Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  She had supposed the journey to Down Buttery and back would take the better part of an hour, but he must have ridden like the wind indeed, for within thirty minutes she heard the rumble of wheels outside. Soon, quick footsteps sounded in the hall, and Dr. Archer hurried into the room, followed by Hawkhurst, who moved to wait silently in a distant corner. The doctor nodded to the worried Ellie, threw Euphemia a smile, and questioned her softly as he made his examination. When he finished, he turned on her in mock outrage and grumbled that the boy had taken a decided turn for the better. Euphemia was both overjoyed and mortified, but Archer stilled her rather shaken apologies by saying she had done splendidly and that now she could safely rest, having given him the opportunity to enjoy some of Hawk's excellent brandy.

  Thus reminded of her host's efforts, Euphemia turned to thank him. She was too late, however. Hawkhurst had quietly slipped away.

  The following morning, Buchanan felt much improved. Not only was his cold relieved; his shoulder was easier than it had been since he was hit. A few more days like this, he thought with elation, and he would be able to rejoin his regiment. He breakfasted in bed and allowed Bailey, Hawkhurst's imperturbable valet, to shave him and assist with his toilet. Then, in high spirits, save for the unwelcome notion that he had been a nuisance at a most trying time, he went off in search of some way to make amends. A shy maid advised him that Mrs. Graham was still sleeping, that Miss Euphemia, poor dear soul, had taken to her bed at dawn, that Miss Stephanie was come home again and somewhere about, and that my Lady Bryce and Mr. Hawkhurst's secretary were in the small gold salon upstairs, planning the Musicale.

  Feeling decidedly de trop, Buchanan proceeded down the stairs. Lord Bryce, clad in an enormously caped riding coat, with hat, whip, and gloves in one hand, was crossing the hall. At Buchanan's hail, he halted and beamed upward. He went considerably in awe of the Lieutenant's military prowess, but despite this and the difference in their ages, a deep liking had sprung up between them. He told Buchanan he looked "in jolly good point" today, and that they would have to throw some dice later on. Guessing that Bryce meant to ride over to Chant House to visit Chilton Gains, Buchanan hopefully offered to bear him company. Bryce turned quite pale and began to stammer his way through an involved morass of excuses. Hawkhurst had very obviously put the fear of God into him, and, having no wish to cause him further embarrassment, Buchanan politely remembered that he really must write some letters and watched rather wistfully as Bryce all but heaved a sigh of relief and fled the premises.

  Hawkhurst was Sir Simon's next quarry and was run to earth in the library, half-sitting against the reference table, one booted leg swinging and a grim expression on his face as he stared down at a letter he held. He wore riding dress and was as usual quietly elegant. Surveying the cut of the bottle green jacket, the fit of the buckskins, the impeccably tied neckcloth, and the absence of any jewelry save for his large signet ring, Buchanan wondered that Colley, so obviously admiring his cousin, did not look and learn.

  Hawkhurst's head lifted at his approach. For an instant he stared unseeingly. Then, recovering himself, he came to his feet and offered his felicitations upon his guest's improved state of health.

  "Yes, well, that's why I came. To thank you, sir. You've been dashed decent about it all, and I'm truly sorry, for we've been a confounded pest, I've no doubt!"

  "I am quite sure of it," murmured Hawkhurst and, noting the immediate upward toss of that sandy head, chuckled, "I meant—that I'm sure you are sorry, and with no cause, for it has been our pleasure. Egad, Buchanan, do you go through life so curst hot at hand, I wonder you've survived this long!"

  "Well, you damned well deliberately provoke me!"

  "I apologize. I prefer your rage to such abject gratitude, I admit."

