Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (6 page)

"My father. Philip—Duke of Vaille."

So this was the doddering old fellow whom the wicked Clay had
allowed her to believe "senile"! "What a splendid gentleman," she
acknowledged, and then, with a naivete quite foreign to her, added,
"You are not at all like him." She could have sunk the instant she
realised what she had said. Mortified, she started to apologise, but he
overrode her words, regarding her with the lift of an eyebrow and
saying a glacial "You are not the first to remark it, my lady. Alas,
one does not always inherit the—ah—'splendid' characteristics of one's
sire. But I assure you he is my father."

Blushing to the roots of her hair, she frowned, "What a dreadful thing to say."

"Not at all. He has many splendid characteristics."

"Odious!" she snarled, her small fists clenching with wrath. "Why must you insist upon misunderstanding everything I say?"

"Your remark was perfectly understandable. Especially since your own brother, if I recall correctly, is
his
noble Papa—in every way."

She was very conscious of the widespread and unhappily justified
opinion that her father had been a hopeless wastrel. Sure that Damon's
sneering words held such a hidden barb, she countered, "Thank you.
Stephen will be here soon to refresh your recollections of him."

"Oh, gad!" With an affected little laugh, he raised his. quizzing glass to survey her flushed face. "Is
that
why Whitthurst rushes here?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "He has urgent business with you."

"Indeed? Then how sad that he will be unable to complete his
journey. Unless he takes the western loop." An arrested look came into
his eyes. "That must be the answer. We shall escort you to 'The Gold
Crown' to meet him. The Toll road will certainly be open by tomorrow,
and—"

"Stephen's groom, my lord, is most devoted, as is his man. Neither
would allow him to attempt the western loop in such inclement weather.
He will wait at 'The Wooden Leg' until it is safe to cross the bridge.
And, by your leave, I shall await him here." The pucker between those
black brows was deepening, and in a sudden guilty recollection of
Clay's predicament, she said meekly, "Am I an annoyance? I do assure
you that just as soon as my brother arrives, we will no longer burden
you with our presence."

For a moment, he was quiet, then murmured a bored "How fortunate…"

Sophia tensed, rage flaring anew at this insufferable rudeness.

"… that I was able to show you some of Cancrizans before your…
imminent departure," he added smoothly, and with a graceful wave of his
quizzing glass, ushered her to the stairs.

Sophia had assumed the tour finished, but when they reached the
Great Hall, he took up a branch of candles and started toward the north
wing. "You will certainly wish to see our famous catacombs, ma'am?" He
smiled unpleasantly. "Not afraid of the dark, are you?"

She had, in fact, been thinking how horribly black and eerie that
corridor seemed, but the mockery in his voice so irritated her that she
tossed up her chin and followed.

How many times Whitthurst had teased her because of her fears of
darkness. She would overcome her weakness! And he would be so proud.
Only… it was so
very
dark, and, again, there was that
horrible feeling that something crouched in wait. The air began to
smell musty and stale, and the occasional creak of a board beneath
their feet set her heart beating faster. She hastened her steps so that
she was very close behind Damon.

They came to the last door in that interminable corridor, and she
was appalled to discover that it opened onto a winding stair, the stone
steps worn away by age and possessed of an icy coldness that penetrated
the soles of her dainty slippers. The wretched Marquis was all outward
consideration, holding the candles aloft and requiring that she hold
his hand as well as the iron railing. If he was aware of the chill of
that little hand and how it trembled in his own, he gave no sign,
merely commenting in a casual fashion that they were coming now to the
oldest part of the Priory. The lowest level, he said, dated to the
thirteenth century and had been the dungeons and torture chambers of
the keep wherein many helpless victims had met a horrid death. He waxed
so eloquent on the subject, detailing the horrendous punishments meted
out for such vile crimes as the theft of an apple or some tardily
completed task, that Sophia's dread of the place mounted. His voice
seemed to become positively sepulchral as they reached the foot of the
steps. Walls and floor were dank and chill, sloping ever downward. To
either side were even older doors than on the preceding level, with
tiny barred slits for windows, through which she could imagine some
agonized victim stretching imploring hands while begging in vain for
mercy.

He pushed open one of those frowning doors and, stooping, entered.
She made herself follow despite the onset of a smothering need to
escape. This blackness seemed a velvet curtain hung directly before her
eyes. The candles dipped lower, and she realised that Damon was
starting down the last flight of steps that wound into stygian gloom.
She did not move.

