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

by Patricia Veryan

  She swung to him with a sob of near hysteria. "Thank God you are come! You must stop him! Hurry! Hurry!"

  The Duke, his own face haggard, his eyes haunted by dread, glanced at Whitthurst's helpless shrug and said kindly, "Twine is a splendid man, Sophia, and he's here to help Camille. If you care for him, you must—"

  "Care for him?" She gripped his lapels and tugged at them furiously. "I worship him! And that monster in there is cupping him! Don't you understand? I held him in my arms in that horrid… little room… for hours! I couldn't stop the bleeding!" Vaille stared at her twisted, agonized face in mute horror. "Oh, my… dear God!" she sobbed distractedly. "Why will no one listen? My dearest love is being… murdered. And you tell me I'm an hysterical woman! Help him! For mercy's sake—help him! Or stand aside—and let me!"

  Ariel ran up and looked anxiously from one to the other. Whitthurst muttered, "Sir, poor old Cam had rather messed up the place. Perhaps?"

  The Duke's mouth hardened in the manner he shared with his son. He strode to the door, pounded on it, and announced clearly, "I am Vaille! Open this door!"

  A deep voice called, "In just a few moments, your grace."

  Vaille, his face bleak, lifted one imperious finger. "Break it down!"

  Ariel ran back, then launched himself at the door. With a great tearing of splintered wood, it crashed open to the accompaniment of a screech from within.

  A short, heavily built, white-haired man scowled beside the bed, surgical knife in hand. A gaunt, hard-eyed woman, holding Damon's wrist over the bowl, stared in rageful astonishment. Damon, struggling feebly, looked at Sophia with hope dawning in his horrified eyes.

  With an inarticulate cry, she ran to push the woman away and, lifting that drooping arm, bent protectively over her love.

  "Hell and damnation!" roared Twine, the knife glistening in his hand. "How dare you burst in here with this madwoman? Get out! Or, by God, I'll not be responsible for Lord Damon's life!"

  "To the contrary, sir," said Vaille icily. "I shall hold you personally responsible. And heaven help you if he dies!"

  Sophia awoke with a guilty start and straightened in the chair, her gaze flying to the bed. The shade on the lamp was tilted so as not to disturb the sufferer, and in the dimness of the room she thought for a moment he was asleep. She leaned closer. He lay very still, with closed eyes, but the pucker between his brows and the hand twisted tightly in the coverlet betrayed him. She longed to hold him in her arms, to be able to ease his pain. The only thing she could do was to bathe his burning face very gently with lavender water, taking care not to wet the bandages.

  Damon's eyes opened, and a puzzled frown eased into a tender expression. Her heart lightened. He knew her! This time he knew her! Her vision blurred, but she saw him attempt to speak and placed a finger over his lips, saying huskily, "You are not to talk. Lord Belmont says you may have a…touch of the headache." A wry quirk touched his mouth at this massive understatement, and she went on quickly. "We don't know who it was, love. Nor how he got in. Stephen and Ariel went down there, but there were only some silver bowls and urns remaining. Everything else, and they think there must have been a great deal, had been taken. Whoever your monk was, he escaped with your treasure."

  "No," he managed faintly. "It's here… beside me."

  He tried to reach out to her, but the effort sent his hands clutching convulsively at the coverlet and, when his breath returned, he gasped out, "I haven't the… strength of a kitten! If I am dying… I want to be told of it."

  Sophia dug her nails into her knee. "You would not dare!" She smiled, though tears were blinding her, and added with a brave attempt at levity, "After all the dreadful lies you have told, the devil is probably waiting eagerly to receive you!"

  The shadow of his grin flashed at once, but his attempt to speak was cut off in the middle of the first word, and terror sent Sophia's heart to fluttering. She had heard the half-finished name and, loving him the more because of it, said reassuringly, "Stephen found Horatio in that hideous room in the catacombs. The coward had squeezed into one of the silver urns, and we could not get him out. We had to pour melted butter inside. All over him. And he hated it. The little beast gave me a good peck when he finally escaped."

  Damon knew he dared not laugh, or his damned head would likely fly into a thousand pieces. Somehow, he controlled the impulse, but meeting the dearest eyes in the world, which watched him with such sweet anxiety, he whispered irrepressibly, "Probably was afraid… you were going to…cook him!"

