Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (16 page)

Apprehension seized her. She tasted a morsel of her creation. It was
light, fluffy, and extreme weird! It was, in fact, positively sweet!
Numbed with horror, she realized what must have happened and, casting a
frantic glance to Genevieve, found that lady frozen into immobility,
her big eyes having an expression of such total guilt that she knew her
fears confirmed. Genevieve had volunteered to complete Feather's trifle
by adding the cooled custard to the top. She had mistaken the bowls.
The souffle contained not white sauce but Feather's custard!

Feather, looking up with a puzzled expression, said, "Sophia, your souffle has the most—"

"The most delightful flavour," interposed the Duke smoothly, turning twinkling eyes upon the devastated chef.

"It has, indeed," agreed Lord Bodwin. "I confess it is quite new to
me—Italian, I suspect, eh? Whatever does it contain, my dear lady?"

"Oh," said Sophia faintly, well aware of Damon's smothered chuckle, "it is an old family secret, my lord."

"Good God!" gasped Ridgley, removing a rose petal from his rice. "You French will stop at nothing to achieve an exotic flavour!"

"Nothing!" Damon put in.

Feather burst into a paroxysm of coughing. Damon blinked rapidly
into his water goblet. The Duke murmured a polite appreciation of the
"inspired efforts of our magnificent ladies." Genevieve grinned
irrepressibly at all and sundry.

Sophia thought "Oh, heavens! What about the trifle?"

"No cards for me," the Earl decreed, shaking his curly head. "Afraid
that delightful meal has made me sleepy. If we're to toddle over to
Phinny's in time for luncheon tomorrow, I'd best not start into a long
game at this hour."

The ladies exchanged surreptitious and amused glances. Despite its
initially unusual flavor, the trifle had been the success of the meal.
Lord Ridgley had partaken of three servings and been so well pleased he
had begun to sing softly to himself as the gentlemen were left to their
port. Bodwin had declared it by far the jolliest evening he had enjoyed
in years and once again implored Sophia to join the group that would
journey to Bodwin Hall next day. She was eager to see the famous
mansion and had declined with reluctance, but Damon had said the bridge
would be completed by the morrow. Whitthurst would certainly come, and
she intended to be here to care for him as soon as he arrived. The Earl
had accepted his invitation, however, and it was apparent that only his
loyalty to his cousin kept Clay from going along.

Damon turned to the Duke. "Do you care to play, sir?"

"Thank you—no," said Vaille. "However, if
you
would be so kind."

Amazed, the Marquis asked, "Play? The harpsichord… ?"

"I hoped," explained the Duke, "we might persuade Lady Sophia to sing."

Gratified by the astonishment on Damon's face, Sophia assented.
Damon escorted her to the harpsichord and, seating himself, glanced up,
hands poised, one brow questioningly raised.

She leaned to him and murmured, "Do you know… 'Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms'?"

He grinned, breathed a soft "Touché!" and started into the introduction.

Feather, who had suffered through many an ear-splitting musicale,
resigned herself and settled back with a small sigh. Sophia began to
sing. With the first notes, Damon tensed, and his eyes reflected awed
incredulity. She had an exquisite voice; a rich mezzo soprano,
magnificently trained, and she sang the poignant words with such warmth
and feeling that Feather was in tears before the first verse ended…
Sophia looked down at Damon and could not look away…

For it is not while beauty and youth are thine own
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known
To which time will but make thee more dear.
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.

The last notes died tenderly away. There was no movement, no rush of
applause, the guests by their rapt silence bestowing the highest
tribute any performer can receive Having woven this magic, Damon and
Sophia were each trapped by it. Time ceased to exist, and they gazed
upon one another through a breathless suspension of all else.

Lord Bodwin, applauding frenziedly, leapt to his feet, crying an enthused "Bravo! Bravo!"

And the spell was broken. Damon started and looked away. Sophia
gasped and straightened, feeling not a little frightened as the guests
crowded around her, overwhelmed by admiration.

Vaille caught her hand, pressed a kiss upon it, and exclaimed, "My dear child! That was—truly—perfection!"

Blushing, Sophia said, "Thank you, your grace, but without Lord Damon I—"

"The entire evening has been pure delight," Bodwin avowed. "Lady Sophia, may we beg another song? Will you so honour us?"

