Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  He led the way at a spanking pace, up the hill and across a stretch of turf, avoiding the icy paths. The mare was taxed to the utmost, but Euphemia was sure Hawkhurst had held the big black in, and the stallion was scarcely blowing when he was reined back to a canter, and then to a walk.

  “You ride very well,” Hawkhurst acknowledged. “Learned in Spain, did you? I heard you were right up with the best of ’em when they forded the rivers over there.”

  She glanced at him in some surprise, wondering how much else he knew of her. “Yes. But you did not bring me out here to talk of Spain, did you?”

  He smiled rather sardonically at this direct approach and guided her down a slope, then followed the winding route of a stream. Sarabande snorted and sidled at the rustle of a patch of reeds and shied when a flock of fieldfares soared raucously upward a short distance away, but, ignoring these idiosyncrasies, Hawkhurst said mildly, “My sister has taken a great liking to you, ma’am.”

  Euphemia, who had been admiring his superb horsemanship, thought, Aha! So that’s it! and replied, “A liking I return, I do assure you. She is the dearest girl and has been of so much help with poor little Kent. Indeed, it seems that each time I turn around there is something else for which I must thank you.”

  She had hoped that this would irritate him away from the subject, and sure enough one of his hands lifted in that autocratic gesture of impatience. “Nonsense. I am only sorry you had so terrifying an experience,” his eyes turned to her thoughtfully, “while on my land.”

  Euphemia answered his unspoken question at once. “We were trespassing, I know. Dominer is featured in my guidebook, you see, and, since we would pass through Down Buttery on our way to Bath, I begged my brother to let us detour just a little way so that we might actually see it.”

  “I’ll warrant you had to beg hard,” he said cynically. “Buchanan’s no admirer of architecture. Nor of me.”

  “To the contrary. He told me Dominer was magnificent.” A small frown came into her eyes. “And you must think him a sad case if you fancy him ungrateful for all you have done. The way you went down that cliff after the boy was—”

  “Damned foolish,” he intervened curtly and, seeing her mouth opening, added a hurried, “Speaking of the boy, may I ask why he is called only Kent? Is he a foundling?”

  “Very much so. I found him in my sister’s chimney.” He directed a curious glance at her, and she recounted the sad story. By the time she finished, he looked very grim indeed. “Poor little devil,” he muttered. “No wonder he’s mute. Probably scared half to death. It happens to some of our men who are in the worst of the fighting, you know. I’ve a good friend, in fact, who may never be able to speak again.”

  “You—you could not mean Lord Jeremy Bolster?”

  Hawkhurst had been staring rather blankly at his horse’s ears, but the incredulity in her tone brought a glint of anger to his eyes, and he snapped, “Yes. But pray do not let the secret out—it would quite ruin the poor fellow! Now, as to my sister. I am told you intend to … er, make a beauty out of her.”

  He was not pleased, that was very obvious. Making a recover from her astonishment that he could number so fine a young man as Bolster among his friends, Euphemia began, “I merely hoped to—”

  “Gild the lily?” he sneered rudely. “Why? Not all men like painted, perfumed, and posturing females.”

  Flabbergasted, she fought to remain outwardly calm, even while wondering how that arrogant face would look with claw marks down it. “Nor had I intended to make her into a replica of myself, sir,” she reposted, with saintly humility.

  Briefly, he looked taken aback, but refusing to acknowledge that his deliberate insult had been flung back in his teeth, he compounded the felony. “I am glad to hear it. Stephanie is happy and has no need to cultivate a lot of foolish affectations to no purpose.”

  For an instant Euphemia could scarce believe she had heard him aright. Then, she was fairly dizzied with rage. Never had she met such a crude barbarian! “Foolish affectations” indeed! She clung to the memory that he had saved their lives and was thus enabled not to betray the anger that she sensed would gratify him. Entering the lists with grace, but with her lance poised, she murmured, “Ah, but is she happy?”

