Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (2 page)

In view of the fact that Clay was heir to a considerable fortune,
Sophia had assumed that most of his creditors would be willing to wait.
There were, however, some terrible tales of the relentlessness of
moneylenders. Frowning into the fire, she reflected that the
shatter-brained Esther, with the best intentions in the world, seemed
unable to do anything right. Clay, adoring her, would say nothing to
her discredit, however she served him. But it stood to reason that if
Gordon had come all the way from Town, it had not been to discuss the
acquisition of a new gate. She stiffened. A new… gate? Dear God! Had
they, in fact, been speaking of the dread
Newgate
? Was the
valiant Marcus now facing incarceration in Debtors Prison? Frightened,
she nibbled at one knuckle. Clay had readily agreed to accompany her.
Why? Damon! Of course! The Marquis was the only son of the Duke of
Vaille! Clay hoped to persuade Damon to intercede for him, to attempt
to sway his father to a more kindly attitude! Vaille must have refused
Clay's appeals. In which case, the Duke of Vaille had a heart no less
cold and inhuman than that of his murderous son!

"Don't like this weather!" Clay turned on the rocking seat of the
chaise as the beauty shrank closer, ducking her head against his
sleeve. A glaring lightning flash sliced the lowering afternoon skies,
and thunder racketed in pursuit of it. "If the bridge looks in the
least unsafe," he resumed, patting her wrist absently, "it's back to
'The Wooden Leg' for you, ma'am."

"No, but Marcus," she pleaded, sitting straighter and clasping her
gloved hands, "the landlord did not say the bridge was definitely
unsafe
."

"Said his eldest crossed first thing this morning, and it looked
about to flop again. Why in the deuce Damon don't build a decent
bridge, I cannot fathom."

"No, dear," she said meekly. "Will you not please see if they follow?"

Muttering beneath his breath, he lowered the window, leaned out
quickly, withdrew his head, struggled with the window again, and sat
down, glaring sodden and speechlessly at the Lady Sophia.

She gave a musical little laugh and, taking a tiny piece of
lace-edged cambric from her reticule, wiped at his face, pushed back
his wet brown curls, then leaned to kiss his cheek. "My poor coz! James
follows, I gather?"

He nodded. "Why you need your maid
and
dresser when you merely hope to capture Whit and bear him back to Kent is beyond me."

The truth was that she needed their support, but she said nobly, "If
Steve is ill, we may have to rest at 'The Wooden Leg' before we start
back."

"In heaven's name why? I hear Cancrizans is enormous. Damon could
certainly find room for us. Though I hope to God we can get in and out
fast." Sophia looked taken aback, and Clay said apologetically, "I want
for manners, do I not? If Douglas made such a crude remark, I'd likely
spank him! But—well, I'm sure you must have heard of the place, Chick.
And of Damon…?"

She had, indeed, and wondered for the hundredth time why Stephen
must put her into such a dreadful position. But she looked away and
said lightly, "You must remember I have never seen Cancrizans. Nor met
my uncle. He may—"

"Your uncle!" He gave a shout of laughter. "What fustian!"

"The Marquis of Damon's sister," she said demurely, "was Stephen's Mama."

"Yes, but a daughter of the Duke's first wife—not at all blood related to Damon. And
you
were born to
your
father's second wife."

"Stephen and I share everything," she smiled. "Marcus, is Damon
truly a cranky old recluse with a face like a washboard? Deirdre says
he is appalling."

She was obliged to wait for a reply as Clay blew his nose, groaned
that he must be catching a cold, and asked breathlessly if she had not
met Vaille.

"The Duke? No, but I hear he is a formidable old gentleman, though
he cuts a fine figure…" Her voice trailed off, her smoothly arched
brows drew together, and she mused, "Which must be remarkable
considering…"

"Considering he is senile?"

"I find that unkind in you, dear," she reproved mildly. "Shall he be
at the Priory, do you think? Or is it true that he and Damon do not
deal very well?"

"I've heard the same." Clay sighed and stared out at the deluge.

Sophia watched him narrowly. "I simply cannot understand why your
Papa stipulated you must be eight and twenty before you could inherit.
Surely he loved you."

"He did. But fancied I'd squander the fortune on Esther. Or fall in with some choice group like Cobra. Or—"

"Never even
think
such a dreadful thing!" Sophia's eyes
were wide with revulsion. "As if someone as clean and honourable as you
could sink to the level of those depraved monsters! Now tell me—do you
mean to ask Damon's help?"

