Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (5 page)

"Good day, ma'am.
I
am Mrs. Burke
Henley!"

"Good… heavens!" Lady Trent swept her train aside as though
fearing it might be contaminated, and pushing her daughter before her,
said, "Hurry along, child! Imagine! The brazen effrontery of it!
Disgraceful!"

Susan continued on her way, eager to be gone from under my
lord of Montclair's roof, smarting with resentment of Lady Trent's
scorn, and plagued by the guilty knowledge that however ill-used she
may have been, Papa would have been shocked by her rude response to an
older lady. She could not help but be sorry for the unhappy Miss Trent,
however. Just before she had been hurried away, the girl's big blue
eyes had met her own in an anguished look of apology. There had been
something else in those stricken eyes, and Susan was still trying to
think what it was when the stableboy walked the team back and shyly
handed her up into the phaeton. Starting off along the drivepath, she
suddenly identified that expression, and she looked back thoughtfully
at Longhills Manor.

Miss Trent dwelt in one of the loveliest homes in the land.
She had probably not once in her life known what it meant to have to
pinch pennies to pay the bills and the servants, or to lie awake at
night wondering what was to become of her loved ones. And yet Miss
Trent had looked at the shocking Mrs. Burke Henley with—envy!

Longhills faced northwest and in the far southeastern corner
of the first floor, behind the conservatory, were the two large and
charmingly irregularly shaped chambers that constituted Valentine
Montclair's study and music room. It was towards the latter that Sir
Selby Trent now made his way, frowning because of the angry voices and
sounds of strife that emanated from within.

He opened the door to a bright airy room, its tall mullioned
windows open to the warm afternoon air. Although it was cluttered, it
was a comfortable chamber, dominated by the harpsichord set in one of
the two deep bays on the east wall; a magnificent double keyboard
instrument, long and graceful, the case intricately carven and gilded.
Across the room, several armchairs and occasional tables were grouped
around an impressive marble fireplace. A long reference table piled
high with musical scores in various stages of completion stood in the
second bay and nearby was another grouping of a sofa and chairs, one of
which crashed over as the two young men locked in combat plunged past.

"Stop this at once!" the baronet commanded.

He was ignored. Junius Trent broke from his cousin's strong
hands and sent his muscular fist in a deadly jab to the jaw. Montclair
swayed nimbly aside and his right rammed home under Junius's ribs,
neatly doubling him in half.

"Have done!" shouted Selby Trent.

Breathing hard, Montclair stepped back. A head shorter and of
far more slender build than Junius, his hair had tumbled untidily over
his forehead and the amber flecks in his dark eyes flamed with wrath.
"The— next time," he panted, "you feel moved to… vent your spleen on
something, dear cousin—"

Sir Selby raised the top of the harpsichord an inch or two and
let it fall.

The resultant reverberating crash brought Montclair's head
jerking around.

"Might one enquire as to the reason for yet another vulgar
brawl?" enquired Sir Selby.

Montclair glared at him and crossed to lift the top of the
instrument and peer anxiously at the quills.

Junius laughed breathlessly and contrived to straighten up,
leaning one hand on the reference table. "
Et tu… Brute
?"

His father regarded him coldly. "Should I interpret that to
mean you also have laid hands on your cousin's harpsichord?"

"Not—er—hands exactly, Papa."

"A dead bird," said Montclair, throwing a look of disgust at
Junius.

"Anything—to muffle the sounds of your… cacophonous efforts,
dear coz."

Sir Selby was not amused. "You outdo yourself, Junius. First,
that fiasco at Highperch, and now you must upset your cousin, and
engage in fisticuffs, well knowing he is ill and—" He paused, then
finished acidly, "I almost said unable to defend himself."

Junius flushed. "My attention was diverted when you arrrived,
sir," he said sullenly.

Montclair snorted with contempt and carefully lowered the
harpsichord top. "This house is sufficiently large and well built that
the sounds of my playing do not carry very far, especially since a
harpsichord lacks the volume of a spinet. Your quarters are in the
south wing where they cannot be heard at all. One might hope you would
confine yourself to that wing. Or better yet, remove from Longhills
altogether."

