Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (15 page)

"And in all these years," Sophia asked interestedly, "has no trace of it been found?"

"Evidently not," said Vaille. "To discover its location would be quite a windfall for you—eh, Damon?"

The Marquis, meeting his father's dry smile, answered gravely, "It would, indeed, sir."

Bodwin claimed Sophia's full attention at this point, telling her
with pride of his nearby home, which he insisted she was to visit very
soon. The wine flowed liberally, the guests grew more relaxed, the
conversation easier; and still Bodwin rambled on. "… And the fountains,
dear lady, I had copied from two I had admired. Not so sophisticated as
mine, but a good starting point." He glanced up as the Earl wandered
over to join them. "You've seen my fountains and the pool, Ridgley?"

"Very impressive," the Earl nodded. "Copied Mullins', didn't you?"

"Mullins?" Feather frowned. "Wasn't he a Cobra member? Dreadful!"

Bodwin frowned as though he resented his maze being linked to such
an ugly matter but admitted it was the same man, and added rather
testily that he thought the entire Cobra business had been greatly
sensationalized by gossip and the newspapers.

"To the contrary," said the Duke, a flare in his eyes, "I doubt the
general public will ever know the full horror of that hideous
organization. But we must not discuss such vulgarities while the ladies
are with us."

"Lud, Philip"—Feather shrugged, removing a hand hurriedly from her
aching brow—"I've no doubt but that all of us here know of Cobra,
though I confess I could scarce credit such a cult flourished in our
gentle little island."

"They were of the aristocracy, were they not?" Genevieve asked
curiously. "Bored young gentlemen who devise the odd and nasty ways to
divert themselves. It is true that no one knew who they are—not even
they themselves?"

"It is very true," Vaille answered. "They were known to one another
only by code names. For instance, if a member was called Lizard, the
likeness of the creature was embroidered on his mask. And because the
Runners were always seeking them, to avoid the chance of an imposter
infiltrating their group, each man had his symbol tattooed upon his
upper arm. Only the leader and his lieutenants were aware of the true
identities of all the members."

"But," puzzled Miss Hilby, "why so much secrecy? If they were so ashamed of the terrible things they did—why continue?"

"The secrecy, dear lady," said Hartwell, "was for fear of blackmail
among themselves. Their 'amusements' ran the gamut from malicious
vandalism to murder to espionage. Rather potent material."

"And they
had
to continue," Ridgley put in, scowling at his glass. "Couldn't get out."

"True," Hartwell agreed. "I knew a good chap who became caught in
their web. He went to dinner with a friend, got thoroughly foxed, and—"
He checked at Vaille's warning frown. "Well, at all events, next
morning, he discovered that sometime during the night he'd joined Cobra
and participated in some very illegal pursuits. After that, he was
forced to continue under the threat of exposure, which would have
ruined him and shamed his family. He was with the Foreign Office, you
see. The poor fellow got in deeper and deeper. Shot himself eventually.
You knew him, Cam. Poor Flanders."

Vaille started. "Good God!" he cried, much shocked. He turned to his son. "Hilary was a member of Cobra? That defies belief!"

Damon shrugged with bored indifference. "I heard something of the sort."

"Why you all use the past tenses?" demanded Genevieve, very
intrigued. "They are caught at last? I hear your Running people cannot
discover them."

"Our Runners," snorted Vaille, pulling his irked gaze from the
Marquis, "could not find the ends of their own noses on a clear day in
Hyde Park! And this is not a proper subject, as I said before. Let us
change it, if you please."

"
Oui
—of course, dear Uncle Philip," she said, adding
roguishly, "in just a tiny moment. It is the exciting tale! What happen
to Cobra?"

They all laughed, including Vaille, who then exclaimed fondly,
"You're a minx, Mademoiselle! Very well, then, since you yearn for the
macabre… Have you ever met Lord Sumner Craig-Bell?"

Genevieve's eyes widened, and she gave an instinctive shudder.

"I see you have," the Duke nodded dryly. "One of the richest men in
England and the leader of Cobra. He has a grotesque country seat called
Green Willow Castle in Essex. It was the perfect location for their
headquarters and might shield them today had it not accidentally caught
fire."

"There is some question," demurred Bodwin, "whether that fire
was
accidental."

