Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (25 page)

The next time he awoke something was nagging at the edges of
his mind; something he had dreamed perhaps, and that was quite
important, but he couldn't remember what it might be. It was still
dark, but he thought it not the same night. For one thing, he felt less
discomfort; the aching in his leg and hand was unremitting, but not
quite as brutal, and although his head throbbed, it was so bearable by
comparison with his earlier awakenings that he could actually think. He
lay there quietly, the flickering candlelight and the faint fragrance
of violets telling him that he was still in Mrs. Henley's bed.
Questions began to form. So many—so unanswerable. And chief among them
the dread puzzle of who wanted him dead. Whom had he so antagonized
that they were willing to put their own life at risk so as to end his?
Had Junius decided to strike again? No, that terrible shadow in the
woods had not been Junius. It had been too enormous… The very thought
of it made Montclair break out in a sweat of horror, and he decided
that the solving of the puzzle would have to wait until he regained
more of his strength. Meanwhile, he had a great deal for which to be
thankful. He was warm and safe. He was also very hungry, which likely
meant he was starting to mend, and—

Something was moving in the room. Something or— someone. He
tensed and lay completely motionless, straining his eyes through the
dimness to that vague, oncoming shape. A man. Creeping towards the bed.
He watched the crouching figure draw ever nearer, dark and
unidentifiable against the candlelight, but ineffably menacing. The
lack of sound was remarkable—not so much as one squeak of a floorboard.
He was very close now, and Montclair's heart gave a lurch as the
candlelight awoke a glitter on the dagger in the man's right hand. So
the would-be murderer had come right inside Highperch and meant to
finish what he'd started! Anger scorched through him. He was weak as a
cat, but—dammit, he'd not lie here and be butchered without a fight!

With all his strength, he managed to get an elbow under him
and heave himself upward a little. At the top of his lungs, he shouted,
"No! Get away, you skulking coward!"

His voice was weak, but the intruder uttered a shrill yelp and
jumped into the air. The knife clattered to the floor.

"Hell and damnation!" gasped Andrew Lyddford, straightening
and tottering to steady himself against the bedpost. "Don't—don't
ever
do such a frightful thing!"

"I—apologize…" faltered Montclair, sinking back, exhausted by
his great effort.

Lyddford mopped a handkerchief at his face. "I should rather
think you might," he said severely. "I wonder I didn't fall over in a
fit!"

"I really am sorry. Only… well, I saw the knife, you see, and—"

"That's because I was polishing it, but you were so still I
got the idea you'd cocked up your toes, so I came creeping to see if
you had, and what must you do but let out a yowl like a bloody damned
banshee! Jove, if it ain't enough to put the fear of—" His tone changed
abruptly. "What the deuce d'you mean—you 'saw the knife'? If you've the
confounded gall to suppose I come slithering over to cut your throat,
sir, by George but you'll answer to me for it!"

"I am already engaged to meet you, Mr. Lyddford. And you were
against the light. I could only make out a silhouette, and the knife."

"Oh." Some of the resentment went out of the proud young face.
Lyddford stooped, retrieved the knife, and went over to lay it on the
table. "Yes. I suppose it could have looked like that. Sorry if I gave
you a nasty turn, but I'd say we're even on that score, at all events."
With a grin he came back to bend over Montclair and peer at him
critically. "You look somewhat alive. Be damned if I don't think
Susan's right and you're going to pull through after all!"

"Your sister has been more than kind, and I'm very sure I've
been a great deal of trouble. I believe you've been burdened with me
for ten days already, and—"

"Three weeks."

Montclair stared at him. "But—Devenish just said—"

Lyddford settled himself on the end of the bed and
interrupted, "That was a week and a half ago. And—before you ask me
again—no, they didn't have to amputate your hand."

Montclair wasn't quite ready for shocks like that, and he
closed his eyes briefly.

"Oh Gad," groaned Lyddford, jumping up and causing the bed to
lurch. "I'm as much a disaster as Devenish! I'll go!"

"No. Please." Montclair managed a smile. "I'd be most grateful
if you could rather… tell me what's been happening."

