Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  The moonlight came dimly through the trees, and she had no difficulty making her way back along the rough path. Her steps slowed, and she gazed at a swaying fern. How proud he had looked when he left them. How cold and haughty and unforgiving. She’d begun to dream that he loved her, instead of which he’d made it clear that he judged them a pack of scheming murderers. What a hideous moment of awareness that had been, and what a lesson. Never again would she—

  She had been vaguely conscious of odd sounds, and now a great rustling and snapping of branches sounded behind her. Frightened, she wondered if it could be Junius Trent’s savage dog. She’d heard several accounts of the animal’s viciousness, and the thought of facing such a brute in the woods at night made her very sorry she’d not thought of such a possibility before foolishly wandering out alone. She saw a light approaching and thought nonsensically that dogs did not carry lanterns. Perhaps Trent was taking his hound for a walk. No, that was silly also. The dog had the run of the estate, and anyway, why would Trent take him out at this hour of the night? It must be at least eleven o’clock.

  A deep voice with a foreign accent said, “When master say do, we do.”

  Whatever they were doing for their master was very likely of a shady nature if it must be done under cover of darkness, and they probably would not be pleased to find they’d been seen. Susan shrank behind a tree, but with horrid perversity the light seemed to be coming this way. If they came too close, they would surely see her! Already it was too late to run away. She could see the lantern bobbing up and down, hear the grumbling voices of several men. And they were headed directly for her! There was probably not another soul in the Longhills woods tonight, but they had to choose the exact path she had followed! She was wearing her dark green cloak, and she gathered it around her and with a muffled sob knelt down, crouching very low among the roots, and pulling the hood over her face. Seconds later kneeboots were stamping so close that she could have reached out and touched them, and she huddled there, shaking, scarcely daring to breathe. A Scots voice complained that they’d “hae done better tae ha’ fetched the wee carrt closer.” Another man swore in French and said belligerently, “C’est une absurdité! But thees you will tell us ’ow to do it, hors de doute!”

  An oath greeted this sarcasm. They all sounded breathless, and the man who had first spoken said a pithy “Many box. Jacques work—not talk.”

  “Hold on a bit,” gasped an English voice. “This accursed … thing weighs a ton!”

  The last pair of boots halted about six inches from Susan’s bowed head. If their owner glanced down he must see her! She prayed with silent intensity.

  A noisy collision. A burst of profanity made her shrink, and was cut short by a roared “Get on, damn you! Almost made me drop the lot!”

  Grumbling, they moved on, their breathless voices gradually fading away.

  When Susan was sure there were no more coming, she peeped up. She could see the last man outlined against the dim light from the lantern, a large box balanced on one shoulder. She thought there must have been five in all, and she gazed after them, trembling, scarcely able to believe she had not been discovered.

  The first man had said “Many box.” And the Scot had mumbled something about a wee cart. Very likely there were more boxes to be unloaded. When they returned, she must be far from this horrid spot! She clambered to her feet, taking care to make as little noise as possible, and started back the way she had come, but curiosity began to niggle at her. Where in the world could they be going? There were no houses for miles. No buildings at all in the woods—save for that hideous Folly. She peered around, but in the dark it was impossible to tell how close she was to the ruins. Was it possible that was where they were going? Could there be a hidden room perhaps, where smugglers met? Intrigued, she began to creep after them. The wind was rising; the agitated branches would smother any sound she might make so long as she stayed far enough distant—just close enough to see without being seen …

  As it turned out, they went only a short way. She was about ten yards behind them, well screened by the undergrowth, when she heard a crash that made her jump almost out of her skin. She shrank against the nearest tree, clinging to it, her heart in her mouth. What on earth…?

  She forced her trembling knees to bear her closer and peeped through the branches.