Her palms were wet now, her breathing rapid and uneven Damon glanced back and held out one hand, but she shook her head mutely.

"Whatever is it?" His cynical sneer enraged her. "You do not believe in ghosts, surely?"

Her rage fled. "G-Ghosts…?"

"Nonsense tales spread by peasants and witless bumpkins. They say
that one of the monks, long ago when this place was a Priory, loved a
village maid. He smuggled her down here one night, but—like you—she
panicked and tried to get away…" He paused, and Sophia, paling, took a
step closer to him and whispered, "And then…?"

He said nothing, staring down with sombre eyes. The silence grew
more intense, throbbing in her ears until it seemed to Sophia that she
heard the faintest of footsteps coming softly up the stairs. She felt
goosebumps break out on her flesh and all but jumped when Damon resumed
in a hushed tone. "They struggled here—just where we stand…" (She
stepped back hurriedly.) "She pushed him, but as he fell, he seized
her, and they both went over the rail…" He held the candles lower, and,
impelled by some morbid curiosity, she took two hesitant steps and saw
dimly, far below, the broken iron railings of the winding staircase,
sticking up like so many spears. Had their bodies broken the rail, she
wondered? Had that poor girl been impaled and—

"Down through the centuries," breathed Damon, his lips at her ear,
"the monk has appeared often—on these very stairs. And sometimes the
girl's screams can be heard… all the way to—"

A voice echoed distantly through the stillness: a woman's faint yet
piercing cry. Sophia gave a sob of horror. A weakness spread through
her, and she felt her knees buckle…

Her face was against his cravat; his arm was about her, and she was
in the corridor. "Good gad, ma'am," he said scoffingly, "I'd not
thought you the type to become vaporish over such nonsense!"

She took a deep breath, tore herself free, and stood straight
despite her wobbly knees, her eyes holding, she hoped, all the disgust
she felt.

His expression changed subtly, and when he spoke again, his voice
was very gentle. "I am truly sorry. I had not meant to frighten you so."

She knew that he'd had just such a thought, that his every intent
had been to so terrify her that she would leave his mouldering old ruin
by shanks' mare, if necessary. She was not accustomed to subterfuge. If
only she could say what she really thought! But to do so would be to
destroy her cousin's one hope. And, therefore, she managed a cool "Of
course you did not, my lord. How could you possibly intend such a
thing? No gentleman worthy of the name would be so loathesome."

For an instant, he gazed at her in silence. And then, again, that
cry disturbed the awful quiet, and my lady's pride crumbled into dread;
her face grew deathly pale, and she fairly jumped for the safety of his
arm.

He chuckled. "It is only Mrs. Hatters, calling us to dinner, ma'am."
He gestured politely for her to precede him and, with the candles held
high so that she might see, followed her to the stairs.

Sophia was led in to dinner by the Earl. She made a determined
effort to appear lighthearted but was still unnerved and full of
forebodings that Clay, knowing her so well, would detect her emotional
state. Her cousin was a gentleman in the fullest sense of the word. He
would merely have to suspect that the Marquis had behaved toward her in
so despicable a fashion and they would leave the Priory at once if, in
fact, the two men did not come to cuffs. Anticipating his concern over
her distress, she prepared to allay it by revealing her increasing
anxiety about Whitthurst. Her fears proved unwarranted; Clay, escorting
the vivacious Genevieve, was so delighted by that young lady he
scarcely noticed his cousin's arrival. Sophia at once experienced a
perverse resentment of his neglect. Fortunately, Ridgley was an
excellent dinner partner and soon had her chattering merrily, her
dismals forgotten.

Despite his extreme shortage of servants, the Marquis possessed a
most excellent chef, who had, however indignantly, contrived on short
notice to provide a superb meal. Sophia ate very little of the
asparagus soup, poached fish, roast game hens, and a magnificent mutton
pasty. She only began to feel renewed when Thompson carried in the
desserts. He was assisted by Nancy Hooper, Miss Hilby's abigail, a
ruddy cheeked, comely girl, pressed into service in this emergency. The
Earl's attention having been momentarily claimed by Genevieve, Sophia
could not but admire the charm of her surroundings. The dining room was
large and might easily have appeared barnlike. The walls had been
remodelled into a design of slightly recessed arched panels. The main
colour throughout was a soft blue, while the areas within the arches
were papered in a shadowy floral design of blue, lavender, and green,
an effect she found pleasing. Fearing to appear unmannerly, she glanced
up to catch Damon turning amused eyes from her.

