Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart

by Veryan, Patricia

  "I am perfectly aware of that fact, sir," she said defensively. "But I scarce think this peaceful English countryside swarms with monsters and werewolves and the like!" Still, he was right, and it was good of him to be concerned, wherefore she relented, smiled, and prepared to explain.

  Mrs. Henley, thought Montclair, would do well to hire better-trained servants. He had not so much as been asked for his card or his identity, and this Madam Dementia was apparently in the habit of standing about chatting with her mistress's callers. He should not be surprised, of course, but her cavalier attitude toward Priscilla's absence infuriated him. "You appear to find the loss of a child amusing," he said sternly.

  "Amusing!" echoed Susan, her smile fading.

  "One reads in the newspapers every day," he went on, "that some poor helpless innocent has been stolen to be sold into a lifetime of slavery and degradation. It is not to be wondered at when half the time their scatter-wit parents—"

  "Oooh!"

  "—are too busy frippering about where they've no business being, and paying more heed to their coiffures and their cards than to their offspring! And furthermore, my good girl—"

  "I am not your good girl," she flashed, sparks of wrath appearing in her big grey eyes.

  "One might think you'd be ashamed to admit it," he said sardonically, advancing to shake a finger under her elevated nose.

  Her breath momentarily snatched away, Susan prepared to give this insufferable intruder the blistering set-down he deserved, but she was too late.

  "Furthermore," he swept on, noticing despite his frown that this odd creature had quite pretty eyes, "there may not be monsters or werewolves as you so facetiously point out, but there are places in my woods that are—"

  "In your woods?" she interrupted, stiffening. "Pray, who are you, sir?"

  "I would think it about time you enquired. My name is Montclair. I have come to see your mistress."

  Montclair? Susan stood rigid. So this was the hardhearted lord of the manor! And he had dared, he'd dared

  to march in here and add insult to injury! She'd scatterwit him!

  "Horrid!" she squealed, flailing her mob-cap into his face. "Wretch! Loathsome—viper!"

  Retreating with stunned incredulity, Montclair seized the mob-cab and wrested it away.

  Having suffered one assault at the hands of his men, the widow was not about to be abused again, and rapped her brush smartly over his head.

  "Ow!" he cried, and involuntarily recoiling from madness, promptly tripped over the steps to the lower hall and went staggering back.

  Susan followed, flailing at him vigorously. "How dare you send your beastly creatures here to try and frighten me?" Whack! "How dare you—"

  Off balance, Montclair made an abortive snatch for the brush, which eluded him and landed a telling blow on his ear.

  "Ow!" he repeated, backing away in horror from this frenzied apology for a housemaid.

  "Breaking into our house—" she shrilled, her arm flying.

  "Your house?" he gasped, ducking. "It is—yike!—my house! And— Ouch!"

  He could imagine few things more disgraceful than for a gentleman to engage in hand-to-hand (or -brush) combat with a female, and striving rather unsuccessfully to protect himself, retreated across the entrance hall, and beat a hasty and inelegant exit.

  The side of his forehead hurt, his ear felt on fire, and he had given his elbow a fine crack when he fell. Glaring ragefully at the virago in the open doorway, he shouted, "You may tell your mistress she will be hearing from me!"

  "One can but hope it will be from a great distance," she riposted. A thought struck her. "And furthermore, if you cared a scrap for your country you would take more care of your windows!" The door closed with a bang.

  It was a clear confirmation of his suspicions. "Good God," whispered Montclair, rubbing his elbow and backing away. "She's short of a sheet all right! Poor creature…"

  Susan whipped the door open once more. "And I am the mistress of this house!" she announced, then threw his branch after him, and slammed the door again.

  She was the notorious trespassing Mrs. Henley? That tall, dirty woman with her mass of straight hair and her horrid dustpan was the creature Imre Monteil had come near to mooning about and had spoken of as 'the bewitching widow'? Montclair gave a contemptuous snort. It followed! Monteil was just the type to admire what any reasonable man must only find appalling!

  He had come here with an open mind, he thought aggrievedly, and not only had he been disgracefully abused, but the creature had for some reason become annoyed. There was small point in trying to talk to her now. Well, he'd been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, but from this point on Ferry could deal with her. Serve her right!

