Logic of the Heart

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Logic of the Heart Page 21

by Patricia Veryan


  Susan was still mulling over those ominous remarks after she had received an ecstatic greeting from her small daughter and Priscilla had gone off with Martha to change her wet shoes and be de-muddied.

  Andrew hurried down the back stairs, looking, Susan thought, endearingly handsome in a brown velvet coat and cream pantaloons, and presenting a very different appearance from the unkempt sailor who’d slunk into the house after the Trents departed.

  “I think they suspect us,” she told him.

  “The devil!” he gasped, paling. “Of not having gone to Town?”

  “Of having a hand in the attack on Montclair,” she went on, accompanying him into the withdrawing room.

  “What fustian,” he said scornfully. “As if they’d entertain such a cork-brained notion after you risked your neck to climb down to the poor fellow. Besides, they questioned us all when first Montclair was brought here. By Jove, but they did, and a sillier set of gudgeons I never hope to see!”

  She crossed to the sideboard to pour him a glass of wine, and was attacked by a ferocious Welcome who had managed to get the lower cupboard door open and evidently regarded the shelf as his lair. The little cat sprang out, waving his arms to terrify her, then tore off, whiskers bristling and tail held sideways, in high triumph. Laughing, Susan rustled her skirts at him. “Yes, Andy,” she said. “And between your threatening to throw them in the river if they didn’t stop pestering us, and Angelo confusing them with his incomprehensible answers, I wonder we weren’t clapped up then and there.”

  Lyddford tossed himself into his favourite chair and chuckled unrepentantly. “Don’t do to bow down to a trap, love.”

  Susan carried over his wine. “Well, these aren’t the same men. Quite a different proposition to the pair who came at first.”

  “All tarred with the same brush, pox on ’em.” Lyddford raised his glass. “Here’s to my excellent first mate pro tem! Truly, I don’t know how we’d have managed without you, Mrs. H.”

  Blushing with pleasure, she asked, “Was I really a help? You surely would have contrived better had the Bo’sun been aboard.”

  “Oh, surely,” he agreed with a grin. “But only think how disappointed Imre Monteil would have been! Be dashed if ever I saw a man’s face glow as his did when we came ashore at Clovelly! He has a tendre for you, my girl! And he’s a rare catch, do you fancy him. Rich as Croesus, I hear. Faith, but who could doubt it? That yacht of his must be worth more than everything we own, even if you was to include Highperch.”

  “But I do not fancy him,” she said quickly. “Though I cannot but be grateful for the work he has sent our way. Even,” she added with a thoughtful pucker of her brows, “if I don’t quite understand his need for us.”

  “Perfectly obvious. He cannot bring his dashed great yacht upriver. The Dainty Dancer is flat-bottomed and far more manoeuvrable.”

  “Well, I know that, silly. But why must he come upriver? There are many other places where he could moor his yacht safely and store his cargo.”

  Lyddford shrugged. “He wants to store it here. He likes Highperch. Means to buy it, y’know. Made me a most generous offer. Don’t look so worried, you foolish chit. This ain’t my house.”

  “No, and it may not be mine, either. But—if it was—Andy—you wouldn’t wish me to sell to him?”

  “Why not? The sum he offered would buy us a jolly nice home in Town. And certainly, this place needs a great deal of work.”

  Susan stared at him in dismay. He met her regard gravely, but his eyes danced, and she threw a cushion. “Oh, you horrid creature! You are teasing! A house in Town wouldn’t provide us a dock for The Dainty Dancer—at least, not a dock we could use!”

  He fielded the cushion laughingly, lifted a cautioning hand, and glanced to the open door. “You must not murder me, Mrs. H. We’ve Runners in the house, don’t forget.”

  She stood. “Yes. And Montclair was sufficiently exhausted after his loving relations left. I must find the Bo’sun and send them packing!”

  “Cluck, cluck, cluck,” jeered her brother, raising no objection when Welcome raced back in and took possession of his lap.

  Susan smiled, and hurried out, taking care to keep her face turned from him, and irked by the awareness that she was blushing.

