Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (28 page)

"But that, of course, was very long ago."

"Wretch!" She laughed. "I suppose we all look back and think
how
much wiser we were than those who came after us. But—he is just a boy,
Diccon. And very dear to me. You will try again? Please?"

He said softly, "How could I deny such a very… poor old lady?"

The silver light was in his eyes. A tremor shook her. His
lips,
which could be so stern, were curved to a smile of such tenderness that
she was suddenly desperate to feel them on her own. Breathlessly, she
waited.

Diccon had felt her tremble. Her lovely face seemed to him to
glow.
He reached out and drew her closer and she did not resist. Her eyes
were so soft, her lips slightly parted. Enchanted, he bowed his head
and leaned towards them.

A gust of wind sent her cloak flying. Through a golden haze he
saw
something glitter on her shawl. And the cold knifeblade of reality
slashed through and destroyed that magical moment.

Marietta saw his face change, and she pulled back, belatedly
embarrassed by such a shocking lapse of propriety. How could she have
allowed herself to lounge about on a public beach all but embraced in a
man's arms? A comparative stranger, really, who was—who was staring at
her bosom! Her hand went up instinctively to pull her cloak closed. His
move was faster. Shocked, she shrank away, but his fingers had grasped
the pin on her shawl.

In a harsh voice she scarcely recognized he demanded, "Where
did you get this?"

"It was a gift. Let go at once, sir!"

Narrowed and grim, his eyes lifted to search her face.
Marietta
started up and he released the brooch and helped her to stand. He said
coldly, "Blake Coville gave it to you."

It was a statement rather than a question. Irritated, she
said, "Is
there some reason why I should not accept a gift from a friend? I think
it is none of your affair, Major. Besides, how can you know who gave it
me?"

He walked beside her towards the cliff path and answered, "It
belonged to my mother."

With a gasp, she halted and turned to face him. "Your—
mother
?
But—but why on earth… ? Oh! I
knew
I should not
have accepted it!" She tried to unfasten the brooch. "You shall have it
back!"

"No. He gave it to you. If you wish to return it, return it to
him."

"Well, I will—if I can get the wretch— I mean, if I can get it
off. The clasp is caught in my shawl. Oh, why
ever
would Mr. Coville have been so gauche as to give me a piece of
jewellery belonging to another lady?"

"Probably in the hope that I would see it, and be plagued by
guilt," he said dryly.

She looked up at him. The wind tossed his thick unruly hair
about
and where the spray had dampened it small curls had plastered
themselves against his brow. His head was held high, his mouth tight,
and with the darkening clouds behind him he looked stern and
formidable. She was reminded of a painting she'd once seen depicting a
Roman centurion preparing to lead his men into mortal combat; there was
the same hawk look, the same fierce intensity. For some reason she felt
a pang of fear.

Not looking at her, he said, "You're wondering if I told you
the truth, or if I am as guilty as the Covilles say."

She hesitated. "You said very little of it. Have I the right
to ask for the whole story?"

"No." His gaze lowered and softened. "If I told you, it would
make
you an accessory, do you see? I'd not put you in that position."

Appalled, she faltered, "An accessory to—what? Are you— are
you saying—"

He put one long finger across her lips. "Whatever you may
think—whatever may happen, will you believe that one most unworthy man
cares very much about your happiness?"

She did believe and for an instant she was both grateful and
comforted, but his previous remark haunted her and she said, "You're
frightening me. And you're evading again. Diccon— can't you at least—"

"Etta? Etta… ?"

Mrs. Cordova waved urgently from the top of the cliff. She was
obviously agitated, and Marietta hurried to the narrow path, Diccon's
supporting hand at her elbow.

"Aunty Dova? What is it? Is Papa—?"

"Your father is well." Mrs. Cordova clutched her arm as they
reached
the top. "I must talk to you. Something has happened. I knew—" She
glanced at the silent man and moaned softly. "I
knew!"

Alarmed, Marietta asked, "Knew what, dearest? Is Fanny ill?
Or—"

"No, no! And Mr. Vaughan, the very nicest boy, is so devoted…
Only—
Oh dear, oh dear! Come quickly, my love! I'll explain in the carriage.
Yes, I made Bridger drive me down. This horrid wind! And that awful
pastry man! And Mrs. Maitland again. But—we must
talk
Etta!" She glanced at Diccon, who had drawn back. "Not here!
Privately
!"

