Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

by Patricia Veryan

  "He did. But fancied I'd squander the fortune on Esther. Or fall in with some choice group like Cobra. Or—"

  "Never even think such a dreadful thing!" Sophia's eyes were wide with revulsion. "As if someone as clean and honourable as you could sink to the level of those depraved monsters! Now tell me—do you mean to ask Damon's help?"

  Astonished, Clay said, "How shrewd you are!"

  "Shrewd enough to realize the Duke must have refused you. What did he say?"

  Vaille had said a good deal, beginning with the observation that Clay had wed, against his advice, a lovely henwit, and ending with a suave, "You were certainly aware of her want of good sense, and I knew you'd retain sufficient of your wits to guard against her excesses. My confidence in you was not, I trust, misplaced?" With a wry smile, Clay answered, "He was not—sympathetic."

  "The beast! Does he know you face Newgate?"

  Too bedevilled to wonder how Sophia was aware of that hideous fact, Clay shuddered and shook his head. "I did not know of it at the time."

  "Then perhaps you should approach him again, dear."

  Gordon had said the same, and Clay realised they were both right, but in the face of Vaille's attack upon his repentant Esther, he'd drawn back from confessing the extent of her recklessness. To have to face those icy eyes again, to have to admit that she had brought the threat of Newgate upon him, reduced his courage, so firm in battle, to quivering shreds.

  Sophia read a great deal in his expression and flared, "How dare he humiliate you! He is doubtless shamed by your military record since his own son can only suffer by comparison! Cavorting about Europe with his fancy Frenchwoman—at his age! The man should have been wed long since and his sons out of Eton already!"

  Both amused and touched by her vehemence, Clay grinned. "My sweet champion! But in all honesty, Chick, Damon's— ah—liaison with the beautiful Mademoiselle Gabrielle was ended some time back."

  "I am not surprised," she sniffed. "Even a lightskirted Parisienne could have only contempt for a man who shirked his duty."

  Clay frowned a little. "Patriotism takes many forms, Sophia."

  "It does, indeed. And, in our noble uncle, it took a very cunning form. He served his country vicariously, if you will." She uttered a brittle laugh and said, "My Lord Damon purchased Stephen's colours. Were you aware?"

  "No, by gad! Jolly decent of him, since your Papa could… not…" Sophia was regarding him in horrified disbelief. He regrouped. "What d'you mean—vicariously? You never hold it against him that Whitt—"

  "Near died and is cruelly maimed?" Her small fists clenched, and she said with unfamiliar bitterness, "Lud— why ever should I do such a thing? Because Damon cursed and bullied Stephen into doing his fighting for him while he stayed safely at home? Good gracious—no!"

  After a small, tense silence, Clay asked softly, "Do you intend to tax him with it? If so, I'd best not ask his help."

  "Oh—I'd not thought of that! If only I could help you." Her worried eyes brightened suddenly. Her early marriage had left her with only a title, and…

  "My emerald! That's the answer! Marcus, you could—"

  "I most certainly could not!" he said, his eyes flashing indignation. "What the deuce d'you take me for? I vow you're becoming positively totty headed!"

  "And you too prideful for your own good! Wherefore, I collect I'm obliged to be all sweetness and light at the Priory—and shall be, never fear. Until I am able to spirit Stephen safely away from my infamous uncle. Or until you have secured his promise of help." Her heart constricted violently. If the Marquis of Damon already knew of her vengeance, Clay could expect short shrift!

  Misunderstanding her expression, the Major said uneasily, "Gad—I'd not intended to stay longer than one night."

  Nor had she! The thought of even dining there made her toes curl with fear. But she must not let Clay know that and therefore laughed. "Gracious! You sound bereft of all hope. You love to fence. You and Damon could—"

  "He don't fence."

  "But—he must! Has he not fought several duels?"

  "Was challenged each time. Chose pistols. He's a dead shot, I hear, but hates swordplay."

  "Well, then, you could ride. He's said to have a splendid stable."

  "He don't ride. Loathes horses."

  "Loathes… horses?" Shattered by such infamy, she gasped, "Lud! Then what does he do for diversion? Spar? Or is he too dainty for that, either?"

