Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

by Patricia Veryan

  "Alas," he sneered. "I am become unnecessary, I perceive. While Hartwell is so—ah—accommodating."

  Sophia flushed scarlet, her fists clenching, "How monstrous you are!"

  "True," shrugged the Marquis. "Wherefore, being monstrously unnecessary, I am sure you wish to be gone, for you surely cannot care to be—"

  "To be spied upon!"

  "But, of course. No one would. Under those—circumstances."

  It was incredible how much scorn he could convey with just that cynical lift of one eyebrow.

  Her teeth bared, Sophia grated an impotent "How—dare you!"

  "You, ma'am, were the one who dared. I must confess I thought it not quite the thing. En plein jour, as it were. But I am, I collect, rather old-fashioned."

  She paled. For an instant, she stood quivering and silent. Then her hand slapped hard across his cheek.

  It was the second time she had struck him. A lock of his hair was bounced down his brow by the impact, but he made no movement of either anger or retaliation, merely regarding her levelly.

  "By what right," she bit out, almost incoherent, "do you censure me?"

  She was quite visibly shaking with rage. Looking down at her, the glare faded from Damon's eyes. He made no response for a moment, then gave a slight bow. "Not censure, ma'am. Merely observe. But you are right. I apologize. I have neither the right nor the desire to bandy words with you."

  "Of course not," she spluttered. "That is not your way, is it? Having insulted me, you think to run away—like the coward you are!"

  His eyes fell. "Yes. If you will excuse me, ma'am," and he started away.

  "Well, I shall not!" She ran swiftly to confront him. "You have made your nasty insinuations. Now you will have the decency to hear me out!"

  He halted at once. "I have apologized. I had no—"

  "No what? Valour? Morals? Integrity? Oh, I am well aware of that, sir! And have known all along that you are beneath contempt! How fortunate that your poor abused father did not hear you name a guest in your house a—a wanton!"

  Damon stood rigidly silent. Then he took out a small and begemmed snuff box, deftly flicked it open, raised a pinch with infuriating languor, and inhaled. "I was not aware," he said, dusting his cravat with a lace-edged handkerchief, "that I mentioned such a word…"

  He had spilled more snuff than he imagined, his hand shook so. The movements of his handkerchief broadcast a small cloud, and Sophia, her mouth opened for another blasting attack, paused, gasped, and gave so violent a sneeze that a comb was shaken from her hair. Damon, his eyes at once abrim with laughter, scooped it up and offered it.

  Sophia snatched at it angrily but dropped it as she sneezed once more. His faint chuckle added to her fury as she thought up a scathing indictment, waved her arms preparatory to devastating him with her acid words, only to explode into another sneeze. "Beast!" she choked inadequately.

  He grinned and held out his handkerchief.

  She took it, turned as she felt another paroxysm building, and ran a few quick steps toward the harpsichord. The sneeze was magnificent. It rocked her to her slippers; gasping, she reached out blindly for support. Her hand struck the rack, sending music flying helter-skelter. Damon hurried over and began to retrieve the pages, and Sophia, recovering somewhat, bent to collect the sheets that were close to her. Something inside her became very still. The topmost sheet was the melody she'd heard him playing just before Vaille had left, the music he had snatched away so hurriedly. It was Still unfinished, but these notes had been penned by the sure hand of a skilled musician—quite different to the clumsy efforts on the old parchment. At the top, a bold, firm scrawl provided the title "Sophia."

  Stunned, her eyes flashed to Damon. He was on one knee, searching anxiously through the pages he had gathered. He looked up at her, saw the music in her hand, and froze. For a very brief instant, his face reflected shocked guilt. She saw the white teeth catch at his lower lip. Then he took a breath, stood, met her amazed stare, and said an aloof "My Great Aunt…"

  He was lying, she was sure of it. All other considerations became of no importance; her boiling fury was totally forgotten. "Oh?" she murmured, and hummed the melody. "You must be very fond of her. This is beautiful."

  He thanked her with bored indifference but from the corner of his eye saw her suspicious regard and said hastily, "You were quite right. I am devoted to her. Though she's a pitiful old thing."

  Sophia expressed the hope that the lady was not ill.

  "No. Fat." The words were gravely uttered, but again laughter gleamed in his eyes as her chin swung up in that betrayingly defensive fashion.

