Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (10 page)

"A great deal, I would think," the Marquis pointed out, "if you happened to be Wilbert."

"Ar—but I ain't. And you, me poor chap, seem to have a deal o'
trouble understanding wot I means. And wot I mean is—wot's wrong with
Wilbert?"

"Why—he's dead, I imagine."

"Shows how wrong a cove can be, don't it? 'Specially a cove wot
talks so fancy and don't understand nothing! Wilbert ain't dead. He
goes around sorta sideways is all. But you, being so high and mighty,
don't like the likes o' Joshua Jenks a'calling of you 'Wilbert'. Right?"

"It merely seemed an odd companion to John or Tom. However," Damon conceded equably, "if you are happy with it, Mr. Jenks…"

"I
ain't
happy with it, my cove! Wot I
am
is
thinking on fixing up yer nostril tubes for yer! Considering it very
serious I is, as you might say. All I done was to ask a honest
question, and all I get is jaw! Well? Wotcha waiting on?"

Thoroughly irked, Sophia stepped closer. The Marquis, wearing a
leather apron over his shirt and breeches, was cutting flowers. Cutting
flowers! How much good it would do this indolent young aristocrat to
settle his noble seat into a saddle and essay some sporting endeavour
for once!

"I was not," Damon explained, inspecting a brilliant red rose critically, "'waiting on'-anything."

Mr. Jenks carried a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. He was tall and
burly with a red, bloated countenance. His jacket and worsted breeches
were too tight and his neckcloth greasy and ghastly. "Oh, you're
a'waiting on something all right, me young bucko," he opined, mopping
at his brow with a dark-blue kerchief. "An' I'm the very one to hand
out just wot it is! So if you like, I'll fix up yer nostril tubes!"

Damon sighed, straightened, and turned to face him. It was odd. The
irate Jenks was taller and heavier, yet somehow, when that dark head
came up, it was the Marquis who appeared to look down upon his
companion. "In what way, sir," he enquired patiently, "does it appear
to you that my nostrils require assistance?"

"They're all stuck up," replied Jenks ferociously. "Need to be brung
down a sight if you was to ask me!" And he waved a large and knotted
fist under Damon's chin.

"The fact is," the Marquis pointed out, removing that fist with his
own slim hand, "your opinion in the matter has not been solicited."

Mr. Jenks looked down in some bewilderment at the white marks those
long fingers had left upon his wrist but blustered on. "Cor, wot a
mouth! Did you ever," he enquired of the nearest cloud, "hear the like
of it? Anyone'd take this here tuppeny-halfpenny gardener fer the high
mucky muck his own self!" The cloud proving uncommunicative, he
advanced another step and, thrusting his face under that straight but
offending nose, snarled, "I'll say it one more time, blast yer eyes and
toenails… Where's that old goat, Thompson?"

"And I shall tell you," the Marquis replied with quiet but firm
emphasis, "as I did before, that I am not acquainted with an 'old
goat'."

They faced one another thus for a few seconds. What the man read in
Damon's steady gaze, Sophia could not tell, but he retreated hurriedly.
Several of the roses the Marquis had already cut lay in a wicker basket
at the edge of the flowerbed. A crafty light came into Jenks' small
eyes. He edged closer, and his boot lifted.

Damon said a mild "Do not."

The tilt of his chin was suddenly ominous, and Jenks, who had
already noted the width of those shoulders, backed away, snarling.
"You'd best not be here when I come back, Mr. Top Lofty!"

The Marquis regarded him without noticeable terror. Jenks stamped
toward the house, expounding at length on the sauce and lack of respect
of today's young folks when all a body done was to ask of a simple,
civil question, wot only needed a simple, civil answer.

Damon shook his head and turned to encounter a blaze of disgust in
Sophia's eyes. A brief look of consternation was hidden as he bent to
scan his flowers again and murmur, "An unexpected pleasure, ma'am."

"Why do you say what you do not mean?" she demanded.

"You, my lady, have been saying what you do not mean from the moment you came."

His calm but shrewd perception so flustered her that she had no
rejoinder and therefore resumed the attack. "Why did you let that beast
talk to you like that?"

The Marquis, selecting another rose, answered, "I fancy he was capable of little better."

"Had you told him who you are, he'd not have dared address you so."

