Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  Susan said thoughtfully, “I wonder if Montclair painted it himself…”

  “Does the fella paint, then?” asked Lyddford, much shocked.

  “I have not the remotest notion, save that he was buying some gold-leaf paint whilst I was in the ironmonger’s shop.”

  “Ah, but I believe that would be for his harpsichord, madame,” interjected Monteil. “Valentine is a musician par excellence, and the harpsichord is a truly magnificent old instrument.”

  “Be dashed if that surprises me.” Lyddford shook his head disapprovingly. “He’s just the sort of slippery customer would maudle his brain with music instead of doing a man’s work!”

  Monteil regarded him with amusement. “You are a gentleman of firm opinions, monsieur. You will forgive if I point out that Frederick the Great of Prussia, and your own King Henry the Eighth were both fine composers, and—”

  “There you are then,” interposed Lyddford, triumphant. “I don’t have nothing against Fred. Never heard much about him, to tell you the truth. But everyone knows Bluff King Hal was a dirty dish.”

  “Andy,” protested Susan, with an eye on the visitor’s faint smile, “you must stop and think that Monsieur Monteil is well acquainted at Longhills. Your pardon, sir, if we offend.”

  “Stuff,” said Lyddford. “Monteil likely agrees. But—let’s speak of pleasant things for a change. Sue, we’ve been put in the way of some very nice commissions thanks to this gentleman. A toast is in order.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of Madeira and one of cider, and distributing these said gaily, “Here’s to a long and profitable partnership!”

  Honouring the toast, Susan thought, dismayed, ‘Partnership?’

  After only a very brief conversation, mostly having to do with his admiration of Highperch Cottage, the Swiss took his leave, saying that he was sailing for the Continent early in the morning and must be aboard his yacht before dark.

  They walked out onto the front terrace, all three. Lyddford had rung for Deemer, but no one appeared to answer the bell, and muttering anathemas on servants, he went to call up Monteil’s curricle.

  The Swiss turned to Susan and extended his hand. She shrank from taking it again, but had no recourse. The cold, clammy fingers closed about her own. He stepped very close to her, looking down at the hand he held, and stroking it gently. “Will you believe me, dear lady, if I tell you I have met countless beautiful women and have found them unfailingly vapid, dull—in short, a very great bore. Until…” his dark eyes lifted to her face, “… now.”

  Susan fought the urge to tear free and run. “You are too kind, sir,” she said, and made an effort to pull away.

  His grip tightened. He stepped even closer, lifted her hand to his lips, and watched her as he pressed a kiss upon her fingers.

  ‘If he does that for one more second,’ she thought, ‘I shall simply have to hit him!’

  “Dear lady,” he breathed, “you are the loveliest—”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Henley.”

  Never would Susan have dreamed she would find that sardonic drawl welcome, but, provided with an excuse now, she pulled her hand away, turned, and uttered a cry of dismay.

  Mr. Montclair, mounted on his ugly stallion, was keeping the drooping and bloodstained figure of Señor Angelo from toppling from his bay.

  “Andy! Bo’sun!” Susan called. “Come quickly!” And running to the Spaniard’s side, exclaimed in horror, “Oh! You have shot him!”

  Montclair said dryly, “I wonder why I had anticipated just such a considered reaction from you, madam.”

  Lyddford ran up. “Damn you, what have you done to him?”

  Surrendering the mare’s reins to him, Montclair’s glance turned from Susan’s angry eyes to Monteil’s enigmatic smile. With a curl of the lip, he rode away.

  * * *

  There was much excitement at Highperch Cottage that afternoon. After Monsieur Monteil departed and Señor Angelo had been tended and ordered to remain in his bed, Susan, her brother, and Mrs. Starr repaired to the withdrawing room for a council of war. Andrew Lyddford’s amusement over what he termed “the one-man duel of that blockheaded Spaniard” gave way to fiery wrath when Susan began to tell them of her encounter with Montclair. “Turn him up sweet?” he snarled. “By God, but I won’t! Stretch him out stiff is more like it!”

  Susan admitted with a guilty little laugh, “I’m afraid I did just that, dearest.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Starr, shocked.

