Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly Read online

  "Oh… Simon!" She choked over the words and flew to kneel at his side, clasp his drooping hand and hold it tightly. "I am so sorry! I should have written and warned you, but—it seemed… I just could not!"

  "I understand. Have you… er—seen him?"

  She shook her head, her lips quivering.

  "My third. She has called him William, I hear." A pucker appeared between his brows. "After whom, I wonder…" His sister remaining silent, he stared blankly at his glass for a moment, then drew a hand across his eyes and muttered half to himself, "I wish they did resemble me, you know."

  Euphemia knew then how very tired he was, or, close as they were, he would never have voiced so betraying a remark. "Belinda does, dear," she reminded huskily.

  He sat straighter at once, his eyes brightening. "Yes, by gad! I must go down and see the little lass. Is she well? Una has that good nurse still, I—" He had forgotten his injury in his eagerness, and leaned forward too sharply. He broke off with a gasp, then finished a rather uneven, "I… trust."

  Euphemia stood at once. "Belinda is healthy as a horse, which is more than I can say for her papa! You, sir, shall go nowhere until you have spent at least the next three days allowing your doting sister to pamper, cosset, and altogether ruin you with kindness!"

  Euphemia's blissful expectations of keeping her favourite brother beside her for three days were exceeded beyond her wildest dreams. Exhausted by the journey home and shattered by the news that had greeted him, Buchanan suffered a setback; the shoulder refused to mend properly, and two weeks later the deities at the Horse Guards were still withholding their consent for his return to active duty. He came home from the most recent of his medical examinations with the word that his leave had been extended to January, at least. Euphemia was elated, but he viewed her joy glumly, for, although he knew he was not in fit condition to get back into action, he fretted against the wound that kept him in England while his comrades of the Light Division were in the thick of the fighting.

  Tristram Leith visited the New House before his own return to France and, as usual, renewed his offer for Euphemia's hand. Buchanan, who wholeheartedly approved Leith's suit, was not excluded from the proceedings and urged his sister not to accept such a great gudgeon for a husband, even did he go down on his knees. Grinning broadly through Leith's warnings of a horrid end, he complained that the children of such a union must dwarf their poor, averaged-sized uncle. Euphemia considered her large suitor curiously and, with a pronounced lack of the blushes and shy posturing the situation justly warranted, enquired if he would propose upon his knees. Ever the gallant, Leith at once made a great show of dusting the immaculate floor and dropping his handkerchief upon it, and she stopped him in the nick of time, by asking whether the life of a country squire would really suit him.

  "Country…'s-squire" he echoed, dismay written clearly upon his handsome features. "Oh, dash it, Mia, you would not wish me to resign my commission?"

  Such a prospect would have delighted her, but she was not the type to attempt to remodel the man she chose and thus merely pointed out, "But you have such a delightful estate in Berkshire. And only think of how happy your Papa would be did you settle down at Cloudhills and provide him with all the peace of the country, broken only by the patter of little feet, to brighten his declining years."

  How she had managed to keep a straight face while she said this, she did not know. Leith's mercurial sire had once been described by the Countess Lieven as "the most confirmed here-and-thereian" of that lady's acquaintance and would have fainted had such a prospect been painted for him. Wherefore, Buchanan gave a whoop of mirth, and it was a full minute before Leith was sufficiently recovered to gasp out the shaken observation that Mia would never do so frightful a thing to a "poor gentleman!"

  Euphemia burst into her delightful ripple of laughter and confirmed this, adding a fond, "Nor to you, my dear Leith. For although you are quite definitely a matrimonial prize of the first stare and such as no lady in possession of her faculties would refuse, we would not suit at all, you know."

  He protested this verdict in a lighthearted fashion that concealed his total devotion and, finding her amused but unmoved, sighed disconsolately, "Alas, The Unattainable remains so! I warn you, Fair One, I shall try again."

  "On the day you come to me in smock and gaiters, Tristram," she smiled, "I may take your proposal seriously. But—"

  The thought of the dashing Colonel thus clad sent Buchanan into hysterics, and soon they were all enjoying a merry half hour of their customary easy raillery. But Leith's laughing eyes saw more than they appeared to, and he left Hill Street secure in the knowledge that if his admired Euphemia was not yet ready to wed him, neither had she given her heart to any other.

