Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (39 page)

There was little doubt but that the Marquis had suffered a setback,
and for the next few days, he enjoyed Mrs. Gaffney's competence, the
serene companionship of his devoted Sophia, and the total absence of
his fond but disruptive family.

Vaille refused to leave the Priory, however, and found much to
occupy him. He set about learning from the local constable the details
of Lord Craig-Bell's death and electrified the household by bursting in
one afternoon with the news that the dead man's coach had contained
several items believed to have been part of the Jacobite treasure, plus
a hooded robe and head mask that Sophia, with a shiver, later
identified as the garments worn by the "monk" who had all but written
finis to the life of her love. Vaille's powers and agents were many and
by some means next unearthed a list of Craig-Bell's infamous
lieutenants. It was then discovered that each of these could be
accounted for. Two had already been sentenced and imprisoned; one was
dead of natural causes; one had been shot by a grieving farmer who'd
held the man responsible for his daughter's suicide; and the remaining
two had fled the country and were not likely to return in the face of
the widespread public anger over the entire ugly affair.

There was great rejoicing at the Priory. The threat that had hung
for so long over the Marquis was banished. Sophia was the blushing
recipient of much teasing about her future plans and went in hourly
expectation of an offer from her beloved.

The Duke, ever cautious, augmented the screen of guards he had
caused to be thrown round Cancrizans. Sophia was rather surprised that
Damon raised no objection to this when the danger was past. Secretly,
however, the Marquis was relieved. Perhaps Cobra
was
defunct,
but while Sophia and his family and friends dwelt at the Priory, the
presence of the guards allowed him to sleep easier. Ridgley, on the
other hand, took a very dim view of the matter, complaining indignantly
that he had been all but refused admission to the grounds by one of
these intrepid gentlemen. Vaille murmured a smug "Deuced fine idea!"
when he heard this, which again all but precipitated the threatened
duel.

Inactivity was anathema to Vaille. He had developed a deep affection
for Sophia, and it was his practise to select a rose for her each
morning and, having supervised its placement in a proper receptacle, to
present it to her personally. This charming and apparently innocuous
pursuit involved both gardeners, who not only accompanied his grace in
a painstaking search for the most perfect bloom available but were also
kindly instructed as to how to improve their efforts in the garden.
Never one to stint himself in behalf of others, Vaille also suggested
his man should educate Mrs. Hatters in the more modern and efficient
methods that might be utilized in the operation of a large house. The
Duke was quite willing to point to those areas needing improvement, and
Mr. Orpington even more willing to pass along his grace's
remarks—suitably embellished. Nor was Vaille the man to leave a task
half done. Aware that his son rarely stepped within sniffing distance
of the stables, he directed his coachman to "look into matters" out
there.

By the end of the week, Sophia was struggling to soothe chaos in the
kitchen, mutiny in the stables, a totally incensed Mrs. Hatters, a
Thompson whose hearing appeared to have failed him totally, and
gardeners who had begun to resort to hiding rather than endure the
torture of being compelled to find a perfect rose that must be cut to
an exact twelve inches.

"He is the very dearest man," she moaned to Miss Hilby, "but is
there nothing you could do to persuade him not to be so generous with
his—er…"

"Interference?" smiled Charlotte. "Of course, I could, my dear. But
is it not better that he keep busy irritating the servants than that he
and Edward face one another over the glitter of small swords or
sighting along those hideous duelling pistols?"

Sophia shuddered and, in total agreement, made no further mention of the matter.

Gradually, the Marquis crept back to health. The blinding headaches
that had lingered on for days after the wound itself was outwardly
healed became less frequent and diminished in severity. He was patient
through his convalescence, for he was a happier man than he had dreamed
possible and seldom looked at Sophia without marvelling that he had
been so fortunate as to find her and win her love. Three matters still
plagued him, however. The first and most important of these was the
haunting sense that he had not heard the last of Cobra. Second was the
sustained and potentially deadly animosity between his father and
Ridgley. And, third, the matter that had so tormented his lovely
mother. However he wrestled with these problems, he could find no
solutions and was obliged to resign himself to their existence rather
than attempt to cope with them.

