Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (11 page)

"Thank you," said Vaille without warmth, and, strolling to the mantle, looked thoughtfully at the small painting above it.

Following his gaze, Damon made haste to offer refreshments, but the
Duke, without shifting his attention, murmured that he had taken lunch
at "The Wooden Leg" and then frowned slightly as a cacophony of
hammering split the quiet.

Damon could barely contain his incredulity until the noise lessened. "You walked across the… scaffolding?"

"Of necessity," Vaille replied absently, "since I have not yet
mastered the art of flight. And why so surprised? I am not yet totally
decrepit." He managed to tear his eyes from their preoccupation with
the painting and, glancing at Sophia, sighed hopefully. "At least, I
trust I do not appear so."

"I venture to believe, your grace," she said, a dimple dancing in
her cheek, "that anyone foolish enough to think so would commit a most
serious blunder."

At once, that wistful mouth curved to a smile, and his eyes lit in a
way she found delightful. "Thank you, my dear. I perceive that my son
has indeed become a connoisseur."

Hartwell, who had been previously amused by the exchange, now looked
rather annoyed, then smiled, "By George, sir! I hope I'll have your
energy when I've reached your age! Did you trot all the way from the
bridge?"

"I never—
trot
!" the Duke imparted as from a great height. "I rode."

"A—horse, sir?" asked the mystified Damon.

Vaille replaced the poker, which had been left out of the holder. "A wheelbarrow."

Both young men gasped at this, and Sophia gave a trill of laughter
that brought new admiration into the piercing blue eyes that were
turned upon her.

"Most obliging fellow. A little—ah, reluctant at first. Said he had
some business with a gardener's nostrils, of all things!" He saw the
laughing glance that passed between his son and Lady Drayton and
nodded. "A most ridiculous excuse, I agree. Added to which, the fellow
had the gall to order a workman to give the 'old loose screw' a hand.
Oh, don't faint, my boy! He was somewhat justified since I had to make
a rather hasty leap for the bank. The wind was coming up, you see.
However, I persuaded him to provide the necessary propulsion himself."

His smile was very bland, but, knowing his father, the Marquis
chuckled despite himself. Vaille, shared his mirth for a moment, then
asked, "What
is
that?" and gestured toward the painting.

Damon sobered. "A painting, your grace," he said with wooden impudence.

"It is?" The Duke raised his glass and peered curiously at the
article in question. "A conversation piece, beyond doubting. We are, I
take it, to guess what it depicts?"

Damon's jaw tightened. Hartwell grinned broadly, and Sophia sensed
that a small truce had just ended. The Duke's eyes twinkled merrily at
her, however. "We must let your beautiful guest play first. What is it,
dear lady?"

"I believe you quiz me, your grace," she smiled. "It is a landscape."

"Landscape?" Enlightened, Vaille peered upward, again employing his
glass. "By gad! I do believe you are right! And here I'd thought it a
still life!"

Hartwell laughed aloud, and Sophia looked curiously from father to son, wondering what it was all about.

Damon, his face totally closed, said with formal politeness, "I
shall have it taken down while you are here, sir. Since it offends you."

"No, no, Camille. I'd not dream of putting you to such inconvenience."

"Not at all, your grace. I'll certainly not miss it. For one night."

Hartwell's mirth faded, and his jaw dropped. Stifling a gasp, Sophia
surprised a swiftly concealed but so stricken expression on the Duke's
face that she was conscious of a near overpowering impulse to run and
comfort him.

"If you insist, dear boy," Vaille murmured. "I realise it is the
fashion these days to move paintings about, but I must admit I thought
the portrait of your mother looked especially well there."

"It is being cleaned, sir."

"I realise I am seldom here," Vaille said slowly. "It must be five
months since last I saw it. Yet I do not recall that it appeared
soiled."

"We had trouble with the chimney," Damon explained, his eyes fixed
upon the ruby in his father's cravat. "Smoke, you know. Quite damaging.
In truth, I am positively beset by disasters."

"Yes," agreed Vaille. "I stepped over one when I arrived."

Unmoved by the smile that touched his father's eyes, Damon said a bored "A comparatively minor problem, your grace."

"Oh? Not so major as the demands upon your… hospitality, perhaps."

"I am desolated"—Damon gave one of his eloquent gestures—"but I fear
my hospitality can best be evidenced by conveying my guests to the
nearest hostelry."

