Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (11 page)

Leaving the Highperch drivepath, he struck off across the
meadows, and was starting down the rolling slope when he came face to
face with three people. One was the Spanish idiot; the second was a
tall, darkly handsome young fellow, carrying a small girl piggyback. So
the child was safe, thank goodness!

Priscilla gave a squeal. "Mr. Val'tine!"

The little group halted. The Spanish idiot muttered something
darkly and glowered at him. The tall young man set Priscilla down and
asked, "You know this gentleman, scamp?"

"Yes," she trilled. "That's the man who hurt me in the wood!"

Montclair's day continued true to form.

Glancing up from the chess board as Susan came slowly into the
withdrawing room, Lyddford drawled, "That's the third time she's called
for you. Is my niece still at daggers drawn with me because I knocked
down her new 'friend'?"

Susan returned to her chair and pulled the branch of candles
closer. "The poor babe keeps having nightmares," she said, taking up
her workbox. "Starry's going to sit with her for a little while. From
what I can gather our gallant Lord Montclair entertained himself by
terrifying her with stories of a Fury who lives in the woods."

"Now damn the wretch!" exclaimed Lyddford, ramming his
clenched fist down on the table and sending chessmen flying. "What sort
of glower and grim would resort to such tactics only to keep a little
girl from daring to set foot on his confounded sacrosanct property?"

"Chaw move was it," sighed Senor de Ferdinand, retrieving a
queen's pawn from Welcome, who'd experienced a joyous embarrassment of
riches and was ferociously chasing the flying pieces about the room.

"Oh, egad! My apologies, Angelo. But—Jove!" Lyddford's grey
eyes fairly shot sparks. "To think I've been reproaching myself because
I hit him when he wasn't looking!"

It would have been difficult to find a more ardent sportsman
than her brother, and this admission of so flagrant a breach of the
rules of fair play caused Susan to stare at him in horror. "Andy! As if
you would do such a thing!"

His eyes fell away. "I—er… Well, the fact is that he was
watching Priscilla. When she said he had hurt her, I don't mind owning
I saw red! And what's more, had I known he'd been terrifying my niece
into having nightmares day and night— Dammit, when I meet the bas— er,
the knave, I blasted well might just put a period to him!"

"Andy—no! You'd have to leave the country! How ever would we
go along without you?"

He scowled at her, frustrated by the truth of her remarks.

"Needing is not for," declared de Ferdinand airily. "Angelo
first dealings shot knave's heart throughout." He took up a castle and
sighted it with grim intensity. "Missings pips never."

Susan watched him, wondering if she would ever become
accustomed to his erratic use of English. He had come into their lives
four months ago, the victim of a shipwreck in the Channel. Despite high
running seas, Andy had managed to bring
The Dainty Dancer
alongside the oarless dinghy, and take the sole occupant aboard. Soaked
to the skin and thoroughly chilled, Senor Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes
de Ferdinand had been able to tell them his name and not much more. He
had developed an inflammation of the lungs and, since his identity
could not be ascertained, he had been installed at the London house.
After making an excellent recovery, he had shown no inclination to
leave. His very poor command of English had made it difficult to
discover either where he lived or what had been his destination, but it
had soon become apparent that his imagination soared to even giddier
heights than did Priscilla's. His home was alternately a palace near
Madrid, a chateau in the south of France, a villa in Italy, a chalet in
Switzerland. His childhood would seem to have come straight out of an
Arabian
Nights'
dream, and he made vague references to hundreds of
servants, countless horses and carriages, several yachts, and
innumerable hair-raising adventures. When Andrew burst out laughing at
these boastings, de Ferdinand not only took no offence but was quick to
join in the hilarity. There were not very many years between the two
young men who soon became fast friends. The Spaniard, who had no
visible means of support, was somehow able to contribute a sum to the
household expenses that had become well-nigh indispensable. He was
devoted to Priscilla, always willing to help with the barge or the
horses, and had rapidly become a fixture. Susan was inclined to the
belief that he had been involved with smugglers. She liked the young
man and hoped he did not decide to go away, but it would be nice if she
could more often understand what he said.

"He says he can shoot the pips from a playing card and not
miss," translated her brother.

