Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  His heart contracted painfully. “You are moving away, then?”

  “No. We’re moving away now! Uncle Andy and Mama finded a house in Town, and—and Mama says I shall like it. But—” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mr. V-Val—I don’t want to like it! I don’t want to go ’way. I have a simply drefful time f-finding friends. Look how long it took to find you! And now … I got to lose you!”

  Overwhelmed, he pulled her close against him and hugged her tight. “I don’t want you to go either, sweetheart.”

  “I lose all my friends,” she sobbed. “I think I—won’t have any more. Ever! It’s too sad when … when you have to—go ’way!”

  Montclair buried his face against her tumbled curls and for a moment couldn’t say anything at all. Then he asked unsteadily, “When—will you leave?”

  “Ever so soon. As soon as the Bo’sun buys some more paint. There wasn’t enough in my tub.”

  He stiffened. “But—I thought— Do you say the Bo’sun is finishing the front of Highperch with the paint you used for your doll house?”

  “No,” she sniffed. “He started it all over ’gain.”

  She wouldn’t! Surely, however she despised him she wouldn’t take her revenge by desecrating the dear old place with that hideous purple?

  “I don’t like it,” Priscilla went on sadly, taking the handkerchief he rather absently handed her. “It’s not pretty. But Mama says we must leave you something to ’member us by … Why is your face so red, Mr. Val?” And with the bewilderingly sudden recovery that is the way of childhood, she did not wait for him to respond, but said an excited “Only look at all the carriages!”

  With an effort Montclair collected himself and turned to the window.

  A long cavalcade was winding up the drivepath; an ornate travelling coach in the lead, followed by three luxurious closed chariots, a phaeton, and a curricle, all piled high with luggage. The final vehicle was a huge coach, so topheavy with boxes and bags it was remarkable it had not foundered. The coachmen and footmen wore an elegant but unfamiliar dark blue livery, nor did Valentine recognize any of the eight outriders. ‘Who the devil…?’ he thought, and wondered uneasily if Great Uncle Chauncey had decided to move in.

  Taking Priscilla’s hand, he muttered, “We’d best go and see who this is.”

  They went out onto the front steps. Prospect, flanked by two lackeys, was already waiting, and several stableboys were running along the drivepath.

  The leading carriage halted, the high-bred team snorting and cavorting about. The footmen jumped down and one ran to swing open the door and let down the steps, while the other began to unload valises.

  “Good God, Prospect,” murmured Valentine sotto voce, “we’re being invaded! Who the deuce is this?”

  Prospect’s eyes twinkled. He whispered, “I couldn’t say, m’lud, but—”

  An extremely beautiful young lady who was obviously in a delicate condition was handed down the steps. “Oh!” she exclaimed, gazing rapturously at Montclair. “Is this my brother? He is so handsome!”

  Valentine’s jaw sagged.

  Both footmen were now inside the vehicle. A gentleman was being tenderly supported down the steps. He seemed very frail, and his dark head was bowed as he accepted a walking cane and leaned on it heavily. Then he looked up. From shadowed hollows a pair of dark eyes gazed at Valentine. The pale, sunken face twisted with emotion; a thin arm reached out.

  With a choked sob, Valentine was sprinting down the steps to hug and weep and be wept over. “Geoff!” he gulped. “Oh—my dear God! Geoff!”

  “Val,” gasped Geoffrey, Baron Montclair, tears gleaming on his cheeks. “Good old Val. You … thought me dead, I’ll wager! And—and here I am … like the proverbial bad penny … come to wrest the title away from you, poor old lad!”

  “Stupid … cawker,” managed Valentine.

  Priscilla had followed him down the steps and now paused uncertainly. She was considerably shocked to see tears on the cheeks of her beloved friend, for an English gentleman did not weep. Her disappointment was forgotten, however, when from the following carriage came two small children. A little girl, and a boy of about seven with fair curls and a pair of bright green eyes which looked her over appraisingly. “Hello. I’m Theodore,” he said. “Have you got any brothers?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “No. I’ve got a dog.”

  His face, which had fallen, brightened again. “Have you truly?”

  “An’ my uncle’s got a boat,” said Priscilla.

  “Oh, jolly fine!” said Theodore, his eyes shining with admiration. Clearly, Priscilla was acceptable. He cast about for something equally impressive, but at last admitted regretfully, “I’ve only got a sister. This is her. Alice. She’s four.”

  Alice had fair curls, a shy smile, and a battered doll. She had something of inestimably greater value. She wore big spectacles. Priscilla smiled at her. Alice held out her doll, and Priscilla inspected it.

  “Wha’ your name?” asked Alice.

  Priscilla told her.

  “Can we go and see your dog now?” asked Theodore.