  He had the satisfaction of hearing her silvery little laugh as he sank into an uneasy darkness. A long sleep followed, troubled by strange dreams of a demoniacal man with white hair who threatened him with a knife. He moved restlessly, half waking. Damme, but his head throbbed! Weary and hot and uncomfortable, he gave a sigh of relief as a gentle hand bathed his face. He caught at those ministering fingers and breathed, "Thank you… darling." The fingers were gently but firmly withdrawn. A startled masculine voice exclaimed, "The devil!" It sounded like Vaille, but could not be, of course. His mind was wandering again. His head pounded so brutally that a groan was torn from him. The cool fingers closed again over his own, and the bathing was resumed.

  Sunlight was bright round the sides of the curtains when next he awoke, but he could not see clearly. Sophia was still sitting by the bed. She must not stay! The monk, surely, was of Cobra, and they would not hesitate to strike at her if they knew how deeply he loved her. He started up feebly, wincing to the immediate and savage thrust of the sword through his head. "You must leave here!" he panted. "My dearest beloved, you must—"

  Strong hands restrained him, and an odd odour assailed his nostrils. Not lily of the valley. Definitely not! Spanish Bran…and Brazil! He peered eagerly, trying to pierce the thickening mists as he Was eased back against the pillows.

  "You know, Camille," drawled Vaille, "I really do think I prefered 'Mon Père'. 'My dearest beloved' is a trifle ridiculous!"

  Sophia gave a gasp and stood as the door opened. Blushing, she said shyly, "This invalid of ours will not believe he may not have a beefsteak for breakfast, your grace."

  Vaille trod gracefully into the bedchamber. He noted that his son's sunken eyes were clear this morning, if suddenly anxious, and that the feverish colour was gone from the cheeks. Relieved, he gave no hint of it as he asked calmly, "Are you sure he is rational, Sophia? I've no pressing need to be mooned over by a lovesick lunatic."

  Sophia's colour deepened. She withdrew her fingers from Damon's clasp and, having assured the Duke that his son was quite level-headed, excused herself, saying she must see about Camille's breakfast. She slanted a warning look at Vaille and moved to the door.

  Damon wrenched his gaze from his beloved to his formidable sire and waited tensely. Vaille walked to the bedside and stood scowling down at him, saying nothing. Tentatively, Damon held out his hand. Vaille ignored it, and it was withdrawn. Frowning, Sophia hesitated.

  Vaille drew himself up and then swept into a low and dignified bow. "I salute you, my son. You are a brave gentleman and have made me the proudest man in all England."

  Damon flushed and stammered an uncomfortable "Thank…you, sir."

  Vaille's amused glance turned toward Sophia. She met his eyes for an instant, then fled.

  "Mon Père—" Damon bit his lip in irritation at this faux pas, and corrected hastily. "Father—I could not tell you… but— I had no thought—I didn't mean—"

  Vaille lifted his brows and, with a gentle smile, assured him it was of no least importance.

  "And yet—you would not take my hand, sir."

  The Duke moved closer. The wistfulness in the thin face warmed his heart. Their hands met in a long, firm grip, and there was a moment of emotional silence through which blue eyes held steadily to eyes of turquoise. "I am," said the Duke, "at a most vexing disadvantage. St. Clair tells me you have a right. Were you in good health, my boy, I would compel you to put on the gloves and demonstrate it. Instead, I
am instructed that you are not to be upset. The look your lady just now bestowed upon me has so terrified me, in fact…" He paused, and Damon chuckled.

  In the hall, Sophia removed her ear from the door, gave a sigh of relief, and went downstairs.

  "How thankful I am"—Damon grinned—"to have so invincible a champion!"

  "And how fortunate," Vaille nodded, sitting in the chair the champion had vacated. "She is, I am convinced, wholly responsible for the fact that you look much better than when we returned on Sunday." He saw bewilderment in Damon's face and vouchsafed the information that it was Thursday.

  "Oh, gad! Five days?"

  "Yes. We passed Friday night at 'The Bull' in Winchester. Charlotte was in a fine taking, I can tell you. But it was not until the following evening that my suspicions of your deplorable play acting became certainty."

  "Then—you came back even though you had not learned what happened? I understood Sophia to say that Hartwell rode after you?"