  "Don't fence," Clay mourned. "Don't ride; don't spar."

  "Good… God! My poor uncle must have led a solitary life aside from his French baggage. Surely the Bucks and Corinthians shun him?"

  "Matter of fact," said Clay thoughtfully, "he was well liked in Town before he debunked. Ran with Saxon and Bolster and that crowd. Our cousin Redmond thinks the world of him, I gather."

  "Harry? How odd. They must be years apart. And Harry's a dear."

  "Wouldn't describe him in just that fashion," he grinned. "But I'll agree Redmond don't seem the type."

  "For what?"

  "Your uncle's diversion—as you called it." Sophia waited, intrigued, and Clay said with a chuckle, "Only thing he does that I know of, m'dear, is play the harpsichord."

  Chapter 2

  Her bags beside her, Sophia stood on the far bank, pulling her cloak tighter and watching Clay anxiously. The swollen river roared thunderously in her ears, and she tried not to notice the rubble its broadened girth had claimed from the banks to propel along the boil of the water. The bridge looked safe enough, but hovered scant feet above the turbulence. Clay had refused to order the chaise across. He had walked over with her, carrying her most necessary possessions. At least the rain had lessened, now becoming a steady light fall so that she was not drenched as she waited through Clay's brief conference with his groom. Smithers swung down from the chaise with obvious reluctance and crossed to the carriage to climb up beside James. Clay was going to drive the chaise across! She realized with a pang of fear that he'd judged it too hazardous to require his groom to attempt it.

  The greys were balking, frightened by the cacophonous uproar. Sophia held her breath as Clay guided them expertly onto the timbers. It was little short of idiotic, she thought angrily, that the Marquis chose to live in such a godforsaken spot with this one rickety bridge providing the only means of access.

  And then her heart jumped into her throat. The bridge moved! She heard a scream from the carriage. The greys began to plunge, and Clay sent the whip snaking over their heads. "Dear God!" she whispered. "What have I done?"

  A great mass of debris rushed on the crest of the littered waters to slam deafeningly against the pilings. Smithers jumped down from the carriage, ran over the swaying bridge and clung to the back of the chaise as it shot forward. The horses had barely reached the far side than an uprooted tree hurtled into the weakened structure. The greys screamed with fright. For an instant the chaise seemed to hang over empty space as the bridge disintegrated with an ear-splitting roar. Then the wheels bounced onto the bank. The horses strove, eyes rolling in panic. Clay, his face white, flailed the whip, and with a wild plunge, they were clear.

  Sophia swayed, weak with terror, and then was crushed close in her cousin's arms. She clung to him, half sobbing, "Oh, Marcus!" He kissed her, said a cheerful, "Silly chit!" just as Stephen would have done, and bustled her into the chaise while Smithers shouted to James to await them at "The Wooden Leg."

  From the top of the rise, Sophia viewed the Priory with a sinking heart. The rutted apology for a drive swept around a small pool, beyond which lay the great sprawling building, stark and unwelcoming in the gloomy afternoon. The central structure was flanked on each side by long wings extending back to create a wide "U" shape. The windows were narrow, deeply inset, and few. The front door crouched under a heavy Gothic arch, and only faint gleams of light showed from those lurking windows. There were some fine old trees, but the lawns were a collection of weedy grasses bearing little resemblance to the velvet turf surrounding her own
Kentish home.

  Dismayed, she felt inclined to run back to the chaise. It was little short of miraculous that they had not overturned when the wheel, badly sprung when the chaise had bounced onto the river bank, had split. Tired of watching the men struggle to repair the damage, she had set out in search of the Priory, which, with his usual optimism, Marcus had assured her was "just around the next bend." Instead, she had tramped at least a mile. She was cold, and her feet hurt from the long walk in shoes not designed for such endeavours. But she was here at last! She climbed the steps and approached that forbidding door.

