Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (42 page)

"Gad! They never quarrelled at Yolande's party?"

'"Fraid so. Never should have sold your Mama's locket, Cam. Vaille traced it down day before yesterday. Bad
ton
, dear old boy. Not the thing at—"

"Locket?" Buttoning his shirt with icy fingers, Damon said impatiently, "What the devil's that got to do with it?"

"Lockets, y'know. Personal things. Why in thunder did you not take the miniatures out?"

Damon's fingers ceased their fumbling, and he stared at his friend
in mystification. "There were no miniatures, or you may be sure I would
have done so!"

"Oh, gad! What a gudgeon! I collect you only opened the front
compartment! Yes, you clunch! There was another—on the back! Inside
were—" Hartwell stared uncomfortably at the candles. "There were two
paintings. One of your Mama and one of—Ridgley. And, inscribed around
both, the words 'Ninon and Ted—one love… one heart… Forever!'"

"My God!" Blanching, Damon gasped, "Vaille read
that
? How do you know all this?"

"Everyone knows. One of his agents delivered it to him at the ball.
Vaille opened it and seemed turned to stone, my man said. Then he
tossed it aside and plunged off after Ridgley. He came back for the
locket eventually, but, meanwhile, several of the ladies had seen it.
Word spread like—"

"Say no more!" Damon reached for his jacket. "Did my father simply demand satisfaction—or just knock Ted down?"

"I collect Ridgley was seen wiping his mouth," Hartwell sighed, "but
that for the rest of the evening they smiled upon one another…"

The night wind was chill and carried a smell of rain, the promise
heightened by the halo round the moon hanging just above the black
clouds building on the horizon. Buttoning his many-caped driving coat,
Damon strode onto the terrace. The carriage stood ready, seeing which,
he grated furiously, "Dammit! I said my racing curricle!"

"Trouble with a wheel, my lord," said Thompson staring at the horses.

"Blast! Well, it's too late now. Who's up? Rust?"

"Trask," Thompson's voice was miserable. Damon slipped a hand onto
the worried man's shoulder, and stuck out the other. It was caught in a
hard grip. "Guard her for me, Jack. Whitthurst is a fine fighting man,
but—he's rather slowed nowadays. She must not be left alone—not for an
instant! I charge you with that!"

Thompson swore under his breath, but nodded and, watching that tall
figure move towards the luxurious vehicle, muttered a forlorn "Good
luck, sir!"

Damon waved and swung inside. At once, the steps were put up, the
door slammed, and the carriage plunged forward. He was thrown down
before he had a chance to take a seat. Starting up, furiously angry at
such tactics, he checked. Amory Hartwell sat opposite, watching him
gravely.

"Didn't think you were going all alone, did you, Cam?"

Damon settled himself and, touched, said a gruff "Idiot! You must
have had very little sleep. When I went upstairs you and Whitt were
still throwing dice and more than a little foxed."

"He was. I wasn't."

"At all events, I doubt I properly thanked you for warning—" Damon's
eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness, and he detected a large
trunk balanced on the seat beside his friend. "What's this? Are you
leaving us so soon?"

"Care to see what's in it?"

"Why in the devil should I want to look at your small clothes?"

"Not mine, old fellow. Yours."

Damon watched curiously as Hartwell loosened the straps and raised the lid.

The moon was half obscured by clouds, yet even that feeble
illumination awoke sparkles from the contents of the trunk. Leaning
forward incredulously, Damon saw gem-encrusted bowls and vases;
exquisitely wrought sterling and fine old jade pieces; and fat leathern
bags, bulging with the shapes of coins.

"Found your treasure for you," Hartwell beamed.

"Did you, by God! How splendid! But—where? How the deuce—?"

"In the catacombs—second level down. Ain't you going to say 'thank you'?"

"I most assuredly am!" Damon leaned at once to clap him on the
shoulder. "And I can do better than that! You shall have half the
profits! Now what the hell are you scowling about? And—why did you
bring it along?"

"I thought it would be safer if we salted it away in your bank—as soon as you take care of your—er—obstreperous relatives."

"Quite right." And less danger for Sophia, he thought, and said awkwardly, "Amory, I wish—there could have been two of her."

"I'll drink to that!" Hartwell pulled a flask from his pocket. "Jove, but it's getting cold! This'll warm us up! Here."

