"May I be of assistance, Lady Sophia?"
His voice was close to her ear. And why, oh why, must her foolish heart start to pound and her breath to hasten? She concentrated on Stephen's dear thin face and was able to say coolly, "The medium-sized pan, if you please."
She did not turn to face him, wherefore he was able to continue to view the pale glittering gold of her hair and to breathe the soft fragrance of lily of the valley that clung to her. One curl flirted brazenly on the snow of her shoulder His finger touched that cool silk…
Sophia swung around, frowning, and found my lord inspecting an offending cuticle. "That one," she repeated emphatically, "if you please."
"That one" was very high. Damon reached for it unsuccessfully.
Sophia pointed out with more than a hint of scorn in her voice, "There is a stool beside you, my lord."
There was. He eyed it without enthusiasm.
She gave a tiny snort of impatience, and in a movement so fast he caught only the flash of a beautifully turned ankle, she was standing above him, slim and lovely, reaching up to grasp the elusive pan. Enraged out of all proportion to the incident, she stepped back too swiftly, misjudged the confines of the sophisticated silken gown, and, with a little shriek, toppled.
Strong arms caught and held her and crushed her close and captive. Her breathing seemed to stop. His eyes were filled with an intense yearning. His lips, slightly parted, hovered above her own. Sophia waited, a new and frightening emotion gripping her: the sure knowledge that not only was she about to be kissed but that she wanted nothing more in the world.
Damon set her down and, with his twisted, mocking smile, said, "Egad, ma'am! Such athletics! I vow you are most amusing…"
Excusing himself on the ground that he must join his guests in the music room, he begged she would soon grant them the pleasure of her company and sauntered to the door, the quizzing glass swinging from one tanned hand.
Throughout this little performance, Sophia stood as if frozen, holding "that one" against her bosom and staring after the Marquis with dazed disbelief. Again, he had made her look a total idiot! She had lain in his arms like some trollop, with no sign of a struggle, no indignant outcry, no slightest attempt to slap his cruel face! She was losing her mind—as well as her moral values!
Swinging up the pan, she gave a choking cry of rage and brought it down with all her strength on the inoffensive potato Mrs. Hatters had just peeled, thoroughly smashing it and wishing with every fibre of her being that it was a certain smug, sneering face.
Chapter 10
It had been a long time since Cancrizans Priory had welcomed so glittering an assembly as now gathered in the spacious music room. The fire leaped in the fireplace: candles awoke an answering glow on silks and laces: Thompson moved quietly about proffering nuts, mints, and wine, aided by Smithers, who had been pressed into service and was flushed and uncomfortable in his footman's attire. The guests chattered and laughed softly, to all outward appearances thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Sophia was early captured by an admiring Lord Bodwin. Genevieve came in late, but her vivacious little trill of laughter was soon charming all about her. Miss Hilby, a vision in cream lace and wearing an emerald choker and long drop earrings that accentuated those deep green eyes, hovered close to the Duke, who treated her with kindly paternalism. No doubt, thought Sophia, setting her traps for the father's approval since her designs on the son were perfectly obvious.
Feather came in, vast and impressive in silver, with white and silver feathers nodding in her hair. She greeted the Duke with deep affection and Lord Bodwin with sympathetic concern. She was pale and responded to Genevieve's anxious questions by saying she'd turned the wrong way and, finding herself wandering along the unoccupied north wing, had become convinced she was not alone and had "fairly flown" back the way she had come. She cast an aggrieved glance at Damon and all but collided with Hartwell, who entered at that moment. He caught the lady in his arms and laughingly guided her to a chair, into which she sank gratefully, placing the fingers of one hand only briefly against her temple.
Damon, watching his aunt with a deep frown, warned that the north wing was very old and probably unsafe. Sophia, remembering that miserable tour, shot him an outraged look that he ignored as he asked sternly that they all keep away from the area, "For it would grieve me were any of my guests to be hurt."
"Egad, Camille," smiled Bodwin, "you contrive to lead an exciting life, even here in the country."
Vaille asked with apparently casual interest, "You refer to my son's unfortunate propensity for duelling, I take it, Phinny?"
