Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (35 page)

Stephen's arm was about her; something cool and refreshing was at
her lips. She swallowed and coughed. "My dearest," he groaned, "I am so
sorry!" He knelt beside her and, as she reached out to touch his
haggard cheek, begged, "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Foolish boy! Did you think me so righteous I wouldn't know it was
but a mistake? You were young and foolish merely. And they were
merciless enough to use your inexperience. My poor love, how terribly
you have suffered."

He pressed her hand to his lips. "God bless you for your sweet
compassion." he said huskily, "but do not excuse me. I was a very great
fool!" He sat beside her, but as far away as he could, as though any
contact must be repellent to her. "I was afraid, you see, Sophia, that
they'd do—as they threatened. That they would tell Mama."

"How unspeakable they must be! And how proud I am of Camille! But
why did he join? Could he not have sent word to the Runners,
anonymously?"

Whitthurst stared fixedly at his clenched hand. "Aye. And should
have. But would not. He intended to destroy them, but he was afraid
they would suspect me because I was the only one who'd got out—alive.
He joined only to protect me. And then he discovered that Craig-Bell
kept dossiers on each one of us. I know it must sound impossible, but
there were some very decent young chaps. Good fellows, hopelessly
trapped, who were living a life of pure hell. If the Runners had found
those files, some very fine families and many innocent lives would have
been destroyed. So Cam stayed a member until he found Craig-Bell's
hiding place for his dossiers." He shook his head soberly. "He prowled
that castle… alone. Knowing well what they'd do if they caught him!"

Sophia, hanging on his every word, scarcely dared to breathe.

Scowling, Whitthurst went on. "He found the records at last, but he
had to break into a safe to get at them. It took too long, and he was
missed. They caught him burning the miserable stuff, and he had to
fight his way clear. That's how the fire started."

His eyes began to glow. "Gad, but I'd love to have been there! Cam
is spectacular in a close fight. I saw him once in Paris. Anyway, he
stood 'em off for a while and managed to get outside in all the smoke
and confusion when the fire really took hold. He got halfway across the
courtyard, but Craig-Bell spotted him and shot him down. Thompson was
waiting nearby with the racing curricle just in case Cam needed to get
away fast. Cam had given him strict instructions not to go in after
him. Jack says he didn't hear! He drove that damned curricle hell for
leather across the courtyard, got between Craig-Bell and Cam, and
hauled him in. Jove!" His face alight with excitement, he looked young
and boyish again. "Can't you just picture it, Chicky? The castle
burning, men in their masks rushing madly about, and that curricle
racing to get to Damon before they did?"

Sophia could picture it—too well! She shuddered. "And now they mean to kill him."

Whitthurst's expression sobered at once. "Cam knew they'd go after
him, of course—that it would be self-defence until they were all
caught. It just never occurred to him that—" He frowned and said,
"Well, he's a sportsman, you see. And those six lieutenants of
Craig-Bell's are… barely human! They're sworn to destroy Cam. But they
don't want to make it too easy. So they've had some 'fun' with him.
They may execute him tomorrow… or next year. But, meanwhile, anyone
close to him must take the consequences. He felt awful when Rondell was
killed, though the man had a beastly reputation. So he put himself
where others wouldn't be hurt."

"But—surely, he could employ guards?"

"Yes. And he did, at first. It drove him wild to have them lurking
about all over the place. And then one man was found, half dead. They'd
put a pistol ball through both his knees. He'll be crippled for life.
That was enough! Cam sent 'em packing."

"And his dogs?" she asked in a very small voice.

"He had two and loved them dearly. Géant was a bloodhound. Cam
brought him over from Belgium. They shot him. He wouldn't let Satin go
out after that. She was an English setter, beautiful creature. He
decided to give her to Lucian St. Clair. He found her one day… down in
the catacombs. Poison. He had to shoot her himself."

Sophia leaned to hide her face against his shoulder; patting her
gently, the Viscount went on, "Thompson was deafened at Badajoz. He'd
been a stagecoach driver before he got into the fighting but was so
badly wounded that when he came home, he couldn't handle the ribbons,
and no one would give him work. Ariel was in the same fix. His back
used to be pretty painful, I gather, and he turned to gin. Soon he was
good for nothing. They met and took to the High Toby together. One
night, they held up Damon's carriage. Thompson was known as "The
Hampstead Horror" in those days. Old Cam tossed him clear over the
backs of the team and had a pistol on Ariel before either of 'em knew
what was happening. When he learned they were both war veterans,
instead of turning them over to the hangman, he gave them work."

