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

by Patricia Veryan

  Thompson threw open the door, and Ridgley rushed in, closely followed by Amory Hartwell. The Earl strode to Damon's side, took his hand as though it were fashioned from sheerest glass and, peering into the ravaged face, groaned, "You stupid damned gudgeon! I should never have left you! Why in God's name did you not tell me Ariel had deserted? I'd never have let you be alone here—you know that, Cam!"

  "How charming," murmured Vaille acidly. "And what a very great pity that you had not the common decency to inform a father of his son's peril."

  Ridgley whirled on him, his brow thunderous. Sophia felt her beloved tense and placed her other hand gently on his arm. Miss Hilby said a cautionary "Philip…"

  "Come and give me a kiss, you blasted clumsy clod," Feather demanded.

  Obviously containing his resentment with an effort, the Earl obliged.

  Hartwell came to take Damon's hand and say unhappily, "I collect you know I was almost responsible for your—"

  "How very kind in you to have gone for Doctor Belmont," Sophia interrupted, her eyes flashing him a warning. "And then to go on for Ted. You are too good!"

  He straightened and, taking the hint, said smoothly, "I do at least have good news for you, ma'am. Ridgley and I were successful to some extent. Your beloved Singlebirch is safe. Full title has been restored to Whitt, and—"

  "S-Singlebirch?" she gasped.

  "Prendergast was busy, I take it," said Damon cynically.

  Hartwell nodded. "The old rogue had slapped a lien not only upon your spa but on all the Drayton properties and estates. I'm sorrier than I can say, ma'am."

  Sophia turned a distressed face to Whitthurst, and Sir Amory asked a perplexed "Didn't you tell her of it, Whitt?"

  "No," said the Viscount sternly. "I've not yet taxed her with her misdeeds."

  Sophia went at once to stand before him, hanging her head like a chastened little girl. "I was very stupid—and wicked, Stephen. I meant to tell you…"

  He lifted her chin. "Yes, of course, but you'd… other things on your mind." She smiled at him gratefully, and he added in a very low voice, "Your 'wickedness' was minute, dearest, compared to my own!" He gave her a quick buss on the cheek and said gruffly, "Silly chit! Get on back to your beau."

  She obeyed, and Damon drew her close to him, saying in tender accents, "You see what happens when you go Viper hunting… ?"

  The adoration in his eyes drove all other considerations from her mind. For an instant, it was very still in the room, everyone watching the young lovers; each heart touched. Then Vaille gave a small amused cough, and Sophia, glancing vaguely at him, became aware of his laughing eyes. She blushed and stammered, "Sir Amory, you have been more than kind. And now have come to my rescue once more. I—"

  Hartwell threw up a deprecating hand. "My efforts were small, Sophia. The Duke threw his entire legal staff into the effort to untangle your property."

  Her startled gaze flashed to Vaille, and before she could speak, he said fervently, "Dear lady, do I live to be a hundred I shall never be able to repay you. Not only for your intrepid bravery in the catacombs but for your unbelievable willingness to shoot the lock off that damnable door, while the rest of us held you to be hysterically unstable!"

  Ridgley's jaw dropped. "A gun… in the house? What the devil?"

  "I am amazed," murmured Vaille, "that you'd not foreseen such an eventuality…".

  Hartwell, noting the swift angry flush on Ridgley's face and the imploring gaze Sophia shot to him, said, "I must beg you will all excuse me. I've business I can no longer neglect." He turned wistfully to Sophia, having bade farewell to the others, and sighed, "He don't deserve you, you know. If you ever change your mind—"

  "She will not!" Damon intervened with mock indignation. "And you do not deserve her either, so adieu, mon faux bonhomme!"

  They all laughed, but Hartwell eyed Damon searchingly for a moment. With a faint smile, he turned to leave, only to stop again. "I forgot to pass along something that might be of small interest—if any of you knew of him. One of England's most colourful individuals has left the current scene. Sumner Craig-Bell died yesterday."

  There was a total hush. Whitthurst, his face almost as white as Damon's, drew in his breath audibly. The Marquis, his unblinking stare riveted to Hartwell's comely face, breathed, "The devil, you say!"

