The porter swung the door open with his usual polite, "Good morning, sir!" but Strand thought to see a troubled look also and, rather belatedly reminded of Bolster's note, at once forgot it again in his consternation that he'd abandoned his guest. In the act of removing his coat, he started to put it back on, but the horror in the porter's eyes dissuaded him. If something really ugly was circulating regarding Rachel and Leith, his abrupt departure must lend weight to it. He grinned at the porter, vouchsafed a blithe remark to the effect that he had forgot to collect Lord
Bolster, and allowed himself to be divested of his outer garments. The porter looked relieved and promised to tell his lordship Mr. Strand was here, did he arrive. Strand nodded and went into the ground floor lounge, where he wandered over to warm his hands at the fire. The room was not crowded at this hour, and the few gentlemen occupying it were more interested in their newspapers than in a new arrival. It seemed to Strand that General Smythe-Carrington stared at him with unusual intensity before retreating behind The Times. Lord Gregory Hughes, walking through from the stairs leading to the upper regions where were the card rooms, checked, started to say something to Strand, then coughed, shook his hand, and went out. A waiter approached, and Strand accepted the wine he offered, while wondering what was abroad to result in such obvious consternation.
A blow on the shoulder that almost knocked him into the fire disturbed his reflections and sent the wine in his glass splashing in all directions. A familiar voice cried, "Strand! You miserable varmint!" and he spun around to be seized in a hug that he gladly returned.
"Marcus!" He set down his depleted glass to grip Marcus Clay's uniformed shoulders. "And a Major, by gad! I've not seen you since—"
"Since the Spring of 'twelve when I was home on a repairing lease." The soldier's eyes, bright with affection, scanned the lean face of his friend. "What the deuce happened to you? You're brown as a berry!"
"I'm positively pale compared to when first I came home." And in answer to the questioning lift of this schoolmate's dark brows, he elaborated, "India. But enough of me, tell me of yourself. Did you see any of the action? You must have, I take it, to win all your rank. Lord, what luck! I demand—"
Here, an irked hissing warned that they disturbed the peace of others, and they adjourned to a pair of high-backed chairs beside the window. The dark head and the fair leaned closer together as they enjoyed a low-voiced conversation that bridged the years since last they had met. Clay was a personable young man, now happily married and the father of four hopeful children. He spoke lightly of his military career and said little of the exploits at Waterloo that had made him into a national hero, but Strand was enthralled. Too enthralled to notice the room filling and the level of conversation rising until he heard his own name, spoken in a contemptuous drawl that caused him to stiffen in his chair.
"… gave Strand the devil of a run for his money." Holding forth at the centre of an amused group, James Garvey laughed, and went on, "She is incalculably far above the man, of course, and from what she tells me, everything you've heard is truth, and she is his wife in name only."
Strand, who had sprung up, reeled as though he had received a physical blow, and stood momentarily stunned with shock, while Clay, coming to his side, slipped a hand onto his shoulder and glared wrathfully at Garvey's back.
Quite unaware of their presence, Lord John Chester, his youthful face alight, demanded, "How the deuce did the lady manage it, I wonder? And how are you privileged to know, James? Have you seen the bride of late?''
"Very often." Garvey dug him in the ribs. "And often late. You must know that I worship at her shrine, and she returns my affection as fully. She never had any use for Strand, except that his—''
Battered by hurt and fury, Strand tore free from Clay's attempt to restrain him. Growling a curse, he caught Garvey by the arm and swung him around. "You," he stated unequivocally, "are a foul-mouthed, unmitigated liar, sir!" And he dashed the contents of his glass into that handsome countenance.
A chair went over with a crash amid an explosion of excitement. Then, a breathless hush fell. Every man present was on his feet, and new arrivals, at once becoming aware of the tense atmosphere, crowded the open doorway.
Garvey accepted the handkerchief Chester offered, wiped his face, and drawled, "Will you second me, John?"
"But, surely that will not be of the necessity immediate, my James?" The smooth voice with its pronounced French accent came from the door. Garvey tensed, paling, and his head jerked towards the speaker, a slight, very elegant gentleman, who watched the proceedings with a faint smile upon his mild features. "Claude…" breathed Garvey, his voice barely audible.
