Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (29 page)

"You certainly summed me up fast enough," he countered with a
grin.

She chuckled, and somehow he was holding her hand again. He
said softly, "Perhaps it
is
a good idea to have
some more men about, so long as they're reliable. I cannot like you
being left so short-staffed here when Lyddford is away on his boat. If
any unsavoury varmints should come prowling—" A troubled look came into
her eyes. His own narrowed. He demanded, "What is it? Have there been
such occurrences?"

She hesitated, then told him of the man who'd been watching
the house in the middle of the night. "I'll own," she admitted, "I was
quite frightened. You may be sure we lock the doors now."

"Good God," he muttered. "I'd best leave here as soon as
maybe."

"Why? You cannot know that he was here because of you."

"I'll warrant you did not have such spies hanging about before
I came."

"Did you have them at Longhills?"

"We've a small army of servants there to make short work of
any intruders." He brightened. "There's the answer, by Jove! I'll send
for some of my people. You need inside help as well, with all the extra
work I bring you. Only look at these poor fingernails."

Susan snatched her hand away, and well aware of what Andy
would have to say to all this, said, "I enjoy working in—in the garden.
And we will require no more help, thank you just the—"

"Fustian! Do you say you would prefer to have those two grimy
vagrants loitering about the place rather than allow me to bring my
well-trained servants here? Now that is plainly ridiculous!"

She stiffened. "I must ask that you abide by my decision, Mr.
Montclair."

"It is a foolish decision, and I most certainly will not be
bound by it! You shall have extra help, madam, so pray put your pride
in your pocket."

Unaccustomed to such high-handed intervention, and knowing she
must put a stop to this at once, her chin tossed upward. "You do not
rule here, sir! And since you find me ridiculous, foolish, and
prideful—"

"Er, well—I didn't mean that exactly, but—"

"—you will doubtless prefer to make arrangements to be taken
from such an unpleasant atmosphere, as—soon as may be." And with her
head high, her hair swinging behind her, and her heart heavy, she left
him. "Women!" snorted Montclair.

Susan gazed blankly at the book, not seeing the little house
and the elves climbing cheerfully in and out of the many windows.
Outwardly, she was calm. Inwardly, she trembled still. Never with Burke
had she felt that wild surge of excited anticipation. Never had Burke's
touch made her skin shiver; never had that glow come into his eyes that
made her heart feel scorched so that she longed to be hugged closer… to
be kissed and caressed.

A tremor raced through her. She could deny it and hide it from
others, but she could no longer deny it to herself. She was falling in
love with a man who could only bring her heartache. Of all the men
she'd known she had been so foolish as to single out Mr. Valentine
Amberly Montclair, who was hopelessly far above her socially, and far
too proud to marry beneath his own rank. A man who had at first been
overwhelmed by gratitude, but who was fast recovering his
quick-tempered arrogance as well as his health, and had now very
obviously decided to amuse himself by flirting carelessly with the
notorious widow while awaiting the arrival of his highly born love. If
she did not overcome this weakness it would surely destroy her every
happiness. Montclair
must
leave! One word
breathed to Andy, and he would be gone, and she would be safe. Yes,
that was her only hope. She would speak to her dear brother. Soon.
But—not today.

She thought wistfully of how gallantly Valentine had borne his
suffering. How seldom he had complained, or asked the smallest
consideration. How inexpressibly dear had been the light in his dark
eyes just now, the tenderness in the deep voice… Tenderness from a man
who had wanted to run away with poor deceived Miss Trent.

Priscilla said plaintively, "Hasn't you done lookin' at them
yet, Mama? You been lookin' an' lookin' and you get drearier an'
drearier, an'—"

"Oh!" gasped Susan, returning to the warm and fragrant
kitchen, and her patient little daughter sitting beside her at the
immaculately scrubbed table. "I am so sorry, darling. Mama was sleepy,
I expect."