  "Craig-Bell?" Vaille said mildly. "Of Green Willow?"

  "Yes." Hartwell cast a curious glance round those taut faces. "It was believed he was out of the country. Strange. They found him in his carriage. Not too far from here, as a matter of fact. Terrible tragedy. Did you know him, Duke?"

  "I did. And I agree. It was a terrible tragedy. That he lived so long." He glanced at Whitthurst's stricken face and murmured, "Do you not agree, Stephen?"

  "Totally, sir. How did it happen, Amory? Heart?"

  "Might say so. Don't know who or why… but—a bullet stopped it."

  Sophia walked slowly down the hall. She had accompanied Hartwell to the front door for the express purpose of thanking him for all his efforts in her behalf. He had been gallant, but the sadness in his eyes had been intense and had cast a shadow over her own happiness.

  She had little time to dwell on the matter, however, because she returned to the music room to find Vaille and his cousin practically at daggers drawn. A small reference to Ridgley's loyalty had brought the Duke's simmering anger to the boil, and it was all that a suddenly militant Charlotte Hilby could do to restrain them from throwing the gauntlet there and then. Feather and Sophia rushed into the breach, and the danger was averted, but the strain wrought havoc with Damon. An infuriated Belmont later told Vaille in no uncertain terms that the best thing he could do for his ailing son would be to take himself and his entourage back to London. "Wounds, germs, and disease I can fight," the surgeon snarled. "I do my possible for all my patients and will concede to no man my score of victories! But relations I cannot combat! They are, sir, the worst plague ever to drive a nurse to hysterics and a doctor to drink!"

  There was little doubt but that the Marquis had suffered a setback, and for the next few days, he enjoyed Mrs. Gaffney's competence, the serene companionship of his devoted Sophia, and the total absence of his fond but disruptive family.

  Vaille refused to leave the Priory, however, and found much to occupy him. He set about learning from the local constable the details of Lord Craig-Bell's death and electrified the household by bursting in one afternoon with the news that the dead man's coach had contained several items believed to have been part of the Jacobite treasure, plus a hooded robe and head mask that Sophia, with a shiver, later identified as the garments worn by the "monk" who had all but written finis to the life of her love. Vaille's powers and agents were many and by some means next unearthed a list of Craig-Bell's infamous lieutenants. It was then discovered that each of these could be accounted for. Two had already been sentenced and imprisoned; one was dead of natural causes; one had been shot by a grieving farmer who'd held the man responsible for his daughter's suicide; and the remaining two had fled the country and were not likely to return in the face of the widespread public anger over the entire ugly affair.

  There was great rejoicing at the Priory. The threat that had hung for so long over the Marquis was banished. Sophia was the blushing recipient of much teasing about her future plans and went in hourly expectation of an offer from her beloved.

  The Duke, ever cautious, augmented the screen of guards he had caused to be thrown round Cancrizans. Sophia was rather surprised that Damon raised no objection to this when the danger was past. Secretly, however, the Marquis was relieved. Perhaps Cobra was defunct, but while Sophia and his family and friends dwelt at the Priory, the presence of the guards allowed him to sleep easier. Ridgley, on the other hand, took a very dim view of the matter, complaining indignantly that he had been all but refused admission to the grounds by one of these intrepid gentlemen. Vaille murmured a smug "Deuced fine idea!" when he heard this, which again all but precipitated the threatene
d duel.

  Inactivity was anathema to Vaille. He had developed a deep affection for Sophia, and it was his practise to select a rose for her each morning and, having supervised its placement in a proper receptacle, to present it to her personally. This charming and apparently innocuous pursuit involved both gardeners, who not only accompanied his grace in a painstaking search for the most perfect bloom available but were also kindly instructed as to how to improve their efforts in the garden. Never one to stint himself in behalf of others, Vaille also suggested his man should educate Mrs. Hatters in the more modern and efficient methods that might be utilized in the operation of a large house. The Duke was quite willing to point to those areas needing improvement, and Mr. Orpington even more willing to pass along his grace's remarks—suitably embellished. Nor was Vaille the man to leave a task half done. Aware that his son rarely stepped within sniffing distance of the stables, he directed his coachman to "look into matters" out there.

