From Lincoln's Inn, the Marquis drove to Hartwell's London house, but the porter told him Sir Amory was visiting Lord Phineas Bodwin at Bodwin Hall in Dorsetshire. Frustrated at every turn, Damon rejoined his groom and proceeded to thoroughly demoralize that unfortunate individual in the ensuing wild ride to his own large and seldom-used house on Green Street.
Mr. Quinn fared little better the following day and was, in fact, shivering noticeably when the Marquis pulled up the horses behind the Priory, thrust the ribbons at him, and clambered awkwardly from the curricle. Limping across the terrace, his face dark with anger, he halted. The lathered horses were unmoving, and Quinn still watched him, round-eyed. With a twinge of contrition, he realized the man looked scared. "My apologies, Tom," he called. "I drove 'em too hard, I see. You should've checked me."
"N-not at all… mmmilord," stammered the groom, rousing a little. "Most—most enlivening." As he later told an intrigued audience in the servants' hall, one could as lief put a check on the devil as try to slow down his lordship with that black scowl on his face! And, after all, if his lordship preferred that his curricle travel mostly in the air, it was A Experience! Was a body fortunate enough to survive it!
Damon flung open the door to the music room and went inside, pulling off his gloves, his reflections bringing his black brows even lower. Amory was dangling after Sophia again, damn him! Well, there was nothing for it, he'd have to go—
"Well, here you are at last, Cam! Gad! What a magnificent coat! Why do mine never fit like that? And where in the devil have you been?"
Astonished, as the object of his thoughts rose from the chair in which he'd been snoring, Damon scowled. "Looking all over Town for you!"
Hartwell's welcoming grin faded. "From your looks, I collect I'm in for a prime setdown! Cheerio! I'll see you in—"
"Hell—most like!" Damon tossed hat and gloves onto the harpsichord as he advanced into the room.
Hartwell exclaimed, "Good God, man! What's happened to your face?"
"Devil with that!" Attempting to shrug out of his many-caped driving coat, he swore. "Lend me a hand here, will you?" And when his friend had complied, and his temper was worsened by that painful endeavour, he deposited the coat beside his hat and gloves and demanded wrathfully, "What in God's name made you go to Prendergast to arrange that blasted loan for Lady Sophia?"
Hartwell stiffened. "Don't see it's any of your concern, actually."
"Do you not? Well, that land you encumbered happens to damn near surround my spa! Is that sufficiently 'my concern'?"
"Surround your… ? By Jupiter! I am sorry! I'd no idea! I didn't bother to fizzle out the lots and all that nonsense. Didn't Sophia—"
"She didn't know," the Marquis lied. "But—why Prendergast, of all people?"
"He's handled my uncle's affairs for donkey's years, and I knew he arranged loans." Hartwell looked increasingly troubled. "Cam—didn't you check your rights of way before you—"
"Yes, dammit! But never mind that now. Did Prendergast give you any arguments?"
"Naturally. Offered practically nothing at first, but I stood right up to him! He put me off for a couple of days, but…" He gave a sly grin. "I'd things in Devon to occupy my time…"
"So I hear. Like a certain jolie cousin of mine."
"Come now, never look so pious! I seem to recall a certain mademoiselle named Gabrielle… To say nought of Celeste and Margarita and—who was that little bit of muslin—that choice tit that no Buck or Corinthian could bed until you winked your eye at her and—"
"Her name," said Damon, a film of ice in his eyes, "was, as you are very well aware, Blanche. And I neither believe I was the first, nor the last. None of which has the least to do with either a lady of quality—or your good friend Prendergast."
Given pause by that chill blast, Hartwell's smile died. He went over to the side table and poured himself a glass of Madeira. "Sometimes—Damon," he said in a brittle voice, "you can be devilish offensive."
"I guarantee you, Hartwell," replied the Marquis grimly, "you have never seen me when I am truly offensive! Now pray tell me what the note took as collateral."
Hartwell took a sip of wine and stared at him. "Well, the lands I suppose. How the devil would I know?"
"You mean," snarled Damon, "you let the lady sign without reading it?"
