Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (9 page)

"Viking? Then by all means ride him," said the Marquis, looking bored.

"D'you mean it? I thought perhaps he was your personal— er, I mean…"
Clay floundered, his excitement having betrayed him into forgetting the
incredible fact that this man, with those legs, never rode.

Sophia had also been brought up in a household where horses were
both a necessity and a passion and found Damon's attitude so
incomprehensible that her pose slipped. She eyed him as though he were
an oddity, and, very well aware of this, a faint flush stained his
cheeks. "Do you never ride at all, my lord?" she asked.

"I find," he replied with a curl of the lip, "that horses— smell."

"Good God!" gasped Clay.

Damon's eyes were solid ice. "Unfortunately, if one spends a great deal of time around such cattle, one tends also to— smell."

The insult was calculated. It was more than enough to provoke any
gentleman to an instant challenge. Clay's jaw set, and he had to bite
his tongue to check a furious rejoinder. Sophia, however, was quite
unable to restrain herself. "How fortunate, my lord," she said in a
brittle tone, "that you have such a love for music, which, however
poorly played, does not have an—
apparent
—odour." Her chin came
up as she voiced those fateful words. Her eyes flashed fire. And, once
more, she was seized by horrified remorse, while, at her side, Clay
felt his heart sink, and he thought a miserable 'That's that!'

The Marquis, his face enigmatic, bowed perfunctorily, swung away,
and walked with his lazy stride past the stables. They watched in
miserable silence as he disappeared beyond the line of trees; then
Sophia moaned, "Oh, Marcus—I'm so sorry! My wretched temper!"

He smiled wryly, squeezed her fingers reassuringly, and said, "Don't
blame you a bit, love," and, by mutual accord, they started back to the
house.

Distantly, a shout of laughter rang out. Sophia spun around. Two
grooms were coming through the trees, their faces alight with mirth.
She turned back, not looking at Clay. How ridiculous that she had
thought for a minute it had been Damon who laughed. And how even more
ridiculous that she had hoped it was so.

"The thing is, you see," said Clay, shifting uneasily in the
comfortable leather chair in Damon's pleasant and well stocked library,
"I'm in rather a devilish fix. Quite"—he bit his lip and, forcing pride
away, gulped—"under the hatches, to tell the truth."

The Marquis, watching him thoughtfully through the cloud of smoke
that curled up from his favourite pipe, said, "And my revered parent
is—ah, reluctant to accommodate you?"

"Well, he ain't without justification," said Clay honestly. "I'd a considerable fortune but—it all… sort of frittered away."

"The tables?" Damon asked dryly.

Clay flushed, and his gaze lowered. "Yes. Matter of fact."

"How very unwise." There was scorn in the deep voice. Clay gripped
his fists very tightly on the arms of his chair and fought to control
his rage. Damon all but sneered. "Are you asking me for a loan, Major?"

"No!" He choked back the 'blast you!' "Only your—help."

"I see." Quite aware of what this interview must be costing the
other man, Damon leaned back his head, watching the smoke drift upward.
"How long shall you have to wait for your inheritance if Vaille proves…
ah… intractable?"

"A little over a year."

"Not so very long, surely?"

The sardonic tone, the slight lift of those heavy brows sent Clay's
nails digging into his palms. "I would not be here… begging," he said
hoarsely, "except—two of my creditors won't wait. They've started
proceedings for Newgate."

Damon gave a gasp, and his eyes narrowed, and Clay, hope rekindling, waited.

"You were at Vitoria and Waterloo, so I understand?". Damon frowned.
"And now they want to clap you up? Pretty shabby. Does my father know
of it?"

"The last time I spoke with him, I wasn't quite that badly pressed
for blunt. But—well, he was so… that is, I thought, if you—being his
son—" Clay bit his lip. "I
won't
go to the
cents-per-centers!" Damon waited with raised eyebrows and a faintly
supercilious smile. Clay lunged out of his chair and strode to stand
with his back to the fireplace. His nerves shredding at this total
humiliation, he almost choked over the plea. "If you'd… put in a good
word for me… I'd be most devilish—obliged."

Damon met those strained brown eyes in thoughtful silence, put down
his pipe, and inspected a fingernail. Clay's hands were shaking when at
last the Marquis stood, stretched lazily, and sauntered to the
reference table. Taking up some papers, he murmured, "Regrettably, I
fear I am quite unable to be of assistance to you, sir."