  Eerily illumined by the moonlight, and with the wind moaning through the branches, the Montclair Folly looked bizarre indeed. The men were gathered at the pit, the lantern throwing their shadows across the small clearing. Even as Susan watched, a sturdy fellow dragged his box to the very edge. “’Ere we goes, you stupid blocks,” he wheezed. To her utter astonishment, he uptilted the box over the pit and another crash split the night. The other men followed his example. It might almost have been a ritual, but if it was, it was weird indeed. The man had spoken truly when he told his companions they were “stupid blocks” for— The light dawned then. He hadn’t been referring to his cronies at all! “Bricks!” she whispered, her eyes very wide. Then the boxes being emptied into the Folly were the ones from the cellar at Highperch Cottage, and these men had broken in and stolen them! But why would any thief in his right mind steal boxes of bricks, drive them several miles, then toss them into a pit? Unless these were Monteil’s employees—in which case the question still applied.

  In another minute they were carrying the empty boxes back again. Baffled, Susan crept after them. A large waggon stood at the edge of the meadow, and several horses were tethered nearby. Her heart sank when she saw a sixth man slouching on the driver’s seat, smoking a long clay pipe. If he stayed she would have no chance to cross the meadow without being seen. To her relief, the square-set and powerfully built individual who appeared to be the leader grunted that there was no need for a guard, and that this “lazy peasant” could help with the boxes. The “lazy peasant” protested half-heartedly, but the rest of them shouted him down, the Frenchman, Jacques, saying with a flood of gutter language that there were no troops of riding officers in “thees God-forsaken desolation” and that the sooner they got this done, the better.

  Susan watched while they heaved and strained and at last went staggering off once more, each man carrying another box. When their quarrelsome voices were out of earshot she crept from the trees. What it was all about she could not imagine, but she didn’t like the look of it, and she daren’t take the time to walk home. She must get back to the house before them, and make sure that all was well. Her heart was pounding with nervousness as she crept to the tethered horses and appropriated a mild-looking black mare. The men would come back soon, for there were still more boxes to be unloaded, but if they should notice that one of the horses was gone, she hoped they’d assume it had got loose and wandered off.

  She used one of the boxes for a mounting block, and rode across the meadow at a trot, then at a canter, then at a gallop, the wind blowing her hair and sending her cloak billowing out behind her. She reached Highperch with no sign of pursuit, and slowed the mare on the drivepath. Lights were burning in the house. When she’d left, only the lamp in the lower hall had been lit.

  The front door was flung open, and her heart gave a leap as Andrew came onto the steps in his shirtsleeves.

  “Oh, thank heaven!” she exclaimed, sliding from the saddle into his arms.

  “I should jolly well think you might,” he cried angrily. “Here I come home a day early and go up to have a word with you, and you’re jauntering off somewhere, in the middle of the night, Lord knows where!”

  “Yes, yes, but come inside quickly, there’s no time to—”

  “Here,” he interrupted, looking narrowly at the mare. “This ain’t one of our hacks, is it? Susan, if you’ve been creeping about after that damnable Montclair—”

  She threw the reins over the pommel, slapped the mare on the rump and sent her trotting off, then seized her astonished brother by the hand and tugged it imperatively. “Will you come in!”

  * * *

  Mont
clair let Allegro have his head and the big bay thundered through the darkness undeterred by the blustering wind. All doubts were gone now. Montclair knew exactly what he would find at Highperch. He was astounded, in fact, that he’d not seen what was all about him. Lord, but one might suppose he’d worn blinkers! The big painting in the withdrawing room, for example; he should have realized at once that—

  Allegro snorted and broke his stride. A horse was grazing up ahead. A saddled horse, but riderless. Montclair slowed the stallion and looked about searchingly. The turf stretched out quiet and empty. No sign of anyone for as far as he could see. He dismounted. The black mare fretted a little, but he patted her and spoke soothingly, and she stood docilely enough as he gathered up the reins. She wasn’t from the Highperch stables, unless she was a recent acquisition. But she must have come from somewhere nearby, and as a general rule saddled horses were not left to wander about with reins trailing. Montclair swung into the saddle, and leading the mare, sent Allegro on at the canter, his eyes alert for a fallen rider.

  * * *

  “I saw the strangest thing, Andy,” said Susan, leading him into the bright kitchen.