  No baying of dogs, no grooms, no welcoming footman or butler greeted her. The Priory seemed to leer malevolently, defying her to persist in her invasion. The wind howled, sending her hood flying. She pulled it back up and, finding no bell, pounded on the heavy door defiantly. Silence. She pounded again and gave it a few angry kicks for good measure. It creaked open. Alarmed, she jumped back, then ventured to peer inside. She saw a vast hall panelled in dark wood that added to the depressing dimness. It was sparsely furnished with only one huge old table, which held a branch of flickering candles and was flanked by several ancient and decrepit chairs. The massive hearth on the right end wall yawned black and empty. A broad flight of steps opposite the front door divided at a wide landing into two separate staircases leading to either side of a railed balcony on the upper floor.

  Sophia walked reluctantly into the unprepossessing interior, murmured an ironic "Charming!" and called, "Is somebody here?" No whisper of life answered her. 'Lud!' she thought. 'What an awful place! Just what I expected of him!'

  Two corridors led back into the wings of the house. The one to the right was dark, but to the left, light gleamed faintly. She traversed the hall and walked nervously along the corridor, passing several closed doors on either side. It was chill and damp and smelled of paint, but the last door was slightly open, sending a beam of light across the flagged floor. Again, her knock won no response, and she stepped in. Something white flew at her with a loud hissing. She gave a shriek of terror and shrank back. A large goose advanced, with neck outstretched in evident hostility. "N-nice… birdie," she quavered. The creature eyed her with beady displeasure. Sophia reached blindly for an object of defence and, grasping something from a side table, glanced down at her prize. It was a sculpted bust, the name across the man's chest identifying 'Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart'. She smiled faintly, but her smile faded as the broad wings of her antagonist began to rise and the neck to stretch once more. She replaced the bust hurriedly, but when she took a tentative step forward, the goose hissed like a veritable dragon. Sophia thought of Marcus and Smithers labouring in the rain. Vexed, she shook her cloak at the bird and cried, "Oh, go away, do!" The goose squawked, made an ungainly dash for the rear of the room, and squeezed through a French door that was not quite closed.

  The victor looked around in some surprise. She stood in a large and gracious room. A fire blazed in a lovely Adam fireplace. The walls, with Gothic panels picked out in gold, were a soft cream. Heavy brocaded draperies of cream and beige were closed over all the windows. The furnishings were tasteful, and at the far end of the room, stood a magnificent old harpsichord, the top littered with music. She walked toward it curiously, then, glancing to the door through which the goose had vanished, caught a glimpse of someone outside.

  She hurried on to a broad, rain-swept terrace below which lawns stretched out. At once the wind blew the door wide, whipping the music from the harpsichord into a paper cyclone that whirled out to surround her. A servant, inadequately clad in breeches and a leather apron over an open-throated shirt, had been labouring to retrieve similar sheets apparently kidnapped by an earlier gust. He looked up from the foot of the steps, saw the new disaster, and roared an exasperated, "Oh hell and damnation!" It was not an endearing greeting, and the startled Sophia collected herself and favoured him with her most daunting frown.

  He was undaunted. "Close the door, you ninnyhammer!" he shouted.

  It had been several years since anyone had addressed her in that fashion.

  "How…dare you!" she said with regal displeasure.

  Unintimidated, he started towards her, bellowing, "Close the door, woman! Are you daft?"

  He was slim but tall and with broad shoulders. Sophia backed away and, intending to escape this insolent brute by returning to the house, was thwarted as the door blew shut. Her attempts to open it were fruitless: it was either locked or jammed. The servant was again gathering up the sheets of music that the disobliging wind blew in all directions. The goose, she saw, lurked beside him, scurrying around, keeping the man ever between itself and her, peering at her uneasily from beyond him each time he halted. She looked around for some other door into the house. She must try and find someone rational who could send help to Marcus.

  "Don't stand about!" the servant shouted. "Get down here and help!"

  She wondered if he always addressed his master's guests in such a fashion and decided he was either mad or drunk as a walrus.

  "Will you get down here—or must I drag you?"

  Given pause by that irate snarl, she looked at him again. He was reaching for an errant sheet of music, but she glimpsed black, wet hair and darkly scowling eyebrows. She had best placate the lunatic. She walked reluctantly to the steps. He thrust a sheaf of wet papers at her. "Since you cannot take 'no' for an answer, make yourself useful, girl! Put these under your cloak."