"Ah, but I would purely loathe to give you that much
pleasure," sneered Junius.

"Then you may give
me
the pleasure of
picking up that chair before you remove yourself from this room," said
his father. "I have business with Montclair."

For an instant Junius hesitated, then he shrugged, restored
the fallen chair, and sauntered out, leaving the lackey to close the
door after him.

"Val, dear lad," murmured Sir Selby, "I am sorrier than I can
say, but—"

With a peremptory gesture Montclair said harshly, "What's all
this about Highperch?"

"Alas," Trent's plump shoulders drooped. "You are impatient.
As ever."

Montclair sat on the bench of the harpsichord. "I have been
patient these five years since I came down from University, uncle."

"And I longer than that, Valentine. My own estates are
neglected whilst I administer Longhills as—"

"Then by all means don't let 'em languish an instant longer,
sir!"

Trent shrank before the sardonic tone and his head lowered. He
wandered to the window and with his back to the room said in a voice
that quivered with emotion, "You know very well that it was your dear
Mama's wish I should—"

"My mother set you up as administrator until Geoff reached the
age of five and twenty. He passed that four years since."

"How true. And if
only
he would come
home to relieve me of my task! But I'll not betray my trust whilst my
brave nephew is off fighting for his country."

"Pshaw! We are three years past Waterloo, and Geoff's been in
India these two years and more. If he could be bothered to answer my
letters I might know what the lamebrain's about, but
I'll
relieve you of your task, sir. And willingly!"

"Yes. Dear boy, I know how gallantly you would take on such a
burden. Even though your health—"

"Health be damned! I can manage."

Sir Selby turned and said with a rueful smile, "Aye— to run
the estate into bankruptcy!"

"The devil!" Montclair sprang to his feet, gave a gasp and
clutched at the harpsichord, then sat down again. "If you mean…" he
said unevenly, "because I refused to sell Highperch to… your bosom bow…"

Trent moved closer, eyeing his nephew's suddenly white face
uneasily. In a gentler tone he said, "Another attack? Poor lad, poor
lad. My fault—though I had no desire to upset you. But it's more than
that single matter. I know how well you mean, but your plans are too
grandiose, Valentine; your ambitions too costly for the estate to bear.
I've managed to keep us in good financial colour all these years,
despite rising costs, and—"

"You've hoarded every damned farthing, is what you mean! You
cannot
just—" Montclair paused, and drew a trembling hand across his eyes. "
Damn
this… confounded dizziness," he whispered.

Trent hurried to rest a consoling hand on the bowed shoulder.
"Poor boy. I should never have scolded you." Sorrow came into his eyes
as his nephew jerked away from his touch, and he said with a smothered
sigh, "Dr. Sheswell says you must be calm. I'll go."

"No." Montclair pulled up his head and peered into his uncle's
martyred smile. "Tell me what you meant about—Highperch."

Trent occupied the dark green velvet sofa and smoothed a
crease from his sleeve. "Perhaps I should not bother you with it, dear
lad, but—"

"For the love of God," snarled Montclair, "stop calling me
'dear lad' or your 'poor boy'! I am nigh seven and twenty. Say it and
be done!"

For the space of a single breath the chubby hand was very
still on Trent's well-clad arm. Then he said softly, "If my son ever
dared use such a tone to me…"

"You are to be congratulated, sir. I am neither your son nor
any blood relation."

"No." Trent drew a breath and smiled kindly. "You are the
child of my dear wife's beloved brother. And as a good Christian, I
must make allowances for your—"

"Mental lapses?"

"No, no! Never describe it thus. You have been ill and the
symptoms linger—no more, no less. Now, let us talk of less grievous
matters. The fact is, Valentine, that— well, not to beat about the
bush, Burke Henley's widow has moved into Highperch, and—"

"
What
?" roared Montclair, rising from the
bench like a rocket. "Were our keepers and gardeners asleep? How the
hell did she manage it?"

