Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

  Chapter 1

  "The toss of a coin!" Deirdre Breckenridge's lovely face, lit by the sunshine of this bright morning, was a study in dismay. She leaned forward from the squabs of her luxurious barouche to peer into the twinkling violet eyes of her companion. "You jest, surely? Do you love him or not?"

  Lady Sophia Drayton's ringlets, the colour of ripe wheat in moonlight, bounced against her ivory-muslin morning dress. "I am… not sure," she shrugged.

  "Then you do not!" Deirdre gave a small but vehement nod. "And must not even consider him!" She leaned back, surveying the pleasant Kentish countryside they travelled as though the matter were quite settled.

  Lady Sophia gave a little ripple of laughter. "Deirdre, we are not all as single-minded as you. Most ladies meet and like—perhaps love a little—many gentlemen before they decide. And too many of us, alas, marry with no thought of love, though we may be so fortunate as to have several from whom to choose."

  "Several!" Deirdre scoffed. "Hartwell's offer must constitute your… well, you have received more than twenty offers by my count?"

  "Thirty-one, were I to include my Italian beaux…"

  "Oh, my! And is there none you favour above the others?"

  A furrow appeared between the smooth brows, and the beautiful head tilted as Sophia said musingly, "I suppose… Hartwell is the leading contender."

  "You suppose? Lud! Sir Amory Hartwell is young, handsome, and wealthy. One of the finest prizes on the matrimonial market! And you—suppose?"

  "You forget, love. I am a widow and past all such dreams as finding my heart's desire." A roguish dimple hovered beside my lady's sweetly shaped mouth as her friend uttered a sound that—in any but one of London's leading toasts— must have been designated a snort.

  "You were a seventeen-year-old sacrifice! Married off in your first season to a man old enough to be your Grandpapa in an effort to retrieve your family fortunes! Oh, never bother to deny it, Sophia! I was truly fond of Sir Edgar, but"—she giggled—"I often think of how furious your Papa must have been to discover his wealthy friend was totally under the hatches and that he himself was obliged to pay Drayton's funeral expenses!"

  Sophia gave a sigh at this reminder of her charming but improvident father. "You," she scolded mildly, "are, and ever were, a saucy scamp! Papa sought to provide for me, God rest his dear soul. But,"—she scanned her friend's face anxiously—"Edgar died… happy… do you not think?"

  "Very happy," agreed the Breckenridge, adding wickedly, "and of anticipation!"

  "Deirdre!" Sophia threw a hand to her scarlet cheek but, meeting those mirthful dark eyes, could not hold back a giggle. "I vow I shall never cease to feel guilty that the poor old fellow died at his own wedding reception!"

  "His third wedding reception! And it was very naughty of him to offer for a beautiful young girl at his age. Especially when he was pockets to let! At all events, your cousin Clay told me they found Edgar sitting in the garden as if asleep and with a rapturous smile on his face. What a blessed way to go!" She chuckled, then, sobering, asked, "Do you contemplate another mariage de convenance, Sophia? I beg you will not. You know that if things go badly, you and Stephen are more than welcome to come—"

  "Of course, I do, you goose!" Sophia squeezed her hand affectionately. "And as for marriage—why, I may decide against it altogether."

  "Against…it?" Deirdre gasped. "But whatever shall you do?"

  Lady Sophia folded her hands in her lap and tilted up her chin. "Look after Whitthurst, of course." And, quick to sense her friend's indignation, she added, "He needs me."

  "He needed you when he was so terribly ill," frowned Deirdre. "And you were beside him. What he needs now is a wife, not a sister!"

  "Perhaps, but he vows he will never marry. And he goes out so seldom, Deirdre. Poor boy, he is so very subdued."

  "Scarce to be wondered at." Deirdre shook her head sadly, then asked cautiously, "Sophia, does he feel… I mean, is he…?"

  "He is maimed, love. And proud. But it's more than the loss of his arm, I fear. He seems to have… lost heart." Deirdre said nothing, but her dark gaze was filled with compassion, wherefore Sophia brightened at once. "Listen to me grumbling like an old lady! Whitthurst will make a full recovery— in time. It is, after all, only four months since Waterloo, and—Oh! My goodness!"

