Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  She hesitated, then said rather airily, “Oh, Señor Angelo is acquaint with Miss Trent, you know, and she—”

  “Has babbled all my secrets, has she? Wretched chit!” He checked, then added with a sober look, “No, I must not say that. She is a darling, and heaven knows has much to distress her. I only pray we may deal well—”

  “Mr. Val! Mr. Val!” Priscilla ran from the house, her skirts flying, her little face alight and well sprinkled with flour.

  Montclair grinned, and shifted on the chaise, sitting up and reaching his good arm to her. “What makes those lovely eyes sparkle so, Lady Priscilla?”

  She giggled ecstatically, and ran to be hugged. “I’m going to Tewkesb’y with Starry an’ the Bo’sun to get my new specs, and Bo’sun George says he might buy me a ice. An’ you know I is not a real lady.”

  “Bless my soul!” he said, smiling into the bright little face. “How you have deceived me! Now tell me what you’ve been up to with Starry that smells so delectable.”

  “Oh, we’ve been cooking. We din’t have much time, ’cause Bo’sun George is waiting to drive us, so I must go and put on my bonnet and mittens quick. But I cooked you a special biscuit for your dinner, Mr. Val. Wait till you see it! It’s ’normous, and I poked hund’eds an’ thousands of currants into it, ’cause I know you like currants.”

  “Indeed I do. I can scarce wait ’til dinner time. Faith, but I’m glad to know you’re such a good cook. If you do decide to wait for me, and accept of my offer, I’ll eat well!”

  She squealed with delight, jumped up and down twice, bade them both a hurried farewell, then went racing back inside to get ready for the long-awaited journey to Tewkesbury.

  Montclair leaned back, watching the flying little figure. “What a sweet child she is,” he murmured, fondly.

  “Yes,” agreed Susan, watching him. “And what is all this about offers, sir?”

  He chuckled, and turned his head lazily against the chaise to look at her. “Not quite what you might think, ma’am. I am honoured to inform you that your daughter is prepared to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony, and has selected me as a possible mate.”

  “Good—heavens!”

  He sighed and said in tragic accents, “You do not approve! Alas. However, there is a stipulation, so do not worry yourself unduly. Mistress Priscilla considers marriage very silly, and only for old people.”

  Susan laughed a little uncertainly. “That is not exactly a stipulation, is it?”

  “No, but her reluctance to enter such a state is balanced against her need for a rich gentleman, and I had to tell her I have neither title nor a great fortune.” Susan tensed at this, a frown coming into her eyes, but far from being an expert in the ways of women, he did not see this danger signal, and blundered on. “She is very sensible, and says that she cannot marry anyone who has less than a hundred guineas.”

  “Oh.” In a clipped voice Susan remarked, “Well, I fancy you told her you are betrothed, which put an end to that nonsense.”

  “Certainly not! Why should I? Now tell me, ma’am, seriously. You have instilled the proper values into her, I’ll not deny. But what do you mean to do with her? She is exceptionally bright and should be educated, for—”

  “For what?” she snapped, annoyed with him on more than one count. “The Marriage Mart? Hah! With our reputation to aid her, she’d not get one toe across the threshold!”

  His smile faded. “I had not meant to imply that.”

  “Then what had you meant to imply? You must know that is all women are considered good for in these days. A girl must be educated, certainly. Up to a point. She should speak French and some Latin. She must know her Bible and be able to read the globes. She should sketch nicely, paint, and play the pianoforte tolerably well, and a good singing voice is an asset. And above all, she must be well bred up to know her place in the world, which, as you yourself remarked, is to be a conformable wife and turn a blind eye to her husband’s little affaires de coeur!”

  “The deuce!” growled Montclair angrily. “When did I ever make such a gauche remark?”

  Barbara had said that of him, and her confidence must, of course, be respected. Susan evaded hurriedly. “I suppose you will deny that what I have said is truth. But the fact remains that Priscilla will have a vastly better chance of making a good match is she kind and stupid, for a clever woman is considered a threat and unfeminine!”

  “Indeed?” he drawled with a curl of the lip. “So your plan for her future goes no further than finding her a wealthy husband! There are more important things than money, you know.”

