Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 7

  "Viking? Then by all means ride him," said the Marquis, looking bored.

  "D'you mean it? I thought perhaps he was your personal— er, I mean…" Clay floundered, his excitement having betrayed him into forgetting the incredible fact that this man, with those legs, never rode.

  Sophia had also been brought up in a household where horses were both a necessity and a passion and found Damon's attitude so incomprehensible that her pose slipped. She eyed him as though he were an oddity, and, very well aware of this, a faint flush stained his cheeks. "Do you never ride at all, my lord?" she asked.

  "I find," he replied with a curl of the lip, "that horses— smell."

  "Good God!" gasped Clay.

  Damon's eyes were solid ice. "Unfortunately, if one spends a great deal of time around such cattle, one tends also to— smell."

  The insult was calculated. It was more than enough to provoke any gentleman to an instant challenge. Clay's jaw set, and he had to bite his tongue to check a furious rejoinder. Sophia, however, was quite unable to restrain herself. "How fortunate, my lord," she said in a brittle tone, "that you have such a love for music, which, however poorly played, does not have an—apparent—odour." Her chin came up as she voiced those fateful words. Her eyes flashed fire. And, once more, she was seized by horrified remorse, while, at her side, Clay felt his heart sink, and he thought a miserable 'That's that!'

  The Marquis, his face enigmatic, bowed perfunctorily, swung away, and walked with his lazy stride past the stables. They watched in miserable silence as he disappeared beyond the line of trees; then Sophia moaned, "Oh, Marcus—I'm so sorry! My wretched temper!"

  He smiled wryly, squeezed her fingers reassuringly, and said, "Don't blame you a bit, love," and, by mutual accord, they started back to the house.

  Distantly, a shout of laughter rang out. Sophia spun around. Two grooms were coming through the trees, their faces alight with mirth. She turned back, not looking at Clay. How ridiculous that she had thought for a minute it had been Damon who laughed. And how even more ridiculous that she had hoped it was so.

  "The thing is, you see," said Clay, shifting uneasily in the comfortable leather chair in Damon's pleasant and well stocked library, "I'm in rather a devilish fix. Quite"—he bit his lip and, forcing pride away, gulped—"under the hatches, to tell the truth."

  The Marquis, watching him thoughtfully through the cloud of smoke that curled up from his favourite pipe, said, "And my revered parent is—ah, reluctant to accommodate you?"

  "Well, he ain't without justification," said Clay honestly. "I'd a considerable fortune but—it all… sort of frittered away."

  "The tables?" Damon asked dryly.

  Clay flushed, and his gaze lowered. "Yes. Matter of fact."

  "How very unwise." There was scorn in the deep voice. Clay gripped his fists very tightly on the arms of his chair and fought to control his rage. Damon all but sneered. "Are you asking me for a loan, Major?"

  "No!" He choked back the 'blast you!' "Only your—help."

  "I see." Quite aware of what this interview must be costing the other man, Damon leaned back his head, watching the smoke drift upward. "How long shall you have to wait for your inheritance if Vaille proves… ah… intractable?"

  "A little over a year."

  "Not so very long, surely?"

  The sardonic tone, the slight lift of those heavy brows sent Clay's nails digging into his palms. "I would not be here… begging," he said hoarsely, "except—two of my creditors won't wait. They've started proceedings for Newgate."

  Damon gave a gasp, and his eyes narrowed, and Clay, hope rekindling, waited.

  "You were at Vitoria and Waterloo, so I understand?". Damon frowned. "And now they want to clap you up? Pretty shabby. Does my father know of it?"

  "The last time I spoke with him, I wasn't quite that badly pressed for blunt. But—well, he was so… that is, I thought, if you—being his son—" Clay bit his lip. "I won't go to the cents-per-centers!" Damon waited with raised eyebrows and a faintly supercilious smile. Clay lunged out of his chair and strode to stand with his back to the fireplace. His nerves shredding at this total humiliation, he almost choked over the plea. "If you'd… put in a good word for me… I'd be most devilish—obliged."

  Damon met those strained brown eyes in thoughtful silence, put down his pipe, and inspected a fingernail. Clay's hands were shaking when at last the Marquis stood, stretched lazily, and sauntered to the reference table. Taking up some papers, he murmured, "Regrettably, I fear I am quite unable to be of assistance to you, sir."

