Lady Trent was ranting on about "the late dear princess," and how deeply afflicted she had been by that young lady's tragic death in childbirth. All England had been stunned by that profound tragedy, but Montclair could recollect very clearly his aunt's screaming rage because she had been obliged to cancel a dinner party. Her remarks about the princess's folly in marrying "that prim German boy" had been so vitriolic that one would never have suspected her to be anything but vexed by Princess Charlotte's having chosen to die at so inconvenient a moment.
It chanced that by the unfailing route of the servants' hall, the tale of my lady's fury had reached the comtesse's ears. Disgusted by Lady Trent's present show of hypocrisy, she glanced at Montclair and surprised his lurking smile. With a soft chuckle she leaned to him, lifting a hand that was heavy with gems.
"Bien sur embrasse-moi, mon petit."
Very aware that Junius's pose had slipped and that his cousin was looking daggers at him, Valentine said gravely, "Avec le plus grand plaisir, madame," and saluted her fingers.
Junius tittered audibly.
Madame la Comtesse put up her lorgnette fan and surveyed him through a hushed and awful moment from which he was rescued when his mother rose hurriedly and led the ladies from the room. Demurely in the rear of the august train, Barbara's face was brightened by silent laughter.
The gentlemen lingered over their port and nuts, but at last Montclair was able to conduct the small male group across the great hall, into the south hall and thence down the steps, through the conservatory, and into the gallery where the ladies had gathered. This was not Montclair's favourite room, perhaps because of the half-a-hundred ancestors who stared down from their ornate frames. Since impromptu dances were often held in here, a fine piano-forte stood in the deep alcove midway between the vast central hearth and the rear wall, and Madame la Comtesse lost no time in observing that she had agreed to come to Longhills because she had heard that Montclair played divinely. Fixed with a basilisk stare, my lady Trent swallowed her fury, and in a voice that shook slightly implored her nephew to oblige them. "Why don't you play that new little thing you writ, dearest boy," she said, her lips curling back as though she yearned to bite him.
'That new little thing'… Gritting his teeth, Montclair made his way to the piano-forte. The instrument had far more power than the harpsichord; at least Aunt Marcia would be quite unable to make herself heard. The Honourable Jemima promptly volunteered to turn the sheets for "clever Mr. Montclair," but he foiled that ploy by saying with pseudo-regret that he needed no music, and thus was spared the young lady's way of pulling her chair very close, edging ever closer and flirting in the over-coy but determined way that was so appalling.
He launched into his music, losing himself in it until the roar of applause greeted the final chord. The Honourable Jemima rushed to take his hand and declare that she was "all admiration." Madame la Comtesse was ecstatic, his cousin Barbara was reduced to tears, the other guests, who wouldn't know an Irish jig from an oratorio, applauded to please the comtesse, while Junius, who admired the Honourable Jemima, seethed.
Another hour dragged by before Madame la Comtesse decreed that she had been here long enough, and departed, expressing her thanks with cold hauteur to Sir Selby and Lady Marcia, but patting Montclair's cheek, and murmuring, "Charmant, Maestro! Le plus charmant!" The Spindles also left, bearing the Honourable Jemima with them. The remaining guests, the Trents and their son, were avid gamesters. They settled down to their cards and since they would likely play until the wee hours, Barbara was sent off to bed, and Montclair was able to slip quietly away.
Before going upstairs, he went out onto the terrace for a breath of air. He was very weary, but the evening had not been a complete loss. Because the mighty comtesse had apparently taken a liking to him, his aunt's nose was properly out of joint, and Junius could cheerfully have rent him limb from limb.
Chuckling to himself, he glanced to the left. Deep in the shadows at the far end of the terrace, something had moved. One of the servants, likely. "Hello," he called. "Who's there?"
Save for a cool night wind that whispered among the shrubs, the silence was absolute. Montclair tensed. His eyes were very keen, and he was sure he could distinguish a darker shape, standing very still. "The devil!" he muttered. "Hey! You there!" Grabbing a flower pot he sprang forward. Perhaps his weariness and then the sudden movement set it off, and dizziness struck hard, the terrace swinging under his feet so that he weaved drunkenly. Candlelight glowed at an open upper window. Barbara's voice called a vaguely anxious, "Val? Is that you?"
