He tensed and waited.
"I merely borrowed against it. Possibly, I shall be willing to negotiate a sale at some future date."
"How very gracious of you. And this sale would be at your idea of a fair price. Predicated upon the amount you were able to borrow, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"And—forgive me—how high is your loan, ma'am?"
"Twelve thousand pounds."
Shocked out of his cynical derision, he gasped, "Twelve… thousand! Rubbish! Your property isn't worth half that amount even if it were sold outright!" His brows drew down into a fierce scowl. "There's more to this. Let me see your note."
"I shall do no such thing!"
He took a step closer, his eyes like flames. "Then I shall have to take it from you. Unless your brother has it, in which case—"
"My brother knows nothing of this!" she cried hastily.
"Of course, he does not. You little fool! You've made Whitthurst seem a veritable idiot! Many people know he gave me his hand on this! You've properly fouled his honour!" He began to move toward her, that terrifying set look about his mouth. Frightened, she backed away. "By God!" he grated, "were you my sister, I'd spank you 'til you couldn't sit down for a week! That you sought revenge against me was foolish hysteria and a chronic underestimation of Whitthurst. That you carelessly brought near ruin on six other gentlemen is unforgivable!"
She had never in her life been confronted by real rage, and the menacing tone of his voice, the thin hard line of his mouth, the coldness in his eyes were petrifying her. One must never betray fear with such a man, she knew, and, wetting stiff lips, she said an unfortunate "Men who… l-lie down with dogs, get up with fleas!" The resultant blaze of his wrath was so unnerving that she took several quick little steps away from the fire, her courage quite deserting her as she choked a desperate "Do not dare to strike me!"
"You've a wicked tongue, ma'am" he breathed through set teeth. "And I do believe I shall favour Whitthurst by administering the spanking he is unable to mete out! Now—give me that note!"
"No! I shall not!"
He smiled unpleasantly. "If I know you women, you have it in your reticule. You'd not dare leave it where Whitthurst might discover it!" His eyes gleamed as her terror betrayed her into an instinctive tightening of her hold on the reticule. "So I was right!"
For answer, she clutched it to her bosom and gasped, "No! I do not have it with me! Stay back!"
Instead, he moved closer. "I intend to see for myself! I warned you!"
With a whimper of fear, she ran toward the door. Despite a slight limp, he moved very fast to block her path, then stopped abruptly as, seeing herself trapped, she levelled the small pistol at him. "Stay back!" she repeated, her voice shrill with hysteria.
Those heavy brows lifted. The turquoise eyes widened and were lit by a reluctant admiration. "Egad! You did, indeed, come prepared! Had you a duel in mind, ma'am, or were you hoping to find it necessary to defend your virtue?"
She said nothing, though she shrank a little farther from him.
"Silly child," he said, amused. "Put that stupid thing down before you break something else in here."
"Do you really imagine I shall? Or that—knowing what you are, I would c-come here unarmed?" she stammered breathlessly. "Do you think I do not know that little N-Nancy was just one among your many v-victims?"
His amusement faded. "Do you really imagine I have the remotest intention of assaulting you in my music room? Don't be ridiculous!"
"I would not place you above the basest treachery in this or any other room! Ah—no! Stay back! I do not want your death on my conscience!"
"Oh, my God! What dramatics! I'll be damned if I'll stand here and let you wave that popgun under my nose!"
His eyes held inflexible purpose, and her finger tightened on the trigger. "I shall shoot," she half sobbed, "if you t-take one more step!"
"Shoot, then! I'm safe enough so long as you're aiming at me! I will have that note. And then, ma'am, you shall pay the price of your naughty scheming!"
He advanced relentlessly. How grim was his mouth—how deadly his eyes. She realized he had not the least intention of halting, and he was of Cobra! In total desperation, she aimed and squeezed the trigger.
The roar of the shot echoed and re-echoed, hurting her ears. Horatio squawked frenziedly and rushed madly up and down behind the drapes. Damon, clutching the scorched sleeve of his jacket, uttered a howl of torture. "You miserable wretch of a woman! Look what you've done!" He raced to the harpsichord and began to inspect it, moaning his anguish as he raised the top and peered inside.
