Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  Monteil sighed and seated himself with fastidious care on a large crate.

  Lyddford let out a roar of wrath. “Common thief? Damn your eyes and limbs, I’m a Free Trader! One of the Gentlemen! If you were able to stand up, I’d knock you down!”

  “And if you are so dense as to suppose that these crates now hold smuggled brandy, or bricks, you’re either—a fool, or a liar.”

  Flushing darkly, Lyddford sprang forward and wrenched off the lid of the box Montclair leaned against. “See for yourself,” he snarled, taking out an object and pulling off the wrapping. “You can … see—” His words died. He stood there unmoving, staring with stunned eyes at the exquisite jewelled chalice he held.

  Susan whispered, “Oh … God…!”

  Monteil clapped his hands. “How very entertaining is this little drama. Exercise your so great gift of the guess, mon cher Valentine. Without turning your clever head, tell me what he found.”

  “Part of England’s stolen treasures, which you had the confounded gall to store both here, and in our cellars at the Manor.” Ignoring Susan’s shocked little cry, he went on contemptuously, “And you’re the brains behind the Masterpiece Gang, I’ll go bail.”

  Monteil bowed. “Very true. But, alas, I think there can be no—er, bail.”

  “What in the … devil … have you got us into?” gasped Lyddford, turning to face the Swiss as one dazed.

  Valentine looked at him narrowly. He was very white, his face wearing a drawn look that could not be a pose.

  “Why?” whispered Susan, staring at Monteil in stunned horror. “You are a rich man. Why would you do such dreadful things? Several people have been killed in those robberies.”

  He shrugged his bony shoulders. “They should not have interfered. You see, dear lady, I am a vindictive man. Two years ago a very fine gentleman and I concocted a little scheme to—ah, relieve England of the encumbrance of her heir apparent and institute a democratic government. But—”

  “Claude Sanguinet!” interposed Valentine. “A murdering ruffian without one iota of conscience or decency! Some of my friends took a hand in that game, and rid the world of the crudity you term a ‘very fine gentleman’!”

  Ti Chiu lumbered forward. “Ti humbly glad to break man with rude mouth, master,” he rumbled, his small eyes glitteringly fixed on Valentine.

  Susan gave a gasp and shrank against her brother.

  Monteil said gently, “He can do it very easily, mon ami, as you should be aware.”

  Valentine struggled to his feet. His head had cleared and although he was aware of some new bruises, he had come off very lightly compared to what might have resulted from such a fall. He regarded Ti Chiu’s might steadily. The man was a condensed Colossus, but not eight feet tall as the distortion of the shadow had made him appear. He said, “So you are the brave man who strikes down his victims from behind.”

  The little eyes seemed to disappear. The Oriental took a step forward, his great hands curving into claws. “You fight Ti Chiu? Face to face?” he offered, grinning.

  “Now that would be amusing,” said Monteil.

  At once the groom crouched. Monteil lifted his cane. “But not just yet,” he murmured, and with a disappointed grunt Ti Chiu straightened. “The rest of you men, get the work finished,” went on Monteil. “We must be away before dawn.”

  Four of the newcomers went over to join the other two men in carefully packing the collection of dusty art treasures into the boxes and crates. Ti Chiu stayed close to Monteil.

  Valentine, who had prepared himself for what he knew must be a losing battle, relaxed, and said steadily, “So having lost the first round you still mean to take over the throne, do you? I think you will catch cold at that, Monteil.”

  “It is not my intent,” said the Swiss. “I mean to make your country pay me back with interest for the money I lost in our venture two years ago. Also, in stealing her art treasures, I wound her pride. It is, parbleu, a small revenge. But it is a beginning.”

  Staring at him, Lyddford asked, “Why the bricks?”

  Monteil smiled. “What is your answer to that, my dear Valentine?”

  “I think,” said Valentine, “that your benefactor had been storing his booty at Highperch for some time, Lyddford. Like you, he found it an ideal location: isolated from prying eyes, yet with a front door to the river. He had fully expected to buy the place. Probably, my uncle told him he could do so. But at that time my uncle was unaware that Highperch belongs to me. When you suddenly moved in, I fancy Monteil was furious. However, he learned you had a boat, and when he also learned you were short of funds, he hired you to bring many heavy boxes here, telling you they contained his personal belongings. He intended to discard the bricks at some convenient time when you were away, and fill the boxes with the art-works he had stored down here. When the time came to ship his stolen property, everyone would think he had simply taken his own things.” He paused, frowning. “Something has occurred to make him move earlier than he’d intended. What, I wonder? Is there really a Revenue cutter on the way, Monteil?”

