Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 10

  Sophia's pretty mouth was quite literally hanging open by reason of this revolting testimonial. He reached to a high shelf, thus concealing his mirth, and went on. "I rather suspect Mrs. Hatters has merely gone down into the catacombs to feed the fireboy."

  "Oh, my heavens!" Sophia gasped, her own abuses for-gotten in the face of this new infamy. "Do you force a child to labour in that hideous place… at this hour?"

  "Indeed not, ma'am. We feed him when his work is done. He has to rise early so as to set the fires and stoke up the stove for Ariel. And there is wood to be chopped for the day. But once he is finished with the windows, he has only to scrub the kitchen, steps, and terraces, haul the refuse for my gardeners, and clean out the stables. He is usually returned to his cell by eight of the clock at night." Her beautiful eyes were almost as round as her mouth, and struggling to maintain his composure, he handed her a huge silver urn.

  Sophia took it numbly and essayed a faltering "C-Cell?"

  "Why, they run away, you see," he sighed. "Or was used to. Ungrateful brats! But now I've had the chains installed, I've not lost a fireboy since the last one got stuck in the chimneys somewhere…" This last touch proved his undoing, and he failed hopelessly to keep the quiver from the side of his wide mouth. Sophia, becoming aware of it, fought to remain angry, but, despite herself, laughter leaped in her heart and danced into her eyes. She thrust the urn back at him and, endeavouring to sound stern, decreed that it was much too large and that the amber crystal vase would serve.

  The amber crystal vase was barely visible at the back of the top shelf. Damon glanced with some resentment at the lady and surprised a dimple that made the task well worthwhile. He went to work, removing vases, bowls, and bric-a-brac; thinking the way clear at last, he barely caught a valuable porcelain patch box after it bounced off his head. He was a little out of breath when he handed her the desired object, and beholding the sparkling look on her face, his breathing was stopped altogether.

  For a still moment, they gazed at one another. Their hands both supporting the vase, were very close together. It seemed to Sophia that she was caught in an amber haze, drifting helplessly toward Damon's incredibly tender mouth.

  She tore her eyes away and, scarcely knowing what she said, stammered, "You have been teasing me, sir—and—I deserved it for appearing to criticize. I am quite aware we impose upon you and you do not care for company." And never dreaming how close she was to being seized and crushed and kissed, she felt the tension between them still and, panicky, chattered on. "My own home, of course, is open to our friends at every season of the year, and always shall be." She realised at once that she made Singlebirch sound more like Blenheim and with sinking heart waited for him to ridicule such a fatuous remark, but he only said gravely, "I trust that holds true also for—elderly relations, ma'am?"

  "Y-yes…" She took up a rose and staring at it, mumbled, "of course."

  "Then I shall not need to bring my man, since you doubtless keep several 'gentleman at chambers'?"

  She did not see the smile that accompanied these words and thinking herself thoroughly (and deservedly) set down, retorted sharply, "No, we do not. But neither do we keep a skeleton staff and make of them skeletons."

  His eyes flashed to her in a narrowed appraisal. "My people, ma'am," he frowned, "are quite at liberty to leave my service if they are unhappy."

  "Were you a servant, my lord, could you be happy in a house such as this?"

  His chin lifted at once. "It is the House of Branden." Pride was in his face and the hauteur in his voice abrasive. Or was it that in her heart she knew she was behaving badly? Spurred by vexation and angered by the whisper of conscience, her reply snapped before she could stop the words, "The House of Branden at one time boasted many great warriors—or so I was taught in the nursery."

  Damon tensed. A dark flush swept his features, but he made no slightest attempt to evade her eyes until he murmured with a slight bow, "Thank you."

  Sophia turned away. That had been unforgivable, especially since she was a guest in his home. She could imagine Stephen's anger. She could apologize, but knowing she was too close to tears to speak, bent her energies upon arranging the flowers, ignoring the Marquis as he rather savagely replaced the items he had taken from the cupboard. Gradually, her rioting emotions quieted, and when her task was completed she was relatively calm again.

  Damon carried the vase into the Great Hall for her and she asked that he place it on the large table before the fire. At once he protested that no one would see the flowers in the dark room.

  "It could be a charming room," she observed impulsively, "were you to install large windows." And, remembering Clay, she said, "Oh! Your pardon!"

