Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (6 page)

When they'd gone through Burke's papers and come across the
Deed to Highperch Cottage, it had seemed the answer to their prayers.
Only, the next day further investigation had disclosed that the Deed
was clouded. She and Andrew had laid the whole matter before the aging
solicitor who had handled all Grandpapa's affairs. The old man had
glanced through the various papers, examined the Deed, and said that
certainly there would be a battle to prove that Mr. Henley had never
been refunded the purchase price on the cottage. Well aware of their
circumstances, he'd cocked a shrewd eye at Andrew and said,
"Incidentally, it's my understanding no one has lived at Highperch for
several years. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, was you to slip
in there, Lyddford… under cover of darkness perhaps…"

Andy had laughed delightedly, but Susan had been shocked and
had said with considerable indignation that she had no intent to do
anything illegal. It was the Montclairs who were behaving in an
unlawful way, argued Andy, by having failed to make proper restitution
to her late father-in-law. "Besides," he'd added thoughtfully, "the
cottage sits on a bank right above the Severn. Be jolly fine for
The
Dainty Dancer
." And, with a gleam of mischief in his grey
eyes, "Seems almost as though it was intended for us, don't it, Sue?"

The phaeton left the trees and plunged into warm sunshine
again, following the ribbon of the road as it wound across the fragrant
meadows towards the last low hill, aesthetically crowned by the little
belt of ash and elm, that sheltered Highperch Cottage. Susan's throat
tightened when at last the gables of the house came into view. She'd
loved the poor old place the instant she saw it standing in proud if
rather forlorn dignity on its eminence above the river, the widespread
inverted U-shape of the two-storey building so much too large for the
term 'cottage,' the red sandstone walls a burnished glow in the light
of the full moon. It had been shamefully neglected, and she'd fancied
it was lonely, waiting for the warmth of a loving family to make it
feel wanted again.

Well, it was wanted. But Lord Montclair was a rich and
powerful man and she was only a disgraced widow. If the courts ruled in
the baron's favour, she and her little 'family' would have to move
again. Wherever would she find so perfect a home for them all?

Pennywise and Pound Foolish slowed as they plodded up the
drivepath. The scent of roses drifted from the weedy flower beds. The
front door burst open and Priscilla hopped down the steps and danced
joyously to meet the phaeton, Wolfgang prancing at her heels. Edwina
Starr, dainty despite her dusty apron, walked onto the terrace and
waved a greeting. Beyond the sprawl of the old house the great river
wound its sparkling way to the estuary, and far away loomed the
unchanging hills of Malvern.

An invisible hand clamped around Susan's heart and her throat
tightened. She thought achingly, 'We cannot lose it! We
cannot
!
He has so much—must he cheat us out of this dear old place, when he
never even cared enough to keep it in good repair?' And she knew she
would fight with every weapon at hand to prevent High-perch Cottage
being stolen from them.

The morning was windy but warm. With much to think about,
Montclair rose early and having advised Gould that he would be walking
over to Highperch later, was dressed in fawn breeches, a green nankeen
jacket, and topboots.

Gould, a tall middle-aged man slightly stooped from
rheumatism, was a rather dour individual, and seeing the frown in his
master's eyes made no attempt to engage him in conversation. Valentine
Montclair would have been a disappointment to any Town valet with
aspirations to rise in his profession. He was, thought Gould, a perfect
representation of the artistic temperament: impatient with the demands
of Fashion and anything that smacked of the dandy; impatient with the
inanities of snobbish small talk and gossip; impatient with the lovely
young ladies who fluttered their lashes and their fans at him, and
whose vapid giggles and flirtatious chatter had been known to drive him
to a precipitate retreat from the parties his aunt so delighted to
preside over.

Not an easy young man. But oddly enough, Montclair never quite
disgraced his valet. In the throes of composition he might wrench at
his neckcloth until it was all awry, or drive his long sensitive
fingers through his dark locks until they tumbled untidily over his
high forehead, yet with not the least inclination to do so, he always
looked well turned out. Mr. Junius Trent, who spent a small fortune on
his wardrobe, invariably found himself in some inexplicable fashion
cast into the shade by his cousin, with the result that Mr. Trent's man
was forever dodging boots or bottles hurled at him in a frustrated fury.