  Making his disgruntled way to collect his branch, he reflected that it was small wonder poor little Priscilla wanted for friends. Very likely the parents of any possible playmates were well aware that her mother was a raving lunatic. A strong raving lunatic, he thought, tenderly feeling a lump above his right eye. He was mildly surprised to find that the mob-cap was still in his left hand. He stared down at it. Egad, but he'd been shocked when the wretched woman had flung it into his face. Recalling the rage in those wide grey eyes, he grinned. She'd admitted she was not a "good girl." He'd scored there. Of course, she in turn had called him a horrid wretch and a loathsome viper. Hmmn… He stuffed the cap into his pocket and took up his branch.

  The wind was getting colder and grey clouds were mingling with the fluffy white ones. He walked faster.

  He'd be lucky to get home before it rained. Jupiter, but this had been a crazy day! First, the repellent Monteil; then, Soldier and his stupid bone; that Spanish idiot in the woods; little Priscilla—poor babe. And to cap things off nicely, the virago-ish Widow Henley. It would be miraculous did he reach Longhills without being captured by cannibals and boiled in oil!

  Leaving the Highperch drivepath, he struck off across the meadows, and was starting down the rolling slope when he came face to face with three people. One was the Spanish idiot; the second was a tall, darkly handsome young fellow, carrying a small girl piggyback. So the child was safe, thank goodness!

  Priscilla gave a squeal. "Mr. Val'tine!"

  The little group halted. The Spanish idiot muttered something darkly and glowered at him. The tall young man set Priscilla down and asked, "You know this gentleman, scamp?"

  "Yes," she trilled. "That's the man who hurt me in the wood!"

  Montclair's day continued true to form.

  Chapter 5

  Glancing up from the chess board as Susan came slowly into the withdrawing room, Lyddford drawled, "That's the third time she's called for you. Is my niece still at daggers drawn with me because I knocked down her new 'friend'?"

  Susan returned to her chair and pulled the branch of candles closer. "The poor babe keeps having nightmares," she said, taking up her workbox. "Starry's going to sit with her for a little while. From what I can gather our gallant Lord Montclair entertained himself by terrifying her with stories of a Fury who lives in the woods."

  "Now damn the wretch!" exclaimed Lyddford, ramming his clenched fist down on the table and sending chessmen flying. "What sort of glower and grim would resort to such tactics only to keep a little girl from daring to set foot on his confounded sacrosanct property?"

  "Chaw move was it," sighed Senor de Ferdinand, retrieving a queen's pawn from Welcome, who'd experienced a joyous embarrassment of riches and was ferociously chasing the flying pieces about the room.

  "Oh, egad! My apologies, Angelo. But—Jove!" Lyddford's grey eyes fairly shot sparks. "To think I've been reproaching myself because I hit him when he wasn't looking!"

  It would have been difficult to find a more ardent sportsman than her brother, and this admission of so flagrant a breach of the rules of fair play caused Susan to stare at him in horror. "Andy! As if you would do such a thing!"

  His eyes fell away. "I—er… Well, the fact is that he was watching Priscil
la. When she said he had hurt her, I don't mind owning I saw red! And what's more, had I known he'd been terrifying my niece into having nightmares day and night— Dammit, when I meet the bas— er, the knave, I blasted well might just put a period to him!"

  "Andy—no! You'd have to leave the country! How ever would we go along without you?"

  He scowled at her, frustrated by the truth of her remarks.

  "Needing is not for," declared de Ferdinand airily. "Angelo first dealings shot knave's heart throughout." He took up a castle and sighted it with grim intensity. "Missings pips never."

