Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 6

  Her housekeeper, Hettie Adams, had run out to meet her on the terrace of her loved Singlebirch. Sophia had been kissed, wept over, drawn inside, and there told the shattering news that the Viscount had joined a crack hussar regiment three months earlier. Her Mama had refused to impart this information for fear she would feel duty bound to terminate her happy stay in Italy and come home. Still struggling to absorb these facts, she had been ill prepared for the shock of learning that the Viscount had fought in the great battle and even now lay severely wounded in his room. She would never know how she had concealed her heartbreak when she first saw the dashing half-brother she had grown up worshipping. The loss of his right arm at the elbow had been a bitter blow to the athletic young man, but he'd borne it bravely and, had greeted her with a loving, though weak, smile and a show of spirit that had inspired her to fight tears away and attempt to emulate his own courage.

  In the days that followed, he had seemed to improve. A week later, however, an infection had set in, necessitating a more severe amputation. It had been a ghastly experience, both physically and mentally. Whitthurst, already weakened, had lost heart, and Sophia had been faced with a full-scale battle for his life. She had waged it well, and now he was much improved. He was certainly not hardy enough, however, to go jauntering about all over the countryside in inclement weather. That he had even essayed the journey was surprising. His long and painful illness had taken much of his spirit. He always had a cheery word for her, but too often she would find him staring into space with a sad emptiness in his eyes. His boundless energy was gone, and he seemed to lack all desire to return, however gradually, into the society he had once so loved.

  Sophia thought wistfully of their earlier years. Such happy years… Mama, joyful and proud of the children she adored;Papa, always good natured; Stephen, brimming with vitality, constantly involved in some madcap scheme and as constantly in hot water. During his Oxford years, she had railed at him for his wildness, but he'd continued on his merry way, ever the Corinthian. When his studies were over, they had ridden together, hunted together, partied together. Steve had been amused by her devastating effect upon his friends, proud of her popularity, but horrified by her brief, early marriage. And then dear Papa had died very suddenly, and Stephen had become the head of the family. The Peninsula campaign had been raging in full fury, and, longing to go, he had promised his grieving stepmother he would not do so. A year later, Signor Bertolini had made Sophia his dazzling offer to join his family in Italy for further studies. It had been Stephen who, knowing how desperately she wanted to go, had ridden roughshod over her doubts and practically carried her onto the packet. She could see him still, standing on the dock, waving. Tall and strong and handsome. Her eyes blurred with painful tears. He would never wave that arm again.

  The Marquis, his powerful hands about her throat, was forcing her back over the steps in the catacombs, toward those hideous broken railings below… A series of crashing discords woke her. Starting bolt upright, her heart pounding frenziedly, she stared at the faint glow surrounding the curtains. That was not Damon playing! Whatever else, the Marquis was a musician par excellence. She winced before another onslaught, turned up the wick of the lamp, and looked to the ormolu clock on the mantle. Half past two o'clock! It occurred to her suddenly that Horatio must be stamping about on the keyboard. But with a house full of company, why did no one attempt to stop the wretched bird? Pulling the pillow over her head, she lay there, seething with rage. She began to contemplate various ways of dealing with the feathered musician. They progressed in violence until, as time ticked past, there was nothing for it but to slaughter the monster!

  She gave a sigh of relief as the bizarre concert ceased, but just as she was dropping into an exhausted slumber, another crashing chord sent her heart leaping into her throat. It was the outside of enough!

  Two minutes later, burning with fury despite the frigid atmosphere, she marched along the hall, candle in one hand, poker in the other, her dressing gown buttoned up tightly, a cap neatly arranged over her hair. All was still...And suddenly she knew why. The music room was directly below her! And her bedchamber undoubtedly shared the same chimney! That Machiavellian housekeeper had known her master allowed his sadistic pet to dance on the harpsichord in the small hours of the morning! Disregarding the fact that it had been her own insistence that had resulted in her occupation of the bedchamber, Sophia hastened on, the trumpets of war soundlessly blaring her advance, murder in her heart.