Clay wrenched around and placed one wet palm on the mantle, staring
down into the hearth, knowing this desperate hope was gone. Surely,
Damon had not refused him carelessly? Could it be that he was well
aware his father had no intention of intervening? With his inexorable
and judicial disdain, had Vaille decided a lesson was both deserved and
desirable? Clay bit his lip, accepting the bitter fact that he must now
throw himself upon the Duke's mercy. Esther's money lender was
incurably ill and had no intention of leaving this vale of tears
without balancing his accounts to the last farthing. The mantua maker
was retiring to Spain and wanted her money at once, believing,
apparently, that with him incarcerated, Esther would be driven to
raising the cash. If Vaille was immovable, Newgate was inevitable.
Newgate! God! That would kill Esther!

His head came up. He squared his shoulders, turned, and said
brightly, "Quite understand. Sorry I bothered you at all," and started
for the door, his smile set, his face taut and drained of colour.

"No bother," said Damon mildly. "Think nothing of it."

Clay, ignoring him, thought savagely, 'I won't, damn you!' and closed the door quietly behind him.

The smokehouse was situated among some trees a short distance from
the north side of the Priory and down a little rolling bank. Sophia was
sure she had seen someone enter those trees just a few moments ago. She
had only glimpsed the disappearing shadow, but if it was the "Heartless
Viper," she intended to confront him.

She smiled faintly, pleased by this appellation. One way or another
they had all been caught in his toils: Mama, herself, her adored
brother, and now Marcus, whose gallant attempt to conceal his despair
after Damon's refusal to help had wrung her heart. She was not quite
sure whether vipers were constrictors, or if they merely bared their
fangs, but since Damon did both, she decided to keep his new title. Of
one thing she
was
sure, her words at the stables earlier had
resulted in his cruel refusal to aid poor Marcus. If begging his
forgiveness would help, she would try it, and with no qualms of
conscience, since he had so much to answer for.

Something struck her calf with painful force. Her shocked yelp was
accompanied by a loud hissing, and Horatio rushed past, wings low
spread, honking his triumph. Muttering angrily, Sophia inspected the
damage and was again startled by a man's shout, followed by a storm of
profanity. Uneasy but curious, she crept into the trees, only to halt,
staring her astonishment.

A giant of a man was doubled over just ahead. Upright, he must have
been taller than six feet. His white hair curled in a muddled fashion
all over his head, while an equally curly beard grew in lush but
contained profusion about his chin. His white apron and the linen sack
in one huge hand proclaimed him to be the cook, and remembering that
Mrs. Hatters had said he was looby, Sophia ventured no closer. He was
making odd grunting sounds, and his left arm swung back from time to
time, accompanied by breathless cursing. He looked like a berserk
gorilla, and, thoroughly frightened, she began to edge away. At once,
he stopped moving and bellowed, "Who be there?"

Her breath fluttering, she prepared to run.

"Please," he called beseechingly, "if there do be some'un there, will'ee help me?"

She regarded him uncertainly. He had made no move to attack her, nor
did he appear to be foaming at the mouth, which she'd heard was a sure
sign of madness in dogs or men—women apparently being spared such
unseemly manifestations of dementia. She called a timid identification
of herself and asked what was wrong.

"It's that little bas—er, it's that naughty little goose o' his
lordship's," he gasped. "Run 'twixt me legs and made me put me back out
good and proper, milady. Ever since I picked up the cannon at Rodrigo,
it ain't been the same."

"Good gracious," she cried, hurrying forward at once, "I am scarce
surprised." She stepped around his bulk anxiously. "What can I do, Mr.
Ariel?"

"Deal me a good 'un, ma'am. 'Bout midway 'tween me breadbasket and me shoulder blades, if ee please. Hard like."

Sophia clenched her fist and, as requested, dealt him a good 'un.

"Yes," said Ariel encouragingly, "right there, milady. Now don't'ee never worrit, ma'am. Haul off and whack me."

"I did!" she cried with righteous indignation.

"You did!" he echoed. "With what?"

She clenched her fist and shoved it out for his inspection.

"Oh Lor'…" he groaned. "Well, try again, milady.Put both on 'em together and whack away."

