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

by Veryan, Patricia

  He said heatedly, "You see? You should not even know such a term! Lyddford does not protect you properly, Sue! Dash it all, I—"

  "Do wish to… protect me?"

  "Assuredly! And if Imre Monteil has offered to—"

  Very pale, she rounded on him. "Monsieur Monteil has never made me an offer of any kind, sir!"

  "Well, he will, let me tell you, which isn't surprising!"

  "Indeed?" she said, controlling herself with an effort. "He has been a perfect gentleman, and if—"

  "Perfect gentleman, is it? The way the beastly fellow leers at you makes my skin creep! How you can bear to let him slobber over you I don't—"

  "Slobber?" she echoed, her voice becoming unwontedly shrill. "Your charm of manner, sir, is exceeded only by your arrogance! Whatever else, he does not—that is, I would not— And—and besides, when I came to your silly Folly, Mr. Valentine Montclair, it was to help a hurt human being. I did not expect to be insulted in return!"

  He stared at her resentfully. "Insulted! However could I have deluded myself into thinking I was being generous?"

  "And however can I withstand such noble condescension?" she said, quivering with wrath. "La, but it passes understanding!"

  "The devil!" Furious, he swung closer to her.

  Susan took a few hurried paces to the rear, but rushed on, "It was not bad enough to insult me, you must say vile things behind his back about a gentleman who has been nothing but kind and—and helpful!"

  "Aye, he'll be kind, I'll warrant! And he'll 'help' you straight into the—"

  "Yes, malign him—as you mocked my new workmen and called them 'disgusting hedgehogs'! They might not be Corinthian dandies—"

  "Dandies! Now if that isn't—"

  "—but they, at the least, have never spoken one improper word to me, and—"

  "I should think not, by God!" His eyes glittering, he said, "Only tell me who—"

  "—and furthermore, I am perfectly satisfied with their work, so—"

  "Work? What work? Be dashed if I've seen them do aught! I vow they're lazier than my lazy gardener, and if what I suspect is—"

  Suspect? Now came fear to add to her misery. Facing it bravely, she demanded, "Now what do you imply? Of what do you suspect us, sir? Do you think it probable that we have stolen the—the Montclair Mermaid from your fountain, perhaps?"

  "Egad, woman, but you're high in the instep! And you speak of my pride! All I tried for was—"

  "I am all too aware of what you tried for! But do not feel obliged to limit your reviling of us, sir! I heard there was a plot afoot only a year or so ago to kidnap the Prince Regent. Perhaps you think we have him tucked away in our cellar!"

  She was white with hurt and anger, but Montclair's wrath was cooling, and he said impatiently, "Don't sneer at me, blast it! This is all so ridiculous! I don't—"

  "You do not wish to be bored by someone ridiculous," she said with superb hauteur. "But of course. I shall send the Bo'sun to help you. Although perhaps you will not feel perfectly safe with him, since you doubtless suspect him as well!"

  "Oh, I do, for he is always slipping away somewhere. I'd fancied he was—"

  "Organizing an uprising of the villagers against you?" she sneered.

  "No, you must do better than that, ma'am. Let us have him rather occupying a sinister hut in the woods, where he breeds—ah, man-eating moles, perhaps."

  His lips quirked and a dance of laughter came into his eyes. Almost won to an answering smile, Susan remembered his offer, and a fierce pang transfixed her. Suddenly overwhelmed and tearful, she all but ran from him.

  Exasperated, Montclair followed her slowly. The ways of women, he thought, were indeed inexplicable. 'And despite all the fustian she spoke, she did not answer my question. She did not say whether she really cares for that wart Monteil…'

  At the foot of the steps he paused, glancing up. Two ladders, unoccupied at present, were propped against the east front of the house. Jove, if the beautiful but provoking widow hadn't made him forget all about the paint! The trim had been partially restored to a soft cream. He smiled faintly. He'd never really believed she would make good her threat to use that garish red or the purple he had substituted. His inspection was interrupted abruptly, and he cried a startled "Hey!" as he was swept up from either side and carried up the steps.

  "Bit too much fer yer, mate?" said a hoarse voice in his right ear.

