Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (8 page)

The Marquis sat at the harpsichord. He wore no jacket and frowned
(understandably!) as his long fingers moved firmly and unfortunately
over the keys. Sophia halted, stupefied by the fact that even he could
be so inconsiderate as to perpetrate such an uproar at this hour. His
fist pounded down with a crash. He ran his fingers through his already
rumpled hair in a gesture of furious impatience and grated, "Blast and
damn the stupid thing!"

Horatio, snoozing on the rug before the fire, woke with a start,
caught sight of Sophia's warlike pose, gave a screeching honk, trundled
to the far corner of the room, and disappeared behind the drapes.

With lightning reaction, the Marquis sprang to his feet and spun
around, a grim scowl on his face. To Sophia's horror, a long-barrelled
and wicked-looking pistol had apparently leapt into his hand and was
aimed unwaveringly at her heart.

For an instant, they stared at one another. Then the pistol was whisked from sight. "Ah…" he smiled. "Charades…!"

Recovering her wits somewhat but still trembling, she lowered the poker.

"Let me think…" He picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. "It
could not be Boadicea, for you have no helmet, unless… that so charming
cap?"

"W-why"—she breathed faintly, ignoring his nonsense,— "did you p-point that ugly… thing at me?"

He stepped towards her but stopped as she backed away. "We have had some thievery, ma'am.
'Pon my word, but your energy astounds me! I'd have thought that after such a tiring day you would be sound asleep."

"So would I," she said, her heart settling back into place once
more. "When I heard the… noise, I thought Horatio was jumping about on
the keys. I see now that I was mistaken."

He contemplated the upward tilt of her little nose and said gravely,
"Most mistaken, my lady. He has been known to waddle, has made a few
attempts at flying, and occasionally, I believe, might be said to rush.
But I honestly cannot say I have ever seen him—jump."

That disconcerting dance of mirth was in his eyes. But she was not
going to be taken in again. "I regret the error," she said coldly.

"Ah, but are you quite sure, ma'am?"

"Your pardon?"

He took another step towards her. "I have"—out went his hands in a charmingly Gallic gesture—"a sort of—
er—je ne sais quoi
…"

Sophia was obliged to remind herself sternly that this was the same
vicious man who had so cruelly teased her in the catacombs. But she
could not resist asking, "About me, uncle?"

"
Mais non
—niece. About Horatio."

She affected disinterest, and he went on. "Perhaps it is that, had
it not been for my presence, my faithful friend might have joined his
feathery ancestors this night And with no picture gallery to assure his
immortality!"

"Good God!" she gasped. "I never meant to kill—er—well, that is to say, I would
not
have! It was just that awful uproar!"

"Alas. My music does not please you."

"Nor you, evidently. To judge by your profanity."

Immediately, he was all seriousness. "Your pardon, Lady Sophia. I trust you will believe I'd not heard you come in."

"Of course. You could not
possibly
have done so." She gave
a weary sigh and, lowering her lashes, said nobly, "I shall leave you
to your… practising, my lord, and
try
to get some sleep."
Looking up with saintly martyrdom, she discovered not repentance but a
near grin on his face and was hard put to it not to abandon her tragic
pose and favour him with one of her famous set downs.

"That I should disturb your slumbers, dear lady, cuts me to the
heart," he mourned, entering her drama by resting one hand gracefully
upon his chest. "However, since this house is built like a fortress, I
cannot quite understand how my miserable stumblings should disturb you,
had you been tucked beneath the covers of your—most fortunate bed."

His twinkling eyes travelled her dressing gown. She pulled the neck
closer, an unnecessary movement since she was far more fully clad than
she had been at dinner. "Sounds," she snapped, forgetting her meekness,
"travel up the chimney!"

Abruptly, all traces of humour vanished from his face. "Mrs. Hatters
put you in my mother's room? Now truly this is unforgivable! Of course,
you were awakened! My profound apologies, ma'am. I shall be silent as
the grave." He bowed, but with anger lurking in his eyes.

"You are all consideration," she murmured. "I bid you goodnight, sir. And pray convey my apologies to Horatio."

