Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (16 page)

"Instead of merely being scorned and my innocent little girl
ostracized because her father was a suicide?" Her lip curled. "I have
survived the tender mercies of self-righteous town-dwellers, Mr.
Montclair. I had hoped to find a kinder attitude among country folk,
especially towards Priscilla. Apparently, my hopes were vain. But I
promise you the time is past when the prospect of becoming a
laughing-stock could cause me to shake in my shoes."

"How regrettable," he drawled. "It is evident, ma'am, that to
prolong this discussion would be pointless. I give you good day."

Bowing, he started off, but glanced back when she called, "One
moment, if you please. We have another matter to discuss."

He scowled, hesitating. But he was curious to see what
outrageous ploy she would next present, and thus went back to the bench
once more.

Susan sat down and ordered her skirts. "When my brother
attacked you—"

"After I molested your daughter," he interpolated, stiffening.

"Mr. Montclair, permit me to say that your manners are
atrocious. Did no one ever teach you that it is very rude to interrupt?
I was about to explain that it was no more than a simple mistake, and—"

He was rude again. "
Simple
! Many sins I
consider forgivable, Mrs. Henley, but the man who abuses a helpless
little child is utterly despicable. To have been judged capable of such
conduct is not my notion of a 'simple mistake'!"

"You know perfectly well, sir, that my brother misunderstood
what Priscilla said."

He shrugged irritably. "It is of no consequence. What is done,
is done."

"That is nonsensical! You might just as well say that if a
carriage wheel comes to rest on my foot I must not move because it 'is
done'! Or that if I should accidentally set light to the curtains, I
must not put out the fire because it 'is done'!"

"I am sure you can dredge up countless inappropriate similes,
Mrs. Henley. The fact remains that Lyddford struck me in the face. And
the Code of Honour does not permit—"

Forgetting her scold about interruptions, she threw up her
hands in exasperation. "You men and your stupid Code of Honour!"

"Yes," he sneered. "I can well imagine you would find it
stupid."

Susan flushed darkly. "Your
imagination
at least, cannot be faulted, sir. I suppose you are a crack shot and
look forward eagerly to ridding the world of a man who dared defend his
little niece!"

"I believe I know one end of a pistol from the other, madam.
And if I may point out—since I did not instigate the duel, your
argument is ill taken."

The horrid man had a point. She bit her lip, but persisted.
"Were my brother to apologize… ?"

"Hah! I wish I may see it! Lyddford did not impress me as
being either a fool, or the type to apologize for his errors."

"If you knew him better—" she began angrily, but stopped when
she saw the pitfall.

Montclair was in no mood to allow a poor move. "I would know
he
is
a fool?" He clicked his tongue. "Perhaps
you are right, but I think he would not appreciate your putting me in
possession of that fact, Mrs. Henley."

'Wretch!' she thought, and said loftily, "The mistake was
mine, for supposing I might appeal to your better nature."

"'Appeal to my better nature,' is it? Jove, but you're a rare
optimist, ma'am! You illegally occupy my house; attack me like any
fishwife—"

"
Fishwife
. . ." she spluttered,
outraged. "How
dare
you?"

"—make perfectly vile aspersions on my character; your brother
has the confounded lack of sportsmanship to knock me down when I'm
looking the other way; you mean to render my house hideous by splashing
scarlet paint all over it—and
you
seek to appeal
to
my
better nature? By God, madam! If you hoped
to turn me up sweet so as to grant you a stay of eviction, you could
scarce have played your cards in worse fashion!"

Springing up, Susan gathered the train of her habit with so
sweeping a gesture that she revealed the tops of her riding boots. She
saw Montclair's glance flash to the embarrassment, and yearned to
scratch him. "Certainly," she said, her voice quivering with rage, "I
have wasted my time by attempting to reason with an ill-tempered boor.
Good day, Mr. Montclair."

Having thus dismissed the obnoxious creature, she turned her
eyes away and waited for him to depart.

He gave her the sketch of a bow and stood firm, coldly
immovable.

It dawned on her then that this was
his
summer house. Discomfitted, she walked past, and down the steps, but as
she approached the mare, was again discomfitted. Pewter was not a tall
horse, but the stirrup was rather too high to permit a graceful mount
without assistance.

