Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  “You said we could talk,” Susan reminded, smiling sweetly into his level stare.

  “By all means. When do you mean to begin?”

  “Begin…?”

  “You said you intended to apologize.”

  “True. But then I changed my mind.”

  “A feminine trait, I understand.” He looked bored. “Why? Because you have been asked to leave my house?”

  She said dryly, “You have some most unpleasant friends, Mr. Montclair.”

  “Forgive if I contradict a … lady. My friends are not at all unpleasant. But I am responsible for your having been roughly dealt with. For that I do apologize.”

  At first infuriated by that deliberate hesitation before naming her a lady, then astonished that he would deign to offer such an apology, she murmured a confused “Thank you,” and looking across the drowsing valley below them asked inanely, “Does your brother own all this?”

  “As far as you can see in any direction, madam. Save for Highperch Cottage.”

  “Your friends gave me to understand that the cottage was part of the Longhills entail.” She saw the irritated flicker of his dark brows, and added, “They are your friends—no?”

  A little muscle moved in his jaw. He answered evasively, “Mr. Junius Trent is my cousin, madam. Highperch is not a part of the entail and was made over to me by my mother after she bought back the property from Mr. Ezra Henley.”

  “We, of course, dispute the fact that the property ever was bought back.”

  “My solicitor,” he began with a weary sigh, “has all the necessary papers and—”

  “Oh, yes. Messrs. Ferry, Laidlaw, and Ferry. And you may sit down if you wish, even though you mean to have your bailiffs throw me out on the fifteenth.”

  The impudence of the woman! Montclair sat on the adjacent bench. “You went to see my solicitors?”

  “Hardly. How would I know who they are?” Susan took the letter from her pocket and handed it to him.

  His eyes travelled the page rapidly. He uttered a stifled exclamation and crumpled the paper in his fist.

  “I’ll have it back, if you please.”

  Montclair muttered an apology, attempted to smooth the wrinkled letter, and returned it.

  Scornful, she said, “Am I to believe you were unaware this was sent, Mr. Montclair? Faith, but you must be singularly ill informed by your man of business!”

  He tightened his lips, then snapped, “It says truth.”

  “Does it, so? Then you believe my father-in-law, my late husband, my brother, to have been cheating thieves, and myself a conniving opportunist!” She stood, coming to her full and stately height, and regarding him from beneath haughtily arched brows.

  He rose at once. “I cannot think my opinion would weigh with you, Mrs. Henley. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt and suppose you to be unaware that my solicitor holds your father-in-law’s signed receipt for the return of his funds.”

  “Your nobility is awesome, sir,” she riposted, dropping a mocking curtsy. “In turn I shall suppose you to be unaware that my brother and I, as well as my late father-in-law’s solicitor, have branded that signature a forgery.”

  “A forgery!” Scowling, he snapped, “By whom, I should like to know?”

  He looked so fierce that Susan was a little frightened, but she said bravely, “By whosoever did receive the funds, obviously.”

  “Madam, that is absolute rubbish! The funds were directly returned to your late father-in-law by special courier. Perhaps, owing to Mr. Ezra Henley’s state of health, he was unable to write in his usual hand, but—”

  She laughed merrily. “But how very convenient.”

  “The fact remains,” he snarled, glaring at her, “that the funds were delivered. What became of them after that is not my concern.”

  “It is very much my concern, sir! What you allege is typical of the nonsense by which the business has been dragged out and delayed. We shall take you to court and—”

  “And waste a good deal of time and money! Including the cost of your paint and the restitution I shall claim for any defacement of my property.”

  Susan cried ringingly, “Kindly allow me my say, Mr. Montclair.”

  She stood there, the picture of disdain, her riding crop tapping at the skirt of her habit, shapely and slim, and so regal one might suppose him to be the veriest peasant in the presence of a queen. She was an unscrupulous jade, but by heaven, she had her share of gumption! His ready sense of humour stirred, he bowed low. “Your pardon. Say on, madam.”