  He had barely time to glimpse a hairy, dirty face under a battered old hat; then he was set down and the even more disreputable individual on his left was shoving the crutch under his arm. 'Mrs. Sue's fine new workmen,' thought Montclair cynically, settling the crutches and scanning a man who might very well be taken for a third-rate pickpocket. He wore a patch over one eye, and the other managed always to avoid a direct glance. His hat was an abomination over an untidy mop of black, greasy hair, and his ragged clothing, several sizes too large, hung loosely from a pair of sagging shoulders. "Worse goin' up than comin' dahn, ain't it, guv," he said in a nasal whine. "We thought as we'd give yer a bit of a hoist, like."

  "Good deed fer the day," called the first vagrant, shambling off.

  "Yes. Er—well, I'm obliged," said Montclair, eyeing the unlovely pair without delight.

  "Cor! Look whatcha bin an' gorn an' done, Seth," called the first man, climbing his ladder.

  Montclair glanced down, and swore. There was a generous smear of cream paint on the sleeve of his blue coat.

  "Luwa duck," moaned Seth, and taking out a filthy kerchief added what appeared to be coal dust and a scattering of tobacco leaves to the disaster zone.

  "Let be," said Montclair indignantly, shoving his hand away.

  "Clumsy block," leered the first man, dipping his brush in the paint pot.

  "Jest tryin' ter be of 'elp, Dicky," whined Seth.

  "Your best help will be to get back to work," said Montclair, fuming over the ruin of his coat, but unable to scold since the bumbling oafs may have been sincerely trying to help him.

  Seth retreated to his ladder, and clambered upward, groaning about his "poor tired bones," and then engaging in a whispered conversation with his cohort.

  Montclair frowned from one to the other.

  Dicky leered down at him. "Was yer waitin' fer some more 'elp, guv?" he enquired with bland insolence.

  'Heaven forbid!' thought Montclair. "I was waiting to see you get back to work," he replied pithily.

  "Right y'are, sir!" Seth dipped the brush deeply, and swung it out.

  Montclair manoeuvred the crutches desperately, and avoided most of the flying paint. "Take care, damn you!" he cried angrily.

  "Sorry, guv," leered Seth.

  Dicky pointed out sagely, "Bad luck ter stand under a ladder, mate."

  "Worse luck to be impertinent while standing on one," snapped Montclair, balancing himself on his right foot and dealing Seth's ladder a whack with his crutch.

  Seth screamed loudly and clung to the ladder like a terrified monkey.

  Somewhat appeased but with the unhappy conviction that paint was trickling down his forehead, Montclair turned to enter the house. He thought he heard a muffled laugh and jerked about angrily.

  The suspects were industriously and soberly at work.

  "Confounded hedgehogs," he muttered, and swung himself inside.

  For the balance of the day Susan contrived to elude Montclair. She felt wrapped in a grey despair, and fought it by immersing herself in the many tasks that had been postponed owing to the presence of an invalid in the house. The rugs in the lower hall and the entrance hall were rolled up and carried outside to be thoroughly beaten. She next decided that the furniture arrangement in the withdrawing room did not please her, and she required Martha and Deemer to help her improve it. Meanwhile, the dining room rugs joined those in the back garden, to be attacked with gusto (and some whispered imprecations) by the Bo'sun.

  At three o'clock, drawn by the uproar, Valentine peered over the balcony rail into such a maelstrom of
activity that he retreated in horror. He sat at the window of his bedchamber looking out at the golden afternoon and thinking of his brother. Uncle Selby had told him that when he'd first been attacked, a letter had been despatched to Geoff's last known address advising that he was near death. That had been better than five weeks ago, which meant it was not yet even halfway to India. By the time Geoff came home he would probably be completely well again. He was almost well now—except for his hand. He removed the sling he was required to wear when not using his crutches, and held his arm out straight. He was almost sure his broken leg had mended. Surely then, his hand should have healed also, but his efforts to move the fingers were unavailing.

  "Hello, Mr. Val," called Priscilla. "Won't they wriggle yet?"

  He turned eagerly to the child, glad of her company, and she danced in with Wolfgang beside her, and stared curiously at the inanimate fingers. "Has you tried bending 'em yourself?"

  "No. The doctor said I must not."

  "Oh—him," she said, unimpressed.