Damon took a good swallow and coughed. "Cognac. And not my best, I fear!"

"Ingratitude," Hartwell said dryly, retrieving the flask, wiping the top and upending it uncomplainingly, "thy name is Damon!"

The Marquis laughed and apologized. "That trunk must weigh a ton. Did Ariel put it in for you?"

"Gone to his bachelor party, old lad. Trask helped me with it. I
always thought"—he again wiped the flask fastidiously and returned it
to his friend—"that your loot was still down there somewhere. I kept
prowling around until I discovered it. Ah—that brandy ain't so bad now,
eh?"

"You're right. But what a damned risk to take. We never did find the
secret entrance Craig-Bell must've used. Suppose one of his friends had
been crawling about down there? I hope you took a pistol with you?"

"Never without one. Matter of fact, I have a Manton with me now."

The carriage rounded a curve much too fast. Damon frowned out the
window. "What's that lunatic about? He's going the wrong way!" He
picked up his cane and rapped sharply on the roof. "Trask! What the
devil d'ye think you're doing?" There was no response. They were
heading toward the spa instead of having branched off to the west. He
reached for the window. "By God!" he cried wrathfully, "I'll give the
fellow a—"

"Cam," said Hartwell, "why get into such a pucker?"

"You know damned well why! I must reach Tottenbury… before…" He was seized by an odd dizziness and sat down.

"Ain't it a pity," smiled Hartwell, "life is so full of disappointments?"

Damon looked up slowly. The Manton was aimed unwaveringly at his
heart, but Amory's familiar smile was unchanged. Treachery from such an
old friend struck so keenly that he could only stare in speechless
disbelief.

"Beastly, ain't it?" Hartwell commisserated.

Finding his voice, Damon said unsteadily, "Yes. Why? The treasure only?"

"Only!" Hartwell gave a sardonic laugh. "There speaks the man who has never gone hungry!"

"You are not like to starve."

"Only thanks to you, dear old philanthropist. Oh, yes,
you
were my wealthy relation from the Americas. And what a good life you
provided me! I found your treasure when we first came back from Europe.
This is only a tenth of what there was at the start. I took the
lightweight stuff first. You've such a dashed devoted little staff,
Cam. It was the very devil to sneak it out under their noses. I filched
a little each time I came down. There was no real hurry. But when you
began to mess about with that music, it occurred to me that there
might
be some code in it, after all. I'd have burned the blasted parchment,
but I knew you'd probably memorized the notes, and if it disappeared,
you would have known you were on the right track. So I decided I'd best
move what was left. You came barging in right in the midst of my
efforts."

"So
you
were the monk!" That knowledge hurt more than he would have cared to admit, and he said frigidly, "You hated me that much?"

"Not at all. I really am very sorry—didn't intend to hit you so
hard. But you were always so damned fast with your fists in spite of
that foot of yours."

Damon stared at him. The shock was affecting him strangely, and his
head felt muddled, but he said cuttingly, "That Twine business was
pretty raw—my friend."

Even through the dimness, he detected Hartwell's flush. "It was
Sumner's idea," he said defensively. "He liked it. And when Sophia
spoiled it, he realized she was in love with you. He was delighted.
He'd found a way to really repay you, he thought. Unfortunately, his
'way' was to kill her. I knew he was right when he said it would break
you, but—Now don't get violent, old boy! I don't want to shoot, but—if
I have to… That's better." He leaned back, eyes watchful and, when the
deadly glare in Damon's eyes faded, remarked, "It so happens I really
do care for Sophia. I couldn't let him hurt her. I got him down to
Pudding Park by a ruse—shot him, and left 'evidence' to indicate he'd
been the monk. No loss, so don't look at me like that, Cam. He was
utter slime."

Impatient with himself, Damon realized his recent illness must be
responsible for the fact that he felt utterly drained of strength. He
must have been blind not to have seen this coming. Hartwell had always
appeared so loyal, yet there had been incidents—several—that had caused
him to question the man's character. He'd taken him for a weakling, but
years of friendship had compelled him to ignore such traits. "My dogs?"
he asked wearily. "That note to Ariel? You?"

"Certainly not! I loved Géant—and Satin! And I do not send anonymous notes! Nor did Craig-Bell. But more of that later."