  “What?” demanded Lyddford, brightening. “Hauled off and cracked him over the nob with your riding crop, did you? Jolly good, by Jove!”

  “Well, not that exactly.” Knowing she was blushing, she said hastily, “I’ll explain later, but something else happened on the way home that is rather worrisome. She told them of the men who had been loitering about in the woods. “I thought at first they were poachers, but when they spoke, their accents were cultured. I was so frightened when they said they were to watch somebody. Andy—do you think they meant us?”

  Lyddford scowled and nodded. “’Fraid so. Likely Montclair’s having us watched. I wonder what does he expect to discover.”

  “He must have a very nasty suspicious mind,” said Mrs. Starr. “Of course, I could not but notice that you did bruise him rather badly, dear Master Andy.”

  “And came nigh to adding some more today,” he growled. “Did you mark the way the fellow looked at my sister and Imre Monteil? Confounded insolence!”

  Susan was tempted to tell him of Monteil’s attitude towards her and how repellent she found the man. With true heroism she did not utter any of it, but instead handed her brother the letter she had received from the Longhills solicitors. “More unpleasant news I’m afraid, love.”

  It was the last straw. Lyddford sprang up, waving the letter about and raging of the villainy of their dastardly neighbour.

  When he ran out of breath, Mrs. Starr murmured, “I suppose we must give the devil his due. Mr. Montclair did help poor Señor Angelo, at least, in spite of the fact that he and Mrs. Sue did not part in charity with each other.”

  “Charity!” cried Susan hotly. “I could not feel charity for that horrid man was he thrown to the lions! He is the most sneering, overbearing, toplofty, sarcastic individual it has ever been my misfortune to meet!”

  Although fate had not treated her kindly, she was by nature a kind young woman, not one to hold a grudge, and she seldom took anyone in deep aversion. This fierce outburst caused her companions to eye her in surprise, and Lyddford said shrewdly, “There’s more here than meets the eye, don’t you agree, Starry? Come along now, Mrs. H. Exactly what transpired that you left Montclair flat on his back? If the crudity dared insult you—”

  The grimness in his eyes frightened her, so she smiled and told them the full story of her parting with Mr. Valentine Montclair, not sparing herself, and joining in the laughter which followed.

  Andrew was still wiping his eyes when Priscilla came in search of them. She was dirty, tired, but overjoyed with the results of her painting efforts, and pleaded that they all “simply must please come and see. Now!”

  “Very well, but stop babbling,” said Lyddford, resting a fond hand on his niece’s tumbled curls. “You’re amazing free from paint, sprat. How so?”

  “Starry wrapped me all up in a sheet. We had to put Wolfgang out ’cause he got a little bit painty, but I din’t. Oh, do hurry! It looks just splendrous!”

  Dutifully they followed her to the small room once occupied by the bootblack.

  On the threshold Susan checked and stared, wide-eyed. “Oh! The wretched man,” she gasped.

  Valentine Montclair had evidently not left Amberly Down before she did. He must have still been in the ironmonger’s shop when she’d sent the paint back with the request for it to be delivered, and he’d seized the opportunity to very effectively spike her guns. Had she really intended to redecorate with the bright red paint, it would doubtless have been judged bold a
nd in questionable taste. But not by any stretch of the imagination would anyone dare to paint the trim on Highperch Cottage the lurid purple that now adorned Priscilla’s doll house.

  8

  “But of course, I instructed Ferry to communicate with the woman at once.” Sir Selby Trent’s eyes were wide and injured as he closed the door of his display case. “I had thought my promptness might have pleased you, dear boy.”

  “Pleased me!” Montclair’s hands gripped tightly on his riding crop. “I told you I preferred to handle the matter myself, sir. The Henley woman and her nasty little band have stolen a march on us by taking possession of the cottage. It well may be that there is no reasoning with her, but had you not interfered I might have at least—”

  “Hoity-toity! Only listen to the lord of the manor!” Arms folded across his powerful chest, Junius leaned against his father’s desk watching Montclair contemptuously, and managing to look overdressed in a pair of extremely tight cream pantaloons, a blue coat with big silver buttons, and a neckcloth which had taken his man an hour to perfect. “You don’t rule here yet, my poor clod,” he sneered.

