Bolster muttered, "Women! They're the very devil, dear old boy. You're perfectly contented until they come into your life and show you how much more wonderful it could be—and then, dashed if they don't turn around and take it all away!"
"Jeremy," said Strand, "you're drunk. Y'never stammer when y'drunk. Why's that, d'you's'pose?"
The mystery held Bolster's attention for some moments. "Don't know," he admitted at last. "Y'right though. P'raps I'd best stay drunk all the time, eh?"
"Good idea. I'll join you. Drink up, ol' fella." Strand lurched over to the bowl to refill their glasses. He spilled considerable of his first ladleful, a feat that made them both laugh so much there was no point in again attempting it until they were able to stop chortling. He managed the task eventually, by which time they both were seated on the rug before the hearth. Strand saluted Bolster gravely with the ladle, put it aside, and remarked that the more he thought on it, the better the idea seemed.
"What idea?" asked Bolster, blinking at him owlishly.
"Why, t'join you. When y'go to—to Europe with ol' Mitch Redmond."
Bolster lay down on the rug and howled with mirth. Propping himself on one elbow, he peered at Strand, who was watching him approvingly, and said a succinct, "Went."
"Y'did?" Strand frowned, digesting this. "Y'mean—y'already back? 'Magine that! Clay, ol' fella, d'you know Bolster's back? He don't answer, Jerry. Why won't he answer? Don't want to talk to th' laughingstock, eh, Marcus?" And awareness knifing through the fog, he drew a hand across his brow and sat hunched over and silent.
Bolster placed a consoling hand on that bowed shoulder.
"Should have done as I told you," he pointed out with a slight hiccup. "Never fails. Worked f'me." He sighed. "For a while… Why don't we go to Africa? Might get eaten by lion, course. Or elephant. Do elephants eat people, d'you know, Strand?"
"I did try it," muttered Strand, rather lost in the maze of his friend's monologue. "Took me an age, but—waste. She—she never even owned she saw it."
"Oh," said Bolster, his hazel eyes filling with tears. "Thass so sad, ol' sportsman. I—can't bear it!"
Clay opened one eye, failed to locate his friends, stood, and promptly fell over them. When the hilarity over this feat had died down, he sat on the carpet with them and told them sternly, if indistinctly, that they were both thoroughly foxed. Their vociferous indignation did not convince him. "Must be," he said judicially. "Stands't'reason. You wouldn't be sitting on the floor was you sober. 'Sides, y'can't go anywhere, Strand. Not now."
"C'n go anywhere I want!" Strand flared. "Oh, you think m'wife would 'ject? Well—" he bent closer and leered confidingly—"when I come home after my li'l trip to Sil'vrings, she said—y'know what she said? She said I'd perfect right't'come an' go as—chose. So I choose to—go 'way." Having delivered himself of which, he curled up on the floor and went to sleep.
Clay said solemnly, "He don't know how't'handle women. Never did, Jerry. Silly fella should've told Lisette th' truth. She's spoiled on 'count of being so pretty, an' awful high in th' instep, but she's a good heart, y'know."
Bolster thought about this for a while, then offered, "No. Couldn't've. I couldn't. Could you? Under circumstances?"
" 'Course I could!" Clay paused, then amended slowly, "Well, p'raps not, but you ask me, ol' Justin got just's much pride as lovely Lisette. An'—" He swung around, waving an emphatic finger, only to find he'd lost Bolster again. Relocating him, comfortably settled with his head and shoulders propped against Strand's back, Clay bent and went on. '"Nother thing—that r'dic'lous business with Garvey—"
"Gad!" Bolster opened drowsy eyes. "Wasn't it famous to see his high an' mightiness back down like that? Wonder I didn't—laugh out loud."
"Mus'n laugh at James Garvey!" Clay warned. "Matter of fact, Jerry, been thinking. You'd best keep an eye on ol' Justin. Garvey's not th' type to let this go, an' Justin ain't thinking clearly jus' now."
Bolster yawned. "Glad to. You goin''t'keep eye…'s'well, Marcus?"
"Wish I could, but—" Clay shrugged wryly—"got to go to Horse Guards. P'raps next time, Jerry. P'raps next time…"
The third meeting involved only two gentlemen. It was quieter than either of the others, but by far the more deadly.
