Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (37 page)

"Hatchet-faced old crow," sniffed Mrs. Hatters. "Cruel it were for
them, to upset Maggie Gaffney that way. Regular heartbroken she is,
poor soul."

Sophia turned a puzzled look on Whitthurst.

"They'd a slight disagreement," he explained. "Poor lady really was
beside herself, I admit. Twine's a crusty old chap, and she should not
have argued with a physician about the cupping, however experienced
she—"

"Cupping!" gasped Sophia. "My God! She must have been out of her mind!"

Mrs. Hatters, wringing her hands nervously, said, "Weren't
Maggie's
wish, ma'am. And if you was to ask me—"

A terrible coldness enveloped Sophia. "Stephen! He didn't! You didn't
let
him? Oh—my dear heaven! You surely must have known—"

"Chicky!" He shook her gently. "The man's a great surgeon. You don't
tell a physician his business. Cam quieted down soon enough, I assure
you."

"Quieted… down?"

Sophia stared at him blankly, then with a stifled sob, rushed to the
door. It was locked, and she wrenched frantically at the handle. "Let
me in! I am Lord Damon's betrothed! Let me in!"

Shocked, Whitthurst pulled her back. A woman's angry voice cried, "You will be admitted as soon as Dr. Twine has finished!"

Sophia struggled to escape, and the Viscount's grip on her arm
tightened. "Sophia! The man's fighting for his life in there! Control
yourself!"

"He called to me!" she sobbed. "Did you hear him, Steve? Oh, God!
The doctor must be in his dotage! He must be stopped! Help me! Please!"

She looked so wild and distraught, and his own fears making his
heart ache, he mumbled, "I know how terrible this is for you, love.
But—you must face reality. Poor Cam might not—"

He was wasting time while Camille's precious life was being drained
away! With a sobbing cry, she left him, running madly back to her room.
She tore open her bureau drawer with such desperate haste that it fell,
the contents spilling on to the floor. She snatched up that which she
sought and flew back down the hall again. She concealed her hand in a
fold of her gown as Whitthurst came toward her, his face tired, pale
and contrite. "Chicky, dear—forgive me. I'd no thought to—"

She smiled wanly through her tears, but as he reached out to her,
she eluded him with a pantherish leap and again pounded on Damon's
door. A man roared, "Quiet out there, dammit!" Mrs. Hatters was weeping
with fright, and from the corner of her eye, Sophia saw the small crowd
of awed faces that watched from the stairs. Whitthurst, groaning with
mingled sympathy and irritation, was trying to force her away, but
again she had thought to hear Camille's faint voice call her name
beseechingly; wild with desperation, she shoved at her brother with all
her strength and swung up the pistol, aiming at the lock.

Slender but strong white fingers grasped her wrist, forcing her hand
away. Vaille, his voice very gentle, said, "My poor child, have you
lost your mind?"

She swung to him with a sob of near hysteria. "Thank God you are come! You
must
stop him! Hurry! Hurry!"

The Duke, his own face haggard, his eyes haunted by dread, glanced
at Whitthurst's helpless shrug and said kindly, "Twine is a splendid
man, Sophia, and he's here to help Camille. If you care for him, you
must—"

"
Care
for him?" She gripped his lapels and tugged at them furiously. "I
worship
him! And that monster in there is cupping him! Don't you understand? I
held him in my arms in that horrid… little room… for hours! I couldn't
stop the bleeding!" Vaille stared at her twisted, agonized face in mute
horror. "Oh, my… dear God!" she sobbed distractedly. "Why will no one
listen? My dearest love is being… murdered. And you tell me I'm an
hysterical woman!
Help
him! For mercy's sake—
help
him! Or stand aside—and let me!"

Ariel ran up and looked anxiously from one to the other. Whitthurst muttered, "Sir, poor old Cam
had
rather messed up the place. Perhaps?"

The Duke's mouth hardened in the manner he shared with his son. He
strode to the door, pounded on it, and announced clearly, "I am Vaille!
Open this door!"

A deep voice called, "In just a few moments, your grace."

Vaille, his face bleak, lifted one imperious finger. "Break it down!"

Ariel ran back, then launched himself at the door. With a great
tearing of splintered wood, it crashed open to the accompaniment of a
screech from within.