  By the end of the week, Sophia was struggling to soothe chaos in the kitchen, mutiny in the stables, a totally incensed Mrs. Hatters, a Thompson whose hearing appeared to have failed him totally, and gardeners who had begun to resort to hiding rather than endure the torture of being compelled to find a perfect rose that must be cut to an exact twelve inches.

  "He is the very dearest man," she moaned to Miss Hilby, "but is there nothing you could do to persuade him not to be so generous with his—er…"

  "Interference?" smiled Charlotte. "Of course, I could, my dear. But is it not better that he keep busy irritating the servants than that he and Edward face one another over the glitter of small swords or sighting along those hideous duelling pistols?"

  Sophia shuddered and, in total agreement, made no further mention of the matter.

  Gradually, the Marquis crept back to health. The blinding headaches that had lingered on for days after the wound itself was outwardly healed became less frequent and diminished in severity. He was patient through his convalescence, for he was a happier man than he had dreamed possible and seldom looked at Sophia without marvelling that he had been so fortunate as to find her and win her love. Three matters still plagued him, however. The first and most important of these was the haunting sense that he had not heard the last of Cobra. Second was the sustained and potentially deadly animosity between his father and Ridgley. And, third, the matter that had so tormented his lovely mother. However he wrestled with these problems, he could find no solutions and was obliged to resign himself to their existence rather than attempt to cope with them.

  Whitthurst, also, was a happy man. The drawn, weary look had vanished from his face, replaced by a radiance that was echoed in Genevieve's worshipful eyes. He had not formally offered for his lady, but he told Sophia that he intended to seek the Duke's approval just as soon as Camille was up and about again.

  On a brisk morning a week after Damon's first venture downstairs, Sophia went to the library to find a book he had asked for. Returning to the hall, she saw Vaille, her daily rose clasped in his hand, strolling gracefully before her. She was about to call to him when he stopped before a painting, and she watched in amusement as he clicked his tongue and straightened the frame with careful precision. She smiled fondly. How impossible he would be to live with—yet how very dear. She tensed then as Ridgley appeared at the far end of the corridor and started down, surveying his cousin with a swift frown of resentment.

  Sophia took a step back into the library, watching them anxiously. Vaille, becoming aware of the Earl, stiffened and bowed slightly. Ridgley gave a terse nod. Vaille sauntered majestically toward the Great Hall. Ridgley walked to the picture and stared up at it. His gaze flashed mischievously toward the Duke's disappearing figure. With careful deliberation, he tilted the painting to a rakish angle, dusted off his fingers, and with a triumphant grin, proceeded down the hall. Sophia stepped out to face him, and he stopped, askance. She stood in front of him and shook her head chidingly. Ridgley, well aware of her dimples as well as her frown, grinned but, as he went on past, looked very much like a naughty little boy, discovered at his pranks.

  Damon's voice answered Sophia's knock, and she entered the bedchamber to find him sitting in the armchair before the window, the habitual blanket across his knees. She was surprised to find him alone, but he explained that Mrs. Gaffney had gone on an errand and finished with a twinkle. "You are surely not afraid to be alone with me en pantoufles… in my bedchamber, are you, ma'am?"

  "It would be only proper if I were, my lord," she answered primly, crossing to sit in the windowseat and hand him the book. "After all—we are not… affianced." Lowering her lashes, she waited hopefully. Surely—if he loved her—he would offer? But he said nothing, and venturing a shy upward glance, she surprised such a troubled expression in his eyes that she abandoned coquetry and, reaching out, cried, "Oh, my dear! What is it? Does your head—?"

  "No, no!" He clasped her hand in both his own, gazed deep into her eyes, then placed a kiss in her palm and said haltingly, "Oh, Sophia, I'm such… a coward!"

  "Coward! What nonsense! If there was ever a man less cowardly, I—" But there could be no doubt but that he shivered, although she had thought it unseasonably warm; too warm, in fact, for him to be fully dressed and still have the blanket over his legs. Alarmed, she reached for the pull on the open window.

