"No! Camille, I want to know—Oh! Put me down, sir!"
He did not put her down. He held her for a moment, close against his heart, his eyes searching her face with a yearning desperation. Her own anger faded. She forgot about Nancy and Ariel; she forgot poor Vaille and his grief; she forgot Cobra. All that mattered was the handsome face before her. All she knew was the need to throw her arms about his neck, to feel the dear pressure of that sensitive mouth…
Damon set her down and said with a bitter smile, "What a damnable fool I am! What a weak-kneed failure! I shouldn't have come. But—I did want to see you in that gown…" His eyes drank her in hungrily as he held her at arm's length. With a short laugh, he said, "It will be something to hold in my memory…" She stretched out her arms appealingly, and he stiffened and turned away. "Gad, how I forget myself still. The complete cad! What would my affianced think?"
Sophia had heard men talk of having been kicked by mules. She knew now how it must feel. "Your… affianced?"
"I'm to be married. Quite soon, I suspect, if the lady has her way." He strolled to a corner table and affected to inspect a paperweight that lay there.
Recovering a little, she followed and tugged at his sleeve. He faced her, a cynical half smile still upon his face. She said firmly, "You are not going to marry Charlotte." He looked astonished, and she went on. "I am sorry that she will grieve, but you love me— I know you won't admit it, but then you lie so much, it's hard to know where you begin! You lied about Nancy!"
Blinking dazedly, he said a low-voiced "I said nothing of it."
"Which was in itself a lie! You lied to your father about Cobra!"
He sighed and, putting down the paperweight, reached for his sleeve.
Sophia placed her fingers over his hand. "I have seen your scorpion. You may have been a member, but I shall never believe you joined willingly."
Damon pulled quickly away and said with a bored shrug, "Why would I lie about such a thing? Do not be ridiculous." Glancing up, he smiled unpleasantly. "I assure you, ma'am, I was a most—active… member."
"One would never guess it," she flashed, "considering that I am pursuing you! And it is you who profess to be the filthy, lecherous libertine who… Camille? What are you… doing?"
"Realizing you are right." He moved very close, his smile incalculably evil. "Because I am your uncle, I have held you in high regard. But you inflame me, I'll not deny it. Nor any longer restrain my natural instincts."
"Good!" she cried, and threw her arms around his neck.
Several eons later, he lifted his head from the glory of her mouth, looked yearningly into the glowing tenderness of her eyes, joyed in the firm young beauty of her, leaning so trustingly in his arms. And pulling her even tighter against him, he closed his own eyes and after a long, precious moment murmured, "What a fool I am, not to have realized you have already found a way for us."
She smiled happily and snuggled her cheek closer under his chin.
"Sophia, beloved. How I adore you. But—we'll have to wait—just a little while. For appearance's sake, my heart."
She looked up at him questioningly. "Appearance's—?"
"Well, I can't very well—ah—arrange things just at first. I shall have to take her to Spain, I think. But as soon as we're home…"
A chill touched her. She pulled herself away. "Camille? What is it?"
"Why, our arrangement, dearest. I dared not suggest it, though I've wanted you… you must know that—almost from the first instant we met. I'd not dreamed you would be so sensible, so understan—"
"So," she said, her lips cold and stiff, "you will marry Charlotte for her fortune. And I… will become your… mistress…"
"Bien-aimee. I shall cherish you forever. And how shall it matter? You will have everything money can buy—for Charlotte has a great deal of that, at least. Ah, do not look so sad, my heart. I can set you up in style once she is my wife. Were it not for that curst immovable father of mine, you would become my Marchioness. But he's cut me off altogether. We have no alternative, you see."
"Perhaps… we do," she said faintly. "I have a very fine emerald, Camille. We might manage… quite well without— her… if we were careful."
He gave a muffled sound and swung away from her and after a second said harshly, "Scarcely. Would your emerald give me back my spa? Enable me to complete the Priory?"
"It would last us—for a year. And then—Marcus will pay me back."