  "Your friend apparently assumed we had gone direct to Town, and so missed us. Meanwhile, having bullied poor Charlotte into telling me as much as she knew, we returned to this house and"—Vaille's frown was grim at that memory—"utter chaos!"

  "You… do understand, sir? I could think of no other way but to—"

  "Set yourself up as a sacrificial offering?" Vaille rasped. "Shut out everyone who loves you, including your magnificent lady, in an effort to carry that whole horrible burden on your own shoulders? The devil I do, sir! And when my conniving, lying cousin shows his miserable nose, I shall—" He saw distress in Damon's eyes and shut his teeth with a considerable effort. "I must not give you the setdown you deserve… while you are ill." For a moment he sat in silence, his lips tightly compressed. Then he burst out, "But—by God! When I consider what a cork-brained, reckless, stupid, damned—" He broke off, seething, then catching a glimpse of Damon's grin, laughed ruefully, stood and, placing a hand on his shoulder, said, "I went roaring out of Bodwin Hall believing I possessed an immoral coward for a son, a blackhearted villain who would have broken his dear mother's heart! I returned to find I had damn near lost an heroic… idiot!" Damon blinked rapidly, and was speechless. Vaille's grip tightened. "I should have you consigned to Bedlam, but—by George, boy—I cannot tell you how… proud—"

  Damon put up his own hand to cover those white fingers. Vaille turned abruptly, strode to the window, and blew his nose. Damon, now very tired, closed his eyes for an instant, his self-control slipping dangerously.

  "I wish," sighed the Duke, "I had not slapped you."

  "Yet it suited my purpose, sir. And did not signify, at all events."

  "Compliment to your performance, eh? Well, it was masterful—I own it." He strolled over to close the partly open door of one of the presses and asked, "What possessed you to take them on, single-handed?"

  Damon answered slowly, choosing his words with care. "I've not been of much use to… my country. This gave me the chance to do something… worthwhile."

  It was the answer Vaille had prayed to hear, but he observed dryly, "Even a General does not confront the enemy alone, Camille."

  "I assure you it was not the way I should wish to have dealt with it. But too many innocent lives would have been ruined had I put it in the hands of the Runners. My only chance to destroy those records was from the inside."

  Vaille's jaw had set during this small speech, and his eyes held an angry glint. "Did it not occur to you that instead of rushing in like a rash and quixotic young fool, you could have come to me and—" He choked back the words once more. The boy looked very ill; this was no time for a trimming. After a minute, he said in a kinder tone, "I really am sorry, Camille—about your dogs. And the guard."

  His well-meant attempt was disastrous. Those memories were too raw to be endured with equanimity, and Damon, his nerves beginning to shred, flinched perceptibly. "You will be glad to know," the Duke went on, sublimely unaware of the havoc he was creating, "that Mr. Rust gets about a little now, with the aid of a cane. I drove over to see him and discovered that his son is one of your gamekeepers, a steady young chap. I have promoted him—temporarily, at least. He is now one of the guards." He turned from his wanderings to meet a flashing look of anger and admitted, "Yes, I have caused the estate to be surrounded by armed men—which should have been done long since. I trust you do not object."

  Damon thought it doubtful that his objections would be heeded. Watching the Duke's rambling progress about the room, he had thus far seen his medicines arranged tidily, the window curtains straightened, a smudge removed from the mirror and a hairbrush turned bristles down.

  Vaille, meanwhile, was thinking that the carpet in this room was all wrong. He would instruct Orpington to have one installed that was more in keeping with the prestige of the head of the house. He checked his thoughts guiltily, all but hearing Charlotte's indignation, and, smiling to himself, knew he must leave before his son became tired. But one matter must be rectified first. He returned to the bedside and stood for a moment, fiddling with his emerald ring.

  "Camille," he said with unaccustomed diffidence, "I rather suspect I owe the French an apology. Oxford, I doubt, could have done any better."

  Damon was lying, passively watching the trees toss against a cloud-dotted sky when the door opened stealthily and Whitthurst's apprehensive countenance appeared. Damon shot a look to Mrs. Gaffney. The good woman was snoring softly in her chair. He gestured impatiently, and the Viscount crept in, sat on the bed, and peered at him. "Ain't going to have another spasm, are you?" he enquired. "Your sire is still smarting from the dressing down he received at the hands of old Belmont because he tired you yesterday! Lord! What a tyrant!"

