Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (28 page)

"Her name," said Damon, a film of ice in his eyes, "was, as you are
very well aware, Blanche. And I neither believe I was the first, nor
the last. None of which has the least to do with either a lady of
quality—or your good friend Prendergast."

Given pause by that chill blast, Hartwell's smile died. He went over
to the side table and poured himself a glass of Madeira.
"Sometimes—Damon," he said in a brittle voice, "you can be devilish
offensive."

"I guarantee you, Hartwell," replied the Marquis grimly, "you have
never seen me when I am truly offensive! Now pray tell me what the note
took as collateral."

Hartwell took a sip of wine and stared at him. "Well, the lands I suppose. How the devil would I know?"

"You mean," snarled Damon, "you let the lady sign without reading it?"

"I don't understand all that legal flummery! Told the gal to let her
brother read it! She said she had, so it's his bread and butter, not
mine!" He searched Damon's intent face with narrowed eyes and, his own
features flushing angrily, said,

"Concerned about her, are you? How gallant! But if I have caused the
Lady Sophia Drayton to lose so much as a groat, my fine and noble
Marquis, I—personally—will refund it! And if there's one thing that
lovely little filly don't need in the meanwhile, it's a rake like you
dangling after her! Let her alone! I've offered for the lady twice,
and—"

"And," asked the Marquis in a caressingly soft voice, "has she accepted?"

"As good as," Hartwell said defiantly.

Murder flared from Damon's eyes. "You lie!"

The gauntlet was thrown, and the room became hushed. Hartwell,
staring into the face of death, was appalled. But it was the turquoise
eyes that eventually flickered and fell. It was Damon whose shoulders
drooped and who muttered, "I'm most devilish sorry… Hartwell."

For another long moment, Sir Amory regarded him, and there was
neither smile nor anger upon his pleasant features now, only an odd
emptiness. "Why, I may have exaggerated…just a trifle. Damon."

"And I've no claim on the lady. None in the least, Amory," said the Marquis, looking at him wistfully.

"Damn fool gudgeon." Hartwell grinned. "What're you after, Cam?"

For a space, they smiled upon one another, and after that very brief
pause, "I know Prendergast," said the Marquis. "He's slippery as an
eel. The property Lady Sophia put up isn't worth twelve thousand even
if it were sold."

Hartwell frowned thoughtfully. "In that case, I'd better toddle down
to Kent, get hold of that note, and have my man of business look it
over."

Damon crossed to tug at the bellrope, thinking that was what he
should have done in the first place. "Excellent idea. But Lady Sophia
is not at Singlebirch. She and Whitthurst visit with Phinny Bodwin."

For an instant, Hartwell's eyes held an arrested expression; then he smiled. "Well, that's good news. I'll go right over there."

"How long have you been here?"

"Arrived last evening. Hate to criticize, Cam. But your new cook
don't hold a candle to Ariel. You really shouldn't have let him go."

Whitthurst won their game of croquet, and when Genevieve laughingly
accused him of having beaten her by trickery and deception, he pointed
out it had been her idea that she use only her right hand. "I have not
the suspicion," she admitted, "that your left hand it is so much surer
than my right!" She stretched out that same small hand eagerly and, as
it was just as eagerly clasped, asked, "What do we do now? Should you
wish a small ride? I know of such a pretty view by—" But the happiness
had left his eyes, and, aghast, she begged that he not consider her
"the fast lady."

"Heaven forbid I should ever think such a thing," he denied. "It's just that I haven't—er—done any riding for a long time."

"Ah," she said with a slow smile, "you have this thing in the common with my Damon,
n'est ce pas
?"

Whitthurst became very red and looked away from those eyes that could not see, yet saw so much.

"My dear friend"—she laid her hand gently on his sleeve— "there is
nothing so wrong with being afraid. You were the hussar officer of the
most
magnifique
. It will come back to you… when the time she is right."

She had called him her "dear friend"! This darling girl he'd not
dared to hope would glance his way again was looking up at him as if he
were a whole man once more. And by God! with her he
felt
a whole man! "Mademoiselle de la Montaigne," he grinned eagerly, "may I beg you will accompany me on a small ride?"