  Montclair stepped closer to him, chin outthrust. “And you are here only because your father came in an advisory capacity to my brother—a state of affairs which should by rights have ended almost four years ago. You have absolutely no right whatsoever to interfere in the running of this estate. You had no business to call on Mrs. Henley in Geoff’s name, much less to insult and maul her, and break Lyddford’s head. Whatever the provocation, neither my father nor Geoffrey would countenance such crude behaviour. I’ll thank you in future to keep your meddling out of any matter concerning Longhills.”

  Junius, whose face had become alarmingly red during this declaration, snarled, “You puny would-be music master! What if I tell you to go to hell?” Standing straight so that he towered over the slighter man, he added, “Or what if I were to very gently break you in half and—”

  “Keep in mind that you are at a disadvantage,” said Montclair, throwing down his riding crop. “The only time you’ve ever bested me is when you attacked from behind like the sneaking coward you are!”

  Junius swore and whipped back his clenched fist, and Montclair crouched, poised and ready.

  Sir Selby sprang between them. “Is this truth, Junius? Did you maul that trollop? I knew you’d struck her brother, but I never dreamed—Did you, sir?”

  His voice was a hiss of menace, and the glare in the pale eyes sent an uneasy shiver down Montclair’s spine.

  Junius drew back, and licked his lips nervously. “I—er, merely stole a kiss, sir. She’s a buxom wench and—”

  “And when her brother sought to defend the chit, you and Pollinger beat him, eh? Do you know how that will sound should this come to a court of law? You damned young fool! Must you lust to bed every woman you meet?” As if goaded beyond endurance, Trent’s arm flew up and he back-handed his son hard across the face. Junius staggered, then stood with head bowed, one hand clutching his cheek. “I vow to God,” panted Sir Selby, “I’d be justified in taking you to a surgeon and having you—” His eyes slid to Valentine’s shocked expression. He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Get out—you imbecilic animal,” he muttered. “And I’d best never again see you dare to attack your cousin in his father’s house! Out!”

  Another moment Junius stood there. Then, his taut form relaxed and a sly smile dawned. “My apologies, sir,” he muttered, and with a short bow went out and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Trent shook his head, and walked around his desk. “Alas,” he sighed, sinking into the chair and reverting to his usual bland manner, “one has such hopes for one’s children, and then—”

  “Uncle,” Montclair intervened curtly. “Spare me the performance, I beg you.”

  Sir Selby blinked at him. “Performance…?”

  Montclair nodded. “You have outdone yourself; don’t spoil it. I have one question for you, however. How close is the friendship between your good friend Monteil and Mrs. Henley?”

  “There is none!” Trent seemed to resent the implication. “They are scarcely acquainted. I think he met her here for the first time on Tuesday.”

  “Do you?” Montclair crossed to the door. “Then I think you are the one is mistaken, sir.” He went out.

  There was no sign of Junius and the long hall stretched out in serene silence. It was all so peaceful and gentle. It didn’t seem possible that just a few moments ago, unbridled savagery had reared its ugly head in the elegant study. He could well imagine how shamed and infuriated Junius must feel to have been so brutally chastised in front of the man he hated. As for his father—the veneer of civilization was thin indeed.

  He muttered, “Phew!” and walked slowly to the stairs, thinking with nostalgic longing of the years before his parents had died. How happy they’d been then. Now Longhills had become a battleground, and he was so confoundedly tired of it all. But there was no use wishing he could escape. There was no escape; not if he was to protect the estate for Geoff.

  His troubled look deepened to a frown. The state of the mails was deplorable, but surely Geoff must have received at least one of his letters? It was possible, of course, that he was moving about too rapidly for correspondence to reach him; possible even that he was already en route home. Still, another letter had this morning been despatched to the errant lord of the manor, and if that missive didn’t bring Geoff back, then there would be real cause for alarm. Actually, the footman had gone off with three letters. The one to Geoffrey, plus notes to Jocelyn Vaughan and Alain Devenish, asking if they would consent to act as seconds in the forthcoming duel with Lyddford. Montclair could picture their reactions. It would take a day or two for the request to reach Joss in Sussex, but Dev’s estate was sufficiently nearby that he would likely receive his letter tomorrow. He might very well ride to Longhills at once. Heaven knows how many times the volatile Devenish had been out, but it would be just like him to deliver a stern homily on the evils of duelling before agreeing to act for his friend.