Claude Sanguinet was one of those present. Apparently engrossed in the cuticles of his right hand, he was seated in a comfortable Sheraton chair in the sumptuous suite he maintained year round in London's luxurious Clarendon Hotel.
James Garvey was the other occupant of the room. Standing with one shoulder propped against the mantel, his brooding gaze on the leaping flames of the fire, he waited through a long silence, then, flinging around, demanded harshly, "Well? You had me brought here. Say what you want, and be done!"
"Why, my dear James," Sanguinet answered in the French he invariably resorted to in private, "you were not obliged to obey my—er—summons, did you not so desire."
"The devil I wasn't! That peasant, Shotten, would likely have rammed a knife under my ribs had I refused."
Claude smiled. "He is a loyal soul."
"A soul is something he knows as little of as do you know loyalty! You humbled me today, Claude! Forced me to my knees in front of half London. And after all I've done for you! Tell me of loyalty!"
"But, my dear friend"—Sanguinet waved a languid hand— "you brought it on yourself. Has it become good ton in London for a gentleman to so publicly repeat the confidences of a lady—and with her unfortunate husband present?"
"Justin Strand ain't begun to know what 'unfortunate' means!" snarled Garvey, his handsome features twisting to a singularly ugly expression. "This is no lightskirt we speak of, Sanguinet! I want the girl. And I mean to have her!"
"Over his—ah—dead body?" Sanguinet prompted, amused.
"I had rather he was alive to see it, but—damn his soul!— yes! From the moment I saw Lisette Van Lindsay I knew she was bom to be my wife. He stole her from me, not by his charm, and not by reason of her love, for she despises the clod! But because—damme how it galls!—because his was the larger fortune!"
Sanguinet chuckled. "You might, I believe, have dispensed with the adjective."
His fists clenching, Garvey scowled at the elegance of the Frenchman. "It was large, until you ruined me, just as you ruined Rupert Strand! I wonder does his son know of it."
"Do you know, James," purred Sanguinet, "almost, you bore me. If you chose to gamble and lose in one or two of the clubs I chance to own, that is scarcely to be laid at my door. Did I not help when you were desperate? Did I not provide you with home, servants, all the luxuries of the fine gentleman?—which, I may add, you are not, my James." He laughed, his light brown eyes shining as they met Garvey's murderous glare. "We suit, dear my friend. You have the useful connections. You can open those certain doors in London to which I require admittance. And I—I have the bottomless purse. We suit. It is the satisfactory arrangement."
"It did not suit me this afternoon! But for your interference I could have called out that brown-faced cit and removed him from my path."
"Cit? Surely, you are too harsh, my dear. But I collect you crave an exercise for your so renowned marksmanship. A ball straight to the heart, no?"
"No. When the time comes I shall place my shot through the liver, I think. With luck, it will take Strand a week to die."
His eyes suddenly icy, Sanguinet came to his feet. "Brutality disgusts me. Even when my loved brother Parnell was alive, some of his traits—" He broke off abruptly.
Seething, Garvey did not dare to speak his rage and instead goaded slyly, "Do you tell me then that you bear no malice toward Tristram Leith, after he ran off with your intended bride? That you plan no vengeance?"
"My plans are not to be shared with you." Sanguinet's dark head lowered, and when he raised it the look in the brown eyes that glittered from under his brows brought a dryness to Garvey's mouth. "I will tell you that this insult, it shall be dealt with. In time. But it is a matter not to
be compared to your puny bunglings. I am no ordinary man, Garvey. This fact it would behoove you to remember. Always."
Garvey knew a nervous impulse to laugh, but one did not laugh at Claude Sanguinet, especially not while that strange red gleam lit his eyes. He was mad, egocentric, and totally ruthless, but as deadly as Garvey was, he knew himself puny indeed, by comparison, wherefore his eyes fell and he was silent.
His mood changing in one of those inexplicable shifts that more than anything else had convinced Garvey the man rightly belonged in Bedlam, Sanguinet said amiably, "As to Strand, mon ami, do whatsoever you will."