They parted briefly, to rendezvous in the stables where, despite his
new-found resolution, the gelding looked enormous, the saddle very
high, and his own heart fluttered with nervousness. Genevieve, adorable
in the riding habit she had changed into with record speed, raised her
hands to the horn and glanced expectantly toward Whitthurst.

The Viscount prayed as he bent, well aware that many in the area
watched anxiously as he held that little boot. Genevieve's heart was
also pounding with the fear that he might not be strong enough to boost
her into the saddle with his one hand; and so, as he threw, she jumped.
Unfortunately, Whitthurst possessed a good deal more strength than she
had supposed. She shot up into the air and, with a shocked squeal,
disappeared over the far side of the horse. The Viscount gave a cry of
horror. The horse looked around in some surprise. Suddenly, the entire
area was devoid of people, although from behind the doors of stalls and
the Tack Room came muffled sounds that told of suppressed hilarity. The
groom holding the horses looked steadfastly, if tearfully, the other
way.

Whitthurst bent to peer under the mare. Genevieve, on hands and
knees, her pert little hat gone, peered back at him. "You have," she
gasped, "the deuce of a strong hand, my lord!"

He raced round and helped her to her feet, and she leaned against him, thrilling to the feel of his arm about her.

"My poor girl! Are you hurt?"

"Well," she said, her eyes a'sparkle. "I have hear of being the bruising rider, but…"

There was no restraining himself. He burst into a shout of laughter.
Genevieve joined in, hugging him. They laughed until they cried.

The riding party returned to Bodwin Hall to encounter a scene of
total frenzy. The stables were being prepared for the tide of vehicles
and animals that would descend upon them that evening. In the house
they were met by a small army of people decorating the Great Hall with
hanging baskets of flowers and large Oriental vases that were a blaze
of blossoms. Carpets were being laid on the front terrace and steps,
while the gardeners were busily trimming the hedges—his lordship having
at the last moment decided that they looked ragged and shabby.

En route to her room, Sophia passed through a welter of industrious
cleaning. She was quite relieved to find her maids occupied elsewere
and sat down, wearily thinking over the events of the morning. It had
been a pleasant ride insofar as fresh air and dewy scenery had been
concerned, but Lord Bodwin's tendre for her had been distressingly
apparent. Never venturing beyond the bounds of politeness, his
solicitousness, his eagerness to win her approval, and, above all, the
adoring look in his grey eyes had spoken so eloquently that she had
felt uncomfortable on more than one occasion.

So preoccupied had she been by this development that she had paid
little heed to their route and had been beyond words shocked when,
rounding a tree-clad hillside, they had quite suddenly come upon the
spa. It stood upon the north bank of a large lake, surrounded by a lush
sweep of meadowland. The buildings loomed huge amidst a cluster of
lovely old oak trees that had been preserved among the structures. To
the rear, beyond another cluster of trees, stood a large barn,
complemented by more stables and outbuildings, sturdy and bright with
fresh paint. Sophia was charmed by the potential beauty of the spot
despite the fact that the unfinished canals yawned raggedly; the
windows, empty of glass, looked inward like blind eyes; and the raw
newness of the construction was as yet unsoftened by the gardens that
were planned. But despite its size and obvious promise, the spa
presented a forlorn appearance, shut off by the wire fences that girded
it about, the many large signs warning that "Trespassers Would Be
Prosecuted."

Bodwin had reined up at once, voicing an astonished"What on earth?"

"Why, the blasted place is under siege!" Feather had roared
indignantly. "Who would dare to do such a thing? Is it not Damon's
land?"

Ridgley, his keen gaze fixed on Sophia's flushed and miserable face, had murmured, "Apparently… not."

"I don't understand," Sophia said worriedly, accompanying Genevieve
up the stairs. "He's been quite ill again because of that terribly
exhausting journey from Kent. He should have had more sense than to
ride today."

"Ah—you are angry! And the fault is mine! Ah!
C'est plus qu'un crime, c'est une faute
!"

They reached the first landing, and Sophia slowed her steps, looking
at the distraught girl in total bewilderment. "Your fault? Crime?
Blunder? What—?"