  The sudden and unexpected twinkle in his dark eyes brought the flecks of amber brilliantly alive, and his grim mouth relaxed into a faintly whimsical grin so that from a ruthless menace he became a charming young man. Again thrown off stride, Susan murmured, “Oh dear, where was I?”

  “Taking me to court,” he prompted obligingly.

  “Yes. Thank you. And likely prove that your courier either delivered the funds to the wrong party, or—or perhaps absconded with them himself.”

  “Oh, very good. But unlikely. Especially since the courier is still in my solicitor’s employ. However, do not let me deter you, Mrs. Henley. If that is your best defence, by all means use it.”

  She eyed him uneasily. “I suppose that smug look means that you are convinced we shall lose if we do so.”

  “I am convinced you will lose whatever you do. I have said what I wished to say. If you have nothing to add, perhaps you will permit that I and my—er, smug look leave you.”

  “I have a great deal to add, including resentment for your arrogant and unwarranted use of the word ‘defacement.’ Neglect sir, constitutes far greater defacement than any painting and repairs I may contemplate.”

  She had struck a nerve. His hot temper flaring, he said explosively, “If you are truly so vulgar as to use that colour on Highperch, Mrs. Henley, I warn you that you will become the laughing-stock of the county!”

  “Instead of merely being scorned and my innocent little girl ostracized because her father was a suicide?” Her lip curled. “I have survived the tender mercies of self-righteous town-dwellers, Mr. Montclair. I had hoped to find a kinder attitude among country folk, especially towards Priscilla. Apparently, my hopes were vain. But I promise you the time is past when the prospect of becoming a laughing-stock could cause me to shake in my shoes.”

  “How regrettable,” he drawled. “It is evident, ma’am, that to prolong this discussion would be pointless. I give you good day.”

  Bowing, he started off, but glanced back when she called, “One moment, if you please. We have another matter to discuss.”

  He scowled, hesitating. But he was curious to see what outrageous ploy she would next present, and thus went back to the bench once more.

  Susan sat down and ordered her skirts. “When my brother attacked you—”

  “After I molested your daughter,” he interpolated, stiffening.

  “Mr. Montclair, permit me to say that your manners are atrocious. Did no one ever teach you that it is very rude to interrupt? I was about to explain that it was no more than a simple mistake, and—”

  He was rude again. “Simple! Many sins I consider forgivable, Mrs. Henley, but the man who abuses a helpless little child is utterly despicable. To have been judged capable of such conduct is not my notion of a ‘simple mistake’!”

  “You know perfectly well, sir, that my brother misunderstood what Priscilla said.”

  He shrugged irritably. “It is of no consequence. What is done, is done.”

  “That is nonsensical! You might just as well say that if a carriage wheel comes to rest on my foot I must not move because it ‘is done’! Or that if I should accidentally set light to the curtains, I must not put out the fire because it ‘is done’!”

  “I am sure you can dredge up countless inappropriate similes, Mrs. Henley. The fact remains that Lyddford struck me in the face. And the Code of Honour does not permit—”

  Forgetting her scold about interru
ptions, she threw up her hands in exasperation. “You men and your stupid Code of Honour!”

  “Yes,” he sneered. “I can well imagine you would find it stupid.”

  Susan flushed darkly. “Your imagination at least, cannot be faulted, sir. I suppose you are a crack shot and look forward eagerly to ridding the world of a man who dared defend his little niece!”

  “I believe I know one end of a pistol from the other, madam. And if I may point out—since I did not instigate the duel, your argument is ill taken.”

  The horrid man had a point. She bit her lip, but persisted. “Were my brother to apologize…?”

  “Hah! I wish I may see it! Lyddford did not impress me as being either a fool, or the type to apologize for his errors.”

  “If you knew him better—” she began angrily, but stopped when she saw the pitfall.

  Montclair was in no mood to allow a poor move. “I would know he is a fool?” He clicked his tongue. “Perhaps you are right, but I think he would not appreciate your putting me in possession of that fact, Mrs. Henley.”

  ‘Wretch!’ she thought, and said loftily, “The mistake was mine, for supposing I might appeal to your better nature.”