"You din't look sleepy, Mama. You looked drearier an'—"

"Yes." Avoiding Mrs. Starr's sharp eyes, Susan said hurriedly,
"Er, well. Where was I? Oh—this is the tale of five small elves…"

With typical inconsistency the weather reversed itself. Sunday
morning dawned fair and bright, the sun beaming down upon the drenched
meadows, flooding Highperch Cottage with radiance, and turning the
river into a diamond highway. Montclair awoke refreshed from a good
night's sleep, cheered by the feeling of reviving strength, but in a
black humour. Deemer came to tend to his needs and shave him. The mild
little man was agreeable but, as usual, uncommunicative. Montclair
thanked him profusely for his kindness, and Deemer left, murmuring
shyly that he was only too glad to help anyone in trouble. "Always
provided," he added with a sudden sharp look, "that they don't bring
trouble down upon those I care about."

Montclair smiled, and said nothing, but he was irked. He'd
gone out of his way to express his gratitude, and the fellow had turned
on him. If these people didn't have enough gall for an army! Here they
were living in his house illegally, and they had the confounded brass
to set him down when he'd done nothing. Only look at the widow, sulkily
avoiding him yesterday and again today, having chosen to behave as if
he'd attempted to rape her, rather than simply just holding her for a
minute… Her hair
had
felt like cool silk, now
that he came to think of it… And her skin was so clear and fair… And
very likely she was Imre Monteil's fancy piece. He scowled. The sooner
he was back at Longhills, the better. At least, he knew where he stood
there.

He reached for the crutches. It was difficult to fasten the
strap about his right arm, but he struggled stubbornly, and at last was
hobbling about. Twice he almost fell, and after half an hour he was not
only worn out, but both his head and his leg were aching fiercely.
Still, he lowered himself awkwardly onto the chaise longue before the
windows with an exclamation of triumph. He had managed alone. He had
got himself across the room and back, having had to bother no one!

Exultant, he leaned back, catching his breath. The breeze blew
the curtains inwards, and brought with it the fragrance of blossoms. A
swift flashed across the open windows and a blackbird was singing a
glorious Sunday hymn. Montclair's ears perked up to those liquid notes.
He wondered who played the organ in church on Sundays these days. For
the past ten years, since he'd turned seventeen, it had been his
pleasure to perform that small duty whenever he was in Gloucestershire.
He looked down at the splinted and bandaged right hand, wondering if he
would ever again be able to play competently. Once more he tried to
move the fingers, but they were stiff and useless. Surely, after all
these weeks—

"It's not p'lite to pay no 'tention to a lady when she comes
calling," announced a prim little voice.

Priscilla stood at the foot of the chaise longue. She had come
straight from church and wore her Sunday best. Her dress, of mid-calf
length, was a primrose yellow muslin with a yellow satin sash and three
frills at the hem, and under it she wore ankle-length cambric
pantalettes trimmed with lace. Her poke bonnet was tied under her chin
with a broad yellow ribbon, and on her hands were dainty white mittens.
At least they had once been white, but were now rather soiled, probably
because of the very large bouquet of spring flowers she carried.

"Especially, such a very pretty lady," said Montclair with a
smile.

She looked at him doubtfully. "Am I pretty? Even with my
specs?"

"You are indeed pretty. And your dress, Lady Priscilla, is
charming."

"Thank you, Mr. Val'tine. Would you like to know 'bout my
dress? Mama made it. An' she sewed my bonnet, too." She edged closer
and stuck out one leg. "These," she whispered confidingly, "are called
pan'lets!"

"They're very dainty," he whispered in turn. "Did you pick the
flowers?"

"Yes." She thrust them at him, then dumped them in his lap.
"For you. Mama says you want cheering up 'cause your lady din't come."
She sat on the edge of the chaise longue, and Montclair thanked her for
the flowers and moved aside to allow more room.

"Why din't she come?" asked Priscilla, watching him gravely.
"Doesn't she love you?"

"Certainly she loves me," he answered. "All the ladies love
me. I am so very dashing you know. Especially just at the moment."

Priscilla stared at the white, haggard face, then burst into
laughter. "You look awful, sir," she told him, with the unaffected
candour of childhood. "But when you're well, you're nice to look at.
Are you going to pick Miss Trent for your wife?"

He chuckled. "She will be a lovely wife for some lucky
gentleman. But I think she doesn't want me for a husband."

"Good. Then I'd like to know, please, what your lady likes
are."