"Good gracious, señor. Do you say you also are to fight a duel
with Lord Montclair?"

He sprang up and bowed. "Chess. All so. Mices elves. Angelo
Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand. Firstings from other one else."
His arms swept out to embrace the room. "Chew—mices friends good.
Montclair—him dog dirtness!"

Lyddford asked with a grin, "Did you tell him that?"

The Spaniard bowed again. "His mouths into mices hat I have
hove!"

"Did you, by God! Would that I'd seen it! Well, I'll second
you, Angelo, and you can do the same for me."

"Meeces fightings. Yust
meeces
! There be
no chew fightings!"

Lyddford said with a chuckle, "Well, whether it is just you,
or both of us to face the bounder, I fancy Montclair's friends will be
calling here to arrange matters. If the beastly fellow has any, that
is!"

"D'you know what I think?" said Junius Trent, directing a sly
grin up the dining table to his cousin. "I think Montclair tried for a
kiss from the wicked widow, and she levelled him and then galloped her
horse over his face."

Considering several of the more fiendish methods of torture,
Montclair chose one and gave Junius a sympathetic smile before
returning his attention to his roast beef. His jaw ached, the right
side of his mouth was swollen and discoloured, and his conviction that
he must look ridiculous had been borne out when he'd reached home and
sat at his dressing table. Gould had met his dismayed gaze in the
mirror and with his usual cool impassivity had suggested that Mr.
Montclair might prefer to have his dinner carried up to his room this
evening so that he could retire early.

Montclair had positively yearned to accept the suggestion. The
thought of facing his family and their boring guests, of enduring the
perpetual gossip about their 'friends,' had been anathema to him. But
he'd encountered his cousin Barbara in the conservatory as he'd
attempted to slink through to the side stairs. The unhappy girl had
been restricted to her room since yesterday, but had whispered that she
was permitted to dine with them tonight, and had pleaded with him not
to desert her. There had been no time for more talk, because she'd
heard her mother approaching and, paling, had fled.

Montclair had been obliged to cover that panicked flight and
had thus fallen victim to his aunt's spleen. She had, Lady Trent
shrilled, "a very important guest" arriving momentarily. A leader of
the
ton
whom she'd been trying to snare for
years. Of all nights, why must Montclair pick this one to come home in
"so disgusting" a condition? He'd been tempted to agree to her
suggestion that he not put in an appearance, but Barbara's imploring
eyes and tragic little face haunted him, and he knew he couldn't
abandon the poor chit to the wretched pack.

And now here he was, seated as his brother's representative at
the head of the table in the small dining room, with one fire quite
unnecessarily adding more heat to the warm room, the flames awaking
flickering shadows in the fine plasterwork of the ceiling, the
candlelight playing on snowy napery and reflecting in sparkling crystal
and silverware.

From the third chair on his left, the slumberously inviting
eyes of the much admired the Honourable Jemima Merriman-Jones turned
frequently to Montclair's damaged features. Lady Spindle, her vast
aunt, had just concluded a long-winded and stern homily on the
deplorable frequency with which some young men (of whom one
might
have expected better things!) engaged in vulgarities such as
fisticuffs, this having afforded Junius his excellent opportunity to
snipe. And from both sides of the long table, amused faces turned to
Montclair.

"Noticed you was a trifle battered, Valentine," bellowed
Colonel Ostrander, seated next to Lady Spindle. "Whatya say happened?
Didn't quite hear the details."

"And I'll wager dear Valentine don't mean to relate 'em,"
whispered Junius in the ear of Mrs. Rodenbaugh, the colonel's perpetual
companion, this witticism causing the amply endowed widow to giggle
hilariously.

Montclair said, "A slight difference of opinion, sir. With a
fellow I found on my lands, and who had no business being there."

"Is that so, begad," piped Lord Spindle in his piercing
falsetto. "Think it was one of these curst smuggler fellas, Montclair?
They're becoming a confounded plague! Ought t'be took out and shot,
every last one! And what do the authorities do? I ask you. Nothing!
When's Geoffrey going t'put a stop to it, that's what I'd like to know?
He's the Squire, after all."

"You must have forgot, my lord, that Geoffrey is out of the
country at the moment," said Lady Trent with the gushing sweetness she
reserved for anyone above the rank of baronet.