  “Merely a ruse, dear boy,” said Monteil expansively. “To get the lovely widow and her brother down here without waking the household. One takes as few lives as possible when Bow Street comes sniffing around.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Lyddford. “You’re a blasted monster!”

  A hearty laugh sounded from the steps. The epitome of elegance in a many-caped riding coat, his high-crowned beaver hat tilted at a rakish angle on his handsome head, Junius Trent called, “I’d resent that were I you, Imre.”

  Monteil shrugged. “Do I not en effet attempt to spare lives?”

  Trent sauntered down the steps, his eyes fixed on his cousin. “His—for instance?”

  Valentine said contemptuously, “It would be nice to say I’m surprised to find you’re part of this nasty little business. Unfortunately, I cannot. May I ask if my uncle is aware you sent your killing machine here”—he nodded towards Ti Chiu—“after me?”

  Junius glanced at Monteil. “Are we to be frank?” he enquired. “Before the lady?”

  He was asking if they were all to be silenced. Susan felt cold, and tried not to show how frightened she was.

  “But of course. Madame Henley will not speak, I do promise you. To do so would be to sentence her brother to death.” His jet eyes twinkled at her. “Andrew is my partner, you know.”

  Lyddford raged, “Not in this filthy business!”

  “Ah, but it would be most difficult to prove that, mon ami. And besides, a wife cannot testify against her husband.”

  Lyddford swore and plunged at him, but Ti Chiu shoved him back.

  Trent chuckled. “In that case, dear cousin of mine, I will give you an honest answer. No. My parents did not know that Ti Chiu was to rid us of you. The credit for that bungle belongs to my Swiss friend.”

  Monteil looked at him thoughtfully.

  Puzzled, Valentine asked, “Why, Monteil? As a favour to Junius?”

  “I never grant favours,” said the Swiss. “The fact is that you displease me on several suits, Valentine. You are an annoyance to Selby Trent, whom I find amusing. He is so delightfully without principles, while presenting such a pious picture to the world. Your friends are unpleasant, and one is judged by the company one keeps—no? Again, you are so impertinent as to address me with thinly veiled contempt. Unwise, mon cher. Mostly, however, your stubborn refusal to sell this house has inconvenienced me. Ergo, you must be removed.”

  “You would kill a man—only for such paltry things as that?” gasped Lyddford in astonishment.

  “It is more than sufficient,” said Monteil coldly. “However, the Trents may have a more compelling reason, I’ll admit.”

  Valentine stared at him.

  “But—surely you have guessed?” The Swiss smiled. “You block Junius’s path to the title and the fortune.”

  “Rubbish! My brother is the heir—not me.”

  Junius gave a snort of laughter
. “Your precious brother, my poor clod, was killed by a tiger six months ago. You are Baron Montclair of Longhills.”

  Valentine reeled with shock, and put a steadying hand against the pillar beside him. Paper white, he gasped, “You … lie! Damn you! You lie! Geoff’s not dead! I—I would have heard!”

  “My father learned of it in a rather roundabout way. He has been able to suppress the news because against all advice your stupid brother had journeyed miles into the jungle and told no one where he was going.”

  “Do you see now?” asked Monteil, amused by Valentine’s obvious anguish. “Nobody in this country is as yet aware of Geoffrey’s demise. Therefore, your own premature death would have caused no suspicion of foul play, for who would have anything to gain by—er, hastening your exit?”

  Junius looked annoyed and said irritably, “If you hadn’t taken a hand, his exit would have been fait accompli by this time.”

  “A twist of fate, my dear.” Monteil sighed. “Who was to guess he had so hard a skull? Or that the child would go to a spot everyone else avoided, and find him before he obligingly died? If he had ever been found, people would only have thought he must have fallen into the Folly by accident.”

  Still numbed with shock, Valentine mumbled stupidly, “But—but there is Uncle Hammond…”

  “Your brainless Uncle Hammond will be easily ruled by the Trents. For—a while, at least.” Monteil smiled unpleasantly. “Now you really should not look at me with such disgust, dear Valentine. I assure you your cousin’s plan for your—extermination was far less humane than mine.”

