Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (38 page)

Despite
Mrs. Keene's faith in her,
Lisette's hope of
reaching London that evening was foiled by the state of the roads. Mud
was everywhere, fallen trees blocked thoroughfares, and clogged traffic
resulted in interminable delays and confusion. They arrived in Stoke
Poges as the light was fading, and were able to bespeak some passable
rooms at a small hostelry. A private parlour was not to be had,
however, and Lisette ordered dinner sent to her room, where she shared
the meal with Denise and then tumbled into bed, close to exhaustion.

Had she known it, she had fared better than the faithful young
Corinthian who followed her so doggedly. Lord Bolster's job horses were
not pleased by the littered highways and short of lashing at them with
his whip, he could not convince them to travel above a snail's pace.
Leaving Reading, one of the animals took violent exception to a
wagonload of pigs that jolted raucously past. My lord's hack
reared,
startling his lazy companion into a buck. The chaise went off the road,
the wheel demolished a signpost and fell off, and the chaise lurched
and splashed into the mud. Bolster was thrown clear and, shaken and
muddied, all but danced his fury. Fortunately he was a well-known young
gentleman and the occupant of a passing phaeton, chancing to recognize
him, came to his rescue. The wheel, however, was badly sprung, and it
was necessary that Bolster, horses, and chaise be returned to Reading
to join the many travellers awaiting repairs to their vehicles.

'
'Not
work today?" Strand reached up to
halt Green's
ministrations and over the lathered shaving brush regarded his faithful
valet incredulously. "Why the devil not? It's stopped raining, hasn't
it?"

"Yes, sir." Misliking the glittering brightness of his
employer's
eyes, Green said carefully, "Only—well, you did become very wet
yesterday, and I—"

Lowering his hand, Strand interrupted hurriedly, "How the
deuce was
I to know the skies would fall just as we were dragging the old tub
down our slips? Anyway, she's launched, and watertight, at least. Mr.
Norman will be proud. It would have been a fine bobbery if he'd stepped
on the deck and she'd sunk like a stone!"

Green smiled politely in response to the mischievous grin that
was
slanted at him..He said nothing, but turning Strand's head, his fingers
lingered on the strong jaw a shade longer than necessary. Frowning, he
murmured, "I doubt one more day would prove disastrous, sir."

Strand, already chafing at the innumerable delays that had
kept him
from returning to his bride and determined to be done with this
business before he left, said with a trace of asperity, "Likely you do.
But the boy's to come down next weekend. I want it done!"

The valet's bushy eyebrows lifted, and his lips tightened. It
was comment enough.

"Oh!" groaned Strand. "Had I but known in India that you were
going
to be such a confounded mother hen! You are angered because I did not
give over yesterday when you bade me, is that it?"

"You were soaked, sir." Since it was now out in the open, the
valet
applied more lather to his master's upper lip with rather unnecessary
vehemence, so that Strand sneezed. He then bent a grim stare on his
victim and nodded, "Quite so, sir. You've took a chill is what."

"Damn you! You splashed soap up my nose is all!"

The indignation in the blue eyes brought a softening to
Green's brown ones. "Sir, your skin is very warm, and—"

"Aye. I'm alive! Not the bloodless corpse you will make of me
do you
not cease brandishing that razor about! Have done, man! I feel
splendid. Besides, I mean only to see
Silvering Sails
varnished and I'm off! I'll not wait to have the sails fitted. I'll
send my amateur shipwrights to convey them here, but we'll allow the
professionals to attend to that business. There, does that suit your
Finickyness?"

Green bowed, and his demeanour became of polar propriety.
Aware that
he was in disgrace, Strand cursed him roundly, teased him, and finally,
unleashing the brilliant grin the valet was never able to withstand,
brought him neatly around his thumb. He agreed to a request that he at
once return to the house should it start to rain again, and even
submitted to having a wool scarf wrapped around his throat. Whistling
cheerily, he then strode outside, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his
head ached annoyingly.

Watching that jaunty stride, Green pursed his lips. "I doubt,"
he muttered, "that scarf will stay in place above five minutes."

He was right. However, since the sun now smiled down on
drenched
Sussex, awaking the dancing light of the river and bringing a welcome
warmth to the damp air, Green ceased to be quite as concerned and went
about his own affairs.

