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

  Aghast, Sophia murmured, "There was an accident?"

  "The chaise overturned. A wheel came off, I believe. Ninon—rest her soul—was mortally hurt. Poor Camille. His beloved Mama lay dying, and his father had vanished. We could not inspire in him the will to live, although he was not badly injured. Just before Ninon died, she made us send for her Mama. The Terror had chased the Montaignes from France by then, and they were living in Brussels. The Comtesse came at once. She was a lovely woman, almost as beautiful as her daughter had been and with the same pretty way of speech. She was the saving of Camille. He crept back to life again, but he lost all memory of that entire week and has never regained it."

  "Did you send for the Duke?"

  "We tried." Feather gave a helpless shrug. "We could not trace him. It was, in fact, four months before he returned to England. By that time… well, what could we do? The Comtesse was devoted to her husband, and they were preparing to remove to their chateau near Ghent and make it their permanent home. She had to return. Camille's life still hung in the balance. He loved her and had lost the mother he worshipped. The Comtesse took him with her. And he stayed. For seventeen years!"

  "Good gracious! Whatever did the Duke say? Did he make no attempt to get his son back?"

  "He did, indeed!" Feather shuddered. "But the Comtesse prevailed. Damon stayed in Belgium, and France, when it was safe. And only came home two years ago."

  Sophia thought, 'And even now, after all his father's heartbreak, cannot find it in him to be kind…' "Poor Vaille," she said softly.

  "Poor, indeed, for he lost all in life that mattered."

  "And he seems so kind. So reaching out for warmth and affection."

  "And so curst obliged to correct the world." Feather chuckled. "To straighten every errant branch and leaf— uncurl each shrivelled petal. I vow he'd right the earth on its axis if 'twas within his power!"

  Remembering how the Duke had restored Thompson's cravat, how fastidiously he had replaced the poker, Sophia smiled. "Not such a dreadful trait, surely, does one view the whole man. We all have failings, God knows."

  "Yes," sighed Feather. "I wish Camille could see that.."

  Chapter 8

  Sophia awoke with a start and, glancing to the clock, saw that it was a little past the hour of four. The hammering had ceased, which would account for her having been able to sleep. She was thinking that the Duke was probably responsible for the peace and quiet when she heard his voice drifting from the fireplace. It would be wicked to listen. There was, surely, nothing more contemptible than an eavesdropper. She swung her feet off the bed and tiptoed to the mantle.

  "I am surprised," he was saying, "that Géant tolerates Horatio."

  A pause, and Damon replied without expression, "Géant died."

  "How sad for you. What dreadful luck you have with dogs."

  "Che sera sera…" Damon yawned. "Horatio suits. And it was some months ago, nor of such import that you should let it influence your decision, sir."

  "You are so shrewd," mused Vaille. "But you always were a bright lad. You did fare well in school, didn't you?"

  "I did not go to school, sir." Damon sounded bored. "Grandpere preferred a tutor."

  "Of course. How absent-minded I am become. For myself now, four years at Magdalen—yet I was not a good scholar. I could never make a lecturer, I fear."

  "And yet," murmured the Marquis resignedly, "are about to essay the task."

  Vaille laughed. "Merely as a preamble to my—decision. It seems incredible that we have never before been—ah— able… to discuss the matter of your Mama's death. It has been nineteen years, Camille. Shall you never forgive me?"

  It came so suddenly and Vaille's tone grew so wistful that Sophia was taken by surprise. She fancied the voice of the Marquis to be a little unsteady when he answered, "I thought we enjoyed a satisfactory relationship, sir."

  "Satisfactory?" breathed Vaille. There was an edge of steel to the words now. "Did you, by God! I have seen you less than a dozen times these past nineteen years! In truth, I scarcely know you! Since you returned to England, I have been granted the pleasure of your company on a few brief occasions I could count on one hand, and otherwise consistently avoided, though I've offered you every inducement to share my various houses—even if you have no desire to share my company! You were educated in France—one must not expect too much, I realise! You are skilled in literature and the arts, play the harpsichord and pianoforte tolerably well, certainly employ a fine tailor. And—oh, forgive me—do I overlook something?"

