Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (20 page)

Stunned, her eyes flashed to Damon. He was on one knee, searching
anxiously through the pages he had gathered. He looked up at her, saw
the music in her hand, and froze. For a very brief instant, his face
reflected shocked guilt. She saw the white teeth catch at his lower
lip. Then he took a breath, stood, met her amazed stare, and said an
aloof "My Great Aunt…"

He was lying, she was sure of it. All other considerations became of
no importance; her boiling fury was totally forgotten. "Oh?" she
murmured, and hummed the melody. "You must be very fond of her. This is
beautiful."

He thanked her with bored indifference but from the corner of his
eye saw her suspicious regard and said hastily, "You were quite right.
I am devoted to her. Though she's a pitiful old thing."

Sophia expressed the hope that the lady was not ill.

"No. Fat." The words were gravely uttered, but again laughter
gleamed in his eyes as her chin swung up in that betrayingly defensive
fashion.

"Fat!" It had occurred to my lady of late that her hips might be just a shade too rounded. "Very fat?"

"Enormous," he said, warming to his creation. "And tall-well over six feet."

She gasped. "Six feet! Has she a husband?"

"Twice widowed," he mourned. "And she has a—" He looked into her
lovely and faintly aghast violet eyes and said irrepressibly, "A
squint, poor thing."

"A squint? And twice widowed! She would seem overburdened with afflictions."

"True. And with lovers."

"L-lovers…?"

"Well, only one at the moment," he qualified gravely. "Terribly jealous. But—very devoted."

Sophia, her own eyes beginning to sparkle with mirth, echoed, "Only one?"

"At the moment. Fine chap. A bit short for her, unfortunately. Stands about four feet, ten."

"They must," she observed, her voice a trifle unsteady, "present a rather odd appearance."

"
Mais oui
. But then he has such an air about him."

"He does?"

He nodded. "Most decidedly. Cannot escape it." His lips quivered. "He's a cockle and mussel merchant, you see."

Choking, she said, "Cockle… and mussel."

"Alive, alive-oh," he grinned.

"How fascinating," she said with a ripple of laughter. "No wonder you were so inspired as to write that lovely song for her."

"Well," he admitted, "she loves me. And, after all, when someone…
loves you…" Mesmerized by her laughing face, he faltered into silence.

And, again, that shimmering magic encompassed them. Sophia scarce dared to breathe. His eyes seemed to pierce her soul…

A log rolled in the grate. Damon's shoulders jerked. He looked away
at once and, with a hand that trembled, picked up the old sheet of
music and began to battle it.

Thoroughly unnerved, Sophia moved to the fireplace, her breathing
rapid now, her heart beating wildly. How could he have summoned a store
of humour at such a moment? And why must she forget so soon the
indignities he seemed to delight in heaping upon her? Another moment
and she'd probably have been clutched in his arms again—a willing
captive! The man was a mesmerist—and she, a stupid, henwitted widgeon.
She picked up something, thinking, 'Fool! Fool! Fool!' and realized
suddenly that she was staring at the small china figurine she had
smashed on that first afternoon. It had been glued back together, only
a small chip of the dog's tail having been lost. The repairs had
undoubtedly entailed much time and patience, and it followed that the
piece must have some deep sentimental value. Dismayed, she swung around.

The Marquis was watching her. "It was a gift from my mother," he said.

"Oh! And I broke it deliberately! My horrid temper! I am so sorry…"
Her distressed words trailed away as she stared down at the figurine.

"Are you sure?"

She looked up, saw his half smile, and carefully replaced the piece
upon the mantle. "I cannot quite understand," she said, moving to the
side of the harpsichord, "why you would strive so hard to repair it
when the portrait in the catacombs has not been—"

She stopped. His eyes held a frightening glare. The hand, draped
lazily over the music rack, clenched convulsively. He began to play the
discordant notes once more, his fingers hard upon the keys. She knew
she had trodden in some forbidden area and drew back to leave.

"And what do you think of this melody, my lady?"

"I doubt it will ever become popular," she replied with considerable
understatement. "The notes appear to have been arranged without rhyme
or reason. Much as a child might toss a pile of alphabet blocks onto
the floor and hope to find them arranged into words. Whoever composed
it might better have bent his energies to some more rewarding hobby."