"Is… is Trask to die as well?"

"No need. He's been our man for some time." Hartwell regarded his
companion with real sorrow. "I bear you no malice, Cam. I wish you will
believe that. But—it's your life or disgrace and prison for me. No
choice, you see."

"Had you no… choice… in the matter of the beam? Sophia might have—"

"'Fraid I must plead guilty there. It was a little delaying
mechanism I'd rigged in case anyone should come creeping after me while
I was down there. I honestly didn't know she'd followed me. When I
heard her voice, I ran back and damn near got caught in my own trap.
Damon? You're not going to fall asleep, are you?" He chuckled softly.
"At a moment like this?"

Damon, comprehending his sick weakness, groaned. "Damn… you!"

"Clever, wasn't I?" Hartwell's voice seemed very far away. "Wouldn't
have done it—except I know how difficult you can be. Didn't you notice
how carefully I wiped the flask? Was simply inserting a stopper.
Beastly stuff!"

"Was it…" Damon asked thickly, his head sinking, "poison?"

"Gad, no! I couldn't kill a friend. Cam? Have you gone… out?"

Damon could no longer see.

"Out?… Out?… Out?"

The word echoed into silence.

To walk was a tremendous effort. Damon's head ached, and his mouth
felt like dusty wool, yet he was stumbling along willy nilly, shoved
from behind when he slowed. His mind was too dulled to sort it out. All
he could see was the ground, which seemed very uneven and stony; and
boots. His own and a pair of gleaming, tasseled Hessians that kept pace
with him. Men laughed raucously as the owner of those boots murmured
something. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, if only he could think…
The ground was becoming clearer, as though—It was almost dawn! That
realization brought his head up, and with it came memory. He halted,
staring at the dapper gentleman, elegant in a many-caped coat, who
surveyed him through a jewelled quizzing glass.

"Good morning, my dear friend," said Phineas Bodwin in a soft, silky
voice. "By Jove, but you cannot know how excessive pleased I am to have
you here!"

Damon returned no answer and was again pushed forward. With every
stride now, his head felt clearer, and with every stride, his amazement
grew. Bodwin! Of all men—the last he'd have suspected of being
associated with Cobra! He shivered and realized with faint surprise
that he wore neither coat nor jacket.

Bodwin's neighing laugh rang out. "Cold, Damon? Your garments have
been spoken for, I fear." He gestured toward Trask, who followed,
swaggering in the Marquis's driving coat. "Murray has your jacket, old
chap, but you won't be needing it… Confess now—you'd no idea I was
Craig-Bell's second-in-command, had you?"

Damon reflected grimly that he also had no idea what they were doing
at the spa; why they were now approaching the barn; nor how in the
devil he was to get out of this mess. He was by now aware of the
powerfully built round-eyed man who trod just a step behind him, a
lethal-looking club in his hands; of the musket Trask held pointed at
his back; and the pistol Hartwell dangled with apparent nonchalance.
Another man, stoop-shouldered and narrow-faced, had remained with the
carriages. He must be the "Murray" Bodwin had referred to. Five in all.

"I would not have imagined," he answered, "that any man related to someone as fine as Irvin Ford could—"

Bodwin stopped, his gaze turned upon the Marquis with savage
malevolence. "You swine! It is because you murdered my loved nephew
that I have gone to such pains with the manner of your dying!"

"
I
…murdered Ford?" Damon gasped. "You're mad! I wasn't even in Dorset!"

"He found out," snarled Bodwin. "When you stuck your long and noble
nose into our affairs, he found out. About me! He overheard poor Stover
when he came to the Hall half out of his wits with fright, poor lad.
The Runners were hot on his tail.A fine young man like that—from a fine
old family! Thrown to the wolves! And for what? Because we rousted a
few peasants about—of whom there are untotalled numbers starving every
day? Because we had a little fun with some village trollops? Because we
kicked up a little hell that gave the Watch something to occupy their
time? What the devil was that to you?"

"He was avenging his friend," Hartwell put in mildly. "You remember
Hilary Flanders, don't you, Phinny? Foreign Office. Shot himself."

"Ah… yes. That little ploy. A very foolish young man who refused to help us."

"So you ruined him," said Damon. "Which broke his father's heart, and—"