Astonished, Clay said, "How shrewd you are!"

"Shrewd enough to realize the Duke must have refused you. What did he say?"

Vaille had said a good deal, beginning with the observation that
Clay had wed, against his advice, a lovely henwit, and ending with a
suave, "You were certainly aware of her want of good sense, and I knew
you'd retain sufficient of your wits to guard against her excesses. My
confidence in you was not, I trust, misplaced?" With a wry smile, Clay
answered, "He was not—sympathetic."

"The beast! Does he know you face Newgate?"

Too bedevilled to wonder how Sophia was aware of that hideous fact,
Clay shuddered and shook his head. "I did not know of it at the time."

"Then perhaps you should approach him again, dear."

Gordon had said the same, and Clay realised they were both right,
but in the face of Vaille's attack upon his repentant Esther, he'd
drawn back from confessing the extent of her recklessness. To have to
face those icy eyes again, to have to admit that she had brought the
threat of Newgate upon him, reduced his courage, so firm in battle, to
quivering shreds.

Sophia read a great deal in his expression and flared, "How
dare
he humiliate you! He is doubtless shamed by your military record since
his own son can only suffer by comparison! Cavorting about Europe with
his fancy Frenchwoman—at his age! The man should have been wed long
since and his sons out of Eton already!"

Both amused and touched by her vehemence, Clay grinned. "My sweet
champion! But in all honesty, Chick, Damon's— ah—liaison with the
beautiful Mademoiselle Gabrielle was ended some time back."

"I am not surprised," she sniffed. "Even a lightskirted Parisienne could have only contempt for a man who shirked his duty."

Clay frowned a little. "Patriotism takes many forms, Sophia."

"It does, indeed. And, in our noble uncle, it took a very cunning
form. He served his country vicariously, if you will." She uttered a
brittle laugh and said, "My Lord Damon purchased Stephen's colours.
Were you aware?"

"No, by gad! Jolly decent of him, since your Papa could… not…"
Sophia was regarding him in horrified disbelief. He regrouped. "What
d'you mean—vicariously? You never hold it against him that Whitt—"

"Near died and is cruelly maimed?" Her small fists clenched, and she
said with unfamiliar bitterness, "Lud— why ever should I do such a
thing? Because Damon cursed and bullied Stephen into doing his fighting
for him while
he
stayed safely at home? Good gracious—no!"

After a small, tense silence, Clay asked softly, "Do you intend to tax him with it? If so, I'd best not ask his help."

"Oh—I'd not thought of that! If
only
I could help you." Her worried eyes brightened suddenly. Her early marriage had left her with only a title, and…

"My emerald! That's the answer! Marcus, you could—"

"I most certainly could not!" he said, his eyes flashing
indignation. "What the deuce d'you take me for? I vow you're becoming
positively totty headed!"

"And you too prideful for your own good! Wherefore, I collect I'm
obliged to be all sweetness and light at the Priory—and shall be, never
fear. Until I am able to spirit Stephen safely away from my infamous
uncle. Or until you have secured his promise of help." Her heart
constricted violently. If the Marquis of Damon already knew of her
vengeance, Clay could expect short shrift!

Misunderstanding her expression, the Major said uneasily, "Gad—I'd not intended to stay longer than one night."

Nor had she! The thought of even dining there made her toes curl
with fear. But she must not let Clay know that and therefore laughed.
"Gracious! You sound bereft of all hope. You love to fence. You and
Damon could—"

"He don't fence."

"But—he must! Has he not fought several duels?"

"Was challenged each time. Chose pistols. He's a dead shot, I hear, but hates swordplay."

"Well, then, you could ride. He's said to have a splendid stable."

"He don't ride. Loathes horses."

"
Loathes… horses
?" Shattered by such infamy, she gasped, "Lud! Then what
does
he do for diversion? Spar? Or is he too dainty for that, either?"

"Don't fence," Clay mourned. "Don't ride; don't spar."

"Good… God! My poor uncle must have led a solitary life aside from
his French baggage. Surely the Bucks and Corinthians shun him?"

"Matter of fact," said Clay thoughtfully, "he was well liked in Town
before he debunked. Ran with Saxon and Bolster and that crowd. Our
cousin Redmond thinks the world of him, I gather."

