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

by Patricia Veryan

  "Oh? A rifleman?"

  "A naval officer. And, much decorated." (He would be vastly decorated! He would have every decoration known to man!) "He served with Lord Nelson."

  There was silence. Euphemia stole a glance from under her lashes and could have screamed with mirth at his awed expression.

  "Did he, by George! And—his name? Or, perhaps I presume?"

  "Not at all. His name is Algernon Montmorency… Vane—" She met his eyes as she sought about mentally and encountered a totally unexpected twinkle.

  "… Glorious!" he suggested.

  She had to choke back an instinctive laugh and finished, "Vane-Armstrong."

  "Poor fellow!" He clicked his tongue. "What a mouthful! And, his title?"

  He meant to check his Peerage—the wretch! "Oh, none! But, from a very fine old family, as you doubtless know. So, will you not help me, Mr. Hawkhurst?"

  Watching her, he echoed rather vaguely, "Help you?"

  "You said you were well acquainted with… lures I might throw out."

  His eyes sharpened and held very steadily on hers for a space. She could not know how her blue eyes sparkled, nor how rosy were her cheeks. With a small start, he said, "Oh Lord, there are millions of 'em, I don't doubt. I've had millions flung at me, it seems. You'd not believe, Miss Buchanan, the lengths to which some of these fortune-hunting wenches will go. I've had 'em 'lose their way' and be 'compelled' to walk to Dominer for aid. Or 'need repairs' to their carriages, and we were 'the closest house.' And all this in the face of my… ah, lurid reputation, you'll mind. Ain't nothing can dim the lure of gold, is there, ma'am? Do you know, I had one saucy puss arrive positively dripping with diamonds—-all rented, I suspect. And purely to impress me with the fact that she was as rich, if not more so, than me! Jove! I'd not be surprised to have such a hussy drive her carriage clean off the road—did she believe 'twould gain her entrance to Dominer."

  The words were as deliberate as they were vulgar, and his hard eyes challenged her. Euphemia found it difficult to draw breath, but managed, "Is… that so? Well, you have given me much to think on, Mr. Hawkhurst I do thank you!"

  The colour in his cheeks deepened. Very abruptly, he swung Sarabande away. "Our tongues travel faster than our mounts!" he called. "Come, ma'am." and he galloped on and around a stand of young trees.

  "Bluebeard!" Euphemia hissed after his lithely swaying back. "Overbearing! Odious! Conceit-ridden, puffed up gudgeon"

  And, wheeling Fiddle, she rode deliberately in the opposite direction and into the Home Wood.

  Chapter 7

  For a time, Euphemia was so enraged that she saw only Hawkhurst's smirking countenance and hard, cold eyes. So he fancied her dropping the handkerchief, did he? By heaven, but he must credit her with superhuman powers to have arranged that horrible landslide! He surely could not believe that she would have risked Kent's life in so reckless a fashion, even had the slide been contrived, which was of itself nonsensical. Perhaps he thought it merely happenstance, that she and Simon had ridden onto his lands intending to "arrange a breakdown," only to be caught in a real disaster. How dare he! And as if any lady of quality would throw herself at so wretched an individual. It was probably all a hum! "Ain't nothing can dim the lure of gold, is there, ma'am?" Oh, but he was hateful! If what he said was truth indeed, the type of women he had attracted must be the very dregs. Her teeth gritted. And he apparently believed her to be one of those dregs!

  She rode on, fuming, until there came the insidious recollection of him lying sprawled on the floor of the dining room, winded and helpless, yet with his eyes laughing into hers as he gasped out his quotation. Simon, she knew, would have said he was a good sportsman at that moment. Increasingly, Mr. Garret Hawkhurst seemed to be two men, totally unlike: the one gallant, haunted by tragedy, yet still possessing a warm, rich sense of humour; the other hard, cruel, and capable of—She bit her lip. No! Even at his worst, she could no longer judge Hawkhurst capable of murdering a woman or a child. Seeking about for a key to the puzzle, she reflected that emergencies tend to bring out the best in certain individuals. Some of the wildest, most rabble-rousing womanizers under her father's command had been the most high-couraged fighters when battle was joined. Hawkhurst must be such a man. The emergency was over, and so he had reverted to type. She nodded her satisfaction with the theory. Still, she was deeply indebted and would repay him. By helping his sweet sister. However, he must be set down for his abominable rudeness in trying to chase her away before she could do so. Now, how might that best be accomplished? The calculating expression in her eyes remained for a little while, but gradually a smile replaced it.

