Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (3 page)

"You wished to see me?" said Mrs. Henley, her cold voice
cutting through his words.

Both men jerked around and stared up at her.

She stood on the stair, one hand lightly resting on the
handrail, her head high, her thick brows a little arched, her mouth
haughtily drooping, and the sunlight which slanted through the grubby
window of the half-landing awakening a sheen on her luxuriant raven
locks.

"Now… by heaven… Juno is come among us!" breathed Trent,
staring.

His friend pursed his lips, eyeing Mrs. Henley's tall
aloofness without marked approval. "No, d'you think so?" he said
dubiously.

"A veritable Venus!" Trent paced forward, lifting a jewelled
quizzing glass and scanning her from head to toe with bold admiration.

A glint came into Mrs. Henley's candid grey eyes. "I expect,"
she said in her calm way, "when you have finished with your
impertinence, you will tell me why you are here—gentlemen."

Trent chuckled. "A spirited Venus, you'll note, Poll," he
remarked. "Just how I like 'em."

"Perhaps," Mrs. Henley turned her gaze to Pollinger, "you can
be more lucid, Mr. Poll."

Pollinger's shifty brown eyes fell away before her cool stare.
"Do but mark the hauteur of it, dear boy," he sneered, with a giggle
that did not equate with a man of his size and years.

"And—the shape," murmured Trent, the quizzing glass busy again.

"Good day—gentlemen," said Mrs. Henley, contempt in her voice.

"No, no! You cannot throw us out, m'dear," drawled Trent,
sauntering nearer. "Ain't polite. 'Sides, we ain't been so much as
introduced as yet. Allow me, ma'am, to present my friend, Sir Dennis
Pollinger."

Sir Dennis offered a great flourishing bow.

"Silly fellow," murmured Trent, amused.

"I expect you know best," said Mrs. Henley tranquilly.

"Be dashed!" protested Sir Dennis.

Trent laughed. "And I am Junius Trent," he said, bowing also.
"May I assume we address Mrs. Burke Henley? I was—acquainted with your
late husband, ma'am."

She met his mocking gaze levelly. "Yes. I had heard you shared
his weakness for gaming."

"Hah!" roared Pollinger, vastly diverted. "That gave you back
your own, Junius!"

Trent pointed out, "It is only a weakness does one lose, dear
ma'am. And your husband, regrettably, did so often—lose. Save, 'twould
appear, in one respect."

The famous blue eyes were slithering over her again. Mrs.
Henley began to feel soiled. "You will forgive me if I cut short this
fascinating conversation. Friends are waiting for me, and—"

"They must be waiting a long way off," said Trent, drifting
ever closer, "for we saw no sign of 'em as we rode up. And why anyone
should wish to be any distance from your lovely self…"

Mrs. Henley stepped back. "You oblige me to be blunt, sir. Say
what it is your master sent you to say, and then be so good as to
leave."

"Your
master
," hooted Pollinger,
slapping his thigh delightedly. "There's a rib tickler, by Jove!"

"I was given to understand," said Mrs. Henley, her pulse
quickening as she saw the sudden glint in Trent's eyes, "that you are
come in behalf of Lord Montclair, who seems to labour under the
delusion that I live here illegally."

"What sauce, and for such a pretty mouth," said Trent. With a
sudden pounce he was facing the widow at the foot of the stairs. He put
his right hand on the baluster beside her, and said smilingly, "Lord
Montclair is perfectly right, m'dear. This house is part of the
Longhills estate."

Mrs. Henley slipped one hand into her pocket and closed her
fingers around the reassuring butt of the pistol. "My father-in-law
purchased this property long ago, and—"

"Ah, but he cancelled the sale, and sold Highperch back to
Lady Digby Montclair. Had you—ah, forgot that trifle?"

"To the contrary, sir. My man of business in London has a copy
of the Deed, and it—"

"Was found to be in error, ma'am."

"Which is why," pointed out Pollinger, grinning, "her la'ship
returned Henley's funds and voided the sale."

"So… much as I regret it," said Trent softly, "you must go
away, pretty one. Montclair might be willing to—"

She stepped back once more but even as he spoke, like a
striking snake, his left arm shot out and trapped her against the stair
railing. He smiled down at her seductively. "You are not exactly
beautiful. At least, not in the accepted sense. You are too tall, but
most generously formed. And although your hair should be curled it is
exceeding silky, and I like the way it comes to that charming peak in
the centre of your brow. Let's have your hat off," he reached up, "so I
can better admire it."