  The twinkle in the grey eyes was irresistible. Buchanan grinned and was at once invited to play a game of billiards. How could one hold a grudge under these circumstances? He decided one could not, accepted with delight, and they spent a pleasant hour together, at the end of which time he had lost approximately seventy-eight thousand pounds (fortunately all represented by buttons!). Hawkhurst played a skilful game, his movements carelessly graceful, yet containing the odd suggestion of leashed power that epitomized him. He was every inch the aristocrat and unfailingly the courteous host, and, scanning him surreptitiously from time to time, Simon knew a touch of uncertainty. Did rumour speak truly? Was this man who had so courageously rescued Kent also capable of having murdered his wife and their child? The lined face, the heavy brows and jut of the chin, the firm mouth, all bespoke an individual one would not lightly cross; certainly, a potential for ruthlessness hovered in the cold grey eyes. The trouble was that they were not always cold, nor was the mouth consistently set into that thin, uncompromising line. When Hawkhurst laughed, as he did occasionally during their game, the ice vanished, the eyes sparkled, and the harsh face underwent such a transformation that Buchanan was shocked into remembering that years ago he had from a distance actually admired the fellow—and even more shocking, that Hawkhurst was only four years older than himself!

  Their game was interrupted when a large, neatly clad, and shrewd-eyed individual appeared in the doorway, made his bow, and announced, "The horses is ready, sir." Hawkhurst sighed and put down his cue. "What a merciless tyrant you are, Paul."

  The large man grinned and said he would wait in the kitchen. Hawkhurst turned to Buchanan and offered his apologies, saying wryly that his bailiff was extremely demanding. He begged that Sir Simon proceed exactly as though he were in his own home, then started for the door but, with his hand on the latch, turned about to asked interestedly, "And what is your verdict, Buchanan?"

  Buchanan stared at him.

  Hawkhurst put up his brows. "What, no conclusion? And after all those sidelong glances… all that frowning deliberation! My poor fellow, how very vexing for you! Allow me to be of assistance. I am innocent! Pure as the driven snow! There, now you may be at ease for the remainder of your stay."

  And, with a cynical grin, an infuriatingly mocking bow, he was gone.

  Chapter 6

  When Buchanan recovered sufficiently that he was able to restrain the impulse to stalk the nearest footman and strangle him, he decided that he might as well get to his letters. He caught a glimpse of Miss Hawkhurst in the hall and brightened, but she ran quickly up the stairs, almost as though seeking to avoid him. He went into the library, where he spent a great deal of time sharpening a pen, while thinking of a dozen people he should, but did not care to, write to. He was reprieved when Lady Bryce buttonholed him and desired he take luncheon with her and her niece. Like any basically healthy young man, he was always ready to enjoy a meal, and he was also eager to hear of Miss Hawkhurst's journey and what news she had of the war. Therefore, he willingly took his place beside Lady Bryce in the small dining room and thanked her for having taken the trouble to deliver his letter to his great aunt personally. She at once launched into a rapturous account of what a delightful cose she had enjoyed with her "dear friend" Lucasta. Murmuring a polite response Buchanan was reminded of the extremely irate letter he had yesterday received from the hand of her "dear friend's" groom. "You wretched boy!" Great Aunt Lucasta had commenced, not mincing her words. "How could you have allowed that odious Carlotta Bryce to come to my house? I have been obliged to invent an involved tale to explain her presence, for, allow the gabblemongers to know where you are now domiciled, I will not! And does she spread the tale (ingratiating hornet that she is!), I shall deny it!" The missive had gone on at great length, bemoaning the fate that had flung them in the way of the evil Garret Hawkhurst, and concluded with the warning that, page or no page, did Simon not remove his sister from "that den of infamy" within another week at the latest, his poor aunt would have to set aside her preparations for the holidays, in order to come for them! Even Hawkhurst's suave hauteur, thought Buchanan, must crumble before the full flood of Lady Lucasta's famous tongue. Which, under the circumstances, would
not do! No, he simply must ensure that they arrive at Meadow Abbey well before his aunt's patience expired. And certainly before the much vaunted Musicale—a sure fate worse than death!

  He was diverted from his thoughts by the advent of a maid, who conveyed Miss Hawkhurst's regrets, but she was fatigued of her long drive and begged they would excuse her. Buchanan was disappointed, and his feeling that the girl was seeking to avoid him deepened.