"But—you said…"
"Mon Dieu! Am I so abstruse? If you wish the fool destroyed— destroy him. But I am known to have been wronged by the family, and you are known to be my friend. I can afford no further breath of scandal. I must remain the injured party. So it is that there must be no possible way of connecting you—and thereby me—to the foolish little affair. Were you wise, my James, you would simply hire an assassin. Lord knows there are sufficient available."
Garvey scowled. "No. It must be by my own hand."
"As you wish. But I shall make myself very clear. Because of this Leith I am delayed. It will take me now many months, perhaps, before my plans against this so foolish government of yours, they come to fruition. I do not permit, James, that these plans be jeopardized, nor even slightly flawed, by reason of the lust… the clumsiness… of one man." His voice a purring caress, Sanguinet raised one hand gracefully, and asked, "Is understood?"
For a moment Garvey stared at him in silence. Then his tight lips relaxed into a grin. "Is understood."
Chapter 13
Whatever criticisms may have been levelled at Lisette Strand; that of disinterest in the problems of her friends had never been among them. Despite her own anxieties, she had become extremely fond of Amanda, and walking with her towards the front door, she murmured, "I simply do not see why you must feel so unworthy. Surely, everyone knows that Winfield is only your half-brother. From what St. Clair told me, you were never close, and nobody holds his crimes over your head. To break poor Bolster's heart for such a reason seems—"
Amanda halted and turned to face her. "He is a peer," she said miserably. "His family goes back—oh, farther than the Conqueror and people might sympathize now Lisette but what if Winfield should—hang and they say he will what then?"
Her own rigid standards rearing their heads, Lisette ignored them and said stoutly, "If Jeremy cares not, that should be enough. Indeed, Amanda, the poor soul looks so disheartened. I wish you will reconsider."
"I cannot," Amanda sighed. "Only I cannot really hope that while he is across the sea he will find someone else and—and forget me. Oh do you think he will?"
"No, of course not, you silly goose. But is he leaving again, so soon? He has said nothing of it."
Amanda gave a gasp. "Has—said? He—is back? Jeremy is in England?"
"Good gracious! Did you not know?" Lisette cast a rather vexed glance at the front door. The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rainy skies having already darkened to the point that candles and lamps had been lighted. From outside came the sounds of revelry; one gathered that some gentlemen were considerably inebriated, probably as a result of a prolonged and convivial luncheon. She was about to instruct the lackey not to open the door until the drunkards had passed by when, to her annoyance, the man sprang to life and flung the door wide.
Singing uproariously, but not felicitously, since each warbled a different ballad, Strand and Bolster reeled into the hall.
Lisette's relief was mingled with irritation. Amanda dropped her reticule and, with a little yelp of fright, stood motionless.
Swaying uncertainly, Strand peered at his wife. He drew himself up, bowed low, almost fell, but recovered. "Hail, madam wife," he enunciated thickly. "I am… quite 'toxicated. When sober I—shall bid you farewell." He reached out gropingly, and the butler sprang to support him. Strand gestured to the stairs.
"Wait!" cried Lisette. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"
"Africa. Jerry 'n me. T'be eaten. C'mon, old f'la." And he reeled off, singing heartily into the amused butler's ear.
Lisette glared after him. All her worrying! All her fears and anxieties! A perfectly horrid afternoon, and he had come home in this revolting condition!
At the foot of the stairs, Strand flung up a peremptory hand, and Morse assisted him to turn around. "'Minds me," he said. "I shall have some caps't'pull with you, ma'am." He started off, paused once more and flung over his shoulder, "Whole… damn hat shop, 'n fact!" This reduced him to imbecility, apparently, and he negotiated the stairs giggling hilariously.
Throughout this brief interlude, Amanda had trembled before Bolster, and his lordship, much less inebriated than his host, had stood in mute shock before her. At last, his voice returning, he croaked, "Mandy… Mandy…"
"Jeremy," she replied yearningly, then rushed on. "I did not know you was here else I'd not have come I hope you are well I must go."
He leapt to snatch up her reticule and, clutching it to his breast, gulped, "No, I'm not. I'm drunk. But when I'm drunk I can speak, so I'm going to beg—to implore you to wed me, my dearest girl. You know how I adore you. Please, Mandy. Without you—" he shrugged eloquently—"there ain't nothing, Tall."
