Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (23 page)

"It'll be worth it. Stand away, milady!"

He looked quite crazed, but she held out her shaking hands beseechingly. "Luke—he's not worth it. He's just… filth."

"Yes," he said on a near sob. "That's just what he do be. And so
I'll kill him, milady… and no more poor, innocent, gentle girls… will
have to know that terrible fear… and disgrace."

He gripped her arm, and, stepping closer, she said, "Ah— no! Do not!
She'll need you. Luke—you must be free to take care of her."

He took her up at the waist and lifted her aside.

Damon struggled onto one elbow. There was a puffy discolouration
along the side of his face, and blood had dripped from his mouth to
stain his shirt. But Ariel had struck mostly for the body. Feeling as
if he'd been galloped over by a coach and four, he said thickly, "I…
blacked your… eye, Luke."

Ariel touched that swelling. "And you caught me a good one in the
breadbasket," he said chokingly, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No
one never really hurt me before, Damon. Not in a fist fight. Whatever
else you… are—you're a man." His fists clenched. "A dead man!"

Frantic, Sophia screamed, "Who'll look after Nancy? Who'll care
about her? She'll hide from her family, Luke. Nobody will help her—if
you hang!"

He halted. A puzzled look crossed his face and he turned to her slowly, as if he could not understand why she was there.

Sobbing, she ran forward and caught at his sleeve. "Oh, Luke—don't
you see? He's nothing! If you kill him, you make him something worth
dying for! She's worth
living
for, Luke. Isn't she?" And shaking his arm passionately, she pleaded, "Isn't she, Luke? Isn't Nancy worth living for?"

The light of reason dawned at last. "Aye… she do be that, milady."

"Then come away." She pulled at him eagerly. "You must find her. And help her. She needs you."

"Aye…" Some of the glare was leaving his eyes. "She do need me. My sweet little Nancy needs me now, don't she, milady?"

She nodded, blinking rapidly. He brightened, took two great
purposeful strides, then swung back. "He can't hurt'ee now, ma'am," he
said with a toss of his head toward the silent Marquis. "But will'ee
come with me?"

"No, Luke. You go."

"If ye ever needs me, milady…"

"Thank you. If I ever need you, I shall call."

He peered at her, then hurried away.

Sophia turned wearily. Damon had dragged himself to where he could
lean against a tree and half lay there, one arm pressed to his side,
watching her.

She thought of Nancy and the love that had been so teasingly
concealed from the humble giant who worshipped her. She thought of the
gentlemen she had known all her life and their relentless code of
honour that decreed a man, whether bachelor or benedict, may have his
bits o' muslin but that no gentleman worthy of the name would force his
attentions upon an unwilling girl. Nancy had been unwilling—of that she
was very sure. Wherefore, her lips curled with disgust as she pulled
the inadequate wisp of fine cambric from her pocket and walked toward
the Marquis.

Dropping to her knees beside him, she asked, "Are you very much hurt?"

"No," he replied in a strained, breathless voice. "Thank you."

She wiped gently at the side of his mouth and said with detached calm, "I suppose you will say you didn't do it."

"Do you?" he countered gravely.

His left shirtsleeve was ripped and spotted with blood. She reached
to it and began to pull the torn linen farther apart. "I suppose you
and—your kind would say it doesn't matter. That she was just a country
girl. Just a serv—" She gave a little cry, her hands flying back as
though burned.

His forearm was badly grazed, but the thing that appalled her was
infinitely more hideous. A tattoo that stood out clear and sharp upon
his upper arm. The outline of a scorpion.

She stood, crept back a pace, and stared at him with total
revulsion, her mind barely able to comprehend what should have been
obvious for so long.

Camille, Marquis of Damon—heir to that proud perfectionist, the Duke of Vaille—
had
been a member of Cobra!

"It just don't seem right," said the Viscount peevishly, lying back
in his corner of the sumptuous travelling coach and fixing his sister
with an aggrieved eye. "Ain't like old Cam to vanish like that, knowing
we was leaving! I'll tax him with it next time I see him, you may be
sure!"

"Yes, dear," said Sophia dully.