Aware of some of the crushing burdens carried on those slim
shoulders, Gould had a deeper sympathy for his employer than Montclair
would have dreamed. To sympathy was added another emotion. Prior to
entering Montclair's service, the valet had enjoyed hearing the band
play in the park, and he'd even gone to Covent Garden once or twice,
mostly to see the opera dancers, of course, but paying more attention
to the music than many in the audience. When first he came to
Longhills, he'd soon learned that Sir Selby and Lady Trent had only
disdain for Mr. Valentine's musical talents, and that Mr. Junius Trent
was revolted by them. When guests came to dine, however, my lady
invariably pinched at "dear Valentine" until he agreed to play. It was
said with much amusement in the servants' hall that this was a mixed
blessing to Lady Trent, for her attempts to talk throughout her
nephew's performance were all too often ignored, and she had once
actually been "shushed" at. The applause and the praise showered on
Montclair were gall and wormwood to her, and on the evening when a
grande
dame
was moved to tears and embraced Valentine, saying he
was a true master, hilarious footmen relayed the information that my
lady's smile appeared to have been applied to her face with rusty
nails. Intrigued by all this, Gould crept one night to where he could
hear his employer play, and since then he eavesdropped as often as he
dared and was frequently so moved that he could scarcely refrain from
expressing his admiration. Had anyone suggested that he was deeply fond
of his unpredictable master, he would have scoffed, but had he been
offered twice his already generous salary, he'd have given not one
instant's consideration to leaving Valentine Montclair's service.

He watched the young aristocrat walk briskly to the door, and
wondered what particular problem was causing the black brows to draw
into such a scowl this morning. The door closed, and Gould shook his
head worriedly. Mr. Valentine had fought hard to overcome the unknown
malady that had afflicted him in March, but here it was June and he
still suffered dizzy spells, and did not look—

The door burst open, and Montclair's dark head was thrust
inside. "Forgot," he said, with a grin that banished the grimness and
took years from his lean face. "Good morning, Gould."

"Good morning, sir," said Gould gravely. The door was slammed
shut, and the valet smiled and began to hum as he started to tidy up
the shaving paraphernalia.

Montclair asked a hovering lackey to bring toast and coffee to
his study, and made his way to that ever welcoming haven. He crossed at
once to the harpsichord and stood with one hand on the lid, staring
blindly at the keyboards. In Town, good old Jocelyn and Dev had been
concerned about him, he knew. Dev had ridden up twice since then, and
it was a good two hours' ride— even the way Dev rode—for Devencourt was
situated high in the Cotswolds and the private road was far from easy.
Had they suspected, as he suspected, that the Mohocks had not been
Mohocks, but hired assassins? Or had his friends merely been concerned
because he was obviously not in the pink of health? "Damn!" he snarled
explosively, and sat on the bench.

He began to play a piece by the incomparable Mr. Mozart. His
fingers flew and the old harpsichord vibrated. Lost in his music, he
didn't hear the lackey come in with his breakfast, and when he sensed a
presence beside him, he whirled, crouching low, his fists clenched and
his face so murderous that the lackey came near to dropping the tray.
He deposited it nervously on the top of the harpsichord and fled, pale
and shaken.

Pouring himself a cup of the steaming coffee, Montclair
whispered a frustrated "Valentine sir, you are a blasted fool!" and
scarcely noticed when the first mouthful scalded him. But
was
he being a fool? Was he imagining it all? Or was his greatest dread
becoming reality—the ever deepening fear that the illness was seriously
impairing his mind? He spread strawberry jam lavishly on a piece of
toast, and glanced around with schoolboy guilt because of his gluttony,
but after only two bites his mind had reverted to the incident in Town,
and the toast was abandoned.

