Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (13 page)

She found herself dwelling on the memory of a pair of angry
dark eyes and two long narrow hands of surprising strength, which had
appropriated her (dirty) mob-cap. She had been quite aware that Lord
Montclair was unprincipled and ruthless, but only a man of extremely
unpleasant character would deliberately frighten a little child. And
very soon now this nasty man would face her brother with a loaded
pistol in his hand. Andy was an excellent shot, but…

Here was the lane the Bo'sun had said would take her straight
to the village. Troubled, Susan turned Pewter onto the rutted surface
and rode eastward.

It was a glorious day, the kind that comes sometimes in spring
and splashes all nature with brilliance so that everything looks
new-washed and sparkling. The air was cool and bracing and fragrant
with the scents of June; the sky azure, with only a few puffy clouds
here and there. Perfect weather for a gallop and Montclair loved to
ride, yet today he rode with a frown, heedless of the beauty of
colourful flower beds, laburnum trees that were a blaze of gold, the
headily fragrant violet of lilacs, or the lush emerald of the park's
ancient turf. Lost in thought, his dark eyes were grim, his lips set in
a thin hard line. He leaned forward in the saddle, instinctively
steadying Allegro as the big horse thundered towards the brook. It was
a tricky jump, but the stallion soared into the air, clearing the far
bank with ease and racing on unchecked.

The incident last night, thought Montclair, had been the final
confirmation. If Barbara had not opened her window, if Gould had not
chanced to come outside, his own tale might have been told. It was not
pleasant to know that someone wanted him dead, but it must be faced. He
swore angrily. So—what now? He had no proof to carry to Bow Street.
Even if they believed what he told them, what could they do, save to
assign one of their men to guard him? "Gad," he muttered with revulsion.

He could hire a guard privately, of course. But the vexation
would be the same. And when all was said and done, what use would it
be? He knew his temper; sooner or later he would be unable to stand
constant surveillance, and would dismiss his protector. If the enemy
had been patient, he would strike then. Besides, to a determined
assassin, the presence of a guard would likely pose no problem. A
pistol or a rifle could be fired from cover and bring down his quarry
no matter how many guards had been hired.

He took the far hill in a blur of speed. At the summit,
Allegro was beginning to blow, and Montclair reined up and gazed
unseeingly on the serene beauty of the ancient village spread below
them.

Junius, beyond doubting, harboured a malevolent hatred for
him. Lurking under his suave and gentle manner, Uncle Selby's dislike
for all the Montclairs was intense; and Valentine was quite aware that
Aunt Marcia detested him as thoroughly. But withal they were of the
same family, and blood truly is thicker than water. Besides, it was
said that, discounting insanity, there are only four motives for
murder: passion, financial gain, self-protection, and power.

He had fancied himself in love several times while he was at
University, but since he'd come down he'd had small opportunity to seek
the company of women, and those he'd met had done nothing to divert his
mind from its preoccupations with Longhills and his music.

Nor did financial gain apply, since he was not a wealthy man.
He had a comfortable inheritance that had come to him from his late
grandmother, but it was scarcely sufficient to tempt anyone to murder,
and besides, if he died the residue was earmarked for grand-mama's
favourite charity. Certainly, none of the Trents had anything to gain
by his death. Junius was fourth in line of succession to the title and
estates, and would become Baron Montclair of Longhills only after
Geoffrey, himself, and Uncle Hampton Montclair had left this earthly
coil. Furthermore, had his erratic brother taken a wife and set up his
nursery during his long absence, Junius's hopes might have dwindled
another step—or even two!

He started Allegro down the hill, still puzzling at it. What
next? To the best of his knowledge, he was no threat to another man's
life or fortune; he had witnessed no foul play, he was privy to no
guilty secrets.

Lastly—power. He had none. Nor could any be gained by his
demise. Except perhaps that Uncle Selby would be free to institute all
the stupidly clutch-fisted economies he yearned to practice at
Longhills; while the improvements he himself had fought to implement,
despite his uncle's opposition, would be abandoned. It was ludicrous to
imagine that Trent would have him murdered because of that opposition,
and there was no one else to regard him as a stumbling block to— He
frowned suddenly. In a small way, he
did
constitute a threat to someone: he had the power to evict the Henley
virago and her nasty clan from Highperch Cottage!