  Sir Simon, however, took a less amiable view of the matter, and the moment Leith's fiery chestnut stallion had pranced, danced, jumped, and sidled his high-bred way around the corner, he went shivering back into the house and proceeded to take his sister to task for rejecting so unexceptionable a suitor. "Indeed, Mia," he said severely, warming his hands at the fire, "you must be all about in your attic! London positively bulges with young ladies who would swoon with joy did Leith so much as glance in their direction."

  "You know," she mused thoughtfully, "you are right." Buchanan's hopes rose, and she went on, "I seem to recall that the mere sight of him in his full-dress uniform once sent Miss Bridges to the boards in a dead faint."

  Her mischievous smile won a stormy reception, her brother advising her that Alice Bridges had ever been a silly goose. "But you are not," he went on, "and must certainly be aware of how splendid a fellow he is."

  "He is indeed. Though not always to his subalterns, I hear. And—"

  "I have yet to hear Leith rage at his officers or his men, unless they did something damn ridiculous!"

  "—And," she resumed, serenely ignoring his bristling defensiveness, "is not in love with me, my dear. Oh, he thinks he is, I grant you. Or…" Her smooth brow wrinkled, "Or is it, I wonder, that he feels we are such very good friends, and I might make him an agreeable wife. He was impressed, you know, when I accompanied Papa on his last campaign." Her brother's eyes saddened at this reference to the so-missed gentleman who had been their father, and she went on quickly, "But neither am I in love with Tris, though I do love him— never doubt it."

  "What a romantic," he teased. "And do you mean to wait for the one and only man in the world who can claim your heart? Terribly bourgeois, m'dear!"

  "Poor Simon, to think you have nurtured a bourgeois sister to your bosom all these years and never known it."

  "Oh, have I not! You and your poems and romances! How well I remember Miss Springhall grieving lest you become a bluestocking!"

  "Yes, and peeping into my books herself, so soon as she fancied me asleep! But it was in one of those books that I came across a little rhyme…" She rarely experienced shyness with this loved brother, but now she looked down at the hands folded in her lap, and rather diffidently recited. " 'Riches or beauty shall ne'er win me. Gentil and strong my love must be.' " Meeting his eyes then, she found them grave and without the mockery she had half expected and, with a faint heightening of the colour in her cheeks, added, "It is very old, of course, but… it fairly describes the man for whom I wait."

  He settled into the nearest chair and, knowing that she was deadly serious, pointed out gently, "And fairly describes Leith. On all counts. Is it possible, little puss, that you love him and are as yet not aware of it?"

  "When I meet the man who will claim my heart," she answered, looking at him in her level way, "I think I shall know him at once."

  She probably would, he thought. And having a shrewd idea of how deep was Leith's tendre for her, experienced a pang of regret. "What if you should not find this peerless individual?"

  "Why, then I shall die a maid. For I mean to be quite sure, you see, that I will love as deeply as I am loved." She had spoken lightly, thinking of Tristram, but had no sooner uttered the wo
rds than she could have bitten her tongue, knowing how Simon would interpret her remark. She was correct.

  "Admirable," he said slowly. "God knows, I only wish I—" He checked, frowned, and finished, "—wish I may be allowed to give you away."

  She managed a bright, "Certainement," and moved to poke up the fire and conceal her distress. Simon had visited Buchanan Court twice since his return. On the first occasion he had come home almost feverishly cheerful and told her that Belinda was adorable and his wife looking lovely as ever. He had not stayed, he explained airily, because the house was so dashed full of people he scarcely knew, he'd decided he would recuperate more rapidly in Town. The second visit had been at the beginning of the week, and he had as yet said nothing of it. "I should not ask, I know," she said, still turned away from him. "But—what do you mean to do?"