With this Parthian shot, she turned away, feeling very much the
conquering heroine. A loud "Honk" tarnished her glory. Flushed, she
glanced back. Horatio's head protruded from beneath the drapes, the
folds wrapped like a great cloak around his long neck. The Marquis
stood, hands on hips, watching her, his teeth a white flash in his dark
face. He strode to the door and swung it open, and she fled, her cheeks
scarlet.

At the stairs, she paused. How angry he had looked when he'd
discovered that Mrs. Hatters had given her the Duchess's room. His
temper certainly matched those eyebrows, and it had not been Mrs.
Hatters' fault. She retraced her steps. On the threshold of the music
room, she stopped. The Marquis was seated at the harpsichord, leaning
forward, his tousled head bowed onto arms that were crossed upon the
edge of the lid. He looked a man totally defeated. Confused and unable
to cope with such puzzling behaviour, she hurried away.

Sophia's second awakening was scarcely more propitious than her
first. Her bed appeared to lift into the air, shake, and bounce back to
the floor again. She gave a gasp, sat up, and then quailed as another
crash shook the room. A sudden flood of sunlight blinded her, and she
threw up one hand to shade her eyes.

"Good morning, m'lady," said a soft, husky voice.

Charlotte Hilby's maid, wearing a cap over her soft brown curls and
with a welcoming smile lighting her blue eyes, placed a tray across
Sophia's knees and imparted that it was past eleven o'clock and the
workmen "hard at it." The tray held toast and jam, a soft boiled egg, a
pot of tea, and, beside the monogrammed serviette, a crystal vase
containing a red rose. She took up the rose and admired its rich
fragrance.

"Lord Damon picked it special for 'ee," Nancy volunteered

Instantly remarking that it was full of ants, Sophia requested the
bloom be removed. Nancy peered curiously at the antless rose, and while
pouring her tea, Sophia said a hurried "How very kind in Miss Hilby to
allow you to help me. Did Lady Branden and Mademoiselle de la Montaigne
bring their maids, also?"

"No, m'lady. We was only thinking to stay one night, and Lord Bodwin
said he could be sure they'd go back if their abigails was at the
Hall." She frowned a little. "So here be I, and not a body to talk to
save for Mrs. Hatters and Ariel. And he…" She sighed and, searching
through the press, asked, "Will you be wanting your habit, m'lady? They
others has gone riding."

Sophia declined the chance for a ride and chose a morning dress that
Nancy hurried away to iron. To the accompaniment of much pounding and
hammering, Sophia finished her breakfast, then got out of bed and
crossed to the windows. The wide lawns, bathed in bright sunshine,
sloped down to an enticing fringe of flower gardens, among which a
fountain played. Behind was a long line of birches, and beyond those
the countryside spread in low tree-rich hills, girded by the sparkle of
the river. Under her windows were the terrace and steps from which she
had watched the Marquis struggle to retrieve his music in yesterday's
storm. A drive path ran along the foot of the terrace, dividing at each
side of the house to continue to the front and also winding away on
both sides of the back lawn until it was concealed by the slope of the
hill to the left and vanished among some trees to the right.

"Why," she murmured in surprise, "it's lovely!"

From behind her, the returning Nancy agreed and, upon learning that
her ladyship had not visited the Priory before, confessed with a
meaningful giggle that she and Miss Hilby had been here "lots o' times."

With a sudden and uncharacteristic streak of Puritanism, Sophia
decided that Nancy was given to making lewd remarks. However, the girl
was also pleasant, willing, and deft, and in no time Sophia was dressed
and her hair arranged into clustered curls beside her small ears. Her
lilac gingham was a pretty thing, if a little out of the present style,
the lowcut bodice having a set-in bib, a white froth of lace that
tapered to a snug waist below which the full skirt swept out over
several petticoats. She wore no jewellery save for a large amethyst
ring that had been a gift from her brother. She touched it tenderly,
wondering how he was faring on this beautiful autumn morning.

In the Great Hall a polite but decidedly unfriendly Thompson
informed her that the master had not gone riding. His advice as to
where "the master" was was lost in a burst of shouting and hammering
that emanated from a room at the head of the south wing. Sophia gave
him one of her most bewitching smiles and made her way to the rear
terrace.

