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

by Patricia Veryan

  He hadn't realized at first what he was getting into. Frequenting ever-seedier hells, drifting closer to the dock areas, roaming the streets late at night, kicking up all manner of minor disturbances, exhilarated by the excitement of encounters with the Watch. Waking sometimes with an aching head in some filthy, verminous parlour or rooming house, not too sure what had happened, revolted by his surroundings, yet always returning to his friends when boredom took him again. And then, one never-to-be-forgotten night, he had found a distinguished gentleman beside him at one of the more gruesome hells and, succumbing to the ingratiatingly polite attention of this stranger, had by dawn been deep in debt to him. Very drunk very soon, he remembered little of what transpired but had awakened next afternoon in a luxurious bedchamber, waited upon hand and foot by bold-eyed maids and inscrutable gentlemen of the chambers. He had learned he was at Green Willow Castle, and his host, the notorious Lord Sumner Craig-Bell. Horrified and eager to get away, he hadn't known he was already trapped. Not until later had he learned that Craig-Bell was the leader of Cobra and he himself a helpless captive, so incriminated he dared not make his escape; blackmailed and threatened into ever-deepening crimes; forced to attend the meetings—masked, of course, as they all were, but with Craig-Bell and the six lieutenants aware of his identity and ready to make it public if he refused their demands.

  And what demands! Small pieces of information about members of the ton. Access to business or personal papers in homes where he was a trusted visitor. Scraps that made no sense to him but that, added together, became choice sources of revenue to the club. The luring of others into deeper involvements; the wild, sickening parties. The girls—about whom he said very little to Sophia. One night had almost driven him to self-destruction. A little village girl, stealing innocently away to a meeting with her sweetheart, had been tricked into the castle, made drunk, and so degraded that her poor mind had given way. How they had laughed, Craig-Bell and his cronies! And he had gone back to Singlebirch, sick and shivering, and had become so ill that his stepmother had summoned Dr. Upton and had him cupped, not realizing his fever was the result of mental rather than physical ills.

  This, because of his self-disgust, because she must understand how low he had sunk, because of his inherent honesty, he did tell Sophia. Her grief so unnerved him that he'd had to stop and now stood there, staring at the dead fire, wondering if she would ever speak to him again.

  "Is that," she quavered at last, "why Mama went… to India?"

  "No!" He swung around. "I had to talk to someone before I ran mad! But not Mama! She is so frail—I dared not. And if I'd told almost anyone else in the family, they'd have been sure to confide in their wives. You know how they are. So— I sent word to Damon."

  Trembling, Sophia looked up at him and waited.

  "The summer Papa took me to Europe and then fell out of the carriage in Marseilles and broke his ankle, Camille was in Florence. Papa sent me down there, perhaps you remember' me writing of it? Cam had a lovely villa, and we all—" He thought of the lovely Gabrielle and broke off in some confusion. "And, he was very hospitable," he went on lamely. "We hit it off extremely, and after he came back to England—you was in Italy then, of course—we became close friends. It was always a joke between us that he was my uncle. Still I looked up to him, I suppose. So when I got into this frightful mess, I turned to him. He came down to Kent at once, and I told him everything. Lord, what a brutal scold he dealt me! Then he bought me my colours, and—I was in the hussars before I knew what had happened!"

  Sophia, her handkerchief pressed to her quivering mouth, could scarcely see. Camille had decided—so wisely—that a noble dying was far preferable to the nightmare Stephen faced. What his continued association with that hellish club might have led to did not bear thinking of. And how she had hated Camille, little dreaming what he had spared them.

  "I didn't know," the Viscount said heavily, "what he was going to do."

  She stiffened and, dashing the tears away, breathed, "What could he do?"

  "He joined Cobra," he said tonelessly. "I don't know how. Perhaps Craig-Bell thought he'd be able to get his hooks into Vaille. It don't signify."

  "But—why? Surely, after what you told him—?"

  "He despised 'em long before that, Chicky. A friend of his had been a victim of one of their… funny little pranks. I'd come to know Cam quite well by then, and I didn't trust him, so before I sailed, I made him give me his solemn word he'd say nothing. I… know what Craig-Bell does to people who cross him."