  Sophia flinched a little and was surprised. Her initial estimate of the Duke had been one of power. Diverted by sympathy, she'd come to think him soft. But there was nothing meek about the tone he now employed! Damon had made no response, and she could picture his eloquent shrug.

  After an instant, Vaille resumed. "Ah, yes. I knew there was something more. You are a fine shot." His tone hardened. "Which you prove with distressing frequency."

  "One fatality only, your grace."

  "Perhaps, did you choose more manly pursuits, your behaviour might prove less unsettling. To men, at all events."

  "My tastes," drawled the Marquis, "do not run to fisticuffs, sir. Nor to racing madly about the countryside clinging to the back of a brainless animal while looking and smelling like some crude aborigine!"

  "Beast!" breathed Sophia between clenched teeth. "Foul… viper!"

  "And my tastes," the Duke flashed, "do not run to a grown man who fritters away his time tickling the keys of a harpsichord like some dainty miss and skulking sullenly in a… a maudlin mausoleum!"

  Sophia raised a soundless cheer, licked her finger, and scored a triumphant mark upon the marble of the fireplace.

  Damon sighed. "Then how extreme fortuitous that, pleasing you so little, I contrive to remain where you must not be constantly reminded of my—er—inadequacies. To the furtherance of which, I shall remove my offensive presence."

  Sophia, her breath snatched away by this supreme insolence, heard the movement of a chair and all but fell into the fire in her eagerness to catch the Duke's reply. When it came, the words were quietly uttered, but that soft voice made her tremble. "I do not recall having granted you my permission to leave." A breathless hush. Vaille's words whipped across it. "Sit down!"

  "I am aware," the Duke went on, still in that tone midway between an arctic winter and the thrust of a rapier, "that you hold me to blame for the death of your mother. I have given you time because I know that her death wounded you deeply. Nineteen years is, I think, time enough! During those years, you have distinguished yourself neither as a scholar nor a sportsman. I dared to hope you might remember that you are predominantly an Englishman and feel some obligation to fight for your country. You evidently did not experience such a commitment." Another pause, and he enquired with chill politeness, "Do I detect a protest?"

  "Not at all, your grace," Damon sighed.

  "For shame!" whispered Sophia contemptuously.

  "Instead," Vaille resumed, "you contrived to keep your own precious skin intact while gallant gentlemen by the thousands, including many of your personal friends, were sacrificing their lives. I was downright shocked to learn that you have made not the slightest attempt to visit poor young Whitthurst, despite—" He stopped speaking, and Sophia jumped when he thundered, "What in the devil d'you think you're about?"

  "It's one of Horatio's feathers, sir," Damon chuckled. "See here—caught in my sleeve, begad! Why, that little rascal, I vow he—"

  "I do not," rasped Vaille, "give one good God damn about your feathered playmate! You will attend me when I address you, my lord!"

  The Marquis muttered a plaintive excuse that he had, indeed, been attending. Sophia, her heart palpitating, prayed she might never be present when the Duke was this provoked.

  "I watched you pouring money into this… ruin…" —Vaille sounded slightly strangled—"and said nothing, deeming it infinitely preferable than that you squander your fortune on the tabl
es at White's or Watier's or one of the hells I know you to frequent! I observed your prowess with your bits of muslin and waited patiently in the hope you might become more—anglicized. However! I hear you are become involved in that which I will not condone! That you were, in fact, closely acquainted with Sir John Stover and that wretched Bartholomew Mullins!"

  It seemed to Sophia that she detected a gasp. She frowned, trying to think where she'd heard those names before.

  "Of one thing I am quite sure," said Vaille grimly. "No son of your mother's could possibly sink so low as to join that—unspeakable sect!"

  Cobra! Mullins and Stover had been exposed as having been members! But—the son of the Duke of Vaille? That could not be! Horrified, Sophia drew a step away from the fireplace, staring at the flames as though the devil himself capered amongst them.

  Vaille rasped, "Is Craig-Bell also numbered among your friends, my lord?"

  "I—I know him… sir…" stammered Damon in a shaken voice.

  "And admire him?"

  "I dislike him—intensely."

