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

by Patricia Veryan

  "Aha!" Damon's eyes danced with laughter. "How I should love to have seen my little… Chicky!"

  "Do not dare start to call me that!"

  "Why not? You have a far less kindly nickname for me!"

  "And well deserved," she nodded with a flash of dimples. "My… Viper."

  Her voice softened. Damon's eyes became ineffably tender, and he leaned once again to her lips.

  The afternoon was still, and the countryside, beginning to be touched with russet, was peaceful, with no sign of menace or danger. Yet, fifty yards to the east, an apparent gamekeeper strolled, with hunting gun on one arm and eyes keen; and to the west were two more such vigilant guards. Damon, having schooled himself to find such intruders invisible, was managing to ignore them, particularly when so happily occupied. But in the pocket of his jacket, now discarded and lying on the grass beside him, resided a small but efficient pistol. Just in case.

  Sophia opened her eyes, gazed into the finely chiselled face above her, and murmured, "Camille…"

  "Yes, beloved?"

  "It is… very warm."

  He looked around and, getting to his feet, went to a nearby tree and broke off a branch of leaves. Returning to fan her gallantly, he was rather taken aback to meet a ferocious scowl. When he enquired as to the reason for this, he was told an explicit "Nothing!" He knew his ladies quite well, wherefore he smiled faintly and continued to fan her—thus providing the spark that was to launch a campaign.

  "You," she nodded thoughtfully, "are just as bad as they are."

  There was no doubting to whom she referred. "They are not 'bad,' Sophia."

  She sat up and, taking the branch from him, began to fan herself rapidly. "They are proud and arrogant and… childish! And so are you!" Her sudden violence shaking the leaves from her impromptu fan, she glared at the bare stalks and cast them aside.

  The Marquis sighed, leaned back against the tree and, pulling up a strand of grass, stuck it between his teeth, closed his eyes, and said nothing. Such provoking conduct must naturally lead to reprisals, wherefore, opening one curious eye in a few moments, he opened the other in a hurry and gasped, "Good God! What are you doing?"

  "Taking off my stockings, silly," she giggled. "Turn your naughty head, sir!"

  Horrified, his eyes reconnoitred. The guards were not facing this way. "Sophia! You must not—"

  "Oh, don't be so high in the instep! They're not looking. And, at all events, you told me to pretend they are not there."

  "I know, but I didn't mean… that is—I—Gad! Now what are you doing?"

  "I am about to paddle in the stream. Come!"

  "Sophia!" he protested, "a lady of quality don't—"

  "Deirdre Breckenridge does. And she's a lady of quality!"

  "Yes—and delightfully so. But always was as wild as—"

  "She is the reigning toast! And I heard you fluttered about her campfire before you disappeared from the social scene. Which was natural enough, I suppose, since she—like yourself, sir—is a halfbreed."

  He flung a sharp look at her, then grinned. "Vixen!"

  Sophia ran down the slope, stepped gingerly into the clear water, gasped, then splashed happily, holding her skirts so that he could see those shapely ankles. "Come, dearest—it's lovely!"

  He stood and followed her to the water's edge but said a firm "No."

  "You are afraid," she taunted.

  He frowned a little, then smiled and shrugged. "Assurement!"

  "Proud… and arrogant… and childish!" she verified.

  Refusing to be baited into a quarrel, he bowed and started away.

  Desperate, Sophia called, "Why do you still wear that special shoe and punish yourself by walking… normally? Because—you are a coward. As you said!"

  Stunned, Damon halted but did not turn to her.

  Her heart contracting, she said, "Feather told me that your foot doesn't hurt if you limp. But you never limp if other people are about. Is pride that important to you? Had people known you had a… a…"

  He whirled around. "Crippled?" he supplied between set teeth.

  "Crippled foot"—she gulped—"nobody would have thought you should have been in the fighting. But you would not let them know preferring instead to live a lie so as not to fail his impossible standards!"

  White-faced, he drawled, "Are you quite finished, ma'am?"

  "Why do you love me?" she demanded, dreading lest he walk away from her.

  He bit his lip, scowling.

  "Is it because I am beautiful?"