  “‘Appeal to my better nature,’ is it? Jove, but you’re a rare optimist, ma’am! You illegally occupy my house; attack me like any fishwife—”

  “Fishwife…” she spluttered, outraged. “How dare you?”

  “—make perfectly vile aspersions on my character; your brother has the confounded lack of sportsmanship to knock me down when I’m looking the other way; you mean to render my house hideous by splashing scarlet paint all over it—and you seek to appeal to my better nature? By God, madam! If you hoped to turn me up sweet so as to grant you a stay of eviction, you could scarce have played your cards in worse fashion!”

  Springing up, Susan gathered the train of her habit with so sweeping a gesture that she revealed the tops of her riding boots. She saw Montclair’s glance flash to the embarrassment, and yearned to scratch him. “Certainly,” she said, her voice quivering with rage, “I have wasted my time by attempting to reason with an ill-tempered boor. Good day, Mr. Montclair.”

  Having thus dismissed the obnoxious creature, she turned her eyes away and waited for him to depart.

  He gave her the sketch of a bow and stood firm, coldly immovable.

  It dawned on her then that this was his summer house. Discomfitted, she walked past, and down the steps, but as she approached the mare, was again discomfitted. Pewter was not a tall horse, but the stirrup was rather too high to permit a graceful mount without assistance.

  Montclair watched her predicament with wicked enjoyment. Still, she had played fair in their dispute, resorting to neither tears nor hysterics, as so many of her kind would have done. Besides, she was a female and his breeding prevailed. “Allow me, Your Majesty.” He handed her the reins, and bent, cupping his hands for her foot.

  ‘Sooner,’ thought Susan, ‘would I perish!’ Made reckless by anger, she flicked the reins over the pommel, and in a trice was atop the first step. It was just a little jump to Pewter, and once she had a grip on the pommel … She launched herself at the saddle.

  Startled by such unfamiliar antics, Pewter danced away.

  Bewildered, Montclair half turned, making a grab for the stirrup. Unfortunately, Susan was quite unable to stop in mid-air, and with a shocked squeal she crashed unchecked into him.

  Winded, flattened, and extremely surprised, he heard faint feminine moans, and found that he was enveloped in a cloud of black hair.

  Dragging herself to her hands and knees, Susan snatched the obstruction from his eyes. “Give me my hat. At once!” she demanded, kneeling over him scarlet faced, and all but weeping with chagrin. “And just for your—your information, Mr. Amberval— Oh! I mean—” His wheezing and unsympathetic laughter was typical of the brute. Between gnashing teeth, she finished sobbingly, “For your information, you are—without”—she blew a lock of hair from her eyes—“without doubt—the—the most odious creature I have ever met!”

  He sprawled there. Howling.

  She all but flew to Pewter, and heedless of propriety, got one foot into the stirrup and dragged herself up. Jamming the hat onto her head, she resorted to the spur she never employed, and the mare was away at the gallop.

  It was no use. For what seemed miles she could still hear his loathsome laughter.

  7

  The day after tomorrow was Saturday. Walking in aimless distraction among the trees, Barbara thought how marvellous it would be to be a milkmaid or a governess. Anything but a lady of Quality, who must be forced into wedlock, only because the gentleman was very rich. Surely milkmaids and governesses were allowed to wed whomsoever they wished. Or perhaps, not forced to wed at all.

  She had come to the little secluded glade to which she sometimes crept when deeply troubled, and she sank gratefully onto the stump of the big elm tree that had been the king of this glade until last November’s great storm had wrought such havoc in the woods.

  The day after tomorrow … Mama and Papa were determined, beyond doubting. Her tears and pleadings had only made them angry. And Junius thought it all a great joke. Val understood, and wanted this no more than did she, but even if she found the courage to follow his suggestion it would only land him in great trouble, and as it was, the expression in Junius’s eyes when he looked at his cousin sometimes made her fear … She shivered.

  So there was no hope. Unless perhaps she could do as the poor lady of the Folly had done, and jump off the roof. Or would she be too lacking in courage to commit that awful sin? Oh, how ghastly it all was! She bowed her head into her hands and wept with soft but racking sobs.

