Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  Lyddford asked, “Who are you, by the way?”

  Diccon vouchsafed a terse “Military Intelligence. I don’t see your friend Montclair.”

  “Mices fren,” sighed Angelo, fingering a split lip, “after goings nasty personable foreign yentlemans.”

  “No,” said Susan quietly. “I rather think Valentine has gone after somebody else.”

  * * *

  Bent low in the saddle, Valentine did not feel his bruises or the cold driving rain. He had seen Monteil and Ti Chiu go tearing off in a sleek high-perch phaeton, but the Swiss was not his primary target, and he followed his predatory cousin, his rage drowning out all other sensations. Junius had a good head start, and since he had appropriated Allegro, he maintained his lead and was soon out of sight, but Valentine had no doubt of where he was headed.

  Lights were still burning in the great house as he galloped the hack straight across Longhills’ velvety rear lawns, reined up behind the great hall, and effected a sliding dismount. He took the terrace steps two at a time. The doors were locked. He kicked savagely and they burst open with a shattering of glass.

  Sir Selby and his wife had been walking towards the east hall. They stopped, and swung around. Lady Trent gave a small scream as Valentine ran into the room. His bruised face was further marred by a long welt that angled from his right temple to the point of his chin; his hair was wildly dishevelled, and his clothes were rent and dirty.

  Glancing about ferociously, he snarled, “Where is he?”

  “Good God!” gasped Sir Selby. “What on earth has happened to you, dear boy?”

  Valentine halted, staring at him. “You wicked old humbug,” he said between his teeth.

  Sir Selby was suddenly very still and watchful.

  “How dare you! You horrid boy!” shrilled Lady Trent, outraged.

  Jimson, the third footman, who had hurried up followed by a lackey, checked, and watched hopefully.

  “What kind of murderous thing are you,” went on Valentine, pacing towards his uncle, his narrowed eyes savage with rage, “that you could call me your dear boy—even while you did your level best to poison me?”

  Lady Trent turned white and threw both hands to her mouth.

  Jimson and the lackey uttered simultaneous gasps and exchanged shocked glances.

  “You are mad,” declared Trent, blenching, and backing away a step.

  Junius ran in from the hall, loading a pistol. “Father,” he panted, “Montclair knows—” He saw his cousin then, and froze.

  “By God, but I do!” roared Montclair, leaping at him.

  Junius levelled the pistol and fired. At the same instant, Jimson jumped forward and struck the weapon up, and the ball whammed into the ceiling.

  Cursing, Junius whipped the footman into the path of the onrushing Montclair, and fled towards the Gallery.

  Jimson stumbled and fell. Valentine leapt over him and tore after Junius.

  Lady Trent gave a piercing shriek.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy!” cried Sir Selby. “You men—Mr. Montclair has gone stark raving mad! Stop him!”

  Jimson required the lackey to help him up, and they walked sedately after the combatants.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Junius saw Montclair gaining on him, snatched up a lamp, and hurled it. Valentine fielded it with an upflung arm, and ran on. Down the steps and across the gallery went Junius, toppling plant stands, strewing small tables and stools in his wake. Valentine was tripped when an aspidistra crashed at his feet, and went down hard, but he rolled and was up again as his cousin leapt down the steps and disappeared along the side hall and into the South Wing.

  There were few servants about at this hour, and the corridor past the ballroom was deserted. Valentine started up the main staircase, and narrowly escaped being brained by a flying bust of the Emperor Vespasian. “Stand … and fight, you cowardly dog,” he gasped out.

  He was tiring, but knew suddenly where Junius was going, and made a mighty effort to catch up. He heard glass shatter as he plunged into Selby’s study, and ducked frantically as Junius snatched a heavy Sumatran kris from the display case and sent it whizzing at him. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his upper arm and thudded into the wall. Barely conscious of the sharp burn of pain, Valentine flung himself at his cousin. Junius crashed into the cabinet and it toppled, sending weapons flying. Valentine followed up with a hard left to the jaw, and Junius went to his knees and buried his face in his arms, cowering. “Don’t…” he whimpered. “Please—don’t hit me … again!” Valentine stood over him, fists clenched. “Get—up, you—slimy murdering coward!” he panted. Junius moaned and began to struggle up, then pounced to grab a heavy teak sword-stand carved in the shape of deer horns. He spun, and slammed it at Valentine’s ribs. Valentine doubled up, gasping. Junius laughed gloatingly, and bent to snatch up a double-edged Khanjar knife. Valentine summoned the last dregs of his strength, locked his hands together and swung them up, connecting solidly under his cousin’s chin. Junius was straightened out and went over backwards. He gave an odd, strangled squawk, tried convulsively to rise, then slumped down.