It was a heavenly morning, the sunlight warm, the air like wine. She
felt refreshed and lighthearted as she wandered down the steps and
across the lawns toward the flower beds. She turned back then to survey
the house. From this vantage point it appeared even larger than she had
supposed and much less gloomy. The lawns rose humplike behind each wing
of the house in two long mounds that stretched out beyond the slope of
the hill like crumbling arms, digging deep into the ground.

"Those," said a familiar deep voice at her elbow, "are the upper levels of the catacombs."

The Marquis wore dark-brown corduroy breeches and an open-throated
white shirt, the collar folding back over a leather hunting jacket. He
carried a gun over his left arm but had no game bag, nor was he
accompanied by either loader or dog, which she thought peculiar.

He scanned her appreciatively and observed that she appeared to have
enjoyed a good night's sleep despite its interruptions. She assured him
that she had scarcely slept a wink, but the twinkle in his eyes so
flustered her that she added hurriedly, "Is it not rather unusual to
name a home after a crab?"

"Perhaps. But it was built in reverse, you see. The kitchens and
servants' halls are at the front. The main rooms of the house, to the
rear."

He turned as he spoke to survey the rambling building. Pride came
into his face, and she realized he loved the Priory. With an effort she
tore her gaze from him and turned, also, to the house. "Surely it was
built to embrace the view," she mused. "Whoever designed it catered to
beauty rather than custom. And very wisely. It is much prettier to the
west."

He was silent, but she sensed that he was pleased. His eyes were on her again, and her heart began to beat faster.

With nervousness, of course. "The rooms you have remodelled are
perfectly lovely," she remarked. "Do you really intend to restore the
entire building?"

"Money thrown away?" he asked, with a faintly sardonic smile.

She thought of the fortune her father had squandered and of Esther
Clay's foolishness that now caused her husband to be shadowed by the
fear of shame and imprisonment, and a frown touched her brow.

"Alas," he sighed. "Again, you do not approve."

Irritated, she flashed, "I can think of no reason why you should seek my humble opinion, my lord."

"No more can I," he shrugged carelessly.

She gave an outraged gasp, then saw that his eyes twinkled at her
through those long thick lashes and that a grin hovered about the
corners of his mouth. He looked at her fully, his smile widening.
"However," he went on, "in view of my advancing years and our
relationship, humour your poor old uncle, I beg."

Why must he be so changeable? One moment cold and insulting, and in
the next, displaying such devastating charm? He had maggots in his
attic, that was the reason! He belonged in Bedlam! She determined to
toss her head and walk regally away and was considerably surprised to
hear herself saying, "I think it would be tragic to let it decay
further. Already the library is delightful, the music room very fine,
and the main dining room a joy."

Delighted, he asked with boyish eagerness, "Which is your favourite?"

She was tempted to answer "the Great Hall," which had not been
restored and which she thought hideous. But for Clay's sake, she
considered and said at last, "My bedroom. It especially has been
decorated with love, I think."

His face became closed. "Thank you," he said, the words rather
clipped. "My father had it remodelled many years ago.. For my mother. I
have kept it maintained, but it was his plan, not mine."

Disconcerted, she asked if she might see the stables. He brightened
and, telling her it was a rather unusual arrangement, led her across
the lawn, skirting the jutting bulk of the basements and continuing
around to the north wing.

It was indeed unusual. The slope fell sharply away on this side,
exposing part of the catacombs that had been converted into stables. A
yard had been built around the area, with shrubs and young trees
planted to conceal it from the front approach. The stalls looked clean
and neat, and many fine horses were here.

Damon halted when they were still some distance away. Clay, dressed
for riding, was talking animatedly with one of the grooms, and Sophia's
heart lifted. She watched him with both affection and admiration,
noting which, the man beside her scowled.

Beaming, Clay came toward them. Sophia slipped her hands into his,
and he kissed her cheek and wished her a good morning. "Egad, Damon,"
he said, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm, "You've some dashed fine
hunters here. That bay stallion's splendid!"