  She was very beautiful, standing there with the sunshine waking golden lights in her hair, her lithe and lovely body swaying, her bare feet white through the clear water. But… "No," he said honestly. "Not entirely."

  "Why, then?"

  And remembering so many precious moments, he could not hold his hurt and anger and said, "Because… you have a bright and happy nature. Because you have a clear, intelligent mind. Because I honour you for your virtue and respect you for your courage. And because—when you are my wife— I shall be able to talk with you… as well as… make love to you."

  Sophia blinked, and the lump in her throat so choked her that for a moment she could not speak, and then she asked, "And why do you think… I love you? Because you are said to be the handsomest man in London—and will become one of the richest? Because of your high title?"

  He watched her, his heart in his eyes, and asked humbly, "Why do you love me, my most precious woman?"

  "Because," she replied, her voice a caress, "even when you sought to frighten me and drive me away, an innate decency shone from your dear eyes. Because you are as gentle as you are strong; and as good as you pretended to be evil. Because you are kind to those who have nothing and as courteous to a serving maid as to a Duchess. And—because I would not settle for any less than a man I could… honour… for his gallantry."

  Recalling her words that morning such a little—yet such a long time ago—his eyes misted, and he begged huskily, "Sophia, my heart… come to me."

  "And," she went on, her pulse racing, "my love for you has little to do with whether you have one arm or one leg… or are… crippled."

  Damon froze.

  "Oh, my dear," she cried yearningly. "I cannot bear to see you struggle for so foolish a cause. Will you not come into the stream with me?"

  He knew now that this was why she had refused him. That if he did as she wished, it must mean that he never wear that cunningly contrived yet so cruel boot again. And that his father would be obliged to own that he had a crippled son. He stood for a long moment, torn by conflicting emotions. Then he frowned and said a harsh "No!"

  "Go, then!" she cried fiercely. "Take your pride and clutch it to your heart, as they do! Make it the most important thing in your life—as they have! Wear that horrid boot for the rest of your life—no matter how it punishes you! But you will walk through life without me, Lord Damon! No son of mine shall be sacrificed on the altar of pride, as your Mama sacrificed you!"

  She knew at once that she had gone too far. He stood utterly still for a few seconds, his face a livid mask. Then his head tossed back in that familiar haughty gesture—so like Vaille. He turned from her without a word and started up the slope, walking very straight and steady. Sophia threw both hands to her mouth and, shrinking, stifled a whimper of despair.

  Damon, rage struggling with a bitter desolation, reached blindly for his jacket—and paused.

  She was singing, her voice gaspingly uncertain but that rich, glorious soprano piercing his heart:

  It is not while beauty and youth are thine own

  And thy cheeks unprofaned by a… tear,

  That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known

  To which time… will but make thee… more dear.

  No… the heart that has truly… loved… never forgets

  But as… truly… loves on… to… to—

  And her voice broke and choked into silence.

  "Oh—hell… and blast… and damnatio
n!" he groaned.

  The Most Honourable the Marquis of Damon sat down and tore off his shoes and stockings; then, standing, rolled up his breeches. Shamelessly, he limped down the bank and into her arms.

  Chapter 25

  Damon's eyes opened as the first thread of light split the darkness around his door. Silently, the light widened. He saw a man's shape black against the shielded glow from a candle and, his blood tingling, slid his hand under the pillow, fingers closing around the reassuring chill of the pistol.

  The door was closed. The figure crept closer. The hand was removed from the candle flame, and looking into the yawning mouth of a steel barrel, Amory Hartwell yelped, "Good God! D'you want me to have a seizure?"

  Lowering the weapon, Damon reached for his watch on the table beside his bed, peered at it, and said quietly, "Whatever gets you up at this hour is not like to be good news."

  His friend proceeded to kindle the flames on a branch of candles. "Had I known I was about to get my head shot off, I'd not have come at all!" Then, abandoning his aggrieved manner, he said regretfully, "Truth is, I wish I'd not to be the one to bring you word, Cam."

  Damon was already up and limping toward his press. "My father?"

  "Yes. I left my man to keep an eye on things, and he just arrived with word that they meet at sun-up. It's almost four now. You'd best hasten."