Lyddford eyed him doubtfully, but the smile was encouraging.
He had noted the effect of his earlier sudden movement, and so sat down
with care. "You'd not believe the bobbery! When my sister found you,
and your cousin hauled you out of there—"

"My—
cousin
… ? Trent?"

"Yes. Don't wonder you're surprised. Nasty slug, but strong as
an ox." Lyddford grinned boyishly. "Mixing my metaphors a bit, ain't I?
At all events, there's been betting in all the inns and alehouses on
when you'd snuff it. I wanted to ship you back to Longhills, but you
took such a downturn we did not dare move you. You were out of your
head for days on end. Raving about music, and birds in harpsichords,
and shadows and giants and— Devil take me, I've done it again! Are you
all right?"

Weakness was causing Montclair to tremble. He fought it, and
said rather inaccurately, "I'm quite all right, thank you. Please go
on."

"Well, it's just that from what you were gabbling at, it—er,
seemed you hadn't fallen into your silly Folly. Not of your own
volition, at least." The long grey eyes (so much like hers) were
scanning him curiously. "D'you remember now? What happened, I mean."

"Not much. Just—that I was… struck down from behind." His mind
was trying to see the shadow. He shut it out. "They believed me, did
they?"

"At first they thought you were delirious, and you were, of
course. But then you kept on about the East Woods. So a couple of the
Runners—"

"Runners?"

Lyddford nodded. A frown darkened his brow and he said rather
grimly, "You're an important man, you know. Heir to a title and a great
estate. Jehoshaphat— if you'd seen all the comings and goings! Writers
from the newspapers; Bow Street; even a couple of high-ranking officers
from the Horse Guards."

"Good… God!"

"Quite. The upshot was that two of the Runners went to the
East Woods and it seems—er, well, they found the place where you'd been
hit. Not—much doubt, I gather."

Montclair's brows knit. "But—if I was attacked in the East
Woods, why go to all the trouble—"

"To haul you to the Folly? Hmmn. That's what we wondered. I
suppose they thought you were finished— Lord knows, you looked it!
Horrid sight!—and wanted to tuck you safely away."

It was a puzzle, but he was too tired to worry at it. He asked
wearily, "Does my family know?"

"Yes. Your aunt and uncle came when my sister found you. It
was at their wish in fact that you stayed here. I do not scruple to
tell you I was against it."

"Yes, of course." Montclair said humbly, "I am very grateful
to you."

"Mutual, old boy." With breezy tactlessness Lyddford added,
"Jolly good of you not to have cocked up your toes. We'd have been in a
proper treacle pot! Though to say truth it was our own fault for
letting you stay. Bad enough we had to put up with you, Montclair, but
I'll not mince words in telling you that you've a weasel's wart for a
doctor."

Amused, Montclair said, "Sheswell's been the family physician
for years. But—wasn't there another doctor? A red-headed fellow?"

"Right. Our Bo'sun is an apothecary of sorts. He's worked
wonders with you."

"I must thank him. I'm afraid I have caused Mrs. Henley a
great deal of trouble." His dreams had become so entangled with reality
that it was hard to separate them. He half-recalled an odd conversation
between Susan Henley and Mrs. Starr, but the memory was so hazy it was
likely just another dream. He said haltingly, "I seem to recollect that
she was with me often when I woke up. You must all be wishing me… at
Jericho."

"Oh, my sister's the salt of the earth and not one to hold a
grudge under these circumstances. Besides"—Lyddford's voice lost its
kindliness—"so long as you're recuperating here, you cannot very well
have us kicked out, can you?"

The smile faded from Montclair's eyes, and the faintest flush
lit his pale face, but he met Lyddford's suddenly hard stare levelly.
"No," he said. "I certainly cannot."

The door opened softly. Montclair couldn't see who entered,
but he heard the rustle of silks and then smelled violets.

Lyddford said, "He's awake again, and seems much better this
time."

Susan Henley came to rest a cool and investigative hand on the
patient's wan cheek. "You've tired him," she scolded.

"I knew I'd be in the suds! That's what comes of trying to
help a bit!" With an unrepentant grin, Lyddford said, "I'm off!" and
departed.