Strand had not seen Rachel's former fiance for some years, but it seemed to him that the notorious Claude Sanguinet had not changed one iota. He must be forty, at least, but his dark hair was untouched by grey, his face unlined, his figure as trim as ever. "You mistake!" snapped Strand, still pale and trembling with rage. "This fellow bandied my wife's name about, and—"
"And you the felony compound, eh, Monsieur Strand?" Claude Sanguinet shook his head reproachfully. "Your indignation she is nonetheless warranted, for I also have hear my friend's so regrettable remarks. It would be well, James, did you make the apology, no?"
His eyes flashing, Garvey smiled. "Impossible, I fear, Claude. I have taken a glass of wine in the face, and—"
"Quite impossible," Strand confirmed grimly.
In some circles, Sanguinet was thought to be the most dangerous man in Europe, but there was no hint of this in his manner as he murmured gently, "Mais non, gentlemen. This cannot be. The bride would be assurément, devastated. As would I, dear my James."
Strand frowned from one to the other. Garvey was very white, his hands clenched at his sides, his narrowed gaze locked with Sanguinet's mild one. Through a quivering silence that battle of wills was fought. Then, incredibly, Garvey's eyes fell. He wrenched around as if impelled by an unseen hand and, his gaze fixed on the sapphire in Strand's neckcloth, said in a hoarse, strained voice, "It is… quite true that I… spoke without… without consideration of the feelings of the lady. I—I offer you my…" He seemed to choke, then gulped, "my—most profound apologies, sir."
Somebody exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned!"
Strand's voice sliced through a flurry of comment. "You may tell your master over there that I shall take no apologies, Garvey. Not unless you also admit—before every man here—that you lied. My dear wife would never in this world have uttered such vulgar remarks."
"But you must own he has apologized, Monsieur Strand," the Frenchman pointed out softly.
"He apologized for bruiting about malicious gossip concerning my personal life," said Strand doggedly. "He has not admitted that he lied. My challenge stands."
There was a ripple of agreement. Mr. Garvey, it appeared, was not so popular as had been supposed, nor Mr. Strand as despised. Marcus Clay, however, groaned inwardly. Whatever the hold Sanguinet had over Garvey, it was too much to expect any man to take that ultimate insult.
Garvey's eyes slid to the Frenchman. "Only so far, Claude," he warned, in a voice low and cracking with rage and humiliation.
"For the sake of a lady who shall be nameless, but for whom I still hold a deep affection," Sanguinet persisted, "I am my every effort bending to avoid what must be a most tragique meeting, Monsieur Strand. My friend was perhaps—" he shrugged— "ill advised. He have repeat that which he is told. That which he believe come from the—ah, unimpeachable source, shall we say? And he—"
"Shall we rather say he lied?" said Strand very clearly.
"By… God…!" Garvey ground out between closed teeth. "If I—"
"You are, monsieur, a gentleman most impitoyable, I fear," sighed the Frenchman. He stretched forth an impeccably manicured white hand. "James—my James—I must insist that you your mistake acknowledge. Admit you—"
"Admit you lied!" Strand grated.
"For the sake of the Fair, I implore it," m
urmured Sanguinet.
"The devil!" snarled Strand. "For the sake of truth!"
Garvey was shaking visibly. His face was like putty, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and trickled slowly down his cheeks. For an endless moment he stood there, while only the ticking of the mantel clock broke the deathly hush, and upwards of a hundred gentlemen stood scarcely breathing, waiting. Then:
"I… I… lied!" Garvey's voice, somewhere between a snarl and a sob, rose higher. "Damn you, Strand! You have it! I—lied!" He turned, thrust his way through the shocked crowd, and was gone.
Walking slowly down the steps of The Madrigal, very conscious of the eyes that watched from every window, Strand knew victory to be a cheap and hollow thing, and all his dreams like so many autumn leaves, dead and withered, scattering to the four winds. So many men had been eager to buy him a glass of brandy, to offer him their congratulations after Garvey's dramatic defeat. Even old Smythe-Carrington, making his majestic way across the room, had said a stentorian, "Well done, m'dear fellow. Must protect honour—'t'all costs. What?" and amid a chorus of endorsement, rumbled off again. Bolster, who had been one of those so tensely watching from the doorway, glanced at the set smile on the pale features beside him, and uttered, "All m-my fault. Very bad."