  "Thank God you've that much discrimination! In my opinion the entire membership of that stinking club should have been shot out of hand! Which would be too decent a death for most of 'em. When I think of all the grief they brought about with their vicious pranks and blackmail, their lust and savagery and treason! And all in the name of 'fun'! Gad! It makes me want to vomit! One can only thank God they are disbanded at last and—hopefully—destroyed!"

  "Then… you have no further cause for concern on—"

  "To the contrary! Since you choose to associate with Cobra members, the time has come for me to intervene in your checkered career!"

  Apparently regaining his composure, Damon now sounded amused. "So I am to leave Cancrizans and return to London. I must marry and breed many Brandens with some dull and dutiful wife… n'est-ce pas, mon père?"

  "The prospect amuses you. I, however, am not amused by such an address. You are a peer of this realm, Damon. Not a French emigre. Try to remember that fact!"

  Sophia shrank. The vitriol in Vaille's tone was too much for her. She knew that her behaviour had been unpardonable and tardily put her hands over her ears as she retreated toward the bed and stepped into her slippers. How ghastly for the Duke that his son had chosen such foul company. And how repelling Damon's insolence to the father who had known so little of happiness.

  She tidied her hair and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

  "Good God!" boomed Feather, having swung open the kitchen door. "Sophia! I couldn't credit it when Mrs. Hatters said you was in here! What on earth are you doing?"

  "Grating cheese," said Sophia, mourning a broken fingernail. "Somebody has to cook dinner." She apprised Feather of Mr. Ariel's lamentable condition, and noted, "Mrs. Hatters is too nervous to attempt a meal for so large a group."

  Bestowing a feeling look on her new friend, Feather sighed, "Poor Camille. A house full of company and a lack of suitable food—horrors! How kind of you, dear child, to help the boy. And what skill you must possess! Did you learn to cook in Italy?"

  "Er… no…" Sophia admitted, attending diligently to her grating.

  Feather nodded and began to stamp about, swinging open doors and drawers until she discovered several immaculate aprons, one of which she proceeded to fasten about her bulky person. "All my days I've longed for such a golden opportunity," she said blithely. "Oh, I'm not timid, Sophia. But my chef would have my liver in a trice did I dare venture into his domain! And—oh, how I have yearned to dabble in eggs and flour! Oh, for the joy of serving a man a dish beyond words delectable and knowing 'twas I and I alone who created it!"

  Sophia gave a little laugh and was at once crushed in a fierce embrace.

  "I should have known in the first instant I saw you that you were a jewel of the first water!" Feather exclaimed. "Now tell me—am I not the very essence of a chef?"

  She wore a rose-coloured gown of the finest silk, and the bodice, swooping low, was edged with small pink feathers, while in her already crumbling coiffure reposed two larger such adornments. With the apron wrapped about her middle, she resembled no chef Sophia had ever laid eyes upon. However, agreeing with this willing accomplice, she enquired what deliciousness Feather planned to concoct.

  "Here is Ariel's menu for tonight—he always prepares 'em in advance…" Feather drew a paper from a drawer and peered at it. "Vichyssoise… skewered scallops… roast chickens stuffed with chestnuts… veal pasties… spinach flambé… creamed green peas and pearl onions… potato balls… trifle… lemon puffs…" She stopped as a small whimper emanated from her companion and asked innocently, "Do you intend to make all that, love?"

  "I… only," Sophia croaked, "know how to make cheese souffle! And I only made that once!"

  Feather gave a shattering roar of laughter. "I knew it! Else I'd never have dared join you! I can make trifle. I think."

  "For why," called Genevieve from the open door, "do you gather here?" Her eyes became very round. "Ah… How delicieux!I may play, too—yes?"

  "Oh, gad!" Feather chortled. "This will be a meal to drive that wretched nephew of mine straight back to Town!"

  Chapter 9

  It required the combined efforts of Sophia and Mademoiselle de la Montaigne to convince Feather she must lie down upon her bed. She sang heartrendingly all the way upstairs and once staggered backward in a plunge that near sent them all toppling. Genevieve giggled irrepressibly throughout, but Sophia was in a fever of dread lest Vaille or the Marquis catch a glimpse of their thoroughly inebriated kinswoman.