  Stung by his scorn, and driven by hurt and the need to strike out at him, she snapped, “Easy said when you have plenty, but odd as it may seem, I’ve no ambition to see her marry into poverty and live in a garret.”

  She had stood as she spoke, and taken up her basket.

  Struggling to rise also, Montclair reached for his crutch and responded irritably, “Not that, certainly. But this preoccupation with a good marriage—or in other words, a wealthy one—is—”

  “Gauche, I suppose,” she interrupted, glaring at him. “Then pray tell sir, what other course suggests itself to you?”

  “Lord save us all, ma’am, the child has an excellent mind. Unlike most predatory females she might be content with an average man—even a man with no title and an honest occupation!”

  Predatory females! “Oooh!” gasped Susan, infuriated. “Shall I tell you what this predatory female prays for, Mr. Montclair? Shall I?”

  He bowed precariously, and said at his most cynical, “I am all ears, ma’am.”

  “Which are precious small of comprehension,” she riposted. “I pray, sir, that the day may dawn when the height of a female’s ambition is not merely to find a suitable mate!”

  Quite as angry as she, he jeered, “Then what shall be the height of this legendary creature’s ambition, Mrs. Henley? To enter a nunnery perhaps?”

  “To have,” she said through her teeth, “some interests of her own! To perhaps be permitted to voice an opinion and not hear it tolerantly sneered at! To be permitted to hold an opinion without being thus judged a bluestocking!”

  He said hotly, “If ever I heard such stuff! I’ll have you know, ma’am, that my mama was exceeding well read! Why, she probably read two or three books a—a day! And discussed ’em with my father! And as to females holding opinions—good God! Have you never listened to my aunt? The woman holds sufficient opinions for a regular army of—”

  “Mrs. Sue!” called Martha Reedham from the back step. “Company!”

  “How very well timed,” said Susan with quelling dignity. “Your pardon, sir.”

  “Oh—hell!” Valentine gave her his tentative grin. “Sue—please don’t rush away angry with me. What the deuce are we quarrelling about? You know I want only the best for Priscilla. I’m just clumsy about the way I say it, I collect.”

  Her antagonism vanished as swiftly as his mood had changed. She said with a flash of dimples, “Very clumsy. So I shall rush away, and leave you to ponder your misdeeds, Mr.—” She started off, glancing at him over her shoulder.

  “Mr.—what?” he demanded.

  “Valentine…” she said provocatively, and hurried to the house guiltily aware that she was as naughty a flirt as he; and that he was smiling after her.

  13

  It was several seconds before Martha’s anxious muttering penetrated Susan’s preoccupation. She halted then. “What did you say?”

  Martha wrung her apron. “I says as it’s them nasty genelmen again, Mrs. Sue. Mr. Junius Trent, and his friend what puts me in mind of a fat snake.”

  “A poisonous one,” muttered Susan. Once again, Trent had timed his visit well. Andy and Angelo were gone, and the Bo’sun had just left for Tewkesbury with Starry and Priscilla.

  She told Martha to fetch the two new men who were repairing the stable roof. Glancing to Montclair who was coming awkwardly towards them, she rejected the half-formed
thought that he should come with her.

  “I’d best help Mr. Montclair up the steps first,” said Martha, turning back.

  “No! Just hurry and do as I told you.”

  The kind-hearted girl looked shocked. “But—Mrs. Sue, he won’t be able to get up by himself. Not on them crutches.”

  “I hope not,” said Susan in a low grim voice.

  Martha gave a squeak of fright. “Oh, ma’am! They wouldn’t never!” But seeing the cynicism in Susan’s face, she panicked and seized her by the arm. “Then you mustn’t go in there, neither! Oh, please! Let ’em wait till I find—”

  “Hush! Just do as I say. Quickly!”

  Martha threw a scared glance at Montclair and flew.

  “Mrs. Sue!” called Montclair urgently. “What is it? Who has come?”

  She bit her lip, then replied in a pert fashion, “One of my own wealthy admirers. So do not feel obliged to hasten, sir.”

  She had the dubious satisfaction of seeing him check and stand frowning at her, then she hurried up the steps, praying that this not be too unpleasant.