"No such thing." Strand waved to Owsley and Hughes as they climbed into a brougham and drove away. "And you've my apologies for going off without you this morning."
Bolster gave a dismissing gesture. "Should have w-warned you. B-beastly mess!"
"It is." Strand glowered. "I wish to God he'd agreed to meet met."
"Much b-b- safer," Bolster concurred. "He's ruined, of c-course. You've made a dangerous enemy, poor fellow. Gad! But he was r-raving!"
"Cannot blame him," Clay pointed out glumly, coming up looking very gallant in his regimentals, with the pelisse slung across his shoulders. "Sanguinet properly forced him to his knees, and you all but stepped on his face, Justin."
"When I would so much sooner have blown his head off," muttered Strand savagely.
Clay met Bolster's eyes, and glancing up in time to see that meaningful exchange, Strand added, "You're thinking the situation would more likely have been reversed." He shrugged and, striving for a cheerful smile, informed them that he had learned a few things whilst in India.
"Have you perhaps learned how to mix a better bowl of punch than that hideous concoction we used to brew up at school?" asked Clay, also trying to be cheerful despite a heavy sense of foreboding.
"I have!" Strand slipped a hand through his arm. "And you and Jeremy shall come home with me, while I—" He stopped. Lisette would be at home. He could not face the treachery of his beautiful wife; not now. The wounds were too raw.
Bolster saw the suddenly stern look. "B-better not," he advised, taking Strand's other arm. "Cook there. Dreadful dragons, co-cooks. Now, at my place, we'll be undisturbed."
Strand threw him a grateful smile. "Ryder Street it is, then. And I'll brew you a punch you will never forget."
Clay cheered and hailed a passing hackney, and they all three piled inside.
Having changed into a peach velvet gown with tiny pearl buttons down the bodice, Lisette allowed Denise to arrange her hair in a soft and feminine style that she knew Strand admired. By two o'clock he had still not put in an appearance, and she dared not venture out-of-doors until she knew just what to expect, so she lunched alone in the breakfast parlour, listening to the rain patter against the windows and wondering where he was, and what was happening. Her appetite was poor. She ate sparingly, then wandered into the book room where the fire was well established. The novel she selected could not hold her attention. One horrible scene after another rose before her mind's eye so that she scarcely saw the printed page. Suppose Strand was jeered at wherever he went. That swift temper of his would flare, to Lord knows what effect! Suppose he guessed that Beatrice was responsible and drove straight to Somerset to challenge poor William? He would slaughter that gentle creature, beyond doubting! The very thought of such a disastrous train of events made her blood run cold.
Shortly after three o'clock she heard the door knocker and tensed, straining her ears. She could not detect Strand's brisk voice, nor the quick, light step. Still, her heart jumped with nervousness when the door opened. It was only Morse, bringing the salver to her, and she took up the card it held, irritated and determining that she would not be at home to any tabby who had braved this wet afternoon to sniff out whatever juicy morsel she might let slip. The card was inscribed "Miss Amanda Hersh," and, brightening, Lisette desired that her caller be shown in, and that tea be served.
She stood when Amanda entered and said a welcoming, "Good afternoon. How charmingly you look in that green gown, and how very kind in you to come and see me. Pray sit here beside the fire, it is so chill for this time of year."
She was mildly surprised when Amanda, her little face deeply distressed, seized her hand between both her own and said in a tragic rush of words, "I came as soon as I heard. Oh you cannot know how sorry I am you must be fairly retort and so soon after you are wed my poor poor soul!"
Lisette blinked and, drawing Amanda to sit on the sofa beside her, said, "I am humiliated, of course, but—"
Amanda breathed an astonished, "Humiliated? Good heavens!"
She looked quite shocked. Flushing, Lisette said, "I should have said 'ashamed,' I suspect. Is it not ghastly that such tales are—" She trailed into silence, for Amanda was regarding her with stark horror. Frightened, she demanded, "Mandy, what is it?"