  She glanced up. Her smile died, and she gave a shocked gasp. She must have been lost in thought for much longer than she had realized, as she had evidently come a good distance. The gently rolling hills and dimpling valleys had been superseded by wooded slopes and sudden sharp little ravines, unsuitable country for riding—especially for a lady, unaccompanied. She wheeled Fiddle about. In that same instant a large hare flashed under the mare's nose. The quiet was shattered by a deafening explosion. Fiddle screamed with fright and reared madly. Euphemia had to exert every ounce of her horsemanship to keep from being thrown. When at last she was able to lean forward and stroke the sweating mare, a quiet voice murmured, "Splendidly done, ma'am. My compliments!"

  A gentleman wearing a leather hunting jacket, top boots and buckskins stood watching her with admiration. He carried a gun finely inlaid with mother-of-pearl over one arm and a game-bag lay on the ground beside him. "I almost shot you, I'm afraid," he apologized. "I am most dreadfully sorry. I can see that would have been a terrible loss for this tired old world."

  She liked him at once. He looked to be a year or two older than Simon, about thirty, she would guess. His hair, worn somewhat longer than the current fashion, was a crisp brown. The face was square and strong, but with a well-shaped mouth and laugh lines at the sides of the brown eyes. And, noting that one of those eyes lacked the twinkle that shone so warmly in the other and that the skin below it was puckered as though it had been burned, she said, with a smile, "You must be Lord Gains. Good gracious, but I have come a long way! Shall you have me seized by your keepers for trespassing?"

  She reached down as she spoke, and he came at once to shake her hand. "An excellent notion! How you would brighten my house, Miss Buchanan." Her brows arched her amusement at this, and, thinking her even more attractive than he had heard, he stepped back and explained, "My brother told me you were Hawk's guest. And Leith has spoken of you often. Can you spare me a moment? Or do I detain you?"

  Mildly surprised by his use of Hawkhurst's nickname, she allowed him to lift her down, and he took the reins, leaving his gun and the game-bag propped against a tree as he walked on beside her.

  "You know Tristram Leith?" she asked.

  "Yes. Very well. We are old friends, which makes it a bit—er, awkward for him, I'm afraid. Tris has told me he intended to offer for you again. Dare I presume to ask if he was accepted?"

  She was a little taken aback but, meeting his laughing glance, could not be angry and replied, "Leith is one of my very dearest friends. I really do not think I could get along without that friendship."

  Gains shook his head. "Poor fellow. Then there's still hope for the rest of us, I take it?"

  "Heavens! You make your mind up swiftly, my lord!"

  "He who hesitates," he grinned. "Shall you mind adding a one-eyed man to your legion of admirers? My left orb is blind, you know."

  "Yes. I have heard of it, and have often wondered…" She frowned. "Forgive me; I've a dreadful tongue, as I've lately been reminded."

  He noted the sudden frown in her eyes and asked a shrewd, "Hawkhurst? Ah, I could wish you did not stay at Dominer."

  "My brother is with me, my lord."

  "Oh. Well, I'd not meant to imply—" He smiled in response to her questioning look and said, "Do not believe everything you hear of him, Miss Buchanan. He's not quite as black as h
e's painted."

  Such magnanimity from one who had suffered so cruelly at Hawkhurst's hands utterly overwhelmed her, and she stared at him, recovering her voice at last to stammer, "How very generous of you to say so. I can scarce believe any man could be so forgiving. Or have I been misinformed perhaps? I was told that Hawkhurst… er—"

  "Did this?" He gestured toward his eye. "Yes. But it was—" He rephrased, with a small shrug. "Some of the things I said to him were quite unforgivable."

  "Then one would think a gentleman should have called you out. Or perhaps—Oh dear! There I go again! And the subject must be painful to you."

  "Not now. Nor have we faced one another in a pearly dawn at twenty yards, if that is what you mean." His light manner evaporated and he said with a touch of grimness, "Though it is, I fear, only a matter of time. And does he continue to abuse my dog, that time may be extremely brief."

  It seemed to Euphemia that the time for their confrontation had been four years back—and over a matter of far greater moment than Hawkhurst's threats against a canine interloper. But she could imagine Simon's horror were she to comment to that effect and therefore said with a smile, "I shall have to bear witness, sir, to the fact that today Sampson struck the first blow."