  Throwing open the door to the music room, she swept in, poker held high, prepared to separate one goose from his musical aspirations.

  The Marquis sat at the harpsichord. He wore no jacket and frowned (understandably!) as his long fingers moved firmly and unfortunately over the keys. Sophia halted, stupefied by the fact that even he could be so inconsiderate as to perpetrate such an uproar at this hour. His fist pounded down with a crash. He ran his fingers through his already rumpled hair in a gesture of furious impatience and grated, "Blast and damn the stupid thing!"

  Horatio, snoozing on the rug before the fire, woke with a start, caught sight of Sophia's warlike pose, gave a screeching honk, trundled to the far corner of the room, and disappeared behind the drapes.

  With lightning reaction, the Marquis sprang to his feet and spun around, a grim scowl on his face. To Sophia's horror, a long-barrelled and wicked-looking pistol had apparently leapt into his hand and was aimed unwaveringly at her heart.

  For an instant, they stared at one another. Then the pistol was whisked from sight. "Ah…" he smiled. "Charades…!"

  Recovering her wits somewhat but still trembling, she lowered the poker.

  "Let me think…" He picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. "It could not be Boadicea, for you have no helmet, unless… that so charming cap?"

  "W-why"—she breathed faintly, ignoring his nonsense,— "did you p-point that ugly… thing at me?"

  He stepped towards her but stopped as she backed away. "We have had some thievery, ma'am. 'Pon my word, but your energy astounds me! I'd have thought that after such a tiring day you would be sound asleep."

  "So would I," she said, her heart settling back into place once more. "When I heard the… noise, I thought Horatio was jumping about on the keys. I see now that I was mistaken."

  He contemplated the upward tilt of her little nose and said gravely, "Most mistaken, my lady. He has been known to waddle, has made a few attempts at flying, and occasionally, I believe, might be said to rush. But I honestly cannot say I have ever seen him—jump."

  That disconcerting dance of mirth was in his eyes. But she was not going to be taken in again. "I regret the error," she said coldly.

  "Ah, but are you quite sure, ma'am?"

  "Your pardon?"

  He took another step towards her. "I have"—out went his hands in a charmingly Gallic gesture—"a sort of—er—je ne sais quoi…"

  Sophia was obliged to remind herself sternly that this was the same vicious man who had so cruelly teased her in the catacombs. But she could not resist asking, "About me, uncle?"

  "Mais non—niece. About Horatio."

  She affected disinterest, and he went on. "Perhaps it is that, had it not been for my presence, my faithful friend might have joined his feathery ancestors this night And with no picture gallery to assure his immortality!"

  "Good God!" she gasped. "I never meant to kill—er—well, that is to say, I would not have! It was just that awful uproar!"

  "Alas. My music does not please you."

  "Nor you, evidently. To judge by your profanity."

  Immediately, he was all seriousness. "Your pardon, Lady Sophia. I trust you will believe I'd not heard you come in."

  "Of course. You could not possibly have done so." She gave a weary sigh and, lowering her lashes, said nobly, "I shall leave you to your… practising, my lord, and try to get some sleep." Looking up with saintly martyrdom, she discovered not repentance but a near grin on his face and was hard put to it not to abandon
her tragic pose and favour him with one of her famous set downs.

  "That I should disturb your slumbers, dear lady, cuts me to the heart," he mourned, entering her drama by resting one hand gracefully upon his chest. "However, since this house is built like a fortress, I cannot quite understand how my miserable stumblings should disturb you, had you been tucked beneath the covers of your—most fortunate bed."

  His twinkling eyes travelled her dressing gown. She pulled the neck closer, an unnecessary movement since she was far more fully clad than she had been at dinner. "Sounds," she snapped, forgetting her meekness, "travel up the chimney!"

  Abruptly, all traces of humour vanished from his face. "Mrs. Hatters put you in my mother's room? Now truly this is unforgivable! Of course, you were awakened! My profound apologies, ma'am. I shall be silent as the grave." He bowed, but with anger lurking in his eyes.

  "You are all consideration," she murmured. "I bid you goodnight, sir. And pray convey my apologies to Horatio."