  "If I don't damned well find out what went on in this house," Damon grumbled, "I shall have two spasms and a convulsion, at the very least! Why was Belmont called from Town? I'd have sworn there was another old duck muddling around." His brows knit thoughtfully. "Seem to remember swearing at him—though I'm dashed if I can recall why…"

  Whitthurst, emboldened by the fact that his sister and Genevieve had gone for a ride with Vaille, undertook his uncle's edification. Damon listened in silence, but he paled, and the horror did not leave his eyes until at last he breathed, "Then, that valiant, darling girl saved my life!"

  "Well, I ain't all wood upstairs, y'know," Whitthurst pointed out. "I began to think she might have the right of it." He scowled and muttered, "Just like Craig-Bell to have come up with such a loathesome idea."

  There was a small, grim silence. Then Damon asked slowly, "Was Twine one of 'em, do you suppose?"

  Whitthurst's finger traced the pattern of the coverlet. "Twine was never here, Cam."

  "But you said— And I remember—"

  "We hauled Mrs. Gaffney back, and first thing next morning, Hartwell come galloping in with Belmont, who confirmed that Twine is—as he says—the hell of a fine surgeon. Cannot understand what possessed the man, he kept saying. Your father demanded to know if that meant Sophia had been right." He looked up and, meeting Damon's steady gaze, shrugged, "Belmont admitted that if that last cupping had been done… there'd have been no saving you."

  "So that's why I've been so pulled," muttered Damon.

  "That's why, old fellow. When Vaille heard it, he informed Belmont that he intended to seek Twine out and strangle him with his bare hands—white hairs or no!"

  "Did he, by God!" said Damon, brightening.

  "Would have done it, too," Whitthurst grinned. "Only…" He looked down again. "Only Belmont said there must be some mistake. Twine don't have white hair, he said. He don't have any hair! For a good twenty years, that walking skeleton has been bald as an egg!"

  Damon felt chilled. They regarded one another for a long moment, and then he whistled. "That was a close one! Jove! They were fast this time!"

  Whitthurst nodded and pointed out quietly, "If your monk was of Cobra, also, they have been inside this house, Cam. Twice!"

  Damon was silent, but his thoughts tu
rned to the portrait of his Mama. Whitthurst was wrong: Cobra had invaded the Priory more than twice.

  Chapter 23

  Leaning heavily on Ariel's arm, Damon came to the balcony and hesitated, glancing at the stairs uneasily. He'd never before realized how steep they were.

  "Upsy daisy!" quoth Ariel cheerily. He swept Damon into his arms, took the first step, and paused. Damon put a hand over his eyes and groaned. Beside them, Whitthurst asked an interested "Don't think your back's going out, do you, Ariel? I can't catch the old fellow if you drop him, y'know."

  "You are," observed the Marquis with a nod of his bandaged head, "a great comfort to me, Whitt."

  At the foot of the stairs, Sophia watched anxiously and, heaving a sigh of relief when her love's feet touched the floor, hurried to open the door to the music room. "We have a surprise for you, Camille. Close your eyes, please, dear."

  Obeying, he kept them closed until he was comfortably, disposed on the sofa and the attentive Mrs. Gaffney had placed a blanket over his knees, her shake of the head expressing her disapproval of the entire affair.

  A chorus of welcoming shouts opened his eyes. He was swooped upon by a radiant Genevieve and warmly embraced. Feather kissed him and muttered that he was a "wicked liar." Charlotte Hilby, pressing her lips to his brow, said archly, "My betrothal kiss, dear fiance!" which drew an unrepentant laugh from the invalid. Whitthurst enquired how it felt to be "among the living again." Answering him with a brief and fervent "Splendid!" Damon's eyes sought out his father. Vaille stood beside the fire, Horatio snoozing at his feet. He smiled on his son, turned slightly, and glanced up. Damon stiffened. The portrait of his Mother, in all her glowing beauty, hung once again over the mantle. Through a hushed silence, he faltered. "I cannot conceive how… even you… found an artist able to repair it."

  The tremble in his voice brought Sophia hastening to sit beside him and slip a hand through his arm.

  "It is from my drawing room in Vaille House," the Duke smiled. "I am having another painted, and—"