  “That don’t surprise me,” he said with a short laugh. “Longhills fairly swarms with strange things!”

  “Is Monsieur Monteil here?”

  “What, at this hour? Of course not. Why should he be?”

  She put off her cloak and laid it over a chair. “Well,” she began, “I went out for a walk—”

  “And rode home on a strange hack? Mrs. H., have you—”

  She put her hand over his lips. “Listen!” she hissed.

  Two minutes later, Andrew frowned at his sister’s worried face, and agreed that it sounded a dashed havey-cavey business. “Tell you what, Sue. Go up and wake Angelo. I’ll roust out the Bo’sun and those two louts you took on, and—”

  “Good evening, my dearest friends.”

  Susan whirled around with a shocked gasp.

  Imre Monteil smiled at them from the doorway. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said apologetically. “The front door it was open, and I took the liberty to enter, since I have rather troublesome news, I fear. A Revenue cutter is at this very moment en route here.”

  Susan turned deathly pale and gave a frightened little cry.

  Lyddford put his arm around her and said hoarsely, “Gad! Have they rumbled us, then?”

  “Not so much—er, rumbled, as been informed, mon cher. I fear you have a powerful and relentless enemy.”

  “Montclair!” said Lyddford through his teeth. “Why, that worthless—”

  “No!” cried Susan. “Whatever else, I cannot believe that of him! He wouldn’t—if only for Priscilla’s sake!”

  The Swiss gave her a tolerant smile.

  Lyddford asked, “How much time have we?”

  “With luck, enough. I have contrived, you see, to—divert these zealous gentlemen of the law.”

  “Jolly good,” said Lyddford. “Then your men were here tonight?”

  Monteil blinked at him. “You heard them? I told them they were not to disturb you! There was no answer when we knocked on the door, so— Ah, but we waste time, and time it is of the essence. Come!” He turned away.

  Susan caught her brother’s hand nervously, and whispered, “Andy—should we not wake the others?”

  Monteil heard, and paused. “I would advise against it, madame. The fewer who know of this, the better.” A sadness came into his black eyes. “And you entertain doubts, I think. Have I given you cause to mistrust me, lovely lady? It is but natural, I suppose.”

  Scarlet, she faltered, “No—you have been nothing but good. Only—”

  “Only I am not, alas, of a handsome countenance, and probably seem a thorough villain. Here—” He drew a pistol from his pocket and put it into her hand, ignoring her embarrassed protestations. “Just in case,” he said with a twinkle. “Only I beg you will be cautious, dear Mrs. Henley. It is loaded.”

  Lyddford chuckled. Susan felt very foolish, and held the heavy pistol gingerly as they walked quietly along the hall.

  Lanterns glowed in the second cellar when Lyddford swung open the door, and two men who had been nailing up a large crate jerked around and stared up at them.

  Again, Susan experienced a twinge of unease. They were big, and roughly dressed, and she had the distinct impression that they were prepared for violent action.

  “Vous pouvez être tranquille,” Monteil told them, closing the door. “These are my good partners.” He offered Susan his arm. “I thought it necessary you see, my dear lady, to move some cargo, and I have instructed my men to prepare for shipment anything that might be—ah, shall we say—of an incriminating nature.”

  Susan allowed him to usher her down the steps. The cellar seemed bigger somehow, and less cluttered.

  Lyddford asked curiously, “But why were your men unloading bricks into the Longhills Folly?”

  For an instant the Swiss was as one carven from stone. Then he said gently, “Bricks … mon cher?”

  “My sister—” began Lyddford, but broke off as the upper door burst open again.

  Valentine Montclair stood at the top of the steps, looking wild and wind-blown, his eyes glittering unpleasantly, and a long-barrelled duelling pistol aimed steadily at Imre Monteil.

  “Well, well,” he drawled. “A regular thieves’ picnic. How lucky that I found you at home.”