  Sophia's hands were twisting frantically at the soggy handkerchief. Her face very white, she moaned, "He… Camille… wasn't the one who—started that fire? Who destroyed them? Stephen? My God! It wasn't Camille?"

  "It was! It was! The blasted fool! The Runners had been after Cobra for years but couldn't find the smallest clue. Nobody dared speak—we were all so hopelessly incriminated, and we all had loved ones who would have been… disgraced. Craig-Bell is incredibly vicious. You do not know, Sophia…"

  She did know, to some extent. For, at last, it was all falling into place. Camille had withdrawn to country obscurity after a famous statesman, standing next to him, had been shot down on a London street. They'd been aiming at the Marquis, not Rondell! For their own protection, he rebuffed the visitors he must have longed to welcome to his lonely home. He lied constantly; had they guessed the truth, nothing would have kept them away. Vaille, certainly, would be firmly installed at Cancrizans! And Feather? Nothing would drive that grimly devoted lady from his side if she suspected he was in danger! So many things became clear. That wicked note to Ariel and the resultant battle had been Cobra's doing, of course—the big man had been a tool for murder! Did that mean they had tortured Camille long enough? Was his death now decreed?

  Stephen's arm was about her; something cool and refreshing was at her lips. She swallowed and coughed. "My dearest," he groaned, "I am so sorry!" He knelt beside her and, as she reached out to touch his haggard cheek, begged, "Can you ever forgive me?"

  "Foolish boy! Did you think me so righteous I wouldn't know it was but a mistake? You were young and foolish merely. And they were merciless enough to use your inexperience. My poor love, how terribly you have suffered."

  He pressed her hand to his lips. "God bless you for your sweet compassion." he said huskily, "but do not excuse me. I was a very great fool!" He sat beside her, but as far away as he could, as though any contact must be repellent to her. "I was afraid, you see, Sophia, that they'd do—as they threatened. That they would tell Mama."

  "How unspeakable they must be! And how proud I am of Camille! But why did he join? Could he not have sent word to the Runners, anonymously?"

  Whitthurst stared fixedly at his clenched hand. "Aye. And should have. But would not. He intended to destroy them, but he was afraid they would suspect me because I was the only one who'd got out—alive. He joined only to protect me. And then he discovered that Craig-Bell kept dossiers on each one of us. I know it must sound impossible, but there were some very decent young chaps. Good fellows, hopelessly trapped, who were living a life of pure hell. If the Runners had found those files, some very fine families and many innocent lives would have been destroyed. So Cam stayed a member until he found Craig-Bell's hiding place for his dossiers." He shook his head soberly. "He prowled that castle… alone. Knowing well what they'd do if they caught him!"

  Sophia, hanging on his every word, scarcely dared to breathe.

  Scowling, Whitthurst went on. "He found the records at last, but he had to break into a safe to get at them. It took too long, and he was missed. They caught him burning the miserable stuff, and he had to fight his way clear. That's how the fire started."

  His eyes began to glow. "Gad, but I'd love to have been there! Cam is spectacular in a close fight. I saw him once in Paris. Anyway, he stood 'em off for a while and managed to get outside in all the smoke and confusion when the fire really took hold. He got halfway across the courtyard, but Craig-Bell spotted him
and shot him down. Thompson was waiting nearby with the racing curricle just in case Cam needed to get away fast. Cam had given him strict instructions not to go in after him. Jack says he didn't hear! He drove that damned curricle hell for leather across the courtyard, got between Craig-Bell and Cam, and hauled him in. Jove!" His face alight with excitement, he looked young and boyish again. "Can't you just picture it, Chicky? The castle burning, men in their masks rushing madly about, and that curricle racing to get to Damon before they did?"

  Sophia could picture it—too well! She shuddered. "And now they mean to kill him."