Whitthurst, also, was a happy man. The drawn, weary look had
vanished from his face, replaced by a radiance that was echoed in
Genevieve's worshipful eyes. He had not formally offered for his lady,
but he told Sophia that he intended to seek the Duke's approval just as
soon as Camille was up and about again.

On a brisk morning a week after Damon's first venture downstairs,
Sophia went to the library to find a book he had asked for. Returning
to the hall, she saw Vaille, her daily rose clasped in his hand,
strolling gracefully before her. She was about to call to him when he
stopped before a painting, and she watched in amusement as he clicked
his tongue and straightened the frame with careful precision. She
smiled fondly. How impossible he would be to live with—yet how very
dear. She tensed then as Ridgley appeared at the far end of the
corridor and started down, surveying his cousin with a swift frown of
resentment.

Sophia took a step back into the library, watching them anxiously.
Vaille, becoming aware of the Earl, stiffened and bowed slightly.
Ridgley gave a terse nod. Vaille sauntered majestically toward the
Great Hall. Ridgley walked to the picture and stared up at it. His gaze
flashed mischievously toward the Duke's disappearing figure. With
careful deliberation, he tilted the painting to a rakish angle, dusted
off his fingers, and with a triumphant grin, proceeded down the hall.
Sophia stepped out to face him, and he stopped, askance. She stood in
front of him and shook her head chidingly. Ridgley, well aware of her
dimples as well as her frown, grinned but, as he went on past, looked
very much like a naughty little boy, discovered at his pranks.

Damon's voice answered Sophia's knock, and she entered the
bedchamber to find him sitting in the armchair before the window, the
habitual blanket across his knees. She was surprised to find him alone,
but he explained that Mrs. Gaffney had gone on an errand and finished
with a twinkle. "You are surely not afraid to be alone with me
en pantoufles
… in my bedchamber, are you, ma'am?"

"It would be only proper if I were, my lord," she answered primly,
crossing to sit in the windowseat and hand him the book. "After all—we
are not… affianced." Lowering her lashes, she waited hopefully.
Surely—if he loved her—he would offer? But he said nothing, and
venturing a shy upward glance, she surprised such a troubled expression
in his eyes that she abandoned coquetry and, reaching out, cried, "Oh,
my dear! What is it? Does your head—?"

"No, no!" He clasped her hand in both his own, gazed deep into her
eyes, then placed a kiss in her palm and said haltingly, "Oh, Sophia,
I'm such… a coward!"

"Coward! What nonsense! If there was ever a man less cowardly, I—"
But there could be no doubt but that he shivered, although she had
thought it unseasonably warm; too warm, in fact, for him to be fully
dressed and still have the blanket over his legs. Alarmed, she reached
for the pull on the open window.

"No. I'm n-not… cold," he stammered. He set the book aside, took a
breath, and drew up his head in that slightly regal fashion she so
loved. "Would you please… p-pass me my boots?" he asked faintly. "A
brown pair will do."

Too worried to wonder why he would need boots inside the house, she
crossed to the press. The brown boots seemed awfully heavy. Perhaps
another pair… And then it dawned on her. Only the right boot was heavy!
She stared downward and knew at last why the Marquis of Damon never
walked faster than a stroll; why he did not ride or fence or… "do
almost anything a gentleman should do." In a dazed, automatic movement,
she replaced the boots and remained for a moment, staring at the one
that was so cunningly built up.

Watching her, taut with anxiety, his heart hammering, Damon said
hoarsely, "It's hereditary, I'm afraid. On my mother's side. Sometimes,
several generations escape unscathed, but every so often, one of the
males…" He shrugged, then, seeing the tears glittering on her lashes,
shrank a little and muttered, "Don't pity me, Sophia! For God's
sake—don't pity me!"

She stiffened, and the tenderness had gone from her voice when she
spoke. "It must be very expensive to have such boots made, Camille."

"It is of no consequence."

Fear laid its cold hands about his heart as she walked to the
windows and stood with her back to him. "And must, I would think, be
exceeding uncomfortable."

"I've grown accustomed to it. Mama had a shoe built for me when I
was quite small, and the same man made them until he died two years
ago. Since then… I've not found anyone quite so skilled."