Trembling, Sophia gazed at the large hole in the beautiful wood behind the keys. The pistol fell from her nerveless hand. Sickened by the thought of just such a wound in the Marquis, she mumbled, "You… you dared me to shoot…"
"I thought you were going to shoot me!" he groaned, touching the shattered wood caressingly.
He sounded positively indignant that she had not; despite herself, a tearful smile quivered on her lips. "I w-was afraid I… m-might…"
Damon swung around. She looked very small and white and shook visibly, her teeth all but chattering. He should cling to rage but, like a fool, felt instead an all but overpowering impulse to take the brave soul into his arms and comfort her. The best he could do by way of compromise was to speculate, "If I thought you had deliberately shot my poor harpsichord…"
"I did." She was weak in the knees from the reaction, but her chin lifted. In a thready voice, she said, "And I'm glad, because it was much more effective. If you're anything like my brother, and I had succeeded in wounding you, you would undoubtedly have been… much too stoical to make a sound. That heartfelt wail was some compensation for our ill usage at your hands."
Mirth crept into his eyes. "I must admit, it is painful in the extreme!" A quirk beside his mouth spread to a grin. "I've never been shot in the keyboard before!" And he broke into a hearty laugh.
Sophia knew she had totally frustrated his hopes and plans today. She'd threatened his life and hurt the one thing she was sure he loved. A man of his type should at the very least have shaken and slapped her or driven her away in a torrent of abuse. Damon, however, looked charming; the menacing anger quite vanished from his battered face, his deep merry laughter as contagious as it was unexpected. She was unable to restrain an answering smile.
He stepped forward at once and took her cold hands into his vital clasp and, being caught so off his stride that he was temporarily defenseless, asked gently, "Why don't you admit you're a very poor shot?"
"Au contraire, my lord. The bullet took you squarely above middle 'C'."
Incredulity widened his eyes, and he turned to look. "By Gad! You're right! You really can shoot!"
"I have won two Ladies' Day trophies," she said proudly.
"And I almost dodged aside! Why—you vixen! You must be punished!"
"I spared your life!" She pulled back in alarm. "You wouldn't—"
He would, as he proceeded to demonstrate. She was swept into arms that seemed little impaired by this morning's brutal encounter and crushed against ribs that no matter how painful were apparently able to survive this pressure. His lips, damaged but effective, found hers. Her hands clawed toward his face, only to relax, hang motionless in the air, then sweep round his neck, those clawing fingers closing gently in the thick, crisp hair.
Everything else faded, and she was aware only of his mouth, his arms, the tender gentleness of this strangely un-lecherous lecher. She marvelled at the strength that was so firmly held in check, the need and hunger in her that reached out in a passionate response she had never dreamed was inside her. He released her lips at last, after an eternity of sweetness, but still held her close against him, his hand cradling the back of her head, his cheek against her hair.
She was weak and trembling. Everything she believed in and held dear was crumbling: every concept of honour and decency; every trust in a cod
e she had always held inviolate; every prayer that someday she would find a man to whom she could look with respect as well as love. Yet her heart was shouting what it had whispered from the start. She looked up into his eyes, and all the yearning, all the adoration she had dreamed of, and so much more, was there.
"Sophia," he breathed. "Am I really…just a little like Stephen?"
"I begin to think," she murmured, "you are far more like him…than…" But a small, cruel voice gibbered, 'Cobra! You weak, spineless fool! Cobra!' And in a sudden return of panic, she tore free.
Damon drew the key from his pocket and held it out. She took it and ran for the door but, opening it, looked back to find him watching her wistfully,
"Amory Hartwell handled the loan for me," she choked, her eyes blurred with tears. "Prendergast is his family solicitor."
And she fled.
