Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (43 page)

"And for that reason alone, you dared to—"

"Reason enough! But it was only one of a hundred reasons! And if
you're going to tell me Irv committed suicide because you were
involved, I do not—"

"But, my dear boy, I tell you no such thing. Irvin did not commit suicide.
You
murdered him! He might have betrayed me, so I had to stop him. It would not have been necessary but for you. It was
your
fault, Damon."

The Marquis stared at him in horror. "
You
killed him? Your own nephew? Why, he was worth ten of you! You dainty, murdering bas—"

He lunged for Bodwin, but the musket rammed into his back,
staggering him. Hartwell cautioned softly, "Careful, Damon—no time to
be high in the instep."

Damon had been extremely fond of Irvin Ford. His fingers fairly
itched to wrap themselves about the throat of the dandy who had so
mercilessly wiped away that promising young life. But, again, he was
shoved with bruising force toward the barn. Bodwin, picking his
fastidious way over the rubble left by the workmen, said, "That was
merely my first score against you. But there are other matters between
you and I."

"You mistake it," said Damon. "I make it a point to avoid dealing with persons of…questionable taste."

The words were uttered with cool disdain and could scarcely have
been better chosen to inflame his captor. A smothered chuckle escaped
Hartwell. Bodwin, obliged to look up at the Marquis, discovered in the
contemptuous lift of the brows, the droop of the eyelids, no trace of
fear, but, instead, the very hauteur that so infuriated him when
evidenced by Vaille. "Oh, but you Brandens have a top-lofty air," he
jeered. "It has always amused me, considering that my House predates
your own."

"Do not trace it back too far," Damon murmured, "else you will
doubtless discover creatures dwelling in caves and glutting themselves
on raw meat." He cast a scornful look at his companion. "Who might be
offended by the relationship, at that!"

Trask broke into a rather doubtful coughing. Bodwin checked, colour
flooding into his face, his hand tightening about the gold handle of
the fine Malacca cane he carried. Hartwell watched him narrowly, but,
after an instant, Bodwin resumed his stately pacing. "So you like a
jest, do you, Damon? Then here's one for you. Twenty years back, your
father entertained lavishly at Cancrizans, yet not once, in all the
time he dwelt there with his little French tit, was I—"

Damon tensed. Knowing him, Hartwell jumped forward and grabbed his
arms. Bodwin, who had retreated a step, moved closer again. "Did I
speak disrespectfully of your dear Mama?" The tip of his cane tapped
very gently under Damon's chin as he smiled into those narrowed eyes.
"But that is
my jest
, you see, my friend. The foolish lady also made the mistake of cutting me."

"
Naturellement
," said the Marquis, his nostrils flaring slightly. "My Mother was a lady of excellent discernment."

Bodwin leaned nearer. "Wherefore," he hissed, "she is— dead!"

Something very cold gripped Damon's heart. "Filth!" he grated. "What are you saying?"

"Why Camille, dear boy," Bodwin giggled. "Do you not recall why the
chaise spun off the road that day? A wheel came right off!" He giggled
once more. "Such a tragedy! And so nicely… timed."

"Bastard!" raged Damon. With all his strength, Hartwell could barely
hold him. Trask grabbed an arm, and they hung on as the Marquis fought
them savagely.

Bodwin shook his head. "You've a naughty mouth, and
I
am
the injured party here, my lord. History does repeat itself, you see.
Recently, I chose a lady for my bride, and you had the unmitigated gall
to attempt to lure her away!"

Still trembling with passion, Damon said breathlessly, "Gad, but
you've a rare sense of humour! Sophia don't much care for your brother
club member here, but she'd sooner wed him than you, any day of the
week!"

"And you, sir, are an insolent puppy who wants for manners!"
Bodwin's eyes glared his hatred. "As for club members—Hartwell was not
one of us."

Hartwell had moved aside but still held his pistol aimed steadily at
Damon. "I was an unwilling accomplice," he shrugged. "Phinny discovered
I'd been bartering your treasure. He's been blackmailing me ever since.
But I am to keep all the loot, Cam, so do not seek to promote a quarrel
between us over Sophia. T'would be a foolish waste of breath."

"Perhaps, but I'm not so foolish as Bodwin if he harbours such
pathetic delusions. Sophia would run a country mile before she'd wed a
degenerate old man."

"You arrogant clod!" Bodwin snarled. "I paid the lady the supreme
compliment of offering for her, but when Hartwell had the good sense to
smash your wretched skull, she ran to you! And you wonder I intend to
destroy you? By God, but when I'm finished, you will wish you'd never
raised your hand against your own kind!"