  Whitthurst's expression sobered at once. "Cam knew they'd go after him, of course—that it would be self-defence until they were all caught. It just never occurred to him that—" He frowned and said, "Well, he's a sportsman, you see. And those six lieutenants of Craig-Bell's are… barely human! They're sworn to destroy Cam. But they don't want to make it too easy. So they've had some 'fun' with him. They may execute him tomorrow… or next year. But, meanwhile, anyone close to him must take the consequences. He felt awful when Rondell was killed, though the man had a beastly reputation. So he put himself where others wouldn't be hurt."

  "But—surely, he could employ guards?"

  "Yes. And he did, at first. It drove him wild to have them lurking about all over the place. And then one man was found, half dead. They'd put a pistol ball through both his knees. He'll be crippled for life. That was enough! Cam sent 'em packing."

  "And his dogs?" she asked in a very small voice.

  "He had two and loved them dearly. Géant was a bloodhound. Cam brought him over from Belgium. They shot him. He wouldn't let Satin go out after that. She was an English setter, beautiful creature. He decided to give her to Lucian St. Clair. He found her one day… down in the catacombs. Poison. He had to shoot her himself."

  Sophia leaned to hide her face against his shoulder; patting her gently, the Viscount went on, "Thompson was deafened at Badajoz. He'd been a stagecoach driver before he got into the fighting but was so badly wounded that when he came home, he couldn't handle the ribbons, and no one would give him work. Ariel was in the same fix. His back used to be pretty painful, I gather, and he turned to gin. Soon he was good for nothing. They met and took to the High Toby together. One night, they held up Damon's carriage. Thompson was known as "The Hampstead Horror" in those days. Old Cam tossed him clear over the backs of the team and had a pistol on Ariel before either of 'em knew what was happening. When he learned they were both war veterans, instead of turning them over to the hangman, he gave them work."

  "Yes." Sophia smiled tenderly. "He would. And so they stood by him. And Mrs. Hatters?"

  "She was his nurse. She loves him as if he were her own."

  Blinking rather rapidly, she asked, "When did you find out about it all?"

  "When Harry came that day. That was why I come tearing down here. I knew it must have been Cam…but he'd given me his sworn word he'd stay out of it. When I taxed him with it"—he grinned ruefully—"he told me that, being a halfbreed, he never feels bound to keep his word unless he repeats the oath in English and French! Stupid gudgeon!"

  Somehow she managed a smile. "Who else knows of it? The Earl, I collect."

  "Yes. And I believe Miss Hilby knows some. Though I'm not sure how much." Sophia's expression changed subtly, and, curious, he asked, "Sophia? I thought you liked the lady."

  "I do. Poor soul…"

  "Poor? With her fortune? Oh—you mean her amour, I collect. Well, at least nobody cuts her. He may make an honest woman of her yet."

  "Lud!" she gasped. "I didn't know things were—that way."

  "I don't either. Shouldn't have said it. But—wherever he goes, sooner or later she turns up. And she's adored the man for so long… can't help but think—"

  "Was she in Florence with him? Is that why you hesitated to speak of it?"

  "Charlotte? Gad, no! Vaille wasn't there."

  "V-Vaille? The Duke?"

  "Of course. Who did you think? Chicky! You never thought—Cam?"

  "B-but… but yes! He said…"

  The Viscount gave a crack of laughter. "I wonder she didn't tell you! Everyone knows she's been in love with Vaille for years. He won't offer because he thinks he's too old for her. That… and other things."

  Numbed, Sophia cast her mind back. Surely Miss Hilby had said— But, no. In the conversation she'd overheard Charlotte had said, "Camille says we will be wed…" The 'we' she'd referred to had been Charlotte and Vaille! And tonight it had been she herself who'd named Charlotte when Camille had claimed he was soon to marry. His astonishment had not resulted from the fact she'd guessed the truth, as she had supposed, but because she was so unaware of it! He had used her misapprehension for all it was worth. That note the footman had brought had upset him badly. It had been another warning, no doubt. One of their vicious little threats—probably against Ridgley this time, because Camille had at once demanded to know where Ted was, and been so vastly relieved when she'd said he travelled with Major Henderson. She wondered dully if the threat had been put into words this time, or if it was another taunting drawing like the one she'd found that rainy afternoon in the library. They'd all been there—Rondell, the two dogs Camille had so loved, and the woman. Who was the woman? Charlotte? No, of course not, for they'd known the truth of poor Charlotte's devotion to Vaille. Who then… ? Herself. Of course! That was why he had come up with his nefarious plot to marry the "faithful" Charlotte for "her money"! He knew he had revealed his love, and he'd had to push her away somehow. How shamefully he had played his part. How gallantly. And how it must have torn his dear heart to watch her turn from him. She swallowed a lump in her throat and thought mistily, 'My own… Viper…"