  Buchanan leaned back in his chair, staring through the window at the gray November skies and the frost that still clung to the rooftops across the street. He had no wish to discuss it. He wished only to return to the fighting—to forget himself and his troubles amid the hardships, the incredible camaraderie, and the wild excitement of battle. But Euphemia must be told the truth, and so, with slow reluctance, he said, "I believe when I first went down, I… disappointed her. For an instant, when she came into the drawing room, she looked at me—" He bit his lip. "She said what a surprise to see me, when she had supposed the new arrival was someone come to… to tell her she was widowed."

  Euphemia blenched and for a moment did not trust herself to speak.

  "On Tuesday," he went on quietly, "I asked her for a divorce."

  Contrary to his expectation of an appalled protest, his sister gave a cry of delight and spun around. "Oh! I am so glad! If she could say such a thing as that, I would think she'd welcome a divorce!"

  He smiled the faint, twisted smile that hurt her and shrugged, "She has no fancy to become notorious, it seems."

  "Oh! Has she not!"

  "Her affaires de coeur are, so she tells me, conducted with tact and discretion. Meanwhile, she likes her title, and Buchanan Court, and the house on the Square. And she likes the allowance I make her."

  Euphemia moved closer to him, flinging out one hand in her agitation. "Then in the name of God—stop it! Sell the house! And divorce her! Heaven knows you have grounds enough!"

  "Lord, how I wish it were that simple!" Buchanan's head bowed onto one clenched fist, and he groaned, "I cannot! If you but knew how many nights I have lain awake… cursing my folly!"

  "No, no, love," she cried, coming swiftly to kneel beside his chair. "How shall you blame yourself? Tina was so very beautiful. Even now, wherever she goes, people stare as though—"

  "Yes. I know. And have you seen her when she rides in the barouche with Johnny on one side of her and Belinda on the other, both in velvet and lace, and her gown and bonnet to match? She looks holy almost! A dream of motherhood such as would cause Lawrence to dash madly for easel and palette. Whilst I—" He gave a despairing gesture.

  "You? A splendid military record! A spotless reputation!"

  "Would to God it were! Oh, Mia! You have the veriest clodpole for a brother!" He drew a hand across his eyes distractedly, and Euphemia waited, a small crease between her brows, and apprehension tightening her nerves.

  "That first summer you and Papa were in Spain," he said at length. "I contracted a stupid fever. Do you recall? I came home—totally unexpectedly—and found Tina with… with James Garvey."

  "Good God! The Nonpareil? The same Garvey who is so close a friend of the Regent?"

  "The same. It was my first intimation that my lovely bride was not the pure saint I had supposed." For a moment his eyes were very sad. Then, as if recalling himself, he went on, "At all events, I threw Garvey from the house. Bodily. He was enraged and swore he'd call me to book, but never did. Tina and I quarrelled bitterly, and I took the children—Belinda was four then, and John, two—and brought them here. Mrs. Craft hired a nursemaid who was—young… and…" His eyes flickered and fell, and he went on haltingly, "She was a taking little thing. And I was angry, and lonely. No excuse, of course, but…" He stole a look at his sister's face and, finding only compassion there, groaned, "How could I have been so stupid? One of the maids told Ernestine's abigail that I had installed my particular in the house. With my children! Tina came at once, like an avenging angel. She brought her solicitor and— and the curate! You should have seen her—she was superb. Outraged purity, personified. The betrayed wife… the grieving mother. I could do nothing. I had no legal proof of her behavior, whereas she had a witness ready to swear to mine."

  Momentarily aghast, Euphemia made a swift recovery and exclaimed, "But surely this is ridiculous. Ernestine has borne three children, only one of which is your own! If that were to be made public… !"

  "I had leaves, don't forget. Whatever I suspect, I can prove nothing. And I'll admit, Tina has been very discreet."

  "Discreet!" she snorted. "Yet Wellington himself intimated—"

  "Nothing that could be construed to be any more than a partiality for you." He stood, paced restlessly to the fireplace and, leaning his left hand on the mantle, muttered, "Even so, what a lovely mess it would be, eh? Her revelations of my 'sordid depravity.' My accusations of her adultery. Good God! Papa would turn in his grave! And the children, poor mites, would be marked forever!"

  Aching for him, she asked, "Does she threaten to drag it all into the public eye?"