"I don't understand all that legal flummery! Told the gal to let her brother read it! She said she had, so it's his bread and butter, not mine!" He searched Damon's intent face with narrowed eyes and, his own features flushing angrily, said,
"Concerned about her, are you? How gallant! But if I have caused the Lady Sophia Drayton to lose so much as a groat, my fine and noble Marquis, I—personally—will refund it! And if there's one thing that lovely little filly don't need in the meanwhile, it's a rake like you dangling after her! Let her alone! I've offered for the lady twice, and—"
"And," asked the Marquis in a caressingly soft voice, "has she accepted?"
"As good as," Hartwell said defiantly.
Murder flared from Damon's eyes. "You lie!"
The gauntlet was thrown, and the room became hushed. Hartwell, staring into the face of death, was appalled. But it was the turquoise eyes that eventually flickered and fell. It was Damon whose shoulders drooped and who muttered, "I'm most devilish sorry… Hartwell."
For another long moment, Sir Amory regarded him, and there was neither smile nor anger upon his pleasant features now, only an odd emptiness. "Why, I may have exaggerated…just a trifle. Damon."
"And I've no claim on the lady. None in the least, Amory," said the Marquis, looking at him wistfully.
"Damn fool gudgeon." Hartwell grinned. "What're you after, Cam?"
For a space, they smiled upon one another, and after that very brief pause, "I know Prendergast," said the Marquis. "He's slippery as an eel. The property Lady Sophia put up isn't worth twelve thousand even if it were sold."
Hartwell frowned thoughtfully. "In that case, I'd better toddle down to Kent, get hold of that note, and have my man of business look it over."
Damon crossed to tug at the bellrope, thinking that was what he should have done in the first place. "Excellent idea. But Lady Sophia is not at Singlebirch. She and Whitthurst visit with Phinny Bodwin."
For an instant, Hartwell's eyes held an arrested expression; then he smiled. "Well, that's good news. I'll go right over there."
"How long have you been here?"
"Arrived last evening. Hate to criticize, Cam. But your new cook don't hold a candle to Ariel. You really shouldn't have let him go."
Whitthurst won their game of croquet, and when Genevieve laughingly accused him of having beaten her by trickery and deception, he pointed out it had been her idea that she use only her right hand. "I have not the suspicion," she admitted, "that your left hand it is so much surer than my right!" She stretched out that same small hand eagerly and, as it was just as eagerly clasped, asked, "What do we do now? Should you wish a small ride? I know of such a pretty view by—" But the happiness had left his eyes, and, aghast, she begged that he not consider her "the fast lady."
"Heaven forbid I should ever think such a thing," he denied. "It's just that I haven't—er—done any riding for a long time."
"Ah," she said with a slow smile, "you have this thing in the common with my Damon, n'est ce pas?"
Whitthurst became very red and looked away from those eyes that could not see, yet saw so much.
"My dear friend"—she laid her hand gently on his sleeve— "there is nothing so wrong with being afraid. You were the hussar officer of the most magnifique. It will come back to you… when the time she is right."
She had called him her "dear friend"! This darling girl he'd not dared to hope would glance his way again was looking up at him as if he were a whole man once more. And by God! with her he felt a whole man! "Mademoiselle de la Montaigne," he grinned eagerly, "may I beg you will accompany me on a small ride?"
They parted briefly, to rendezvous
in the stables where, despite his new-found resolution, the gelding looked enormous, the saddle very high, and his own heart fluttered with nervousness. Genevieve, adorable in the riding habit she had changed into with record speed, raised her hands to the horn and glanced expectantly toward Whitthurst.
The Viscount prayed as he bent, well aware that many in the area watched anxiously as he held that little boot. Genevieve's heart was also pounding with the fear that he might not be strong enough to boost her into the saddle with his one hand; and so, as he threw, she jumped. Unfortunately, Whitthurst possessed a good deal more strength than she had supposed. She shot up into the air and, with a shocked squeal, disappeared over the far side of the horse. The Viscount gave a cry of horror. The horse looked around in some surprise. Suddenly, the entire area was devoid of people, although from behind the doors of stalls and the Tack Room came muffled sounds that told of suppressed hilarity. The groom holding the horses looked steadfastly, if tearfully, the other way.