  Valentine tensed, his narrowed gaze darting to Trent.

  “Justifiably so.” Junius nodded. “I’ve many scores to settle, and it was such fun to watch his condition slowly worsening. A little taste of hell that he richly deserved. I think, towards the end, he really began to think his mind was affected … Didn’t you, dear cousin of mine?”

  Through his teeth Valentine whispered, “You filthy … bastard!”

  Junius chuckled. “Does the light dawn at last? Yes, dear boy. Dr. Sheswell was once—er, indiscreet with a patient, and by a lucky chance I learned of it. He’s been in my pocket ever since. With his help I arranged your first—er, ‘attack.’ And his ‘medicine’ did the rest.”

  “Shocking, is it not?” said Monteil. “For the last few months, Baron Montclair, your loving family has been slowly poisoning you. And that was the trouble, do you see. Too slow. And I was in a hurry, so I sent Ti Chiu to—”

  With an incoherent cry of rage Valentine sprang at him.

  His attack was as swift as it was unexpected. He seemed to blur across the room, and his hands were locked around Monteil’s throat before anyone else could move. Monteil let out a squawk and the two men crashed to the floor. Lyddford snatched a great golden bowl from the open crate, and hurled it at Ti Chiu’s head. The Chinese staggered. Beating frenziedly and unavailingly at Valentine, Monteil gulped for breath.

  Jacques sprang to his employer’s aid, but Lyddford hurled himself between them, shouting, “Sue! Get help!”

  Susan was already running for the stairs, but Junius was after her. She whipped up the pistol Monteil had given her. Junius halted, eyeing her uneasily. “I’ll fire,” she warned, the pistol steady in her hand.

  The fair man joined the attack on Lyddford, who was sent hurtling back, to collapse behind a box.

  Simultaneously, the Scot and the cockney ran to tear Valentine away. Maddened with rage, Valentine jammed his elbow into the ribs of the Scot and brought his right hand whizzing into a chop across the throat that sent the cockney reeling. Then an iron hand grabbed his left wrist and twisted it up behind him with brutal force. A mighty arm clamped across his throat. A deep growl of a voice asked, “Master? Ti break this?”

  Helpless, unable to move, fighting to draw breath, Valentine knew what the answer would be.

  “No!” screamed Susan. “Unless you want me to shoot your friend!”

  Clutching at his throat, his face livid, Monteil pointed to his amber cane and one of his men sprang to snatch it up and offer it. “Shoot then,” croaked the Swiss and tottered towards Valentine.

  “Hey!” shouted Junius, blenching.

  “I will!” Susan screamed.

  Ignoring her, Monteil sent the cane whipping across Valentine’s face. “Saleté!” he hissed.

  The blow was sickeningly painful. Valentine’s eyes closed and he sagged in Ti Chiu’s grip.

  With a sob of desperation, Susan swung the pistol at Monteil and pulled the trigger.

  There was a metallic click.

  Junius tore the weapon from her hands, his own shaking. “You murdering little doxy! It wasn’t loaded! No thanks to you, Imre!”

  Monteil sent him a narrowed, rageful glance. “I gave it to her, you imbecile.” He called silkily, “Valentine…? You are awake?”

  Valentine dragged his head up and met that enraged glare. Somehow, he managed a faint grin.

  Monteil hissed, “Oui. Break him.”

  With a delighted smile, the huge Chinese clamped both arms about Valentine’s ribs. His grip tightened and he began to laugh softly.

  Susan saw Montclair’s dark head jerk back, his face convulse. She screamed at the top of her lungs.

  With all his rapidly fading strength, Montclair rammed his left foot back at Ti Chiu’s shin. His spur struck hard. The death grip eased and the Chinese uttered a shocked grunt. Montclair smashed his right foot back. A guttural snarl sounded in his ear, and he was jerked around. The craggy face was a terrifying mask of rage. One great arm flailed upward. Wheezing, Valentine ducked frantically and discovered that for all his might, the big fellow was slow. The blow that would surely have finished him whipped over his head.

  “Idiot!” raged Monteil. “Kill the swine!”