  Clay wrenched around and placed one wet palm on the mantle, staring down into the hearth, knowing this desperate hope was gone. Surely, Damon had not refused him carelessly? Could it be that he was well aware his father had no intention of intervening? With his inexorable and judicial disdain, had Vaille decided a lesson was both deserved and desirable? Clay bit his lip, accepting the bitter fact that he must now throw himself upon the Duke's mercy. Esther's money lender was incurably ill and had no intention of leaving this vale of tears without balancing his accounts to the last farthing. The mantua maker was retiring to Spain and wanted her money at once, believing, apparently, that with him incarcerated, Esther would be driven to raising the cash. If Vaille was immovable, Newgate was inevitable. Newgate! God! That would kill Esther!

  His head came up. He squared his shoulders, turned, and said brightly, "Quite understand. Sorry I bothered you at all," and started for the door, his smile set, his face taut and drained of colour.

  "No bother," said Damon mildly. "Think nothing of it."

  Clay, ignoring him, thought savagely, 'I won't, damn you!' and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Chapter 6

  The smokehouse was situated among some trees a short distance from the north side of the Priory and down a little rolling bank. Sophia was sure she had seen someone enter those trees just a few moments ago. She had only glimpsed the disappearing shadow, but if it was the "Heartless Viper," she intended to confront him.

  She smiled faintly, pleased by this appellation. One way or another they had all been caught in his toils: Mama, herself, her adored brother, and now Marcus, whose gallant attempt to conceal his despair after Damon's refusal to help had wrung her heart. She was not quite sure whether vipers were constrictors, or if they merely bared their fangs, but since Damon did both, she decided to keep his new title. Of one thing she was sure, her words at the stables earlier had resulted in his cruel refusal to aid poor Marcus. If begging his forgiveness would help, she would try it, and with no qualms of conscience, since he had so much to answer for.

  Something struck her calf with painful force. Her shocked yelp was accompanied by a loud hissing, and Horatio rushed past, wings low spread, honking his triumph. Muttering angrily, Sophia inspected the damage and was again startled by a man's shout, followed by a storm of profanity. Uneasy but curious, she crept into the trees, only to halt, staring her astonishment.

  A giant of a man was doubled over just ahead. Upright, he must have been taller than six feet. His white hair curled in a muddled fashion all over his head, while an equally curly beard grew in lush but contained profusion about his chin. His white apron and the linen sack in one huge hand proclaimed him to be the cook, and remembering that Mrs. Hatters had said he was looby, Sophia ventured no closer. He was making odd grunting sounds, and his left arm swung back from time to time, accompanied by breathless cursing. He looked like a berserk gorilla, and, thoroughly frightened, she began to edge away. At once, he stopped moving and bellowed, "Who be there?"

  Her breath fluttering, she prepared to run.

  "Please," he called beseechingly, "if there do be some'un there, will'ee help me?"

  She regarded him uncertainly. He had made no move to attack her, nor did he appear to be foaming at the mouth, which she'd heard was a sure sign of madness in dogs or men—women apparently being spared such unseemly manifestations of dementia. She called a timid identification of herself and ask
ed what was wrong.

  "It's that little bas—er, it's that naughty little goose o' his lordship's," he gasped. "Run 'twixt me legs and made me put me back out good and proper, milady. Ever since I picked up the cannon at Rodrigo, it ain't been the same."

  "Good gracious," she cried, hurrying forward at once, "I am scarce surprised." She stepped around his bulk anxiously. "What can I do, Mr. Ariel?"

  "Deal me a good 'un, ma'am. 'Bout midway 'tween me breadbasket and me shoulder blades, if ee please. Hard like."

  Sophia clenched her fist and, as requested, dealt him a good 'un.

  "Yes," said Ariel encouragingly, "right there, milady. Now don't'ee never worrit, ma'am. Haul off and whack me."

  "I did!" she cried with righteous indignation.

  "You did!" he echoed. "With what?"

  She clenched her fist and shoved it out for his inspection.

  "Oh Lor'…" he groaned. "Well, try again, milady.Put both on 'em together and whack away."

  She clenched her hands tightly, swung her arms down with all her might, and jumped back with a small scream, folding her hands under each arm.