Lady Branden, allowing Thompson to place a dish of cherries
blancmange before her, said, "I was sure you'd be at Amanda's come-out
Ball, Damon. Everyone was asking why you are become such a recluse.
Lucinda was most put out and well justified in view of your close
friendship with Bolster."

The Marquis was spared the necessity of a reply, as Genevieve cried
dramatically, "And I was into the blackest despair cast! My rascal of a
cousin have abandon the entire human race. Why you do this so strange
thing, Camille?"

"Because, my pretty creature, I have business here."

"You never mean the spa?" Lady Feather's howl vibrated the glasses. "You do not
go
on with it, Camille? Good God! You must be mad! A commercial venture? And against his wishes? Vaille is raving, I'll wager!"

"Quite possibly, ma'am. But
I'd
have wagered no one could reach my Priory tonight—instead of which I am surrounded by… charming guests."

His Aunt leaned forward and waved her spoon at him. "Not so charming
as to be turned aside from unwanted subjects. Take care you do not
provoke him too far. Philip will stand for just so many queer starts
and then pull the rug from under you. What on earth possessed you to
build an hotel out here? God knows there are enough of 'em in Town— or
Bath, or Brighton!"

"True." His polite smile was unwavering, but he was irritated that
such a discussion had been forced upon him in front of strangers. "But
my hotel stands upon the shore of a jewel of a lake, and—"

"Lake!" she snorted. "If it has a lake, why should you be so daft as
to surround it with canals? Or has some cloth head filled my ears with
stuff?"

Sophia was so diverted as to meet Damon's glance and surprise an
echoing gleam in his eyes before she hastily lowered her lashes. "The
land was very cut up about the site," he explained. "It was
Whitthurst's thought to install the canals, Venetian fashion. We shall
have gondolas on summer evenings and wandering musicians. It should be
very effective, I think."

"And romantic," sighed Genevieve. "Ah, but I can scarce wait to see it."

"Egad!" frowned Lady Branden, more practically inclined. "Must be costing a bowl of lettuce! It had
better
be a success! Though I doubt it."

"Never say so," he laughed. "Some of my stockholders are here tonight. You'll put them into high fidgets with your gloom!"

Lady Branden looked around in surprise. "They are? Which of you poor innocents has been gulled by my slick nephew?"

Damon uttered a groan and cast his eyes at the ceiling.

"Me, for one," the Earl chuckled. "And Charlotte and Lady Sophia's brother."

"True," said Damon. "Without Whitthurst's contribution my spa could
never have been built. He deeded us much of the land about the hotel
itself, and all the lake frontage."

His words seemed to blast in Sophia's ears. She kept her eyes
downcast, her heart thumping so violently it was all she could do not
to betray herself. How smug he sounded, doubtless gloating over how he
had, as Lady Branden said, "gulled" his trusting nephew! Well, the
treacherous Marquis was in for a rude shock. He did
not
have
"Whitthurst's contribution"! The fact was that Stephen owned only a
half interest in the lands Damon believed to have been deeded to his
precious spa. Poor Steve, having no head for business, had apparently
forgotten that his sister's signature must be obtained before the lands
could be disposed of. When she'd first returned from Rome, Sophia had
been too desperately occupied with striving to keep him alive to bother
with the mountain of papers awaiting his attention. When at last she
had settled down to that dreary duty she had discovered most of them to
be unpaid bills, and had been astonished to come across the Deed,
already signed by Stephen in readiness for a transfer of ownership.
Accompanying it had been a letter from Sir Horace Drake, pointing out
that Lord Whitthurst was
half-
owner, and asking that he
require his sister to sign the deed also, in order that Title might be
transferred to the Marquis of Damon's Spa of the Swallows, now under
construction in Dorsetshire. Incredulous, Sophia had skimmed through
the long and involved letter, deducing that for some inexplicable
reason, Stephen had been persuaded to give a great deal of property to
the man who exerted such a great influence over him—and that without
the acquisition of that property Damon's ambitious plans would be
ruined. Seething with resentment, hurt by her brother's suffering,
dreading lest at any moment she lose him, and crushed by the burden of
their financial disaster, she had signed the Deed. Instead of returning
it to Sir Horace Drake however, she had sent for the faithful Amory
Hartwell, entrusted the Deed into his hands, and begged him to act as
her agent and borrow as much cash as possible against their acreage.
Her only stipulation had been that under no circumstances was it to be
built upon. Delighted to be set a task by the lady he hoped to win,
Hartwell had departed vowing he would persist until he obtained such
terms as must delight his goddess.