"Yes," he mused, and added whimsically, "Like plumbing or bricklaying."

She smiled, "But perhaps—"

"Sophia!"

Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun around. Viscount
Whitthurst leaned in the doorway, his buckskins muddied, his jacket
rumpled, his thin face pale and drawn with exhaustion. "What in God's
name… are you doing…here?"

"Stephen!" She started toward him.

Whitthurst took one stumbling step, swayed, and crumpled to the floor.

Unaware that an anguished cry had escaped her, Sophia was beside him
on the instant and, kneeling, began to gather his head into her arms. A
firm hand on her shoulder stayed her.

"Do not, ma'am. He'll be better off if you let him lie flat."

She glared up at him through a sparkle of tears, her eyes blazing
with disgust. "You lied! He had not been at 'The Wooden Leg' at all!
You lied
!"

"True," he admitted and, as he strode to tug urgently on the
bellrope, added with a sigh, "I wanted to be rid of you. It didn't
work—unfortunately."

Sophia leaned back in the chair beside the bed and put a hand across
her eyes. The drapes were drawn and the room dim, but she felt drained
and exhausted and was still trembling from the reaction of her
confrontation with the Marquis and the shock of her brother's collapse.

The Viscount stirred in the big bed, mumbling something
incoherently. She stood at once and bent over him, touching the thick
dark hair with a fond hand and murmuring comfortingly, and he quieted
at once. She watched him, grieving because he was still so thin and his
face marked by suffering—old beyond his years. Dear Stephen—so typical
of the gallant young men Britain had lost by the thousands in these
endless years of warfare. He did not move again, and she returned to
the chair and leaned her head back wearily.

She was calm now, her emotions under control, but she felt hurt and
betrayed. "I wanted to be rid of you…" The brutal words rang in her
ears. Believing her departure imminent, he had indulged her with that
humourous interlude. Probably, the music had indeed been written for
another Sophia—one of his many lightskirts. He had lied to her about
Stephen, neither knowing nor caring how desperately the injured man
would need help and rest, caring only that his priceless privacy be
restored to him.

She gave an impatient shrug. All that mattered now was Steve. Damon
was—as she had said—beneath contempt. Yet try as she would, she could
not force him from her mind. However determined she was to concentrate
on her brother, within a very few moments she would find her thoughts
on some event in these crowded few days: mostly upon the laughter,
grief, or anger contained in one pair of darkly lashed eyes, and his
final treachery which made her glad, in a heartsick fashion, that her
revenge would be complete and so devastating…

The door swung open silently. She glanced up, then jumped to her
feet and, with a strangled sob, flung herself into her cousin's arms.

Clay wrapped her in an affectionate hug and, looking anxiously over
her shoulder to the bed and the young man who lay in it, was alarmed
both by the deathly pallor of the Viscount's face and by Sophia's
weeping. Stroking her hair, he pressed a kiss upon it and groaned
remorsefully, "Cam told me what happened—in truth the poor fellow seems
little less distraught than you, my dear coz. I truly am sorry!" He
drew her into her own room, sat beside her on the sofa, and comforted
her until, her fighting spirit asserting itself, she accepted his
handkerchief and, having blown her nose and dried her tears, essayed a
tremulous smile. "What a… feather head! I might have woken Stephen with
my nonsense!"

The Viscount, however, did not wake all that day or night. Next
morning, Sophia, who had snatched what sleep she might in the chair
beside his bed, awoke to find him tossing feverishly. She was
immeasurably relieved when Damon imported a plump and motherly midwife
from the village to help care for him. The poor young gentleman, Mrs.
Gaffney advised, was merely exhausted, on top of which he'd taken a
chill. He would be all the better for a long rest and, provided her
instructions were followed, would doubtless be fully recovered in no
time.