"Harry? How odd. They must be years apart. And Harry's a dear."

"Wouldn't describe him in just that fashion," he grinned. "But I'll agree Redmond don't seem the type."

"For what?"

"Your uncle's diversion—as you called it." Sophia waited, intrigued,
and Clay said with a chuckle, "Only thing he does that I know of,
m'dear, is play the harpsichord."

Her bags beside her, Sophia stood on the far bank, pulling her cloak
tighter and watching Clay anxiously. The swollen river roared
thunderously in her ears, and she tried not to notice the rubble its
broadened girth had claimed from the banks to propel along the boil of
the water. The bridge
looked
safe enough, but hovered scant
feet above the turbulence. Clay had refused to order the chaise across.
He had walked over with her, carrying her most necessary possessions.
At least the rain had lessened, now becoming a steady light fall so
that she was not drenched as she waited through Clay's brief conference
with his groom. Smithers swung down from the chaise with obvious
reluctance and crossed to the carriage to climb up beside James.
Clay
was going to drive the chaise across! She realized with a pang of fear
that he'd judged it too hazardous to require his groom to attempt it.

The greys were balking, frightened by the cacophonous uproar. Sophia
held her breath as Clay guided them expertly onto the timbers. It was
little short of idiotic, she thought angrily, that the Marquis chose to
live in such a godforsaken spot with this one rickety bridge providing
the only means of access.

And then her heart jumped into her throat. The bridge moved! She
heard a scream from the carriage. The greys began to plunge, and Clay
sent the whip snaking over their heads. "Dear God!" she whispered.
"What have I done?"

A great mass of debris rushed on the crest of the littered waters to
slam deafeningly against the pilings. Smithers jumped down from the
carriage, ran over the swaying bridge and clung to the back of the
chaise as it shot forward. The horses had barely reached the far side
than an uprooted tree hurtled into the weakened structure. The greys
screamed with fright. For an instant the chaise seemed to hang over
empty space as the bridge disintegrated with an ear-splitting roar.
Then the wheels bounced onto the bank. The horses strove, eyes rolling
in panic. Clay, his face white, flailed the whip, and with a wild
plunge, they were clear.

Sophia swayed, weak with terror, and then was crushed close in her
cousin's arms. She clung to him, half sobbing, "Oh, Marcus!" He kissed
her, said a cheerful, "Silly chit!" just as Stephen would have done,
and bustled her into the chaise while Smithers shouted to James to
await them at "The Wooden Leg."

From the top of the rise, Sophia viewed the Priory with a sinking
heart. The rutted apology for a drive swept around a small pool, beyond
which lay the great sprawling building, stark and unwelcoming in the
gloomy afternoon. The central structure was flanked on each side by
long wings extending back to create a wide "U" shape. The windows were
narrow, deeply inset, and few. The front door crouched under a heavy
Gothic arch, and only faint gleams of light showed from those lurking
windows. There were some fine old trees, but the lawns were a
collection of weedy grasses bearing little resemblance to the velvet
turf surrounding her own Kentish home.

Dismayed, she felt inclined to run back to the chaise. It was little
short of miraculous that they had not overturned when the wheel, badly
sprung when the chaise had bounced onto the river bank, had split.
Tired of watching the men struggle to repair the damage, she had set
out in search of the Priory, which, with his usual optimism, Marcus had
assured her was "just around the next bend." Instead, she had tramped
at least a mile. She was cold, and her feet hurt from the long walk in
shoes not designed for such endeavours. But she was here at last! She
climbed the steps and approached that forbidding door.

No baying of dogs, no grooms, no welcoming footman or butler greeted
her. The Priory seemed to leer malevolently, defying her to persist in
her invasion. The wind howled, sending her hood flying. She pulled it
back up and, finding no bell, pounded on the heavy door defiantly.
Silence. She pounded again and gave it a few angry kicks for good
measure. It creaked open. Alarmed, she jumped back, then ventured to
peer inside. She saw a vast hall panelled in dark wood that added to
the depressing dimness. It was sparsely furnished with only one huge
old table, which held a branch of flickering candles and was flanked by
several ancient and decrepit chairs. The massive hearth on the right
end wall yawned black and empty. A broad flight of steps opposite the
front door divided at a wide landing into two separate staircases
leading to either side of a railed balcony on the upper floor.