  At half past two o'clock, Buchanan's elbow slipped off the arm of the chair in the library and woke him. He had settled down to think about the next letter he would write and must have dozed off. He stretched, took up his solitary effort, and wandered into the hall to deposit it in the jade salver for delivery to the post office. Yawning, his idle gaze encountered the stern stare of a splendid gentleman in periwig and laces. The portrait was beautifully preserved, and the frame a work of art in itself and, reminded he had not yet visited the gallery, he made his way up the spiral staircase and thence to the sweep of stairs that led to the top floor. To his left lay the game room and servants' quarters. He turned right, past more guest rooms and salons, until the corridor curved into the South Wing and approached the gallery. The floors here were especially fine, the rich parquetry embellished with many cabinets and screens, all in the oriental motif. The gallery doors stood open, and beside them an exquisite chinoiserie clock occupied a corner that echoed the chinoiserie design, even the flooring having been inlaid so as to continue those elegant lines. Impressed, Buchanan wandered into a long, wide room, graced here and there by thick rugs and brightened by recessed bays through which pale sunlight traced the latticework of dormer windows onto the boards. Richly carved credenzas and chests held bouquets of chrysanthemum and fern. And along the walls an impressive array of Thorndykes and Hawkhursts looked down upon the visitor with varying degrees of calm, amusement, or condescension.

  Buchanan wandered among this august assemblage with mild interest until he came to the portrait of a dark young man with high-peaked brows and a lean face mainly remarkable for a pair of speaking grey eyes and a wide and whimsical mouth, both of which features put him in remind of their host. Thick hair tied in at the nape of the neck and foaming Brussels lace at throat and wrists proclaimed an age of elegance now, alas, lost to the world. Buchanan leaned closer and read on the gold plaque, "Christopher Valentine Thorndyke—Fourth Earl of Aynsworth."

  Staring upwards, conscious of an odd feeling of liking for the man, he was startled by a small clatter. He turned about and saw a spool rolling towards him from one of the bays, the thread jerking as though desperate hands strove to retrieve it. Buchanan swept it up and, winding it carefully, walked after that leaping strand. He suspected the identity of the lady he would find in the bay and was not disappointed. Miss Hawkhurst, clad in a plain green gown and with a shawl about her shoulders, was sitting in the window seat. She all but shrank as he strolled towards her, still rewinding the thread. He offered his spool in silence, and she stood to accept it, a swift flood of colour coming painfully into her cheeks and sending her pale lashes fluttering downward.

  "Why," he asked gently, "do I frighten you so?"

  Her colour fled, and, dropping the spool into her workbasket, she said, "Oh, no. You do not. At all. But I like to work up here, for the light is good, and I—I like to be alone."

  It was cold in the room, for the fires were not lit, and her finger had been like ice. Undeceived, he touched her elbow. "Please do not be afraid of me. Can you believe I mean harm to someone as good—as gentle, as you?"

  The downbent head flew up, the big eyes wide with earnestness. "No! Never! It is only that… that Aunt says—" She bit her lip and was silent.

  "Your Aunt Carlotta?" He might have known! "What does the lady say? That I am of shocking repute, and you must not—"

  She smiled wanly. "She thinks you splendid, of course. But your sister offered to… that is… she wants to… to teach me how to… to…"

  "To make yourself into the beauty no man in his right mind could resist," he finished kindly.

  "She is so good," she gulped. 'To be willing to help me try to be… a little less plain and—and dowdy, than I am."

  "Oh, what fustian!" He took her hand in his friendly way and said an encouraging, "My sister is a very sweet soul, Miss Hawkhurst, but the world's busiest arranger. I vow she arranged the lives of so many people in Spain that her victims are known as 'Mia's Mandates'!" A twinkle crept into her shy eyes, and he nodded, "Truly. You may ask anyone! Untold couples who live blissfully in the delusion they found one another of their own ingenuity are wed only by reason of her cunning machinations!" A rich little gurgle of merriment resulting, he squeezed her hand slightly and, releasing it, persisted, "Now to what, precisely, does Aunty object?"

  The flush on her cheeks heightened, which made her look unsuspectedly attractive, he thought. But not looking away now, she said quietly, "She says, do I try to be—er, to put on—airs, you must believe I am… I…" But she was too well bred to bring herself to say it, and her gaze flickered and fell again.

  "What?" gasped Buchanan. And with a peal of laughter, said, "Setting your cap—for me? Throwing out lures? Oh, that's rich!"

  She flinched and stepped away, head bowed. And cursing his clumsiness, he moved closer behind her and said, "But, dear lady, how could this be? I am safely wed. And with three hopeful children."