  "Blast!" Pulling on his breeches, Damon asked a terse "Where?"

  "Tottenbury Castle. Of all the miserable places! I collect they were both guests at Parapine—you know the Drummonds, do you not? Yolande's come-out is to be next month, and—"

  "Gad! They never quarrelled at Yolande's party?"

  '"Fraid so. Never should have sold your Mama's locket, Cam. Vaille traced it down day before yesterday. Bad ton, dear old boy. Not the thing at—"

  "Locket?" Buttoning his shirt with icy fingers, Damon said impatiently, "What the devil's that got to do with it?"

  "Lockets, y'know. Personal things. Why in thunder did you not take the miniatures out?"

  Damon's fingers ceased their fumbling, and he stared at his friend in mystification. "There were no miniatures, or you may be sure I would have done so!"

  "Oh, gad! What a gudgeon! I collect you only opened the front compartment! Yes, you clunch! There was another—on the back! Inside were—" Hartwell stared uncomfortably at the candles. "There were two paintings. One of your Mama and one of—Ridgley. And, inscribed around both, the words 'Ninon and Ted—one love… one heart… Forever!'"

  "My God!" Blanching, Damon gasped, "Vaille read that? How do you know all this?"

  "Everyone knows. One of his agents delivered it to him at the ball. Vaille opened it and seemed turned to stone, my man said. Then he tossed it aside and plunged off after Ridgley. He came back for the locket eventually, but, meanwhile, several of the ladies had seen it. Word spread like—"

  "Say no more!" Damon reached for his jacket. "Did my father simply demand satisfaction—or just knock Ted down?"

  "I collect Ridgley was seen wiping his mouth," Hartwell sighed, "but that for the rest of the evening they smiled upon one another…"

  The night wind was chill and carried a smell of rain, the promise heightened by the halo round the moon hanging just above the black clouds building on the horizon. Buttoning his many-caped driving coat, Damon strode onto the terrace. The carriage stood ready, seeing which, he grated furiously, "Dammit! I said my racing curricle!"

  "Trouble with a wheel, my lord," said Thompson staring at the horses.

  "Blast! Well, it's too late now. Who's up? Rust?"

  "Trask," Thompson's voice was miserable. Damon slipped a hand onto the worried man's shoulder, and stuck out the other. It was caught in a hard grip. "Guard her for me, Jack. Whitthurst is a fine fighting man, but—he's rather slowed nowadays. She must not be left alone—not for an instant! I charge you with that!"

  Thompson swore under his breath, but nodded and, watching that tall figure move towards the luxurious vehicle, muttered a forlorn "Good luck, sir!"

  Damon waved and swung inside. At once, the steps were put up, the door slammed, and the carriage plunged forward. He was thrown down before he had a chance to take a seat. Starting up, furiously angry at such tactics, he checked. Amory Hartwell sat opposite, watching him gravely.

  "Didn't think you were going all alone, did you, Cam?"

  Damon settled himself and, touched, said a gruff "Idiot! You must have had very little sleep. When I went upstairs you and Whitt were still throwing dice and more than a little foxed."

  "He was. I wasn't."

  "At all events, I doubt I properly thanked you for warning—" Damon's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness, and he detected a large trunk balanced on the seat beside his friend. "What's this? Are you leaving us so soon?"

  "Care to see what's in it?"

  "Why in the devil should I want to look at your small clothes?"

  "Not mine, old fellow. Yours."

  Damon watched curiously as Hartwell loosened the straps and raised the lid.

  The moon was half obscured by clouds, yet even that feeble illumination awoke sparkles from the contents of the trunk. Leaning forward incredulously, Damon saw gem-encrusted bowls and vases; exquisitely wrought sterling and fine old jade pieces; and fat leathern bags, bulging with the shapes of coins.

  "Found your treasure for you," Hartwell beamed.

  "Did you, by God! How splendid! But—where? How the deuce—?"

  "In the catacombs—second level down. Ain't you going to say 'thank you'?"