  “The devil! Why would she not be?” He flung out one arm in an irked gesture that startled Sarabande into a sideways leap, a dance, two bucks, and a whirligig. Euphemia clapped her hands and laughed aloud. Hawkhurst rode it out in magnificent style, but was flushed and tight of lip when at last he reined the black to her side. Perhaps because he knew her mirth well-warranted, he snarled, “I collect country life would seem dull to someone who has jauntered about the world as you have done, ma’am. But I assure you my sister desires no such flibbertigibbet existence. She is a shy, quiet bookworm. You were charitable enough to describe her ‘beautiful.’ That, she ain’t! She has far more important attributes—a heart of gold, and the disposition of an angel. If some bright young Buck could only see beyond the end of his nose, he’d grab her up fast!” Really furious now, Euphemia attempted to respond, but up went his hand again, and, looking down at her as from Mount Olympus, he decreed, “She would not more fit into that frippery round of empty-headed entertainments and empty-headed people in London Town, than—”

  “Stuff, sir!” she flashed, goaded beyond endurance. “Oh, you may scowl and droop your haughty eyes at me if you must! I shall have my say! Your sister, Mr. Hawkhurst, is a young and lovely girl. She should be happily shopping with friends for fashionable gowns and bonnets and ribands and reticules, and all the little pieces of prettiness you, I have no doubt, designate ‘nonsense,’ but that are dear to the heart of any lady! And had she the disposition of a saint and the face of a goddess, much good would it do her so long as she is cooped up here all year round! How may she meet her ‘bright young Buck,’ sir? I’ve seen few callers since we came. And none any gentleman would wish to introduce to a loved sister! Stephanie should be going to balls and routs and parties and ‘frippery entertainments,’ meeting other young people, and eligible young men!”

  “Well … she … shall … not!” he grated between his teeth.

  “Indeed? Then what is your intention for her, dare I ask? To keep her hidden away so as to share a lonely old age with you?”

  He froze, whitened, and reached out to seize her bridle, once more pulling the mare to a halt. His eyes glittering, he rasped, “You certainly speak your mind, Miss Buchanan!”

  The black minced and pranced, and suddenly their mounts were close together. Hawkhurst’s scraped forehead was almost healed now, the bruises faded, but his sudden pallor accentuated them, reminding her of the accident. Perhaps it was the aftermath of her anger that was causing her to tremble in so odd a way, but she was shocked as much by the depth of that anger as by her unforgivable outburst. “Yes,” she said meekly, “I am famous for my hasty tongue. I know that was unpardonable, but—forgive me, I beg you.” His lips remained set in that tight, harsh line. She placed one hand on his arm and smiled up into those glinting eyes, and the rage faded from them. For one brief second she thought to see a very different expression, but then the lids drooped, and, drawing away, he started onward, saying coldly, “Very well, Madam All-Wise, what would you have me do?”

  “Allow me to … to show her how to dress her hair more becomingly,” she said, still strangely shaken. “And perhaps, if there is time, she could come into Bath with me, and we could shop a little and find her—”

  “Oh, spare me!” Hawkhurst was riding slightly ahead now, since the path had narrowed, and over his shoulder said a bored, “Never bother with an itemized list, ma’am! I’m all too well acquainted with the lures you ladies throw out to catch yourselves a husband.”

  Euphemia usually found it downright child’s play to wrap gentlemen around her little finger and certainly had never in all her days been blatantly insulted. He was unique! But he’d not get the best of her this easily. “I am very sure you are,” she said s
weetly. “In fact, dear sir, I pray you will enlighten me, for there is so much I’ve yet to learn.”

  The path widening again, he waited for her to come up with him, his eyes searching her face narrowly. “From all I hear, you have rejected more offers than most of our acknowledged Toasts.”

  Euphemia was convinced now that he sought to come to cuffs with her and that her well-meant interference with his sister had thoroughly enraged him. Her demure silence did not improve his mood appreciably, for he added a sneering, “What’s the difficulty, ma’am? Has no mere man measured up to your expectations?”

  It would not, she thought, be quite polite to take off one’s boot and cast it into a gentleman’s teeth. She was very tempted to tell him that she hoped to snare one who had come “hosed and shod” into the world, but to do so would be to betray Stephanie’s confidence, so instead she sighed, “Alas, that is true. The man of my heart did not offer for me.”

  Hawkhurst was taken completely off his stride. Horrified, he sought frantically for something to say that would mitigate his savage attack. But she looked so very saintly that suspicion seized him, and, albeit uncertainly, he said, “And I suppose this paragon is some fashionable fribble, appropriately tall, dark, and handsome?”

