Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (12 page)

Sophia flinched a little and was surprised. Her initial estimate of
the Duke had been one of power. Diverted by sympathy, she'd come to
think him soft. But there was nothing meek about the tone he now
employed! Damon had made no response, and she could picture his
eloquent shrug.

After an instant, Vaille resumed. "Ah, yes. I
knew
there was something more. You are a fine shot." His tone hardened. "Which you prove with distressing frequency."

"One fatality only, your grace."

"Perhaps, did you choose more manly pursuits, your behaviour might prove less unsettling. To men, at all events."

"My tastes," drawled the Marquis, "do not run to fisticuffs, sir.
Nor to racing madly about the countryside clinging to the back of a
brainless animal while looking and smelling like some crude aborigine!"

"Beast!" breathed Sophia between clenched teeth. "Foul… viper!"

"And my tastes," the Duke flashed, "do not run to a grown man who
fritters away his time tickling the keys of a harpsichord like some
dainty miss and skulking sullenly in a… a maudlin mausoleum!"

Sophia raised a soundless cheer, licked her finger, and scored a triumphant mark upon the marble of the fireplace.

Damon sighed. "Then how extreme fortuitous that, pleasing you so
little, I contrive to remain where you must not be constantly reminded
of my—er—inadequacies. To the furtherance of which, I shall remove my
offensive presence."

Sophia, her breath snatched away by this supreme insolence, heard
the movement of a chair and all but fell into the fire in her eagerness
to catch the Duke's reply. When it came, the words were quietly
uttered, but that soft voice made her tremble. "I do not recall having
granted you my permission to leave." A breathless hush. Vaille's words
whipped across it. "Sit down!"

"I am aware," the Duke went on, still in that tone midway between an
arctic winter and the thrust of a rapier, "that you hold me to blame
for the death of your mother. I have given you time because I know that
her death wounded you deeply. Nineteen years is, I think, time enough!
During those years, you have distinguished yourself neither as a
scholar nor a sportsman. I dared to hope you might remember that you
are predominantly an Englishman and feel some obligation to fight for
your country. You evidently did not experience such a commitment."
Another pause, and he enquired with chill politeness, "Do I detect a
protest?"

"Not at all, your grace," Damon sighed.

"For shame!" whispered Sophia contemptuously.

"Instead," Vaille resumed, "you contrived to keep your own precious
skin intact while gallant gentlemen by the thousands, including many of
your personal friends, were sacrificing their lives. I was downright
shocked to learn that you have made not the slightest attempt to visit
poor young Whitthurst, despite—" He stopped speaking, and Sophia jumped
when he thundered, "What in the devil d'you think you're about?"

"It's one of Horatio's feathers, sir," Damon chuckled. "See here—caught in my sleeve, begad! Why, that little rascal, I vow he—"

"I do not," rasped Vaille, "give one good God damn about your
feathered playmate! You will attend me when I address you, my lord!"

The Marquis muttered a plaintive excuse that he had, indeed, been
attending. Sophia, her heart palpitating, prayed she might never be
present when the Duke was this provoked.

"I watched you pouring money into this… ruin…" —Vaille sounded
slightly strangled—"and said nothing, deeming it infinitely preferable
than that you squander your fortune on the tables at White's or
Watier's or one of the hells I know you to frequent! I observed your
prowess with your bits of muslin and waited patiently in the hope you
might become more—anglicized. However! I hear you are become involved
in that which I
will not
condone! That you were, in fact, closely acquainted with Sir John Stover and that wretched Bartholomew Mullins!"

It seemed to Sophia that she detected a gasp. She frowned, trying to think where she'd heard those names before.

"Of one thing I am quite sure," said Vaille grimly. "No son of your
mother's could possibly sink so low as to join that—unspeakable sect!"

Cobra! Mullins and Stover had been exposed as having been members! But—the son of the Duke of Vaille? That
could not
be! Horrified, Sophia drew a step away from the fireplace, staring at
the flames as though the devil himself capered amongst them.

Vaille rasped, "Is Craig-Bell also numbered among your friends, my lord?"

"I—I know him… sir…" stammered Damon in a shaken voice.

