Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (14 page)

"Lud! They must have wrecked the place! Who won?"

"Damon, of course! And I win five hundred francs! Irvin, he shoot
nicely. But my Damon—no one shoot like him!" She paused, and her eyes,
staring down at the empty Great Hall, had lost all merriment. "Poor
dear Irvin. He have the most silly accident a few months since. He
clean his pistol, and it go off!" She shivered. "So young and so dead.
No war, no illness, no duel. Just—pouff! He is gone, and his poor uncle
left to mourn him."

"How dreadful! But Lord Bodwin does not look to be in black gloves?"

"No—this is not Irvin's way. He say people who grieve for their men
lost in the wars weep for themselves—not their loved ones, who go on to
better living. Phinny honour that
credo
and will have no wailing at his Hall." She sighed and added slowly, "Sometimes, I think our Phinny is—"

"Genevieve! Thank heaven!" Lady Branden stood on the balcony behind
them, her wrapper clutched about her, a broken feather dangling beside
her left ear, one hand held to her brow. "Oh, how I need my maids! That
horrid Phinny Bodwin is squirming, if my thoughts reach him! For God's
sake, come and put your drunken Aunt back together, love—else Damon,
the wretch, will never cease to quiz me!"

Genevieve flew to aid the stricken lady. Watching her slip a
comforting arm about the large waist, Sophia thought how delightful
they were, each in her own fashion, and could not be sorry she had come.

Continuing down the stairs, she sniffed. The aroma wafting from the
kitchen proclaimed that Genevieve's chickens were almost done. She must
look to her souffle.

Order had been restored; the kitchen looked as immaculate as ever,
and the smells were truly delicious. She was a little taken aback to
find the Marquis standing beside the sink in deep converse with Mr.
Thompson. Mrs. Hatters, busily peeling potatoes, hummed to herself, and
none of the three noticed Sophia enter.

"… the portrait of my mother," said Damon, "so I told him it had
been sent to be cleaned. Now you must not forget, Jack, it—" He stopped
as the valet's gaze alerted him.

Sophia, watching closely as he swung toward her, saw admiration come
into his face and as quickly vanish. Then he strolled to inspect her
through his detestable quizzing glass and drawled, "I protest, ma'am,
you'll have us poor gentlemen quite unable to notice the food you've so
cleverly prepared."

She was no less impressed and thought his artfully tumbled dark hair
became him admirably, while the jacket of bottle-green superfine fit
his shoulders to perfection and emphasized the depth of those vivid
eyes. But she also suspected his praise to be a hollow mockery and
therefore shrugged, "Any such omission after our inspired labours, my
lord, would rate instant death!"

He smiled. "One can only hope that the
results
of your inspired labours do not have a similar effect."

"Oh! What a wretched thing to say!"

"I am a wretched man, my lady, who puts his guests to work."

She assured him loftily that there was no least need for him to feel
beholden. It had been, she said, a most rewarding experience. "For when
I set up my own household, I shall have a better understanding of the
problems to be encountered in a kitchen."

Mrs. Hatters, having spent over an hour cleaning up the wreckage, cast her eyes to heaven at this.

"And do you," asked Damon thoughtfully, "anticipate setting up your own household in the near future, ma'am?"

Sophia lowered her eyes. This kind of flirting was so familiar. "I
am well past my come-out, sir. It is time I was looking to my future."

"Cheer up, ma'am," he said kindly. "I think you carry your years very well."

Her meekly bowed head flung upward, wrath flaming in her eyes. The
Viper was surveying her critically through his glass. "On the other
hand," he mused, "does one chance to be a silly goose…"

Mrs. Hatters dropped her potato.

"You," spluttered Sophia, "are—are—intolerable!"

"I suspect you are right," he sighed. "Only—he does not think so."

"He?"

"Horatio," he said innocently. "Why—whom did you think I meant?"

A muffled snort came from the direction of the sink. Sophia blushed to the roots of her hair.

"Horatio," Damon went on, his eyes dancing, "has voiced the only criticism of which I am aware. Do you not agree, Millie?"

Mrs. Hatters, however, had recalled an urgent errand and was whisking into the hall.