  Sagging to his knees again, panting, Valentine saw many legs run in, and heard shocked exclamations. For a minute the room was an echoing blur. Devenish’s voice came through the mists. “Gad Val, but you’re a bloody mess!” Ragged and battered, his friend knelt, supporting him. Valentine said with breathless indignation, “Talk about … pot calling kettle … black!”

  “Oh, what a lovely brawl,” said Vaughan, reeling to join them. “Hey! Diccon! We need a doctor here!”

  Valentine gasped, “Dev … is she—all right?”

  “If you mean the Glorious Henley—yes, dear old boy. The lady is quite safe, but—”

  “One of you men,” said Diccon sharply, “ride for a doctor. Fast.”

  “I’m—all right,” Valentine muttered. “The Bo’sun will—”

  “I think we’ll need a proper doctor,” said the Intelligence Officer, holding up the sword-stand. “I’m afraid your cousin landed on this unpleasant article.”

  Valentine peered at Junius. “Is he … dead?”

  Working busily over the huddled figure, Diccon said dryly, “Not yet. I think he won’t cheat the hangman, my lord.”

  The title made Valentine wince. “I will press … no charges.”

  “I understand your desire to preserve your family honour,” said Diccon, a note of irritation in his voice. “But this is too large a matter for you to suppress. If Trent was deeply involved with the Masterpiece Gang—”

  “He wasn’t,” said Valentine.

  “We’ll see that, sir,” said Diccon.

  * * *

  Four hectic days later, Susan received Lord Montclair in the withdrawing room at Highperch. She was sure she would be able to control herself, but the shock of seeing him wearing blacks, relieved only by the white neckcloth, almost overset her. He looked less battered than the last time she’d seen him, but the welt was still a livid line across his face, and there was a dulled look to the dark eyes that made it difficult for her to meet them. “I had not expected you to call, my lord,” she said, sitting on the sofa and waving him to a chair.

  “I had to come.” He sat down and gazed at her pleadingly. “Sue—I—”

  “I must ask that you address me properly, sir.”

  So she hadn’t forgiven him. Who could blame her? “Yes,” he said. “Er—Mrs. Henley, I have come to most humbly apologize for—for what I—”

  “For believing we plotted to murder you.”

  “I—suppose I had come to—to expect it,” he murmured. “It seems to have become the national pastime.”

  She looked at him sharply. A wry smile hovered about his lips. She frowned and he said hurriedly, “I’m sorry. I seem to be handling this badly.”

  “Is there a good way to handle such an accusation?”

  He flushed. “Sue—for the love of God—forgive me! I—must have been mad to have suspected such a thing of you.
I had once overheard you talking with Starry, and I thought— But I was a fool! You saved my life all over again when you denied me that medicine. I should have known— How did you know, by the way?”

  “I had not the least idea,” she admitted. “I merely thought Sheswell a stupid man, and the Bo’sun didn’t admire his instructions or the effect of the medicine, so we abandoned both and followed our own methods.”

  “How can I ever thank you? Won’t you please be charitable, and ascribe my own stupidity to the concussion Ti dealt me?”

  “In view of my reputation, my lord—”

  “Must you keep throwing that title at me?”

  “It is as well, sir, to keep one’s place.”

  He groaned and threw an irked look at the ceiling.

  Her hand went out to him, but was quickly withdrawn. She said in a kinder voice, “I was very sorry to hear of your brother’s death. I know he meant a great deal to you.”

  “Yes. He did. Thank you.” He still couldn’t accept the fact that dear old Geoff was gone, and his voice shook a little. He recovered himself and said quickly, “I want you to know that I am renouncing all claim to this house, and I—”

  “We do not want your charity, Montclair,” said Andrew, stalking into the room. “Thank you very much.”

