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

by Patricia Veryan

  Undaunted by this inescapable logic, she said fiercely, "Stephen—before he was crippled—would have shaken him like a rat and tossed him out the window!" Seeing his hand jerk a little when she said the word "crippled" caused her to become slightly muddled at the end. But declining to take advantage of the obvious fact that there were no windows readily available, he answered, "Sans doute, madam," after a pause. "And did you come seeking me to discuss my lamentable lack of courage?"

  Meeting those wideset eyes, she had not the slightest notion what it was she had come to discuss. "The… bridge," she said, recovering but rather breathless. "I hope it is finished?"

  She felt her cheeks redden at this bald rudeness, but his reply was just as lacking in grace. "I do so wish it was, ma'am,! but you may be assured I have every available man rushing it to completion."

  "Then you and—poor Ridgley—will soon be free once again to enjoy this—unique solitude. Until"—she glanced at him sideways—"your spa is completed. That will destroy your privacy to some extent, I suppose?"

  "Scarcely, ma'am. It is five miles distant."

  "And you could, of course," she murmured, touching a marigold with one dainty finger, "have a fence erected around the Priory."

  "It might be less expensive. But my wall shall serve, I am sure."

  "Wall? A wall? All around?"

  "Gad, no! Just enclosing the house and grounds. The first ten acres should be sufficient. Do we build it to seven feet." Sniffing a white rose, he regarded her gravely across the petals. "Do you not agree?"

  She recovered her poise with an effort. "Oh, I do. And you could have it topped with rusty nails. Just as a little—extra precaution."

  He laughed. "What a monster you think me!"

  She wished his laughter wasn't quite so infectious and that his incredible eyes didn't hold such a merry light. "I was only funning," she smiled.

  "Of course, you were! Nails, indeed! No, no, dear lady. I am sure the broken glass will be quite adequate."

  Chapter 7

  The Marquis did not join his guests for a delightful luncheon served on the terrace. Afterwards, they scattered to their respective rooms. The workmen's undiminished uproar made a nap impossible, so Sophia settled down to write a letter to her housekeeper and, upon finishing it, went in search of the Marquis so that he might frank it for her. He'd implied the Toll Road might be passable; surely they could not be completely cut off here. There must be some way to have letters delivered to a post office.

  A tremendous hammering came from a room at the head of the corridor, but the music room was quiet, the drapes drawn across all the windows. She had been sure she would find Damon there, but disappointed, she was about to look elsewhere when her attention was caught by a yellowing sheet of parchment on the music rack. The notes had an odd squared structure, and there were no time values or any symbols of instruction. There was no title; no composer's name, and the melody, if any, was weirdly inharmonious. It dawned on her that this was the piece with which the Marquis had wrestled so devastatingly during the night, though why he should bother with the silly thing was beyond her. Curious, she peered at the faded notes. It was too dim to see clearly, and she walked to the rear wall and drew back the curtains, admitting a flood of light to the room.

  "Close them, if you please," came a growl from behind her. So he was in here and in one of his black humours by the sound of it. She turned and said sweetly, "Why, uncle, I'd not realised you were taking a nap. I do beg your pardon."

  The Marquis, sprawling in a chair before the fire, deigned to stand and fix her with a chill stare. He then stalked over to slam the drapes shut, while remarking, "If you have come to enquire about the bridge again, it appears—" A deafening crash, followed by a tattoo of hammers interrupted him. When comparative peace was restored, he continued, glaring at her through the gloom. "It appears that the supports were not as badly damaged as was first thought. My men already have a framework erected. The bridge should be safe for foot traffic in the morning."

  Curiously depressed, she asked if he would be so obliging as to frank her letter, and he was finishing that small task while noting the utter absurdity of despatching a letter that would probably not reach Kent until after she herself had returned when Horatio rushed into the room, honking his warning. At once Damon's eyes flashed to the door, his mouth becoming set and grim. Sophia was disgusted. It was, she thought, downright reprehensible that he should so dread company. Her criticism was swept away by shock as she heard a familiar voice outside.

  "Never mind, Thompson. I'll announce myself to the old curmudgeon!"