  With this Parthian shot, she turned away, feeling very much the conquering heroine. A loud "Honk" tarnished her glory. Flushed, she glanced back. Horatio's head protruded from beneath the drapes, the folds wrapped like a great cloak around his long neck. The Marquis stood, hands on hips, watching her, his teeth a white flash in his dark face. He strode to the door and swung it open, and she fled, her cheeks scarlet.

  At the stairs, she paused. How angry he had looked when he'd discovered that Mrs. Hatters had given her the Duchess's room. His temper certainly matched those eyebrows, and it had not been Mrs. Hatters' fault. She retraced her steps. On the threshold of the music room, she stopped. The Marquis was seated at the harpsichord, leaning forward, his tousled head bowed onto arms that were crossed upon the edge of the lid. He looked a man totally defeated. Confused and unable to cope with such puzzling behaviour, she hurried away.

  Sophia's second awakening was scarcely more propitious than her first. Her bed appeared to lift into the air, shake, and bounce back to the floor again. She gave a gasp, sat up, and then quailed as another crash shook the room. A sudden flood of sunlight blinded her, and she threw up one hand to shade her eyes.

  "Good morning, m'lady," said a soft, husky voice.

  Charlotte Hilby's maid, wearing a cap over her soft brown curls and with a welcoming smile lighting her blue eyes, placed a tray across Sophia's knees and imparted that it was past eleven o'clock and the workmen "hard at it." The tray held toast and jam, a soft boiled egg, a pot of tea, and, beside the monogrammed serviette, a crystal vase containing a red rose. She took up the rose and admired its rich fragrance.

  "Lord Damon picked it special for 'ee," Nancy volunteered

  Instantly remarking that it was full of ants, Sophia requested the bloom be removed. Nancy peered curiously at the antless rose, and while pouring her tea, Sophia said a hurried "How very kind in Miss Hilby to allow you to help me. Did Lady Branden and Mademoiselle de la Montaigne bring their maids, also?"

  "No, m'lady. We was only thinking to stay one night, and Lord Bodwin said he could be sure they'd go back if their abigails was at the Hall." She frowned a little. "So here be I, and not a body to talk to save for Mrs. Hatters and Ariel. And he…" She sighed and, searching through the press, asked, "Will you be wanting your habit, m'lady? They others has gone riding."

  Sophia declined the chance for a ride and chose a morning dress that Nancy hurried away to iron. To the accompaniment of much pounding and hammering, Sophia finished her breakfast, then got out of bed and crossed to the windows. The wide lawns, bathed in bright sunshine, sloped down to an enticing fringe of flower gardens, among which a fountain played. Behind was a long line of birches, and beyond those the countryside spread in low tree-rich hills, girded by the sparkle of the river. Under her windows were the terrace and steps from which she had watched the Marquis struggle to retrieve his music in yesterday's storm. A drive path ran along the foot of the terrace, dividing at each side of the house to continue to the front and also winding away on both sides of the back lawn until it was concealed by the slope of the hill to the left and vanished among some trees to the right.

  "Why," she murmured in surprise, "it's lovely!"

  From behind her, the returning Nancy agreed and, upon learning that her ladyship had not visited the Priory before, confessed with a meaningful giggle that she and Miss Hilby had been here "lots o' times."

  With a sudden and uncharacteristic streak of Puritanism, Sophia decided that Nancy was given to making lewd remarks. However, the girl was also pleasant, willing, and deft, and in no time Sophia was dressed and her hair arranged into clustered curls beside her small ears. Her lilac gingham was a pretty thing, if a little out of the present style, the lowcut bodice having a set-in bib, a white froth of lace that tapered to a snug waist below which the full skirt swept out over several petticoats. She wore no jewellery save for a large amethyst ring that had been a gift from her brother. She touched it tenderly, wondering how he was faring on this beautiful autumn morning.

  In the Great Hall a polite but decidedly unfriendly Thompson informed her that the master had not gone riding. His advice as to where "the master" was was lost in a burst of shouting and hammering that emanated from a room at the head of the south wing. Sophia gave him one of her most bewitching smiles and made her way to the rear terrace.