  “All right, but you’ll have to be very quiet ’cause he’s hugeous fierce an’ drefful, you know. His name’s Wolfgang…”

  19

  Riding across the park with Priscilla perched in front of him, Valentine’s thoughts were chaotic. Geoff was home! Dear old Geoff was alive and—if not quite well as yet, was expected to make a full recovery. And what a jolly, lively family he’d brought with him. His beautiful wife, Jemima; her fat and good-humoured mother, Mrs. Bancroft; his widowed brother-in-law, Hamish, whose two children had struck up an immediate friendship with Priscilla; and his sister-in-law, Millicent, a sprightly damsel with auburn curls and mischievous green eyes. The late Mr. Bancroft had been attached to the Ambassador’s staff in Calcutta until typhoid fever had carried him off. His family had been intending to return to England when Geoffrey had been carried to their home after being mauled by the tiger, and while recovering had wooed and won the elder Miss Bancroft.

  Watching his brother anxiously, Geoffrey had suggested that the South Wing might be ideal for the two Bancroft ladies and Hamish Bancroft and his children, while Geoffrey and Jemima could reside with Valentine in the main house. Valentine had happily approved, but had laughed at “his lordship’s” diffidence and told him to stop being such a gudgeon.

  Geoffrey had heard about the murderous attempt on Valentine’s life, and was full of anxious questions. Valentine was as full of questions, and had yearned to spend the rest of the day with this beloved brother, the report of whose death had been such a crushing blow, and who was now so marvellously restored to him. He had seen concern in his new sister-in-law’s eyes, however, and had realized that Geoff was very tired. Also, Priscilla must be sent home. He’d intended to have her driven home, but the news of her mama’s infamous behaviour had made it imperative that he take the child back to Highperch himself.

  He had been so overjoyed by his brother’s safe return, his heart so light that at first he could only be thankful and elated. But a shadow had been cast over even that great happiness. Susan Henley, intending to move away—knowing she would probably never see him again—had been so full of resentment against him that she’d defaced the gentle old cottage. The place where he had come to love her so deeply; where, despite the bad times, they’d known such precious moments. How could she have done such a thing?

  “Come on, Wolfgang!” called Priscilla, waving the bone enticingly.

  The dog had been attempting to haul his prize home, but it was almost as big as he was, and when the struggle had proven to be an unequal one, his owner had undertaken its transportation. Montclair halted Allegro so that the Fierce and Invincible Guard Dog could catch up, and then they all went on again. Priscilla tossed the bone soon after they reached the drivepath, and Wolfgang settled down with it happily.

  Highperch Cottage loomed up beyond the trees, and Montclair’s heart began to beat rapi
dly. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as Priscilla had said. Perhaps the Bo’sun had mixed the paint so that— “Good … God!” he gasped.

  “Put me down! Oh, do please put me down!” shrilled Priscilla. He let her down numbly, and she went running off to the stables. “Uncle Andy! Uncle Andy! I finded two new friends…!”

  Valentine sent Allegro on at a walk, his gaze fixed on the house, rage boiling inside him. The glaring purple trim provided an almost sickening clash with the sandstone walls. The mellow old cottage, always so serenely at peace with its surroundings, was now cheapened and vulgar, so hideous that it hurt him to look at it. He had humbled himself to apologize to Susan, and she, cold and unforgiving, had spurned him. Horribly aware of the depth of his offense, he’d accepted his punishment, and left her in peace. He had perjured himself to the authorities so as to protect her brother, and had gone on loving her, breaking his heart for her these past miserable weeks. While she, remorseless in her wounded pride, had planned to go away and leave him this cruel evidence of her scorn. She knew how much he loved the old place. She must really hate him to have done such a thing. “By the Lord Harry,” he muttered, “if ever a woman deserved to be pilloried…!”

  The deserving woman came out onto the steps. She wore a pale lemon gown and a dainty yellow cap with long ribbons that fluttered in the warm breeze. Folding her hands demurely, she stood watching him.

  Burning with hurt and wrath, he slid from the saddle and stamped up the steps. “You wretched, wretched jade,” he growled. “You did it to spite me, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, calm but very pale.

  “Did you have to vent your hatred on the dear old house?”

  “I had no choice, my lord, since you were not here to—er, vent my hatred on.”

  He seized her by the arms. “I told you how sorry I was. You knew very well how I felt. Was it not enough to placate you?”

  “Not—nearly enough. I wanted to see—”

  “See what?” he demanded, shaking her a little. “My hurt that you would do so crude a thing before you went flaunting off to Town? Was this to have been your farewell gift? A tenderness to remember you by?”

  She was very close to him, and she smelled of violets, and her grey eyes were so wide—so clear … And oh, but he was a sorry fool …

  “You may have—something more, if you wish,” she said, a note of strain in her voice now. “I—we lived here without payment of rent for several months. I feel—you are entitled to—to some recompense.”

  “Do you? Then by all means fetch me your dustpan brush.”

  His eyes were saying something very different, and Susan swayed to him. “Would that—satisfy you?”

  “No, by God!” he growled.

  “I thought not…” Somehow her hands were on his chest, and her eyes were soft with a tenderness that took his breath. “And also…” she murmured, “I tried to be noble, to push you away. Only—I find that—that I cannot seem to smile … any more … without you are part of my life.”

  “Susan…” he whispered, his arms slipping about her, and his heart pounding like a kettle drum. “Oh—my Susan. What … recompense are you offering me?”