"Let's have your hands off," said Mrs. Henley, drawing and
levelling the pistol under his ribs, "before I decide to fire it."

"Hey!" cried Pollinger, starting forward, alarmed.

Trent looked down at the pistol, then looked up into the young
lady's steady grey eyes. His hands still raised and his own eyes very
wide, he muttered, "By God, but I believe you would."

"Have you ever wondered how many people would attend your
obsequies?" she asked chattily. "Were I you, sir, I would lower my
hands very slowly. This is cocked and my brother tells me it has a
hair-trigger—whatever that may mean."

Pollinger gave a little yelp and retreated.

Trent's eyes narrowed. "Why, you little trollop," he breathed.
"With your reputation, you dare—"

"Have a care, Junius!" cried Pollinger nervously. "Woman.
Pistol. Looks like a Boutet. Very touchy, y'know. Very."

"Your friend is perfectly right," said Mrs. Henley. "I am sure
I do not know how long I can hold this thing, so—"

"What the devil—"

A tall young man exploded through the rear door and came down
the hall on the run. He wore work clothes and heavy hip boots, and a
Belcher neckerchief was tied carelessly about his throat. Very dark,
with thick curly hair and a fine physique, he was yet of much slighter
build than the pair who confronted Mrs. Henley. "Get away from my
sister, you filthy swine!" he roared, his grey eyes narrowed and
murderous.

Mrs. Henley's gaze flashed to him. Junius Trent's hand flailed
downward and smacked the pistol to the side. It went off with a roar
that purely astounded the widow, who had really thought it to be
unloaded.

Pollinger grabbed the newcomer's arm, swung him around, and
collected a tightly clenched fist in one eye. Staggering, he howled
curses.

Trent wrenched the pistol from Mrs. Henley's grasp, whirled,
and brought the butt down hard on the back of the newcomer's dark head.

Mrs. Henley whispered, "Andy!" as her brother crumpled to the
floor. Starting for him, she was caught by the wrist. "Coward!" she
flung at Trent.

He laughed rather breathlessly. "I do not care to be shot at
when I come calling," he said, and jerking her to him, kissed her
ruthlessly.

She made not the slightest attempt to struggle, but stayed
passively until he released her. Very white, she stared at him, a blaze
in her eyes that brought his slow smile back. "Gad, but you're a fiery
chit, well worth the taming," he murmured. "How the hell did you come
to marry a drunken sot like Henley?"

"My husband," she said, her voice trembling with fury, "was a
disgraced and dishonoured man. But compared to you, sir, he was a
paragon of virtue!"

Clutching his eye, Pollinger had bent over the fallen man and
now suggested, "Think we'd best be on our way, Junius."

Trent bowed. "My compliments, Mrs. Henley. You will remember
why we came, I trust."

"Certainly I shall not forget two brave men who forced their
way into this house, abused a lone woman, and struck down her brother
from behind. I hope you may be proud of what you have to report to your
master!"

"You've a wicked tongue, lovely one," said Trent, frowningly.
"No man is my master. But be warned. Montclair wants you out of this
house and off his land. And it does not do to oppose him. As for this
young fool," he glanced contemptuously at his motionless victim. "Had
you not tried to murder me I might not have struck so hard. Blame
yourself, Mrs. Henley.
Au revoir
. I do not say
goodbye, you'll note. We will meet again."

He sauntered from the house, shouldering Deemer aside as the
butler came panting up the front steps.

The reaction making her shake violently, Mrs. Henley sank to
her knees beside her brother. "Andy," she sobbed, seeking a pulse.

Deemer ran in. "Oh, my God! Please say he's not dead, Mrs.
Sue!"

She looked up through a blur of tears. "No, thank G-God!
But—oh, Deemer, if he is badly hurt I will take a rifle to my lord
Montclair! That filthy, conniving lecher will rue the day he sent his
ugly cronies after us. I swear it!"

Longhills, for almost three hundred years the country seat of
the barons of Montclair, was situated on a rolling knoll some miles
north of Tewkesbury. It was an enormous Cotswold stone mansion of the
late Tudor period; the kind that brought visitors to an awed halt on
their first sight of it and evoked such comments as "My God! What a
museum!", "Who could live in such a pile?", or "Oh, is it not heavenly?"