Sophia was willing enough to follow whatever orders the kindly woman
issued. She hovered close at hand, however, refusing to be chased away,
and Clay spent much time with her, entertaining her with tales of
Phineas Bodwin's magnificent showplace of a home. "He's determined you
shall see it," he informed her during one of these conversations. "If
Steve improves as Mrs. G. says, you could go back with Ridgley. He'll
be coming here day after tomorrow for Cam's meeting." The questioning
arch of her brows elicited the information that the Marquis expected a
number of gentlemen on Thursday afternoon to discuss "some kind of
urgent development with his spa." Sophia's knees turned to water. For
an instant, she was so dizzied she almost tumbled from her chair. It
took her every effort not to betray her terror, and she was relieved to
be able to look away, feigning shyness when Clay asked, "By the by, how
fared your eager Lothario?"

She mumbled that she was not ready to make a decision. Seemingly
amused by this, Clay grinned. "Turned him down again, eh? I heard he
went roaring off. Well, old Whitt won't shed any tears when he hears
that news. Begad! If it ain't starting to rain again!"

By noon the rain had become a downpour. Mrs. Gaffney ordered Sophia
to bed after lunch, and assured the invalid was in excellent hands, she
obeyed and slept for several hours. When she awoke, she found the
midwife had been urgently summoned to the village. Mrs. Tibbett's
firstborn was arriving early. "But milady is not to worry! Poor Lord
Whitthurst is sleeping peaceful and will likely be much better in the
morning."

Sophia stayed beside her brother for a while. He was snoring gently,
his skin cool, the flushed look of fever gone from his face. She tied
one of her scarves to the bellrope and secured it beside the bed where
he might easily reach it. Then she tidied her hair and wandered
downstairs. The Marquis and Clay had driven off in a closed chaise to
inspect the ravages this new storm had wreaked upon the spa. The house
was quiet—not even Horatio in evidence—and she went into the library
and curled up in the big leather chair. She was still drowsy from loss
of sleep and was beginning to nod when she noticed an odd shadow cast
upon the wall by a twist of paper that, having fallen short of the
fire, had become caught between two logs in the basket. Retrieving it,
she was about to toss it into the blaze when she saw part of an
excellent sketch. She spread the crumpled sheet. There were no words.
At the top was a scorpion, quite a sinister creature, though very well
drawn. Below it was a bare-headed, elegantly dressed man of middle age.
Next came the sketch of another man, thickset and powerful looking,
with a dog on either side of him, one a bloodhound and the other a
setter. And lastly, the figure of a woman, young and of the quality
beyond doubting, magnificently gowned, but her face not completed. And,
beside her, a question mark. Gazing at the drawings curiously, Sophia
jumped, her heart all but stopping as a slim hand reached over her
shoulder to take the paper.

"Gad, ma'am," Damon rasped, "what a busy person you are, to be sure!"

He might as well have said "busybody." His eyes, hard and angry,
reduced her to total embarrassment. She knew she was reddening and
mumbled apologies, not helped by the sneer on his face. She was vastly
relieved when Clay hurried into the room, asked eagerly about
Whitthurst, and imparted the information that it was raining cats and
dogs and the canals at the Spa were half filled already. His chattering
lent her the time to compose herself, and as soon as was decently
possible, she left them explaining that she must spend the evening at
Stephen's bedside.

"I shall come up directly after dinner," said Clay kindly, "and keep you company."

"Good God, Chicky!" Clay tossed his cards onto the table and,
shoving back his chair, eyed her with pained resentment. "That's the
second time you've played through!"

"Oh, dear!" Sophia laid down her own cards and admitted ruefully
that she never had been very good at piquet. "I am sorry, Marcus." Her
eyes turned to the dim room in which Whitthurst still slept peacefully.
The eiderdown had slipped again, and she hurried to pull it gently over
his maimed shoulder. Returning, she found Clay sprawled in an armchair.
When she had seated herself, he asked smilingly, "What is it you've
been trying to bring yourself to tell me?"

She gave a little laugh, her pulse quickening. "You know me too
well!" It was the opportunity she'd waited for. Gathering her courage,
she asked carefully, "Marcus—what does Vaille intend? Shall he pay off
all your creditors and—"

He straightened at once. "Nothing for you to worry about, m'dear.
Can't tell you what a weight it is off my mind not to have to
contemplate being shackled up and hauled away to Newgate!"

"Of course, poor dear, I can well imagine! But, Marcus—shall you
have to practise very strict economies? Esther will worry herself ill
again if she realises how badly strapped you are."