  Susan was struggling in Trent’s hands; Lyddford was downed. Monteil’s unlovely crew made themselves comfortable and watched in amusement as Ti Chiu lumbered in again, scowlingly eager for the kill. There was, Valentine knew, no chance. Breathing hard, he crouched, fists clenched, grimly resolved to sell his life dearly.

  “Tally ho!” shouted a familiar voice from the stairs.

  “A mill!” howled another equally familiar voice with enthusiasm if not accuracy.

  Valentine caught a glimpse of the two vagrants sailing into action. The big Scot grabbed Seth’s bushy hair and it came away in his hand, revealing flattened fair curls. “Dev!” howled Montclair joyously. Dicky, alias Jocelyn Vaughan, took on Trent, shouting a bracing “Jolly good work, Val!”

  So his friends had been here, all the time! He thought gratefully ‘I might have known!’

  Bo’sun Dodman plunged down the stairs, followed by Deemer, in his dressing gown, clutching an enormous and probably inoperable blunderbuss; and Mrs. Starr, clad in an orange satin dressing gown, hair in curling papers, and rolling pin in hand.

  Ti Chiu came on single-mindedly. Immeasurably heartened, Valentine braced himself and drove his fist at the rugged jaw. He had as well have struck a wall of granite. The Chinese launched his great paw in a murderous swipe. Valentine ducked and struck again, then was smashed back as by a battering ram. Dimly, he heard a piercing screech, and saw Angelo fly through the air to land on Ti Chiu’s back and beat at his head with verve and determination. The big man did not even seem aware he was there, and lumbered forward.

  Clambering to his knees, Valentine knew in a detached way that he was in the middle of a raging battle. The Frenchman kicked at him savagely. Valentine seized the flying boot, brought the Frenchman crashing down, sat on him, and silenced his curses with a left jab. Gasping for breath, he regained his feet in time to see Susan break a priceless vase over the head of a man wearing a red stocking cap. Imre Monteil was nowhere to be seen. Bewilderingly, the lazy gardener, Diccon, was now fighting Junius for possession of a pistol. Ti Chiu, emitting infuriated grunts, flung Señor Angelo off his back, and the Spaniard landed in the open crate and sank from view. Bo’sun Dodman wa
s knocked down by the cockney’s pistol butt. With a squeak of fury, Mrs. Starr cast to the winds all her concepts on the use of violence and bounced her rolling pin off the cockney’s head. His eyes crossed, and he lost interest in the fight. The Chinese made a grab for Valentine, who dodged aside and rammed his fist into the big man’s midsection. Ti Chiu grunted and advanced inexorably. Vaughan and Devenish ran to Valentine’s aid. With one mighty flail of his arm, Ti Chiu sent all three flying. Deemer collected a bloody nose and dropped the blunderbuss. It went off with a deafening roar. The fair man, who was kneeling over Devenish with a glittering dagger upraised, howled and flew backwards, knocking over the lamp. The cellar was plunged into darkness. Gradually, the groans, grunts, thuds, and crashes diminished. Someone scraped at a tinder box and the small circle of light expanded as a branch of candles was lit.

  The cellar looked like a small battlefield, with damaged fighting men scattered all about the floor in varying degrees of consciousness.

  Alain Devenish hauled himself to a sitting position and explored a back tooth cautiously. Jocelyn Vaughan, flat on his back, lifted his head, his nose streaming crimson, and groaned thickly, “Did we—win, old boy?”

  “I’m not altogether … sure,” panted Devenish, handing down his handkerchief. “That Chinese fella outnumbered the lot of us.”

  “What?” said Vaughan, plying the handkerchief. “Has he got away, then?”

  “Must have. Don’t see him, my tulip. And he … ain’t an easy one to overlook!”

  “Aye…! Mamacita…!” sighed a feeble voice from within the crate, and Señor Angelo’s rumpled head hove into view.

  Diccon, his pistol trained on three battered-looking rogues, called in a brisk, business-like voice, “You people all right?”

  They were, Vaughan acknowledged breathlessly, all right.

  Both eyes almost swollen shut, and with Susan propping him, Lyddford peered from behind a crate and gasped that he was “perfectly fit,” then enquired after Monteil.

  “He slid away like the slippery article he is,” said Diccon grimly. “A couple of my fellows are hot after him and his big destroyer.”