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

by Veryan, Patricia

  "Have a care, Poll," jeered Trent. "If he wants her for himself, he'll likely give you a run for your money."

  "Well, he ain't running very fast right at the moment, is he?" Goaded, Pollinger gave an unexpectedly swift shove. Montclair staggered. Trent sprang to support him and said a derisive, "Egad, but you're a crude fellow, Poll. Don't you see this?" He giggled, and kicked the left crutch away.

  Inevitably, Montclair fell, but managed to land in the chair behind him.

  "Oh! For shame!" cried Susan, and started for him, but grinning triumphantly, Pollinger was also advancing on the helpless man. Montclair swung the crutch strapped to his right arm, and it whacked into Pollinger's bulging waistcoat.

  Pollinger said "Ooosh!" and sat on the floor, clutching his middle and gulping.

  Junius intercepted Susan, and said seductively, "Well, well, look what I found."

  "Let her—go, damn you," panted Montclair, trying to haul himself from the chair.

  Junius chuckled and held the struggling girl tighter. "Oh, but I think not."

  "That," murmured another voice, "is all too apparent."

  Trent jerked as though he had been struck. His eyes shot to the open door, and all the colour drained from his face.

  Susan tore free and turned to the newcomer.

  Tall, elegant, yet subtly menacing, Imre Monteil stood in the doorway, with Martha hovering anxiously behind him. The Swiss bowed. "I trust I am not de trop, dear lady?"

  "Not in the least de trop, monsieur," she said with a grateful smile.

  Monteil waved a dismissing hand, and Martha looked relieved and went away.

  "What d'you want here, Monteil?" demanded Junius with a guarded air of resentment.

  "I might ask the same of you, my dear. Were you to tell me you came to see your cousin, I could only point out that poor Valentine does not appear to be rendered ecstatic by your visit. And as for Mrs. Henley…" He tapped the jewelled handle of his Malacca cane against his lips, his unblinking gaze not for an instant leaving Trent. "I really must urge that you do not again bother her." His voice was very gentle, but something about his smile quite frightened Susan.

  Junius muttered sullenly, "Pollinger came to warn my cousin off, is all. From the start he has interfered with the betrothal. Makes my papa deuced angry, I don't mind telling you. And my mama."

  "Ah, I comprehend," purred Monteil. "So you are here to defend your sister's prospective marriage, are you, dear Junius? Commendable, but…"

  Susan did not hear the rest of his sentence. Whatever did the man mean? Barbara was Trent's sister, and she was betrothed to Montclair. Was there another sister, then… ? Vaguely she was aware that Junius was assisting Pollinger to his feet and that the Swiss gentleman was escorting the two vanquished warriors from the room. Recovering her wits, she saw Montclair trying to reach his crutch. "Oh, Valentine, you were superb," she said, retrieving the other crutch and handing it to him.

  He felt that her praise was ill warranted, for he was sure he'd made a poor showing in front of her, besides which he didn't like the way Monteil was always hanging about Highperch. "Is that why you look so flabbergasted?" he asked irritably, dragging himself upward.

  "I was a trifle surprised," Susan admitted. "I'd not realized the Trents had two daughters."

  "They don't."

  She stared at him. "But—but Barbara is betrothed to—to—"

  "To Pollinger," he frowned. "And cannot abide the creature. Small wonder. I'd thought you knew that, Mrs. Sue. Why d'you suppose I kept urging Babs to run away with—" He paused, her stunned expression bringing a belated comprehension. "By Jupiter! You thought Barbara—and I… ?" He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "Oho, what a rogue you must have judged me!"

  "How pleasant it is to find you so merry, dear Valentine," smiled Imre Monteil, strolling back into the room.

  Susan's emotions were rioting, and dreading lest she should betray her joy, she said warmly, "I am most grateful for your help, monsieur. You could scarce have arrived at a more opportune moment. Mr. Trent was behaving disgracefully."

  The Swiss was as delighted by her gratitude as Montclair was revolted by it. "I am overjoyed to have been of service," he said, patting her outstretched hand gently, "But I think your patient is wearied and should retire for the nap—no?"

  "Yes," snarled Montclair.

  "Well, you cannot," said Susan, her heart as light as thistledown. "You shall have to wait until the Bo'sun comes back and can help you upstairs."