  Her heart was so full she could not express it, her world bright beyond belief, her love vindicated as she'd never dreamed he could be vindicated. And refusing to acknowledge the dark threat that hung over him and that soon would threaten them both, she smiled at her brother radiantly.

  "I cannot let you go to him," Whitthurst said with unfamiliar gravity.

  Her heart seemed to turn over, but her smile did not waver. "I shall marry him, Stephen—if he will have me."

  Her face was more beautiful than he had ever seen it despite its tears and the rather grubby look. He thought, 'Camille won't let her. He'll find a way.'

  Holding the branch of candles high, his heart hammering with excitement, Damon hurried through the dank blackness of the catacombs. Beside him, Horatio muttered a squawky complaint at being thus rudely drawn from the warmth and comfort of the hearth. Damon scarcely heard him. He had broken the code at last! Thanks to Sophia's casual remark, he had been able to convert that awful music into a very succinct message: "Catacombs. North wing. Bottom level. Last room on right. Pivotal stone. East wall." The low heavy door was before him now, and it swung open smooth and silently to his touch. The blackness was absolute, but with his eyes glued to the east wall, he stooped and stepped forward.

  Horatio burst into a frenzied honking. Damon, whirling, knew too late that the very soundlessness of those well-oiled hinges should have warned him. He caught a glimpse of a dark hooded figure, hideously faceless in the light of the flickering candles; an upraised arm; and a heavy club flashing down. A staggering shock, a fleeting sense of pain, and the world exploded in a great sheet of flame that caught him and spun him into total darkness.

  Chapter 22

  "Milord was up very late last night, ma'am." Patience wiped her hands on her apron and closed the front door, her eyes reflecting astonishment at the arrival of a caller before nine o'clock in the morning. "I do reckon as how he will sleep 'til noon at the very soonest."

  Sophia, looking around happily, felt at peace again. What a relief to be in this silly old house instead of Phinny's magnificent and cold art gallery. She'd not had to pretend weariness when Stephen had finally left her, but directly she was alone she had rung for Louise and left strict and confidential instructions that she was to be awake
ned at seven and would need a horse by eight. She had slept deeply and could have slept three times longer, but her need to see Camille would not wait. She had told the awed Louise to inform no one of her departure and had horrified Phinny's grooms by refusing an escort.

  Patience informed her that Mr. Thompson had gone to the spa on an errand for my lord and that Mrs. Hatters was in the village. Sophia said she would wait for Lord Damon in the music room and gratefully accepted an offer of tea and some muffins.

  The room was chill, but a shy-eyed boy hurried in and started the fire, which was already laid, then slipped away. Sophia glanced round her, the memories associated with this room rushing back, now fraught with such intense meaning, She wandered over to touch the sofa upon which, despite Mrs. Hatters' best efforts, the mud stains were still faintly visible, The harpsichord, with its black hole unrepaired, sent a pang through her. If only he would come. But she must not wake him. He would be exhausted after that dreadful night. She sank down contentedly beside the fire and was beginning to drowse by the time Patience returned with a tray.

  "I must get out to the smokehouse, ma'am. The new cook don't know his way about and wants me to help him down there. Be there anything you needs?"

  Sophia assured her she was quite comfortable and would need nothing except perhaps a short nap. Patience bobbed a curtsey and left her. She nibbled on a muffin, poured herself a cup of tea, and sighed luxuriously. It was wonderful to be… home. Wherever could Horatio be?