  "Not at all." He set the vase in the spot she indicated and asked eagerly, "Like those in Lucian St. Clair's Beechmead Hall?"

  "Yes," she responded with enthusiasm. "Exactly what I had thought."

  "What of the floors? Marble?"

  "Oh, no! That would ruin it!"

  "I agree. Pegged oak would be better, wouldn't you say?"

  "Much. And the panelling is too dark, also. You could— Oh! Your grace!"

  Vaille, looking extremely handsome in a blue jacket that emphasized the blue of his eyes, came gracefully toward them. Sophia sensed an immediate withdrawal in the Marquis as his father exclaimed, "What a pleasant splash of colour in this gruesome hall. And so beautifully arranged. Your work, my dear?"

  She admitted such was the case, and he complimented her upon her skill and, leaning closer to straighten an errant bloom, singled out a bright pink rose. "What a delightful shade. Such a pity it is faulted. The bud's contour is poor, don't you think?"

  Damon removed the rose at once and tossed it into the fire. If Vaille was startled by this cavalier behaviour, he hid it well, smiling warmly at Sophia as he strolled toward the south wing.

  As usual, indignation robbed her of diplomacy, and she crossed to where the Marquis leaned with one hand upon the mantle, frowning down at the scorching petals of the rose. "Why did you do that?" she demanded in a low tone. "The bloom was lovely, and I don't think he meant to be critical."

  "Do you not?" Damon glanced cynically toward the Duke's retreating figure. "It was imperfect. And my father finds imperfection in anything quite offen—"

  In full cry, Horatio trundled into the hall, wings spread, passing Vaille who stepped back, lifting his quizzing glass and gazing after the bird incredulously. Damon scowled at Thompson, who hurried downstairs, anguished remorse written on his weathered countenance. Vaille returned to Sophia's side, still watching Horatio, who was making his second full-throated lap around the room. "Good gad!" quoth the Duke.

  Damon groaned, "Oh, no!"

  "Poor chap," commiserated Vaille, with a grin and a wink to Sophia.

  Thompson hurried to open the door, revealing a dignified, elegant gentleman possessed of thickly waving grey hair, piercing grey eyes, and a languid manner, who sauntered across the terrace with a flourish of his cane.

  "Lord Phineas Bodwin," announced Thompson.

  "How very charming," the Duke smiled.

  "Hell!" grated Damon under his breath, and, stepping forward, hand outstretched, said, "Phinny! How kind in you to come and see us…"

  Clay's eager search for the Marquis appeared destined for failure. There was no sign of him in the Great Hall. The music room was occupied by the Duke and Lord Bodwin, who sat politely conversing. The library was empty. He was proceeding to the kitchen when he noticed Horatio huddled against a closed door on the left of the north corridor. Clay entered cautiously and was greeted by so fluent a stream of invective that he closed the door hurriedly behind him

  He was in what appeared to be a combined study and work room since it held a fine old walnut desk in addition to bookcases, leather chairs, and an ample table. At the far end, another long table was piled with architects' drawings and plans. The flickering light of a branch of candles revealed Damon standing before the fire, a half-full wine gl
ass sagging in one hand. Even as Clay watched, he launched into a renewed spate of cursing, this time in French, and topped it off with a growled "After all these years!" He despatched the remainder of the wine, flung the glass savagely into the fire, and pounded his fist on the mantle.

  Impressed, Clay laughed and applauded. Damon spun around, revealing a scowl that might well have daunted a lesser man. "What the hell do you want?"

  "By George, but you swear like a cavalryman, if I say so myself!"

  The harsh glare relaxed very slightly. "Long association with the breed. St. Clair and Vaughan and others of their ilk. Uncouth devils."

  "Yes," said Clay. "Which should have told me something. Now don't fly into the boughs again. I came to thank you. I trust you won't find it necessary to shoot me for my pains."

  "Don't count on it," said Damon, but meeting only a friendly grin in response, the remaining anger faded from his eyes.

  "Your noble sire," Clay said levelly, "has just—as they say—saved my bacon. And he tells me that it is thanks to your impassioned plea that I am spared the gruesome spectre of Newgate."