"I have not done so," said Damon with indignation. "Whatever 'kind' you are, Bodwin, I refuse to be numbered among it!"

Lord Phineas gave a strangled cry, and the cane whipped upward. Stepping quickly between them, Hartwell laughed. "Cam—
will
you behave? I'm trying to keep this on at least a fairly polite level!"

"Because you're gutless!" raged Bodwin. "Well, there's no reason I cannot—"

"It's almost dawn, Phinny," Hartwell pointed out mildly.

Damon's heart missed a beat. He'd thought the duel part of the plot to lure him here. Was it indeed to take place?

"True…" Bodwin gave a soft laugh and turned to the man with the
club. "Doak—fetch Whitthurst. Hurry, or I'll be late for the second
act."

Whitthurst? Damon stiffened, and noting the reaction, Bodwin's eyes
lit up. "After you retired last evening, dear boy, the Viscount became
quite foxed and, thanks to Hartwell's clever baiting, insisted on
galloping to Parapine to see his love, regardless of the hour.
Unhappily, he never reached his destination… and will die with you. So
sad, but with both of you gone, Lady Sophia will be only too glad to
accept my devotion and—eventually—my hand."

The Marquis gave him a pitying look but was thinking that if he
brought it off, this would kill Sophia. Enough she should have to mourn
him, but her adored brother as well? He
must
get them out of this!

They had reached the barn. Trask swung the huge door open, and
Hartwell bowed Damon inside. There were only three of them now…
probably the best chance he'd have.

Bodwin turned up the wick on an oil lamp that hung on a peg beside
the door. "After we are wed," he mused, "I may have to be quite harsh
with Sophia. For a while, at least. She's a fiery chit and must be
brought to heel."

Hartwell frowned. Damon, appalled by the thought of Sophia as the
helpless wife of this satyr, laughed. "You poor fool! You make her skin
creep. The only emotion she feels for you is amusement!"

Hartwell laughed outright. Bodwin's lips pulled back into a grimace of hatred. His hand darted into the pocket of his coat.

Trask, levelling the musket, cried in a stentorian tone, "Lord
Phineas Bodwin—Sir Amory Hartwell, I arrest you in the King's name, for
complicity in—"

Damon gasped in astonishment. Hartwell stared with utter disbelief.
Bodwin swore, whipped the pistol from his pocket, and with a shove sent
Hartwell plunging against Trask. Damon leapt forward, but even as he
did so, there were two distinct shots: the roar of the musket; the
sharper bark of the pistol. Clutching at his arm, Hartwell reeled
backward. Trask gave a grunt and fell. Bodwin, his pistol smoking, ran
from Damon's charge, wide-eyed with fright. Damon sprang in pursuit.
Bodwin flailed at him with the pistol as he fetched up against the gate
to a stall. Damon swayed lightly aside, sent his right smashing into
that slender middle, and, as the man doubled up, connected with a solid
left to the jaw. Bodwin straightened out, crashed against the gate,
and, as it burst open, shot through it and went down, vanishing noisily
into a welter of painters' equipment.

A harsh voice shouted, "Hey! Your lordship!"

Damon spun around. Whitthurst stood just inside the open door. His
hair and clothes were wet; he looked half frozen and shuddered
violently, his white face reflecting helpless misery. Doak gripped his
arm, and the narrow-faced man held a pistol low against his side. "One
more move,"—he leered—"and—he'll die slow."

Doak swung the door shut, and the Marquis stood motionless.

Hartwell, leaning weakly against a post, clutching his arm with
crimson-stained fingers, groaned, "Can't help you now, Cam. You and
your fancy… fists."

Damon knew with grim certainty that he was in a most devilish
situation. Bodwin was getting to his feet, groaning curses. Doak came
up swiftly behind Damon and wrenched his arms back. Bodwin, his jaw red
and swelling, his eyes slits of hatred, stepped forward. "Hold him,
Doak." He drew back one fist. "I'm going to enjoy this."

"Da… mon" The voice called from a very great distance. He was
extremely uncomfortable and had no least intention of responding, but
the call was repeated and, at last, sighing plaintively, he opened his
eyes. The round glow above him resolved itself into a face, the
features becoming clearer as full consciousness returned. He tried,
fruitlessly, to sit up.

Bodwin, bending over him, murmured, "At last!"