  He chuckled. "You don't care for Dr. Sheswell, Lady Priscilla?"

  She shook her head decidedly. "Uncle Angelo calls him a wallet in the wind and says he hides his teeth. Miss Babs laughed and laughed, and Uncle Angelo said his soul she makes sing."

  Valentine, also laughing, lifted his brows at this. "Does she, indeed?"

  "Well, that's what he said. I wonder if his soul is singing on The Dainty Dancer. Do grown-ups always have singing souls when they're in love, Mr. Val?"

  He stared at her, then said slowly, "It's a nice thought. Did you make it up yourself?"

  "No. Uncle Angelo telled Miss Babs 'bout it. I like Miss Babs. She talks so soft, when she's not crying. She does cry a lot." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Even more than Mama. I 'spect that's why Angelo's always hugging her better."

  "Is he, by Jove! Er—do you see her often?"

  "He lets me walk over there with him, in the afternoons sometimes. He won't let me ask Mama if I can go after my bedtime."

  Incredulous, he asked, "Do you say that Senor Angelo goes to the Manor to take dinner with Sir Selby Trent?"

  "No. He jus' meets Miss Babs in that little garden house on the hill."

  Montclair thought, 'Why that slippery Spaniard! Junius will break him in half if he catches him!' He frowned thoughtfully. He had promised his cousin he would not allow her to be forced into marriage with Pollinger, but an impoverished Spaniard was scarcely a satisfactory substitute. Unless Babs had given him her heart, of course. And what a bumble broth that would be! There was no doubt of Uncle Selby's reaction. As for Aunt Marcia—

  "'Scuse me, but—do you, Mr. Val?" asked Priscilla, out of patience.

  "My apologies, milady. I didn't hear what you said."

  "No, 'cause your ears were off somewhere else," she said accusingly. "I asked you where you think Dr. Shes'ell hides his teeth." She leaned closer and whispered with high drama, "I wouldn't be s'prised if it was in the cellar."

  Amused, he tugged one of her ringlets. "You scamp. Is this a new story for us to make up?"

  "No! I don't want a story about him. Or his friend. I like him worse than Dr. Shes'ell."

  "Which friend? My uncle?"

  "No. The tall man who calls on Mama. He's got dead eyes, and his hands are like lard. Ugh!"

  Valentine leaned forward. "What makes you think Monsieur Monteil is a friend of Dr. Sheswell?"

  "I seed them together one night. It was all Wolfgang's fault. He'd goed out for a little run, but he din't come back, so I had to find him, only I found them 'stead, over by the bridge, talking whispery. I 'tended they was Roundheads, an' I was a Royalist spy, an' I creeped up on them an' listened to their secret plans."

  She crouched, looking very melodramatically furtive, and he smothered a grin and asked, "Were they awfully wicked plans?"

  "Well, I couldn't hardly hear them, but I think they must've been, 'cause one of them was cross an' said it should've been done by now."

  His amusement faded. Here was more than the child's active imagination. He asked intently, "Do you know what the 'it' was?"

  She thought a moment, then said, "I think it was about clothes."

  "Clothes? Are you sure, Lady Priscilla?"

  "No-o… But the other man got cross too, an' said it wasn't his fault 'cause they hadn't gived somebody something. An' he was sorry 'cause it all fitted so goodly an' would've looked right, an' no one wouldn't have been a miser."

  Montclair frowned. Might they instead have said—no one would be the wiser? Whatever the plot, clothes, he thought, had little to do with it.

  The child went on blithely. "An' then Wolfgang barked at them and they rid away like cowards, which is when I saw who they was. An' I wouldn't be's'prised if Dr. Shes'ell hides his teeth in our cellar, 'cause he prob'ly keeps 'em in a little jar, like Grandpapa used to, and doesn't like people to see him take 'em out. 'Sides, I've heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night." Her voice lowered again, and she hissed awfully, "When the goblins an' witches are out! An' Wolfgang growls, an' he doesn't do that if it's Mama or some of our people, you know. Can we make our story now, please? We were up to the part where the princess finds the unicorn in her coach…"

  It was taking so blasted long, but if anyone saw him, thought Montclair, lowering himself carefully onto the next stair, he would say he'd been very thirsty and hadn't wanted to disturb anyone at this hour of the night. He reached back for the crutch and pulled it to him, but this time he was a shade impatient, and the armrest clipped the rail with a crack that he was sure would waken the entire household. Mentally cursing his clumsiness he bit his lip and sat holding his breath, waiting. No sound disturbed the silence. Another breathless moment, then with a sigh of relief, he eased himself down one more step.