"Then if 'twas not, whoever set it deserves the highest commendation this nation can bestow because that fire destroyed Cobra."

"They were all… burned to cinders?" asked Genevieve, her eyes very wide.

"No, no, m'dear." The Earl laughed. "But the men who came to help
fight the fire found enough evidence to call in the Runners, and that
was that!"

"Ah…" breathed Genevieve. "Then the members are now unmasked!"

"Unfortunately not." Vaille scowled.

"Might not have been so dashed unfortunate," Ridgley apparently
addressed the fireplace. "Lots of those poor fellows were entrapped and
comparatively innocent."

"I fail to see how any 'innocent' man could have become involved with so hideous a group," said Sophia.

Damon murmured an amused "Judge not…"

"Agree with the lady," Bodwin put in heartily. "They were a
scurrilous crew. The Runners searched Green Willow from dungeons to
flagpole, so I heard, but all old Sumner's dossiers, lists, and records
were in ashes."

"Were none of the villains captured?" asked the persistent Genevieve.

"Three, so I heard," Ridgley nodded. "They were brought to trial,
but they only knew the identities of a few members, and the men they
did name had vanished by the time they were sought. Craig-Bell was
fortunate to escape with a whole skin."

"He is," said Miss Hilby, a little pucker between her eyes, "not a man I should care to upset."

"Upset! Now there's a prime understatement," observed Ridgley with a
laugh. "His home burned; all his records destroyed; his hold on his
victims broken; his lucrative blackmail and espionage operations wiped
out!" He slapped his thigh and exulted. "Gad! But I'd love to have seen
that blaze!"

"Your eloquence," murmured the Marquis, with a twitch of his thin nostrils, "moves me so that I can almost smell it."

For an instant, Sophia stared at him blankly, her thoughts still on
Cobra. Then she gave a small cry and rushed to the door, closely
followed by Genevieve and urged on by the exhortations of the would-be
diners.

In the corridor, a more pronounced smell of burning greeted them. A
crash was followed by a distant scream. Sophia and Genevieve halted,
and somebody rushed past. Sophia realized it was Damon, and fear lanced
through her.

"Stay there!" he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

He disappeared into the Great Hall. She heard him swing open the
kitchen door, and casting obedience to the winds, she hurried forward.
A great shout of laughter rang out, that same glad peal that had
followed her sarcastic quip about the aroma of his music. So it
had
been Damon who'd laughed…

As she entered the kitchen, chaos greeted her eyes. Damon leaned
against the wall, sobbing with mirth. The roasting pan into which
Genevieve had crammed her four chickens was on the kitchen table. The
rope with which they had tied on the lid hung smouldering from it, but
the contents had largely disappeared. Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Hatters
stood in the pantry doorway, staring at the carnage in stunned
disbelief. Chickens and rice were spread liberally about the room; legs
slid slowly down cupboard doors; rice stippled the walls; one wing hung
from the chandelier, while another had settled across the back of the
petrified kitchen cat. Even as Sophia stared dazedly, a drumstick
abandoned the ceiling and fell into the pan of gravy.

From the doorway, Genevieve whispered an awed "Mon… Dieu" and Feather, staggering up, squawked, "Oh… my God!"

The cat, evidently deciding enough was, in this case, too good of a
feast, abandoned her wing and shot with a yowl into the pantry.

Thompson and Mrs. Hatters stepped gingerly into the kitchen.

"Are you… quite sure," moaned Damon, "that neither of you was… burned?"

"The rope caught on fire, m'lord," croaked the valet. "I hauled that
pan out. It weighed a blooming ton! And it was all sorta… shivery. So I
grabbed Millie, and we run into… the pantry." He put a hand behind him
and added an uneasy "Oh Lor'!"

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Hatters. "You're all over rice, Jack!"

Thompson glanced in turn at the back of the lady. "You, too, Millie! Good gawd! Now what'll we do, sir?"

Damon merely lapsed into renewed peals of mirth, his feeble gestures of no help whatsoever.

"What on earth," gasped Sophia, "happened?"

"Why, they—exploded," said Mrs. Hatters, looking at the three
amateur cooks with a valiant but not altogether successful attempt at
sympathy.

"Exploded? But for heaven's sake! How?"

Damon, wiping away tears, sighed. "Look at all… the blasted rice! If all
that
was in the poor brutes… it's a wonder they didn't blow… the roof off!" He leaned back, a hand over his eyes, shoulders heaving.

