Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (27 page)

"Sophia," he breathed. "Am I really…just a little like Stephen?"

"I begin to think," she murmured, "you are far more like him…than…"
But a small, cruel voice gibbered, 'Cobra! You weak, spineless fool!
Cobra!' And in a sudden return of panic, she tore free.

Damon drew the key from his pocket and held it out. She took it and
ran for the door but, opening it, looked back to find him watching her
wistfully,

"Amory Hartwell handled the loan for me," she choked, her eyes blurred with tears. "Prendergast is his family solicitor."

And she fled.

For the entire two days since their arrival at Bodwin Hall,
Whitthurst had been confined to his bed. He had managed to convince
Sophia he was suffering a slight relapse of his illness; a subterfuge
since his real ailment was panic, brought on by his having discovered
the identity of one of the guests. Today, fortified by a determination
to confront her and have done with it, he had gone downstairs to watch
the riders leave, but his victory over terror had been for nought. She
did not accompany them although the morning was fair and cool, perfect
weather for the ride Lord Phineas had planned so as to remove his
guests from a house humming with preparations for the evening ball. The
Viscount's thoughts were soon diverted from his own concerns, however,
and when the horses were out of sight, he wandered frowningly toward
the house and re-entered the back garden.

Kicking a stone he had guided from the stableyard, he sauntered
across the grass. Sophia seemed totally unaware that the elegant
Bodwin, with his grey hair and grey eyes and grey house, looked at her
with an expression that was ageless. He was their host, and his
generosity knew no bounds. But Whitthurst's initial dislike of the man
was deepening. Perhaps he was merely a well-meaning but egotistical
bore, perhaps he was just a foolish gossip; but he had visited the
"sick" man several times, and some of his "innocent"
remarks—particularly in regard to Damon and the Priory— had bordered on
the malicious. Because of his wealth and his impeccable lineage, he was
regarded as a great catch for any girl, but the thought of him
attempting to fix his interest with Sophia made Whitthurst's jaw set,
and his eyes become very grim, indeed.

Head downbent, he kicked the stone savagely and tried to convince
himself that he was letting his imagination run riot, as he'd often
accused his sister of doing. But, gad, he'd be pleased when they could
decently get away from—

"Ouch!"

He looked up and checked, frozen and terrified.

She knelt on the lawn and frowned at him, her hand clutching her injury unaffectedly. "
Ma foi!
But you are sudden, sir!"

She was even prettier than he remembered, laughter lurking behind
the indignation in her roguish eyes and a smile hovering about that
little mouth he found so delightful, the upper lip very slightly
outthrusting. He tried to answer but was tongue-tied, partly from fear
of her reaction to his injuries and partly from pain because she quite
clearly did not recollect him in the slightest.

"Have you no apology, monsieur?" she demanded, piqued by his silence.

"Very…s-sorry, ma'am," he croaked.

She peered around. "I bring a book. It is… somewhere."

A green leather-bound volume was lying in plain sight just inside
the shade of the tree. She began to crawl around gropingly and whisked
a small pair of spectacles out of sight a second before she knelt on
them. So she did not see very well! He'd not realized it, but perhaps
she hadn't yet recognized him. He picked up the book and handed it to
her. Mrs. Radcliffe, of course, he might've known. How the ladies loved
her romances. "Yours, mademoiselle?"

Genevieve tensed. The voice was different this time. Deep and surer
and very familiar. Her heart turned over, and she spun around, holding
up a hand against the sunlight. "Is it? Can it be? Ah! It is!" She held
out both hands eagerly, then let one fall. Horror plunged a knife
through her. "
Mon Dieu
!" she cried as he lifted her, "you have lost your arm! Ah—
mon pauvre
!
What a terrible nuisance that must be! But how pleased I am to see you
here. And why is this? Have you the acquaintance with our Phinny?"

A tremendous relief swept the Viscount, and he was freed from the despair that had weighed him down for months. She
did
remember! And she did not seem to be repulsed! Her hands were clasped
on his arm. Her sweet face smiled up at him, her eyes as radiant as
before. "My… my sister is here," he stammered. "You know her, I
believe. Sophia Drayton."