  "Deemer will help me," he grunted, and added sourly, "Doubtless, you two have much to—talk over."

  "Mais non," said Monteil. "I shall myself carry you, dear Valentine. Ah, but what a resentful glare! Is it that you are afraid of being made to look helpless in front of the lady? I assure you, mon ami—"

  "Go—to the devil," flared Montclair, flushed and furious. And wielding the crutches unusually well, he dragged himself from the room.

  The Swiss spread his hands and shrugged ruefully. "Alas—it is that I am clumsy, yes?"

  "A little, perhaps." Susan looked after Montclair, her eyes sparkling. "But he has a surfeit of pride, and you meant well, monsieur." She saw Valentine pause in the corridor and start to turn to them. "Indeed," she went on, smiling at the Swiss, "you came very deedily to the rescue, sir."

  Monteil's eyes took on the brilliant gleam that was alarming, and even as she knew that she dared not flirt with this man (for whatever reason), he stepped very close, seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips. "To have been of some small service to the lovely widow is its own reward," he murmured.

  With a snort of disgust Montclair wrenched around and proceeded towards the stairs, his crutches slamming so hard at the floorboards that it was a wonder they did not go right through.

  Susan's guilty hope that her Swiss admirer would soon depart proved a vain one. The fact that she was not an unmarried damsel but a widow with a child made it quite convenable for her to entertain a gentleman in her home, and Monteil was aware of it. He was not a difficult guest, for he was sophisticated, erudite, a world traveller, and his conversation was fascinating. She suspected he was going out of his way to entertain her, and after her earlier encouragement, could scarcely blame the gentleman. As the afternoon slipped away he still showed no inclination to leave, and with the dinner hour not so far distant, she felt obliged to invite him to stay. He accepted as though she'd offered him a priceless gift, and Deemer showed him to a hastily prepared bedchamber where he might rest and refresh himself.

  Not ten minutes later, Valentine rang his bell, and Martha brought Susan a message that if it was convenient, this evening he would like to take dinner downstairs. 'He probably thinks it improper that I should entertain the gentleman alone,' thought Susan, amused. But she was relieved also, and retiring to the chamber she occupied until her patient left, she dressed herself with great care.

  She selected a gown of dark pink satin that she'd not worn since Burke had taken her to a dinner party in honour of the betrothal of Camille Damon and the Lady Sophia Drayton. That had been two years ago, just before poor Burke's disgrace had burst upon them so devastatingly. Waistlines had dropped since then, and the pink satin still had the high-waisted look. She knew it became her, none the less, and with her hair swept up into gleaming coils on her head, and little curling tendrils beside her ears, she hoped their guests might not notice the somewhat outdated style of the gown. She added an enamelled clasp to her coiffure, and fastening the dainty garnet necklace that was a legacy from her mother, felt as excited as if this was a very special party. She discovered that she was singing softly, and she knew very well why.

  He was not betrothed to poor little Barbara Trent! Far from bullying and abusing the girl into an unwanted marriage, he had fought her parents in an effort to spare her. He loved Barbara, but as one loves a dear cousin—not as a sweetheart.

  Humming, Susan went down to the kitchen. Starry had left strict instructions with Martha and Deemer before she l
eft, and the tantalizing aromas testified that dinner was well under way. Grateful that she had been spared most of the work, Susan thanked the busy cooks and went off to prepare the dining table. By the time she was finished it looked charming, with fresh flowers brightening the big table and crystal and silverware sparkling. Pleased, she went into the withdrawing room to await her guests, hoping that Starry would get back soon.

  It had been a long day, and she fought a tendency to become dreamy. Montclair dominated her thoughts. She reminded herself sternly of his many faults. He personified the artistic temperament with his fiery angers and lightning changes of mood. He was argumentative and cynical and far too full of pride. But—she had also seen a tenderness in his eyes that awoke a frightening emotion in her own heart; he was all gentleness with little Priscilla, who fairly adored him, and he was brave also. When his loathsome cousin had sent him tumbling into that chair, she'd been sure he would be rendered quite helpless, and the memory of how efficiently he had wielded his crutch, and with what a thud Sir Dennis had met the floorboards, made her chuckle.