"And so it pains you. I see." She seated—herself in the windowseat
and, eyeing him dispassionately, asked, "Does Vaille know all this?"

"Good… God… no!"

"Your Mama must have had to struggle very hard to keep it from him."

Damon searched her face anxiously. She looked different somehow, her
lovely eyes regarding him with an intent, almost judicial expression.
"It was not apparent when I was an infant," he explained slowly. "I
began to…to drag the foot a little when I was about four years old.
Mama took me to a surgeon, but—" He gave a small Gallic gesture of
resignation. "There was nothing he could do. It simply did not… grow
properly, and as the years went on… became…"

"Stunted," she said calmly.

He winced. "Yes."

"And so she had those shoes made. And forced you to walk… normally."

She seemed so very remote that his fear deepened. "You find that hard to understand?"

"Yes," she admitted quietly. "I confess that I do. All I can
understand, Camille, is how difficult it must have been for you to have
disguised it all these years. Indeed, I think your Mama must have been
just as prideful as the Duke!"

Anger touched him at those words, and a small furrow appeared
between his brows. "Try to understand, beloved.She was little more than
a child when he rescued her from a shameful death. In that moment, he
became to her a combination of Sir Galahad and saint. But you see how
he is. Everything must be—perfect. And I believe their marriage was
just that until—I was born. When Mama realized I had the Montaigne
foot, she lived a nightmare. She was sure if Vaille discovered it, he
would turn from her. That he would obtain a divorce, have us sent back
to France, and find himself another wife, and a more… acceptable heir.
When she found she could do nothing to correct my infirmity, she did
everything possible to keep it from him. She managed somehow to see to
it that he never entered the nursery until I was dressed. She moved
heaven and earth to keep me from being sent away to boarding school,
and—"

"Ah," breathed Sophia. "I wondered!"

"Her very secretiveness made him suspicious. In her fear and grief,
she turned increasingly to Ted, who had always worshipped her. She drew
comfort from him, and he wanted only to protect her—to ease her
burdens."

"Ridgley knows?" she asked, much shocked.

He nodded.

"And… said nothing?"

"She swore him to secrecy. He was furious because she had been
driven to such measures, and they began to see more and more of one
another. It was," he sighed, "
inevitable
, I suppose."

"And so," she frowned, "at the end, she ran to him.
He
would not have expected… perfection. Is that it, Camille?"

He stared at his hands. "Probably. I cannot remember."

"I see." There was a definite chill to her voice. Shooting an
oblique glance at her, Damon noted that her firm little chin was very
high, her lips tight. He longed to pull her close to him, but his pride
forbade it, and he asked softly, "Would you prefer I not… say—what I
was going to say?"

"Camille," she evaded, "is this what has kept you and your father
apart?" He looked away and was silent. "She has been dead these twenty
years," she said. "Do you still feel obliged to deceive him?"

His hands clenched, and for a moment he said nothing. Then, with
every instinct screaming a protest, he tossed the blanket aside and
stood. Only stockings covered his feet, and Sophia's eyes, irresistibly
drawn to them, reflected both shock and sympathy despite her effort.
Very pale, he walked across to his great bed, his limp painfully
pronounced. He held to the carven post and, standing with his head high
but his back towards her, asked levelly, "Can you imagine how he would
regard such a performance?"

"I cannot imagine," she replied, "that there can be any family in
England cursed by such a surfeit of pride! Do you so fear him?"

"Yes. I suppose I do." He spun to face her. "But also I love him. Do
you remember the way he looked at that pink rose? Do you remember how
it disgusted him? I could not bear to see that same look in his eyes…
because of—me."

"Oh!" She sprang to her feet. "How detestably top lofty! You are his
only son! He was denied the joy of watching you grow up. Now you deny
him the joy of your presence because you are afraid he will discover
your secret—as if it was something vulgar! He
loves
you! He
should have been told of this from the start and allowed to help cope
with it. Not shut out like—like some savage interloper! What do you
think he would do? Announce in the middle of St. James's—" She flung
her arms wide. "Hear ye! This afflicted person is
not my son
! I deny him!'?"