  Chestnut curls wind tossed, grey eyes bright even in that dim room, Sir Amory Hartwell strode in, checked, gaped, then cried a joyous "Sophia! Egad, what wonderful luck to find you here!" He bowed over her outstretched hands, and pressed each to his lips. Turning reluctantly from her, he crossed to Damon. "Why the surly look, bon ami? And what the devil are you doing alone in the dark with my lady?"

  Damon's eyes widened and directed a searching glance at Sophia as he took his friend by the shoulders, smiled in return, and answered, "Welcome, mon cher! How good to see you again!"

  "And you, Cam. But what are you doing down here when—" He paused enquiringly as Damon's gaze shifted.

  Mrs. Hatters trembled in the doorway, her face twitching with nervousness.

  "Millicent?" said the Marquis. "Whatever is the matter?"

  "Oh… my lord!" she faltered, wringing her hands. "It's Ariel. His back again—very bad! Mr. Thompson says he'll be confined to his bed for days!"

  An odd expression flickered across Damon's face. Watching him, Sophia sensed that he was pleased! This gave him the excuse to be rid of them all. Before he could respond, however, the solid figure of the valet lurched into the doorway. Mrs. Hatters took one look at his vacuous grin, moaned, and fled.

  Damon's eyes narrowed. "Jack," he said menacingly, "by thunder! Have you been at my brandy ag—"

  Thompson raised one hand in a lofty gesture, placed the other against the wall to steady himself, and announced throatily, "Your Dukeship! His Lord, the Vaille of grace!"

  Sophia gave a gasp. Hartwell snorted with mirth. Thompson bowed low and lower yet until he lay comfortably outstretched across the threshold.

  Damon groaned a soft "Oh, my God!"

  A clear, mellow voice protested, "You do me far too great an honour, Camille. It is only—your father."

  The man who entered the room seemed to fill it with his magnificent presence. Tall, poised, elegantly clad, he stepped across Thompson's recumbent form without the slightest evidence of disapproval. To Sophia's delight, he then paused, bent to straighten the butler's neckcloth, and again proceeded to his son.

  Damon shook the slender white hand held out to him, then stepped back, murmuring, "You are most welcome, sir."

  The Duke neither moved nor spoke. His hand still extended, he stood there, his head tossed back a little, the fine brows lifting, a faint smile still playing about his mouth. He was an inch or two above his son's six feet but seemed at that moment at least a head taller.

  Damon flushed and bowed to touch the thin fingers to his lips.

  "How pleasant," said Vaille languorously, "that you have not forgotten your manners completely. Might I prevail upon you to draw the curtains?" He raised a jewelled quizzing glass to peer down at Thompson with new interest. "Unless you are conducting a seance, perhaps?"

  Sophia strove unsuccessfully to choke back a gurgle of laughter and marvelled that she had ever imagined this dynamic individual to be aged and infirm. Damon shot a glance of desperate entreaty to Hartwell and crossed to pull back the curtains. Sir Amory, moving quickly past Sophia, bent to slip an arm under Thompson's shoulders, then half dragged him to his feet and out of the room.

  Vaille ignored the muddled protests emanating from the retreating butler and addressed Sophia admiringly. "I can readily see, dear lady, why my son would seek to keep you hidden."

  The Marquis stepped forwar
d to perform the introductions, but his father stopped him with an airy wave. "Lady Drayton, is it not? You bear a remarkable resemblance to your gallant brother, ma'am."

  His eyes, very blue and keen, flickered over her in a shrewd appraisal. Briefly, she knew how a bird must feel when trapped by a cat. That gaze seemed to penetrate to her guilty conscience, and she bowed her head to hide scarlet cheeks as she made her curtsey. The Duke kissed her hand and vowed that the descriptions of her beauty were inadequate, adding, "Do you not agree, Camille?"

  "Yes," said Damon curtly as his friend returned and threw him a reassuring wink. "Your grace has met Sir Amory Hartwell, I believe?"

  Vaille raised his quizzing glass, the better to scan Hart-well from head to toe in a critical fashion seemingly lost upon the light-hearted young man who bowed before him. "Servant, sir," Sir Amory beamed.

  "Thank you," said Vaille without warmth, and, strolling to the mantle, looked thoughtfully at the small painting above it.

  Following his gaze, Damon made haste to offer refreshments, but the Duke, without shifting his attention, murmured that he had taken lunch at "The Wooden Leg" and then frowned slightly as a cacophony of hammering split the quiet.