True to its name, Amberly Down nestled under a hill, so that
when approached from the west there was no sign of it until one had
crested the top. The single row of honey-coloured stone cottages curved
around a village green, which was very green indeed. Beyond was the
larger loom of what seemed to be an inn situated near a pond, and
beyond that a dark, forbidding area that Susan thought must be the
infamous swamp, and from which came the unpleasantly dank and foetid
aroma that assailed her nostrils. The ring of hammer striking iron came
from the far end of the street, and a farmhand in smock and gaiters was
leading a fine ploughhorse towards the open doors of the smithy.

A boy of about ten began to accompany her, keeping a
possessive eye on Pewter. He touched his brow respectfully when Susan
wished him good day, and put in his bid to hold her horse did she mean
to shop.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I do wish to make some purchases,"
she said, slowing Pewter to an amble. "What a lovely village this is."

"Ar," he agreed. "Better nor some, surely. Hasn't ye never
been here a'fore, milady?"

"No. And I'm not a milady," she said with a dimple that made
his young heart warm to her. "What
is
that— er,
odour?"

He waved towards the bottom of the street. "Swamp, ma'am. Me
ma says as it be a blot on the village."

"Indeed, I agree with her. Why has your squire done nothing
about it?"

The boy seized Pewter's bridle as another lad made towards
them. "I'm taking care o' the lady, David. Hop off!" He scowled the
competition into deciding against a closer approach, then answered in a
carefully low voice, "Lord Montclair don't do nothing, ma'am. We could
rot away, every last one of us, me dad says, for all he'd care. Me dad
says as 'twas different in the old lord's day. Now…" He shrugged.
"There's Miss Plunkett's millinery in this next house, or the Receiving
Office what's the grocer's as well, two doors down."

Susan consulted her list and halted Pewter beside a mounting
block. The boy handed her down, his face becoming very pink when his
disgruntled competitor hooted loudly from a safe distance.

"Oh, and I am also to take back some paint," said Susan.

"The ironmonger's is next to the smithy. I'd best know your
name, ma'am. Case the constable thinks I've took your mare without
leave."

"Of course. My name is Mrs. Henley."

From the open door to Miss Plunkett's Millinery Shop came an
audible squeak, and two bonnets shot from view.

The boy's face was a study. "Oooh…" he whispered. "The
widder
!"

It was, Susan realized later, a foretaste of her reception at
Amberly Down. Miss Plunkett, a shy, faded little lady, was polite, but
her eyes were enormous. Her two customers, large and forbiddingly
respectable country matrons, stood apart, whispering and staring quite
rudely at the notorious stranger. Angered, Susan pointedly ignored
them, choosing some ribbons quickly and matching her cotton as closely
as was possible from the limited stock.

There were no letters waiting at the Receiving Office, but the
sharp-featured middle-aged woman behind the counter was a very
different proposition from Miss Plunkett. She smiled tightly at Susan,
welcomed her to the village, and said she hoped she would have the
business from Highperch. "Fer so long as ye be there, that is," she
added with a bland stare.

Susan said with a spark in her eyes, "Then you may expect our
business for a long time to come. Here is my list. If you will be so
good as to wrap it all up I'll come back in a minute or two. Thank
you." And she was gone with a nod and a swirl of her riding habit
before the frustrated proprietor could say another word.

Vexed, Susan walked along the short street, passing several
cottages at whose windows curtains were hastily straightened, or from
which children peeped at her in frank curiosity. The King's Arms
sported a sign whereon was painted a fair replica of Charles I. The
door was wide, and from the dim and fragrant interior a woman's voice
exclaimed that it was "… downright shameful a woman of
that
type
would dare show her nose in a decent village."

Hopelessness descended crushingly on Susan. She should have
realized she would still be very much the outsider, but was there no
end to it? Was Priscilla to be shunned, even here in this peaceful
countryside? Her throat ached and tears stung her eyes. But Andy would
be so angry if she let them see she was hurt. 'Pox on them all,' she
thought fiercely, and jerked her chin up.