  “I— Well, you see I know … you cannot wed me. So … after Andy moves to the house in Town, I thought—”

  He scowled darkly. “You thought—what? Why, you shameless wanton! You are offering to be my mistress!”

  “Ssshh!” She glanced nervously to the house. “I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Pleased! Dash it all, Susan Henley, I don’t want you for my mistress!”

  Her eyes fell. “Oh.”

  He forced her chin up and said with his lurking smile, “My beautiful, gallant, peerless love. I want you for my wife! Will you, dearest girl, do me the very great honour of taking me to husband?”

  Susan’s lower lip fell. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with shock. “B-But—Val! I cannot be Lady Montclair, you know that! It is against all sense—all logic!”

  The amber flecks in his eyes were more brilliant than she had ever seen them; his half smile broadened into a joyous beam. “There is no logic to the heart, my beloved. How could there be if someone as dear and perfect as you could care for me? Besides, God willing, you never shall be Lady Montclair. Oh, Sue—my adored woman, I am free at last! My brother is come home safe, after all! And has brought a bride who is most decidedly—ah, enceinte, so I am very likely pushed right out of any chance at the title.”

  “My dear, my dear! How very glad I am for your sake! I know how deeply you mourned him.”

  He kissed her hand. “You also know what it means, my darling. I shall be plain Mr. Montclair again. Thank the good Lord! We can live here, and we may not be rich, lovely one, but I promise you’ll not starve. I’ve a nice inheritance, and Geoff means to settle a substantial amount on me.”

  “I have a little money too, Val. No, dear, I am serious. Diccon came and told me there is a rather enormous reward for the return of the things in my—in our cellar, so you will not be wedding a pauper after all!”

  He scanned her face eagerly. “I think I have just been accepted, no?”

  “I suspect you have, Mr. Valentine Amberly Montclair.”

  He hugged her close and murmured humbly, “Most worshipped of wicked widows, I shall make you a horrid husband! When I’m deep in my music, I—I simply disappear. And—my temper is not always exactly—er, tranquil. Will you be able to endure me?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes full of happy tears, and lifted her face. Valentine kissed her, hard and long, and they forgot all about titles and estates and smugglers and anything at all except that they loved and needed each other, and that happiness had come to them at last.

  Priscilla’s shrill screaming jerked them apart. Valentine whipped around. The little girl stood a few feet away, but she was crouched, her clenched hands pressed against her mouth.

  Following her horrified eyes, Susan gasped, “Oh! My heavens!”

  It was too far, Valentine knew, but he started to run.

  Wolfgang was grinding blissfully on his bone. Bearing down on him at top speed came a large and terrible threat.

  “Soldier!” roared Montclair, racing full tilt. “Go home!”

  But Soldier was almost upon the delectable bone and its contemptibly puny owner, and paid no heed.

  At the last second, the Fierce and Invincible Guard Dog jumped up and turned to face Nemesis, and quail, shivering.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Montclair, ‘please don’t let the child see this.’

  A horrifying growl rumbling deep in his throat, Soldier lunged in for the kill.

  All the hair stood up on Wolfgang’s small back. He yapped once, and sprang bravely.

  Soldier let out a shrill yelp, and jumped back, one paw flailing at his bloody nose.

  Staring in disbelief, Valentine halted.

  Wolfgang planted both front paws firmly on his property, and barked a shrill diatribe of canine insults.

  His tail between his legs, howling, Soldier sped for home.

  Montclair threw back his head and shouted with laughter. He heard peals of merriment ring out behind him, and turned, holding out his arms. Susan and Priscilla ran into them. Priscilla hugged his leg hard. Susan kissed his chin, her eyes full of love and laughter.

  Andrew strolled down the front steps with Welcome draped over his shoulder. He relinquished the little cat to Priscilla’s eager embrace, and said with his ingratiating grin, “I say, Montclair, I saw the most deuced pretty girl driving towards the Manor when I was coming back from Tewkesbury this afternoon. She has auburn hair and the loveliest green eyes. I wondered…”

  “She is my new sister-in-law,” said Montclair. “And I’ll thank you to keep your lecherous eyes from the lady. Furthermore, does it escape your notice, Andy, that I have my arm around your sister?”

  Lyddford blinked. “Well, I’m not blind. Why d’you suppose we painted the house that disgusting colour? Or brought Prisci
lla over to Longhills to tell you about it? You were properly ambushed, poor fellow. Now, regarding your sister-in-law—since we’re all going to be part of the family…”

  Laughing, Montclair planted a firm kiss on Susan’s brow.

  “By Jove, but we are,” he said, and with his arm securely around his love, led the way into the dear old house.

  About the Author

  Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.

  Previous novels by Patricia Veryan

  THE DEDICATED VILLAIN

  CHERISHED ENEMY

  LOVE ALTERS NOT

  GIVE ALL TO LOVE

  THE TYRANT

  JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT

  PRACTICE TO DECEIVE

  SANGUINET’S CROWN

  THE WAGERED WIDOW

  THE NOBLEST FRAILTY

  MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION

  FEATHER CASTLES

  SOME BRIEF FOLLY

  NANETTE

  MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE

  LOVE’S DUET

  THE LORD AND THE GYPSY

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11