A short, heavily built, white-haired man scowled beside the bed,
surgical knife in hand. A gaunt, hard-eyed woman, holding Damon's wrist
over the bowl, stared in rageful astonishment. Damon, struggling
feebly, looked at Sophia with hope dawning in his horrified eyes.

With an inarticulate cry, she ran to push the woman away and, lifting that drooping arm, bent protectively over her love.

"Hell and damnation!" roared Twine, the knife glistening in his
hand. "How dare you burst in here with this madwoman? Get out! Or, by
God, I'll not be responsible for Lord Damon's life!"

"To the contrary, sir," said Vaille icily. "I shall hold you personally responsible. And heaven help you if he dies!"

Sophia awoke with a guilty start and straightened in the chair, her
gaze flying to the bed. The shade on the lamp was tilted so as not to
disturb the sufferer, and in the dimness of the room she thought for a
moment he was asleep. She leaned closer. He lay very still, with closed
eyes, but the pucker between his brows and the hand twisted tightly in
the coverlet betrayed him. She longed to hold him in her arms, to be
able to ease his pain. The only thing she could do was to bathe his
burning face very gently with lavender water, taking care not to wet
the bandages.

Damon's eyes opened, and a puzzled frown eased into a tender
expression. Her heart lightened. He knew her! This time he knew her!
Her vision blurred, but she saw him attempt to speak and placed a
finger over his lips, saying huskily, "You are not to talk. Lord
Belmont says you may have a…touch of the headache." A wry quirk touched
his mouth at this massive understatement, and she went on quickly. "We
don't know who it was, love. Nor how he got in. Stephen and Ariel went
down there, but there were only some silver bowls and urns remaining.
Everything else, and they think there must have been a great deal, had
been taken. Whoever your monk was, he escaped with your treasure."

"No," he managed faintly. "It's here… beside me."

He tried to reach out to her, but the effort sent his hands
clutching convulsively at the coverlet and, when his breath returned,
he gasped out, "I haven't the… strength of a kitten! If I am dying… I
want to be told of it."

Sophia dug her nails into her knee. "You would not dare!" She
smiled, though tears were blinding her, and added with a brave attempt
at levity, "After all the dreadful lies you have told, the devil is
probably waiting eagerly to receive you!"

The shadow of his grin flashed at once, but his attempt to speak was
cut off in the middle of the first word, and terror sent Sophia's heart
to fluttering. She had heard the half-finished name and, loving him the
more because of it, said reassuringly, "Stephen found Horatio in that
hideous room in the catacombs. The coward had squeezed into one of the
silver urns, and we could not get him out. We had to pour melted butter
inside. All over him. And he hated it. The little beast gave me a good
peck when he finally escaped."

Damon knew he dared not laugh, or his damned head would likely fly
into a thousand pieces. Somehow, he controlled the impulse, but meeting
the dearest eyes in the world, which watched him with such sweet
anxiety, he whispered irrepressibly, "Probably was afraid… you were
going to…cook him!"

He had the satisfaction of hearing her silvery little laugh as he
sank into an uneasy darkness. A long sleep followed, troubled by
strange dreams of a demoniacal man with white hair who threatened him
with a knife. He moved restlessly, half waking. Damme, but his head
throbbed! Weary and hot and uncomfortable, he gave a sigh of relief as
a gentle hand bathed his face. He caught at those ministering fingers
and breathed, "Thank you… darling." The fingers were gently but firmly
withdrawn. A startled masculine voice exclaimed, "The devil!" It
sounded like Vaille, but could not be, of course. His mind was
wandering again. His head pounded so brutally that a groan was torn
from him. The cool fingers closed again over his own, and the bathing
was resumed.

Sunlight was bright round the sides of the curtains when next he
awoke, but he could not see clearly. Sophia was still sitting by the
bed. She must not stay! The monk, surely, was of Cobra, and they would
not hesitate to strike at
her
if they knew how deeply he
loved her. He started up feebly, wincing to the immediate and savage
thrust of the sword through his head. "You must leave here!" he panted.
"My dearest beloved, you must—"

Strong hands restrained him, and an odd odour assailed his nostrils.
Not lily of the valley. Definitely not! Spanish Bran…and Brazil! He
peered eagerly, trying to pierce the thickening mists as he Was eased
back against the pillows.