  "Only if I persist in asking for a divorce. Can you not picture her in court? Fixing a judge with those lovely eyes. Letting her mouth droop in that helpless way she has? I would be made to seem a fine villain! And does she persuade Garvey to bring influence to bear against me through Prinny, as she says he will gladly do, I will be in worse case, and likely have to resign my commission. We would be ostracized. Can you imagine the effect upon the family? Great Aunt Lucasta… ?" He shuddered. "And my brothers. And—you especially. Even did you find your 'gentil and strong' love, he'd not marry into so shocking a family!"

  "Much I would care for that!" she cried loyally. "For was he so easily put off, he'd not be the right one." But she was taking inventory and it was not a pleasant task. One by one she counted off aunts and uncles who might be counted on for an outraged reaction. As to their immediate family, Robert, who was at Eton would likely think it a great lark, but Gerald… She shrank a little. In his first year at Cambridge, sensitive, shy, and vulnerable, Gerald would be horrified. She felt crushed and defeated and forebore to mention their sister Mary, whose husband was newly ordained. Helplessly, she asked, "Is there someone else you care for?"

  He shook his head, but a bleak look came into his eyes, and, searching that pale, wistful face, she cried, "Oh, mon pauvre! you still love her?"

  He tried to look nonchalant, failed miserably and, walking to the window, said in a tormented voice, "I think I despise her. I know I do. But… when I see her… She is so damnably beautiful, and I remember those first months…" For a moment he was silent, then muttered heavily, "Did I not tell you, Mia? You have the veriest clodpole for a brother."

  Chapter 2

  Buchanan looked up from the copy of the Gazette that was propped against the marmalade dish and, with a lift of the brows, enquired, "Whom do we know in Kent?"

  "Not in Kent, dear," said Euphemia patiently. She waved a scented sheet of paper at him. "You were not listening. Aunt Lucasta writes to invite us to Meadow Abbey for Christmas."

  "Meadow Abbey ain't in Kent," he pointed out sapiently. "I can see you need a change of scene, poor girl. Been in Town too long. You're getting windmills in your attic!"

  She laughed. "I admit that. No, Simon, do pray forget the newspaper for a moment and pay heed to your addle-brained sister. Should you purely loathe spending Christmas with Great Aunt Lucasta?"

  He considered this carefully. It would be a change of scene for both of them. On the other hand, it was a long way, and the winter unusually cold. "What about the boys? And Mary, and th
at prosy fellow she married?"

  "Gerald and Robert can go straight from school, and Mary has already accepted. Oh, Simon, it would be nice, do you not think? The Abbey is such a lovely old place, and Aunt Lucasta sets a magnificent table."

  It was a telling stroke. "Yes, she does," he agreed. "But—it ain't in—"

  "Kent!" cried Euphemia, starting to her feet.

  Although startled by such vehemence, Buchanan also stood politely. His surprise was heightened as a small boy tore across the breakfast room to halt before Euphemia like a well-trained horse that strains at the bit, yet knows it dare not take one step further.

  Euphemia bent to smile into that glowing face and pull the boy into a hug that was crushingly returned. "Welcome home!" she said gaily. Then, detaching his clutch from her skirts, took him by the shoulders and, turning him, added, "Simon, this is my page. Kent, you must make your bow to my brother, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan."

  Utterly astonished, Buchanan responded to the mystifying hint of warning in her eyes and, bestowing his charming smile upon the boy, said, "How do you do, young fella? You'd best take off that scarf. It's warm in here."

  The grey eyes became huge in the child's thin, peaked face. Having obediently unwound the scarf from about his neck, he bobbed a nervous bow and retreated a step toward Euphemia's skirts, the unblinking and awed stare still riveted to Sir Simon.

  "Kent has been down in Surrey," said Euphemia. "Mrs. Craft took him to her son's farm."

  Baffled, he said, "How er—nice. Did you like the farm, Kent?"

  A nod was his only reply.

  "He loves animals," explained Euphemia, and again the boy nodded.

  "Well, that's splendid." The wide stare was beginning to disconcert Buchanan and, wondering what in the deuce his sister wanted with a page, and why she should treat him as though he were a long-lost brother, he enquired, "What kind of animals did you find at Mr. Craft's farm?"