"Very well. But I must go and fetch Arthur, he got soaked in
the boat and is drying off in—"

"He must wait! Etta, Etta! You do not listen, child! I said
privately
!"

Diccon came up to assist the ladies into the carriage. "I'll
bring
him to you, ma'am. He's likely bamboozled Mac out of a piece of cake.
I'll have him home before dark, I promise."

Marietta thanked him gratefully. He slammed the door and the
coach
jerked and rattled on its way. The wind was blustering in the trees.
She thought absently that it was a good thing he'd not taken the boat
very far out. How radiant little Arthur had been. Captain—what had
Diccon named him? Detestable Dag, that was it. She smiled fondly. So
much of his time he'd
given
the child; so much of joy. The coach rocked to a sudden gust. The
shrubs beside the drive were whipped apart revealing the man who stood
among them. She jerked her head around in time to see Diccon gesture
violently. The man plunged into the trees.

"You're not listening to me, Etta," said Mrs. Cordova
plaintively. "Now what is it?"

"There was a man hiding in the bushes! A boy, rather. It was
Sam South. And I'm sure Diccon knew he was there!"

"Then Mrs. South was right, and her boy was at Lanterns! I am
not
surprised! Oh, Etta! We have been dreadfully deceived! I was right, the
good Lord aid us! We are in the most frightful trouble!"

Jocelyn Vaughan tilted the kitchen chair to a precarious angle
and
smiled dreamily at the ceiling. He had taken his supper at the dower
house and returned to Lanterns late in the evening in an apparent haze
of bliss. Busily occupied with the letter he was writing, Diccon paused
to slant an oblique glance at him.

"My mind is made up!" declared Vaughan. "Fate, or that roseate
little nude who flits about loosing off his arrows, has dealt me a
lifetime leveller, and I've not the slightest quarrel with the rascal!"

"Hmm," grunted Diccon, his quill pen scratching across the
page.

"None," said Vaughan. "She is the perfect lady for me. I knew
it, you know, the instant I looked at her."

"Really? I thought at first glance you took her for a dummy."

MacDougall, who sat by the stove polishing Diccon's riding
boots, chuckled and said, "A flush hit, y'ken!"

"Yes, and d'you know why?" Vaughan straightened his chair,
narrowly
avoided knocking over the branch of candles, and retaliated
indignantly, "He's jealous! I found the lady of my heart and mean to
offer for her with no backing and filling, whereas he sits and glowers
and grieves, and does nothing to claim his own love!"

At this Diccon lowered his pen and lifted his head. "Mean to
offer
for her? What—after a courtship of less than a week? You've maggots in
your loft! It's too soon, you silly clod!"

"I let no grass grow under my feet, if that's what you mean.
Strike
while the iron is hot and all that kind of thing. Don't you agree, Mac?"

"Och aweigh, it makes no never mind; a wench is a wench,
forbye. But
ma fither used tae say 'love that's soonest hot is soonest cold.' "

"Well, of all the marplots! Miss Fanny is
not
a wench and I'll thank you to watch your tongue, MacDougall! As for
you, Major, sir—"

"Gad, and the child is off again." Diccon sighed.

Vaughan's eyes flashed. Standing, he said bleakly, "I'm not a
child!
I don't want that rascally step-brother of yours for my brother-in-law!
And if you mean to let him snatch your lady from under your nose
because you lack the gumption to offer—"

Diccon interrupted quietly, "I cannot offer, Joss. You know my
feelings on that score."

"Do I? Does anyone—ever—know your true feelings? Oh, you may
freeze
me, but I'll give you my opinion regardless: with or without a fortune
you're a fool not to make a try for the lady. Fanny told me she thinks
her sister is half-way in love with you already."

Diccon stared at him. "She never did."

" 'Pon my word! And I think it also. Wake up, man! Don't throw
away—"

"Will you stop?" Diccon sprang to his feet and said in a
sudden
fury, "D'you think I don't know how lovely and dear and desirable she
is? D'you think that having found her at last, I
want
to lose her? I'd begun to think I had a chance. But now—I've racked my
brain trying to find a way through this bog, but there
is
no way! For the love of God—leave me be!" And with
a distraught
gesture, he was gone, leaving the door wide behind him as he stamped
out into the rainy night.