  When she walked into the library, however, both Trent and Sir Dennis Pollinger rose and made their bows with punctilious propriety. Affecting not to notice Trent’s outstretched hand, she said coolly, “Have you a message for me, sir?”

  His blue eyes, deepened by the blue of the long-tailed coat he wore, sparkled mischief. “Only the sort to be spoken privately,” he answered, then laughed. “No, never look so icy, lovely lady. Came to see my lamentable cousin is all. Ain’t that right, Poll?”

  Susan turned her cool gaze on the large and unlovely baronet. His face seemed even redder than the last time she’d seen it, and his brown eyes slid away furtively the instant they met hers. “Right-oh,” he said in his harsh voice.

  Susan stepped back as the odour of strong spirits wafted to her. “I can appreciate your anxieties concerning Montclair’s recovery, Mr. Trent, but—”

  Pollinger gave a neighing laugh and dug his elbow into Trent’s ribs. “Anxious are you, Junius?”

  “Quiet, you clod,” said Trent, grinning broadly. “Allow the sweet widow to think the best of me.” He took a pace closer to Susan. “Egad, but you’re a picture this afternoon, m’dear. And—”

  “And you know all about art, don’t you, cousin?”

  Susan bit her lip as the icy voice sounded from the hall. She heard Trent’s whispered oath. She’d not dreamed Montclair would be able to negotiate the back steps unassisted, but she turned to see him swing himself into the room. He was slightly out of breath, and the dark eyes fixed on his cousin contained a cold contempt.

  For an instant the room was hushed, the very air seeming to vibrate with tension.

  “As usual, you are in error, dear Valentine,” drawled Trent. “I’ve no more interest in art than in music. Both are fit only for women and old men. I fancy, though, that you’re anxious to get back to work on your cacophonous concerto. To which end,” a sly smile curved his mouth, “I do trust your hand is better.”

  Montclair set his jaw and ignored the taunt. “What do you want here, Junius? Say it and your farewells. I prefer to breathe untainted air.”

  A flush darkened Trent’s face, but Pollinger laughed raucously. “He don’t love you, Junius. ‘Tainted air,’ he says. Ha!”

  “If you did but know it,” snapped Trent, “you fairly reek of whisky, Pollinger! Have your say, for God’s sake, and I will entertain the luscious lady.”

  “The luscious lady has more diverting entertainments,” said Montclair, hobbling closer to Susan.

  “Such as watching you totter about?” grinned Trent.

  “Oh, no. But there are two slugs on the back step who offer her more of interest than do you.”

  The glitter in Trent’s eyes brought Susan quickly between them. “You said you wished to speak with Mr. Montclair, Sir Dennis. Pray do so. He has already been up for too long, and I am sure that his uncle would not wish his progress impeded.”

  The baronet cleared his throat. “Warned you before, Montclair,” he brayed. “More’n once, in fact. Getting leg-shackled very soon. Don’t like other f-fellas interferin’ with my lady. Leave her be or—or I’ll be ’bliged to take action.”

  “Shall you?” said Montclair, interested. “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

  Junius sniggered. Pollinger, slow-witted and fuzzy with drink, frowned, not quite comprehending the remark. “Toldya,” he said, nodding ponderously. “Getting leg-shackled, and—”

  “Nonsense,” said Montclair. “She wants no part of you, Pollinger. Faith, but what lady would?”

  Susan stared at him in mute astonishment. The man was a regular Don Juan! Betrothed to Barbara, not above flirting with herself, and apparently also pursuing this horrid man’s lady!

  Pollinger’s face darkened. “See here! When I warn a fella—”

  “Have a care, Poll,” jeered Trent. “If he wants her for himself, he’ll likely give you a run for your money.”

  “Well, he ain’t running very fast right at the moment, is he?” Goaded, Pollinger gave an unexpectedly swift shove. Montclair staggered. Trent sprang to support him and said a derisive, “Egad, but you’re a crude fellow, Poll. Don’t you see this?” He giggled, and kicked the left crutch away.

  Inevitably, Montclair fell, but managed to land in the chair behind him.

  “Oh! For shame!” cried Susan, and started for him, but grinning triumphantly, Pollinger was also advancing on the helpless man. Montclair swung the crutch strapped to his right arm, and it whacked into Pollinger’s bulging waistcoat.