  "He never did! Well I assure you I'm quite incapable of— er—impassioned pleas… in behalf of myself, let alone some fribbly Major of hussars!" Clay's chuckle was accompanied by a look that caused the Marquis to shrug and say hurriedly, "Do not refine overmuch on it, Clay. My Papa probably took a closer look and decided you were not all that worthless. I had very little to do with it."

  "Lie like a cavalryman, as well," Clay smiled. "And there's not a damned bit of good your glaring at me like that. I'm sorry, old boy, but—" He moved closer and put out his hand. "You cannot possibly know what these past few months have been like." Damon's long fingers closed firmly around his own. "This will be"—Clay blinked, and gulped hoarsely— "probably… the first night I'll get any sleep since—" He checked, gasping.

  "Oh!" Damon released his hand hurriedly. "Sorry, old boy."

  Clay stared in astonishment at his bloodless fingers, looked up into the amused eyes of the Marquis, and muttered an awed "Gad…!"

  "I really do apologize," said Damon. "It's all the music, you see. Tends to improve the grip." His whimsical grin brought a deepening of Clay's instinctive liking. "And, I had to stop you somehow. Couldn't have you falling on my neck. Too dashed hard on the cravat!"

  "I cannot think where our Nancy have go," said Genevieve, busily fastening the many tiny buttons down the back of Sophia's gown. "I have think she is with Charlotte, and Charlotte have think she is with me. Her family have the farm near at hand, so I heard, but that is a very naughty cabbage if she have leave without the ask for permission!" She peered at Sophia in the mirror. "How lovely you are, my new friend! If only I might wear such a gown! But me—alas! Always I go so far out and so far in! Such a gown on me would look"— she laughed roguishly—"not so polite, n'est-ce pas?"

  Amused by the girl's description of her rich little figure, Sophia had to admit it was true to an extent. The pale-green silken sheath that clung to her own body with soft and revealing sleekness would seem improper if worn by the more voluptuous Genevieve. She lifted her arms for the overskirt. The darker green net allowed the sheath to be seen, but tantalizingly, sometimes revealing very little, sometimes allowing her slender shape to be quite visible. With a jade pendant about her throat and carven jade drops dangling from her ears, her beauty was inescapable.

  Genevieve, adjusting the back of the overskirt, was speaking of Lord Bodwin's unexpected arrival. "He have come to fetch us back to his big mansion. Poor Phinny is lonely, you know. He say the roads are affreux—er—how you say?"

  "Horrid," Sophia translated. "Then how did he reach here?"

  They started toward the hall together, and Genevieve answered, "He have the estate magnifique just this side of the Toll Road, so he can journey by the new road my Camille have build for some of the ways. And whatever happen to be the weather, when Phinny want something—" She shrugged expressively. "But you will know him better than I, perhaps…?"

  "I know only that he is one of the richest men in England. But—wasn't there something not too long ago? Some sadness in his life?"

  "Ah, yes—his nephew. Did you not know Irvin? Such a wild creature, that one. He and Damon were fine friends and once come to see me in Copenhagen. They take me out—oh! What a night was that! My cousin was jolly then, Sophia." She grimaced fiercely. "Not like now he is! They have behave very naughty." She paused as they came to the top of the stairs and, catching Sophia's arm, said, "We go into a club, and you know what they do, those bad boys? They have all the wineglasses put on a shelf, and Irvin, he say Damon must give him the—how you say? Arm-hat—something like these?"

  Sophia knit her brows, then, starting down the stairs, laughed, "Oh, you mean handicap."

  "Bon!" Laughing merrily at her own mistake, Genevieve linked her arm through Sophia's. "How clever you are to unwound my so bad language. So this 'handicap,' as you say it, was that Irvin will shoot all the glasses through their fat tummies, while my Damon he must shoot all the stems, and whoever reach the end of the line first have to pay nothing for the evening. To make it, as they say, 'not so easy,' they blow out all the lights but one candle! And then—oh, horrifique! The noise! Worse than my Damon's working peoples! But everyone they laugh, and make the big wagers, so I do this, also!"

  "Lud! They must have wrecked the place! Who won?"