  “It isn’t—” began Valentine, standing to face him.

  “Oh, yes it is! That Intelligence man, Diccon— By the bye, did you bring him in to spy on us, too?”

  “No, I did not! He was after Monteil. Now see here, Lyddford—”

  Susan interrupted, her voice calm and dispassionate. “We are moving away, my lord.”

  “Where?” he demanded, paling.

  “Never you mind,” said Lyddford. “I don’t want you following us and making sheep’s eyes at my sister.”

  “Sheep’s eyes! Now devil take you, Lydd—”

  “I don’t know what else you’d call it, Montclair.” He added mockingly, but with his fine eyes very intent, “Unless—is it possible you have come to ask my permission to pay your addresses?”

  “Andy!” exclaimed Susan, her eyes flashing with anger. “How could you embarrass me so? Mr. Montclair—I mean his lordship—made his opinion of us too clear for me to have anything but disgust for such a declaration.”

  Lyddford said sternly, “I’ll hear his answer, if you please, Mrs. H.”

  Admiral Lord Sutton-Newark had already visited Longhills, and Valentine’s discussion with him regarding the lovely widow had brought a sharp and unyielding verdict. “Unequivocally—and finally—no!” had said the old gentleman. “You are the head of the family now, Montclair. You have an obligation to your name, and to all who have carried it before you. You must marry well and with honour! There can be no slightest hint of scandal about your lady. Susan Henley? No, by Gad! Never!”

  Montclair’s head bowed. He said quietly, “No. That is not why I came.”

  Lyddford gave a bark of sardonic laughter. “I believe that, at least!”

  “But there is no reason,” went on Montclair, “for you to leave here.”

  Susan rose to her feet. “There is every reason, sir,” she said. “As my brother started to tell you, we learned that prior to my marriage Diccon was slightly acquainted with my husband. He was kind enough to make an investigation for us, and found definite proof that—that your mama did indeed refund the purchase price of this house. You were perfectly right, my lord. We have, in fact, trespassed, and owe you rent for the—”

  Montclair stepped closer to her and said with a blaze of anger, “Do not dare to say such a thing! You saved my life, and in return I am expected to put you out of house and home and charge you rent? If that isn’t the most preposterous—”

  “I put it to you, sir,” interrupted Lyddford, “that I don’t like your tone; I don’t like your manner; and I most decidedly will not accept your charity! Bad enough,” he added grudgingly, “that I’ve to thank you for clearing me with the Excise people.”

  Ignoring him, Valentine reached out towards Susan imploringly, but she drew back as if his nearness revolted her. He lowered his hand and asked in desperation, “Where will you go? Please—at least tell me that.”

  Lyddford stalked over to the door and flung it open. “I tell you goodbye, sir. No more. No less.”

  Valentine bit his lip and said huskily, “Lyddford—I beg you. Give me a moment alone with her. Only a moment.”

  Andrew Lyddford was a volatile and somewhat selfish young man, but he was far from being insensitive, and this whole unhappy interview was weakening his stern resolution. He hesitated, glancing at his sister.

  Susan turned and walked from the room, her dark hair swinging behind her.

  For a moment Valentine gazed after her. Then, without a word, he left the house.

  18

  “But my good blockhead”—Alain Devenish, who had just wandered into the library after enjoying a late breakfast, leaned forward and placed both hands on the map his friend was attempting to read—“it is positively—heathen! Leave your confounded swamp for a minute and attend me! No offense, but—the putrid lot tried to put a period to you! Their own flesh and blood! And you allow them to remain here, a full week after their dastardly schemes failed? Blest if ever I heard of such a thing!”

  Obediently, Montclair looked up from the map of Amberly Down. “You may believe I’ll be glad to see the back of ’em—with the exception of Babs, of course. I insist they keep to the South Wing, and not come into this part of the house, but Junius is very ill, Dev. I can hardly force them to move him when even the doctor from Town said it would be a death sentence.”