Montclair had managed to reach the deeper darkness under the beech trees. He was sure that someone stood mute and still, very close to him. His vision was blurring, and he drew an impatient hand across his eyes. When he looked up the dark figure was drifting away. "Stand!" he gasped, waving his flower pot.
An arm was about him. Gould's voice, sharp with concern, asked, "Are you all right, sir?"
"Somebody… here…" he managed thickly.
Barbara called, "What is it? Is he ill again?"
Gould looked up at her. "A little too much wine I think, Miss Trent."
"I—tell you," mumbled Montclair, "there was… somebody…"
"Yes, sir," said Gould soothingly. "Let me give you a hand, Mr. Valentine. Here we go, sir. Have you in bed in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
On this sunny morning Susan had awoken to the strains of some Castilian ditty, sung regrettably off-key as usual. When she descended the stairs forty minutes later, the howls had ceased, and the perpetrator was standing on the front steps throwing his arms wide and breathing deeply.
"Good morning, Senor Angelo," called Susan.
He bowed, then announced he was "riding forego!" and marched off stablewards.
Bo'sun George Dodman came along the corridor, carrying a large painting. He greeted her in his shy way, the sunlight waking his red hair to a flame, the usual cheerful grin brightening his square sun-bronzed face and deepening the laugh lines that edged the green eyes. "You're up early, ma'am, and looking mighty trim a'low and aloft, if I may say so."
"Thank you, Bo'sun. What are you going to do with that monstrosity?"
He turned the painting and viewed it without delight. "Horrid, isn't it, Mrs. Sue? But"—his voice lowered— "the little widow wants it cleaned. So—cleaned it must be. I only hope she won't be disappointed when I've done." Suddenly despondent, he sighed heavily. "I'd like to please her, ma'am."
Susan smiled. In this house of widows she was invariably referred to as 'Mrs. Sue,' while Edwina Starr was 'the little widow.' The painting looked like nothing more than a collection of dark brown swirls, but as the Bo'sun swung the kitchen door open she said encouragingly that there might be a pretty picture under all that dirt, in which case Starry would indeed be pleased.
The kitchen was bright with sunlight and fragrant with the aromas of bacon, freshly baked scones, and coffee. Priscilla, sampling a scone, turned from the stove and ran to collect her morning kiss.
"Mama! I'm so glad you waked yourself up at last! Uncle Andy has almost finished mending my doll house an' it's just 'dorable, an' I want to paint it. He said I could if I liked, but the Bo'sun won't let me have any paint. Will you make him get some out of his pot for me, Mama? Just a teensy scrinch? There must be enough for a tiny little house if there's enough for that hugeous big boat!" She looked sternly at the miser. "He's just being uncoproff'tive."
"Now Miss Priscilla, don't bother your poor mama the moment you see her," scolded Mrs. Starr, studiedly unaware of Dodman's admiring gaze. "Come and sit here, Mrs. Sue, your breakfast's all ready. Did you sleep well?Such a chilly night for this time of year. Never stand there like a lump, Bo'sun. I've cut you a raw potato, it's in the bowl over there. You'll likely want to take it into the Hall where you'll have more room to work."
"Yes, ma'am." He collected the potato and proceeded with lagging steps towards the door that led into the Servants' Hall.
Her eye
s very round, Priscilla asked, "Aren't you going to cook it for him, Starry?"
Susan laughed. "Bo'sun George had his breakfast already, darling. He is going to clean the picture, and the potato is a—a sort of paint soap."
"Unless," said Mrs. Starr, who had timed to a nicety the closing of the door, "the Bo'sun would care to work at the counter by the sink, and have another cup of coffee."
His eyes lighting up, Dodman fairly shot back into the room.
Susan stirred cream into her cup. "Real coffee, Starry? Can we afford it?"
Her colour somewhat heightened as she carried a cup over to the industrious man at the counter, the little woman answered with a wink. "Depends upon where we buy it, dear ma'am. This pound wasn't weighted down with government taxes, you may be sure."