  Susan watched him, wondering if she would ever become accustomed to his erratic use of English. He had come into their lives four months ago, the victim of a shipwreck in the Channel. Despite high running seas, Andy had managed to bring The Dainty Dancer alongside the oarless dinghy, and take the sole occupant aboard. Soaked to the skin and thoroughly chilled, Senor Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand had been able to tell them his name and not much more. He had developed an inflammation of the lungs and, since his identity could not be ascertained, he had been installed at the London house. After making an excellent recovery, he had shown no inclination to leave. His very poor command of English had made it difficult to discover either where he lived or what had been his destination, but it had soon become apparent that his imagination soared to even giddier heights than did Priscilla's. His home was alternately a palace near Madrid, a chateau in the south of France, a villa in Italy, a chalet in Switzerland. His childhood would seem to have come straight out of an Arabian Nights' dream, and he made vague references to hundreds of servants, countless horses and carriages, several yachts, and innumerable hair-raising adventures. When Andrew burst out laughing at these boastings, de Ferdinand not only took no offence but was quick to join in the hilarity. There were not very many years between the two young men who soon became fast friends. The Spaniard, who had no visible means of support, was somehow able to contribute a sum to the household expenses that had become well-nigh indispensable. He was devoted to Priscilla, always willing to help with the barge or the horses, and had rapidly become a fixture. Susan was inclined to the belief that he had been involved with smugglers. She liked the young man and hoped he did not decide to go away, but it would be nice if she could more often understand what he said.

  "He says he can shoot the pips from a playing card and not miss," translated her brother.

  "Good gracious, señor. Do you say you also are to fight a duel with Lord Montclair?"

  He sprang up and bowed. "Chess. All so. Mices elves. Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand. Firstings from other one else." His arms swept out to embrace the room. "Chew—mices friends good. Montclair—him dog dirtness!"

  Lyddford asked with a grin, "Did you tell him that?"

  The Spaniard bowed again. "His mouths into mices hat I have hove!"

  "Did you, by God! Would that I'd seen it! Well, I'll second you, Angelo, and you can do the same for me."

  "Meeces fightings. Yust meeces! There be no chew fightings!"

  Lyddford said with a chuckle, "Well, whether it is just you, or both of us to face the bounder, I fancy Montclair's friends will be calling here to arrange matters. If the beastly fellow has any, that is!"

  "D'you know what I think?" said Junius Trent, directing a sly grin up the dining table to his cousin. "I think Montclair tried for a kiss from the wicked widow, and she levelled him and then galloped her horse over his face."

  Considering several of the more fiendish methods of torture, Montclair chose one and gave Junius a sympathetic smile before returning his attention to his roast beef. His jaw ached, the right side of his mouth was swollen and discoloured, and his conviction that he must look ridiculous had been borne out when he'd reached home and sat at his dressing table. Gould had met his dismayed gaze in the mirror and with his usual cool impassivity had suggested that Mr. Montclair might prefer to have his dinner carried up to his room this evening so that he could retire early.

  Montclair had positively yearned to accept the suggestion. The thought of facing his family and their boring guests, of enduring the perpetual gossip about their 'friends,' had been anathema to him. But he'd encountered his cousin Barbara in the conservatory as he'd attempted to slink through to the side stairs. The unhappy girl had been restricted to her room since yesterday, but had whispered that she was permitted to dine with them tonight, and had pleaded with him not to desert her. There had been no time for more talk, because she'd heard her mother approaching and, paling, had fled.

  Montclair had been obliged to cover that panicked flight and had thus fallen victim to his aunt's spleen. She had, Lady Trent shrilled, "a very important guest" arriving momentarily. A leader of the ton whom she'd been trying to snare for years. Of all nights, why must Montclair pick this one to come home in "so disgusting" a condition? He'd been tempted to agree to her suggestion that he not put in an appearance, but Barbara's imploring eyes and tragic little face haunted him, and he knew he couldn't abandon the poor chit to the wretched pack.

  And now here he was, seated as his brother's representative at the head of the table in the small dining room, with one fire quite unnecessarily adding more heat to the warm room, the flames awaking flickering shadows in the fine plasterwork of the ceiling, the candlelight playing on snowy napery and reflecting in sparkling crystal and silverware.

  From the third chair on his left, the slumberously inviting eyes of the much admired the Honourable Jemima Merriman-Jones turned frequently to Montclair's damaged features. Lady Spindle, her vast aunt, had just concluded a long-winded and stern homily on the deplorable frequency with which some young men (of whom one might have expected better things!) engaged in vulgarities such as fisticuffs, this having afforded Junius his excellent opportunity to snipe. And from both sides of the long table, amused faces turned to Montclair.