Montclair watched her predicament with wicked enjoyment.
Still, she had played fair in their dispute, resorting to neither tears
nor hysterics, as so many of her kind would have done. Besides, she
was
a female and his breeding prevailed. "Allow me, Your Majesty." He
handed her the reins, and bent, cupping his hands for her foot.

'Sooner,' thought Susan, 'would I perish!' Made reckless by
anger, she flicked the reins over the pommel, and in a trice was atop
the first step. It was just a little jump to Pewter, and once she had a
grip on the pommel… She launched herself at the saddle.

Startled by such unfamiliar antics, Pewter danced away.

Bewildered, Montclair half turned, making a grab for the
stirrup. Unfortunately, Susan was quite unable to stop in mid-air, and
with a shocked squeal she crashed unchecked into him.

Winded, flattened, and extremely surprised, he heard faint
feminine moans, and found that he was enveloped in a cloud of black
hair.

Dragging herself to her hands and knees, Susan snatched the
obstruction from his eyes. "Give me my hat. At once!" she demanded,
kneeling over him scarlet faced, and all but weeping with chagrin. "And
just for your—your information, Mr. Amberval— Oh! I mean—" His wheezing
and unsympathetic laughter was typical of the brute. Between gnashing
teeth, she finished sobbingly, "For your information, you
are—without"—she blew a lock of hair from her eyes—"without doubt—
the—the most
odious
creature I have
ever
met!"

He sprawled there. Howling.

She all but flew to Pewter, and heedless of propriety, got one
foot into the stirrup and dragged herself up. Jamming the hat onto her
head, she resorted to the spur she never employed, and the mare was
away at the gallop.

It was no use. For what seemed miles she could still hear his
loathsome laughter.

The day after tomorrow was Saturday. Walking in aimless
distraction among the trees, Barbara 'thought how marvellous it would
be to be a milkmaid or a governess. Anything but a lady of Quality, who
must be forced into wedlock, only because the gentleman was very rich.
Surely milkmaids and governesses were allowed to wed whomsoever they
wished. Or perhaps, not forced to wed at all.

She had come to the little secluded glade to which she
sometimes crept when deeply troubled, and she sank gratefully onto the
stump of the big elm tree that had been the king of this glade until
last November's great storm had wrought such havoc in the woods.

The day after tomorrow… Mama and Papa were determined, beyond
doubting. Her tears and pleadings had only made them angry. And Junius
thought it all a great joke. Val understood, and wanted this no more
than did she, but even if she found the courage to follow his
suggestion it would only land him in great trouble, and as it was, the
expression in Junius's eyes when he looked at his cousin sometimes made
her fear… She shivered.

So there was no hope. Unless perhaps she could do as the poor
lady of the Folly had done, and jump off the roof. Or would she be too
lacking in courage to commit that awful sin? Oh, how ghastly it all
was! She bowed her head into her hands and wept with soft but racking
sobs.

The deadly and unmistakable crack of a gunshot shocked her
from grief and all thought of self. She whispered, horrified, "
Val
!
Oh, my God!" And she was running.

Montclair strode through the copse, the reins loosely held,
Allegro thudding amiably beside him. The warmth of the afternoon was
increasing and there was a sultriness in the air that spoke of bad
weather to come, but he scarcely noticed these things, his mind
preoccupied with the Widow Henley. What a hoyden the woman was! Whoever
heard of a lady flinging herself at a horse in so abandoned a fashion?
He chuckled. Gad, but how dear old Geoff would have laughed to see him
smashed to the ground by a flying female! An unscrupulous female, who
was no better than a thief.

The smile faded from his eyes, and his jaw set. So they
challenged Ezra Henley's signature, did they? Much good might it do
them! After all these years any self-respecting judge would laugh at
their case. If they really meant to bring a case. More likely they'd
moved into Highperch well knowing they'd no legal claims at all,
relying on using legal manoeuvrings and the slow-grinding wheels of
justice to protect them for as long as possible, thus ensuring they
would have a free roof over their heads. A free roof with a garish red
trim… ! He ground his teeth.