David Brewster made a wild dash for Montclair's stirrup, a
great grin of triumph spreading across his small freckled face.
"That'll show
you
, cocksure Jack," he shouted at
his competitor. "
I've
got Mr. Valentine's Allegro!"

The stallion rolled his eyes and danced sideways.

"Have a care, halfling." Montclair swung from the saddle and
with some strict instructions, gave Allegro into the boy's care. He
glanced to young Jack Rogers who was walking a pretty little grey mare
he didn't recognize. The mare carried a side-saddle, and he wondered
which of the local damsels had ridden a new mount into Amberly Down.

Last month some unkind hand—he could guess whose—had gouged a
long chip from the gilded top of his harpsichord, and Mundy, the
ironmonger, had ordered some gold-leaf paint, which should have come by
now. Montclair patted Allegro and strode off down the street. The
villagers he encountered responded to his greeting politely enough, but
with an air of suppressed excitement, or amusement, or both. When he
raised his hat to Mrs. French, the old lady bobbed him a curtsy, then
giggled audibly as she hurried past.

Puzzled, Montclair stooped to enter Mundy the Ironmonger's.
The shop smelled of paint and putty. It was a dim overcrowded little
place with dirty windows, dusty shelves crammed with tools and
mysteriously shaped lengths of pipe, and countless bins and boxes full
of screws and nails of every shape and size. His eyes momentarily
dazzled by the contrast from the brilliant morning outside, Montclair
saw that the fat little proprietor was holding a large paint pot and
saying persuasively, "… happens as I mixed it fer Mr. Ford's new barn.
It
must
be just this shade, says his missus.
Until they put some on. Then she changed her mind. Could let ye have it
cheap, marm. A fine bargain."

A lady said, "Thank you. I'm sure it is, but you see, I just
want a—"

She had a low cultured voice that had a musical ring and
sounded vaguely familiar. Montclair's view was blocked by some piled
tubs on the counter, and he shifted so as to see around them.

"Let ye have the whole pot fer sixpence ha'penny," interrupted
Mr. Mundy. "Ye'd spend more nor that on a little'un was I to mix it up
again. My boy has to drive the pony and cart to Malvern today, and he
could deliver it, if you like." He caught sight of Montclair then, and
his broad, perspiring face was wreathed in a bright grin. "Mornin',
sir. Fine mornin'. Ye'll be wanting that gold-leaf paint. I'll go and
get it."

Montclair saw a slender back clad in a well-cut blue-violet
riding habit. The pert little hat had some sort of sheer pale violet
stuff tied around it that hung down behind, and it was set upon the
head of a lady who wore her near-black hair
a la
ancient Egypt: long and very straight. Stiffening, he thought, 'It is
the wretched widow!' and he said, "No. Finish with the lady, Jed. I'll
wait."

The icy drawl brought Susan's head jerking up. Of all people!
He
would
have to come in here!

"Lady's buying some house paint, sir," offered the proprietor
amiably.

"Indeed?" Montclair strolled forward and, determined to remain
a gentleman however this hussy provoked him, removed his hat. "Do you
undertake some renovations, Mrs. Henley? By way of—recompense, perhaps?"

Susan turned and encountered a bleakly contemptuous gaze.
Lord, but Andrew had marked him! To say nothing of the dark bruise her
dustpan brush had bestowed on his forehead. She stifled an unwarranted
pang of guilt. The horrid creature deserved it all! And only look how
he was curling his haughty lip at her. She said with a saintly smile,
"We do what we can to restore the poor old house. I'm not accustomed to
living in a pigsty, you see."

His dark brows arched. "You surprise me, ma'am."

The sardonic rejoinder fanned Susan's wrath so that she could
scarcely breathe. 'You have not begun to be surprised, Baron Beastly!'
she thought.

Mr. Mundy mopped his grimy apron at his heated brow and
blinked hopefully from one to the other. The Wicked Widder was a
luscious plum if ever he saw one, but it was clear young Mr. Valentine
didn't think so. Looked ready to strangle the gal, he did, and with
them devilish eyes of his and his hasty temper, it wouldn't surprise no
one a bit if he was to take her 'crost his knee and whack her bottom
for her. Now
that
would be a tale worth telling
at the King's Arms tonight!