The Marquis was bending to murmur something into Miss Hilby's ear. He raised his head and directed a steady look at Lord Phineas, who muttered a thoughtful "Er—of course, Duke."
"Oh," said Hartwell brightly, "I thought you meant the assassination, sir."
Damon's face reflected total exasperation, and Vaille, with unhurried calm, probed gently. "Assassination…?"
"Why, yes," nodded Hartwell, apparently unaware of the daggerlike glare he was receiving from his host. "It was on Sackville Street. About—three months back. Cam and Redmond and me were coming home from the Westhavens' rout and ran into that Count fella… what'shisname? Rondell!"
The Duke stiffened, his gaze flashing to his son, who had lost interest and stared drowsily at the fire. "Rondell? You were with him when he was shot?"
"Standing right next to him, sir!" Hartwell answered excitedly. "Gad, if old Cam hadn't chanced to step back, he might have caught the ball instead! Put the fear of God into me, I don't mind telling you! Beastly close!"
"If ever a man deserved to be annihilated," said Bodwin, "it was Rondell!"
"Annihilated?" asked Ridgley, hurrying into the room at that moment. "What are you—" He broke off with a gasp. Vaille had stiffened at the sound of his voice and jumped to his feet, turning to the door. The eyes of these cousins met like engaging swords and held through a long moment that twanged with tension.
Sophia became aware of several things simultaneously: that Ridgley's pleasant features had become pale and very grim; that the Duke was equally pale, his blue eyes holding a deadly glare; that Damon, looking from one to the other, received from each a flashing glance filled with anger; that Genevieve, Feather, and Miss Hilby were all aware of the reasons behind this behaviour since they watched with obvious anxiety.
"I forgot to mention, your grace," said Damon quietly, "that Ted has been visiting me these past few weeks."
"So you…did." The Duke's aquiline features were still drawn. He smiled a smile that held the warmth of the northeast wind and, with eyes every bit as chill, raised his quizzing glass, surveyed his cousin with haughty deliberation, and murmured, "You are looking quite well, Edward."
Ridgley drew a quivering breath. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his jaw moved slightly as though his teeth had been clamped together. "I am, fortunately, in excellent health, Philip."
His failure to enquire after the Duke's health was painfully obvious, and Feather's voice, unusually fretful, sliced the silence. "If we are done with the medical reports… Tell us Damon—have you yet found your treasure?"
Sophia became aware that Lord Bodwin had drawn her hand through his arm and was patting it kindly. She gave him a grateful smile but withdrew her hand.
Damon said with a rueful shrug, "Unfortunately, no."
Genevieve, who had been obviously frightened by the taut emotions of the past few minutes, now enquired, "Camille? What is this treasure?"
"If you've lost some, I'll be glad to help you," Clay grinned. "Nice stuff."
Sophia stared at him in astonishment. Why he should be so cordial to this beast who had refused the help he might so easily have extended was beyond her.
Hartwell was saying he had already offered to help Damon find his treasure. "Half a dozen times, in fact. Old Cam's not about to open these grounds to a full-scale treasure hunt. Not that I blame him. In one day, this pla
ce could be torn to shreds by a greedy rabble."
"Do you really think so?" Vaille brightened. "How intriguing!"
Ignoring his father's remark, the Marquis explained that a hoard of gold and jewels, gathered by Jacobite sympathizers to finance the uprising of 1745, was believed to have been hidden somewhere in the priory. "Unhappily," he said "the gentleman who concealed it did his work too well. Legend has it that he was captured as he sat in this very room and executed before he was able to reveal the location to his friends. It is said he told his gaoler that he left a message any educated man could read."
"And in all these years," Sophia asked interestedly, "has no trace of it been found?"
"Evidently not," said Vaille. "To discover its location would be quite a windfall for you—eh, Damon?"
The Marquis, meeting his father's dry smile, answered gravely, "It would, indeed, sir."
