippe Rousseau suavely.
Mrs. Newsome’s suspicious eyes flew to her husband. He looked steadily back at her and laughed.
“Perhaps she had, but you know Mac Donovan, Pat; can you see him or one of the men left in charge of the stables permitting any skirt but you inside his bailiwick without the boss’s orders? Let’s eat.” He slipped his arm within his wife’s. “Can ceremony. Don’t wait for Estelle, she’s always late. Come on. I’m starving.”
Mrs. Pat smiled radiantly and caught Rousseau’s arm.
“Come on, Philippe!”
Rousseau looked back at Sandra before, with a shrug, he allowed himself to be swept on to the hall. Langdon said thoughtfully:
“Ain’t Huckins grand?”
“Grand and slightly saturnine. He gives me the creeps.” Sandra was conscious of the strain in her voice. Time was flying and she had not yet told Nicholas Hoyt about Emma and Philippe. If she made a point of detaining him now, they might suspect her reason for doing it. Would she have to wait until the ball?
She turned the question over and over in her mind during dinner. It was still uppermost in her thoughts as salad was being served, Japanese persimmons with their crimson skins opened like pointed petals, Frenchily and delectably dressed, flanked by blended cheeses in puffy white balls. Philippe Rousseau, who had been taciturn during dinner, frowned at Emma, the waitress, as she stopped behind his chair.
“Long distance call, sir.”
With a murmured apology to his hostess he left the room. The eyes of Damon and Jed Langdon met across the silver bowl of crimson carnations in the middle of the refectory table which glistened with crystal in the candlelight. It was a mere glance but Sandra caught it. What did it mean? What did they know?
Later, in the library, she resolutely attempted to keep her eyes from the shelf where she had left her flashlight. She must retrieve it. What a perfect background the rich paneling was for the pink coats of the men, the sparkle of Mrs. Pat’s jewels, Estelle Carter’s ice-green gown. The face of Emma, who was passing the coffee, was like a clear-cut cameo against its darkness. Strange that the room should have given her such an eerie feeling the first time she entered it. Philippe had not returned to finish his dinner. Why? It had been the second phone call within a short time; the first one from the track apparently had been upsetting. Ordinarily she would think nothing of it, even if she noticed it, but these were critical days. Where was he?
As if conjured by her thoughts, Philippe Rousseau entered. He was in street clothes. His face was colorless but his manner was jaunty.
“Sorry, Mrs. Pat, to pass up the ball but my lawyer phoned that he must see me at once.” A self-conscious smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he explained. Had his late moodiness been swept away by good news, or was he putting up a bluff?
Sandra glanced surreptitiously at Nicholas Hoyt. Had he noticed Philippe’s evident exultation? If he had, the fact was not apparent. He was laughingly arguing with Jed Langdon and Mr. Damon. He had been on the crest of the wave during dinner. Had the fact contributed to Philippe’s moroseness? Rousseau came to her.
“It hurts to cut out this evening with you, Sandra,—but—only a comparatively few hours now and—well, you’ll be the first to hear the news of my victory.” He caught her hands and pressed his lips to them before he added, “dearest!”
“For the love of Mike, Emma, what’s the matter with you? That cream pitcher just missed my dress.”
Mrs. Newsome’s anger, aimed at the waitress, recorded but faintly on Sandra’s mind. She was thankful that Emma’s casualty had diverted attention from Rousseau’s theatrical exit. Had every one in the room heard that absurd endearment? Had Nick Hoyt and Jed Langdon and Mr. Damon? They were looking up at the M.F.H. Had they turned their backs to save her embarrassment when Philippe had gone sentimental?
“Well, that seems to be that.” Curtis Newsome’s laugh broke the silence. “Come over here and help a fella, will you, Miss Duval? You’re a demon at this puzzle stuff. I’ve found the scraps of two boy friends for the girl in the picture and I thought there was but one.”