"Yes." Sophia smiled tenderly. "He would. And so they stood by him. And Mrs. Hatters?"

"She was his nurse. She loves him as if he were her own."

Blinking rather rapidly, she asked, "When did you find out about it all?"

"When Harry came that day. That was why I come tearing down here. I
knew it must have been Cam…but he'd given me his sworn word he'd stay
out of it. When I taxed him with it"—he grinned ruefully—"he told me
that, being a halfbreed, he never feels bound to keep his word unless
he repeats the oath in English
and
French! Stupid gudgeon!"

Somehow she managed a smile. "Who else knows of it? The Earl, I collect."

"Yes. And I believe Miss Hilby knows some. Though I'm not sure how
much." Sophia's expression changed subtly, and, curious, he asked,
"Sophia? I thought you liked the lady."

"I do. Poor soul…"

"Poor? With
her
fortune? Oh—you mean her
amour
, I collect. Well, at least nobody cuts her. He may make an honest woman of her yet."

"Lud!" she gasped. "I didn't know things were—that way."

"I don't either. Shouldn't have said it. But—wherever he goes,
sooner or later she turns up. And she's adored the man for so long…
can't help but think—"

"Was she in Florence with him? Is that why you hesitated to speak of it?"

"Charlotte? Gad, no! Vaille wasn't there."

"V-Vaille? The
Duke
?"

"Of course. Who did you think? Chicky! You never thought—
Cam
?"

"B-but… but yes! He said…"

The Viscount gave a crack of laughter. "I wonder
she
didn't
tell you! Everyone knows she's been in love with Vaille for years. He
won't offer because he thinks he's too old for her. That… and other
things."

Numbed, Sophia cast her mind back. Surely Miss Hilby had said— But,
no. In the conversation she'd overheard Charlotte had said, "Camille
says we will be wed…" The 'we' she'd referred to had been Charlotte and
Vaille
! And tonight it had been she herself who'd named
Charlotte when Camille had claimed he was soon to marry. His
astonishment had not resulted from the fact she'd guessed the truth, as
she had supposed, but because she was so unaware of it! He had used her
misapprehension for all it was worth. That note the footman had brought
had upset him badly. It had been another warning, no doubt. One of
their vicious little threats—probably against Ridgley this time,
because Camille had at once demanded to know where Ted was, and been so
vastly relieved when she'd said he travelled with Major Henderson. She
wondered dully if the threat had been put into words this time, or if
it was another taunting drawing like the one she'd found that rainy
afternoon in the library. They'd all been there—Rondell, the two dogs
Camille had so loved, and the woman. Who was the woman? Charlotte? No,
of course not, for they'd known the truth of poor Charlotte's devotion
to Vaille. Who then… ?
Herself
. Of course!
That
was
why he had come up with his nefarious plot to marry the "faithful"
Charlotte for "her money"! He knew he had revealed his love, and he'd
had to push her away somehow. How shamefully he had played his part.
How gallantly. And how it must have torn his dear heart to watch her
turn from him. She swallowed a lump in her throat and thought mistily,
'My own… Viper…"

Her heart was so full she could not express it, her world bright
beyond belief, her love vindicated as she'd never dreamed he could be
vindicated. And refusing to acknowledge the dark threat that hung over
him and that soon would threaten them both, she smiled at her brother
radiantly.

"I cannot let you go to him," Whitthurst said with unfamiliar gravity.

Her heart seemed to turn over, but her smile did not waver. "I shall marry him, Stephen—if he will have me."

Her face was more beautiful than he had ever seen it despite its
tears and the rather grubby look. He thought, 'Camille won't let her.
He'll find a way.'

Holding the branch of candles high, his heart hammering with
excitement, Damon hurried through the dank blackness of the catacombs.
Beside him, Horatio muttered a squawky complaint at being thus rudely
drawn from the warmth and comfort of the hearth. Damon scarcely heard
him. He had broken the code at last! Thanks to Sophia's casual remark,
he had been able to convert that awful music into a very succinct
message: "Catacombs. North wing. Bottom level. Last room on right.
Pivotal stone. East wall." The low heavy door was before him now, and
it swung open smooth and silently to his touch. The blackness was
absolute, but with his eyes glued to the east wall, he stooped and
stepped forward.