Bodwin claimed Sophia's full attention at this point, telling her with pride of his nearby home, which he insisted she was to visit very soon. The wine flowed liberally, the guests grew more relaxed, the conversation easier; and still Bodwin rambled on. "… And the fountains, dear lady, I had copied from two I had admired. Not so sophisticated as mine, but a good starting point." He glanced up as the Earl wandered over to join them. "You've seen my fountains and the pool, Ridgley?"
"Very impressive," the Earl nodded. "Copied Mullins', didn't you?"
"Mullins?" Feather frowned. "Wasn't he a Cobra member? Dreadful!"
Bodwin frowned as though he resented his maze being linked to such an ugly matter but admitted it was the same man, and added rather testily that he thought the entire Cobra business had been greatly sensationalized by gossip and the newspapers.
"To the contrary," said the Duke, a flare in his eyes, "I doubt the general public will ever know the full horror of that hideous organization. But we must not discuss such vulgarities while the ladies are with us."
"Lud, Philip"—Feather shrugged, removing a hand hurriedly from her aching brow—"I've no doubt but that all of us here know of Cobra, though I confess I could scarce credit such a cult flourished in our gentle little island."
"They were of the aristocracy, were they not?" Genevieve asked curiously. "Bored young gentlemen who devise the odd and nasty ways to divert themselves. It is true that no one knew who they are—not even they themselves?"
"It is very true," Vaille answered. "They were known to one another only by code names. For instance, if a member was called Lizard, the likeness of the creature was embroidered on his mask. And because the Runners were always seeking them, to avoid the chance of an imposter infiltrating their group, each man had his symbol tattooed upon his upper arm. Only the leader and his lieutenants were aware of the true identities of all the members."
"But," puzzled Miss Hilby, "why so much secrecy? If they were so ashamed of the terrible things they did—why continue?"
"The secrecy, dear lady," said Hartwell, "was for fear of blackmail among themselves. Their 'amusements' ran the gamut from malicious vandalism to murder to espionage. Rather potent material."
"And they had to continue," Ridgley put in, scowling at his glass. "Couldn't get out."
"True," Hartwell agreed. "I knew a good chap who became caught in their web. He went to dinner with a friend, got thoroughly foxed, and—" He checked at Vaille's warning frown. "Well, at all events, next morning, he discovered that sometime during the night he'd joined Cobra and participated in some very illegal pursuits. After that, he was forced to continue under the threat of exposure, which would have ruined him and shamed his family. He was with the Foreign Office, you see. The poor fellow got in deeper and deeper. Shot himself eventually. You knew him, Cam. Poor Flanders."
Vaille started. "Good God!" he cried, much shocked. He turned to his son. "Hilary was a member of Cobra? That defies belief!"
Damon shrugged with bored indifference. "I heard something of the sort."
"Why you all use the past tenses?" demanded Genevieve, very intrigued. "They are caught at last? I hear your Running people cannot discover them."
"Our Runners," snorted Vaille, pulling his irked gaze from the Marquis, "could not find the ends of their own noses on a clear day in Hyde Park! And this is not a proper subject, as I said before. Let us change it, if you please."
"Oui—of course, dear Uncle Philip," she said, adding roguishly, "in just a tiny moment. It is the exciting tale! What happen to Cobra?"
They all laughed, including Vaille, who then exclaimed fondly, "You're a minx, Mademoiselle! Very well, then, since you yearn for the macabre… Have you ever met Lord Sumner Craig-Bell?"
Genevieve's eyes widened, and she gave an instinctive shudder.
"I see you have," the Duke nodded dryly. "One of the richest men in England and the leader of Cobra. He has a grotesque country seat called Green Willow Castle in Essex. It was the perfect location for their headquarters and might shield them today had it not accidentally caught fire."
"There is some question," demurred Bodwin, "whether that fire was accidental."
"Then if 'twas not, whoever set it deserves the highest commendation this nation can bestow because that fire destroyed Cobra."
"They were all… burned to cinders?" asked Genevieve, her eyes very wide.
"No, no, m'dear." The Earl laughed. "But the men who came to help fight the fire found enough evidence to call in the Runners, and that was that!"
"Ah…" breathed Genevieve. "Then the members are now unmasked!"