  "Fat!" It had occurred to my lady of late that her hips might be just a shade too rounded. "Very fat?"

  "Enormous," he said, warming to his creation. "And tall-well over six feet."

  She gasped. "Six feet! Has she a husband?"

  "Twice widowed," he mourned. "And she has a—" He looked into her lovely and faintly aghast violet eyes and said irrepressibly, "A squint, poor thing."

  "A squint? And twice widowed! She would seem overburdened with afflictions."

  "True. And with lovers."

  "L-lovers…?"

  "Well, only one at the moment," he qualified gravely. "Terribly jealous. But—very devoted."

  Sophia, her own eyes beginning to sparkle with mirth, echoed, "Only one?"

  "At the moment. Fine chap. A bit short for her, unfortunately. Stands about four feet, ten."

  "They must," she observed, her voice a trifle unsteady, "present a rather odd appearance."

  "Mais oui. But then he has such an air about him."

  "He does?"

  He nodded. "Most decidedly. Cannot escape it." His lips quivered. "He's a cockle and mussel merchant, you see."

  Choking, she said, "Cockle… and mussel."

  "Alive, alive-oh," he grinned.

  "How fascinating," she said with a ripple of laughter. "No wonder you were so inspired as to write that lovely song for her."

  "Well," he admitted, "she loves me. And, after all, when someone… loves you…" Mesmerized by her laughing face, he faltered into silence.

  And, again, that shimmering magic encompassed them. Sophia scarce dared to breathe. His eyes seemed to pierce her soul…

  A log rolled in the grate. Damon's shoulders jerked. He looked away at once and, with a hand that trembled, picked up the old sheet of music and began to battle it.

  Thoroughly unnerved, Sophia moved to the fireplace, her breathing rapid now, her heart beating wildly. How could he have summoned a store of humour at such a moment? And why must she forget so soon the indignities he seemed to delight in heaping upon her? Another moment and she'd probably have been clutched in his arms again—a willing captive! The man was a mesmerist—and she, a stupid, henwitted widgeon. She picked up something, thinking, 'Fool! Fool! Fool!' and realized suddenly that she was staring at the small china figurine she had smashed on that first afternoon. It had been glued back together, only a small chip of the dog's tail having been lost. The repairs had undoubtedly entailed much time and patience, and it followed that the piece must have some deep sentimental value. Dismayed, she swung around.

  The Marquis was watching her. "It was a gift from my mother," he said.

  "Oh! And I broke it deliberately! My horrid temper! I am so sorry…" Her distressed words trailed away as she stared down at the figurine.

  "Are you sure?"

  She looked up, saw his half smile, and carefully replaced the piece upon the mantle. "I cannot quite understand," she said, moving to the side of the harpsichord, "why you would strive so hard to repair it when the portrait in the catacombs has not been—"

  She stopped. His eyes held a frightening glare. The hand, draped lazily over the music rack, clenched convulsively. He began to play the discordant notes once more, his fingers hard upon the keys. She knew she had trodden in some forbidden area and drew back to leave.

  "And what do you think of this melody, my lady?" />
  "I doubt it will ever become popular," she replied with considerable understatement. "The notes appear to have been arranged without rhyme or reason. Much as a child might toss a pile of alphabet blocks onto the floor and hope to find them arranged into words. Whoever composed it might better have bent his energies to some more rewarding hobby."

  "Yes," he mused, and added whimsically, "Like plumbing or bricklaying."

  She smiled, "But perhaps—"

  "Sophia!"

  Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun around. Viscount Whitthurst leaned in the doorway, his buckskins muddied, his jacket rumpled, his thin face pale and drawn with exhaustion. "What in God's name… are you doing…here?"

  "Stephen!" She started toward him.

  Whitthurst took one stumbling step, swayed, and crumpled to the floor.

  Unaware that an anguished cry had escaped her, Sophia was beside him on the instant and, kneeling, began to gather his head into her arms. A firm hand on her shoulder stayed her.

  "Do not, ma'am. He'll be better off if you let him lie flat."

  She glared up at him through a sparkle of tears, her eyes blazing with disgust. "You lied! He had not been at 'The Wooden Leg' at all! You lied!"

  "True," he admitted and, as he strode to tug urgently on the bellrope, added with a sigh, "I wanted to be rid of you. It didn't work—unfortunately."