  The Dainty Dancer had put neatly into the dock at four o'clock this afternoon. Lyddford had looked tired, and the Spaniard not much better, but Lyddford had insisted the cargo must be off-loaded at once. The Bo'sun and Deemer had joined in the effort, and from his window Valentine had seen Seth and Dicky come slouching to assist, looking more ruffianly than ever with paint liberally splattered on their ragged garments.

  Valentine smiled rather grimly, recalling Starry's barely concealed look of relief when he'd told her he was not feeling "quite up to the rig" this afternoon and if it would not be too much trouble he'd take dinner in his room. No doubt they were pleased to have him out of the way while the cargo was off-loaded. Martha had carried his tray upstairs and in her gentle warm-hearted way had settled him onto the chaise longue, lit the candles, made sure that books and The Morning Chronicle were within easy reach, and spread the napkin across his lap. She'd even given his shoulder a shy little pat. Susan's remarks about servants had come to mind, and he was forced to admit that Martha might be simple-minded, but if she was in his employ he'd take great care not to lose her.

  He'd passed the evening reading and listening to the men clumping about downstairs. Several times he'd gone to the big window in the first-floor hall and watched them toiling up from the river with wheelbarrows piled high with boxes and bales that ostensibly contained Imre Monteil's "personal effects." It was past eleven o'clock when the house had quieted. He'd heard the creak of the stairs soon afterwards, then silence had blanketed the old house for another hour. They all had worked so hard; it was to be hoped they'd sleep like logs.

  Priscilla's innocent words had decided him upon this course of action. "I've heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night… an' Wolfgang growls…" He was not quite sure of the significance of Sheswell's nocturnal meeting with Imre Monteil, but he'd long known that the doctor was a tippler. He was beginning to suspect that Monteil was a Free Trader on the side. Possibly, he supplied Sheswell with wines and cognac which had sidestepped the excise tariff. The doctor might have become angered by delays, and Priscilla had chanced upon the two men while Monteil was making his excuses. Who Monteil's customers were did not much concern Valentine, however
. The points of concern were firstly, that Susan and her brother might have been gulled into shipping and hiding contraband in the belief that Monteil's cargoes were simple personal belongings; secondly, that the Swiss should have had the unmitigated gall to select Highperch Cottage (admittedly offering the unique advantages of sitting isolated, unoccupied, and on the bank of the river) for a storage and, presumably, distribution point.

  When his initial doubts had solidified this afternoon, Valentine had at first thought to seek out Susan and share them with her, but she seemed much taken with Monsieur Monteil. Also, his own offer of financial assistance had sent her straight into the boughs. She was an excessively proud young lady, and resented any criticism of her judgment. Certainly, she'd want to know what he suspected, and if he revealed his belief that she and Lyddford had— however inadvertently—allowed themselves to be dragged into a smuggler's toils, she'd probably be reaching for her broom again and he'd be banished from her presence forever. And despite her apparent preference for gentlemen of the Swiss persuasion, he found that he was reluctant to be banished from the widow's presence.

  If that slippery Monteil really had dared to use Highperch for illegal activities, if he had carelessly placed Susan and her brother in danger of being arrested as smugglers, then by George, the man was a scoundrel and must be dealt with! First, however, proof must be found. The ideal time to accomplish this was at night, and now that he had discovered he could manage to get about with only one crutch, he saw no reason to delay.

  His undistinguished progress down the stairs having been accomplished, he gripped the end post and dragged himself erect. There was a half moon tonight, and the windows were brightened by a silvery glow, the illumination, faint as it was, making it easier to proceed cautiously down the west hall, past the library and what had once been a study, to the stairs that led to the cellars. It was quite a warm night, but luckily the wind was blustering about, effectively drowning the faint sounds of his crutch and an occasional creaking board under his foot.