Montclair sprang at once to his brother's defence. "Besides, I
doubt there'd be anything for him to do, sir. There's not much
smuggling up here. That's more along the south coast, surely."

"Beg to differ," put in Lord Thornleigh, his volume rattling
the glasses. "They've expanded, by what I hear. Quite a surge of
activity in the west country of late. I believe the authorities suspect
a distribution centre somewhere between Bath and Bristol. Right,
Spindle?"

His lordship agreed, said it was a scandal, a national
outrage, and that there was a deal more to it than smuggling brandy and
the like. "Probably all part of this Masterpiece Gang," he added
gloomily.

Montclair's ears perked up. In Town the Bow Street Runner had
spoken of that criminal band. He tried to insert a question, but was
overridden by his aunt's shrill voice, which was in turn obliterated by
an imperative demand that the guest of honour be informed of the
thieves.

It was the first time Valentine had ever seen Lady Trent
shouted down. Amused, he caught Barbara's awed glance and sent a sly
wink her way while my lord Thornleigh launched into a lengthy history
of the Masterpiece Gang and their depredations.

"And everything they've stole is irreplaceable," growled
Ostrander. "Priceless old jewellery. National treasures. Robbed
Britain, is what the dirty bounders have done! Curst revolutionaries,
mark my words! Selective da— er, rascals too. Cannot recall exactly
what they've made off with this year, but—"

Spindle inserted, "They took a Bellini from poor old Jacob
Chalfont just after Christmas. Broke the fella's heart!"

"And a couple of Tintorettos from the British Museum—Montague
House, you know," said Lady Thornleigh. "Not likely to find
them
again, now, are we?

"Gad, no," agreed Spindle, allowing his wine glass to be
refilled. "Last month they broke into Castle Gower in broad daylight
while everyone was occupied with a garden party. Took the dowager
duchess's ruby tiara. Most beautiful trinket. Seventeenth century, I
think. Prinny always held it should've been kept at Windsor. He's
fairly beside himself and blames the duke, instead of putting the blame
where it lies—at Bow Street! And there have been other treasures too:
diamonds, emerald necklaces—you'll recollect last year the Viscountess
Chepstow was robbed at gunpoint in her carriage."

"And they took some fabulous early crystal from…" began the
Count di Volpe.

Montclair did not hear the rest of the stout Italian's remark,
for Madame la Comtesse de Bruinet, who had tired of the subject,
enquired of him as to Geoffrey's whereabouts. He had heard much of the
formidable Frenchwoman. Small but big-bosomed, she was rumoured to be
five and sixty and looked ten years younger. Refusing to speak English
and incredibly haughty, she was a leader of Polite Society. She had
escaped Paris just before the Revolution, bringing trunks crammed with
gold louis and jewels, which Montclair suspected had been acquired
rather than inherited. She still showed traces of what had once been a
dazzling beauty, but now her raddled cheeks were jowly, her eyelids had
an almost perpetual droop, and her lips pulled down sneeringly at the
corners. Once or twice during this interminable meal, however, her
shrewd eyes had met his, and he'd thought to glimpse a lurking twinkle
in their depths. A sense of humour would win his regard as no amount of
wealth or social stature could do, and, intrigued, he warmed to the
lady. If, as he suspected, she had been a highly successful courtesan,
she would have reason to be amused both by her prestige in England, and
by the adulation of the simpering snobs around his table.

Lady Trent was ranting on about "the late dear princess," and
how deeply afflicted she had been by that young lady's tragic death in
childbirth. All England had been stunned by that profound tragedy, but
Montclair could recollect very clearly his aunt's screaming rage
because she had been obliged to cancel a dinner party. Her remarks
about the princess's folly in marrying "that prim German boy" had been
so vitriolic that one would never have suspected her to be anything but
vexed by Princess Charlotte's having chosen to die at so inconvenient a
moment.

It chanced that by the unfailing route of the servants' hall,
the tale of my lady's fury had reached the comtesse's ears. Disgusted
by Lady Trent's present show of hypocrisy, she glanced at Montclair and
surprised his lurking smile. With a soft chuckle she leaned to him,
lifting a hand that was heavy with gems.