Chapter 17
For the entire two days since their arrival at Bodwin Hall, Whitthurst had been confined to his bed. He had managed to convince Sophia he was suffering a slight relapse of his illness; a subterfuge since his real ailment was panic, brought on by his having discovered the identity of one of the guests. Today, fortified by a determination to confront her and have done with it, he had gone downstairs to watch the riders leave, but his victory over terror had been for nought. She did not accompany them although the morning was fair and cool, perfect weather for the ride Lord Phineas had planned so as to remove his guests from a house humming with preparations for the evening ball. The Viscount's thoughts were soon diverted from his own concerns, however, and when the horses were out of sight, he wandered frowningly toward the house and re-entered the back garden.
Kicking a stone he had guided from the stableyard, he sauntered across the grass. Sophia seemed totally unaware that the elegant Bodwin, with his grey hair and grey eyes and grey house, looked at her with an expression that was ageless. He was their host, and his generosity knew no bounds. But Whitthurst's initial dislike of the man was deepening. Perhaps he was merely a well-meaning but egotistical bore, perhaps he was just a foolish gossip; but he had visited the "sick" man several times, and some of his "innocent" remarks—particularly in regard to Damon and the Priory— had bordered on the malicious. Because of his wealth and his impeccable lineage, he was regarded as a great catch for any girl, but the thought of him attempting to fix his interest with Sophia made Whitthurst's jaw set, and his eyes become very grim, indeed.
Head downbent, he kicked the stone savagely and tried to convince himself that he was letting his imagination run riot, as he'd often accused his sister of doing. But, gad, he'd be pleased when they could decently get away from—
"Ouch!"
He looked up and checked, frozen and terrified.
She knelt on the lawn and frowned at him, her hand clutching her injury unaffectedly. "Ma foi! But you are sudden, sir!"
She was even prettier than he remembered, laughter lurking behind the indignation in her roguish eyes and a smile hovering about that little mouth he found so delightful, the upper lip very slightly outthrusting. He tried to answer but was tongue-tied, partly from fear of her reaction to his injuries and partly from pain because she quite clearly did not recollect him in the slightest.
"Have you no apology, monsieur?" she demanded, piqued by his silence.
"Very…s-sorry, ma'am," he croaked.
She peered around. "I bring a book. It is… somewhere."
A green leather-bound volume was lying in plain sight just inside the shade of the tree. She began to crawl around gropingly and whisked a small pair of spectacles out of sight a second before she knelt on them. So she did not see very well! He'd not realized it, but perhaps she hadn't yet recognized him. He picked up the book and handed it to her. Mrs. Radcliffe, of course, he might've known. How the ladies loved her romances. "Yours, mademoiselle?"
Genevieve tensed. The voice was different this time. Deep and surer and very familiar. Her heart turned over, and she spun around, holding up a hand against the sunlight. "Is it? Can it be? Ah! It is!" She held out both hands eagerly, then let one fall. Horror plunged a knife through her. "Mon Dieu!" she cried as he lifted her, "you have lost your arm! Ah—mon pauvre! What a terrible nuisance that must be! But how pleased I am to see you here. And why is this? Have you the acquaintance with our Phinny?"
A tremendous relief swept the Viscount, and he was freed from the despair that had weighed him down for months. She did remember! And she did not seem to be repulsed! Her hands were clasped on his arm. Her sweet face smiled up at him, her eyes as radiant as before. "My… my sister is here," he stammered. "You know her, I believe. Sophia Drayton."
"Sophia? I know I have see her somewhere before this!" The ache in her heart was intensified because the virile young officer she remembered was this thin, ill-looking man, aged by suffering, and so humbly grateful that she had remembered him. As if she could ever forget! If he but knew how many nights she had prayed for him. How many tears she had shed because her wretched aunt had made her run from Brussels only hours after she had met him at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. How she had hoped that he would seek her out. And now… Emotion brought blinding tears, and her awareness of his ordeal was choking her. He did not need tears now! Somehow she forced away the lump in her throat and said brightly, "It is you I see in Sophia!"
