Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  * * *

  Montclair’s wrath built steadily as he limped up the drivepath. Having grown up in a house where a small army of servants eliminated dirt before it dared settle, where two full-time maids did nothing more than arrange fresh flowers every day and it was the sole task of three lackeys to clean the silver, he had no comprehension of the amount of time it could take three women to set to rights a house that had stood gathering dust for several years. It appeared to him as if his beloved old cottage had been taken over by a band of gypsies. The front terrace was littered with boxes, rolled-up rugs, sad-looking articles of furniture, and a large and battered child’s doll house. The Henley woman and her unpleasant clan, he thought angrily, had lost no time in desecrating the house with their rubbish. Lord only knows what it would be like inside! They likely had pigs settled into the withdrawing room!

  Fuming, he hurried up the steps. The front door was open, and he marched inside. The main hall was cluttered and deserted. He swore softly, and stamped through the chaos, up the two steps and into the upper hall.

  A maid halted, halfway down the stairs, and stared at him. He thought her inordinately tall; almost as tall as himself. Her apron was a disaster, her grimy mob-cap hung askew, and many wisps of dark hair had escaped it to straggle untidily about her dirty face. She clutched a dustpan and brush in one hand, and a broom in the other, and she was evidently as dim-witted as she was slovenly, because she made not the slightest attempt to address him, but stood there perfectly still, gawking at him.

  Frozen with dismay, Susan saw a slim young man gazing up at her. She received a swift impression of attractively tumbled black hair, a pair of rather stormy-looking but remarkably fine dark eyes set in a pale face with a firm nose and chin, a high intelligent forehead, and a grim but shapely mouth. He was dressed with expensive good taste but without ostentation, and aside from the fact that for some peculiar reason he was carrying a sturdy branch, he was undeniably a gentleman.

  Her heart gave an odd little jump. She thought despairingly, ‘Oh, I am filthy! Whatever must he think?’ and started to snatch off her mob-cap.

  In her confusion she quite forgot that she held a full dustpan in that hand …

  Stalking towards her, Montclair received the full benefit of a cascading pile of dust, cobwebs, and debris. He uttered a shocked cry and reeled back, his eyes painfully full.

  “Oh, my heavens!” Aghast, Susan ran to help him. “Here, let me brush your coat!” Briskly, she began to wield the brush, which was unhappily full of cobwebs.

  “Woman—desist!” roared Montclair. “By Gad! You’re a full”—he gasped—“a full-fledged…” Uttering an explosive sneeze, he tripped over a croquet mallet. “Disaster!” he finished, prone.

  Susan threw one hand to her cheek and moaned faintly.

  Snatching out his handkerchief, Montclair sat amid the rubble and sneezed. Between sneezes he strove not very successfully to chastise the lunatic. She watched him, seemingly completely undismayed by the fact that her thick hair now hung in a straight dark curtain past her shoulders with only one comb on each side holding it back from her face. Her eyes were very wide and her lower lip hung down. He brandished his handkerchief at her and tried to speak, only to sneeze again.

  “I do apologize,” said Susan, recovering herself. “I didn’t hear you knock.”

  She spoke in a cultured voice that surprised him. ‘Probably the family idiot,’ he decided, clambering to his feet and trying to dislodge a timber that seemed to have invaded his eye. “The front door was open,” he snarled.

  “So I see.” Susan continued to the foot of the stairs. “I am sorry that there was no one here to receive you. Everyone is gone out. You see, a little girl is lost.”

  Irritated by her impertinently familiar manner, he stared at her, and, sneezing again, wondered if she referred to Priscilla.

  ‘How cross he is,’ thought Susan. He really was very good-looking and he had every right to be vexed by such a welcome. Contrite, she went on, “I suppose you must think it very dreadful. But Priscilla is astoundingly clever for her age and has a great deal of common sense in—”

  So Priscilla did live here. What a pity. “A small child should not be allowed to go out alone,” he interpolated sharply, “clever or no.”

  Priscilla had slipped away again whilst they were all so caught up in the flurry of making this funny old house fit for human occupancy. Heaven knows, she had told the child repeatedly that she was not to go out alone, but Priscilla was lonely, poor dear mite, and such a dreamer. She’d probably imagined Wolfgang into the gigantic hound she’d thought he would become, and thus decided she was not ‘out alone.’ The young man looked haughty and condemning, and Susan began to bristle. Who did he think he was, to force his way into her home and then lecture her about her own child?

  “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 hard-hearted lord of the manor! And he had dared, he’d dared to march in here and add insult to injury! She’d scatter-wit 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.

  5

  Blancing 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 Señor 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 Priscilla. 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, Señor 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.