Horatio burst into a frenzied honking. Damon, whirling, knew too
late that the very soundlessness of those well-oiled hinges should have
warned him. He caught a glimpse of a dark hooded figure, hideously
faceless in the light of the flickering candles; an upraised arm; and a
heavy club flashing down. A staggering shock, a fleeting sense of pain,
and the world exploded in a great sheet of flame that caught him and
spun him into total darkness.

"Milord was up very late last night, ma'am." Patience wiped her
hands on her apron and closed the front door, her eyes reflecting
astonishment at the arrival of a caller before nine o'clock in the
morning. "I do reckon as how he will sleep 'til noon at the very
soonest."

Sophia, looking around happily, felt at peace again. What a relief
to be in this silly old house instead of Phinny's magnificent and cold
art gallery. She'd not had to pretend weariness when Stephen had
finally left her, but directly she was alone she had rung for Louise
and left strict and confidential instructions that she was to be
awakened at seven and would need a horse by eight. She had slept deeply
and could have slept three times longer, but her need to see Camille
would not wait. She had told the awed Louise to inform no one of her
departure and had horrified Phinny's grooms by refusing an escort.

Patience informed her that Mr. Thompson had gone to the spa on an
errand for my lord and that Mrs. Hatters was in the village. Sophia
said she would wait for Lord Damon in the music room and gratefully
accepted an offer of tea and some muffins.

The room was chill, but a shy-eyed boy hurried in and started the
fire, which was already laid, then slipped away. Sophia glanced round
her, the memories associated with this room rushing back, now fraught
with such intense meaning, She wandered over to touch the sofa upon
which, despite Mrs. Hatters' best efforts, the mud stains were still
faintly visible, The harpsichord, with its black hole unrepaired, sent
a pang through her. If only he would come. But she must not wake him.
He would be exhausted after that dreadful night. She sank down
contentedly beside the fire and was beginning to drowse by the time
Patience returned with a tray.

"I must get out to the smokehouse, ma'am. The new cook don't know
his way about and wants me to help him down there. Be there anything
you needs?"

Sophia assured her she was quite comfortable and would need nothing
except perhaps a short nap. Patience bobbed a curtsey and left her. She
nibbled on a muffin, poured herself a cup of tea, and sighed
luxuriously. It was wonderful to be… home. Wherever could Horatio be?

Damon awoke to intense blackness and intolerable pain. He could not
think where he lay, nor what had happened, but he was shivering with
cold, and the slightest movement sent a new lance of agony through his
head. The darkness was so absolute that he began to wonder if he was
blinded, but his efforts to look about brought a sick giddiness, and
the pain increased until he was nauseated and lay still again.

It seemed that all this misery had something to do with music. It
was so hard to remember clearly. If only he could see… the darkness was
like a tomb… The catacombs! That was it! And that ghastly hooded
figure! He had been struck down. Was he, indeed, blind? Panic spurred
him, and with a costly effort, he managed to lift a hand to his head.
His hair was wet and sticky, the flesh torn and excruciatingly painful.
He wondered how long he'd been lying here. If the wound continued to
bleed, he would soon be too weak to get out. No one knew he was down
here. They would undoubtedly think he'd gone to bed and, after his
drinking bout last night, would hesitate to disturb him. It might be
hours before they initiated a search.

Gritting his teeth, he fought his way upward but, after a struggle
that left him panting and soaked with sweat, had only managed to get
one elbow beneath him. It took all his willpower not to collapse again
as the icy floor heaved and pitched and the pain mounted.

Horatio had been with him, he was sure, but there was no slightest
sound, no disgruntled squawking. Had they murdered the poor beast? Poor
innocent goose. He was shocked to realize that he was sinking down
again and with a tremendous effort got to his knees. But his struggles
were useless. He was spinning helplessly, and the pain was fiercer than
any he'd ever experienced. Consciousness was leaving him; slumping
down, he felt only a vague shock as his head struck the floor. His lips
were cold and numb but formed one word in a sigh so faint he barely
heard it. "Sophia…"