  * * *

  The men from Bow Street were firing interminable questions at Montclair, and Dodman, representing himself as the sick man’s medical advisor, promptly called a halt to the interview. Mr. Hobkins was affronted, and relieved his feelings by accusing Montclair of knowing very well who had tried to put a period to him, and of “deliberately pertecting ’im hor them what done the foul deed.” The vexed Bo’sun relieved his own feelings by offering the Runner an extremely uncomplimentary assessment of the silly gumps now posing as representatives of law and order, whereupon the irate Runner took himself off, his meek associate slanting an amused wink at Dodman as he was escorted from the room.

  Susan wandered closer to the bed. Montclair was watching her with an oddly speculative expression. Flustered, she glanced at the crutches propped against the chest of drawers. “You are looking very much better, sir,” she said. “But not ready for those, I think.”

  “I’ve been here for over a month, Mrs. Henley. It is time I was up and about.”

  She moved a little nearer and smoothed the pillow. “You have had a very bad accident. One does not recover quickly from shock and loss of blood, sir. Nor do broken bones heal in a month.”

  “Still, my uncle was right. I have imposed on you long enough. Besides, there are things at Longhills requiring my attention.”

  She sat down on the bedside chair and pointed out demurely, “But you—er, do not feel strong enough to travel.”

  He chuckled. “Strong enough to travel as far as the windowseat, ma’am. Indeed I look forward to it more than you can imagine. And speaking of travelling, I understand you were in Town. Did you go on your boat? You look the picture of robust health.”

  “Indeed?” she said, her head tilting upward.

  His mouth quivered. “I perceive I have said something dreadful.”

  “Not at all. There is nothing dreadful about being—big and healthy!”

  “Then why do you gnash your teeth when you say it?”

  She glared at him, saw the lurking smile, and relented. “Oh, very well. I suppose every woman prefers to be thought of as small and dainty—even when she is—”

  “Tall and graceful, and serenely beautiful as any goddess of ancient Greece?”

  Astounded, she felt her cheeks grow hot, and stammered in confusion, “The goddess of fishwives, perhaps?”

  “Touché!” But the reminder caused him to marvel that he had not seen her beauty in the first moment they met. Or that even in that dirty old mob-cap and apron he’d not realized at once that she was a lady of quality. She was watching him curiously, and he shrugged and admitted wryly, “I was wishing I hadn’t said that.”

  “I wonder if you wish it as deeply as I wish I had not—attacked you.”

  He froze, and became perfectly white.

  Susan had lowered her eyes, and not seeing his reaction, went on. “Though you never did return my poor mob-cap.”

  With comprehension came a deep sense of guilt. Montclair leaned back and stifling a sigh of relief, lied, “I cannot think what became of it.”

  She smiled to herself. “I noticed how thoughtful you looked when the Runners left. Was that what you were worrying about, Mr. Montclair?”

  “No. Actually, I was thinking that it would be nice if you would call me by my name. After all, we are old friends now. Aren’t we?”

  Her heart gave a little leap. The gentleman was indeed much better! She said pensively, “Are we? Or is this just a temporary truce?”

  “It will be far from temporary if I have my way.”

  Their eyes met and held. It was all Susan could do to remind herself that he was betrothed to Miss Trent and had no business talking to her like this. Even more flustered,
she said, “I have been meaning to ask you … I wondered if you have thought—I mean, despite what you told the Runners, do you know who—who tried to—”

  “To murder me?”

  She gasped. “How awful that sounds!”

  “Doesn’t it,” he agreed, his mouth grim again. “No, ma’am. I know I am not universally loved, but … I’d not realized I was hated.”

  “It may not be a matter of hatred, Mr.—” His eyes shot to her. She finished with a dimple, “Mr. Valentine. I read a tale once about just such an attack, and the hero asked the victim’s wife who would most benefit by the murder.”

  Montclair said wryly, “Very few people would benefit in my case, ma’am. I have some fine horses, a few prized belongings, an inheritance that could be described as comfortable. And—” He paused.