"Sophia? I
know
I have see her somewhere before this!" The
ache in her heart was intensified because the virile young officer she
remembered was this thin, ill-looking man, aged by suffering, and so
humbly grateful that she had remembered him. As if she could ever
forget! If he but knew how many nights she had prayed for him. How many
tears she had shed because her wretched aunt had made her run from
Brussels only hours after she had met him at the Duchess of Richmond's
ball. How she had hoped that he would seek her out. And now… Emotion
brought blinding tears, and her awareness of his ordeal was choking
her. He did not need tears now! Somehow she forced away the lump in her
throat and said brightly, "It is
you
I see in Sophia!"

Joy was making him seem to float as they strolled along. He was
sufficiently emboldened as to offer his arm and ecstatic when her hand
slipped within it unhesitatingly. "You wouldn't recall, I am sure," he
said, "but—I'm Stephen Whitthurst. We danced once, just before—"

"
Oui
," she said sadly. "Just before they come and tell you
all to go quickly to Quatre Bras! And all you fine young officers go
running out—and I have not the time even to discover your name. It was
of the noisiest, you recall? I do not quite understand what poor
Uxbridge say when he introduce us…" She gazed up at him and said
softly, "So you are named… Stephen."

His senses swam with happiness at the softness in her eyes. Could
this really be happening? Now—when he had given up all hope? "I've
never forgotten," he murmured, "how beautiful you looked in that orange
gown."

"And how horribly it clash with your scarlet jacket." She giggled.
"I take it home and give it to my maid, I am so mortified! I have the
dance with the most handsome man in the room, and my gown fight with
his splendid jacket!
Tragique
!"

Whitthurst stopped walking and gazed down at her. "You are too kind, ma'am," he breathed.

"Ma'am?" Her lashes drooped coquettishly. "Have you forget my name, perhap? Or did you not hear it also when first we meet?"

"I heard it. And indeed I have
never
forgotten—nor ever could! But I had no idea you were related to Damon, Mademoiselle de la Montaigne."

"Such a mouth full of names, is it not?" She blushed prettily. "My first name you may call me, sir. It is Genevieve."

"You do me too great an honour, Mademoiselle Genevieve," he said worshipfully.

With a shy new diffidence she murmured, "How very nicely you speak
it. And—you deserve far more honour than I may give you, Lord
Whitthurst."

Infuriated, Damon sprang from the leather chair and pounded a fist on the desk of his estimable attorney. "
Not
next month! I want fast action on this!"

Sir Horace Drake blinked his pale eyes, peered over his spectacles
at the young face glaring down at him, and observed, "Damme, but you're
confounded hot on this! I tell you I shall unravel it all in time.
What's in it I don't know?"

Pacing the luxuriously conservative office, Damon told him, briefly
and to the point, ending, "I want to see that note Lady Sophia signed!
I want that blasted fence torn down— or by God, I'll have my men tear
it down! I want a right of way, which I was assured I had! And dammit,
Horry, I'll give you a week!"

Sir Horace, unintimidated but shocked out of his usual calm,
answered, "I am most sorry it happened. Cannot think what became of
that letter I sent you. I know my man delivered it to your place in
Dorset. Water under the bridge, of course. And you'd best resign
yourself to a year, my lord."

"A year—hell! One… damned… week!"

"Impossible. Unless perhaps your father, with his powers, could—"

"No!"

"I see." The stocky old gentleman pursed his lips and folded his
hands. "Then be reasonable, Camille. These legal matters take time. I
realize I bungled it to an extent. Still, you should not have—"

"Have relied upon the word of a gentleman?"

Sir Horace looked into his grim face and smiled. "Yes, damme! I'd
have done the same, under the circumstances. But as for Lady
Drayton—there's absolutely no legal ground there. If she refuses to
show you her note, I am powerless to ask another solicitor to violate
his client's confidence."

Fuming, Damon growled, "You know what Prendergast is."

"I know that he is Craig-Bell's lifelong friend and counsel." The
pale eyes of the great man of the law became bleak. "And Craig-Bell, my
dear boy, could buy and sell you
and
your noble father several times over."

"Which puts him above the law?"