  "No. I'm n-not… cold," he stammered. He set the book aside, took a breath, and drew up his head in that slightly regal fashion she so loved. "Would you please… p-pass me my boots?" he asked faintly. "A brown pair will do."

  Too worried to wonder why he would need boots inside the house, she crossed to the press. The brown boots seemed awfully heavy. Perhaps another pair… And then it dawned on her. Only the right boot was heavy! She stared downward and knew at last why the Marquis of Damon never walked faster than a stroll; why he did not ride or fence or… "do almost anything a gentleman should do." In a dazed, automatic movement, she replaced the boots and remained for a moment, staring at the one that was so cunningly built up.

  Watching her, taut with anxiety, his heart hammering, Damon said hoarsely, "It's hereditary, I'm afraid. On my mother's side. Sometimes, several generations escape unscathed, but every so often, one of the males…" He shrugged, then, seeing the tears glittering on her lashes, shrank a little and muttered, "Don't pity me, Sophia! For God's sake—don't pity me!"

  She stiffened, and the tenderness had gone from her voice when she spoke. "It must be very expensive to have such boots made, Camille."

  "It is of no consequence."

  Fear laid its cold hands about his heart as she walked to the windows and stood with her back to him. "And must, I would think, be exceeding uncomfortable."

  "I've grown accustomed to it. Mama had a shoe built for me when I was quite small, and the same man made them until he died two years ago. Since then… I've not found anyone quite so skilled."

  "And so it pains you. I see." She seated—herself in the windowseat and, eyeing him dispassionately, asked, "Does Vaille know all this?"

  "Good… God… no!"

  "Your Mama must have had to struggle very hard to keep it from him."

  Damon searched her face anxiously. She looked different somehow, her lovely eyes regarding him with an intent, almost judicial expression. "It was not apparent when I was an infant," he explained slowly. "I began to…to drag the foot a little when I was about four years old. Mama took me to a surgeon, but—" He gave a small Gallic gesture of resignation. "There was nothing he could do. It simply did not… grow properly, and as the years went on… became…"

  "Stunted," she said calmly.

  He winced. "Yes."

  "And so she had those shoes made. And forced you to walk… normally."

  She seemed so very remote that his fear deepened. "You find that hard to understand?"

  "Yes," she admitted quietly. "I confess that I do. All I can understand, Camille, is how difficult it must have been for you to have disguised it all these years. Indeed, I think your
Mama must have been just as prideful as the Duke!"

  Anger touched him at those words, and a small furrow appeared between his brows. "Try to understand, beloved.She was little more than a child when he rescued her from a shameful death. In that moment, he became to her a combination of Sir Galahad and saint. But you see how he is. Everything must be—perfect. And I believe their marriage was just that until—I was born. When Mama realized I had the Montaigne foot, she lived a nightmare. She was sure if Vaille discovered it, he would turn from her. That he would obtain a divorce, have us sent back to France, and find himself another wife, and a more… acceptable heir. When she found she could do nothing to correct my infirmity, she did everything possible to keep it from him. She managed somehow to see to it that he never entered the nursery until I was dressed. She moved heaven and earth to keep me from being sent away to boarding school, and—"

  "Ah," breathed Sophia. "I wondered!"

  "Her very secretiveness made him suspicious. In her fear and grief, she turned increasingly to Ted, who had always worshipped her. She drew comfort from him, and he wanted only to protect her—to ease her burdens."

  "Ridgley knows?" she asked, much shocked.

  He nodded.

  "And… said nothing?"

  "She swore him to secrecy. He was furious because she had been driven to such measures, and they began to see more and more of one another. It was," he sighed, "inevitable, I suppose."

  "And so," she frowned, "at the end, she ran to him. He would not have expected… perfection. Is that it, Camille?"

  He stared at his hands. "Probably. I cannot remember."

  "I see." There was a definite chill to her voice. Shooting an oblique glance at her, Damon noted that her firm little chin was very high, her lips tight. He longed to pull her close to him, but his pride forbade it, and he asked softly, "Would you prefer I not… say—what I was going to say?"

  "Camille," she evaded, "is this what has kept you and your father apart?" He looked away and was silent. "She has been dead these twenty years," she said. "Do you still feel obliged to deceive him?"