She clenched her hands tightly, swung her arms down with all her
might, and jumped back with a small scream, folding her hands under
each arm.

"Ain't no use," sighed Ariel. "You'll just break them little hands o'yourn."

"Here," said a soft voice, "I'll help'ee, Mr. Ariel."

Nancy, armed with a sturdy branch, stepped past and swung the branch high.

"No!" cried an alarmed Sophia.

But the branch whipped down and broke with a crack across that broad back.

Ariel gave a sigh of relief, stood erect, then bent forward a
little. "I do truly thank'ee, Miss Nancy," he said with an odd upward
tilt of his head.

"And it do pain ye, I see," she observed kindly. "Let me help'ee.
Come now, lean on me. 'Tis bed for ye, Mr. Ariel. My father has the
very same kind of back. Why, I remember once…"

Sophia smiled as they walked away, the cook's massive arm resting
carefully across the girl's shoulders, his eyes glued to her face with
rapt fascination. It was quite apparent that anyone else had ceased to
exist. She gathered up the sack the cook had dropped and followed them
back to the house.

The Priory seemed very quiet and still. Sophia wandered rather
disconsolately into the music room and found it as empty as the library
had been.

"The workmen is eating their lunches, m'lady." Nancy's bright face
beamed from the doorway. "Big Luke asked me to thank'ee for trying to
help him. Doan't ye worrit about him; he's had trouble with his back
since he come home from the wars."

"And you are expert at repairing it, I collect," Sophia teased. "Have you known him long?"

"Long enough, ma'am." The blushing but firm assertion augured ill for Ariel's continued bachelorhood.

"Aha." Sophia smiled. "I thought I sensed a fondness."

"No, ma'am. I love him. And will wed him—when he do ask me proper
and civil like. Three times he do have spoken, but…" She took up the
hem of her dainty apron and began to roll it between her fingers. Then,
a dimple flashing beside her mouth, said shyly, "But—not quite the way
I want, y'see."

"Minx!" laughed Sophia. "So you keep him dangling and sighing for you."

"What's worth having is worth waiting for, m'lady." Nancy smiled. "And Lord Damon be in the garden."

Sophia drew herself up, anger bringing a frown to her face. "I fail
to perceive your meaning," she said austerely. "Explain, if you please."

"Oh, ma'am," Nancy whimpered, pale with agitation, "I doan't mean
nothing. I only means as how ye'd been looking for my lord earlier! I
only thought…" She wrung at her apron, her eyes filling with tears, and
fled.

Staring after her, Sophia was almost equally affected. Why had she
become so angry? The pretty creature had meant no harm, and she had
frightened her. Probably, she thought with a scowl, the gracious Miss
Hilby never said a harsh word to her. Probably, the gracious Miss Hilby
never said a harsh word to anyone but drifted through life like an
elegant swan, bestowing an aura of serenity on all about her. The Lady
Sophia Drayton, on the other hand, rushed tempestuously from pillar to
post, always blowing hot or cold but never lukewarm. The last word
pleased her and was undoubtedly how Stephen would view Miss Hilby. It
was obviously, however, not how my Lord Damon viewed her. Their hands
had touched often at dinner the previous evening. Later, during the
brisk conversation that had ensued when the gentlemen joined them in
the music room, the golden beauty and Damon had several times murmured
low-voiced asides to one another. When the Marquis had handed Miss
Hilby her candle at the foot of the stairs, he'd bent his dark head to
attend her remark, and her hand, placed familiarly on the lapel of his
jacket, had patted him with a fondness also reflected very clearly in
those limpid green eyes.

Sophia scowled at the painting that hung over the music room mantle,
a small landscape, inadequate for such a large expanse of wall. She
suddenly became aware of a workman watching her through the open door,
a puzzled expression on his face. Flushing hotly, she all but ran into
the garden and crossed the lawns toward the flower beds. Damon was well
hidden. And then she heard voices from the clustering young trees
between the rose garden and the cutting beds. An angry man was barking
in a belligerent tone. "… and wot I want is a answer! Quick like. I
ain't got all day, me good John or Tom or Wilbert! Speak up!"

After a brief silence, Damon's voice, mildly curious, asking, "Wilbert…?"

"Knowed a fella name of Wilbert. Hod carrier he was. Fell off'n the scaffold an' broke his neck. Wot's wrong with that?"