  Valentine was fond of her, she knew that. Fond—or grateful for what she had done; and he was angry because he probably thought Monteil had offered her a carte blanche. She sighed faintly. Even if he didn't believe the worst of her, should anything happen to his brother before Lord Geoffrey set up his nursery, Valentine would become Baron Montclair, and a fine uproar it would cause if his lordship stooped to wed the notorious Widow Henley. She was shocked then to realize how far her dreams had carried her, and her heart sank.

  Wolfgang, who had been snoozing with his head on her slipper, leapt up and darted from the room, yipping frantically, and a few seconds later she heard the Bo'sun's voice in the front hall, and Priscilla came dancing in, the dog leaping beside her.

  Susan stood and the little girl flung herself into her arms, squealing, "Mama, Mama! I getted my new specs and I c'n see better than anybody. Do you like them? Look, Mama!" She tilted her small head upwards, posing, her eyes huge with excitement, and her cheeks bright as two roses.

  Putting off the crumpled bonnet, Susan admired the new spectacles, and the child gabbled on. "We had the loveliest time, Mama. Bo'sun George buyed me a ice, and I only dripped a teensy bit on Starry's dress, an' there were so many people, an' we seed the Abbey, which is big, an' the Bo'sun said we went past Bloody Meadows, but I din't see no blood, and Starry was cross with him for using bad words, which he said he wasn't, but she wouldn't talk to him no more, I mean any more, an' he got sad, so I had to ask her to please make him not sad, 'cause I like him better when he's not sad, don't you, Mama? And—oooh! You look beautiful!"

  Priscilla's admiration was echoed by Mrs. Starr, who hurried into the room apologizing profusely for their late return.

  "We have an unexpected guest," said Susan.

  The little lady threw a darkling glance toward the ceiling. "So I heard, Mrs. Sue."

  "Did you also hear that the gentleman rendered us a great service?"

  Mrs. Starr sighed. "Aye. So we must be properly grateful, I collect. Well, dinner will be ready on time, I promise you."

  "It smells magnif'cent," said Priscilla. "An' I'm hungrier than a hogsbody!"

  "Priscilla! A well-bred young lady does not use such ugly expressions!"

  The child laughed merrily. "The Bo'sun's not a young lady, Mama!"

  "Just as I thought," exclaimed Mrs. Starr, scandalized. "That man wants for manners, Mrs. Sue!"

  "No, he doesn't," said Priscilla. "He wants you, Starry. I heard him tell you that by the sausages today, an' you said—"

  "My gracious, what will the child say next?" gasped Mrs. Starr, and fled, very pink in the face.

  Susan struggled to suppress a smile, and watching her anxiously, Priscilla said, "Mama, Bo'sun George really did say that, an' I don't—" Glancing to the side, she interrupted herself. "Mr. Val! Did you see… my… ?" her words faded into awed silence.

  Propped by his crutches, Montclair stood in the doorway. For the first time since his arrival he was formally dressed in a brown tailcoat, cream waistcoat, and fawn pantaloons, and contrived to look elegant, despite the splints, and the fact that he was obliged to wear a slipper on one foot.

  He gave a rather embarrassed grin and said, "Deemer valeted me. Ma'am, may I say you look—"

  His words were drowned by Priscilla's squeaks. "Oh," she cried hilariously, "you look so funny in your evening dress, Mr. Val, with your pan'loons all torn, an'—"

  "That will do!" said Susan, in a tone she seldom employed to the child. "Apologize to Mr. Montclair at once, and then you may go to your room!"

  Shocked and frightened, Priscilla's lower lip trembled as she offered her apologies, then ran from the room with a muffled sob.

  Montclair frowned. "I fancy she did but speak truth, ma'am. I must indeed look funny, and she is only a child, after all."

  Wishing she had not spoken quite so harshly, and all too aware of the reason, Susan said, "She must learn it is not proper for a child to speak so, but I wish I had not—" She smiled wryly. "But it does not do to turn about, you know, when the damage is done."

  "Or the good," he said with an immediate answering smile. "I am very sure she will exercise more caution the next time, and—who knows?—she might feel obliged to tell my uncle his—er, nether garments looked 'funny,' and then the fat would be in the fire!"

  Grateful for his whimsical lightness, Susan chuckled.

  Montclair made his clumsy way closer to her and said in a caressing tone, "Do you know how lovely you are when you laugh, Mrs. Sue?"