"A palace
veritable
?" depending upon the
point of view. Despite its vast size, however, it had a simple charm,
for no Flemish or German artisans had been imported and permitted to
desecrate it with Italian Renaissance distortions, so that the Tudor
architecture remained unsullied and pure. The graceful gables and
mullioned windows, the tall and beautifully worked chimneys prevailed
throughout the three storeys of the main block and the two storeys of
the more recent south wing, their charm embellished by the surrounding
sweeps of parkland and richly wooded slopes. The
piece de
resistance
was the famous marble fountain and Montclair
mermaid, rising with fairy-tale beauty from the flower gardens of the
huge circular entrance court about which the mansion was erected.

As in most Tudor houses, the rooms sprang from a great hall,
customarily the household gathering place. This huge chamber had fallen
into disrepair over the centuries, but had been much improved by the
sixth baron, Digby Montclair, the present lord's sire. It was now a
delightful room, the floor of black and white marble squares spread
with thick rugs, the ceiling plastered in an exquisite design of lilies
and birds, with the Montclair mermaid proudly centred. The old oak
panelling gleamed anew, and the two massive fireplaces, scrubbed clean
of their long-worn shroud of smoke stains, revealed once again the
glorious carvings wrought by skilled Tudor artisans.

Of all the rooms, the great hall was the favourite of Sir
Selby Trent, who was administrator of the estate in Lord Geoffrey
Montclair's absence. Sir Selby had a deep love for Longhills. He
delighted in the immaculate and productive farms. The well-kept woods,
the broad ribbon of the river, the three picturesque villages, the fat
brown cattle chewing placidly in the lush meadows, warmed his heart and
brought a fond smile to his moon-like visage. As for the mansion, there
was scarcely a room that did not receive a weekly visit from him, nor
one he viewed with displeasure. It was to his favourite chamber,
however, that he had taken his guest on this rather sultry June
afternoon, and they had settled themselves in two comfortable chairs
facing the rear terrace.

They were an oddly disparate pair. Sir Selby was plump and
colourless, with pale brown eyes, a pasty complexion, and pale brown
hair. Even his voice was pale, for he invariably spoke in a soft
monotone. This afternoon, however, he was unusually animated, for his
cheeks were slightly flushed and there was a gleam in his eyes as he
examined a dagger, turning it almost reverently in his pudgy hands,
gazing down at the shining, razor-sharp blade, the four prongs that
curved down from the hilt, and the elaborately chased counter guard.

Chin in hand, one elbow resting on the arm of the rose brocade
chair, the other man watched Trent in silence. Even seated, he was
clearly very tall. Of slender build, he was clad with elegance but
without ostentation in a navy blue double-breasted tail coat, a white
pique waistcoat, and dove grey pantaloons. His eyes were near black,
dull, and fathomless. His face, framed by lank black hair, was narrow
and long, but his complexion was clear, and if pallid, showed no hint
of sallowness. He had thin, very graceful hands, marred only by the
black hairs which presented a rather unpleasant contrast to the
excessive whiteness of the skin. Watching Trent's rapture, his full red
lips curved to an expression of faint distaste. "It pleases you?"

Trent tore his eyes from the dagger. "It is exquisite. A
main
gauche
. Spanish. Early seventeenth century, I fancy. You are
too good, Monteil."

Imre Monteil clasped his hands before his chest, and inclined
his head. "I reward those with whom I—contrive."

Trent's gaze had returned to his prize, but at this his head
lifted once more. There had been the barest trace of condescension in
the remark, and it irritated him. "You make us sound dishonest," he
murmured with a smile.

Monteil shrugged. "Such considerations are of no consequence.
It is a left-handed dagger. You comprehend,
sans doute
?"

"Of course. Used with a rapier in duelling."

"And you would like very much the matching rapier to add to
your collection."

Trent's eyes glinted. "I would indeed. But to find its mate
would be nigh impossible, I'd think."

"Nothing is impossible,
mon ami
." The
white hands of the Swiss wrung gently. "Though
you
would seem to have encountered a—difficulty,
oui
?"

Sir Selby returned the dagger to its sheath, deposited it
lovingly upon the table beside him, and smiled again. "A—delay, shall
we say? It will be dealt with. I sent Junius up there this morning, in
fact. With young Pollinger."