"Besides, you would think he'd have at least come back to the Priory and…"

She lost the thread of his words, her thoughts drifting. Damon
had
come back. She had sent Mr. Quinn after him the instant she reached the
Priory. Whitthurst had been dozing and she and Patience busily packing
when she'd heard wheels on the rear driveway and run swiftly to the
window. The phaeton had pulled up below. Damon's dark head had been
against Trask's shoulder and the man's arm about him, holding him
steady. Quinn had jumped down and run around to help. She'd watched as
the Marquis had roused sufficiently to stumble out of the vehicle and
come into the house, the men supporting him on each side. His head had
been erect then, but he had seemed to favour his right leg, and she'd
wondered if one of Ariel's boots had caused the damage.

"… go back!" cried the Viscount wrathfully. "By God, Sophia! You've
been bamming me! You think I don't know a whisker when I hear one? Cam
didn't cancel that meeting! You was afraid I'd get tired!" He read a
confirmation in the horrified dismay in her face and leaned forward to
call the coachman.

"I wish you will not! Please, Stephen! There will be no
meeting—there couldn't be. He is in no condition to…" She stopped as
Whitthurst's face paled, and he searched her eyes with such an
expression of terror that she was startled.

"What do you mean? Is Cam—? My God!" He caught her wrist in a grip
of steel, his green eyes reflecting a grimness she seldom witnessed,
and demanded, "Tell me at once! Is Cam hurt?"

"Stephen!" She touched the fingers, so tightly clamped around her wrist. He let her go at once but still waited tensely.

Bewildered, she said, "He had a little… dispute with Ariel. But—"

He gaped at her. "Ariel? Cam—and
Ariel
? But the man worships him! You don't mean they really went at it? Bare knuckles?"

"Just a little, dear," she said, her conscience protesting that massive understatement.

Awed, he muttered, "And Cam's still alive?"

She nodded and, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, said,
"And when last heard from was shouting for a bottle of cognac."

"By Jupiter!" He was quiet for a moment, then frowned. "Why? D'ye know?"

"Something about a girl…"

"Oh." He drew a deep breath, seemingly much relieved. "Is that all?"

Under normal circumstances, such a remark would have caused Sophia
to embark upon an impassioned denunciation of men and their intolerable
conceits. Now she felt only a vague irritation and, sitting back,
resumed her blind contemplation of the landscape. There was absolutely
no reason why she should feel so shattered. No reason at all. The
tattoo had merely been the final proof of his infamy, had she needed
any. Her initial assessment of his character—or lack of it— had—

She looked up as Whitthurst took her hand and asked gently, "Won't you share it with me, dear?"

She forced away her silliness and said with real indignation, "I
confess I'm in a taking! Damon had the unmitigated gall to send my
maids back to Singlebirch! Did you know it? I wondered why they had not
come to me, but it seems his noble lordship sent a groom to 'The Wooden
Leg' the instant the bridge was repaired, and told them to go home!
Scarcely to be credited, is it?"

"More astonishing to me is the fact you didn't miss 'em until today," he observed dryly.

"I had… other things to think of," she stammered. "You came and…"

"And found you and Cam behaving quite civilized to each other. And
since have the impression you're at daggers drawn, though I've not been
given the straight of it."

"What would you imagine to be the—'straight of it'?" she demanded tartly. "A lover's quarrel?"

Unabashed, he grinned. She felt her cheeks burn. Her lashes drooped.
And because sudden and unaccountable tears scalded her eyes, she said
bitterly, "What a very peculiar standard of values you possess—that you
object to someone as clean and decent as Amory Hartwell, yet would
willingly bestow your only sister upon a member of Cobra!"

Whitthurst gave a choked gasp, and the colour drained from his thin
face. Sophia could have cut out her tongue. Steve loved Damon and had
no conception of how unworthy was his idol. This was not the time to
have destroyed his illusions. She clasped his hand and, finding it cold
as ice, said contritely, "My dear! I am so sorry. I am—a little upset,
but—"

"What do you know of Cobra?" he demanded in a shaken voice.

"Nothing love," she lied, trying to soothe him. "Now do not—"

"What," he repeated, that appalled look on his face still, "what do you know of Cobra?
Answer
me, Sophia!"