  They had passed through some rather drooping ornamental iron gates and now traversed a small park. Ahead was Singlebirch, a gracious old sprawling, half-timbered house with a look of welcome and comfort, albeit the woodwork needed fresh paint, and the shrubs were overgrown. It was not the shabby appearance of her ancestral home that alarmed Sophia, however, but the lady who stood upon the terrace, watching their approach in an attitude of anxiety. As soon as the barouche pulled up at the foot of the steps, she was out of the vehicle and running to the faithful housekeeper. "What is it, Hettie? Is the Viscount worse?"

  "He's gone, milady! Oh, my sweet soul… he's gone!"

  The kindly face blurred before Sophia's eyes. Then Deirdre's arm was about her as she said calmly, "Speak plainly, Hettie! Is Lord Whitthurst from home?"

  "Yes, yes!" The plump little woman wrung at her apron. "Your cousin come, milady. Sir Harry. And when he left, the Viscount was all of a state and went tearing off in his curricle."

  "The curricle! Heavens! But where does he go?"

  "To see his wicked uncle! The one wot lives in Dorset and come and shouted at him so drefful whiles you was in Italy!"

  "Good God!" gasped Deirdre, tightening her arm about her friend's swaying form. "Whitthurst will be all right, love. Never worry so!"

  Sophia scarcely heard her. "Hettie," she managed in a thread of a voice, "you never mean—you cannot mean… My brother did not go to—Cancrizans Priory?"

  The housekeeper nodded vehemently. "To see that horrid Markwiss!"

  "All the way to Dorset?" marvelled Deirdre. "Whitt must be vastly improved."

  "He may stop at my cousin Clay's home in Surrey." Sophia was very white. "I must leave at once!"

  "But—surely there's no cause for such a taking? Whitthurst has his man and his groom, does he not, Hettie? There—you see. You could—"

  "No, no! You do not understand!" Sophia wrung her hands but, pulling herself together, said with a twitching attempt at a smile, "Forgive me, Deirdre. You go on. If I can, I shall join you in Town to help you choose your bride clothes. Hettie! Call Meg and Miss Jarrett at once and tell them to pack for several days. They must both accompany me. I will tell James to prepare the carriage. Hurry!"

  Leading the way down the back steps of the pleasant house, the elderly butler said, "The Major went out to sit quietly for—" He paused, shook his head, and turned away. Her ladyship was already hurrying across the grass to where Clay dozed on his favourite bench under the old laburnum tree.

  So it was that Marcus Clay, who had known little of sleep these past weeks, awoke from a troubled slumber to find his most beautiful cousin descending upon him with a flutter of petticoats, agitated little hands, and a breathless spate of enquiries. He sprang up, but even as he bent to kiss her smooth cheek, she asked, "Is Stephen here? Have you seen him today? It looks like rain now. Do you not smell it in the air? He is not well enough, Marcus, to be careering about all over the countryside, with only—"

  Clay threw an arm about her and, half laughing, said, "Hush, Chicky! You chatter like a magpie! Do you seriously mean that Whitthurst is out driving?"

  "Yes, yes! And I am half out of my wits worrying lest he exhaust himself!"

  "You worry too much about him, Sophia. Come." He drew her down on to the bench beside him, noting as he di
d so that the skies had darkened and the air was becoming more chill. "We've had so little time together since you returned from Italy. You shall simply have to spare me a moment or two, dear girl, and tell me—calmly—where Whitt has gone. And why."

  Sophia would not be calmed. "To see his uncle. And I do not know why. Harry Redmond stopped at Singlebirch whilst I was out, and Stephen went rushing off, and—oh, Marcus! I must catch him before he reaches Cancrizans, else he will—"

  "Cancrizans?" he interpolated. "The Priory? But—it's in Dorsetshire! Surely Whitt would never be so corkbrained as to start out with weather blowing up, and him just this side of having turned up his toes—" He broke off at the flicker of pain in Sophia's great eyes and added a repentant, "Clumsy clunch that I am! Sorry, coz. This whole mess must be a most ghastly coil for you to come home to. Had you no idea he meant to join up?"

  "None!" She clung to his hand and said tremulously, "For he promised Mama he would not. Surely you realize I would never have left her else?"

  "Of course not," he soothed. "How could you have known? Not like old Whitt to break his given word. Though… he was mad to get into it, Chicky."