  Sophia leaned back in the chair beside the bed and put a hand across her eyes. The drapes were drawn and the room dim, but she felt drained and exhausted and was still trembling from the reaction of her confrontation with the Marquis and the shock of her brother's collapse.

  The Viscount stirred in the big bed, mumbling something incoherently. She stood at once and bent over him, touching the thick dark hair with a fond hand and murmuring comfortingly, and he quieted at once. She watched him, grieving because he was still so thin and his face marked by suffering—old beyond his years. Dear Stephen—so typical of the gallant young men Britain had lost by the thousands in these endless years of warfare. He did not move again, and she returned to the chair and leaned her head back wearily.

  She was calm now, her emotions under control, but she felt hurt and betrayed. "I wanted to be rid of you…" The brutal words rang in her ears. Believing her departure imminent, he had indulged her with that humourous interlude. Probably, the music had indeed been written for another Sophia—one of his many lightskirts. He had lied to her about Stephen, neither knowing nor caring how desperately the injured man would need help and rest, caring only that his priceless privacy be restored to him.

  She gave an impatient shrug. All that mattered now was Steve. Damon was—as she had said—beneath contempt. Yet try as she would, she could not force him from her mind. However determined she was to concentrate on her brother, within a very few moments she would find her thoughts on some event in these crowded few days: mostly upon the laughter, grief, or anger contained in one pair of darkly lashed eyes, and his final treachery which made her glad, in a heartsick fashion, that her revenge would be complete and so devastating…

  The door swung open silently. She glanced up, then jumped to her feet and, with a strangled sob, flung herself into her cousin's arms.

  Clay wrapped her in an affectionate hug and, looking anxiously over her shoulder to the bed and the young man who lay in it, was alarmed both by the deathly pallor of the Viscount's face and by Sophia's weeping. Stroking her hair, he pressed a kiss upon it and groaned remorsefully, "Cam told me what happened—in truth the poor fellow seems little less distraught than you, my dear coz. I truly am sorry!" He drew her into her own room, sat beside her on the sofa, and comforted her until, her fighting spirit asserting itself, she accepted his handkerchief and, having blown her nose and dried her tears, essayed a tremulous smile. "What a… feather head! I might have woken Stephen with my nonsense!"

  The Viscount, however, did not wake all that day or night. Next morning, Sophia, who had snatched what sleep she might in the chair beside his bed, awoke to find him tossing feverishly. She was immeasurably relieved when Damon imported a plump and motherly midwife from the village to help care for him. The poor young gentleman, Mrs. Gaffney advised, was merely exhausted, on top of which he'd taken a chill. He would be all the better for a long rest and, provided her instructions were followed, would doubtless be fully recovered in no time.

  Sophia was willing enough to follow whatever orders the kindly woman issued. She hovered close at hand, however, refusing to be chased away, and Clay spent much time with her, entertaining her with tales of Phineas Bodwin's magnificent showplace of a home. "He's determined you shall see it," he informed her during one of these conversations. "If Steve improves as Mrs. G. says, you could go back with Ridgley. He'll be coming here day after tomorrow for Cam's meeting." The questioning arch of her brows elicited the information that the Marquis expected a number of gentlemen on Thursday afternoon to discuss "some kind of urgent development with his spa." Sophia's knees turned to water. For an instant, she was so dizzied she almost tumbled from her chair. It took her every effort not to betray her terror, and she was relieved to be able to look away, feigning shyness when Clay asked, "By the by, how fared your eager Lothario?"

  She mumbled that she was not ready to make a decision. Seemingly amused by this, Clay grinned. "Turned him down again, eh? I heard he went roaring off. Well, old Whitt won't shed any tears when he hears that news. Begad! If it ain't starting to rain again!"

  By noon the rain had become a downpour. Mrs. Gaffney ordered Sophia to bed after lunch, and assured the invalid was in excellent hands, she obeyed and slept for several hours. When she awoke, she found the midwife had been urgently summoned to the village. Mrs. Tibbett's firstborn was arriving early. "But milady is not to worry! Poor Lord Whitthurst is sleeping peaceful and will likely be much better in the morning."