"Is this," Vaille probed gently, "a French custom?"

Damon's eyes flickered, but his tone was as cool as ever. "My chef
is abed with a sprained back, sir. The bridge collapse prevents the
maids from coming, and even were Thompson not—ah—indisposed, the poor
fellow could not possibly attend to all our wants in addition to his
other duties."

"How terrible for you," Vaille murmured. "My man—you will recall
Orpington—follows this afternoon. But that would be little consolation,
I collect?"

"Alas," sighed Damon, "Thompson cannot cook, your grace. But my
family and friends will not be inconvenienced. I am advised Rowan's
Bridge has been repaired. 'The Gold Crown' on the Toll Road is a
splendid posting house, and you shall be much more comfortable there
than in my poor old .. haunted… ruin."

That there was some hidden meaning in the last words was obvious,
and Vaille all but winced. That any gentleman could so wound his father
was beyond Sophia's comprehension. Controlling her disgust with an
effort, she said timidly, "Your grace, might I beg a word?"

The Duke started as if he had forgotten that others were present and
begged her pardon for having subjected her to this foolish discussion.

"It is only," she offered, "that since you have come all this way…
Well, I scarce dare enter my own kitchen, my chef is so militant about
his territory. But I love to cook. It would give me great pleasure to
repay Lord Damon… in this small fashion." And she smiled upon the
Marquis with much sweetness.

Briefly, Damon's expression reflected stark fury, then became
unreadable. Hartwell's face was a mask of astonishment. The Duke, a
gleam of unholy joy in his eyes, exclaimed, "A lady of quality in the
kitchen? How shocking, ma'am!"

During luncheon, Lady Branden had invited Sophia to join her later
in a game of two-handed patience. Driven by curiosity, Sophia now
availed herself of the offer and, during a bewildering course of
instruction, watched her hostess place a red eight upon a black nine
and remark that she would delay greeting the Duke until he might have
"cooled down," "for I vow his rages terrify me!"

Sophia abandoned all pretence at understanding the rules of this
erratic game. She placed a black queen below a red queen and, deciding
that they looked nice together, asked, "Does the Marquis resemble his
Mama?"

"Have you never seen Ninon?" Feather looked up, her eyes sharp.
"Oh—I forget the portrait is gone from the music room. Does Vaille know
of it yet? And didn't like it, I'll wager! Yes—Damon resembles her.
More's the pity! She was much too beautiful for this world, just as he
is too blasted handsome!" She sighed, stared at her cards, then said,
"You know the story, of course?"

Sophia admitted her ignorance, and Feather brightened. "Then I shall
enjoy myself with a cosy gossip! Pour me another cup of tea if you
will, and I shall regale you with the details, though 'tis not a
pleasant story." She waited while Sophia obligingly refilled her cup,
then, stirring at it dreamily, began. "When Vaille was younger, he was
a wild young Buck, a veritable terror around the ladies, but such a
charm…" She sighed, saddened by memory. "Even today, no woman with eyes
in her head can fail to see it in him. Suffice to say that he ran off
with the leading Toast, a widow ten years his senior, who already had a
child, a pretty little twelve-year-old girl. Come to think on it, that
same little girl grew up to become your brother's Mama—but that's
another story. Anyway, Vaille was a reckless young firebrand. He was
travelling in France when his carriage chanced upon a band of rabble
attacking the coach of a noblewoman and her daughter. Philip
immediately flew to the rescue. He and his coachman and valet succeeded
in driving off the murderous crew, though it was a hard-won struggle.
Vaille himself was wounded, and the Comtesse de la Montaigne insisted
he be taken to her chateau. Ninon was little more than a child, but you
can guess the effect it had on her. She never forgot him, and four
years later, when his first wife died, she married him." She paused,
her eyes sombre.

After a moment, Sophia prompted curiously, "Were they happy, ma'am?"

"Feather!" the big woman scowled, and when her companion smiled and
nodded, she resumed. "Ideally so. Ninon worshipped him and was so
lovely—angelic is the only word could begin to describe her. Only…" Her
hands clenched as though she were deeply distressed. "I'll not go into
the nightmare that followed. Enough that when Camille was nine years
old they quarrelled bitterly. Ninon ran away—with the boy. Poor
Vaille's world had fallen apart, and he could not tell what prompted it
all. He thought Ninon had taken a pet and, his own hackles roused, took
himself to Dover and his yacht. Ninon was racing to Town in a fast
chaise. The groom said later that she kept urging him to greater speeds
despite a heavy storm. She was afraid, I suppose, that Vaille would
follow… poor child…"

Aghast, Sophia murmured, "There was an accident?"