Amanda pressed one hand to her lips, but shook her head.
He glanced around. Lisette was nowhere in sight; they were quite alone. Dropping rather weavingly to one knee, he stretched forth a hand beseechingly. "Mandy, you must. I cannot live like this. And you, my sweet love, you are not happy."
"Happy! Oh Jeremy I cannot I will not ruin your life, if I must I will run away and hide do not ask goodbye." And staying for neither hat, umbrella, nor cloak, she ran out into the rain and to her barouche which was just pulling up on the flagway.
Bolster knelt there in the hall, Amanda's dainty reticule still clutched to his bosom. Then he sprang up and reeled after her.
Lord Bolster, having summoned up a passing hackney in order to pursue his beloved, did not return that evening. Strand failed to put in an appearance at the dinner table, but Lisette was joined by Norman and Judith. They obviously had not yet heard of the incident at The Madrigal and, postponing a discussion of that unhappy development, Lisette told them her husband was engaged with friends but that she hoped he would return before it was time for them to leave. Norman was eager to discuss their visit to Lord Wetherby, which was to take place on the following morning, and Judith was anxious to secure Strand's approval of a swatch of fabric she had obtained while shopping that day. Lisette's opinion was sought, and her endorsement noted but without much enthusiasm, it being very apparent that Strand had become Judith's oracle in matters pertaining to fashion, failing the presence of Miss Wallace, who, having contracted a heavy cold, had been left in Sussex. The evening slipped away, Norman and Judith said their farewells and were driven back to Portland Place, and still there was no sign of Strand. Lisette resigned herself to waiting until the following day to hear what had transpired at The Madrigal. It was, she decided, as well, since it was unlikely that he would recover to the point of being able to converse coherently with anyone.
She accepted her candle from Morse, bade him good night, and went slowly upstairs, pondering the events of this unpleasant day. It was beyond belief that a man as well bred" as James
Garvey should have been so vulgar as to bandy her name about in a gentleman's club, especially in so crude a fashion. How she would ever again be able to walk out in public, she could not think. The shock had obviously been sufficient to drive Strand into a bout of heavy drinking—a typical male reaction! One might suppose he would instead have had the kindness to come home and warn her of the rumours that had been spread about them. With her hand on the doorknob, she knew a pang of guilt. Poor Strand. Here she was feeling hardly done by, when he must have suffered the greater blow of hearing it in so public a way. No wonder he had challenged Garvey. Yet how strange th
at Garvey had apologized in such craven fashion, and why on earth should Claude Sanguinet have intervened? From all she'd heard one would think he would joyfully have encouraged a duel that must certainly have seen Justin slain. She shivered at the thought and hurried into her parlour. There was no sign of Denise, who usually sat before the fire in the evening, reading or sewing, and Lisette walked across to open her bedchamber door, calling, "Denise? Are you—"
Strand rose from the armchair beside the fire. "She is gone to bed, madam," he said coldly. "You shall have to do without her tonight, I fear."
He had changed into a smoking jacket of dark blue velvet and had discarded his cravat, his shirt lying open at the throat and very white against his bronzed skin. He appeared quite recovered from his earlier disgusting condition; he must, of course, have enjoyed at least five hours of sound sleep since he had returned home, but anger radiated from him, the brilliant eyes seemed to hurl fury, the lips were thin and tight, the jaw a fierce jut. Suddenly apprehensive, Lisette wished he had slept until morning.
"That is of no importance, Strand," she said, coming quickly into the room and closing the door behind her. "What a dreadful day you have had. I have heard a little of it, and am so thankful you are not to go out with Garvey, for I—"
"How touching," he rasped, his eyes glinting ever more unpleasantly. "Were you so concerned for my welfare, ma'am, you'd have done well to keep your tongue between your teeth."
Lisette's jaw sagged momentarily. "Wh-what? Do you dare to imply—''
"No, madam. I imply nothing. I state that your vulgar and irresponsible gabbling has caused one man to be ridiculed throughout London, and the honour of another to be hopelessly fouled! I trust you are well pleased."
For an instant she was quite powerless to reply and simply stood there, all but gaping at him. Then, she said in strangled voice, "You dare… you dare to believe I would have spread such—such crudities?"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption Page 21