Joy was making him seem to float as they strolled along. He was sufficiently emboldened as to offer his arm and ecstatic when her hand slipped within it unhesitatingly. "You wouldn't recall, I am sure," he said, "but—I'm Stephen Whitthurst. We danced once, just before—"
"Oui," she said sadly. "Just before they come and tell you all to go quickly to Quatre Bras! And all you fine young officers go running out—and I have not the time even to discover your name. It was of the noisiest, you recall? I do not quite understand what poor Uxbridge say when he introduce us…" She gazed up at him and said softly, "So you are named… Stephen."
His senses swam with happiness at the softness in her eyes. Could this really be happening? Now—when he had given up all hope? "I've never forgotten," he murmured, "how beautiful you looked in that orange gown."
"And how horribly it clash with your scarlet jacket." She giggled. "I take it home and give it to my maid, I am so mortified! I have the dance with the most handsome man in the room, and my gown fight with his splendid jacket! Tragique!"
Whitthurst stopped walking and gazed down at her. "You are too kind, ma'am," he breathed.
"Ma'am?" Her lashes drooped coquettishly. "Have you forget my name, perhap? Or did you not hear it also when first we meet?"
"I heard it. And indeed I have never forgotten—nor ever could! But I had no idea you were related to Damon, Mademoiselle de la Montaigne."
"Such a mouth full of names, is it not?" She blushed prettily. "My first name you may call me, sir. It is Genevieve."
"You do me too great an honour, Mademoiselle Genevieve," he said worshipfully.
With a shy new diffidence she murmured, "How very nicely you speak it. And—you deserve far more honour than I may give you, Lord Whitthurst."
Infuriated, Damon sprang from the leather chair and pounded a fist on the desk of his estimable attorney. "Not next month! I want fast action on this!"
Sir Horace Drake blinked his pale eyes, peered over his spectacles at the young face glaring down at him, and observed, "Damme, but you're confounded hot on this! I tell you I shall unravel it all in time. What's in it I don't know?"
Pacing the luxuriously conservative office, Damon told him, briefly and to the point, ending, "I want to see that note Lady Sophia signed! I want that blasted fence torn down— or by God, I'll have my men tear it down! I want a right of way, which I was assured I had! And dammit, Horry, I'll give you a week!"
Sir Horace, unintimidated but shocked out of his usual calm, answered, "I am most sorry it happened. Cannot think what became of that letter I sent you. I know my man delivered it to your place in Dorset. Water under the bridge, of course. And you'd b
est resign yourself to a year, my lord."
"A year—hell! One… damned… week!"
"Impossible. Unless perhaps your father, with his powers, could—"
"No!"
"I see." The stocky old gentleman pursed his lips and folded his hands. "Then be reasonable, Camille. These legal matters take time. I realize I bungled it to an extent. Still, you should not have—"
"Have relied upon the word of a gentleman?"
Sir Horace looked into his grim face and smiled. "Yes, damme! I'd have done the same, under the circumstances. But as for Lady Drayton—there's absolutely no legal ground there. If she refuses to show you her note, I am powerless to ask another solicitor to violate his client's confidence."
Fuming, Damon growled, "You know what Prendergast is."
"I know that he is Craig-Bell's lifelong friend and counsel." The pale eyes of the great man of the law became bleak. "And Craig-Bell, my dear boy, could buy and sell you and your noble father several times over."
"Which puts him above the law?"
"Which makes him excessive powerful—even when out of England." Sir Horace leaned forward and admonished, "You were a witless fool and will likely pay for your folly the rest of your life! If I'd had my way—"
"Well, you didn't," Damon interrupted rudely. "And you're just as bound, I'll remind you, to respect my confidences."
"Such as?"
"My father. He's to know nothing of any of it."
"I'd tell him, anyway, had I the slightest moral integrity," Sir Horace sighed.
"But you have not!" Damon burst into his sudden swift laugh. "You're just a shifty solicitor."
Sir Horace frowned, then gave an answering laugh and came around the desk to place an affectionate hand on his client's shoulder. "You're one of the very few men I know who would dare talk to me like that, Camille. I'll do what I can—and as fast as I can. But do not rush in blind—you'll likely cause more trouble than I can remedy. And… have a care, lad. Guard yourself!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 20