  "Mad, indeed," she said with a touch of bitterness. "Heaven knows, with the service record of our family, we might have been spared the sacrifice of one more life to this dreadful, unending war!"

  He pointed out gently that the war had ended. "And Whitthurst did not lose his life, praise be!"

  "No," she sighed. "Only his right arm. Four and twenty— and ruined."

  "You know that's not true," he scolded, pulling her to her feet. "Whitt's too fine a fellow to be written off so easily." They started towards the house together, and he asked thoughtfully, "Who travels with you?"

  "My maids and James."

  "What?" Shocked, he drew her to a halt. "Two frippery abigails and an elderly groom? By God, that will not do, Sophia!"

  "It shall have to do!" Her little chin set in the manner he knew so well. "I fought hard for Stephen's life, and I do not intend to lose him now because he rushes out in the rain and takes an inflammation of the lungs!"

  "But you cannot go to see Damon alone! Ain't… decent!"

  "I have no choice… unless—" She bit her lip and was silent.

  Clay swung open the side door to the library, his eyes troubled. So the headstrong Sophia was determined to journey to Cancrizans Priory. How strange a coincidence that she must visit the Marquis, the very man who might be able to help him. He knew Damon very slightly, and it was doubtful that Sophia knew him at all. Certainly, she could not be allowed to go all that way without a proper escort. To accompany her would be no hardship, for he always found her delightful, and if the undertaking of so pleasant a journey would also further his own hopes, he must be a paperskull to hesitate. He made up his mind. "Esther is in good hands. I will ride with you, Chicky."

  Sophia leaned back in the comfortable wing chair in Clay's study and sipped gratefully at her tea. Thank heaven Marcus had agreed to accompany her. She was very fond of him, and his presence would offer her both company and protection. If they were unable to overtake Stephen before he reached the Priory, she would not have to face Damon alone. And with a fighting man like Clay beside her, even if the Marquis had learned of her revenge, he would not dare harm—

  "Pssst!"

  Smithers' honest round eyes peered at her around the French doors to the verandah. She hurried to close the hall door and beckoned the groom inside.

  '"Scuse Oi, marm, but ye said as how Oi was to tell ye if Major seemed downhearted loike." He tiptoed clumsily across the room. "Just afore ye come"—he bowed his face into his hands imitatively—"like that'n were 'ee. Major don't never get squashed by bad times. But squashed 'ee were! Never seed un' like that—even at the storm o' Badajoz!"

  Concealing her anxiety, my lady asked, "Do you know why? I saw little Douglas when I arrived and thought he looked less frail. Mrs. Clay seems to be recovering nicely from her lying-in—and the baby is doing splendidly."

  "Oi couldn't say, milady." He frowned, scratching his head. "Less'n it were summat as Mr. Gordon says s'marnin'."

  "Major Clay's solicitor was here? Oh, dear! Whatever can be amiss?"

  The young man racked his rather obtuse brain and admitted, "All Oi heered 'un say was about the new gate. That's all they seemed to talk on. Blessed if Oi can see why the Major should be so squashed account o' a new gate!"

  Sophia thanked him, pressed a coin into his hand, and when he had gone, returned to her chair to puzzle at it. Stephen said Marcus was under the hatches, and, with Esther for a wife, that was understandable. But surely the Duke of Vaille would help with financial problems. Clay would not come into his inheritance for more than a year, but as executor of Benjamin Clay's estate, Vaille could release sufficient funds to help the Major over this heavy ground. Of course, the Duke had been against Clay's marriage, but to deny him his due would be Turkish treatment, indeed.

  Clay had fallen in love with the beautiful but feather-headed Esther five years earlier. His affection had been returned, and Esther had happily married the dashing young cavalry officer, only to be devastated by his frequent and perilous absences. Left alone save for his brief and infrequent leaves, she had become increasingly miserable and, during her second pregnancy, had pleaded to be allowed to join him. Clay had been sorely tempted since in that summer of 1815 so many of the haut ton had gathered in Brussels. His wife's health was poor, however, and her doctors had advised Clay against it. He had kept their warnings from her, saying only that with Bonaparte on the loose again, it was too dangerous and, at least until the child was born, she must remain in England. At once, the sick girl had deduced she was not only unwanted but unloved. Bored and heartbroken, she had indulged a taste for gaming, and to such a degree that when Clay returned from Waterloo in a blaze of glory, it was to find his finances a shambles, his remorseful wife near death from grief and guilt, and his creditors pressing in from every side.