Whitthurst bent to peer under the mare. Genevieve, on hands and knees, her pert little hat gone, peered back at him. "You have," she gasped, "the deuce of a strong hand, my lord!"
He raced round and helped her to her feet, and she leaned against him, thrilling to the feel of his arm about her.
"My poor girl! Are you hurt?"
"Well," she said, her eyes a'sparkle. "I have hear of being the bruising rider, but…"
There was no restraining himself. He burst into a shout of laughter. Genevieve joined in, hugging him. They laughed until they cried.
Chapter 18
The riding party returned to Bodwin Hall to encounter a scene of total frenzy. The stables were being prepared for the tide of vehicles and animals that would descend upon them that evening. In the house they were met by a small army of people decorating the Great Hall with hanging baskets of flowers and large Oriental vases that were a blaze of blossoms. Carpets were being laid on the front terrace and steps, while the gardeners were busily trimming the hedges—his lordship having at the last moment decided that they looked ragged and shabby.
En route to her room, Sophia passed through a welter of industrious cleaning. She was quite relieved to find her maids occupied elsewere and sat down, wearily thinking over the events of the morning. It had been a pleasant ride insofar as fresh air and dewy scenery had been concerned, but Lord Bodwin's tendre for her had been distressingly apparent. Never venturing beyond the bounds of politeness, his solicitousness, his eagerness to win her approval, and, above all, the adoring look in his grey eyes had spoken so eloquently that she had felt uncomfortable on more than one occasion.
So preoccupied had she been by this development that she had paid little heed to their route and had been beyond words shocked when, rounding a tree-clad hillside, they had quite suddenly come upon the spa. It stood upon the north bank of a large lake, surrounded by a lush sweep of meadowland. The buildings loomed huge amidst a cluster of lovely old oak trees that had been preserved among the structures. To the rear, beyond another cluster of trees, stood a large barn, complemented by more stables and outbuildings, sturdy and bright with fresh paint. Sophia was charmed by the potential beauty of the spot despite the fact that the unfinished canals yawned raggedly; the windows, empty of glass, looked inward like blind eyes; and the raw newness of the construction was as yet unsoftened by the gardens that were planned. But despite its size and obvious promise, the spa presented a forlorn appearance, shut off by the wire fences that girded it about, the many large signs warning that "Trespassers Would Be Prosecuted."
Bodwin had reined up at once, voicing an astonished"What on earth?"
"Why, the blasted place is under siege!" Feather had roared indignantly. "Who would dare to do such a thing? Is it not Damon's land?"
Ridgley, his keen gaze fixed on Sophia's flushed and miserable face, had murmured, "Apparently… not."
"I don't understand," Sophia said worriedly, accompanying Genevieve up the stairs. "He's been quite ill again because of that terribly exhausting journey from Kent. He should have had more sense than to ride today."
"Ah—you are angry! And the fault is mine! Ah! C'est plus qu'un crime, c'est une faute!"
They reached the first landing, and Sophia slowed her steps, looking at the distraught girl in total bewilderment. "Your fault? Crime? Blunder? What—?"
"Oui!" Genevieve clasped her hands and began to speak rapidly while gazing up into Sophia's face with a pathetic entreaty. "I cannot believe when I see him again, my chevalier! He hit me on the derriere with a rock, but this I do not mind because love for him have stay in my heart since so long. We meet in Brussels, you see, but I am kidnapped away because my stupid aunt fears your fine Wellington will lose and we of the french aristocracy shall ride in the tumbrils again. I pray for him at the battle. We hear the drums and then the cannon… on and on, Mon Dieu… so horrid! And afterwards, we hear is not the big battle, which have come three days later! Yet I feel he is alive, and I pray he will seek me out. But he does not, and so I flirt with all the silly boys who do come, but my heart it break into my pillow every night. And then today, voila! He is there—before me! With his dear arm gone. And my heart it break again."
"S-Stephen?" Sophia managed. "And.. .you?"
Genevieve nodded so vehemently that her rather rumpled hair became even more disarrayed. "He look so sad and humble—but I make him laugh a little bit. He beat me with his mallet and throw me over the horse and—"
"Good God!"