  “Yes, he is.” She heard a disgusted snort and, beginning to enjoy herself, appended outrageously, “And so dashing in his uniform!”

  “Oh? A Gentleman’s Son, no doubt? How those military rattles dazzle the ladies in their scarlet!”

  “True. But my admired gentleman did not wear a scarlet coat.”

  “Oh? A rifleman?”

  “A naval officer. And, much decorated.” (He would be vastly decorated! He would have every decoration known to man!) “He served with Lord Nelson.”

  There was a silence. Euphemia stole a glance from under her lashes and could have screamed with mirth at his awed expression.

  “Did he, by George! And—his name? Or, perhaps I presume?”

  “Not at all. His name is Algernon Montmorency … Vane—” She met his eyes as she sought about mentally and encountered a totally unexpected twinkle.

  “… Glorious?” he suggested.

  She had to choke back an instinctive laugh and finished, “Vane-Armstrong.”

  “Poor fellow!” He clicked his tongue. “What a mouthful! And, his title?”

  He meant to check his Peerage—the wretch! “Oh, none! But, from a very fine old family, as you doubtless know. So, will you not help me, Mr. Hawkhurst?”

  Watching her, he echoed rather vaguely, “Help you?”

  “You said you were well acquainted with … lures I might throw out.”

  His eyes sharpened and held very steadily on hers for a space. She could not know how her blue eyes sparkled, nor how rosy were her cheeks. With a small start, he said, “Oh Lord, there are millions of ’em, I don’t doubt. I’ve had millions flung at me, it seems. You’d not believe, Miss Buchanan, the lengths to which some of these fortune-hunting wenches will go. I’ve had ’em ‘lose their way’ and be ‘compelled’ to walk to Dominer for aid. Or ‘need repairs’ to their carriages, and we were ‘the closest house.’ And all this in the face of my … ah, lurid reputation, you’ll mind. Ain’t nothing can dim the lure of gold, is there, ma’am? Do you know, I had one saucy puss arrive positively dripping with diamonds—all rented, I suspect. And purely to impress me with the fact that she was as rich, if not more so, than me! Jove! I’d not be surprised to have such a hussy drive her carriage clean off the road—did she believe ’twould gain her entrance to Dominer.”

  The words were as deliberate as they were vulgar, and his hard eyes challenged her. Euphemia found it difficult to draw breath, but managed, “Is … that so? Well, you have given me much to think on, Mr. Hawkhurst. I do thank you!”

  The colour in his cheeks deepened. Very abruptly, he swung Sarabande away. “Our tongues travel faster than our mounts!” he called. “Come, ma’am.” And he galloped on and around a stand of young trees.

  “Bluebeard!” Euphemia hissed after his lithely swaying back. “Overbearing! Odious! Conceit-ridden, puffed up gudgeon!”

  And, wheeling Fiddle, she rode deliberately in the opposite direction and into the Home Wood.

  SEVEN

  FOR A TIME, Euphemia was so enraged that she saw only Hawkhurst’s smirking countenance and hard, cold eyes. So he fancied her dropping the handkerchief, did he? By heaven, but he must credit her with superhuman powers, to have arranged that horrible landslide! He surely could not believe that she would have risked Kent’s life in so reckless a fashion, even had the slide been contrived, which was of itself nonsensical. Perhaps he thought it merely happenstance, that she and Simon had ridden onto his lands intending to “arrange a breakdown,” only to be caught in a real disaster. How dare he! And as if any lady of quality would throw herself at so wretched an individual. It was probably all a hum! “Ain’t nothing can dim the lure of gold, is there, ma’am?” Oh, but he was hateful! If what he said was truth indeed, the type of women he had attracted must be the very dregs. Her teeth gritted. And he apparently believed her to be one of those dregs!