  She had not dreamed that a simple disagreement over whether one added rum, sherry, or cognac to a trifle would result in this shocking debacle. Obviously, Feather's decision to sample a little of each on a finger of sponge cake had not resolved her dilemma, necessitating a second or even a third round of sampling. She heaved a sigh of relief when they were safely inside the room. Feather tossed herself with complete abandon on to her bed, breaking two of the plumes in her hair and lying on her back, arms tossed wide, still singing disjointedly.

  "You, ma chère, shall run down the stairs now," said Genevieve between spurts of laughter, "and tuck the white sauce for your souffle into the pantry. My poulets shall not be done for several of the hours. Your souffle—you must delay." She tugged at Feather's apron and giggled. "Am I not the clever poetess?"

  Obediently, Sophia returned to the wreckage of the kitchen and placed her bowl of grated cheese and the white sauce on the pantry shelf beside Feather's custard. She reflected sorrowfully that there was little to choose between their efforts; both sauce and custard were inclined to be brown and lumpy. She had burned the sauce when she'd been paralyzed by the shock of seeing Lady Branden suddenly sit down in the middle of the floor and start to sing 'Les Marseillaise'. Genevieve, who had insisted upon standing rigidly at attention during this rendition, had eventually, if hysterically, consoled her by observing that "the frontage shall cover the multitude of sins."

  That multitude seemed magnified when Sophia shudderingly surveyed the once-neat kitchen. She was hot and weary and, deciding she had fought the good fight and was entitled to a respite, went into the cool glory of sunset to pick some flowers. She lingered in the garden for quite some time and had a full basket of fragrant blooms when she stepped up to the scullery door. It swung open before she touched the latch. Damon's tall figure loomed before her, and her heart began to hammer. He reached for the basket, and she allowed him to take it, then slipped past. He said nothing, but the frown in his eyes added to her trepidation.

  He set the basket beside the rear sink and sneered, "Had I suspected such a fount of energy, I'd have hired you when you first applied, ma'am."

  Sophia smiled coolly. She had scored a major victory in offering to cook dinner, thus preventing him from ousting his unwelcome guests. That he was thoroughly enraged was evidenced by the tight set to his lips. Considering his preoccupation with such mild pursuits as music and architecture, it was odd that
there was an aura of power about the man. Yet even with her new knowledge that he was linked to Cobra members, she was not afraid of him. She picked up the small shears and snipped off a broken leaf. "I try always to help where there is need, sir," she said piously.

  "Good gad! An inveterate do-gooder! The plague of the world!"

  Sophia maintained her saintly pose with difficulty and, cutting a daisy much too short, pointed out that his own servants could not be expected to find the time for such trivial matters.

  "You surprise me, ma'am. I've always thought flowers charming. Still, you're probably right. Shall we discard them?"

  He reached for a handy bucket. Longing to ply her shears on his reptilian throat, she placed herself between the Viper and his intended victims and wondered aloud if Mrs. Hatters had gone to lie down. "For the poor soul must be quite exhausted." She cast a look of reproach at his expressionless features. "In truth, I never have seen so large a house with so small a staff. You are indeed fortunate, my lord, that these hard times enable you to—er—retain such tireless servants."

  Damon blinked at this excellent counter-attack. "They are adequate for my needs—usually," he allowed. "And Mrs. Hatters has most certainly not gone to lie down. She knows I do not permit laziness in my menials."

  "Laziness!" Sophia spun furiously to brandish a rose at him but caught a glimpse of a twinkle that so confused her she had to pause an instant before she was sufficiently recovered to warn, "Take care, my lord, that the poor lady does not collapse from pure exhaustion. As did Mr. Thompson."

  She'd not intended to add that last sentence, but his smothered chuckle recalled the scene so vividly that she all but laughed aloud.

  Damon opened a cupboard stocked from floor to ceiling with vases, urns, bowls, and figurines. "Should Millicent fall ill, it is a comfort to know how"—he cast an ironic eye upon the littered kitchen—"how—er—efficiently you can step into the breach. I cannot but admire your stamina, but then you are from Kent, and country-bred girls are always the strapping ones, are they not?"