  They had come out onto a high, rolling heath, with a spectacular view of the countryside beyond, and Gains halted, facing her in dismay. "What? That stupid animal never trotted all the way over there again?"

  "I fear he did. And raced jubilantly through the house, scattering rugs, breaking Han vases, and leaving the master flat on his back."

  "Good… God! Not that superb vase in the dining room? The Admiral gave it to him. Oh, but this is frightful."

  Euphemia eyed him curiously. "You know a good deal about your mortal enemy, sir. May I ask who is 'the Admiral'?"

  "Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby—Hawkhurst's grandfather and a fierce, magnificent old warrior who remains, thank heaven, very much my friend. Hawk idolizes him, with good reason. But Wetherby's seldom at Dominer since… er… these days, so may not notice the absence of the vase does he come this year. As for my knowledge of the family, Hawk and I grew up together, a long time ago, as it seems now." He looked sad all at once, then brightened. "If you will look down the slope to your left, Miss Buchanan, you'll see my home. Small, compared to Dominer, but my brother and I would be overjoyed to welcome you. Will you come and take a dish of tea with us? I've a splendid housekeeper who would not leave your side for an instant, did you consent."

  Euphemia admired Chant House, a sprawling Tudor edifice set in a spacious park dotted with great old oak trees. She thanked Lord Gains for his invitation and liked him the more for the fact that he made no attempt to argue with her refusal. His offer had been a mere courtesy, of course, for they both knew her unchaperoned presence in the home of two young bachelors would be unthinkable, and that this very conversation was, in fact, quite improper. Therefore, having also refused his offer to get a mount and escort her, she listened carefully to his directions, promised to ride this way again with her brother at the earliest opportunity, and sent Fiddle picking her dainty way down the slope towards the east and Dominer.

  The clouds were darker than ever now, and the air so cold her breath hung upon it like little clouds, while Fiddle blew white smoke as she cantered along. Euphemia was only vaguely aware of cold, clouds, or Fiddle, however, for her thoughts were on Maximilian Gains, his gentle courtesy, and the gallantry that enabled him to speak of his enemy with comparative objectivity. He was, she decided, a most remarkable young man, and she at once popped him into the small group of her favourites, which included such gallants as Jeremy Bolster, John Colborne, Harry Redmond, and Tristram Leith. It would be a great pity, she thought, if Gains and Hawkhurst were to meet on the field of honour, for, although they looked to be much the same age and each in splendid physical condition, she could not but think that Gains would have little chance against Hawkhurst's cold ferocity. It was remarkable, really, that they had not fought, for surely—

  She had been riding along in the lee of a hill and, having come to the end of its sheltering bulk, rode out into the wind at the same instant as a horseman galloped around the curve. Fiddle let out a terrified whinny and shied. For the second time that day, Euphemia had to call up all her skill to quiet the chestnut. When at last she succeeded, she found the new arrival sitting his horse while staring at her with unblinking stillness. An extremely well-favoured gentleman, this. Slim and tall, he was richly clad in a brown greatcoat that must have all of ten capes, the furred collar buttoned high about his finely moulded chin, and a furred beaver clapped at a jaunty angle over curls that shone like gold even under the threatening winter skies. He was mounted on a showy hack, very long of tail and rolling of eye, whose bay coat shone almost as brightly as did his owner's hair. But Euphemia, wise in the ways of men and horses, found the gentleman's brown eyes rather too large, his mouth, although perfectly curved, too full and sensuous, and his horse entirely too quivery of nerves and a shade too short in the back for all his show and bluster.

  Thus, for an instant, each took stock of the other, and the man's recondite look gave way to admiration, as his dark eyes flickered from Euphemia's hood to the shapely boot that peeped from beneath her habit. Off came his beaver with a flourish, down went the golden head, in a bow remarkable for its grace, in view of the cavorting bundle of nerves he bestrode. "Well met, Madam Juno," he said in a pleasant, well-modulated voice. "Are you just arrived? I pray so, for our dull evenings will be brightened if that is the case."

  "You are newly come to Dominer, sir?" she countered smoothly, conscious of a fervent hope this was not so.