"The chaise overturned. A wheel came off, I believe. Ninon—rest her
soul—was mortally hurt. Poor Camille. His beloved Mama lay dying, and
his father had vanished. We could not inspire in him the will to live,
although he was not badly injured. Just before Ninon died, she made us
send for her Mama. The Terror had chased the Montaignes from France by
then, and they were living in Brussels. The Comtesse came at once. She
was a lovely woman, almost as beautiful as her daughter had been and
with the same pretty way of speech. She was the saving of Camille. He
crept back to life again, but he lost all memory of that entire week
and has never regained it."

"Did you send for the Duke?"

"We tried." Feather gave a helpless shrug. "We could not trace him.
It was, in fact, four months before he returned to England. By that
time… well, what could we do? The Comtesse was devoted to her husband,
and they were preparing to remove to their chateau near Ghent and make
it their permanent home. She had to return. Camille's life still hung
in the balance. He loved her and had lost the mother he worshipped. The
Comtesse took him with her. And he stayed. For seventeen years!"

"Good gracious! Whatever did the Duke say? Did he make no attempt to get his son back?"

"He did, indeed!" Feather shuddered. "But the Comtesse prevailed.
Damon stayed in Belgium, and France, when it was safe. And only came
home two years ago."

Sophia thought, 'And even now, after all his father's heartbreak,
cannot find it in him to be kind…' "Poor Vaille," she said softly.

"Poor, indeed, for he lost all in life that mattered."

"And he seems so kind. So reaching out for warmth and affection."

"And so curst obliged to correct the world." Feather chuckled. "To
straighten every errant branch and leaf— uncurl each shrivelled petal.
I vow he'd right the earth on its axis if 'twas within his power!"

Remembering how the Duke had restored Thompson's cravat, how
fastidiously he had replaced the poker, Sophia smiled. "Not such a
dreadful trait, surely, does one view the whole man. We all have
failings, God knows."

"Yes," sighed Feather. "I wish Camille could see that.."

Sophia awoke with a start and, glancing to the clock, saw that it
was a little past the hour of four. The hammering had ceased, which
would account for her having been able to sleep. She was thinking that
the Duke was probably responsible for the peace and quiet when she
heard his voice drifting from the fireplace. It would be wicked to
listen. There was, surely, nothing more contemptible than an
eavesdropper. She swung her feet off the bed and tiptoed to the mantle.

"I am surprised," he was saying, "that Géant tolerates Horatio."

A pause, and Damon replied without expression, "Géant died."

"How sad for you. What dreadful luck you have with dogs."

"
Che sera sera
…" Damon yawned. "Horatio suits. And it was
some months ago, nor of such import that you should let it influence
your decision, sir."

"You are so shrewd," mused Vaille. "But you always were a bright lad. You did fare well in school, didn't you?"

"I did not go to school, sir." Damon sounded bored. "
Grandpere
preferred a tutor."

"Of course. How absent-minded I am become. For myself now, four
years at Magdalen—yet I was not a good scholar. I could never make a
lecturer, I fear."

"And yet," murmured the Marquis resignedly, "are about to essay the task."

Vaille laughed. "Merely as a preamble to my—decision. It seems
incredible that we have never before been—ah— able… to discuss the
matter of your Mama's death. It has been nineteen years, Camille. Shall
you never forgive me?"

It came so suddenly and Vaille's tone grew so wistful that Sophia
was taken by surprise. She fancied the voice of the Marquis to be a
little unsteady when he answered, "I thought we enjoyed a satisfactory
relationship, sir."

"Satisfactory?" breathed Vaille. There was an edge of steel to the
words now. "Did you, by God! I have seen you less than a dozen times
these past nineteen years! In truth, I scarcely know you! Since you
returned to England, I have been granted the pleasure of your company
on a few brief occasions I could count on one hand, and otherwise
consistently avoided, though I've offered you every inducement to share
my various houses—even if you have no desire to share my company! You
were educated in France—one must not expect too much, I realise! You
are skilled in literature and the arts, play the harpsichord and
pianoforte tolerably well, certainly employ a fine tailor. And—oh,
forgive me—do I overlook something?"