"And admire him?"

"I dislike him—intensely."

"Thank God you've that much discrimination! In my opinion the entire
membership of that stinking club should have been shot out of hand!
Which would be too decent a death for most of 'em. When I think of all
the grief they brought about with their vicious pranks and blackmail,
their lust and savagery and treason! And all in the name of 'fun'! Gad!
It makes me want to vomit! One can only thank God they are disbanded at
last and—hopefully—destroyed!"

"Then… you have no further cause for concern on—"

"To the contrary! Since you choose to associate with Cobra members,
the time has come for me to intervene in your checkered career!"

Apparently regaining his composure, Damon now sounded amused. "So I
am to leave Cancrizans and return to London. I must marry and breed
many Brandens with some dull and dutiful wife…
n'est-ce pas, mon
père
?"

"The prospect amuses you. I, however, am
not
amused by such an address. You are a peer of this realm, Damon. Not a French
emigre
. Try to remember that fact!"

Sophia shrank. The vitriol in Vaille's tone was too much for her.
She knew that her behaviour had been unpardonable and tardily put her
hands over her ears as she retreated toward the bed and stepped into
her slippers. How ghastly for the Duke that his son had chosen such
foul company. And how repelling Damon's insolence to the father who had
known so little of happiness.

She tidied her hair and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

"Good God!" boomed Feather, having swung open the kitchen door.
"Sophia! I couldn't credit it when Mrs. Hatters said you was in here!
What on earth are you doing?"

"Grating cheese," said Sophia, mourning a broken fingernail.
"Somebody has to cook dinner." She apprised Feather of Mr. Ariel's
lamentable condition, and noted, "Mrs. Hatters is too nervous to
attempt a meal for so large a group."

Bestowing a feeling look on her new friend, Feather sighed, "Poor
Camille. A house full of company and a lack of suitable food—horrors!
How kind of you, dear child, to help the boy. And what skill you must
possess! Did you learn to cook in Italy?"

"Er… no…" Sophia admitted, attending diligently to her grating.

Feather nodded and began to stamp about, swinging open doors and
drawers until she discovered several immaculate aprons, one of which
she proceeded to fasten about her bulky person. "All my days I've
longed for such a golden opportunity," she said blithely. "Oh, I'm not
timid, Sophia. But my chef would have my liver in a trice did I dare
venture into his domain! And—oh, how I have yearned to dabble in eggs
and flour! Oh, for the joy of serving a man a dish beyond words
delectable and knowing 'twas I and I alone who created it!"

Sophia gave a little laugh and was at once crushed in a fierce embrace.

"I should have known in the first instant I saw you that you were a
jewel of the first water!" Feather exclaimed. "Now tell me—am I not the
very essence of a chef?"

She wore a rose-coloured gown of the finest silk, and the bodice,
swooping low, was edged with small pink feathers, while in her already
crumbling coiffure reposed two larger such adornments. With the apron
wrapped about her middle, she resembled no chef Sophia had ever laid
eyes upon. However, agreeing with this willing accomplice, she enquired
what deliciousness Feather planned to concoct.

"Here is Ariel's menu for tonight—he always prepares 'em in
advance…" Feather drew a paper from a drawer and peered at it.
"Vichyssoise… skewered scallops… roast chickens stuffed with chestnuts…
veal pasties… spinach flambé… creamed green peas and pearl onions…
potato balls… trifle… lemon puffs…" She stopped as a small whimper
emanated from her companion and asked innocently, "Do you intend to
make all that, love?"

"I… only," Sophia croaked, "know how to make cheese souffle! And I only made that once!"

Feather gave a shattering roar of laughter. "I knew it! Else I'd never have dared join you! I can make trifle. I think."

"For why," called Genevieve from the open door, "do you gather here?" Her eyes became very round. "Ah… How
delicieux
!I may play, too—yes?"

"Oh, gad!" Feather chortled. "This will be a meal to drive that wretched nephew of mine straight back to Town!"