Flashing him an outraged glance, Genevieve wailed, "My poor little
ones!" Grasping a clean bowl, she began to rush around retrieving the
remains.

Tearfully, the Marquis asked, "What are you doing…
mon petit chou
?"

"Do not little cabbage me—
sauvage
!" she cried fiercely. "How may you stand there and laugh at this so
tragique
thing? Have you no heart?"

He sobered a little and, standing away from the wall, said, "Millie,
you'd best go and change. You, too, Thompson. We'll get started here."

Sophia realized suddenly that she was staring, bewitched by the rather shattering effect of his mirth. "Oh, heavens! My
souffle
?"
She grabbed two pot holders, rushed to the oven, slipped on the riced
floor, and would have fallen had not Damon caught her and, urging her
to strive to be less boisterous, swung open the oven door.

The
souffle
was a masterpiece. High and golden brown and crusty. Sophia gazed at it, awed by her own skill.

"Oh, my…!" sighed Feather, scraping rice from the clock

"Aha!" breathed Damon admiringly.

"Get a spoon!" Genevieve snarled. "And help with my rice!"

"Help?" he echoed. "It's past help! What you need, m'dear, is a
shovel! How in the name of— How did you get it all in? And keep it
there?"

"I spoon it," she said defiantly. "Your foolish Ariel hide the
chestnuts I am supposed to use in their tummies, so I have to use the
rice. And he also hide his pans. I can find only this one to fit with
properly, but however we may tuck in
les poulet
, they are
still too much for the pan, and I fear they will pop out, so I take the
rope, and Sophia have help me to tying the lid on."

"We tied it very securely, my lord," Sophia confirmed, her own eyes abrim with laughter.

"Gad." He chuckled. "I still cannot see how…" A glimmer of comprehension touched his eyes. "You did—
cook
the rice?"

"Cook it? Why should you ask so stupid of a thing? Can you not see
it have cook? Really, Camille! The rice cook inside the bird, inside
the pan!"

"Yes," wheezed the Marquis. "It most assuredly… did. And when the rope caught fire—made good its escape!"

"Here," hissed Genevieve, thrusting a spoon into his hand. "Begin!
Vite
!"

"Look, my pretty, why don't we just scoop up the beastly stuff, and—"

"
Beastly… stuff"
she cried furiously. "Do you imagine for
one of the moments, my Most Honourable the Marquis of Damon, that all
of the work most hard I have do all days is onto the rubbish pile
going?"

He stared speechlessly as she pounced on a chicken breast hiding
modestly behind a Toby mug on the shelf. "You're… never going to
offer—my guests…?" and he waved feebly at the scattered remains.

"It will rightly serve you," she snapped, "if your guests expire! Here!" She thrust a piece of meat between his jaws. "Try it!"

He obeyed and gave as his opinion that it really was not half bad. "A little hairy, but—"

Genevieve brandished a wing threateningly. Damon stepped back. "Now be serious! You cannot—"

Feather interpolated, "She is perfectly right. What the eye don't
see, the heart don't grieve for. By the time we get it cleaned up a
little…" She peeled a rose petal from a piece of breast and shook her
head. "By the time we get it cleaned up a little, they'll never know
the difference."

It was, as they all agreed later, a most remarkable meal. The
conversation proceeded at a brisk pace, eventually turning to the
Regent's famed Brighton Pavilion, which the Duke referred to dryly as
George's House of Horrors. Bodwin, the group's authority on art and
architecture, immediately embraced this delightful characterization and
exploded into peals of laughter.

Sophia, outwardly joining in the amusement, was inwardly taut with
anxiety as the dishes were carried in. She was inexpressibly relieved
to note that her souffle was holding up very well. Deluged with
compliments on its majestic appearance, she blushed with pleasure.
Genevieve and Feather had worked wonders with the salvaged chicken. It
looked quite inviting when served on a bed of rice and well sprinkled
with chopped parsley. Vaille declared the dish incomparable, and
Sophia, nobly emulating his example, managed not to wince as she bit
down on a piece of candle wax.

Damon, who had turned his attention first to the souffle, kept his
head downbent for a minute, then slanted a brief and decidedly
hilarious look at Sophia and complimented her on her culinary art.