"Alas," Damon said, "she apparently does not. But do not despair,
dear ma'am. Such a cook as yourself shall not remain for long on
the—er—shelf."

"You… offer me hope… to cling to," she grated. And resisting the
urge to bare her teeth at him, she crossed to where the saucepans were
hung. She had intended to take one down and deftly slip her white sauce
into it, shattering him with her competence. Unfortunately, they were
all hung so high

"May I be of assistance, Lady Sophia?"

His voice was close to her ear. And why, oh why, must her foolish
heart start to pound and her breath to hasten? She concentrated on
Stephen's dear thin face and was able to say coolly, "The medium-sized
pan, if you please."

She did not turn to face him, wherefore he was able to continue to
view the pale glittering gold of her hair and to breathe the soft
fragrance of lily of the valley that clung to her. One curl flirted
brazenly on the snow of her shoulder His finger touched that cool silk…

Sophia swung around, frowning, and found my lord inspecting an offending cuticle. "
That
one," she repeated emphatically, "if you please."

"That one" was very high. Damon reached for it unsuccessfully.

Sophia pointed out with more than a hint of scorn in her voice, "There is a stool beside you, my lord."

There was. He eyed it without enthusiasm.

She gave a tiny snort of impatience, and in a movement so fast he
caught only the flash of a beautifully turned ankle, she was standing
above him, slim and lovely, reaching up to grasp the elusive pan.
Enraged out of all proportion to the incident, she stepped back too
swiftly, misjudged the confines of the sophisticated silken gown, and,
with a little shriek, toppled.

Strong arms caught and held her and crushed her close and captive.
Her breathing seemed to stop. His eyes were filled with an intense
yearning. His lips, slightly parted, hovered above her own. Sophia
waited, a new and frightening emotion gripping her: the sure knowledge
that not only was she about to be kissed but that she wanted nothing
more in the world.

Damon set her down and, with his twisted, mocking smile, said, "Egad, ma'am! Such athletics! I vow you are most amusing…"

Excusing himself on the ground that he must join his guests in the
music room, he begged she would soon grant them the pleasure of her
company and sauntered to the door, the quizzing glass swinging from one
tanned hand.

Throughout this little performance, Sophia stood as if frozen,
holding "that one" against her bosom and staring after the Marquis with
dazed disbelief. Again, he had made her look a total idiot! She had
lain in his arms like some trollop, with no sign of a struggle, no
indignant outcry, no slightest attempt to slap his cruel face! She was
losing her mind—as well as her moral values!

Swinging up the pan, she gave a choking cry of rage and brought it
down with all her strength on the inoffensive potato Mrs. Hatters had
just peeled, thoroughly smashing it and wishing with every fibre of her
being that it was a certain smug, sneering face.

It had been a long time since Cancrizans Priory had welcomed so
glittering an assembly as now gathered in the spacious music room. The
fire leaped in the fireplace: candles awoke an answering glow on silks
and laces: Thompson moved quietly about proffering nuts, mints, and
wine, aided by Smithers, who had been pressed into service and was
flushed and uncomfortable in his footman's attire. The guests chattered
and laughed softly, to all outward appearances thoroughly enjoying
themselves.

Sophia was early captured by an admiring Lord Bodwin. Genevieve came
in late, but her vivacious little trill of laughter was soon charming
all about her. Miss Hilby, a vision in cream lace and wearing an
emerald choker and long drop earrings that accentuated those deep green
eyes, hovered close to the Duke, who treated her with kindly
paternalism. No doubt, thought Sophia, setting her traps for the
father's approval since her designs on the son were perfectly obvious.

Feather came in, vast and impressive in silver, with white and
silver feathers nodding in her hair. She greeted the Duke with deep
affection and Lord Bodwin with sympathetic concern. She was pale and
responded to Genevieve's anxious questions by saying she'd turned the
wrong way and, finding herself wandering along the unoccupied north
wing, had become convinced she was not alone and had "fairly flown"
back the way she had come. She cast an aggrieved glance at Damon and
all but collided with Hartwell, who entered at that moment. He caught
the lady in his arms and laughingly guided her to a chair, into which
she sank gratefully, placing the fingers of one hand only briefly
against her temple.