"True," he admitted, turning the rose admiringly. "I should instead
have been fawned upon and toad eaten." He shot a wry smile at her.
"Infinitely worse."

Undaunted by this inescapable logic, she said fiercely,
"Stephen—before he was crippled—would have shaken him like a rat and
tossed him out the window!" Seeing his hand jerk a little when she said
the word "crippled" caused her to become slightly muddled at the end.
But declining to take advantage of the obvious fact that there were no
windows readily available, he answered, "
Sans doute
, madam," after a pause. "And did you come seeking me to discuss my lamentable lack of courage?"

Meeting those wideset eyes, she had not the slightest notion what it
was she had come to discuss. "The… bridge," she said, recovering but
rather breathless. "I hope it is finished?"

She felt her cheeks redden at this bald rudeness, but his reply was
just as lacking in grace. "I do so wish it was, ma'am,! but you may be
assured I have every available man rushing it to completion."

"Then you and—poor Ridgley—will soon be free once again to enjoy
this—unique solitude. Until"—she glanced at him sideways—"your spa is
completed. That will destroy your privacy to some extent, I suppose?"

"Scarcely, ma'am. It is five miles distant."

"And you could, of course," she murmured, touching a marigold with one dainty finger, "have a fence erected around the Priory."

"It might be less expensive. But my wall shall serve, I am sure."

"Wall? A
wall
? All around?"

"Gad, no! Just enclosing the house and grounds. The first ten acres
should be sufficient. Do we build it to seven feet." Sniffing a white
rose, he regarded her gravely across the petals. "Do you not agree?"

She recovered her poise with an effort. "Oh, I do. And you could
have it topped with rusty nails. Just as a little—extra precaution."

He laughed. "What a monster you think me!"

She wished his laughter wasn't quite so infectious and that his
incredible eyes didn't hold such a merry light. "I was only funning,"
she smiled.

"Of course, you were! Nails, indeed! No, no, dear lady. I am sure the broken glass will be quite adequate."

The Marquis did not join his guests for a delightful luncheon served
on the terrace. Afterwards, they scattered to their respective rooms.
The workmen's undiminished uproar made a nap impossible, so Sophia
settled down to write a letter to her housekeeper and, upon finishing
it, went in search of the Marquis so that he might frank it for her.
He'd implied the Toll Road might be passable; surely they could not be
completely cut off here. There must be
some
way to have letters delivered to a post office.

A tremendous hammering came from a room at the head of the corridor,
but the music room was quiet, the drapes drawn across all the windows.
She had been sure she would find Damon there, but disappointed, she was
about to look elsewhere when her attention was caught by a yellowing
sheet of parchment on the music rack. The notes had an odd squared
structure, and there were no time values or any symbols of instruction.
There was no title; no composer's name, and the melody, if any, was
weirdly inharmonious. It dawned on her that this was the piece with
which the Marquis had wrestled so devastatingly during the night,
though why he should bother with the silly thing was beyond her.
Curious, she peered at the faded notes. It was too dim to see clearly,
and she walked to the rear wall and drew back the curtains, admitting a
flood of light to the room.

"Close them, if you please," came a growl from behind her. So he
was
in here and in one of his black humours by the sound of it. She turned
and said sweetly, "Why, uncle, I'd not realised you were taking a nap.
I do beg your pardon."

The Marquis, sprawling in a chair before the fire, deigned to stand
and fix her with a chill stare. He then stalked over to slam the drapes
shut, while remarking, "If you have come to enquire about the bridge
again, it appears—" A deafening crash, followed by a tattoo of hammers
interrupted him. When comparative peace was restored, he continued,
glaring at her through the gloom. "It appears that the supports were
not as badly damaged as was first thought. My men already have a
framework erected. The bridge should be safe for foot traffic in the
morning."

Curiously depressed, she asked if he would be so obliging as to
frank her letter, and he was finishing that small task while noting the
utter absurdity of despatching a letter that would probably not reach
Kent until after she herself had returned when Horatio rushed into the
room, honking his warning. At once Damon's eyes flashed to the door,
his mouth becoming set and grim. Sophia was disgusted. It was, she
thought, downright reprehensible that he should so dread company. Her
criticism was swept away by shock as she heard a familiar voice outside.