"Oh, please do," gulped Feather, wiping fiercely at her eyes.

"I would be delighted"—smiled Sophia—"if my accompanist will…" She
stopped, her smile fading. The bench was empty. My Lord Damon had gone.

The courtyard was chill now, as a cool night wind swayed the weeds
that sprang between the mouldering old bricks and whispered in shrill
whines among the chimneys. The Marquis, seated on the rim of the
time-ravaged fountain, drew on his old pipe, which was shaped like a
lion's head, and stared down the hill with eyes that saw neither the
cloud-wracked sky, the tossing trees, nor the pipe's glow. Nor the dark
shape that crept upon him.

The man sprang forward. In a lightning movement, Damon was on his
feet, crouched a little, his eyes narrowed and deadly. Ridgley said
severely, "Much too slow, Cam!"

"If you've made me break my pipe, damn you,
you'll
be slowed!"

Ridgley picked up the treasured article and handed it over. "All of
a piece, I think. And how dare you talk to an aged relation with such
flagrant lack of respect?"

Damon answered in French and so explicitly that Ridgley gasped a shocked "Have a care! The women might hear you!"

They started to wander together along the terrace and down the steps.

"Your retreat," said the Earl dryly as they followed the curve of
the drive, "has not endeared you to your sire. They were all clamouring
for The Drayton to sing again." Receiving no answer, he murmured
cynically, "Didn't mean you to fall into flat despair, dear boy…"

Still, Damon said nothing. Watching him covertly, Ridgley was
favoured by the wind, which, tearing apart the tenuous clasp of
shifting clouds, allowed the moon to illumine the stern face beside
him. He frowned worriedly and observed, "You're tired, Cam."

Damon drew back his shoulders at once but then abandoned the
subterfuge and muttered, "If they don't all leave soon, I—I think I'll
run mad!"

His unease mounting, Ridgley placed a hand on the younger man's arm. "You say so damned little. How do you feel these days?"

The Marquis pulled away. "Exasperated beyond belief!"

The Earl vouchsafed only a grunt at this, and when he next spoke,
the very quietness of his words conveyed the depth of his resentment.
"You could at least have warned me Vaille had arrived."

"I'd sink lower than that to reconcile you. Nineteen years is too
long to carry hatred. Especially between first cousins who were once
closer than brothers."

"Or—father and son…"

The pipe glowed very brightly, and Damon stopped walking. "That's not true."

"It's an odd kind of love that keeps you apart."

"You should be well informed. You're such an odd kind of lover!"

They glared upon one another. Then Damon, remorseful, said, "I'm sorry Ted. That was a stinking thing to say. Forgive me."

The Earl cuffed him lightly on the arm and, as they resumed their
stroll, sighed, "I'm a fool to say it, the man disgusts me. But—in
spite of everything, he loves you, Cam."

"Ah," said Damon softly, "but you see he does not know— everything.
Yet. Still, he's cutting me off. Financially, at least. Without even
the proverbial shilling." He gave a faint and bitter laugh.

"Good God!" Ridgley halted once more. "You never mean it? Does he realise the position that will place you in?"

"God forbid! It would send him into whoops!"

"But—what shall you do? Shall you be able to complete your spa? Perhaps that'll save your neck."

"More like to break it! I'm already in debt to the tune of twenty-five thousand and will need three times that to finish."

"Well, of all the cork-brained cod's heads!" cried the exasperated
Ridgley. "Why did you not come to me? I could have gone to my bankers
and—"

"And done what? Arranged another loan? You've already sunk ten
thousand into the Spa, and had I known how short of blunt you are, I'd
never have allowed you to invest at all!" Cutting off his kinsman's
attempt to speak, Damon raised a peremptory hand and said, "No, Ted! As
soon as I can get a groom across the bridge, I'll send word to Town and
have Gillam call a meeting of the investors. They shall have to dig a
little deeper—or let some new money in."

They had come to a wrought-iron bench beyond the looming bulk of the
north wing's catacombs and sat down, each man busied with his own
thoughts, smelling the stable smells, hearing the occasional shifting
of an animal in a stall, all mingled with the myriad voices of the
night and the stirrings of the wind.

"Damme!" Ridgley exploded in sudden irritation. "What a cold-blooded devil he is! Did he offer you no alternative?"