Damon could remember little after the first few blows, but the salt
taste of blood was in his mouth; his jaw felt as if it might be broken;
and his head was splitting again. Wherefore, naturally, he summoned a
grin and said in a far away voice, "Want to go another round, Phinny? I
should be… about down to your speed."

He heard a faint cheer and, looking around, eventually made out
Whitthurst dancing around a nearby tree. This puzzled him until he
realized that his vision was at fault. The Viscount was, in fact,
leaning against a heavy supporting beam in the center of the barn,
waving to him. There was much noise in the barn—a deal of banging and
clattering about that echoed in his ears. He sighed again.

"You miserable swine!
Will
you wake up?"

"What?" he said thickly. "Oh…you still here, Phinny?"

"Yes, damn you! And you're making me late! It all took so much longer than I thought, and I really
must
be at Tottenbury by sunrise!"

"Poor fella," said the Marquis. "Do not let us detain you." And he frowned, wishing it was a little less noisy.

"Look, Damon," urged Bodwin. "Can you see what I have arranged for you?"

Damon looked and, as objects became clearer, felt hope drain away.
There was a line of stalls along the left side of the barn and, on the
right a central area intended for feed and supplies now held stacked
cans of paint and varnish. This section was set off by a five foot
fence consisting of horizontal rails threaded through sturdy supporting
posts about seven feet apart. The lowest rail was some six inches above
the ground, and to this his wrists were separately tied, while his
feet, tightly bound together, were secured by a rope stretching to one
of the stalls opposite and knotted round a gatepost. Whitthurst was as
helpless, the bonds that pinioned him against the massive centre beam
leaving only his arm free. And that arm was stretched high above him;
not waving, as Damon had supposed, but holding Doak's club. A small
hinged shelf had been attached to the upper part of the beam, and the
club was just long enough to restrain that clumsy shelf from folding
downward.

"Do you see, my dear Camille," purred Bodwin, "what is on the shelf?"

Damon saw and realized with a weakening of the knees why the oil lamp had been placed there.

Bodwin gave a happy little crow of laughter. "There should be
brackets to hold that shelf upright. But so long as Whitthurst can
support it, the lamp will not fall. On the other hand"—he glanced
upward, his eyes glistening with pleasure—"should he weaken…" His cane
indicated the bales of hay below that unsteady shelf. "Doak is so
clumsy. He accidentally dropped quite a lot of oil on those bales. It
ran, in fact, all the way to that other stack… by the horses."

Damon wrenched his head around and felt the blood drain from his
face. The far end of the barn had been roped off; beyond the rope, many
horses milled about uneasily. He realized that they were the source of
the clattering sounds, and he stared, sickened by the awareness of what
would happen when the lamp dropped, as inevitably it must. His gaze
shot to Whitthurst, and, very briefly, the Viscount glanced at him, his
eyes strained, his young face haggard and beaded with sweat. The shelf
tilted, and Damon gave a gasp as the lamp slid to the side.

"Careful!" called Bodwin, and the Viscount's attention returning to
his desperate task, he clicked his tongue regretfully. "He's tired,
poor lad, and I'm afraid became thoroughly chilled while we had him in
the canal, awaiting your arrival. But," he smiled kindly, "he'll warm
up very soon… I've no doubt."

Keeping himself well in hand, the Marquis observed, "Phinny, you've a perfectly frightful black eye…poor chap."

Bodwin gritted his teeth and struggled to contain a boil of rage. "Have you
ever," he asked silkily, "seen a stable fire? Have you ever seen horses maddened
with fear? They'll be through that rope in a flash… And just think… here you
will be, Damon, lying between them—and the doors. When they cannot get out,
they'll rush madly back… and forth…" He waved his cane over the Marquis and
smiled. "A plan tailor-made for you, dear Camille."

Damon could only pray he didn't look as petrified as he felt. "I
imagine you shall stay to see the… fireworks?" His voice was cool and
mercifully without a quaver. "Your sick little soul will doubtless
gloat over us." But as bravely as he spoke, his glance slid to the side
in a last faint hope. Trask was sprawled motionless, just to one side
of the doors. He looked dead. There was no sign of Hartwell, but
perhaps because of his own deeply ingrained adherence to the Code, it
was almost inconceivable to Damon that Amory could be a party to this
final savagery. He had done all he could to protect his ex-comrade from
Bodwin's fury enroute to the barn. Was it possible that, objecting to
Damon being struck with a cane, he could yet turn his back on this
brutal murder? Hartwell was a weak, greedy man, but surely he would not—