  A small gasp broke the silence that followed. For an instant Miss Hawkhurst was rigidly still. Then she turned a rather pale face to him and said gaily, "You… are?"

  He nodded. "So your aunt cannot accuse you of such naughty mischief."

  "She… she most assuredly cannot."

  "I think we must confound her, you and I. You may let Mia play her little games, if that is your wish, for you are safe with me, and, if you wait until some eligible young gentleman is here, Aunty may then really contrive to throw a rub in your way. When she is convinced you have totally ensnared me, we shall tell her all her suspicions are for nought, and by that time you will be the rage of four counties, at the very least!"

  Her laugh was sweetly musical, if somewhat breathless. "Oh, thank you, sir! You and your dear sister are just… too kind."

  "I cannot deny it. Wherefore, I am lonely and neglected, and your sewing can wait, can it not? Come now, and tell me who was this very fine young gentleman."

  He led her to the portrait, and looking up, her eyes softened. "Lord Christopher. Is he not handsome? He was the first Thorndyke to own Dominer, and my great-grandfather on Mama's side. And here…" she moved to the portrait beside that of Lord Aynsworth, "is his lady wife."

  Following, Buchanan viewed a lovely young woman with coppery golden ringlets and eyes of a rich green, long and wide, and filled with an inner happiness that the artist had in some magical fashion captured on the canvas. "Leonie, Countess of Aynsworth," he read, and murmured, "She looks as though she were thinking of something very beloved."

  "Probably her husband. My Grandpapa says they were the happiest couple he ever knew. In love all their lives."

  A wistful smile touched her eyes, and watching her, he said, "I expect, someday, you will find such a love."

  "I pray so, but to how many is given such a very great gift?"

  The smile died from Buchanan's eyes. For one brief year he had thought to have possessed such a gift and dreamed it would last forever. But the bubble had burst, leaving nothing but this painful yearning for the might-have-been. He looked up and, finding her concerned gaze upon him, asked brightly, "Should you care to go for a ride? Oh, do say you will. Would Hawkhurst object, do you think?"

  "Most decidedly. As would I. Dominer has harmed you enough, Sir Simon. I will not be a party to your being made ill again."

  She spoke in her usual soft fashion, but there was a firm set to her chin, and he realized in some surprise that beneath her shyness dwelt a resolute spirit. "If you would care for it," she suggested, "I should instead be most pleased to show you over the house and the conservator
y."

  He agreed only after extracting a promise that, if he was obedient today, she would ride with him tomorrow. Then, he proffered his left arm, Stephanie smiled and lightly rested her hand upon it, and they commenced the tour.

  By the end of the week Kent was beginning to exhaust his nurses with his reviving energy. Always sweet-natured and easy to manage, he nonetheless contrived to be up and walking did they for an instant relax their vigilance and was frequently discovered kneeling among the cushions of the window bay, gazing out across the frosty gardens.

  Returning to the sickroom after luncheon one cold, gray afternoon, Euphemia was astounded to find Hawkhurst sprawled in an armchair, long booted legs outthrust and crossed at the ankles, chin resting upon interlaced fingers as he frowned at the small patient. Kent, absorbed by something, was sitting up in bed. He threw her a quick, loving smile, then bent to his task once more. Intrigued, Euphemia trod closer. "What is it?"

  Hawkhurst pulled his lean form erect and shrugged a bored, "Crayons, and a picture to copy. Come."

  She glanced at him interrogatively.

  "You are pale and hagged," he imparted with cool candour. "And I wish to speak with you. I shall take you for a drive in the curricle."

  'Thank you. But—no." How swift the narrowing of the eyes, the upward toss of the head, the haughty droop of the eyelids. Her confrontations with him had been few these past eight days, for she had usually been too busy with the child to go downstairs to dine, and when she had put in an appearance, Hawkhurst had been off somewhere, consorting with his ragtag friends, she supposed. But whatever he was, he had saved their lives and offered a most generous hospitality. "If I may," she said, "I would prefer to ride. Have you a suitable mount for a lady, sir?"

  "By the time you are changed, your steed will await you. And," he added dryly, "probably be exhausted by the wait!"