  Damon could barely contain his incredulity until the noise lessened. "You walked across the… scaffolding?"

  "Of necessity," Vaille replied absently, "since I have not yet mastered the art of flight. And why so surprised? I am not yet totally decrepit." He managed to tear his eyes from their preoccupation with the painting and, glancing at Sophia, sighed hopefully. "At least, I trust I do not appear so."

  "I venture to believe, your grace," she said, a dimple dancing in her cheek, "that anyone foolish enough to think so would commit a most serious blunder."

  At once, that wistful mouth curved to a smile, and his eyes lit in a way she found delightful. "Thank you, my dear. I perceive that my son has indeed become a connoisseur."

  Hartwell, who had been previously amused by the exchange, now looked rather annoyed, then smiled, "By George, sir! I hope I'll have your energy when I've reached your age! Did you trot all the way from the bridge?"

  "I never—trot!" the Duke imparted as from a great height. "I rode."

  "A—horse, sir?" asked the mystified Damon.

  Vaille replaced the poker, which had been left out of the holder. "A wheelbarrow."

  Both young men gasped at this, and Sophia gave a trill of laughter that brought new admiration into the piercing blue eyes that were turned upon her.

  "Most obliging fellow. A little—ah, reluctant at first. Said he had some business with a gardener's nostrils, of all things!" He saw the laughing glance that passed between his son and Lady Drayton and nodded. "A most ridiculous excuse, I agree. Added to which, the fellow had the gall to order a workman to give the 'old loose screw' a hand. Oh, don't faint, my boy! He was somewhat justified since I had to make a rather hasty leap for the bank. The wind was coming up, you see. However, I persuaded him to provide the necessary propulsion himself."

  His smile was very bland, but, knowing his father, the Marquis chuckled despite himself. Vaille, shared his mirth for a moment, then asked, "What is that?" and gestured toward the painting.

  Damon sobered. "A painting, your grace," he said with wooden impudence.

  "It is?" The Duke raised his glass and peered curiously at the article in question. "A conversation piece, beyond doubting. We are, I take it, to guess what it depicts?"

  Damon's jaw tightened. Hartwell grinned broadly, and Sophia sensed that a small truce had just ended. The Duke's eyes twinkled merrily at her, however. "We must let your beautiful guest play first. What is it, dear lady?"

  "I believe you quiz me, your grace," she smiled. "It is a landscape."

  "Landscape?" Enlightened, Vaille peered upward, again employing his glass. "By gad! I do believe you are right! And here I'd thought it a still life!"

  Hartwell laughed aloud, and Sophia looked curiously from father to son, wondering what it was all about.

  Damon, his face totally closed, said with formal politeness, "I shall have it taken down while you are here, sir. Since it offends you."

  "No, no, Camille. I'd not dream of putting you to such inconvenience."

  "Not at all, your grace. I'll certainly not miss it. For one night."

  Hartwell's mirth faded, and his jaw dropped. Stifling a gasp, Sophia surprised a swiftly concealed but so stricken expression on the Duke's face that she was conscious of a near overpowering impulse to run and comfort him.

  "If you insist, dear boy," Vaille murmured. "I realise it is the fashion these days to move paintings about, but I must admit I thought the portrait of your mother looked especially well there."

  "It is being cleaned, sir."

  "I realise I am seldom here," Vaille said slowly. "It must be five months since last I saw it. Yet I do not recall that it appeared soiled."

  "We had trouble with the chimney," Damon explained, his eyes fixed upon the ruby in his father's cravat. "Smoke, you know. Quite damaging. In truth, I am positively beset by disasters."

  "Yes," agreed Vaille. "I stepped over one when I arrived."

  Unmoved by the smile that touched his father's eyes, Damon said a bored "A comparatively minor problem, your grace."

  "Oh? Not so major as the demands upon your… hospitality, perhaps."

  "I am desolated"—Damon gave one of his eloquent gestures—"but I fear my hospitality can best be evidenced by conveying my guests to the nearest hostelry."

  "Is this," Vaille probed gently, "a French custom?"

  Damon's eyes flickered, but his tone was as cool as ever. "My chef is abed with a sprained back, sir. The bridge collapse prevents the maids from coming, and even were Thompson not—ah—indisposed, the poor fellow could not possibly attend to all our wants in addition to his other duties."