"Clay?" He tensed, and glanced at her. "You gave the money to Clay? What a joke! I cannot wait a year! The roof is not on the stables, nor part of the hotel. The barn is complete, but there is much still to be done on the main buildings. The canals are dug but not paved. Were a whole year of rain and weeds and wind to have their way, half the work would be ruined. If I could complete the spa at once, we might manage… but I cannot—and Vaille is a relatively young man, Sophia. A vigourous man. For as long as he lives, I would exist on a pittance. I could not endure that." He turned to her, his smile eager, his eyes very bright and hard. "No matter. This way is surer, with less effort. Sophia—most beautiful and desired of women—what a life we shall have— you and I."
"It would… break… Charlotte's heart," she whispered.
He gave one of his small, graceful, and very French gestures, and she thought achingly that he had never looked more handsome—or more ruthless. "Come, now, ma chère,"— he took her by the shoulders—"we do not live in the Middle Ages! It is, after all, quite the thing. Charlotte must eventually agree to whatever we—"
She spun away and sobbed out, "How could you be so cruel? She worships you! How could you believe I would suggest anything so… so crude… and immoral?"
He looked bewildered. "But—I thought… you said—"
"You thought me a cheat! A wanton who would betray her friend! Can you think I would take my happiness by breaking the heart of someone else?"
He stepped closer, his eyes anxious now. "Such a dramatic child… But it is done all the time, my heart. You have only to look around."
She backed away, one small step at a time, knowing all her hopes lay in ashes and her future would be a dreary emptiness. "Do not…" she said in a gasping little voice, "ever...come near me again!" And on the words, she turned and left him alone.
The fire was dying in the beautiful parlour fireplace, only an occasional flicker of flame lighting the gold leaf of the mantle. Sophia made no move to add a log, although the room was growing chill, and she shivered a little as she huddled on the doubtful comfort of the Louis XIV sofa. Her brows were knit above her dulled eyes because her efforts to recall the evening were proving useless. The last thing she remembered with any real clarity was that ghastly little ante-room, the terrible quarrel, and her subsequent idiocy. She had a vague impression of having seen Damon stalk across the ballroom, his face a thundercloud; of having danced a good deal and laughed too much and too shrilly. She had flirted outrageously with Phinny, poor man, and God knows who else. Longing to creep away and hide like the poor wounded creature she was, she had forced herself to see it through, to deny them all the pleasure of another on dit. Stephen had not interfered, though he had seldom been far away and watched her with a worried frown; and twice Genevieve had come and slipped an arm about her, enquiring if everything was all right. Dear fortunate little Genevieve… loving and loved.
Self-pity was deplorable, and she knew she was unutterably foolish to feel such a horrible sense of loss. She should be glad to have discovered in time that he was just as she had initially imagined him. Selfish and utterly without honour.
She wiped automatically at her reddened eyes with her sodden handkerchief. She would not have thought she'd any tears left. She had made a total fool of herself—but one learned from one's mistakes… surely? She had imagined herself in love with an unworthy and evil man, an aristocratic, soulless gigolo. And yet how tenderly he had held her. How ineffably dear that kiss. And—God help her! How she loved him! Even now! She put her hands over her face
and bowed forward, weeping again and wondering that her mind did not fail her, so torn was she between love and loathing. And she realized at last, with a forlorn helplessness, that there was no real loathing. Only grief—and despair.
A hand touched her shoulder. A beloved voice said, "Chicky…do not."
In a second, she was clasped tight against her brother's shoulder, sobbing her heart out, grateful beyond words for the comfort of his presence.
After a while, she took the dry handkerchief he offered, wiped her eyes, sniffed unashamedly, and finished. "And that's all there is, dearest. Only… I feel so sorry for… poor Vaille." She blew her nose, afraid to tell Whitthurst the whole, having omitted all reference to Charlotte and the shameful proposal Damon had made her after the Duke had gone.
"And you, dear?" he asked kindly. "Do you realize now that Damon is not the man for you? That you will find somebody else?"
His eyes were very intent, and Sophia blinked rapidly, struggling for control, but two great tears spilled over and streaked down her cheeks, and her brother, his arm tightening about her, said, "Oh, Chicky… my poor darling!"