  "Noticed you was a trifle battered, Valentine," bellowed Colonel Ostrander, seated next to Lady Spindle. "Whatya say happened? Didn't quite hear the details."

  "And I'll wager dear Valentine don't mean to relate 'em," whispered Junius in the ear of Mrs. Rodenbaugh, the colonel's perpetual companion, this witticism causing the amply endowed widow to giggle hilariously.

  Montclair said, "A slight difference of opinion, sir. With a fellow I found on my lands, and who had no business being there."

  "Is that so, begad," piped Lord Spindle in his piercing falsetto. "Think it was one of these curst smuggler fellas, Montclair? They're becoming a confounded plague! Ought t'be took out and shot, every last one! And what do the authorities do? I ask you. Nothing! When's Geoffrey going t'put a stop to it, that's what I'd like to know? He's the Squire, after all."

  "You must have forgot, my lord, that Geoffrey is out of the country at the moment," said Lady Trent with the gushing sweetness she reserved for anyone above the rank of baronet.

  Montclair sprang at once to his brother's defence. "Besides, I doubt there'd be anything for him to do, sir. There's not much smuggling up here. That's more along the south coast, surely."

  "Beg to differ," put in Lord Thornleigh, his volume rattling the glasses. "They've expanded, by what I hear. Quite a surge of activity in the west country of late. I believe the authorities suspect a distribution centre somewhere between Bath and Bristol. Right, Spindle?"

  His lordship agreed, said it was a scandal, a national outrage, and that there was a deal more to it than smuggling brandy and the like. "Probably all part of this Masterpiece Gang," he added gloomily.

  Montclair's ears perked up. In Town the Bow Street Runner had spoken of that criminal band. He tried to insert a question, but was overridden by his aunt's shrill voice, which was in turn obliterated by an imperative demand that the guest of honour be informed of the thieves.

  It was the first time Valentine had ever seen Lady Trent shouted down. Amused, he caught Barbara's awed glance and sent a sly wink her way while my lord Thornleigh launched into a lengthy history of the Masterpiece Gan
g and their depredations.

  "And everything they've stole is irreplaceable," growled Ostrander. "Priceless old jewellery. National treasures. Robbed Britain, is what the dirty bounders have done! Curst revolutionaries, mark my words! Selective da— er, rascals too. Cannot recall exactly what they've made off with this year, but—"

  Spindle inserted, "They took a Bellini from poor old Jacob Chalfont just after Christmas. Broke the fella's heart!"

  "And a couple of Tintorettos from the British Museum—Montague House, you know," said Lady Thornleigh. "Not likely to find them again, now, are we?

  "Gad, no," agreed Spindle, allowing his wine glass to be refilled. "Last month they broke into Castle Gower in broad daylight while everyone was occupied with a garden party. Took the dowager duchess's ruby tiara. Most beautiful trinket. Seventeenth century, I think. Prinny always held it should've been kept at Windsor. He's fairly beside himself and blames the duke, instead of putting the blame where it lies—at Bow Street! And there have been other treasures too: diamonds, emerald necklaces—you'll recollect last year the Viscountess Chepstow was robbed at gunpoint in her carriage."

  "And they took some fabulous early crystal from…" began the Count di Volpe.

  Montclair did not hear the rest of the stout Italian's remark, for Madame la Comtesse de Bruinet, who had tired of the subject, enquired of him as to Geoffrey's whereabouts. He had heard much of the formidable Frenchwoman. Small but big-bosomed, she was rumoured to be five and sixty and looked ten years younger. Refusing to speak English and incredibly haughty, she was a leader of Polite Society. She had escaped Paris just before the Revolution, bringing trunks crammed with gold louis and jewels, which Montclair suspected had been acquired rather than inherited. She still showed traces of what had once been a dazzling beauty, but now her raddled cheeks were jowly, her eyelids had an almost perpetual droop, and her lips pulled down sneeringly at the corners. Once or twice during this interminable meal, however, her shrewd eyes had met his, and he'd thought to glimpse a lurking twinkle in their depths. A sense of humour would win his regard as no amount of wealth or social stature could do, and, intrigued, he warmed to the lady. If, as he suspected, she had been a highly successful courtesan, she would have reason to be amused both by her prestige in England, and by the adulation of the simpering snobs around his table.