Frightened by his horrified intensity, she said, "That they were the
dregs of mankind. The lowest, most wretched beasts who ever walked this
dear land of ours. That they met in secret—and committed hideous crimes
against the innocent, the helpless, for sport! That they should all
have been hanged but could not even be found until they were destroyed
by a fire. And some were caught and punished, though none would inform
and, shamefully, most got away scot-free." She frowned and added
slowly, "I once heard Papa say that if ever he had one of them before
him and a pistol in his hand, he'd shoot without an instant's
hesitation. And consider he'd done the world a service."

There was silence between them. Lost in her desolate thoughts,
Sophia looked up at length and found Whitthurst's eyes upon her, eyes
so dulled with grief that she was filled with sympathy.

"What makes you think," he asked, low-voiced, "that Cam was one of that miserable crew? The truth now, Chicky."

"Many things. I suspected at once, I suppose, that he was—" She bit
her lip. Damon had already threatened her brother—it would not do to
precipitate a real quarrel between them—a Cobra member would have no
least qualms about striking at a maimed man. "I went to try and help
him after… after he fought with Ariel. His sleeve was torn. I— saw the
tattoo."

He closed his eyes as though his last hope had flown. "Of what?"

"A scorpion." She shuddered at the memory.

Whitthurst groaned. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. But he knew I had seen. I was too shocked to say anything."

"Didn't
he
say anything? No kind of explanation, or—?"

"No." She winced a little, recalling how she had left him lying
there, unable to bring herself to touch him again. "He just watched me
go… and… and, when I once glanced back, he seemed to… to be smiling."

"Oh… hell!" swore Lord Whitthurst.

At the top of the rise, Lord Ridgley leaned forward, craning his
neck for a first view of the visitors' carriage. He had ridden part of
the way to meet them and, catching sight of the vehicle, waved his
beaver and made a great halloo until they stopped and, after he'd told
one of the outriders to bring in his mare, joined his friends in the
carriage. Sophia was irked by his arrival, fearing he might mention the
meeting and thus send Stephen into the boughs once more. In an effort
to prevent such a contretemps, she chattered brightly about the
luxurious vehicle that was conveying them so smoothly over the uneven
surface of the road. As she exclaimed at some length over the white and
gold exterior, the rich wood panels embellished with gold leaf adorning
the interior, the powder blue and white velvet of the seat cushions and
squabs, the hand-embroidered pulls of blue, white and gold, and the
incredible ermine rugs, Sophia became aware that her brother viewed her
aghast while Ridgley's brown eyes were alight with mirth. Unable to
restrain herself she burst into laughter. "Oh… you dreadful men! You
have no appreciation of beauty!"

"Spelled o-s-t-e-n-s-h—Gad! How
do
you spell it?" grinned Stephen.

"Ain't sure whether you mean—'stench' or 'ostentation'," quipped
Ridgley. "Either one might suit!" Stephen having indicated the latter
noun, Ridgley's sunny nature responded to the challenge, and they were
soon all three embroiled in a spelling wrangle so that the miles passed
very quickly.

Presently the Earl exclaimed, "Ah! Look, Sophia—you can see the Hall."

She looked, and gasped. Whitthurst said an awed, "By George!"

"Incredible," said Ridgley cheerfully, "ain't it?"

It was, thought Sophia, quite incredible.

Behind elaborately planted flower gardens in which every bloom was
pink or white, Bodwin Hall towered to an impressive five storeys. The
period was distinctly French, with lofty pitched roofs fringed by
dormer windows and well supplied with tall, narrow chimneys. To the
sides and back of the grey house, a high wall enclosed a private garden
with many trees and shrubs and the two famous fountains, one on each
side of an oblong pool. The stables were located behind the rear
garden, while to the north, the spires of a tiny chapel peeped above
the wall. And the whole was set in a small lush valley, rich with trees.

As the carriage swept down the drive and round the gardens, a mellow
horn was sounded by the guard on the box, and at once the front doors
swung open and an individual who was clearly the butler stepped out
onto the wide terrace, followed by two splendid footmen.

The carriage came to a smooth halt. The grooms jumped down; the door
was swung open, and the steps lowered. Trying not to look as awed as
she felt, Sophia was handed down and greeted by the butler's respectful
bow. Lord Bodwin hurried from the house to kiss her hand. "My dear Lady
Drayton, what a
very
great pleasure!"