The first such incident had occurred almost a year ago, when
the pole on his racing curricle had snapped. He'd come away with no
worse than three broken ribs and some bruises, but both horses had to
be destroyed, and one had been dear old Flinders, a friend of many
years, and mama's favourite. Later, Charlie Purvis, the head groom, had
told him that it was "odd" the pole breaking like that. "Looked almost
as if it had been tampered with, Mr. Valentine…" He'd paid small heed.
Who would want to do him a mischief?

A few months later, he'd been riding Allegro—not the most
placid of his horses, certainly, but a joy to ride and a real goer.
Topping a familiar rise at his customary high speed, he'd seen too late
that the smooth downward slope was smooth no longer, but a widespread
deathtrap of piled chunks of rocks and timber. There'd been no possible
chance to avoid disaster. The big ugly bay stallion had made a gallant
try and almost cleared the debris. Uncle Selby had said it was a
miracle they both hadn't been killed, and scolded because he'd so often
cautioned that 'dear Valentine' rode like a madman. Nursing a broken
ankle, he'd been grateful that Allegro had fallen clear and suffered
only some scrapes. The most disturbing aspect of the matter was that he
followed exactly the same route several times a week, and never had
there been any obstruction on the down side of that hill. It was open
country, off Longhills land, and why the great pile of wreckage had
been assembled there, or who had left it, could not be discovered. But
not until the poacher hunting pheasants had come so damnably close to
blowing his head off in March, followed in May by the attack in Town,
had he accepted the possibility of a plot against his life.

He took up his coffee again and sipped broodingly. Why? He was
not without enemies, his temper was quick, and his impatience with
nonsense had ruffled a few feathers. But he could think of no one who
would really want him dead. If he held the title, and if the next in
succession was his uncle, then perhaps— But what rubbishing stuff! He
did
not
hold the title, and if he ever should—God
forbid!—he and poor Hampton Montclair would still stand between Junius
Trent and Longhills. Seized by disgust for such basely unwarranted
suspicions, he slammed down the coffee cup and launched into his new
concerto. It was a fiery piece, the final movement rising into a most
difficult
accelerando
, but his skilled fingers
mastered the challenge. Revelling in the sense that it was good—that he
had achieved something really worthwhile, he swept into the last
crashing chord, and sat with head thrown back and eyes closed,
exhilarated.

"Ti! Help Monsieur Valentine! Quickly!" Montclair groaned a
curse and spun around, coming practically nose to nose with the short
but solidly built Oriental who was Imre Monteil's groom and constant
companion. Just before he'd come down from Oxford Montclair had met a
young Chinese, and because he had an enquiring mind had struggled to
overcome the accent which had made conversation difficult and tended to
isolate the foreigner. His persistence had been worthwhile; he'd
learned much of the Orient and its customs and had parted from the
humble and softly spoken Mr. Li with the awed conviction that he had
made friends with a genius. Ti Chiu was a very different proposition.
Junius Trent contemptuously described his features as chunks of granite
which had been so haphazardly tossed together as to hide his eyes.
Montclair was not one to judge by appearances, but he had to admit that
Ti Chiu was not a well-favoured man. He had never been known to smile,
and seldom looked directly into the eyes of another, keeping his own
downcast. His big hands were outstretched now, and Montclair recoiled,
saying irritably, "I am perfectly well, thank you!"

Ti Chiu bowed and scurried back to stand, dwarfed, behind his
master.

"Are you quite sure, my poor fellow?" The Swiss wandered
nearer.

Standing, Montclair was once more conscious of the extreme
dislike he harboured towards both this elegant gentleman and his craggy
servant. "Quite sure," he said coolly. "What can I do for you?"

He was granted the wide smile that failed to bring the
slightest warmth to the flat, dead eyes. "But you have already done
everything—or almost everything—dear Valentine. I am come, in fact, to
thank you for yet another visit most delightful."

"You are leaving us, monsieur?" said Montclair, ignoring the
qualification.

"My affairs, alas, demand my presence in Brussels. I trust you
will accept my invitation and visit me at some time of your
convenience.
Assurément
, I may offer you more
sunshine than you enjoy here in your—green and pleasant land."

"If you find England so gloomy, sir, you must be relieved that
I would not sell Highperch to you."