“Two to one is the other way round in this house,” snapped Mrs. Pat as Estelle Carter strolled toward him. “Oh, lay off that puzzle, Curt! I promised to be at the ball early. Better come with me, Sandra, now that Philippe has walked out on you. He must have a heavy date to break one with you. Coming in the big car with us, Nick? You ought to be there early too.”
This was Nicholas Hoyt’s cue to again ask her to go with him. Would he, or had his threat to let her depart with Philippe only over his dead body been merely a desire to thwart, in every way possible, the man he considered a fake? Sandra felt her face grow warm as involuntarily her eyes sought his.
Estelle Carter snuggled close to Hoyt. “Nick is taking me, aren’t you, Nicholas? We arranged it this afternoon, didn’t we—dearest?”
The last word was a perfect imitation of Philippe Rousseau’s impassioned voice. That and the sight of the woman leaning against Nicholas Hoyt sent a devastating surge of fury over Sandra. She clenched her hands to keep them out of that near-gold hair, from jerking that silly head till the teeth rattled. First Curtis Newsome, now Nick! Her nails cut into her hands. Anger ebbed, a wave of faintness set her shaking. Horrible! What had happened to her? Was she really Sandra Duval? She was a stranger to herself.
Nicholas Hoyt removed the hand from his arm. “As I have told you before, Estelle, your amazing talent for dramatizing the simplest situations is wasted in this village. With your imagination you should be at a scenario desk. Can’t drive you over; duty calls. Take your guests along without me, Pat. I—I want to look in on Sharp before I go to the ball. He is a bunch of nerves the night before a race. I’m taking him to the track myself in the morning.”
“Better keep away from him tonight, Nick. He’ll be better alone.”
Sandra sensed the strain of anxiety in Mrs. Pat’s voice. Curious, she never before had heard that tone nor seen that apprehension in her eyes, and she had seen her in many moods. Had Nicholas Hoyt noticed it? Evidently not. He was smiling.
“Alone! No chance of Eddie’s being alone. I will have to yank the swipes and exercise boys and the man in charge of the stables out of the jockey’s room by the scruff of their necks. They will pile in there to listen to the radio race-prophecies for tomorrow.”
“I’ll bet they wil
l. Are you coming with us, Estelle, or must you be personally conducted?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pat, but I never go in a crowd. I’ll phone a friend to call for me.”
Curtis Newsome took an impetuous step after her, stopped, and turned to his wife.
“Come on, Pat, get your wrap. Let’s get going!”
Humiliation swept over Sandra in a sickening wave as she left the room. That very humiliation dated her, that and her rage at Estelle, set her back years. Mr. Damon was right, she was old-fashioned. Had Nicholas Hoyt assumed that she was looking at him expectantly, had he imagined the hound look in her eyes when he had so easily slipped out of his invitation to her? Didn’t it prove that her suspicion a few moments ago that he would do anything to combat Philippe Rousseau was right? All his kindness to her had been planned for that. It was maddening, maddening, maddening! She wouldn’t try now to tell him about Emma and Philippe. He could find out for himself.
CHAPTER XX
Sandra’s heart still smarted as hours later she went up the stairway at Seven Chimneys, weariness in every step. Perhaps it wasn’t her heart, perhaps it was her mind which writhed whenever she pictured herself standing in the library waiting—waiting, that was the unendurable fact—for Nicholas Hoyt to ask her to drive to the ball with him. His cool refusal to escort the Carter woman had helped a little. Why had she asked him to take her? To rouse Curtis Newsome’s jealousy? If so, she had succeeded; he had hardly spoken on the way to the Club House.
Thank heaven, she had been able to ignore Nicholas Hoyt coolly when he had come into the hall as she was starting, though her pulses had thrummed when he had laid her wrap over her shoulders with disturbing care. Had he touched her bare shoulder with his lips before he had whispered, “Sandra—please,” or had she imagined it? If imagination had sent that swift flame through her, what would reality do? Better not think of it. Care! A lot he cared. That was just his line. Was it his line also to present diamond clips of the Stone House colors to his girl friends? She had not had much opportunity to think of that episode during the evening.
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