Susan's brows lifted. She said innocently, "Free Traders, Starry? Here? You surprise me."
Dodman joined in the laughter, caught Mrs. Starr's eyes, reddened, and hurriedly restored his attention to the canvas.
"I'm s'prised that with all that paint, the Bo'sun can't spare a teensy scrinch for my doll house," sighed Priscilla, standing on tiptoe to watch the results of his efforts. "It seems very mean an' unkindly to bedredge a little child a drib of paint when she needs it so drefful bad."
"That should be 'begrudge,'" said Mrs. Starr, buttering another scone. "Come and sit down at table with your mama, now."
Priscilla clambered onto the chair beside her mother. "Don't you think the Bo'sun is a greedy great hog, Mama?" she enquired. "He's got so much paint and all I want—"
"Is a lesson in manners," said Susan. "Little girls do not call grown-up men greedy great hogs!"
"But, Mama, the Bible says 'Thou shalt not bear false witness' an' if the Bo'sun reely is a—"
Mrs. Starr turned away, a hand over her smile, then scowled and removed Welcome from the sink.
"The Bible also says 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' " And seeing that pretty little mouth start quite predictably to open, Susan added, "Which means friends as well. And also it says, 'Thou shalt not covet.'"
"I don't, Mama! I wouldn't never do that 'cause I don't know what a covet is."
"It's wishing you had something that belongs to someone else. And the Bo'sun has very little paint. Oh, I know it seems a lot to you, dear, but really it may not even be enough for all the work he has to do on The Dainty Dancer, and we can't afford another big pot. Besides," she spread some raspberry jam on her scone, "I think, if it was my doll house, I wouldn't want white paint. Have some jam, my love. Did she eat her egg, Starry?"
"Yes, I eated it all up," said Priscilla, "and Wolfgang eated his breakfast too, din't he, Starry? An' has we got some other paint, Mama? I'd 'ticlarly like red, if poss'ble."
"Red!" said Mrs. Starr, with a furtive smile at Susan. "Whoever heard of a red house?"
"The elfs did," argued Priscilla. "In that book you read me, Mama. 'Member? The elfs lived in a little shoe house an' it was all bright and red an' cosy. Red's a cosy colour, don't you 'gree, Bo'sun George?"
Dodman glanced uneasily at Mrs. Starr's bright eyes, which were immediately averted. "Can't say that I do, Miss Priscilla. Red's a colour that doesn't please some folks, who think that red hair, for instance, stands for bad temper." Mrs. Starr emitting a small snort, he went on innocently, "Not in my case, of course, for everyone knows that I'm a very peaceable man and like a quiet life, y'see."
Priscilla squealed delightedly, Susan could not restrain a laugh, and although Mrs. Starr tried to look indifferent, she was won to a smile. She often remarked in Dodman's hearing that she could not abide a man who was forever brawling. It was well known that the Bo'sun had often resorted to fisticuffs in the taverns near their London home. And however often Andrew would explain that Dodman was only defending the honour of the family name, and that someone had ventured a disparaging remark about Burke Henley's suicide, the 'little widow' would doggedly hold to her opinion that there was never a need for violence.
When Susan finished her breakfast, Mrs. Starr gave her the list of things to be purchased from Amberly Down. At once, Priscilla put in her bid for a particularly vital item. Susan explained patiently why this was not possible; Mrs. Starr tried diversionary tactics; the Bo'sun smiled and worked busily. And the end of it was that when Susan walked onto the front steps in her riding habit, a small pot of red paint (if affordable) had been added to her list.
Outside, Deemer led up Pewter, the silver grey mare snorting and sidling in her pretty way, eager to be gone on this bright morning. With a worried look the butler handed Susan a letter. "Came by special messenger, Mrs. Sue," he said.