  And what? This house? She felt wretched, and rushed on. “But—but you are your brother’s heir—no? If something should befall you…”

  “The gentlemen from Bow Street had the same notion, Mrs. Henley. But my brother is hale and hearty, and so much the Corinthian with his racing and fisticuffs and all manner of sporting endeavours that he will likely outlive me by ten years at least. Further, he’s an exceeding well-favoured man and will likely marry and set up his nursery very soon—if he’s not already done so. None of which in the least offends me, for I’ve not the smallest desire to inherit either the title or estates.” He smiled faintly. “Too many responsibilities, and I’ve other—interests. The next in line after me is my father’s younger brother, Hampton. My aunt calls him ‘Poor Hampton’ because he was so unfortunate as to be severely injured in a riding accident when only eighteen, and although he is the best of good fellows, has never since enjoyed the full possession of his wits.”

  “How very sad. But after your Uncle Hampton—then…?”

  “Then Junius, as my aunt’s only son. But—that seems too long a wait, no? And waiting is such a horrid pastime. For instance—I thought you would never come back, Mrs. Sue.”

  He had lowered his voice when he spoke her name and said it in such a way that it again became necessary for her to duck her head to hide her blushes. And what utter silliness! The wicked man was flirting with her even as he awaited the visit of his betrothed! A fine respect he held for the Widow Henley! She recovered her aplomb and said coolly, “It is nice to be missed. I fancy you must be anxious to see Miss Trent.”

  He did not look in the least set down, as she had intended, but said with a slight frown, “Yes. Starry told me that Barbara had not called.”

  “Starry?” Amused, she said, “Now what is this impropriety, sir? If you’ve formed a tendre for my dear companion, I must warn you that the Bo’sun also has eyes in that direction.”

  Montclair grinned broadly. “No, has he? What a nice couple they would make. She is a little darling of a lady. And with hands nigh as gentle as…”—he gazed up at her—“as your own…”

  Heavens, but it was a persistent flirt! Susan had to cling hard to common sense. “Perhaps, since Dr. Sheswell says you may be up a little, we can have you in the chair when Miss Trent comes. You will like that.”

  “I will like to see her, certainly. I am greatly worried about her, you see. She is so terribly alone.”

  Susan rose, picked up the almost empty water pitcher, and trying not to so dislike Miss Trent, murmured, “What—in the bosom of her family? And now safely betrothed? I would have thought—”

  He gave a gasp, and his emaciated hand clamped onto her wrist. He said sharply, “What do you mean? Betrothed? They’ve never announced it?”

  How aghast he looked. Had he hoped to keep the betrothal a secret? She removed his clasp, then wandered over to look down at the river again, and The Dainty Dancer low in the water, with Andy, Señor Angelo, and the Bo’sun busily unloading Monsieur Monteil’s goods, despite the drizzling rain. “Señor Angelo went over to Longhills to see you,” she explained. “But you were—well, it was the morning after you were attacked. He had a—a little chat with Miss Trent.”

  “And she told him she was betrothed? My God!”

  One must not be harsh with an invalid, but it was all Susan could do to keep the contempt out of her voice. “You do not seem overjoyed by the announcement, sir.”

  “Gad, but I’m not,” he groaned. “I told her to say no! I might have known she’d not have the courage! Poor little goose.”

  Susan blinked and wandered back to his side. There could be little doubt but that he was deeply fond of Miss Trent. He desired her, but not as his wife, perhaps. Disgraceful. Yet—the lady did not seem to yearn for wedded bliss either. What a lumpy gravy it was, to be sure! Could it be that Mr. Montclair had been forced to make an offer? Curious, she said, “Surely, if you objected to the match, it was your responsibility to speak to her parents to that effect?”

  “I did speak to them. Much good it did. I offered to run away with her, and had I been there I might have persuaded her…”

  “Run—away with her…?” gasped Susan. “But—but where could you have taken her?”

  “To the home of a friend in London.”

  Fascinated by the outrageous schemes of this gentlemanly-seeming young rake, she asked, “And—would your friend have let you stay?”

  Montclair’s eyelids were getting heavy. “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “She is very understanding.”

  Her own eyes very round, Susan whispered, “Indeed she must be!”