  She rode on, fuming, until there came the insidious recollection of him lying sprawled on the floor of the dining room, winded and helpless, yet with his eyes laughing into hers as he gasped out his quotation. Simon, she knew, would have said he was a good sportsman at that moment. Increasingly, Mr. Garret Hawkhurst seemed to be two men, totally unlike: the one gallant, haunted by tragedy, yet still possessing a warm, rich sense of humour; the other hard, cruel, and capable of— She bit her lip. No! Even at his worst, she could no longer judge Hawkhurst capable of murdering a woman or a child. Seeking about for a key to the puzzle, she reflected that emergencies tend to bring out the best in certain individuals. Some of the wildest, most rabble-rousing womanizers under her father’s command had been the most high-couraged fighters when battle was joined. Hawkhurst must be such a man. The emergency was over, and so he had reverted to type. She nodded her satisfaction with the theory. Still, she was deeply indebted and would repay him. By helping his sweet sister. However, he must be set down for his abominable rudeness in trying to chase her away before she could do so. Now, how might that best be accomplished? The calculating expression in her eyes remained for a little while, but gradually a smile replaced it.

  She glanced up. Her smile died, and she gave a shocked gasp. She must have been lost in thought for much longer than she had realized, as she had evidently come a good distance. The gently rolling hills and dimpling valleys had been superseded by wooded slopes and sudden sharp little ravines, unsuitable country for riding—especially for a lady, unaccompanied. She wheeled Fiddle about. In that same instant, a large hare flashed under the mare’s nose. The quiet was shattered by a deafening explosion. Fiddle screamed with fright and reared madly. Euphemia had to exert every ounce of her horsemanship to keep from being thrown. When at last she was able to lean forward and stroke the sweating mare, a quiet voice murmured, “Splendidly done, ma’am. My compliments!”

  A gentleman wearing a leather hunting jacket, top boots and buckskins stood watching her with admiration. He carried a gun finely inlaid with mother-of-pearl over one arm and a game-bag lay on the ground beside him. “I almost shot you, I’m afraid,” he apologized. “I am most dreadfully sorry. I can see that would have been a terrible loss for this tired old world.”

  She liked him at once. He looked to be a year or two older than Simon, about thirty, she would guess. His hair, worn somewhat longer than the current fashion, was a crisp brown. The face was square and strong, but with a well-shaped mouth and laugh lines at the sides of the brown eyes. And, noting that one of those eyes lacked the twinkle that shone so warmly in the other and that the skin below it was puckered as though it had been burned, she said, with a smile, “You must be Lord Gains. Good gracious, but I have come a long way! Shall you have me seized by your keepers for trespassing?”

  She reached down as she spoke, and he came at once
to shake her hand. “An excellent notion! How you would brighten my house, Miss Buchanan.” Her brows arched her amusement at this, and, thinking her even more attractive than he had heard, he stepped back and explained, “My brother told me you were Hawk’s guest. And Leith has spoken of you often. Can you spare me a moment? Or do I detain you?”

  Mildly surprised by his use of Hawkhurst’s nickname, she allowed him to lift her down, and he took the reins, leaving his gun and the game-bag propped against a tree as he walked on beside her.

  “You know Tristram Leith?” she asked.

  “Yes. Very well. We are old friends, which makes it a bit—er, awkward for him, I’m afraid. Tris has told me he intended to offer for you again. Dare I presume to ask if he was accepted?”

  She was a little taken aback but, meeting his laughing glance, could not be angry and replied, “Leith is one of my very dearest friends. I really do not think I could get along without that friendship.”

  Gains shook his head. “Poor fellow. Then there’s still hope for the rest of us, I take it?”

  “Heavens! You make your mind up swiftly, my lord!”

  “He who hesitates,” he grinned. “Shall you mind adding a one-eyed man to your legion of admirers? My left orb is blind, you know.”

  “Yes. I had heard of it, and have often wondered…” She frowned. “Forgive me; I’ve a dreadful tongue, as I’ve lately been reminded.”

  He noted the sudden frown in her eyes and asked a shrewd, “Hawkhurst? Ah, I could wish you did not stay at Dominer.”

  “My brother is with me, my lord.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d not meant to imply—” He smiled in response to her questioning look and said, “Do not believe everything you hear of him, Miss Buchanan. He’s not quite as black as he’s painted.”

  Such magnanimity from one who had suffered so cruelly at Hawkhurst’s hands utterly overwhelmed her, and she stared at him, recovering her voice at last to stammer, “How very generous of you to say so. I can scarce believe any man could be so forgiving. Or have I been misinformed perhaps? I was told that Hawkhurst … er—”