With his customary zeal, Strand threw himself into the final
sanding
and varnishing of the rails, so that he was soon very warm indeed and
his jacket was shortly tossed down on the deck beside his scarf. The
work went along well, and the final brush stroke was applied shortly
after noon. The little crew gathered up their materials and repaired to
the dock, turning back to survey the results of their labours. Strand
mopped perspiration from his brow and joined the men in a cheer. The
battered and burnt old hulk that had occupied the barn was now, to his
eyes at least, a splendid sight, the cabin rebuilt and bright with
white paint trimmed in yellow, the decks immaculate, the masts tall and
proud and, thanks to a talented village artist, the name tastefully
emblazoned on bow and stern.

Strand told Shell and the men to report back to Mr. Connaught,
who
would instruct them in the matter of transporting the sails, and they
moved off, passing Best, who came up and, surveying the craft with a
less loving eye, suggested that she appeared to lean to the right a
bit. "Just a teensy bit, mind."

"There is," said Strand loftily, "a deal of work remaining to
be done."

"Ar, fer ye got to get something to hang on they masts,"
observed
the groom knowledgeably. "Ship cannot sail 'thout sails. Not nohow."

"But she can drift, blast it!" Strand exclaimed, and sprang
quickly
to secure the aft mooring line that had worked loose, probably by
reason of the surging of the rain-swollen river invading even this
quiet inlet. By the time he finished, he was considerably warmer and
irked by reason of having forgetfully rested his hand on the newly
varnished rail. Straightening, he was dismayed by a sudden chill that
caused him to shiver violently. He groaned and cursed his frustration.
Green had been right as usual. He'd spent altogether too much time in
the rain, but—

"Pssst! You deef, or wot is it?"

Turning sharply at this, Strand discovered a small but very
pugnacious-appearing personage who scanned him narrowly.

"I'll be gormed if you ain't shot the cat!" observed this
youthful
apparition with considerable righteousness. "And 'fore noon, too! 'Ere,
you best take care, my cove! You'll be proper lurched if old swivel
nose catches you wiv a ball o' fire!"

Not unfamiliar with cant, and aware he also presented a most
inelegant appearance, Strand grinned and vouchsafed the information
that, contrary to the belief held by his visitor, he was not in the
least over the oar.

"Garn!" scoffed the boy derisively. "You're clean raddled, you
is!"
He ran a shrewd eye over Strand's dirty and occasion ally varnished
shirt and ragged old breeches and shoes and concealing his incredulity,
stepped closer, and lowering his voice asked, "Want to earn a borde?
Good clean work. Nuthink smoky. All y'got't'do is take a writing to 'er
nibs up in the palace yonder."

Something in Strand's eyes became very still. "Do you mean
Mrs. Strand?"

" 'Course! Didya fink I meant the Queen o' Sheba? 'Ere"—a
grubby,
folded paper was thrust out—"take it. And you wanta be cagey-like.
It's—er—" the small countenance twisted into a leering smile that was
ageless. "It's from 'A Friend' as they say. See?"

Strand's gaze travelled from the wizened face that had seen
too much
of evil to the paper he held. "Yes," he said quietly. "I see."

"Orl right." The boy dug into his pocket, unearthed a
shilling, and
handed it over reluctantly. "I bin 'anging about all mornin'. Tried to
get it ter the 'ouse, but ol' swivel nose—Mr. Green to you, my cove—was
allus about. Don't ferget now. Cagey-like. Fer the lady, and no one
else, eh?"

Strand nodded and, the smile quite gone from his eyes, agreed
to be cagey.

When he reached the Dutch door, Green swung it open for him.
"Good gracious, sir! You'll be wanting to bathe. I—"

"Tell Best to saddle Brandy," Strand interposed shortly, and
strode past.

Staring, Green protested, "But—"

"At once!" Strand flung over his shoulder. "I must return to
the Hall. Follow me as soon as you've packed."

Green knew the tone and scurried for the stables. The cat, he
thought, was in with the chicks. Though why, he could not guess.

Strand washed hurriedly. Green came to him then and silently
assisted him to change clothes in record time. One look at that bleak
expression had frozen the valet's final attempt to reason with his
master, nor did he request to rush with the packing and accompany
Strand back to the Hall. He knew he would be refused.