"Oui!"
Genevieve clasped her hands and began to speak rapidly
while gazing up into Sophia's face with a pathetic entreaty. "I cannot
believe when I see him again, my chevalier! He hit me on the
derriere
with a rock, but this I do not mind because love for him have stay in
my heart since so long. We meet in Brussels, you see, but I am
kidnapped away because my stupid aunt fears your fine Wellington will
lose and we of the french aristocracy shall ride in the tumbrils again.
I pray for him at the battle. We hear the drums and then the cannon… on
and on,
Mon Dieu
… so horrid! And afterwards, we hear is not the
big
battle, which have come three days later! Yet I feel he is alive, and I
pray he will seek me out. But he does not, and so I flirt with all the
silly boys who do come, but my heart it break into my pillow every
night. And then today,
voila
! He is there—before me! With his dear arm gone. And my heart it break again."

"S-Stephen?" Sophia managed. "And..
.you
?"

Genevieve nodded so vehemently that her rather rumpled hair became
even more disarrayed. "He look so sad and humble—but I make him laugh a
little bit. He beat me with his mallet and throw me over the horse and—"

"Good God!"

"And we laugh and laugh about it all, and my chevalier he ride so
bon
and start to look like his own self a tiny bit. Only—" Her big eyes
began to swim with tears, and she sniffed and said jerkily, "We ride to
a place I know, but I am afraid because… his beautiful face is now so
white…"

Sophia gave a gasp and hurried on, Genevieve trotting along beside
her. "The groom help me get him in the back way because my chevalier
cannot scarcely walk, and I know he will not wish for others to see
this. But now—he just lie there!"

Sophia shot her a harried glance and began to run, and running,
also, Genevieve gasped, "I do not know that he is your fine, brave
brother. Ah—do not hate me, Sophia. I love him so!"

"Of course I do not hate you. Indeed, I should have guessed, for often I have thought him unhappy, his thoughts far away."

The bedchamber was very quiet, the curtains drawn. Mr. Byrnes let
them in, a finger held to his lips, his faded eyes kindly. "He's
asleep, my lady," he whispered. "Just worn out, I think. No great harm
done."

Together, they tip-toed over to the bed, neither concerned with the shocking impropriety of Genevieve's being there.

The Viscount lay very still. He was pale and tired-looking and, even
as they watched, heaved a great sigh and snuggled deeper under the
coverlet.

Sophia's eyes blurred. Stephen was smiling. Even in sleep he looked quite ridiculously happy.

After twenty frustrating minutes, Sophia got off the bed and walked
over to the open windows. Her mind was just too full for her to nap.
She had left a blissful Genevieve, but the thought of Stephen having
found his lady was so new, so bewilderingly unexpected, and opened so
many avenues for conjecture that she found herself, as Hettie Adams
would have said, "all atwitter." Genevieve could scarcely have been
more perfect for him. And yet—Her brow furrowed. With typical romantic
impracticality, she had forgotten the all-important matters of family
and finances. Would the Duke approve? She shook herself mentally.
Crossing her bridges again!

She gazed toward the southeast. What was happening at the Priory?
Was Horatio trundling irascibly about? Was Damon at the harpsichord,
running those impatient fingers through his rumpled hair? She closed
her eyes, trembling, and at once saw him bending to kiss her, felt the
tender pressure of his lips, the strong arms about her. And knowing her
cheeks were flaming because of that bittersweet memory, put her hands
to cover them, whimpering a little because of her helplessness… and
hopelessness.

"Had I waited out in the hall much longer, my dear," said Lady
Branden in an unusually gentle voice, "I should likely have took root!
Which would be not only unfortunate but startling since one don't find
Feathers growing out of Persian carpets—or not very often, I am
persuaded!"

Sophia stammered an apology, was hugged gently, regarded by two shrewd eyes, and commanded to sit down again.

"I am vexed to discover that I am become rather disgustingly fond of
you, child," Lady Branden admitted. "Irritating. I do dislike becoming
maudlin about people. Well, you need cheering up, so I shall tell you
some old family secrets." With a frown, she muttered, "Lud! Come to
think on it, I may thereby succeed in making you even more miserable!"

Laughing at this mixed speech, Sophia assured her that she loved to hear secrets. "Especially about such an interesting family."