The widow bathed Montclair's face, held the glass while he
drank some deliciously cool barley water, then instructed him to go
back to sleep.

Drowsily, he watched her cross to the little table, pull the
branch of candles closer, and sit down with her work-box. She began to
darn a sock. She had a very pretty way of turning her wrist. He glanced
up and found her eyes on him. They really were most remarkable eyes, so
clear and— The low-arching brows were lifting slightly. He was very
tired now, but murmured, "Why did—"

She shook her head and put one slim finger over her lips.
"Hush."

"No. Please—I must—"

"Not more thanks? Heavens, sir, I have been thanked each time
you wake up! Have done with your gratitude I beg, and do as your head
nurse tells you."

Despite the stern words, her mouth curved to a smile, and he
persisted doggedly. "You risked your life to come down those steps. I
can't understand why."

Her eyes sharpened and her cheeks seemed a little flushed. She
stared hard at her sock, and murmured, "Do you say you—watched me
coming down to you?"

"It was the bravest thing I ever saw." He sighed. "I
thought—you were an angel."

Her lashes lifted and she looked at him, startled, then said
with a smile, "How can you ever have supposed such a thing? I wasn't
wearing white."

"No," he said drowsily, "pink."

Susan dropped the sock and when she had retrieved it, her
cheeks were very pink indeed. "My habit is pale green, Mr. Montclair."

"Oh. I—thought I saw pink." He sighed again. "Must have
dreamed it."

"Indeed you must," she confirmed rather austerely. "Now, go
back to sleep."

With each day that followed, Montclair grew stronger. The
petite Mrs. Starr and her faithful helper Martha did most of the
nursing; they both were kind and gentle, but although grateful for
their efficient care, he missed a pair of serene grey eyes and the
smell of violets. He slept many hours away, but Bo'sun Dodman came in
to check on him several times each day. From him Montclair learned that
Mrs. Henley and her brother had gone into Town. Apparently, Lyddford
was striving to obtain a position either on the staff of a Foreign
Minister, or at the Navy Board, and hoped to enlist the aid of his
uncle, Sir John Lyddford, in these endeavours. In view of the unsavoury
reputation of the late Lieutenant Burke Henley, Montclair judged the
chances for success to be slight, but he said nothing. His chats with
the Bo'sun also provided him with a better understanding of the widow's
struggle to keep the family together after the death of her
grandfather. That it had been a desperate struggle became very
apparent, but his attempts to discover the extent of their remaining
fortune were deftly turned aside, and since good manners forbade that
he question the Bo'sun outright, he was thwarted.

Despite his physical improvement, his spirits were low, a
state he fought to conceal. Several bones had been broken in his hand,
and the injury caused him constant anxiety. His attempts to move the
fingers failed dismally. He knew he should be grateful that it had not
been necessary to amputate as he'd at first feared, but he was haunted
by the dread that he would no longer be able to play competently.
Barbara was another source of worry; and despite their differences, the
continued absence of his family troubled him. It was absurd that he
should want them to come, but if they had no sufficient interest to do
so, they could at least, he thought fretfully, have permitted Babs to
pay him a visit.

Alain Devenish, who had been a frequent visitor at first, had
not appeared for several days, and Montclair missed his cheerful
presence even while he recognized that his friend had a young ward and
great estates of his own to be cared for.

Priscilla's short afternoon visits were bright oases through
these long days. He looked forward to her coming, and was more and more
drawn to the child and charmed by her quaint mixture of solemnity and
gaiety. She had a remarkable gift of imagination, and they spent a good
deal of their time together in constructing a progressive fairy-tale
poem. This fabrication grew more and more complicated, and was a source
of much amusement to them both. The child's words were occasionally
somewhat unorthodox, but she had a quick ear for rhythm, and Montclair
found his work cut out to keep abreast of her in their poetical
ventures.

He was anticipating the child's presence on a rainy afternoon
a week after Mrs. Henley's departure, when he heard footsteps on the
stairs. His heart gave a leap, but then sank again when Sheswell's
voice boomed out. The physician had not called for eight days. He was
less gentle in his movements than was Dodman, and Montclair nerved
himself for an unpleasant few minutes.