Clinging to him, she whimpered helplessly, "It's no use… you see. I have tried so hard to hate him, Stephen. But—somehow it always… goes wrong. Each time I am determined to quarrel with him, I wind up… loving him a little bit more. I must be witless. I know what he is, and still I cannot help it. No matter how low… and vile… and contemptible! I cannot—"
"Be still! Dammit! That's enough!" He tore away from her and strode to the mantle, glaring down at the smouldering fire. His hand formed a tight fist. He slammed it repeatedly against the mantle and swore softly, as she had never heard him swear. Her mouth dropped open in bewilderment. This raging, snarling, bitter man could not be her gentle Stephen? This blast of profanity could not be issuing from that sweet mouth that had never cursed before her—except for small oaths at times of great provocation.
Whitthurst drew his hand across his eyes, was briefly silent, then turned to face her fully. And she was afraid because he looked grim and older—not at all like her light-hearted, happily-in-love brother.
"I should have told you long ago," he said in a hard, forced voice, "but I lacked the courage. And then Cam said I must not… for your own safety, so—"
"My… what?" she gasped.
"So I took the easy way," he went on wretchedly, "and convinced myself that he was right." He took a deep breath, his chin came up, and his shoulders drew back. "Do you remember what you said when you described Cobra to me?"
Sophia stared blankly, and he gave a bitter smile. "I do. Oh, so well! You said they were the dregs of mankind. The lowest, most wretched beasts that ever walked this land. And, it was true. They were—they are—just as you described, and worse. And I suppose that's why…knowing that you knew of them, knowing what Papa had said, I—could not bear to…"
Her brother bit his lip and, as if the words were torn from him, groaned, "Sophia—I was a member!"
The breath caught in her throat. Stephen? "No!" she cried ringingly, jumping to her feet, stretching out her hands to him. "I don't believe it! Not you!"
He watched her in abject misery but made no move to touch her. How horrified she was—and rightly so. God forbid she ever knew the full story of what had gone on in Green Willow Castle! God forbid she ever had to lie awake at night, remembering… as he did!
"It was Damon," she cried frenziedly. "He got you into it! It was—"
"Do you not understand yet? Cam joined but only to protect me! Were it not for your contemptible Viper, I would be as dead today as the man they murdered and the dogs they killed to torment him! He saved my life, Sophia! And thereby—God help him—has ruined his own!"
Her knees gave out under her. Her throat was dry, and the room seemed to fade into shadows. Vaguely, she realized Whitthurst was helping her to sit down.
"I do not understand," she whispered, clutching at him. "What—?"
He sat beside her, his face white and strained. "Don't talk, my dear. Listen. And—try not to hate me—too much."
Chapter 21
Thompson carried the silver tray into the music room and paused, scowling toward the chair where his master sprawled, his long legs thrust out before him, one hand over his eyes, the other trailing over the chair arm, loosely holding an empty goblet. It was the chit who'd brought his lordship to this pass. He'd knowed the minute he'd laid eyes on her, with her looks and her shape and Quality wrote all over her. A fine damned mess! He stalked forward, and his scowl deepened as the Marquis lowered his hand, leered up at him, and said thickly, "Took y'time!"
"Thought you was asleep, milord," Thompson growled.
"Almos' was. Poten' stuff this brandy." He waved his glass and mumbled, "Pour me'nother, if y'please."
"You've had too much a'ready," his devoted minion observed.
"That'll be'nuff outta you!" warned Damon, shaking one finger in owlish reproof. "Bring th' damn brandy… an'… sight less disrespec'!"
Holding his master's hand steady while he half filled the goblet, Thompson announced coldly, "I been thinking on retiring."
"Good idea," choked Damon, a little watery-eyed from having taken rather too large a gulp. "Y'may now… retire, an' curl up in y'r li'l beddy." This deliberate misinterpretation amused him, and he chuckled foolishly.
"To a farm," clarified Thompson, aiming a polar stare at the top of his lordship's windblown locks. "And if you pour it down yer gullet like that, you'll be drunk as a wheelbarrow 'fore you can say—"
"Jim Ro-Robinson!" said Damon, and raised a triumphant cheer.
"About my farm," Thompson glowered.
Damon waved a dismissing hand. "Farms—smelly places. No self 'specting butler'd be s-seen dead in one!"
"You got three," Thompson pointed out sapiently. "An' if you'd not put more into 'em than what you've took out, bringing 'em up to snuff—"
"Never cared much f'snuff," Damon mused. "Vaille uses it, though. Spanish… Spanish Bran, mixed with a li'l Br-Brass…?"