Susan said she would read it later and rode away, waving merrily to Priscilla, who came out onto the steps to watch her leave. Once out of sight of the cottage she guided Pewter into the shade of some trees, and broke the seal. Her apprehensions were justified; the letter was from a solicitor in Gloucester, written in behalf of Lord Montclair. Brief and to the point, it stated that Mrs. Henley was trespassing on Longhills property; that Highperch Cottage had been sold to Mr. Ezra Henley in January 1811, but was bought back by Lady Digby Montclair in November of that same year, after Mr. Ezra Henley had repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with the premises. Further, that all pertinent deeds and documents were in the hands of Messrs. Ferry, Laidlaw, and Ferry, at the above address. Wherefore, Mrs. Burke Henley was hereby formally advised that she, her family, friends, servants, and livestock must remove from the dwelling known as Highperch Cottage, a part of the Longhills preserves, prior to the 15th inst. In the event she had not vacated the premises by that date, bailiffs would be sent to effect the removal, at which time Lord Montclair would institute legal proceedings against her.
Heartsick, Susan spurred the willing Pewter to a gallop and tore through the brilliant morning trying to shut out her worries.
She found herself dwelling on the memory of a pair of angry dark eyes and two long narrow hands of surprising strength, which had appropriated her (dirty) mob-cap. She had been quite aware that Lord Montclair was unprincipled and ruthless, but only a man of extremely unpleasant character would deliberately frighten a little child. And very soon now this nasty man would face her brother with a loaded pistol in his hand. Andy was an excellent shot, but…
Here was the lane the Bo'sun had said would take her straight to the village. Troubled, Susan turned Pewter onto the rutted surface and rode eastward.
Chapter 6
It was a glorious day, the kind that comes sometimes in spring and splashes all nature with brilliance so that everything looks new-washed and sparkling. The air was cool and bracing and fragrant with the scents of June; the sky azure, with only a few puffy clouds here and there. Perfect weather for a gallop and Montclair loved to ride, yet today he rode with a frown, heedless of the beauty of colourful flower beds, laburnum trees that were a blaze of gold, the headily fragrant violet of lilacs, or the lush emerald of the park's ancient turf. Lost in thought, his dark eyes were grim, his lips set in a thin hard line. He leaned forward in the saddle, instinctively steadying Allegro as the big horse thundered towards the brook. It was a tricky jump, but the stallion soared into the air, clearing the far bank with ease and racing on unchecked.
The incident last night, thought Montclair, had been the final confirmation. If Barbara had not opened her window, if Gould had not chanced to come outside, his own tale might have been told. It was not pleasant to know that someone wanted him dead, but it must be faced. He swore angrily. So—what now? He had no proof to carry to Bow Street. Even if they believed what he told them, what could they do, save to assign one of their men to guard him? "Gad," he muttered with revulsion.
He could hire a guard privately, of course. But the vexation would be the same. And when all was said and done, what use would it be? He knew his temper; sooner or later he would be unable to stand constant surveillance, and would dismiss his protector. If the enemy had been patient, he would strike then. Besides, to a determined assassin, the
presence of a guard would likely pose no problem. A pistol or a rifle could be fired from cover and bring down his quarry no matter how many guards had been hired.
He took the far hill in a blur of speed. At the summit, Allegro was beginning to blow, and Montclair reined up and gazed unseeingly on the serene beauty of the ancient village spread below them.
Junius, beyond doubting, harboured a malevolent hatred for him. Lurking under his suave and gentle manner, Uncle Selby's dislike for all the Montclairs was intense; and Valentine was quite aware that Aunt Marcia detested him as thoroughly. But withal they were of the same family, and blood truly is thicker than water. Besides, it was said that, discounting insanity, there are only four motives for murder: passion, financial gain, self-protection, and power.
He had fancied himself in love several times while he was at University, but since he'd come down he'd had small opportunity to seek the company of women, and those he'd met had done nothing to divert his mind from its preoccupations with Longhills and his music.
Nor did financial gain apply, since he was not a wealthy man. He had a comfortable inheritance that had come to him from his late grandmother, but it was scarcely sufficient to tempt anyone to murder, and besides, if he died the residue was earmarked for grand-mama's favourite charity. Certainly, none of the Trents had anything to gain by his death. Junius was fourth in line of succession to the title and estates, and would become Baron Montclair of Longhills only after Geoffrey, himself, and Uncle Hampton Montclair had left this earthly coil. Furthermore, had his erratic brother taken a wife and set up his nursery during his long absence, Junius's hopes might have dwindled another step—or even two!
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 9