"Which makes him excessive powerful—even when out of England." Sir
Horace leaned forward and admonished, "You were a witless fool and will
likely pay for your folly the rest of your life! If I'd had my way—"

"Well, you didn't," Damon interrupted rudely. "And you're just as bound, I'll remind you, to respect
my
confidences."

"Such as?"

"My father. He's to know nothing of any of it."

"I'd tell him, anyway, had I the slightest moral integrity," Sir Horace sighed.

"But you have not!" Damon burst into his sudden swift laugh. "You're just a shifty solicitor."

Sir Horace frowned, then gave an answering laugh and came around the
desk to place an affectionate hand on his client's shoulder. "You're
one of the very few men I know who would dare talk to me like that,
Camille. I'll do what I can—and as fast as I can. But do not rush in
blind—you'll likely cause more trouble than I can remedy. And… have a
care, lad. Guard yourself!"

From Lincoln's Inn, the Marquis drove to Hartwell's London house,
but the porter told him Sir Amory was visiting Lord Phineas Bodwin at
Bodwin Hall in Dorsetshire. Frustrated at every turn, Damon rejoined
his groom and proceeded to thoroughly demoralize that unfortunate
individual in the ensuing wild ride to his own large and seldom-used
house on Green Street.

Mr. Quinn fared little better the following day and was, in fact,
shivering noticeably when the Marquis pulled up the horses behind the
Priory, thrust the ribbons at him, and clambered awkwardly from the
curricle. Limping across the terrace, his face dark with anger, he
halted. The lathered horses were unmoving, and Quinn still watched him,
round-eyed. With a twinge of contrition, he realized the man looked
scared. "My apologies, Tom," he called. "I drove 'em too hard, I see.
You should've checked me."

"N-not at all… mmmilord," stammered the groom, rousing a little.
"Most—most enlivening." As he later told an intrigued audience in the
servants' hall, one could as lief put a check on the devil as try to
slow down his lordship with that black scowl on his face! And, after
all, if his lordship preferred that his curricle travel mostly in the
air, it was A Experience! Was a body fortunate enough to survive it!

Damon flung open the door to the music room and went inside, pulling
off his gloves, his reflections bringing his black brows even lower.
Amory was dangling after Sophia again, damn him! Well, there was
nothing for it, he'd have to go—

"Well, here you are at last, Cam! Gad! What a magnificent coat! Why
do mine never fit like that? And where in the devil have you been?"

Astonished, as the object of his thoughts rose from the chair in
which he'd been snoring, Damon scowled. "Looking all over Town for you!"

Hartwell's welcoming grin faded. "From your looks, I collect I'm in for a prime setdown! Cheerio! I'll see you in—"

"Hell—most like!" Damon tossed hat and gloves onto the harpsichord as he advanced into the room.

Hartwell exclaimed, "Good God, man! What's happened to your face?"

"Devil with that!" Attempting to shrug out of his many-caped driving
coat, he swore. "Lend me a hand here, will you?" And when his friend
had complied, and his temper was worsened by that painful endeavour, he
deposited the coat beside his hat and gloves and demanded wrathfully,
"What in God's name made you go to Prendergast to arrange that blasted
loan for Lady Sophia?"

Hartwell stiffened. "Don't see it's any of your concern, actually."

"Do you not? Well, that land you encumbered happens to damn near surround my spa! Is that sufficiently 'my concern'?"

"Surround your… ? By Jupiter! I
am
sorry! I'd no idea! I didn't bother to fizzle out the lots and all that nonsense. Didn't Sophia—"

"She didn't know," the Marquis lied. "But—why Prendergast, of all people?"

"He's handled my uncle's affairs for donkey's years, and I knew he
arranged loans." Hartwell looked increasingly troubled. "Cam—didn't you
check your rights of way before you—"

"Yes, dammit! But never mind that now. Did Prendergast give you any arguments?"

"Naturally. Offered practically nothing at first, but I stood right
up to him! He put me off for a couple of days, but…" He gave a sly
grin. "I'd things in Devon to occupy my time…"

"So I hear. Like a certain
jolie
cousin of mine."

"Come now, never look so pious! I seem to recall a certain
mademoiselle named Gabrielle… To say nought of Celeste and Margarita
and—who was that little bit of muslin—that choice tit that no Buck or
Corinthian could bed until you winked your eye at her and—"