Once in the saddle, Strand rode out at the gallop. He avoided
roads
and by-ways and headed straight across country, violating several
warnings anent trespassing as he sent Brandy to the northeast. He had
been riding for some time when he felt the chestnut stagger. Appalled,
he reined up. The horse was lathered and breathing hard. Enraged with
himself, Strand dismounted and walked until the pleasant structure that
was The Pines hove into view. He handed Brandy over to the ostler,
flushing slightly because of the amazement in the man's eyes. The
parlour of the usually cosy inn was positively frigid. Mr. Drye,
hastening to welcome his favourite customer, was checked by the jut of
the chin and the thin, hard line of the mouth. "Alone today, sir?" he
said mildly. "If you'd care to sit here at the window, Mrs. Drye will
have some—"

"I'll take the table by the fire," said Strand. "It's blasted
well freezing in here, Drye."

The host blinked. He had lit the fire only because the walls
were
almost two feet thick and tended to be clammy of a morning. Already,
two travellers had complained of the heat in the low-ceilinged room.
Showing Strand to the table he had requested, Drye poked the logs into
higher blaze and went into the kitchen, fanning himself.

Left alone, Strand contemplated the hearth. It would, he told
himself, be despicable to read the letter he carried. It would be
utterly disloyal to pay heed to the insinuations of that grubby little
boy with his too-wise eyes and leering mouth. If Garvey still pursued
Lisette it was only to be expected, was it not? And he had, after all,
not yet begun his own campaign to win his bride. He had no right… no
right at all…

He drew a hand across his eyes, wishing his confounded head
would
stop aching so. How the letter came from his pocket to the table, he
could not have told. But it was there. Creased and none too clean.
Mocking him. Daring him to read it. Tempting him to dishonour.

He was relieved when Drye came back to set soup and bread
before
him. The hot soup warmed him a little, but the bread seemed to stick in
his throat. And ever as he ate, the greyish edge of the letter peeped
from beneath the breadboard as though it whispered, "Take me up. See
the message I have for her. Take me up—if you are man enough!" But he
would not. He was not that base. Not yet, by heaven!

"Oh, your pardon, sir!" The serving maid set down a tankard of
ale
at the same instant Strand reached for the salt. "Now look what I've
gone and done!" she gasped, using her apron to wipe the splashed table.
"Oh! All over your letter it do be! Let me

…" She dabbed anxiously at the paper, Drye running over to add
his own efforts and apologies.

"Oh, it is nothing! Nothing!" said Strand pettishly. "Have
done, man!"

Drye caught the girl's surprised eye and jerked his head
meaningfully and they retreated to the kitchen.

His fingers trembling, Strand took up the letter. It was not
very
wet, but the ink might smudge. He would dry it at the fire. The blasted
seal was already loosened and, perhaps, did he spread it, it would dry
faster.

He unfolded it and held it to the flames, resolutely keeping
the
writing turned away from him. But he could not keep his eyes from that
horribly tempting page, and with the glow of the fire behind it, the
words began to be clear. One word fairly jumped out at him… Leith.
Leith!
Muttering a curse, he snatched up the page, and read:

Dearest beloved
—[Strand swore]

You married Strand reluctantly, and knowing you had
my heart.
Nor did I feel constrained from pursuing you, since I held his
"courtship," if one can call it that, to be dishonourable.

I cannot condone what you now mean to do (and do not
ask how I
learned of it, for I'll not betray a confidence). I entreat you to
abandon your plans. I know you have long nourshed a
tendre
for
Tristram Leith, but do not, I beg of you, go to him! To do so can only
bring heartbreak upon the Leiths, more and perhaps fatal rage from your
unpredictable husband, and grief to
—

Yrs, forever, Garvey

Lisette's
original intention to go
straight to her parents'
home on Portland Place was abandoned when she realized this must
necessitate further delays. Her need to talk with Charity had become of
such importance that all else must be set aside, and to that end when
they at last came into Mayfair late next morning, she directed her
coachman to drive straight to Berkeley Square and the residence of
Tristram Leith's uncle, the Earl of Mayne-Waring.