  "I most assuredly am!" Damon leaned at once to clap him on the shoulder. "And I can do better than that! You shall have half the profits! Now what the hell are you scowling about? And—why did you bring it along?"

  "I thought it would be safer if we salted it away in your bank—as soon as you take care of your—er—obstreperous relatives."

  "Quite right." And less danger for Sophia, he thought, and said awkwardly, "Amory, I wish—there could have been two of her."

  "I'll drink to that!" Hartwell pulled a flask from his pocket. "Jove, but it's getting cold! This'll warm us up! Here."

  Damon took a good swallow and coughed. "Cognac. And not my best, I fear!"

  "Ingratitude," Hartwell said dryly, retrieving the flask, wiping the top and upending it uncomplainingly, "thy name is Damon!"

  The Marquis laughed and apologized. "That trunk must weigh a ton. Did Ariel put it in for you?"

  "Gone to his bachelor party, old lad. Trask helped me with it. I always thought"—he again wiped the flask fastidiously and returned it to his friend—"that your loot was still down there somewhere. I kept prowling around until I discovered it. Ah—that brandy ain't so bad now, eh?"

  "You're right. But what a damned risk to take. We never did find the secret entrance Craig-Bell must've used. Suppose one of his friends had been crawling about down there? I hope you took a pistol with you?"

  "Never without one. Matter of fact, I have a Manton with me now."

  The carriage rounded a curve much too fast. Damon frowned out the window. "What's that lunatic about? He's going the wrong way!" He picked up his cane and rapped sharply on the roof. "Trask! What the devil d'ye think you're doing?" There was no response. They were heading toward the spa instead of having branched off to the west. He reached for the window. "By God!" he cried wrathfully, "I'll give the fellow a—"

  "Cam," said Hartwell, "why get into such a pucker?"

  "You know damned well why! I must reach Tottenbury… before…" He was seized by an odd dizziness and sat down.

  "Ain't it a pity," smiled Hartwell, "life is so full of disappointments?"

  Damon looked up slowly. The Manton was aimed unwaveringly at his heart, but Amory's familiar smile was unchanged. Treachery from such an old friend struck so keenly that he could only stare in speechless disbelief.

  "Beastly, ain't it?" Hartwell commisserated.

  Finding his voice, Damon said unsteadily, "Yes. Why? The treasure only?"


  "Only!" Hartwell gave a sardonic laugh. "There speaks the man who has never gone hungry!"

  "You are not like to starve."

  "Only thanks to you, dear old philanthropist. Oh, yes, you were my wealthy relation from the Americas. And what a good life you provided me! I found your treasure when we first came back from Europe. This is only a tenth of what there was at the start. I took the lightweight stuff first. You've such a dashed devoted little staff, Cam. It was the very devil to sneak it out under their noses. I filched a little each time I came down. There was no real hurry. But when you began to mess about with that music, it occurred to me that there might be some code in it, after all. I'd have burned the blasted parchment, but I knew you'd probably memorized the notes, and if it disappeared, you would have known you were on the right track. So I decided I'd best move what was left. You came barging in right in the midst of my efforts."

  "So you were the monk!" That knowledge hurt more than he would have cared to admit, and he said frigidly, "You hated me that much?"

  "Not at all. I really am very sorry—didn't intend to hit you so hard. But you were always so damned fast with your fists in spite of that foot of yours."

  Damon stared at him. The shock was affecting him strangely, and his head felt muddled, but he said cuttingly, "That Twine business was pretty raw—my friend."

  Even through the dimness, he detected Hartwell's flush. "It was Sumner's idea," he said defensively. "He liked it. And when Sophia spoiled it, he realized she was in love with you. He was delighted. He'd found a way to really repay you, he thought. Unfortunately, his 'way' was to kill her. I knew he was right when he said it would break you, but—Now don't get violent, old boy! I don't want to shoot, but—if I have to… That's better." He leaned back, eyes watchful and, when the deadly glare in Damon's eyes faded, remarked, "It so happens I really do care for Sophia. I couldn't let him hurt her. I got him down to Pudding Park by a ruse—shot him, and left 'evidence' to indicate he'd been the monk. No loss, so don't look at me like that, Cam. He was utter slime."