  He looked really earnest, and her silly pulses were riotous because he stood so close and the amber flecks in his eyes were so bright. Faith, but it was enough to make one doubt one's mental processes! "Thank you," she said. And returning to the sofa, fighting to be sensible, added prosaically, "Deemer was a valet at one time. The poor fellow is a sort of underpaid major domo now, as you've seen, but he valets Andy, and very well, I think."

  Montclair had hoped to sit beside her, but the splints restricted him, and the sofa was too difficult to escape from. With a slight frown he lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair. "Yes, Deemer is a very good man. I feel downright guilty that I've taken so much of his time. I cannot think why Gould has not come to me. You'd not object to his presence here, surely?"

  For an instant Susan froze. She said, "I must have forgot to tell you, Mr. Valentine. Lady Trent sent word that your man could not come because there is a regular outbreak of mumps at Longhills, and she fears lest you might catch it in your weakened condition."

  He muttered, puzzled, "Yet they were eager for me to go home. At all events, I had mumps as a child, so that is no threat, is it?"

  "Er—no. But—Priscilla has not had it, you see."

  He looked at her steadily. "And if it had not been Priscilla, it would have been Starry, or Martha, or perhaps your brother who has not been exposed to the ailment. Any excuse, eh, Mrs. Sue."

  Her heart hammering, she said, "Whatever do you mean?"

  "You know perfectly well. Come now, own up. It is very clear that your people are so overworked you have to perform many menial tasks yourself. I am greatly in your debt and most eager to help. I offer you the services of my excellently trained maids, which logically you should accept. Yet you very stubbornly refuse them. Why?"

  "Well—that is exactly it, you see," she stammered. "I quite believe that your maids are excellently trained and—and likely most superior, and accustomed to working in a great house, and—"

  "Good heavens," he exclaimed. "Do you fancy my employees to consider themselves above working at High-perch?"

  "Well—no, of course not. But—well, we go along very simply, and—"

  "Which will likely be a welcome change of pace for them." Triumphant, he said, "I shall write a note requiring Gould to bring two girls he knows to be industrious and good workers, which is all we need be concerned with, no?"

  "Most certainly not! Sir, ther
e is a great deal more to being a good servant than simply to work hard. I had rather have a somewhat inept girl who is kind and can be pleasant with her fellow workers than—"

  He laughed. "Ah—so that's it! You women with your so easily ruffled feathers! Good heavens, ma'am, all they've to do is what they're told."

  "And how if they quarrel and scratch at each other all day? I suppose you men would not give a button for that!"

  "No, of course not. I never saw a group of females yet but what they scratched at each other, however sweetly."

  "Oh! Infamous!" she exclaimed, but was unable to repress a smile.

  "Then it is settled," he went on firmly. "Gould will bring two maids and instruct them that they are coming here to please you and do their work properly. If they don't, only tell 'em you will report their behaviour to me and they'll be turned off."

  "As if I would do such a thing to someone else's servants!"

  "Lord above! What a storm in a teapot! Then I'll tell 'em! But I mean to send for them, I promise you."

  She rose, her eyes flashing. "And I promise you that I'll have no mumpy servants here! And it is not a storm in a teapot!"

  "Dear me," murmured Imre Monteil, coming gracefully into the room. "Have you put our lovely hostess out of patience with you already, Valentine?" Smiling admiringly at the flushed Susan, he advanced to bow over her hand. "Vraiment, but I cannot wonder at it. Any man who would babble of teapots to a goddess deserves her contempt."

  His eyes smiled up at her above the red lips that were touching her fingers again, and she could have wept because by his very intervention and his unfortunate choice of words, this foolish discussion suddenly took on the aspects of a major quarrel. Before she could speak, however, Montclair had taken up the gauntlet.

  "Then I must pay heed to your babblings, monsieur," he said stiffly. "I had not thought to have earned Mrs. Henley's contempt, but no doubt the lady finds your wit more endearing than my poor efforts."

  "I did not say I held you in contempt, Mr. Montclair," began Susan.

  "But of course, for you are too gently kind to make such a remark, even if you felt it," inserted the Swiss, bowing her to a chair and drawing another as close to it as was possible. "For myself I count it an honour and a privilege to find a topic that will please so enchanting a lady."