  Montclair’s faint grin faded as his thoughts turned to the brazen widow and Imre Monteil. Early yesterday morning, the Swiss had said he was leaving for Brussels. Yet this afternoon he’d been at Highperch Cottage, and to judge by the way he’d been slobbering over the Henley woman’s hand, one might suppose them to be lovers. His lip curled. The jade had a quality that drew men, that was abundantly evident. First Junius, and now Monteil. A pretty pair of admirers for a lady! He thought irritably, ‘And no concern of mine!’ On the other hand, it might concern him. Monteil very obviously coveted Highperch. And he was the kind of man who took what he wanted, one way or another. It was possible that he had made the widow an offer for Highperch on the off chance that she might win her ridiculous lawsuit. Imre Monteil would catch cold at that! Mrs. Henley had not the remotest chance of getting her greedy hands on the dear old cottage!

  He ran lightly down the remaining stairs and, proceeding to the main block, went to his bedchamber to wash and change clothes. Gould had a note for him. There was no seal, and the direction was a simple V.A.M. The message was brief, the handwriting so blotched and quavery that it was difficult to read, but he deciphered a plea that he meet Barbara in the summer house. She had crossed out the first time she’d indicated, and replaced it with “six o’clock.” Under her signature, the round innocent hand had added pitifully, “Please—please, Val. We must talk about this before tomorrow! Do not fail me—I beg you.”

  He had no intention of failing her, and folding the paper he frowned down at it. The poor chit had been weeping when she wrote this. Such a timid little soul … It was remarkable, really, that she’d found the courage to help him with that demented Spaniard this morning.

  He ate luncheon alone in his study, watching the storm that had blown up, but with his thoughts on little Barbara until he turned to his music and all else was forgotten. At half-past four he had an appointment with a tenant farmer. The sturdy man was protes
ting the fact that his previous complaints had been ignored and debris from the flood still blocked the stream. “It overflows into my barns and the henhouse, Mr. Valentine. Keep it out, I can’t. And clear your stream, Mr. Yates won’t!” It took some time to calm the indignant yeoman, and it was five o’clock before a vexed Montclair left his study. He had instructed Yates to have the stream cleared weeks ago. Clearly, his order had been countermanded. So another battle loomed. He thought, ‘Damn!’ but went in search of his uncle.

  There was no sign of Trent in conservatory, gallery, or great hall, but when he went to the south wing and approached the Venetian withdrawing room, he heard his aunt’s shrill voice, followed by Junius’s laugh. Sir Selby was with them, and Montclair’s cool request for a private word with his uncle did not please my lady.

  “I see no reason for us to be disturbed,” she said haughtily.

  “None, my love,” agreed her spouse. “Come in, Valentine. We may talk in front of our own, I hope.”

  “We were discussing the wedding,” said Junius with a sly grin. “I expect you’re fairly panting to hear the details, eh?”

  “Not known for your quick wit, are you, coz?” drawled Valentine.

  Junius flushed angrily, and Lady Trent snapped, “There is no call for rudeness.”

  “Nor for Babs to be rushed into something she does not wish,” Montclair countered.

  “My daughter will do as she is told,” put in Sir Selby. “She is obedient to her parents’ wishes, as becomes a properly bred-up girl. Come now, Valentine. You know very well all our plans are made. Cannot be making changes now, dear lad.”

  “Much too late,” agreed Junius. “It would be very bad ton.”

  “That, at least, you are well qualified to judge,” drawled Montclair. To his dismay the room wavered before his eyes as he spoke. He thought, ‘Oh Lord! Not another attack?’ and said quickly, “I came to talk to you about Ladies Valley Farm, sir. Hatchett was just here. The property is still being flooded. I told Yates to clear the stream some time ago. And I particularly want the cellar of the old Folly boarded up. It appears nothing has been done in either case. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell me why?”