It required the combined efforts of Sophia and Mademoiselle de la
Montaigne to convince Feather she must lie down upon her bed. She sang
heartrendingly all the way upstairs and once staggered backward in a
plunge that near sent them all toppling. Genevieve giggled
irrepressibly throughout, but Sophia was in a fever of dread lest
Vaille or the Marquis catch a glimpse of their thoroughly inebriated
kinswoman.

She had not dreamed that a simple disagreement over whether one
added rum, sherry, or cognac to a trifle would result in this shocking
debacle
.
Obviously, Feather's decision to sample a little of each on a finger of
sponge cake had not resolved her dilemma, necessitating a second or
even a third round of sampling. She heaved a sigh of relief when they
were safely inside the room. Feather tossed herself with complete
abandon on to her bed, breaking two of the plumes in her hair and lying
on her back, arms tossed wide, still singing disjointedly.

"You,
ma chère
, shall run down the stairs now," said
Genevieve between spurts of laughter, "and tuck the white sauce for
your souffle into the pantry. My
poulets
shall not be done
for several of the hours. Your souffle—you must delay." She tugged at
Feather's apron and giggled. "Am I not the clever poetess?"

Obediently, Sophia returned to the wreckage of the kitchen and
placed her bowl of grated cheese and the white sauce on the pantry
shelf beside Feather's custard. She reflected sorrowfully that there
was little to choose between their efforts; both sauce and custard were
inclined to be brown and lumpy. She had burned the sauce when she'd
been paralyzed by the shock of seeing Lady Branden suddenly sit down in
the middle of the floor and start to sing 'Les Marseillaise'.
Genevieve, who had insisted upon standing rigidly at attention during
this rendition, had eventually, if hysterically, consoled her by
observing that "the
frontage
shall cover the multitude of sins."

That multitude seemed magnified when Sophia shudderingly surveyed
the once-neat kitchen. She was hot and weary and, deciding she had
fought the good fight and was entitled to a respite, went into the cool
glory of sunset to pick some flowers. She lingered in the garden for
quite some time and had a full basket of fragrant blooms when she
stepped up to the scullery door. It swung open before she touched the
latch. Damon's tall figure loomed before her, and her heart began to
hammer. He reached for the basket, and she allowed him to take it, then
slipped past. He said nothing, but the frown in his eyes added to her
trepidation.

He set the basket beside the rear sink and sneered, "Had I suspected
such a fount of energy, I'd have hired you when you first applied,
ma'am."

Sophia smiled coolly. She had scored a major victory in offering to
cook dinner, thus preventing him from ousting his unwelcome guests.
That he was thoroughly enraged was evidenced by the tight set to his
lips. Considering his preoccupation with such mild pursuits as music
and architecture, it was odd that there was an aura of power about the
man. Yet even with her new knowledge that he was linked to Cobra
members, she was not afraid of him. She picked up the small shears and
snipped off a broken leaf. "I try always to help where there is need,
sir," she said piously.

"Good gad! An inveterate do-gooder! The plague of the world!"

Sophia maintained her saintly pose with difficulty and, cutting a
daisy much too short, pointed out that his own servants could not be
expected to find the time for such trivial matters.

"You surprise me, ma'am. I've always thought flowers charming. Still, you're probably right. Shall we discard them?"

He reached for a handy bucket. Longing to ply her shears on his
reptilian throat, she placed herself between the Viper and his intended
victims and wondered aloud if Mrs. Hatters had gone to lie down. "For
the poor soul must be quite exhausted." She cast a look of reproach at
his expressionless features. "In truth, I never have seen so large a
house with so small a staff. You are indeed fortunate, my lord, that
these hard times enable you to—er—retain such tireless servants."

Damon blinked at this excellent counter-attack. "They are adequate
for my needs—usually," he allowed. "And Mrs. Hatters has most certainly
not
gone to lie down. She knows I do not permit laziness in my menials."

"
Laziness!"
Sophia spun furiously to brandish a rose at him
but caught a glimpse of a twinkle that so confused her she had to pause
an instant before she was sufficiently recovered to warn, "Take care,
my lord, that the poor lady does not collapse from pure exhaustion. As
did Mr. Thompson."

She'd not intended to add that last sentence, but his smothered
chuckle recalled the scene so vividly that she all but laughed aloud.