  It was a heavenly morning, the sunlight warm, the air like wine. She felt refreshed and lighthearted as she wandered down the steps and across the lawns toward the flower beds. She turned back then to survey the house. From this vantage point it appeared even larger than she had supposed and much less gloomy. The lawns rose humplike behind each wing of the house in two long mounds that stretched out beyond the slope of the hill like crumbling arms, digging deep into the ground.

  "Those," said a familiar deep voice at her elbow, "are the upper levels of the catacombs."

  The Marquis wore dark-brown corduroy breeches and an open-throated white shirt, the collar folding back over a leather hunting jacket. He carried a gun over his left arm but had no game bag, nor was he accompanied by either loader or dog, which she thought peculiar.

  He scanned her appreciatively and observed that she appeared to have enjoyed a good night's sleep despite its interruptions. She assured him that she had scarcely slept a wink, but the twinkle in his eyes so flustered her that she added hurriedly, "Is it not rather unusual to name a home after a crab?"

  "Perhaps. But it was built in reverse, you see. The kitchens and servants' halls are at the front. The main rooms of the house, to the rear."

  He turned as he spoke to survey the rambling building. Pride came into his face, and she realized he loved the Priory. With an effort she tore her gaze from him and turned, also, to the house. "Surely it was built to embrace the view," she mused. "Whoever designed it catered to beauty rather than custom. And very wisely. It is much prettier to the west."

  He was silent, but she sensed that he was pleased. His eyes were on her again, and her heart began to beat faster.

  With nervousness, of course. "The rooms you have remodelled are perfectly lovely," she remarked. "Do you really intend to restore the entire building?"

  "Money thrown away?" he asked, with a faintly sardonic smile.

  She thought of the fortune her father had squandered and of Esther Clay's foolishness that now caused her husband to be shadowed by the fear of shame and imprisonment, and a frown touched her brow.

  "Alas," he sighed. "Again, you do not approve."

  Irritated, she flashed, "I can think of no reason why you should seek my humble opinion, my lord."

  "No more can I," he shrugged carelessly.

  She gave an outraged gasp, then saw that his eyes twinkled at her through those long thick lashes and that a grin hovered about the corners of his mouth. He looked at her fully, his smile widening. "However," he went on, "in view of my advancing years and our relationship, humour your poor old uncle, I beg."

  Why must he be so changeable? One moment cold and insult
ing, and in the next, displaying such devastating charm? He had maggots in his attic, that was the reason! He belonged in Bedlam! She determined to toss her head and walk regally away and was considerably surprised to hear herself saying, "I think it would be tragic to let it decay further. Already the library is delightful, the music room very fine, and the main dining room a joy."

  Delighted, he asked with boyish eagerness, "Which is your favourite?"

  She was tempted to answer "the Great Hall," which had not been restored and which she thought hideous. But for Clay's sake, she considered and said at last, "My bedroom. It especially has been decorated with love, I think."

  His face became closed. "Thank you," he said, the words rather clipped. "My father had it remodelled many years ago.. For my mother. I have kept it maintained, but it was his plan, not mine."

  Disconcerted, she asked if she might see the stables. He brightened and, telling her it was a rather unusual arrangement, led her across the lawn, skirting the jutting bulk of the basements and continuing around to the north wing.

  It was indeed unusual. The slope fell sharply away on this side, exposing part of the catacombs that had been converted into stables. A yard had been built around the area, with shrubs and young trees planted to conceal it from the front approach. The stalls looked clean and neat, and many fine horses were here.

  Damon halted when they were still some distance away. Clay, dressed for riding, was talking animatedly with one of the grooms, and Sophia's heart lifted. She watched him with both affection and admiration, noting which, the man beside her scowled.

  Beaming, Clay came toward them. Sophia slipped her hands into his, and he kissed her cheek and wished her a good morning. "Egad, Damon," he said, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm, "You've some dashed fine hunters here. That bay stallion's splendid!"