  In view of the fact that Clay was heir to a considerable fortune, Sophia had assumed that most of his creditors would be willing to wait. There were, however, some terrible tales of the relentlessness of moneylenders. Frowning into the fire, she reflected that the shatter-brained Esther, with the best intentions in the world, seemed unable to do anything right. Clay, adoring her, would say nothing to her discredit, however she served him. But it stood to reason that if Gordon had come all the way from Town, it had not been to discuss the acquisition of a new gate. She stiffened. A new… gate? Dear God! Had they, in fact, been speaking of the dread Newgate? Was the valiant Marcus now facing incarceration in Debtors Prison? Frightened, she nibbled at one knuckle. Clay had readily agreed to accompany her. Why? Damon! Of course! The Marquis was the only son of the Duke of Vaille! Clay hoped to persuade Damon to intercede for him, to attempt to sway his father to a more kindly attitude! Vaille must have refused Clay's appeals. In which case, the Duke of Vaille had a heart no less cold and inhuman than that of his murderous son!

  "Don't like this weather!" Clay turned on the rocking seat of the chaise as the beauty shrank closer, ducking her head against his sleeve. A glaring lightning flash sliced the lowering afternoon skies, and thunder racketed in pursuit of it. "If the bridge looks in the least unsafe," he resumed, patting her wrist absently, "it's back to 'The Wooden Leg' for you, ma'am."

  "No, but Marcus," she pleaded, sitting straighter and clasping her gloved hands, "the landlord did not say the bridge was definitely unsafe."

  "Said his eldest crossed first thing this morning, and it looked about to flop again. Why in the deuce Damon don't build a decent bridge, I cannot fathom."

  "No, dear," she said meekly. "Will you not please see if they follow?"

  Muttering beneath his breath, he lowered the window, leaned out quickly, withdrew his head, struggled with the window again, and sat down, glaring sodden and speechlessly at the Lady Sophia.

  She gave a musical little laugh and, taking a tiny piece of lace-edged cambric fro
m her reticule, wiped at his face, pushed back his wet brown curls, then leaned to kiss his cheek. "My poor coz! James follows, I gather?"

  He nodded. "Why you need your maid and dresser when you merely hope to capture Whit and bear him back to Kent is beyond me."

  The truth was that she needed their support, but she said nobly, "If Steve is ill, we may have to rest at 'The Wooden Leg' before we start back."

  "In heaven's name why? I hear Cancrizans is enormous. Damon could certainly find room for us. Though I hope to God we can get in and out fast." Sophia looked taken aback, and Clay said apologetically, "I want for manners, do I not? If Douglas made such a crude remark, I'd likely spank him! But—well, I'm sure you must have heard of the place, Chick. And of Damon…?"

  She had, indeed, and wondered for the hundredth time why Stephen must put her into such a dreadful position. But she looked away and said lightly, "You must remember I have never seen Cancrizans. Nor met my uncle. He may—"

  "Your uncle!" He gave a shout of laughter. "What fustian!"

  "The Marquis of Damon's sister," she said demurely, "was Stephen's Mama."

  "Yes, but a daughter of the Duke's first wife—not at all blood related to Damon. And you were born to your father's second wife."

  "Stephen and I share everything," she smiled. "Marcus, is Damon truly a cranky old recluse with a face like a washboard? Deirdre says he is appalling."

  She was obliged to wait for a reply as Clay blew his nose, groaned that he must be catching a cold, and asked breathlessly if she had not met Vaille.

  "The Duke? No, but I hear he is a formidable old gentleman, though he cuts a fine figure…" Her voice trailed off, her smoothly arched brows drew together, and she mused, "Which must be remarkable considering…"

  "Considering he is senile?"

  "I find that unkind in you, dear," she reproved mildly. "Shall he be at the Priory, do you think? Or is it true that he and Damon do not deal very well?"

  "I've heard the same." Clay sighed and stared out at the deluge.

  Sophia watched him narrowly. "I simply cannot understand why your Papa stipulated you must be eight and twenty before you could inherit. Surely he loved you."