  Sophia stared. The unbelievable impudence of the fellow!

  He waved his salvaged collection at her impatiently, then burst into a torrent of French, so rapid that she caught only the beginning, which conveyed the information that she was totally wits to let, and the ending, which was a pithy "ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute!"

  She regarded him with the hauteur that had shattered many a too persistent admirer. "Were it up to me, sir, my first step in this house would be to discharge you!"

  "God!" he groaned. He came slowly up the steps. Sophia looked down into a lean, finely chiselled face, possessed of a straight nose, firm chin, and the most unusual eyes she had ever seen, wide and deepset, and of a clear, light turquoise colour. She had heard someone speak of such eyes and now remembered silly little Brenda Smythe-Carrington mooning over her latest "true love."

  "Cam" somebody or other, whom she had described as "the handsomest man in London." Whoever Brenda's Cam may be, thought Sophia, slightly dazed, he would surely be put in the shade by this man! She stood motionless, her own features shadowed by her hood, watching the rain drip off the end of that slim nose and course down the aquiline features.

  "Put these under your cloak!" he repeated with tight-lipped emphasis.

  Finding her voice, she said, "I most assuredly shall not! They are muddy."

  "Of course, they're muddy! Largely because you left the blasted door open! I'll buy you a new dress, girl! Do as you're told!"

  "No!"

  For an instant, he stood still, then stepped even closer. Those incredible eyes were hard and cold, his beautifully shaped mouth curving to a terrifying smile. Speaking very softly, he said, "Put… these… under…"

  She grabbed the sheets and thrust them under her cloak.

  He turned away, muttering a sardonic, "Voila! Coup de maître!"

  As soon as he reached the lawn, Sophia made a mad dash across the terrace, passed a wide central court between the two wings of the house and, at the far side, found to her inexpressible relief a door that admitted her to the dark hall.

  She ran a little way, slowed, and stopped. It was very dark in here, and the quiet held an odd brooding. Darkness had always terrified her, and she knew suddenly that someone, something, watched her. Her heart fluttering, she began to back away. Something touched her elbow, and she almost fainted from shock.

  "I am persuaded, ma'am," said that same deep drawl, "that I have been most rude to a poor soul not in possession of her full faculties. You have been misinformed as to our needs. I shall provide transportation for your r
eturn to the village if you will be so good as to come this way."

  She felt weak with relief and, ignoring his sarcasm, followed his tall figure back onto the cold, wet terrace. Long before they reached the door to the lighted room, however, she was fumingly rehearsing the speech she intended to make to her uncle about this obnoxious secretary or music master, or whatever he was.

  He tried the door handle, muttered, "Confound it!" and gave the door a hard kick while roaring, "Horatio!"

  Sophia took an uneasy step back into the rain. The goose honked behind her, tore past triumphantly as she jumped aside, and took refuge behind a graceful Hope chair. The man stood aside, said a cool, "Your Majesty," and swept her a mocking bow. Outraged, she marched in, tossed the dirty papers on to a sofa of brocaded cream satin, and crossed to the fireplace, well aware of the cry of rage that had burst from her companion. Her depredations were incomplete, however. Her hand left a blur of mud along the pristine mantle even as a tiny but very muddy shoe gratifyingly sullied the hitherto immaculate brass rail before the fire.

  "You, madam, are a full-fledged disaster!" came that irate voice behind her. "We've no need for a maid who ignores requests and in one minute desecrates an entire room! That I can assure you."

  It was apparent there had been a misunderstanding, but how dared this arrogant upstart use that tone with her? She put back her hood and gave a shake of her lovely head. The gleaming ringlets did not bounce softly on to her shoulders, as expected. The gleaming ringlets were, in fact, one wet straggle. Raising an exploratory hand, she realised too late that it was muddy and began to form an unhappy estimate of her appearance. Ignoring the Creature, who had dropped to one knee before the sofa and was scanning his sheets of music with anxious intensity, she sought in her reticule for her small mirror. It revealed her appearance to be even more shocking than she'd anticipated. She went swiftly to work and, when her repairs were completed, turned again to her busily occupied companion.