  “The dirty bastard wouldn’t be in such a fix had he not planned your death in a particularly slow and horrible fashion.” Vaughan, who was sprawled in a deep chair reading The Times, tossed the newspaper aside and added, “If Diccon has his way—”

  “Diccon has his hands full trying to trace Imre Monteil. Besides, Junius is a bad man, I’d be the last to dispute that. But if I pressed charges and the lot came out…” Montclair shrugged. “It won’t do. The Family, you know.”

  Devenish nodded a gloomy acknowledgement of the sanctity of The Family. “I know. I suppose you’re the head now—eh?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Vaughan said sympathetically, “Bad luck, old lad. Curst lot of bothersome responsibilities. And with the staff you’ve got here, and your farms and villages…” He shuddered.

  “You think it’s bad now,” said Devenish cheerfully. “Only wait ’til you set up your nursery!” And with an oblique glance at Vaughan, “I suppose your nautical great-uncle wants you to get leg-shackled as fast as may be?”

  Bending over the map hurriedly, Valentine murmured, “He said something of the sort. I’m in no hurry. I’ve to see Babs safely wed first.”

  Through a short silence Devenish frowned at him, then said with a trace of diffidence, “While Joss and I were having a jolly time being vagrants at Highperch—”

  “For which I shall never be able to thank you enough,” interjected Montclair, smiling gratefully from one to the other. “When I think of how you hovered about trying to protect me—”

  “We were truly noble,” nodded Devenish complacently.

  “And such splendid painters,” mused Vaughan.

  Montclair laughed. “The most ruffianly pair of hedgehogs I ever saw. But it’s amazing I didn’t recognize you, if only for the fun and gigs you had at my expense! Small wonder I warned Su— Mrs. Henley against you. Did you know you scared her half to death one night when she caught you watching Highperch?”

  Vaughan threw up his hands. “C’est mal! That was our Diccon. He took the night shift whilst we got our beauty sleep.”

  “And as for being scared to death,” said Devenish, “the lady came nigh to causing both Joss and me to swoon with fright when she damn near rode us down in the woods that day!”

  Montclair’s expression sobered. “You refuse to let me properly thank you, but—”
<
br />   “Oh, do stow it, you block,” snorted Vaughan. “Cease interrupting with all this poppycock, when we want to talk sensibly. Now—speaking of weddings—”

  Valentine returned his gaze to the map. “We weren’t.”

  “Yes, we were,” argued Devenish. “You said you had to get Babs married off. And—er, as to the Glorious Widow—she is … ah, glorious. Eh, my tulip?”

  “Mmm,” said Valentine, his head bowing lower over the map.

  Vaughan said, “Dev and I—we rather thought … That is— We don’t mean to pry, but—”

  Montclair straightened and looked at them gravely. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m very grateful for that.”

  “Oh,” said Devenish, blinking at him.

  “Er—quite,” said Vaughan.

  * * *

  A week later Mr. Yates strolled with Alain Devenish through the sunlit water gardens, and pointed out, “Well, he is in deep mourning, sir.”

  “I fully understand that,” nodded Devenish. “But—”

  “Do you really, Mr. Devenish? No—please don’t think I mean to be insolent. I know you was friends with Mr. Valentine at school. But—you didn’t see them grow up, sir. I did. Always fighting, they were. Over nothing, most of the time. But they made it up quick as a wink, and underneath they were as close as brothers can be. Master Geoff was the more easy natured of the two; a bit on the lazy side, perhaps, if I may be so bold as to remark it. But such charm that boy had, sir. Wound us all round his little finger, he did. Aside from their squabbles, which is only natural in two healthy young boys, Master Valentine fairly idolized his brother. Master Geoff could do no wrong in his eyes. ’Til he went flaunting off and—” The steward checked himself abruptly. “I think Mr. Val—I mean his lordship—was counting the days ’til his brother come home. Never wanted the title, he didn’t. Or the fortune. He’s not one for all the antics of Society, like Master Geoff was. All he wanted was his music … Now—” He shrugged.

  “That’s another thing,” said Devenish. “I used to find Lord Valentine at his harpsichord every time I came. I don’t think I’ve seen him in that music room once since the fight at Highperch. Nor has Mr. Vaughan.”