"Of a certainty," Damon acknowledged wearily. "I'm to marry within three months, give up Cancrizans, and remove to Town."

"Ah… And would you consider his demands?"

Damon favoured him with a glance of withering scorn.

"But—if you've swallowed a spider?" Ridgley blinked.

"Not quite. I still have Mother's jewels."

"What? You wouldn't, by God!"

"May have no alternative, old chap. The jewels would buy me a
respectable life—were I to live quietly. I'd have to give up
Cancrizans, of course. And the Spa. But—I suppose I could live in Town.
My house on Green Street is not encumbered."

"You'd be doocid welcome to move into either of my places. You know that, I hope."

"I do, and thank you." Damon gave a wry grin. "You may host me sooner than you expect."

After a minute, Ridgley growled, "He has learned this much. Did it ever occur to you what he'll do when he learns the whole?"

Damon flinched a little. "It has occurred to me."

"Christ! Better by far to have been with the Guards in that blasted
chateau at Hougoument! I don't know which of us he'll slaughter first!
If you'd a spark of decency, Cam, you'd tell the man before he hears it
from someone else."

Damon slanted a cynical look at him. "Is that what you would do?" he sneered. "How noble!"

"Noble, hell! Of course, I'd tell him! Whatever else, he's my own flesh and blood! D'ye think I am a hunk of ice—like you?"

"No, sir," said Damon politely. "I think you're a goddamned liar!"

The Earl smiled at the moon and responded without rancour. "Foul-mouthed young whelp."

Bodwin Hall lay to the northwest of the Priory, and the sound of
Lord Phineas's carriage rumbling down the rear driveway awakened Sophia
from her reverie. She was startled to find that it was after two
o'clock, and she stood, resolution chasing the dreams from her eyes.
She had sat here for over an hour, and there was nothing to be gained
by mooning over a man who was the antithesis of everything she
honoured! She must find Amory instead and discover whether he had
completed the assignment with which she had charged him. During this
entire day, she'd not had one instant alone with him. It was doubtful
that he had yet retired, and hoping to intercept him on the stairs, she
took up a candle and crept into the hall. There was no one in sight,
but light still gleamed from downstairs. She hurried to the balcony.
The very man she sought was hastening across the Great Hall towards the
north wing. She called to him, but fearing to wake the other ladies,
her cry was soft and went unheard. She hurried downstairs, crossed the
hall, and turned into the north wing, following the rapidly
disappearing glow ahead.

There was no sign of Amory when she came to the first winding steps
leading downward, and her nervousness mounted as she recalled the
tragic story Damon had told her. It was all nonsense, of course, a
figment of his wicked imagination. There was no reason to fear
darkness. Beginning to tremble, she crept down those clammy steps.
Whatever was Hartwell about down here? His close friendship with the
Marquis would imply he was no stranger to the Priory— perhaps he had
come down to get something…

At the foot of the stairs, the corridor loomed ahead, her light
piercing only a short way into the gloom. The heavy, rounded doors
began to appear, one after another, like so many eyes, lurking in their
recesses to watch her as she passed. Very mindful of Damon's monk,
however she strove to dismiss him, she called a quavering "Amory?" that
lay flat against the blackness.

She came at last to a wider place in the narrow passage and a
half-open door and, holding her candle high, peered inside. No sign of
Hartwell, but many things were stored here: a broken wicker chair from
the garden, a pile of rusting iron gates, abandoned tools; and, in one
corner, sedately alone, a portrait was propped. The lady must have been
extraordinarily beautiful. She had glistening dark hair, pale skin, and
exquisite, darkly lashed eyes, wide set and of a rich and familiar
turquoise colour. The rest of her features were indeterminate. The
portrait had been slashed so many times that the canvas sagged; only
the hair and eyes remained intact. Her identity, however, was beyond
doubting, and Sophia's fear of this gloomy place was eclipsed by a new
terror. She stood unmoving, her candle held aloft, her eyes riveted to
that savage destruction. Almost she could hear the Duke asking, "Where
is the portrait of your Mother?" And Damon's cool "It is being cleaned,
sir…" Why would he lie? And, even more horrifying, why would he bring
that painting of his so beauteous Mother down into this dank dungeon
and slash it to shreds?