  Montclair had drifted into slumber. She stared at the quiet face for a moment, then went over to close the window curtains before she tiptoed out.

  At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Deemer who welcomed her warmly. “Such a sad disappointment for the young gentleman, that his lady did not come,” he murmured. “How is he taking it, ma’am?”

  “Most—remarkably,” said Susan dryly.

  * * *

  After Montclair had breakfasted and been shaved next morning, he sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, as had become the daily ritual. Then the great experiment with the crutches began. Dodman watched while the invalid struggled manfully, but it was clear the crutches were not as easily used as one would have thought. When Montclair wavered and almost fell, the Bo’sun ran to steady him and lower him onto the chaise longue by the window. “You did very well, sir,” he said with his bright grin. “I reckon it’ll take a little time to get the mastery of ’em.”

  Panting but impatient, Montclair said, “Then let’s try again.”

  “This afternoon perhaps, Mr. Valentine. But for now, you’d better rest for a little while.”

  Montclair’s fuming protests were ignored. The Bo’sun covered his legs with a blanket, laughed at his indignation, and left him.

  Scowling across the gardens towards Longhills Manor, Montclair wondered when Babs would come. He brightened when he saw Mrs. Henley walk in the direction of the stables, an umbrella over her head, and her cream gown rippling in the wind. How gracefully she moved, and the silk of her hair blew so softly and seemed the very essence of femininity. That he could ever have thought it anything less than exquisite was—He frowned and sat up straighter. Two men had come to meet the lady and now stood talking with her. Two of the most down-at-heel, disreputable-looking individuals he ever had laid eyes on. Their hats sagged over bearded faces, they both stood in dire need of a barber, and their garments—if they could be called such—were dirty and tattered. Mrs. Sue could have nothing to say to such vagrants and would send them packing quickly. But minutes passed and they did not seem to be leaving.

  Barking shrilly, Wolfgang ran up, then began to prance around the strangers. One of them reached down to stroke him. Currying favour, thought Montclair angrily. A fine brother Lyddford was! Why the deuce did the clod not protect his sister from such unwholesome intruders?

  * * *

  The Trents had promised that their daughter would visit Montclair this morning, but when by one o’clock she had not appeared, Susan climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. With one hand
on the door, she paused. Why she should care whether the wretched girl came, escaped her. They were the strangest pair of lovers she ever had seen, preferring to run away in disgrace than to wed, and yet apparently devoted! One could only think they deserved each other. Unconvinced and decidedly downcast, she opened the door softly, uttered a faint shocked cry, and ran inside.

  Montclair, struggling frantically with the crutches, all but fell into her arms, and she fought to keep her balance as she guided him back to the windowseat.

  “Of all the … idiotish…!” she panted, as he hopped, clinging to her. “Will you be so good as to sit down?”

  “I was going to try and come to you.” He laughed breathlessly. “But only think how … clever I am … Have I not managed to—lure you into my arms…?”

  She was indeed in his arms. His thin pale face was smiling down at her; he was holding her very close. Gazing up at him, she saw the smile fade from the dark eyes. An intent look succeeded it. The amber flecks were suddenly and devastatingly ablaze. His left hand might be thin but it was like a vise on her arm.

  ‘La, but I am a prize fool!’ she thought, and terrified, wrenched away so determinedly that he staggered, half collapsed onto the windowseat, and uttered a small gasp.

  “Well, I am very sorry if you have hurt yourself,” she said tremblingly. “But the fact that we allow you to stay here, sir, does not—does not give you the right to—to maul me!”

  Maul her! Was that how she thought of him? “Thank you,” he said, his voice glacial. “One supposes Imre Monteil does not rate such a set-down!”

  Susan caught her breath and stood very straight. “I think that is not your concern, sir,” she said, and walked quickly to the door.

  “Think again, Susan!”

  She halted and glanced over her shoulder.

  Grim-faced, he was struggling with the crutches. Hesitating, she said, “You have done enough today, surely.”

  In a swift change of mood, his wry half-smile flickered. “Yes, but if I fall, there is always the chance you may rescue me again.”

 

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