"I've no least notion, but it is an isolated piece of land.
Perhaps she moved overnight. She might even have had her effects
shipped by way of the river. The—er, worst of it is, she claims her
papa-in-law never received his funds from the resale of Highperch, and—"

"By God, but he did! Old Ferry's got Ezra Henley's signed
receipt locked in his safe!" Montclair began to stride about the room.
"When I think of how that wretched old humbug bothered my mother! From
the moment he bought the property he did nothing but complain. He never
would keep to the public road, but insisted on driving clear across
Longhills to reach Highperch. When Mama learned the description on the
Deed was at fault, it was her chance to declare the sale invalid, which
she did promptly enough, I can tell you."

"I knew the sale was voided, of course. But how was the
description at fault?"

"The property was described as being in Gloucestershire
whereas in point of fact that small parcel is across the county line.
That's why it was never included in the entail. A few years before her
death my Grandmama decided she wanted Highperch for a Dower House. Lord
knows there was no need, and none of us wanted her to go, but she
persisted, had the entire place redecorated, lived there about a year,
and then declared it too lonely." Smiling nostalgically, he sat down
again, then drove an impatient hand through his hair. "Lord— why did I
tell you all that? You know it as well as I!"

"With your papa and my dear wife having been estranged for so
many years, I had little opportunity to know the old lady." Trent shook
his head. "She always was eccentric, I understand."

"Then your understanding is at fault," snapped Montclair.

"I had intended no criticism," said Sir Selby with a crushed
air. "I merely thought it a sad waste of money." He saw the immediate
spark of anger in his nephew's dark eyes, and added hastily, "After my
brother-in-law died I wonder your mother did not simply have Highperch
torn down."

"That was her intent, but I always liked the house and begged
her not to level it. She agreed, with the proviso it should never be a
charge on her, and made it over to me." Montclair's face darkened.
"Dammitall, had I restored it and moved in, as I meant to do, this
wretched widow would never have been able to slither into possession!"

"Instead of which, you were too busy guarding Longhills from
the depredations of your unworthy uncle," said Trent wryly. His nephew
merely glaring at him, he added, "I had hoped to persuade Mrs. Henley
to leave, but she is a brazen hussy and—"

"You've
met
the lady?"

"There is a great difference my b— Valentine, between a lady
and a woman. She called here this afternoon. Alone, if you can believe
such boldness."

"Blast it! Why wasn't I told?"

"We were unable to find you." Trent added with a bland smile,
"Perhaps you were discussing wedding plans with my daughter."

Montclair flushed but met his eyes steadily.

"At all events," went on Sir Selby, "Madam Henley is full of
threats and says she means to bring suit against us for every crime
imaginable, and drag your name through the mud. The vulgar harlot! I'll
tell Ferry to have an eviction—"

"Thank you—no. It is
my
house, sir. I'll
ride over to Highperch first thing in the morning and have a little
discussion with our avaricious widow. She'd as well learn as soon as
may be that she must practice her chicanery elsewhere!"

Susan guided the team mechanically, angered because she was
trembling and shaken by the ugly encounters in the great house. It was
cooler when they entered the woods. The sunlight danced through the
leaves, painting a roof of varying greens above her, the lazy shifting
of the branches creating an ever changing pattern on the broad backs of
Pennywise and Pound Foolish—a pattern Susan viewed through the blur of
tears.

She groped for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes fiercely.
She
would
not cry! She
would
not be defeated! Not now. It had been so hard to keep them all together
after Burke died. Andy and the Bo'sun had tried to help, and together
with the money she'd raised by selling her jewellry, they'd been able
to stay in the house in Town until the lease expired. It had been a
necessary but not happy arrangement. Priscilla, innocent of any
wrongdoing, was shunned by the neighbourhood children until, bewildered
and hurt, she'd invented her own little excuses for her unpopularity.
Not one of those viciously virtuous matrons who dwelt in the Square
would so much as pass the time of day with the widow of a man who had
gambled away a fortune, been dishonourably discharged from the Navy,
and had then so disgracefully ended his own life. To make matters
worse, Andy had brought them more notoriety by calling out a gentleman
who had sneered a little too openly.