The two he left behind, looked at each other. After a minute
Vaughan rose and went to the door.

MacDougall said pleadingly, "Ye're never after deserrrting him
the noo? Mon, he needs ye!"

Vaughan closed the door. "No, I'm not leaving." He straddled
the
chair Diccon had left and asked, "What is it, Mac? Has something
happened that I don't know about?"

"If it has, I dinna ken what it is. A letter came, is all."

"We've been in some pretty tight corners and he's always been
a step
ahead of everyone else in knowing what to do next. I thought we were
friends, Mac, but sometimes I feel that I really don't know him at all."

"He has precious few friends. Since the lassie died." The Scot
shrugged. "He lost his family, his music, and then his love. And he but
eighteen summers! He put up a wall, y'ken, and let very few come close
again till Miss Marietta levelled his wall wi' one glance o' her bonnie
eyes. He lost once, and blamed himself— which was fustian, y'ken! But I
think—" MacDougall hesitated, embarrassed by such a speech, then
finished gruffly, "I think he dared not love again through all these
yearrrs. If he loses Miss Marietta…"

"He'll build another wall," said Vaughan.

"Aye. And I'm thinking it'll nae come doon this time. It's a
lonely
life he'll lead behind that wall, Misterrr Vaughan. Nae life at all for
a mon wi' sae generous a hearrt and sae deep a love for wee bairns."

"No." Vaughan was quiet for a while, then he stood and said,
"I'll
have to help him, Mac. Whether he wants it or not, I'll have to stop
him retreating behind his blasted wall!"

With typical autumnal inconstancy the morning dawned sunny and
bright, the skies blue and innocent of anything more menacing than
fluffy white clouds. For Mr. Blake Coville however, reading the letter
that had been placed on his breakfast tray, the clouds might have been
as dark as those that had carried yesterday's storm. His appetite
ruined, he stared, haggard-eyed, at those few deadly lines:

Blake Coville, Esq.,
Care of Lord Dale
Downsdale Park
Near Seaford
Sussex

Sir:

The extension on your loan expired at the end of August. The
collateral you put up has now been forfeited, and if the balance is not
paid in full by October 15th, we shall have no recourse but to apply to
Sir Gavin Coville for redress.

We regret the necessity for such a procedure but it is our
belief that we have been more than patient in this matter.

We expect to hear from you by return post.

Yrs. etc., Benjamin Kagel

The signature was one to strike terror into the hearts of
countless
London beaux who had lived too high and resorted to a moneylender in
the belief that just a small loan could be easily repaid next
quarter-day. For Coville, crippling rates of interest, plus the
conviction that one good win at turf or tables would rescue him, had
brought him to within a hairsbreadth of ruin. If Sir Gavin discovered
that not only was his entire allowance encumbered, but that Lady
Pamela's famous Paisley Emeralds were paste, he would be disowned. Not
for an instant, knowing his father's unforgiving nature, did he doubt
this terrible consequence of his folly. Indeed, it was quite possible
that his sire would stand by, unmoved, while he was cast into Newgate
Prison.

Fighting the panic that made him break out in a cold sweat, he
bit
at one fingernail and stared at the toast on his tray. If only Papa had
moved faster in the matter of that arrogant heathen sheikh and
The
Sigh of Saladin!
If only he himself had been able to locate the confounded article! But
there was nought to be served by lying here fretting. He'd go over to
the Lanterns dower house. The Warrington chit knew more than she'd
admitted, he was sure. Lord knows, she should. She seemed to spend most
of her waking moments hanging about his curst step-brother. Perhaps she
counted on his finding the treasure. Perhaps he already had!

Swearing, Coville snatched at the bell-rope and tugged it
imperatively.

Marietta had expected to be in the village for a very short
time,
but after delivering the flowers to the small and ancient church she
stopped at Mrs. South's shop to pick up the mail. It appeared that half
the village population was gathered around outside, or had squeezed
inside, full of excitement because young Samuel South had returned
"from the dead."