  Sophia stayed beside her brother for a while. He was snoring gently, his skin cool, the flushed look of fever gone from his face. She tied one of her scarves to the bellrope and secured it beside the bed where he might easily reach it. Then she tidied her hair and wandered downstairs. The Marquis and Clay had driven off in a closed chaise to inspect the ravages this new storm had wreaked upon the spa. The house was quiet—not even Horatio in evidence—and she went into the library and curled up in the big leather chair. She was still drowsy from loss of sleep and was beginning to nod when she noticed an odd shadow cast upon the wall by a twist of paper that, having fallen short of the fire, had become caught between two logs in the basket. Retrieving it, she was about to toss it into the blaze when she saw part of an excellent sketch. She spread the crumpled sheet. There were no words. At the top was a scorpion, quite a sinister creature, though very well drawn. Below it was a bare-headed, elegantly dressed man of middle age. Next came the sketch of another man, thickset and powerful looking, with a dog on either side of him, one a bloodhound and the other a setter. And lastly, the figure of a woman, young and of the quality beyond doubting, magnificently gowned, but her face not completed. And, beside her, a question mark. Gazing at the drawings curiously, Sophia jumped, her heart all but stopping as a slim hand reached over her shoulder to take the paper.

  "Gad, ma'am," Damon rasped, "what a busy person you are, to be sure!"

  He might as well have said "busybody." His eyes, hard and angry, reduced her to total embarrassment. She knew she was reddening and mumbled apologies, not helped by the sneer on his face. She was vastly relieved when Clay hurried into the room, asked eagerly about Whitthurst, and imparted the information that it was raining cats and dogs and the canals at the Spa were half filled already. His chattering lent her the time to compose herself, and as soon as was decently possible, she left them explaining that she must spend the evening at Stephen's bedside.

  "I shall come up directly after dinner," said Clay kindly, "and keep you company."

  "Good God, Chicky!" Clay tossed his cards onto the table and, shoving back his chair, eyed her with pained resentment. "That's the second
time you've played through!"

  "Oh, dear!" Sophia laid down her own cards and admitted ruefully that she never had been very good at piquet. "I am sorry, Marcus." Her eyes turned to the dim room in which Whitthurst still slept peacefully. The eiderdown had slipped again, and she hurried to pull it gently over his maimed shoulder. Returning, she found Clay sprawled in an armchair. When she had seated herself, he asked smilingly, "What is it you've been trying to bring yourself to tell me?"

  She gave a little laugh, her pulse quickening. "You know me too well!" It was the opportunity she'd waited for. Gathering her courage, she asked carefully, "Marcus—what does Vaille intend? Shall he pay off all your creditors and—"

  He straightened at once. "Nothing for you to worry about, m'dear. Can't tell you what a weight it is off my mind not to have to contemplate being shackled up and hauled away to Newgate!"

  "Of course, poor dear, I can well imagine! But, Marcus—shall you have to practise very strict economies? Esther will worry herself ill again if she realises how badly strapped you are."

  She would realise, of course, thought Clay. However he tried to account for it, when he disposed of the Town house and let the servants go, she would be bound to worry. Still—it was better than Debtors Prison, praise God! "I am well satisfied, Sophia. You just look after your harum-scarum idiot in there, and do not worry your pretty head with my problems."

  She rose and, looking down at him gravely, took the bank draft from her pocket and handed it to him.

  "Oh, Lord!" gasped Clay. "You asked Vaille, too?"

  "No, dear. I took out a loan on some property."

  "I see." With a doubtful frown, he passed it back to her. "Whitt know?"

  She pushed the draft back into his hand. "You can repay us when you come into your inheritance, coz. So there's—"

  "I can what?" he growled, his eyes kindling.

  Five minutes later Sophia sat with her handkerchief pressed to her lips and sniffed realistically while observing him with a shrewd and tearless gaze. Clay stared down at the draft. Twelve thousand pounds! What a magnificent difference that could make! He found Sophia watching him and flushed painfully. Before he could utter any more protestations, she leaned forward. "Marcus, I wish you will be kind. I can endure no more grief, and you don't want me having the vapours all over the floor?" A faint smile lit his eyes, and she pressed her advantage at once. "You can pay us lots and lots of interest if it will please you. You really have not the right to refuse, you know. The baby and Douglas depend on you, as well as dear Esther! And, in Christian charity, Marcus—I've enough to keep me awake at night without fretting about your little family!"