"Oh, my!" cried Amanda, wringing her hands. "I was sure Strand would have told you by this time of the incantation at The Madrigal I did not think to be the one to have to tell you."
In a detached way, Lisette thought, She must mean confrontation, and felt for a moment as though she were wrapped inside a glacier.
"I am truly sorry," Amanda faltered, "but after what Mr. Garvey said Strand had no choice, and—"
"Garvey?" Lisette croaked. "Wh-where? When?"
"This morning. I am staying with my godmother Lady Carden you know and Lucian my cousin came and said it was a great pity Strand had not a whip in his hand.''
Gaining some control over her numbed lips, Lisette asked threadily, "What happened?"
"Oh! Do not ask!" Amanda pressed her hands to hot cheeks. "Indeed I dare not repeat—"
Despite a flaring surge of anxiety and impatience, Lisette managed to be calm. "I know how difficult it must be for you, but I beg you, Mandy. If you are truly my friend, tell me."
"I am indeed your friend, Lisette." Amanda clasped her hand, her gentle eyes moist with sympathy. "I will never forget how kind you were to me and Strand also was so good and I know Lucian thinks him a jolly good fellow for he said so which he don't always about every man." Not appearing in the least short of breath after this scrambled utterance, she folded her hands in her lap and, fixing her green eyes on them, began, "Lucian says that Mr. Garvey was remarking how much he cares for you and that you care for him also." She heard Lisette gasp but, not daring to pause, swept on in her rushed fashion. "He laughed and said that you had given Strand a—a run for his money because you cared for him, Garvey I mean." Expecting a shriek or even a swoon, she slanted a fearful glance at Lisette and saw her sitting rigidly, staring at the fire, her face without colour, her eyes wide but not tearful.
After a moment, Lisette asked in a far-away voice, "And—my husband heard all this?"
"Yes and Lucian says he was absolutely splendid and threw a full glass of wine in Garvey's face!"
"Dear… God!" whispered Lisette, closing her eyes.
"Oh my heavens!" Amanda wailed, throwing an arm about her. "Do not swoon, please!"
Clinging to her, dreading the answer she must receive, Lisette whispered, "When do they meet? Did Strand have the choice of weapons? Yes—he must, of course. But he has no chance, Mandy. No chance at all! Oh, merciful—"
"Stop! Stop!" Quite unnerved, Amanda said, "There is not going to
be a duel for another man was there and stopped it and I cannot recall his name but he was French and Lucian said he seemed to exert great influence over Mr. Garvey and Lucian dislikes him very much and says he is a menace which does not seem quite fair since he stopped the duel, does it?"
"No." Pressing a hand to her brow, Lisette tried to think. "Could it have been a Monsieur Sanguinet, perchance?"
"It was! How clever of you to guess and who would think anyone could make Mr. Garvey draw back from a duel when everyone knows he is such a dead—" She bit back the rest of that observation in the nick of time, and went on hurriedly, "But he did and Lucian said Garvey was so outraged he thought him like to have a seizure and went roaring off cursing like a bull! Garvey I mean not my dear Lucian."
Morse entered at this point, followed by a neat maid carrying a tray with the impedimenta for the tea ritual. Smiling mechanically, Lisette manipulated teapot, cream, and sugar, her thoughts in chaos and one dread fear uppermost: Strand must be mad with rage and humiliation. He certainly would attempt to trace the rumour to its source. Whatever would he say when he learned the source was her own sister?
At precisely the same time that Amanda was closeted with Lisette, two other meetings were taking place in rainy London Town. The first of these was held in the cosy parlour of Bolster's lodgings in Ryder Street; a fragrant parlour, due to Strand's precision with such things as a steaming bowl, lemon peel, and cloves. By reason of that same bowl, now set on a trivet in the hearth, it had for a time been a merry parlour, but now Clay was dozing in his chair, and conversation had become desultory. Bolster was still pondering the one problem, and Strand, his brow deeply furrowed, his brain clouded with the fumes of the potent brew, stared at his glass, seeing again Lisette's small hand resting so fondly in Garvey's clasp, her glorious eyes smiling up at the man; hearing Garvey sneer, "… she tells me she is his wife in name only… she returns my affection as fully."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption Page 20