"And we laugh and laugh about it all, and my chevalier he ride so bon and start to look like his own self a tiny bit. Only—" Her big eyes began to swim with tears, and she sniffed and said jerkily, "We ride to a place I know, but I am afraid because… his beautiful face is now so white…"
Sophia gave a gasp and hurried on, Genevieve trotting along beside her. "The groom help me get him in the back way because my chevalier cannot scarcely walk, and I know he will not wish for others to see this. But now—he just lie there!"
Sophia shot her a harried glance and began to run, and running, also, Genevieve gasped, "I do not know that he is your fine, brave brother. Ah—do not hate me, Sophia. I love him so!"
"Of course I do not hate you. Indeed, I should have guessed, for often I have thought him unhappy, his thoughts far away."
The bedchamber was very quiet, the curtains drawn. Mr. Byrnes let them in, a finger held to his lips, his faded eyes kindly. "He's asleep, my lady," he whispered. "Just worn out, I think. No great harm done."
Together, they tip-toed over to the bed, neither concerned with the shocking impropriety of Genevieve's being there.
The Viscount lay very still. He was pale and tired-looking and, even as they watched, heaved a great sigh and snuggled deeper under the coverlet.
Sophia's eyes blurred. Stephen was smiling. Even in sleep he looked quite ridiculously happy.
After twenty frustrating minutes, Sophia got off the bed and walked over to the open windows. Her mind was just too full for her to nap. She had left a blissful Genevieve, but the thought of Stephen having found his lady was so new, so bewilderingly unexpected, and opened so many avenues for conjecture that she found herself, as Hettie Adams would have said, "all atwitter." Genevieve could scarcely have been more perfect for him. And yet—Her brow furrowed. With typical romantic impracticality, she had forgotten the all-important matters of family and finances. Would the Duke approve? She shook herself mentally. Crossing her bridges again!
She gazed toward the southeast. What was happening at the Priory? Was Horatio trundling irascibly about? Was Damon at the harpsichord, running those impatient fingers through his rumpled hair? She closed her eyes, trembling, and at once saw him bending to kiss her, felt the tender pressure of his lips, the strong arms about her. And knowing her cheeks were flaming because of that bittersweet memory, put her hands to cover them, whimpering a little because of her helplessness… and hopelessness.
"Had I waited out in the hall much longer, my dear," said Lady Br
anden in an unusually gentle voice, "I should likely have took root! Which would be not only unfortunate but startling since one don't find Feathers growing out of Persian carpets—or not very often, I am persuaded!"
Sophia stammered an apology, was hugged gently, regarded by two shrewd eyes, and commanded to sit down again.
"I am vexed to discover that I am become rather disgustingly fond of you, child," Lady Branden admitted. "Irritating. I do dislike becoming maudlin about people. Well, you need cheering up, so I shall tell you some old family secrets." With a frown, she muttered, "Lud! Come to think on it, I may thereby succeed in making you even more miserable!"
Laughing at this mixed speech, Sophia assured her that she loved to hear secrets. "Especially about such an interesting family."
"Hmmmmn," said Feather. "I rather thought you found it so. Your brother already knows the story but has probably said nothing. Damon should tell you, of course—but will not." Quick to note the shyness in the lovely face beside her, she nodded and said, "I decided it was necessary to tell you because of three pairs of eyes. Yours—when you saw my craven nephew shrink from that splendid stallion the other day—"
"Oh! But—ma'am—I assure you, I—"
"Damon's," Feather went on inexorably, "when he knew you had seen it…" Here Sophia's lashes dropped, and she stared fixedly at her hands. "And—Phineas Bodwin's," Feather concluded, "when he looks at you!"
"Oh, dear," murmured Sophia.
"Quite. Now I have already told you about Ninon and Vaille—and the tragedy that took her from us. Only I did not tell you all of it. And I know all of it… almost. I have known the family all my life, you see. We grew up on neighbouring estates—my sisters and me and the two Branden boys. We had such happy times, and then Ridgley was orphaned and came to live with them. He was their cousin, but very soon he and Philip were more like the two brothers. Roland, the younger Branden boy, was quiet and bookish. The bond between Philip and Ted I never thought to see broken…" She paused, her eyes looking into the past.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 21