  17

  For a moment they all stood like so many statues, no one saying a word. Then Monteil smiled his strange dead smile. “My dear boy, I—”

  “Too late for that fustian,” interrupted Valentine. “I know what’s in those crates.”

  “And you informed on us, you ungrateful spy,” growled Lyddford, starting forward.

  It had been borne in upon Valentine that his hot temper had plunged him into a tricky situation once more. He’d been prepared to tackle Lyddford, man to man. He hadn’t expected to face not one man, who would play fair, but four, three of whom he suspected would not balk at murder. Ruefully aware that he should have sent for Devenish and Vaughan sooner, he said coolly, “Better call him off, monsieur, since you’re the one my pistol is pointing at.”

  “But my dear,” said Monteil blandly, “even assuming you have found us out—whatever do you propose to do about it?”

  “I propose to hand you over to the Runners, sir.”

  One of Monteil’s men stood up. “He ain’t handing me over to no traps,” he growled. “If we was all to rush him at once…”

  Valentine smiled and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Your decision, dear Imre.”

  “No!” Monteil’s voice squeaked slightly. “Wait, you imbeciles!”

  “He won’t shoot,” snarled the second man.

  “If he does,” cried Monteil, “you know what Ti will do to the man who caused it!”

  This threat evidently gave them pause, and they stood motionless.

  Watching numbly, torn by conflicting emotions, Susan saw a stealthy movement on the landing. Several men were creeping in behind Valentine. The men she’d seen at the Folly. She gave a frantic little sob, her hand flying to her throat.

  Valentine saw her reaction and guessed at the cause. “You fellows behind me,” he said, “should know this is a hair trigger. The least jog of my arm and it is sure to go off. If you value your master, you’d best throw down your weapons.”

  The newcomers hesitated, looking at each other.

  Valentine took careful aim.

  “Do as he says!” shouted Monteil. “Mon Dieu! He will shoot me!”

  Lyddford cried, “Well, he won’t shoot me!” and sprang in front of Monteil.

  For a split second Valentine hesitated. It was enough. A savage swipe smashed the pistol from his hand. He ducked, and a large fist whizzed over his head, but another, more powerful one rammed into his back and sent him hurtling down the stairs. He landed hard, struck his chin, and saw stars as he sprawled, breathless.

  Susan did not seem to move,
but found herself kneeling beside Valentine. He blinked up at her, his eyes dazed, and she said angrily, “Was it necessary to push him downstairs? You might have killed him!”

  The Oriental who had pushed Valentine, and who looked almost as broad as he was tall, grinned at her.

  The Scotsman strolled down the stairs and laughed. “Aye. We might at that, lassie!”

  She glared at him, then asked, “Are you hurt, Mr. Montclair?”

  He managed to get an elbow under him. His vision was blurred, but he gasped out, “No. You shall have to … try harder.”

  A tall dark man bent and seized Valentine by the hair. “Regarde qui est là, monsieur!”

  Monteil gave a rather shaky laugh. “Bravo, Jacques!”

  Susan slapped the Frenchman’s wrist hard. “Stop it, you beast!”

  “Oh, but madame she frighten me,” he mocked, but he stepped back.

  “You came very opportunely,” said Monteil. “Surely you cannot have finished your task so soon?”

  The fair-haired man answered in a cultured voice, “Bolton’s mare wandered off—or so we thought. I didn’t like the smell of it, so we left Sam with the waggon and the rest of us went looking for her. We saw Montclair leading her, and followed him here.”

  “It was well done. You all shall be rewarded.” The Swiss tapped the handle of his amber cane against his lips. “But this,” he frowned at Valentine, “is a nuisance.”

  “Nuisance!” snorted Lyddford. “It’s damned disgusting is what it is!” He put a hand under Susan’s elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Had you not come creeping around like a filthy Excise spy, Montclair, you’d merely have been tossed down the front steps instead of—”

  Valentine managed to sit up and propped his shoulders against one of the boxes. “You’ve more than Excise-men after you, Lyddford. I once thought you a fool to endanger your sister with your smuggling. I little dreamed you were no better than a common thief!”