Damon, watching his aunt with a deep frown, warned that the north
wing was very old and probably unsafe. Sophia, remembering that
miserable tour, shot him an outraged look that he ignored as he asked
sternly that they all keep away from the area, "For it would grieve me
were any of my guests to be hurt."

"Egad, Camille," smiled Bodwin, "you contrive to lead an exciting life, even here in the country."

Vaille asked with apparently casual interest, "You refer to my son's unfortunate propensity for duelling, I take it, Phinny?"

The Marquis was bending to murmur something into Miss Hilby's ear.
He raised his head and directed a steady look at Lord Phineas, who
muttered a thoughtful "Er—of course, Duke."

"Oh," said Hartwell brightly, "I thought you meant the assassination, sir."

Damon's face reflected total exasperation, and Vaille, with unhurried calm, probed gently. "Assassination…?"

"Why, yes," nodded Hartwell, apparently unaware of the daggerlike
glare he was receiving from his host. "It was on Sackville Street.
About—three months back. Cam and Redmond and me were coming home from
the Westhavens' rout and ran into that Count fella… what'shisname?
Rondell!"

The Duke stiffened, his gaze flashing to his son, who had lost
interest and stared drowsily at the fire. "Rondell? You were with him
when he was shot?"

"Standing right next to him, sir!" Hartwell answered excitedly.
"Gad, if old Cam hadn't chanced to step back, he might have caught the
ball instead! Put the fear of God into me, I don't mind telling you!
Beastly close!"

"If ever a man deserved to be annihilated," said Bodwin, "it was Rondell!"

"Annihilated?" asked Ridgley, hurrying into the room at that moment.
"What are you—" He broke off with a gasp. Vaille had stiffened at the
sound of his voice and jumped to his feet, turning to the door. The
eyes of these cousins met like engaging swords and held through a long
moment that twanged with tension.

Sophia became aware of several things simultaneously: that Ridgley's
pleasant features had become pale and very grim; that the Duke was
equally pale, his blue eyes holding a deadly glare; that Damon, looking
from one to the other, received from each a flashing glance filled with
anger; that Genevieve, Feather, and Miss Hilby were all aware of the
reasons behind this behaviour since they watched with obvious anxiety.

"I forgot to mention, your grace," said Damon quietly, "that Ted has been visiting me these past few weeks."

"So you…did." The Duke's aquiline features were still drawn. He
smiled a smile that held the warmth of the northeast wind and, with
eyes every bit as chill, raised his quizzing glass, surveyed his cousin
with haughty deliberation, and murmured, "You are looking quite well,
Edward."

Ridgley drew a quivering breath. His hands were clenched at his
sides, and his jaw moved slightly as though his teeth had been clamped
together. "I am, fortunately, in excellent health, Philip."

His failure to enquire after the Duke's health was painfully
obvious, and Feather's voice, unusually fretful, sliced the silence.
"If we are done with the medical reports… Tell us Damon—have you yet
found your treasure?"

Sophia became aware that Lord Bodwin had drawn her hand through his
arm and was patting it kindly. She gave him a grateful smile but
withdrew her hand.

Damon said with a rueful shrug, "Unfortunately, no."

Genevieve, who had been obviously frightened by the taut emotions of
the past few minutes, now enquired, "Camille? What is this treasure?"

"If you've lost some, I'll be glad to help you," Clay grinned. "Nice stuff."

Sophia stared at him in astonishment. Why he should be so cordial to
this beast who had refused the help he might so easily have extended
was beyond her.

Hartwell was saying he had already offered to help Damon find his
treasure. "Half a dozen times, in fact. Old Cam's not about to open
these grounds to a full-scale treasure hunt. Not that I blame him. In
one day, this place could be torn to shreds by a greedy rabble."

"Do you really think so?" Vaille brightened. "How intriguing!"

Ignoring his father's remark, the Marquis explained that a hoard of
gold and jewels, gathered by Jacobite sympathizers to finance the
uprising of 1745, was believed to have been hidden somewhere in the
priory. "Unhappily," he said "the gentleman who concealed it did his
work too well. Legend has it that he was captured as he sat in this
very room and executed before he was able to reveal the location to his
friends. It is said he told his gaoler that he left a message any
educated man could read."