"Unfortunately not." Vaille scowled.
"Might not have been so dashed unfortunate," Ridgley apparently addressed the fireplace. "Lots of those poor fellows were entrapped and comparatively innocent."
"I fail to see how any 'innocent' man could have become involved with so hideous a group," said Sophia.
Damon murmured an amused "Judge not…"
"Agree with the lady," Bodwin put in heartily. "They were a scurrilous crew. The Runners searched Green Willow from dungeons to flagpole, so I heard, but all old Sumner's dossiers, lists, and records were in ashes."
"Were none of the villains captured?" asked the persistent Genevieve.
"Three, so I heard," Ridgley nodded. "They were brought to trial, but they only knew the identities of a few members, and the men they did name had vanished by the time they were sought. Craig-Bell was fortunate to escape with a whole skin."
"He is," said Miss Hilby, a little pucker between her eyes, "not a man I should care to upset."
"Upset! Now there's a prime understatement," observed Ridgley with a laugh. "His home burned; all his records destroyed; his hold on his victims broken; his lucrative blackmail and espionage operations wiped out!" He slapped his thigh and exulted. "Gad! But I'd love to have seen that blaze!"
"Your eloquence," murmured the Marquis, with a twitch of his thin nostrils, "moves me so that I can almost smell it."
For an instant, Sophia stared at him blankly, her thoughts still on Cobra. Then she gave a small cry and rushed to the door, closely followed by Genevieve and urged on by the exhortations of the would-be diners.
In the corridor, a more pronounced smell of burning greeted them. A crash was followed by a distant scream. Sophia and Genevieve halted, and somebody rushed past. Sophia realized it was Damon, and fear lanced through her.
"Stay there!" he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.
He disappeared into the Great Hall. She heard him swing open the kitchen door, and casting obedience to the winds, she hurried forward. A great shout of laughter rang out, that same glad peal that had followed her sarcastic quip about the aroma of his music. So it had been Damon who'd laughed…
As she entered the kitchen, chaos greeted her eyes. Damon leaned against the wall, sobbing with mirth. The roasting pan into which Genevieve had crammed her four chickens was on the kitchen table. The rope with which they had tied on the lid hung smouldering from it, but the contents had largely disappeared. Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Hatters stood in the pantry doorw
ay, staring at the carnage in stunned disbelief. Chickens and rice were spread liberally about the room; legs slid slowly down cupboard doors; rice stippled the walls; one wing hung from the chandelier, while another had settled across the back of the petrified kitchen cat. Even as Sophia stared dazedly, a drumstick abandoned the ceiling and fell into the pan of gravy.
From the doorway, Genevieve whispered an awed "Mon… Dieu" and Feather, staggering up, squawked, "Oh… my God!"
The cat, evidently deciding enough was, in this case, too good of a feast, abandoned her wing and shot with a yowl into the pantry.
Thompson and Mrs. Hatters stepped gingerly into the kitchen.
"Are you… quite sure," moaned Damon, "that neither of you was… burned?"
"The rope caught on fire, m'lord," croaked the valet. "I hauled that pan out. It weighed a blooming ton! And it was all sorta… shivery. So I grabbed Millie, and we run into… the pantry." He put a hand behind him and added an uneasy "Oh Lor'!"
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Hatters. "You're all over rice, Jack!"
Thompson glanced in turn at the back of the lady. "You, too, Millie! Good gawd! Now what'll we do, sir?"
Damon merely lapsed into renewed peals of mirth, his feeble gestures of no help whatsoever.
"What on earth," gasped Sophia, "happened?"
"Why, they—exploded," said Mrs. Hatters, looking at the three amateur cooks with a valiant but not altogether successful attempt at sympathy.
"Exploded? But for heaven's sake! How?"
Damon, wiping away tears, sighed. "Look at all… the blasted rice! If all that was in the poor brutes… it's a wonder they didn't blow… the roof off!" He leaned back, a hand over his eyes, shoulders heaving.
Flashing him an outraged glance, Genevieve wailed, "My poor little ones!" Grasping a clean bowl, she began to rush around retrieving the remains.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 11