'My innocent little girl ostracized because her father was a
suicide… !'

Those words, so fiercely uttered, disturbed him. It was very
likely true enough. People could be cruel. But that was the way of the
world. Certainly, it was not his problem. Old Ferry's proofs of the
resale were indisputable, and the noxious Henley clan must be made to
vacate Highperch. Still, it was a
damnable
thing
to have had a lone woman terrorized and her brother clubbed down on
Longhills property! Papa would turn in his grave! Once again the Trents
had—

Allegro snorted nervously. There was a sudden great rustling
nearby; someone was riding at reckless speed. Montclair's hand flashed
to the pistol in his pocket. A fine bay horse burst from the trees and
charged straight at him. At the last instant the rider pulled up his
animal, then sprang from the saddle in an impressive if unnecessarily
dramatic demonstration of horsemanship.

Montclair thought with a silent groan, 'Oh Gad! It's the
Spanish lunatic again!' but relinquished his grip on the pistol.

"Chew I foundling," declared Señor de Ferdinand exuberantly.

"Most astute," drawled Montclair at his haughtiest. "Since I
live here."

"Chess." De Ferdinand directed an approving glance over woods,
park, and gardens to the distant loom of the house. "Very nice small
'state. Chew theses sell?"

Speechless, Montclair stared at him.

"Chew wish 'state selling," said the señor earnestly, "I
interest to buyings have."

'Good God!' thought Montclair. "Longhills," he explained,
keeping his patience with an effort, "has been in my family for
centuries. It is not for sale. If it were, however, the figure involved
would be extremely high."

The Spaniard waved a hand airily. "Mices elves high figures
havings. Meece buying Longhills."

Montclair tightened his grip on the reins and took a pace
forward. "Señor Angelo—er, et cetera—de Ferdinand, I will say this as
slowly and carefully as I can. Item—Longhills is not, will not be, and
never has been for sale! Item—if this is more of Mrs. Henley's
nonsense, you waste your time and mine. Item—if that is all you came
here to say, you have said it. I have replied. Now be so good as to
take yourself off our property."

Señor Angelo, who had followed this exposition with parted
lips and extreme concentration, suddenly jerked his shoulders back,
bowed low, and said, "Chew say mices elves lie telling. Chess? Very
good. Now we shootings." He whipped a long-barrelled and richly gilded
pistol from his saddle holster, and twirled it recklessly around one
finger.

"Hey!" cried Montclair, drawing back. "Have a care! That's no
way to handle a duelling pistol!"

"Chew with mices elves shoot. Now. Hereupon—once at!"

Montclair, although no great hand with a pistol, had early
been taught a healthy respect for such weapons. "I am engaged to fight
Mr. Lyddford," he pointed out, eyeing the Spaniard's flourishings with
alarm. "Put that thing down, you block, before—"

"Chew forget into chaw mouths mices hat were hoved." Señor
Angelo laughed. "First mices—"

The pistol eluded his suddenly frantic clutch and swung
sideways.

With a shout, Montclair leapt away and in the same instant the
pistol roared deafeningly.

There was no impact; no stab of pain.

The smoke cleared, and he saw that the Spaniard had fallen to
his knees and was bowed forward.

"Good God!" Montclair sprang to bend over him.

A pallid, sweating face was lifted. Dazedly, de Ferdinand
gasped, "
Caramba!
… mices elves have… Angelo
shootinged."

"Of all the stupid—" Montclair slipped an arm about him.
"Here—sit back. Let me have a look."

Already, bright crimson stained the snowy shirt. Montclair
unbuttoned and removed the coat, moving as quickly and carefully as
possible. He glanced up and was given a faint twitching smile. The
fellow was raving mad, but he had bottom, thank heaven. "Good man," he
muttered, and spread the shirt.

"
Val
!" Barbara ran across the turf,
holding up her gown to facilitate her tempestuous advance, her face
pale with fear. "Oh, Val!" she panted. "Are you—"

"I'm all right, Babs." Montclair tugged at his handkerchief.
"I'm afraid this fellow has been hit, though."

Unspeakably relieved, she took in the injured gentleman who
sat leaning back on his hands and gazing at her in white-lipped silence.