"Brazil!" snorted Thompson.
Damon peered up at him. "You try that, too? Never would've thought it! An t'think you use th' same's Mon Père. Whoops! Mus'n call him that!" He chortled merrily at this fine joke.
"I take leave," said Thompson in his best London accent, "to tell your lordship as how your lordship is foxed." He slanted a reproving glance at the hilarity this remark elicited and, feeling safer now, ventured scathingly, "What I'd like to know is—how you going to get up early in the morning? Which is a whole fat four hours from this here minute!"
"Get…up… early? Good God! Why should I do… 'gusting thing like that?"
"To meet your foreman on the site is why! Going to pay off all the contractors. Remember?"
"Pay 'em off!" Damon agreed, waving his glass with disastrous results. "Jolly good've you, Jack! Know where the blunt is. Don't mind, d'you?"
Perhaps it was as well, thought Thompson. His Nibs looked a bit better now, even if he was going to pay the perishing piper in the morning. When he'd first come home, he'd looked like he'd been pulled through a knothole! "Come on," he offered. "I'll get your lordship to bed."
"No, no. Comfable here. Lots o'drinking t'do yet! You go on up."
The valet regarded him narrowly, then, satisfied, withdrew.
Damon waved his glass with great deliberation, singing happily to himself.
He awoke to find it quite cold in the room, the grey light of dawn frosting the edges of the drapes. He was alone and comparatively sober. Recent events came back to him gradually. He had done what he'd set out to do. Vaille would not come here again. And Sophia would probably… marry Hartwell. He clenched his fists against that awareness. But she would be safe. He'd not have to live with the nightmare fear of her beauty being marred or her precious self hurt or killed. That was all that mattered.
His eyes lifted to the harpsichord. He stood, holding his head on, and wandered to the instrument, touching the blackened hole wis
tfully. Now what? If he died, the lack of funds would be immaterial. But supposing his luck held? His father had said "a small allowance"—and if he knew Vaille and the feelings he must hold for his disgraced son, it would be small, indeed. He had so hoped to complete Cancrizans. He glanced fondly around the gracious room. Mama had loved the Priory, and now it held new memories—memories that made it infinitely more dear to his heart.
His attention was caught by the old parchment on the music rack, and he picked it up idly. If he could decipher it, his worries would be over. This weird unmelodious music held the key to the location of the treasure, he was convinced of it. At first, he'd thought there was a secret panel somewhere in the room and that the sequence of notes, played in some rhythm or volume or with some certain repeat might cause it to open. Far-fetched, perhaps, but he'd struggled with it for weeks totally without success.
His fingers wandered over the keys, and he smiled faintly as he recalled what Sophia had said of the "music." The notes seemed 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…"
Arranged into words! Suppose the poor Jacobite gentleman had used notes to spell out his message? His heart beginning to race, he sat at the bench. The first note was middle C. What if he used the A below it as his base and went on up the alphabet from there? The next note, in the bass clef, was A! His excitement mounted. C… A…! Now, by Jupiter, it might be! He stood, seized a branch of candles, and hurried into the library, music in hand. He seated himself at the reference table, pulled over the inkstand, a quill pen, and a fresh sheet of paper and went to work.
Whitthurst stood by the mantle with his back to Sophia, unable to endure the stricken look on her face. She had, he knew, always looked up to him with trust and love. What must she think now? Would she ever again be able to think of him without disgust now that he'd told her the whole miserable story? It had begun with the old demon of boredom: too much money acquired too young; a spendthrift, easygoing father; a gentle stepmother who, adoring him, had only remonstrated mildly at his extravagances. The parties, the gambling, the seasons at Bath or Brighton, the entire social whirl couldn't fully satisfy his youthful energy. Longing to go to Spain, yearning to get into the fighting, he had bowed to his stepmother's pleas that he not leave England. After his father's death, the ties binding him to their country seat in Kent had tightened further. When Sophia went to Italy, her absence had left Singlebirch even less exciting. He had plunged ever more wildly into gaming and, a little frightened and much too dangerously in debt, had begun to run with too fast a crowd.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 25