"You know, Camille," drawled Vaille, "I really do think I prefered '
Mon
Père'
. 'My dearest beloved' is a trifle ridiculous!"

Sophia gave a gasp and stood as the door opened. Blushing, she said
shyly, "This invalid of ours will not believe he may not have a
beefsteak for breakfast, your grace."

Vaille trod gracefully into the bedchamber. He noted that his son's
sunken eyes were clear this morning, if suddenly anxious, and that the
feverish colour was gone from the cheeks. Relieved, he gave no hint of
it as he asked calmly, "Are you sure he is rational, Sophia? I've no
pressing need to be mooned over by a lovesick lunatic."

Sophia's colour deepened. She withdrew her fingers from Damon's
clasp and, having assured the Duke that his son was quite level-headed,
excused herself, saying she must see about Camille's breakfast. She
slanted a warning look at Vaille and moved to the door.

Damon wrenched his gaze from his beloved to his formidable sire and
waited tensely. Vaille walked to the bedside and stood scowling down at
him, saying nothing. Tentatively, Damon held out his hand. Vaille
ignored it, and it was withdrawn. Frowning, Sophia hesitated.

Vaille drew himself up and then swept into a low and dignified bow.
"I salute you, my son. You are a brave gentleman and have made me the
proudest man in all England."

Damon flushed and stammered an uncomfortable "Thank…you, sir."

Vaille's amused glance turned toward Sophia. She met his eyes for an instant, then fled.

"
Mon Père
—" Damon bit his lip in irritation at this
faux pas
, and corrected hastily. "Father—I could not tell you… but— I had no thought—I didn't mean—"

Vaille lifted his brows and, with a gentle smile, assured him it was of no least importance.

"And yet—you would not take my hand, sir."

The Duke moved closer. The wistfulness in the thin face warmed his
heart. Their hands met in a long, firm grip, and there was a moment of
emotional silence through which blue eyes held steadily to eyes of
turquoise. "I am," said the Duke, "at a most vexing disadvantage. St.
Clair tells me you have a right. Were you in good health, my boy, I
would compel you to put on the gloves and demonstrate it. Instead, I am
instructed that you are not to be upset. The look your lady just now
bestowed upon me has so terrified me, in fact…" He paused, and Damon
chuckled.

In the hall, Sophia removed her ear from the door, gave a sigh of relief, and went downstairs.

"How thankful I am"—Damon grinned—"to have so invincible a champion!"

"And how fortunate," Vaille nodded, sitting in the chair the
champion had vacated. "She is, I am convinced, wholly responsible for
the fact that you look much better than when we returned on Sunday." He
saw bewilderment in Damon's face and vouchsafed the information that it
was Thursday.

"Oh, gad! Five days?"

"Yes. We passed Friday night at 'The Bull' in Winchester. Charlotte
was in a fine taking, I can tell you. But it was not until the
following evening that my suspicions of your deplorable play acting
became certainty."

"Then—you came back even though you had
not
learned what happened? I understood Sophia to say that Hartwell rode after you?"

"Your friend apparently assumed we had gone direct to Town, and so
missed us. Meanwhile, having bullied poor Charlotte into telling me as
much as she knew, we returned to this house and"—Vaille's frown was
grim at that memory—"utter chaos!"

"You… do understand, sir? I could think of no other way but to—"

"Set yourself up as a sacrificial offering?" Vaille rasped. "Shut
out everyone who loves you, including your magnificent lady, in an
effort to carry that whole horrible burden on your own shoulders? The
devil I do, sir! And when my conniving, lying cousin shows his
miserable nose, I shall—" He saw distress in Damon's eyes and shut his
teeth with a considerable effort. "I must not give you the setdown you
deserve… while you are ill." For a moment he sat in silence, his lips
tightly compressed. Then he burst out, "But—by God! When I consider
what a cork-brained, reckless, stupid, damned—" He broke off, seething,
then catching a glimpse of Damon's grin, laughed ruefully, stood and,
placing a hand on his shoulder, said, "I went roaring out of Bodwin
Hall believing I possessed an immoral coward for a son, a blackhearted
villain who would have broken his dear mother's heart! I returned to
find I had damn near lost an heroic… idiot!" Damon blinked rapidly, and
was speechless. Vaille's grip tightened. "I should have you consigned
to Bedlam, but—by George, boy—I cannot tell you how… proud—"