  "Damon, of course! And I win five hundred francs! Irvin, he shoot nicely. But my Damon—no one shoot like him!" She paused, and her eyes, staring down at the empty Great Hall, had lost all merriment. "Poor dear Irvin. He have the most silly accident a few months since. He clean his pistol, and it go off!" She shivered. "So young and so dead. No war, no illness, no duel. Just—pouff! He is gone, and his poor uncle left to mourn him."

  "How dreadful! But Lord Bodwin does not look to be in black gloves?"

  "No—this is not Irvin's way. He say people who grieve for their men lost in the wars weep for themselves—not their loved ones, who go on to better living. Phinny honour that credo and will have no wailing at his Hall." She sighed and added slowly, "Sometimes, I think our Phinny is—"

  "Genevieve! Thank heaven!" Lady Branden stood on the balcony behind them, her wrapper clutched about her, a broken feather dangling beside her left ear, one hand held to her brow. "Oh, how I need my maids! That horrid Phinny Bodwin is squirming, if my thoughts reach him! For God's sake, come and put your drunken Aunt back together, love—else Damon, the wretch, will never cease to quiz me!"

  Genevieve flew to aid the stricken lady. Watching her slip a comforting arm about the large waist, Sophia thought how delightful they were, each in her own fashion, and could not be sorry she had come.

  Continuing down the stairs, she sniffed. The aroma wafting from the kitchen proclaimed that Genevieve's chickens were almost done. She must look to her souffle.

  Order had been restored; the kitchen looked as immaculate as ever, and the smells were truly delicious. She was a little taken aback to find the Marquis standing beside the sink in deep converse with Mr. Thompson. Mrs. Hatters, busily peeling potatoes, hummed to herself, and none of the three noticed Sophia enter.

  "… the portrait of my mother," said Damon, "so I told him it had been sent to be cleaned. Now you must not forget, Jack, it—" He stopped as the valet's gaze alerted him.

  Sophia, watching closely as he swung toward her, saw admiration come into his face and as quickly vanish. Then he strolled to inspect her through his detestable quizzing glass and drawled, "I protest, ma'am, you'll have us poor gentlemen quite unable to notice the food you've so cleverly prepared."

  She was no less impressed and thought his artfully tumbled dark hair became him admirably, while the jacket of bottle-green superfine fit his shoulders to perfection and emphasized the depth of those vivid eyes. But she also suspected his praise to be a hollow mockery and therefore shrugged, "Any such omission after our inspired labours, my lord, would rate instant death!"


  He smiled. "One can only hope that the results of your inspired labours do not have a similar effect."

  "Oh! What a wretched thing to say!"

  "I am a wretched man, my lady, who puts his guests to work."

  She assured him loftily that there was no least need for him to feel beholden. It had been, she said, a most rewarding experience. "For when I set up my own household, I shall have a better understanding of the problems to be encountered in a kitchen."

  Mrs. Hatters, having spent over an hour cleaning up the wreckage, cast her eyes to heaven at this.

  "And do you," asked Damon thoughtfully, "anticipate setting up your own household in the near future, ma'am?"

  Sophia lowered her eyes. This kind of flirting was so familiar. "I am well past my come-out, sir. It is time I was looking to my future."

  "Cheer up, ma'am," he said kindly. "I think you carry your years very well."

  Her meekly bowed head flung upward, wrath flaming in her eyes. The Viper was surveying her critically through his glass. "On the other hand," he mused, "does one chance to be a silly goose…"

  Mrs. Hatters dropped her potato.

  "You," spluttered Sophia, "are—are—intolerable!"

  "I suspect you are right," he sighed. "Only—he does not think so."

  "He?"

  "Horatio," he said innocently. "Why—whom did you think I meant?"

  A muffled snort came from the direction of the sink. Sophia blushed to the roots of her hair.

  "Horatio," Damon went on, his eyes dancing, "has voiced the only criticism of which I am aware. Do you not agree, Millie?"

  Mrs. Hatters, however, had recalled an urgent errand and was whisking into the hall.

  "Alas," Damon said, "she apparently does not. But do not despair, dear ma'am. Such a cook as yourself shall not remain for long on the—er—shelf."

  "You… offer me hope… to cling to," she grated. And resisting the urge to bare her teeth at him, she crossed to where the saucepans were hung. She had intended to take one down and deftly slip her white sauce into it, shattering him with her competence. Unfortunately, they were all hung so high