  "Ain't no use," sighed Ariel. "You'll just break them little hands o'yourn."

  "Here," said a soft voice, "I'll help'ee, Mr. Ariel."

  Nancy, armed with a sturdy branch, stepped past and swung the branch high.

  "No!" cried an alarmed Sophia.

  But the branch whipped down and broke with a crack across that broad back.

  Ariel gave a sigh of relief, stood erect, then bent forward a little. "I do truly thank'ee, Miss Nancy," he said with an odd upward tilt of his head.

  "And it do pain ye, I see," she observed kindly. "Let me help'ee. Come now, lean on me. 'Tis bed for ye, Mr. Ariel. My father has the very same kind of back. Why, I remember once…"

  Sophia smiled as they walked away, the cook's massive arm resting carefully across the girl's shoulders, his eyes glued to her face with rapt fascination. It was quite apparent that anyone else had ceased to exist. She gathered up the sack the cook had dropped and followed them back to the house.

  The Priory seemed very quiet and still. Sophia wandered rather disconsolately into the music room and found it as empty as the library had been.

  "The workmen is eating their lunches, m'lady." Nancy's bright face beamed from the doorway. "Big Luke asked me to thank'ee for trying to help him. Doan't ye worrit about him; he's had trouble with his back since he come home from the wars."

  "And you are expert at repairing it, I collect," Sophia teased. "Have you known him long?"

  "Long enough, ma'am." The blushing but firm assertion augured ill for Ariel's continued bachelorhood.

  "Aha." Sophia smiled. "I thought I sensed a fondness."

  "No, ma'am. I love him. And will wed him—when he do ask me proper and civil like. Three times he do have spoken, but…" She took up the hem of her dainty apron and began to roll it between her fingers. Then, a dimple flashing beside her mouth, said shyly, "But—not quite the way I want, y'see."

  "Minx!" laughed Sophia. "So you keep him dangling and sighing for you."

  "What's worth having is worth waiting for, m'lady." Nancy smiled. "And Lord Damon be in the garden."

  Sophia drew herself up, anger bringing a frown to her face. "I fail to perceive your meaning," she said austerely. "Explain, if you please."

  "Oh, ma'am," Nancy whimpered, pale with agitation, "I doan't mean nothing. I only means as how ye'd been looking for my lord earlier! I only thought…" She wrung at her apron, her eyes filling with tears, and fled.

  Staring after her, Sophia was almost equally affected. Why had she become so angry? The pretty creature had meant no harm, and she had frightened her. Probably, she thought with a scowl, the gracious Miss Hilby never said a harsh word to her. Probably, the gracious Miss Hilby never said a harsh word to anyone but drifted through life like an elegant swan, bestowing an aura of serenity on all about her. The Lady Sophia Drayton, on the other hand, rushed tempestuously from pillar to post, always blowing hot or cold but never lukewarm. The last word pleased her and was undoubtedly how Stephen would view Miss Hilby. It was obviously, however, not how my Lord Damon viewed her. Their hands had touched often at dinner the previous evening. Later, during the brisk conversation that had ensued when the gentlemen joined them in the music room, the golden beauty and Damon had several times murmured low-voiced asides to one another. When the Marquis had handed Miss Hilby her candle at the foot of the stairs, he'd bent his dark head to attend her remark, and her hand, placed familiarly on the lapel of his jacket, had patted him with a fondness also reflected very clearly in those limpid green eyes.

  Sophia scowled at the painting that hung over the music room mantle, a small landscape, inadequate for such a large expanse of wall. She suddenly became aware of a workman watching her through the open door, a puzzled expression on his face. Flushing hotly, she all but ran into the garden and crossed the lawns toward the flower beds. Damon was well hidden. And then she heard voices from the clustering young trees between the rose garden and the cutting beds. An angry man was barking in a belligerent tone. "… and wot I want is a answer! Quick like. I ain't got all day, me good John or Tom or Wilbert! Speak up!"

  After a brief silence, Damon's voice, mildly curious, asking, "Wilbert…?"

  "Knowed a fella name of Wilbert. Hod carrier he was. Fell off'n the scaffold an' broke his neck. Wot's wrong with that?"

  "A great deal, I would think," the Marquis pointed out, "if you happened to be Wilbert."