  "How terrible for you," Vaille murmured. "My man—you will recall Orpington—follows this afternoon. But that would be little consolation, I collect?"

  "Alas," sighed Damon, "Thompson cannot cook, your grace. But my family and friends will not be inconvenienced. I am advised Rowan's Bridge has been repaired. 'The Gold Crown' on the Toll Road is a splendid posting house, and you shall be much more comfortable there than in my poor old .. haunted… ruin."

  That there was some hidden meaning in the last words was obvious, and Vaille all but winced. That any gentleman could so wound his father was beyond Sophia's comprehension. Controlling her disgust with an effort, she said timidly, "Your grace, might I beg a word?"

  The Duke started as if he had forgotten that others were present and begged her pardon for having subjected her to this foolish discussion.

  "It is only," she offered, "that since you have come all this way… Well, I scarce dare enter my own kitchen, my chef is so militant about his territory. But I love to cook. It would give me great pleasure to repay Lord Damon… in this small fashion." And she smiled upon the Marquis with much sweetness.

  Briefly, Damon's expression reflected stark fury, then became unreadable. Hartwell's face was a mask of astonishment. The Duke, a gleam of unholy joy in his eyes, exclaimed, "A lady of quality in the kitchen? How shocking, ma'am!"

  During luncheon, Lady Branden had invited Sophia to join her later in a game of two-handed patience. Driven by curiosity, Sophia now availed herself of the offer and, during a bewildering course of instruction, watched her hostess place a red eight upon a black nine and remark that she would delay greeting the Duke until he might have "cooled down," "for I vow his rages terrify me!"

  Sophia abandoned all pretence at understanding the rules of this erratic game. She placed a black queen below a red queen and, deciding that they looked nice together, asked, "Does the Marquis resemble his Mama?"

  "Have you never seen Ninon?" Feather looked up, her eyes sharp. "Oh—I forget the portrait is gone from the music room. Does Vaille know of it yet? And didn't like it, I'll wager! Yes—Damon resembles her. More's the pity! She was much too beautiful for this w
orld, just as he is too blasted handsome!" She sighed, stared at her cards, then said, "You know the story, of course?"

  Sophia admitted her ignorance, and Feather brightened. "Then I shall enjoy myself with a cosy gossip! Pour me another cup of tea if you will, and I shall regale you with the details, though 'tis not a pleasant story." She waited while Sophia obligingly refilled her cup, then, stirring at it dreamily, began. "When Vaille was younger, he was a wild young Buck, a veritable terror around the ladies, but such a charm…" She sighed, saddened by memory. "Even today, no woman with eyes in her head can fail to see it in him. Suffice to say that he ran off with the leading Toast, a widow ten years his senior, who already had a child, a pretty little twelve-year-old girl. Come to think on it, that same little girl grew up to become your brother's Mama—but that's another story. Anyway, Vaille was a reckless young firebrand. He was travelling in France when his carriage chanced upon a band of rabble attacking the coach of a noblewoman and her daughter. Philip immediately flew to the rescue. He and his coachman and valet succeeded in driving off the murderous crew, though it was a hard-won struggle. Vaille himself was wounded, and the Comtesse de la Montaigne insisted he be taken to her chateau. Ninon was little more than a child, but you can guess the effect it had on her. She never forgot him, and four years later, when his first wife died, she married him." She paused, her eyes sombre.

  After a moment, Sophia prompted curiously, "Were they happy, ma'am?"

  "Feather!" the big woman scowled, and when her companion smiled and nodded, she resumed. "Ideally so. Ninon worshipped him and was so lovely—angelic is the only word could begin to describe her. Only…" Her hands clenched as though she were deeply distressed. "I'll not go into the nightmare that followed. Enough that when Camille was nine years old they quarrelled bitterly. Ninon ran away—with the boy. Poor Vaille's world had fallen apart, and he could not tell what prompted it all. He thought Ninon had taken a pet and, his own hackles roused, took himself to Dover and his yacht. Ninon was racing to Town in a fast chaise. The groom said later that she kept urging him to greater speeds despite a heavy storm. She was afraid, I suppose, that Vaille would follow… poor child…"