  "Dominer? No, by Jove! Ah, but you jest, ma'am, for no lady such as yourself would sojourn at so wicked a spot! Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Knowles-Shefford, of Shefford's Den in Yorkshire." Again his bow was profound, but his questioningly upraised brows won only a cool smile and the response that, did he journey to "the wicked spot," her identity would be made known to him.

  Briefly, he looked genuinely taken aback, and she realized that he was older than the five and twenty she had at first guessed, perhaps by as much as a decade. He recovered himself and began to pour out apologies, ending his humble pleas for her forgiveness with, "Ah, fair Juno, must you abandon me in this wilderness?"

  Impatient with his verbosity, yet amused nonetheless, she teased, "You are scarce two miles from Chant House, sir. I would suppose your chances of reaching it safely to be excellent."

  His eyes swung in the direction she indicated. "Yes, but Max is a dull dog, and it is lonely there. What, will you be away then? Your name, lovely one, I beg you! At least give me leave to call upon you in Town—But, no, alas! You mean to leave me, disconsolate and drear."

  "Drear?" she laughed. "But, really sir!" She bade him good day, not unkindly, and with a kick of her heels sent Fiddle off towards Dominer once more.

  The man she had left sat unmoving for a few minutes, watching her ride from sight. And as he watched, the foolish smile vanished from his face, leaving it with another expression—an expression that would have caused Euphemia much disquiet.

  Daylight had faded now, and, while one of the lackeys lighted the candles, another moved about the pleasant salon, shutting out the cold dusk by drawing the thick, red-velvet draperies. With his frowning gaze upon this innocent individual, Hawkhurst twirled the wine in his glass impatiently and said a curt, "Of course, I am not angered!" He glanced to Buchanan, standing beside him, saw the laughter that danced in the blue eyes, and grumbled, "But, by God! I scoured that freezing damned wood for better than an hour with my grooms, and—" He checked as his guest strove not too successfully to look contrite and finished with a wry grin, "Is your sister always so headstrong and impetuous, sir?"

  "Usually," murmured Buchanan, "only when extremely vexed."

  "Indeed?" The dark head immediately jerked higher. "Well, she'd absolutely no reason to—" But Hawkhurst paused, flushed, and looked
away. "Oh," he grunted, then took a sip of cognac and asked, "How does the boy go on?"

  "So far as I am aware, nothing has befallen him in the last half-hour."

  In a total departure from his usual assured manner, Hawkhurst looked even more discomfited, and faltered, "I… I only dropped in for a minute or two, and—"

  "And left him smothered with books, pictures, magazines, and that knife of yours that must drive the maids insane," grinned Buchanan.

  "No, but I showed him how to use it. He'll not hurt himself, I do assure you. He has quite a knack for—"

  A crash in the hall was followed by a moan, a ripple of feminine amusement, and a deeper male laugh. The door opened to admit Dora Graham, her plump face apprehensive, followed by a smiling Stephanie, and Coleridge Bryce. At the sight of that gentleman, the enquiry on Hawkhurst's lips died, and Buchanan had to stifle a chuckle. Bryce was awesome in a maroon-velvet coat, the shoulders of which were padded to the point of being absurd. His shirt points were so high that, were he to turn his head unguardedly, he must risk impaling an eyeball, and wide-legged grey trousers, caught in at the ankles, did nothing to mitigate the outlandishness of his appearance. After one scorching scan, Hawkhurst ignored him and escorted his aunt to a chair. He held his breath for a moment against her perfume, but then said nobly, "How dashing you look, dear lady."

  "I dashed a vase, love," she confessed remorsefully and, slanting a hopeful look at him, added, "but it really did not have the best of lines, Garret. Quite dull, actually."

  He smiled into her anxious eyes. "Then I thank you for ridding me of it."

  Mrs. Graham heaved a sigh of relief and told him he was the dearest boy. She really did look well this evening, in a gown of grey velvet trimmed with blue beads and with her hair quite neatly arranged. Stephanie's attempt to look her best had been less successful. The pale blue linen made her look washed out; the high, round neck and large bishop sleeves were too matronly for a young girl, and the beautiful shawl she carried loosely across her elbows, being mainly embroidered in shades of pink, white and red, quarreled with her gown. Buchanan, who had looked up eagerly at the sound of her voice, noticed neither unbecoming shades nor ugly sleeves, however, but, as he drew a chair closer to the fire for her, thought only what a very pleasant person she was.