"Never mind, Thompson. I'll announce myself to the old curmudgeon!"

Chestnut curls wind tossed, grey eyes bright even in that dim room,
Sir Amory Hartwell strode in, checked, gaped, then cried a joyous
"Sophia! Egad, what wonderful luck to find you here!" He bowed over her
outstretched hands, and pressed each to his lips. Turning reluctantly
from her, he crossed to Damon. "Why the surly look,
bon ami
? And what the devil are you doing alone in the dark with my lady?"

Damon's eyes widened and directed a searching glance at Sophia as he
took his friend by the shoulders, smiled in return, and answered,
"Welcome,
mon cher
! How good to see you again!"

"And you, Cam. But what are you doing down here when—" He paused enquiringly as Damon's gaze shifted.

Mrs. Hatters trembled in the doorway, her face twitching with nervousness.

"Millicent?" said the Marquis. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh… my lord!" she faltered, wringing her hands. "It's Ariel. His
back again—very bad! Mr. Thompson says he'll be confined to his bed for
days!"

An odd expression flickered across Damon's face. Watching him,
Sophia sensed that he was pleased! This gave him the excuse to be rid
of them all. Before he could respond, however, the solid figure of the
valet lurched into the doorway. Mrs. Hatters took one look at his
vacuous grin, moaned, and fled.

Damon's eyes narrowed. "Jack," he said menacingly, "by thunder! Have you been at my brandy ag—"

Thompson raised one hand in a lofty gesture, placed the other
against the wall to steady himself, and announced throatily, "Your
Dukeship! His Lord, the Vaille of grace!"

Sophia gave a gasp. Hartwell snorted with mirth. Thompson bowed low
and lower yet until he lay comfortably outstretched across the
threshold.

Damon groaned a soft "Oh, my God!"

A clear, mellow voice protested, "You do me far too great an honour, Camille. It is only—your father."

The man who entered the room seemed to fill it with his magnificent
presence. Tall, poised, elegantly clad, he stepped across Thompson's
recumbent form without the slightest evidence of disapproval. To
Sophia's delight, he then paused, bent to straighten the butler's
neckcloth, and again proceeded to his son.

Damon shook the slender white hand held out to him, then stepped back, murmuring, "You are most welcome, sir."

The Duke neither moved nor spoke. His hand still extended, he stood
there, his head tossed back a little, the fine brows lifting, a faint
smile still playing about his mouth. He was an inch or two above his
son's six feet but seemed at that moment at least a head taller.

Damon flushed and bowed to touch the thin fingers to his lips.

"How pleasant," said Vaille languorously, "that you have not
forgotten your manners completely. Might I prevail upon you to draw the
curtains?" He raised a jewelled quizzing glass to peer down at Thompson
with new interest. "Unless you are conducting a seance, perhaps?"

Sophia strove unsuccessfully to choke back a gurgle of laughter and
marvelled that she had ever imagined this dynamic individual to be aged
and infirm. Damon shot a glance of desperate entreaty to Hartwell and
crossed to pull back the curtains. Sir Amory, moving quickly past
Sophia, bent to slip an arm under Thompson's shoulders, then half
dragged him to his feet and out of the room.

Vaille ignored the muddled protests emanating from the retreating
butler and addressed Sophia admiringly. "I can readily see, dear lady,
why my son would seek to keep you hidden."

The Marquis stepped forward to perform the introductions, but his
father stopped him with an airy wave. "Lady Drayton, is it not? You
bear a remarkable resemblance to your gallant brother, ma'am."

His eyes, very blue and keen, flickered over her in a shrewd
appraisal. Briefly, she knew how a bird must feel when trapped by a
cat. That gaze seemed to penetrate to her guilty conscience, and she
bowed her head to hide scarlet cheeks as she made her curtsey. The Duke
kissed her hand and vowed that the descriptions of her beauty were
inadequate, adding, "Do you not agree, Camille?"

"Yes," said Damon curtly as his friend returned and threw him a
reassuring wink. "Your grace has met Sir Amory Hartwell, I believe?"

Vaille raised his quizzing glass, the better to scan Hart-well from
head to toe in a critical fashion seemingly lost upon the light-hearted
young man who bowed before him. "Servant, sir," Sir Amory beamed.