"Do you mean," he asked experimentally, "which ladies I
particularly like?"

She pursed her lips. "That might do, but if I don't know them
it won't help much. I mean—d'you like fair ladies or dark ladies? An'
must they be fat or thin? And are you in a great big hurry to get
yourself marriaged, or d'you think you could wait a bit? Like ten
years, or 'bout. And—'sides all that," she added with sudden anxiety,
"if it would fill you up with 'gust to marriage a lady with specs."

Touched, Montclair took up her hand and kissed the grubby
mitten gently. "Do you say you want to marry me, Lady Priscilla?"

She sighed and burst his bubble. "Not really. To marriage is
silly and only for old people. But I'll sac'fice myself for Mama, if it
will help her to stop crying in the night." She added kindly, "But I
do
like you, Mr. Val'tine, and I speshly like your eyes, and the way your
mouth sort of nearly but not quite smiles sometimes."

"Why don't you just call me Mr. Val," he suggested. "And
perhaps, if I knew why your Mama was crying, I might be able to help
without your having to—er, sacrifice yourself. Is it, do you suppose,
something to do with your Uncle Andrew?"

Priscilla shook her head, setting her bonnet sliding. "It's
the same old thing," she said lugubriously. "Money. You
have
got lots of money, haven't you, Mr. Val?"

"I'm afraid not."

She looked aghast. "But—you live in that great big house! And
Uncle Andy says your coat's from a wizard, and it must cost lots 'n
lots to buy a wizard's coats!"

"Well, you see the house belongs to my brother," he explained
apologetically. "I just live there. Er, how much money do you need?"

"Oh, tubs an' tubs! A hundred guineas, at least, I 'spect. So
Mama can pay the bills and paint the house and have the roof mended. It
leaks in Uncle Andy's bedchamber you know, and makes him shout bad
words in the middle of the night." She added in a reproachful voice, "I
never would've thought you'd be a big dis'pointment, Mr. Val, but you
are. A hugeous one."

"I'm very sorry, my dear. But—perhaps by the time you're old
enough to get married I might be able to find a hundred guineas. Would
that serve?"

The small shoulders shrugged. "No, I'm 'fraid. I need it now.
People make promises 'bout marriaging sometimes, years 'fore they
really do, and I was hoping you and me could make that kind of thing,
and then I could have the money. But—I s'pose I'll have to find
somebody else."

He gave one glossy curl a gentle tug. "I wish you wouldn't,
Lady Priscilla. Can't you possibly wait for me?"

She looked glum. "I'll try, Mr. Val. But Mama said only
yestiday that things was getting des'prit, and if it keeps on like
that, I'll just
have
to sac'fice to somebody
else!"

It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Susan shook hands
with Miss Barbara Trent at eleven o'clock the next morning, and ushered
her into the sunlit withdrawing room. With uncharacteristic malice she
had been prepared to dislike the affianced bride and find in her not
one single redeeming feature. Confronted by a pale, troubled little
creature with a soft, shy voice, and the expression of a frightened
doe, Susan experienced a contrary and irritating urge to hug her.

"I know how anxious you must be," she said kindly. "But pray
do not be in a pucker. Mr. Montclair is much better. I wish you could
go up at once, but Dr. Sheswell is with him at the moment, so instead I
shall offer you a cup of tea." She glanced in sudden apprehension to
the door. "Is your mama come with you, ma'am?"

Lady Trent having announced resoundingly that she would sooner
be seen dead in a ditch than to again be under the same roof with "that
shameless hussy," Barbara had escaped that fate. "Mama was unable to
come. I brought my personal footman, of course, and your—er, I think it
was your housekeeper—took him to the kitchen."

Susan stifled a sigh of relief. "May I tempt you to a cup of
tea, Miss Trent? I realize it must be distasteful to you to be here,
but—"

Barbara blinked at her. "Because your husband shot himself?"

Susan's jaw dropped a little.

"I can see that must have been very sad for you," said
Barbara. "But I do not perceive why you should be held in contempt
because of it. Unless you drove him to it. And you do not at all look
like a harpy, or—" She stopped, one hand pressed to her mouth, and said
in horror, "Oh! I
do
beg your pardon!

Susan laughed helplessly.