  The deadly and unmistakable crack of a gunshot shocked her from grief and all thought of self. She whispered, horrified, “Val! Oh, my God!” And she was running.

  * * *

  Montclair strode through the copse, the reins loosely held, Allegro thudding amiably beside him. The warmth of the afternoon was increasing and there was a sultriness in the air that spoke of bad weather to come, but he scarcely noticed these things, his mind preoccupied with the Widow Henley. What a hoyden the woman was! Whoever heard of a lady flinging herself at a horse in so abandoned a fashion? He chuckled. Gad, but how dear old Geoff would have laughed to see him smashed to the ground by a flying female! An unscrupulous female, who was no better than a thief.

  The smile faded from his eyes, and his jaw set. So they challenged Ezra Henley’s signature, did they? Much good might it do them! After all these years any self-respecting judge would laugh at their case. If they really meant to bring a case. More likely they’d moved into Highperch well knowing they’d no legal claims at all, relying on using legal manoeuvrings and the slow-grinding wheels of justice to protect them for as long as possible, thus ensuring they would have a free roof over their heads. A free roof with a garish red trim…! He ground his teeth.

  ‘My innocent little girl ostracized because her father was a suicide…!’

  Those words, so fiercely uttered, disturbed him. It was very likely true enough. People could be cruel. But that was the way of the world. Certainly, it was not his problem. Old Ferry’s proofs of the resale were indisputable, and the noxious Henley clan must be made to vacate Highperch. Still, it was a damnable thing to have had a lone woman terrorized and her brother clubbed down on Longhills property! Papa would turn in his grave! Once again the Trents had—

  Allegro snorted nervously. There was a sudden great rustling nearby; someone was riding at reckless speed. Montclair’s hand flashed to the pistol in his pocket. A fine bay horse burst from the trees and charged straight at him. At the last instant the rider pulled up his animal, then sprang from the saddle in an impressive if unnecessarily dramatic demonstration of horsemanship.

  Montclair thought with a silent groan, ‘Oh Gad! It’s the Spanish lunatic again!’ but relinquished his grip on the pistol.

  “Chew I foundling,” declared Señor de Fer
dinand exuberantly.

  “Most astute,” drawled Montclair at his haughtiest. “Since I live here.”

  “Chess.” De Ferdinand directed an approving glance over woods, park, and gardens to the distant loom of the house. “Very nice small ’state. Chew theses sell?”

  Speechless, Montclair stared at him.

  “Chew wish ’state selling,” said the señor earnestly, “I interest to buyings have.”

  ‘Good God!’ thought Montclair. “Longhills,” he explained, keeping his patience with an effort, “has been in my family for centuries. It is not for sale. If it were, however, the figure involved would be extremely high.”

  The Spaniard waved a hand airily. “Mices elves high figures havings. Meece buying Longhills.”

  Montclair tightened his grip on the reins and took a pace forward. “Señor Angelo—er, et cetera—de Ferdinand, I will say this as slowly and carefully as I can. Item—Longhills is not, will not be, and never has been for sale! Item—if this is more of Mrs. Henley’s nonsense, you waste your time and mine. Item—if that is all you came here to say, you have said it. I have replied. Now be so good as to take yourself off our property.”

  Señor Angelo, who had followed this exposition with parted lips and extreme concentration, suddenly jerked his shoulders back, bowed low, and said, “Chew say mices elves lie telling. Chess? Very good. Now we shootings.” He whipped a long-barrelled and richly gilded pistol from his saddle holster, and twirled it recklessly around one finger.

  “Hey!” cried Montclair, drawing back. “Have a care! That’s no way to handle a duelling pistol!”

  “Chew with mices elves shoot. Now. Hereupon—once at!”

  Montclair, although no great hand with a pistol, had early been taught a healthy respect for such weapons. “I am engaged to fight Mr. Lyddford,” he pointed out, eyeing the Spaniard’s flourishings with alarm. “Put that thing down, you block, before—”

  “Chew forget into chaw mouths mices hat were hoved.” Señor Angelo laughed. “First mices—”