  Pollinger said “Ooosh!” and sat on the floor, clutching his middle and gulping.

  Junius intercepted Susan, and said seductively, “Well, well, look what I found.”

  “Let her—go, damn you,” panted Montclair, trying to haul himself from the chair.

  Junius chuckled and held the struggling girl tighter. “Oh, but I think not.”

  “That,” murmured another voice, “is all too apparent.”

  Trent jerked as though he had been struck. His eyes shot to the open door, and all the colour drained from his face.

  Susan tore free and turned to the newcomer.

  Tall, elegant, yet subtly menacing, Imre Monteil stood in the doorway, with Martha hovering anxiously behind him. The Swiss bowed. “I trust I am not de trop, dear lady?”

  “Not in the least de trop, monsieur,” she said with a grateful smile.

  Monteil waved a dismissing hand, and Martha looked relieved and went away.

  “What d’you want here, Monteil?” demanded Junius with a guarded air of resentment.

  “I might ask the same of you, my dear. Were you to tell me you came to see your cousin, I could only point out that poor Valentine does not appear to be rendered ecstatic by your visit. And as for Mrs. Henley…” He tapped the jewelled handle of his Malacca cane against his lips, his unblinking gaze not for an instant leaving Trent. “I really must urge that you do not again bother her.” His voice was very gentle, but something about his smile quite frightened Susan.

  Junius muttered sullenly, “Pollinger came to warn my cousin off, is all. From the start he has interfered with the betrothal. Makes my papa deuced angry, I don’t mind telling you. And my mama.”

  “Ah, I comprehend,” purred Monteil. “So you are here to defend your sister’s prospective marriage, are you, dear Junius? Commendable, but…”

  Susan did not hear the rest of his sentence. Whatever did the man mean? Barbara was Trent’s sister, and she was betrothed to Montclair. Was there another sister, then…? Vaguely she was aware that Junius was assisting Pollinger to his feet and that the Swiss gentleman was escorting the two vanquished warriors from the room. Recovering her wits, she saw Montclair trying to reach his crutch. “Oh, Valentine, you were superb,” she said, retrieving the other crutch and handing it to him.

  He felt that her praise was ill warranted, for he was sure he’d made a poor show
ing in front of her, besides which he didn’t like the way Monteil was always hanging about Highperch. “Is that why you look so flabbergasted?” he asked irritably, dragging himself upward.

  “I was a trifle surprised,” Susan admitted. “I’d not realized the Trents had two daughters.”

  “They don’t.”

  She stared at him. “But—but Barbara is betrothed to—to—”

  “To Pollinger,” he frowned. “And cannot abide the creature. Small wonder. I’d thought you knew that, Mrs. Sue. Why d’you suppose I kept urging Babs to run away with—” He paused, her stunned expression bringing a belated comprehension. “By Jupiter! You thought Barbara—and I…?” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Oho, what a rogue you must have judged me!”

  “How pleasant it is to find you so merry, dear Valentine,” smiled Imre Monteil, strolling back into the room.

  Susan’s emotions were rioting, and dreading lest she should betray her joy, she said warmly, “I am most grateful for your help, monsieur. You could scarce have arrived at a more opportune moment. Mr. Trent was behaving disgracefully.”

  The Swiss was as delighted by her gratitude as Montclair was revolted by it. “I am overjoyed to have been of service,” he said, patting her outstretched hand gently, “But I think your patient is wearied and should retire for the nap—no?”

  “Yes,” snarled Montclair.

  “Well, you cannot,” said Susan, her heart as light as thistledown. “You shall have to wait until the Bo’sun comes back and can help you upstairs.”

  “Deemer will help me,” he grunted, and added sourly, “Doubtless, you two have much to—talk over.”

  “Mais non,” said Monteil. “I shall myself carry you, dear Valentine. Ah, but what a resentful glare! Is it that you are afraid of being made to look helpless in front of the lady? I assure you, mon ami—”

  “Go—to the devil,” flared Montclair, flushed and furious. And wielding the crutches unusually well, he dragged himself from the room.

  The Swiss spread his hands and shrugged ruefully. “Alas—it is that I am clumsy, yes?”