  "Ar—but I ain't. And you, me poor chap, seem to have a deal o' trouble understanding wot I means. And wot I mean is—wot's wrong with Wilbert?"

  "Why—he's dead, I imagine."

  "Shows how wrong a cove can be, don't it? 'Specially a cove wot talks so fancy and don't understand nothing! Wilbert ain't dead. He goes around sorta sideways is all. But you, being so high and mighty, don't like the likes o' Joshua Jenks a'calling of you 'Wilbert'. Right?"

  "It merely seemed an odd companion to John or Tom. However," Damon conceded equably, "if you are happy with it, Mr. Jenks…"

  "I ain't happy with it, my cove! Wot I am is thinking on fixing up yer nostril tubes for yer! Considering it very serious I is, as you might say. All I done was to ask a honest question, and all I get is jaw! Well? Wotcha waiting on?"

  Thoroughly irked, Sophia stepped closer. The Marquis, wearing a leather apron over his shirt and breeches, was cutting flowers. Cutting flowers! How much good it would do this indolent young aristocrat to settle his noble seat into a saddle and essay some sporting endeavour for once!

  "I was not," Damon explained, inspecting a brilliant red rose critically, "'waiting on'-anything."

  Mr. Jenks carried a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. He was tall and burly with a red, bloated countenance. His jacket and worsted breeches were too tight and his neckcloth greasy and ghastly. "Oh, you're a'waiting on something all right, me young bucko," he opined, mopping at his brow with a dark-blue kerchief. "An' I'm the very one to hand out just wot it is! So if you like, I'll fix up yer nostril tubes!"

  Damon sighed, straightened, and turned to face him. It was odd. The irate Jenks was taller and heavier, yet somehow, when that dark head came up, it was the Marquis who appeared to look down upon his companion. "In what way, sir," he enquired patiently, "does it appear to you that my nostrils require assistance?"

  "They're all stuck up," replied Jenks ferociously. "Need to be brung down a sight if you was to ask me!" And he waved a large and knotted fist under Damon's chin.

  "The fact is," the Marquis pointed out, removing that fist with his own slim hand, "your opinion in the matter has not been solicited."

  Mr. Jenks looked down in some bewilderment at the white marks those long fingers had left upon his wrist but blustered on. "Cor, wot a mouth! Did you ever," he enquired of the nearest cloud, "hear the like of it? Anyone'd take this here tuppeny-halfpenny gardener fer the high mucky muck his own self!" The cloud proving uncommunicative
, he advanced another step and, thrusting his face under that straight but offending nose, snarled, "I'll say it one more time, blast yer eyes and toenails… Where's that old goat, Thompson?"

  "And I shall tell you," the Marquis replied with quiet but firm emphasis, "as I did before, that I am not acquainted with an 'old goat'."

  They faced one another thus for a few seconds. What the man read in Damon's steady gaze, Sophia could not tell, but he retreated hurriedly. Several of the roses the Marquis had already cut lay in a wicker basket at the edge of the flowerbed. A crafty light came into Jenks' small eyes. He edged closer, and his boot lifted.

  Damon said a mild "Do not."

  The tilt of his chin was suddenly ominous, and Jenks, who had already noted the width of those shoulders, backed away, snarling. "You'd best not be here when I come back, Mr. Top Lofty!"

  The Marquis regarded him without noticeable terror. Jenks stamped toward the house, expounding at length on the sauce and lack of respect of today's young folks when all a body done was to ask of a simple, civil question, wot only needed a simple, civil answer.

  Damon shook his head and turned to encounter a blaze of disgust in Sophia's eyes. A brief look of consternation was hidden as he bent to scan his flowers again and murmur, "An unexpected pleasure, ma'am."

  "Why do you say what you do not mean?" she demanded.

  "You, my lady, have been saying what you do not mean from the moment you came."

  His calm but shrewd perception so flustered her that she had no rejoinder and therefore resumed the attack. "Why did you let that beast talk to you like that?"

  The Marquis, selecting another rose, answered, "I fancy he was capable of little better."

  "Had you told him who you are, he'd not have dared address you so."

  "True," he admitted, turning the rose admiringly. "I should instead have been fawned upon and toad eaten." He shot a wry smile at her. "Infinitely worse."