Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (39 page)

Valentine's mouth hardened. He said bitterly, "I wonder why I
should only now recall that you once told me that so long as I was
recuperating here, I could not very well have you thrown out."

Lyddford swore ringingly, and his open hand flew at
Montclair's face.

It was caught in a grip of steel, the wrist twisted so sharply
that he could scarcely keep back a gasp of pain.

His voice cold, Montclair continued. "Which very likely means
that I may be the world's most stupid slow-top. But I swear on my
honour I shall never betray you—any of you." He flung Lyddford's hand
down, took up his crutch, and hobbled into the bedroom.

Holding his wrist in a cherishing clasp, Lyddford stared after
him for a moment. Then he kicked the nearest bottle savagely across the
floor and stamped, swearing, into the hall.

All through the week gale-force winds had battered the west
country, toppling trees, displacing roofing, restricting the movements
of — shipping. Today, for the first time the winds had eased, but
occasional gusts still bowed the trees and whined around Longhills.
Sitting in the windowseat in his bedchamber, Montclair watched the
drizzling rain and wondered if Lyddford had been able to take
The
Dainty Dancer
out; if Susan had donned her breeches and
sailed with him; if little Priscilla was wandering about, missing him,
needing him to help finish their long story…

His hand tightened on the grubby object he held. Eight days
since he had seen the little girl or the wicked widow… Eight days. And
it seemed more like eight years. He could walk quite comfortably now,
so long as he did not walk too far, and his hand was improving rapidly.
Sheswell was overjoyed, and declared it was what he had hoped for long
since; indeed, he could not comprehend why his medicine, usually so
efficacious, had not achieved such results long before this. The
thought had caused him to frown and shake his head in mystification.
His heart twisting, Valentine had said nothing.

He should be overjoyed also. It was what he had prayed
for—that his hand should regain feeling. He'd even been able to play
his beloved harpsichord—not well, but a little, and Sheswell assured
him it was just the beginning. Just the beginning. Why then must he
feel it was the end? Why must joy be a thing forgotten, and grief a
constant ache within him?

The question was answered almost before it was asked. Until he
found Susan he'd not realized how lonely his life had been. Finding
her, he had thought to have found a dauntless lady whose heart was
kind, whose nature was generous and loyal, whose bright spirit could
always put the sunlight back in his sky. They had bickered sometimes,
true, but even the bickering had been comfortable, and how joyous had
been the moments when they'd laughed together. Life had begun to look
bright again, and full of promise. He had begun to weave dreams of the
future… glorious dreams. And all the time—

He flung the dirty mob-cap from him and stared unseeingly
across the park. Were his suspicions merely another product of the
concussion Sheswell said would bother him for months to come? No matter
what his aunt and uncle said, nothing would convince him that the
lovely Susan and her brother had plotted the initial murderous attack
on him. But he could not deny the possibility that Priscilla's
discovery of him in the Folly had enabled them to "rescue" him, and
then contrive that he would slowly die under their "care." He groaned
softly. Could someone so lovely, seemingly so kind and compassionate,
be so evil… such a clever actress? His heart said no, but the demon
called Common Sense whispered that if she was innocent, why had she and
Mrs. Starr held that whispered conversation he'd not been meant to
hear? Why had she uttered not one word of explanation? It would have
been so simple and he'd been so desperately eager to believe whatever
she told him. He'd even pleaded with her. And still she had said
nothing.

Tormented by these terrible suspicions, his battle to banish
her from his mind was unsuccessful. When he played his music he saw her
beside him on the bench of the spinet that beautiful sunny morning, her
face aglow as she played the treble and he the bass. The smile in her
eyes shone at him from the flickering flames of the candles. Her voice
echoed in his ears when he tried to sleep; the tilt of her intrepid
chin, the vivid curve of her mouth, the sheen on the thick silken
curtain of her hair haunted him day and night. There was no respite, no
escape from the yearning for what might have been.

He scowled and his lips tightened. It was no use mooning like
this. The idyll—if such it could be called— was done. He had exchanged
the cheerful informality of Highperch for the awesome majesty of
Longhills. Dammit—what was he thinking? He loved Longhills! He always
had. It was his birthplace. Only… just now it was also a luxurious
loneliness not alleviated by his aunt's barbed remarks, his uncle's
smiling insincerity, the sneering hostility of Junius. Only with
Barbara could he feel a mutual fondness, and their meetings were few
and far between, her parents patently regarding him as a threat, an
evil influence on their timid child.

He was to meet with her this afternoon, however. Gould had
given him a smuggled note requesting that he await her in the cellar at
four o'clock. He could well imagine why. The dreaded marriage must be
weighing heavily on the poor girl, in spite of his promise that she
would never become Lady Pollinger. Gad, if nothing else offered, he'd
marry her himself. He thought wryly that it might offer a solution for
both of them.

Despite the rain one of the gardeners was trundling a
wheelbarrow across the lawn, leaving a deep rut in the velvet turf.
"Stupid clod!" muttered Montclair. At first he thought the offender was
the new man, Diccon, but that lazy fellow was not likely to be moving
so purposefully, almost as though he was late for something… Curious,
he crossed to his chest of drawers and sought about until he found the
spyglass he had been used to employ when sailing. Returning to the
window, he focused it, then swung it ahead of the gardener's
fast-moving figure. At first, he could detect only the high shrubs that
bordered the cutting gardens. Then the wind whipped the branches apart
to reveal a man standing very still among the bushes.

The gardener cast a quick glance behind him, then joined the
second man, and the two of them disappeared from view.

Montclair telescoped the glass, his lips tight and angry. The
gardener had indeed been Diccon. And the man he'd met so furtively was
one of Mrs. Henley's vagrants.

Frowning, he put the glass away. Footsteps sounded in the
hall, and his aunt's strident tones shrilled out. The mob-cap was lying
on the windowseat in plain sight. Her quick eyes would spot it at once,
and a fine time he'd have explaining it away! He leapt to snatch up the
betraying cap and thrust it into the drawer of his bedside table, then
turned to the opening door. Perhaps he had moved too suddenly and too
fast: his aunt's magenta-clad figure rippled before his eyes like silk
in a gale. The room dipped and swayed. Uncle Selby's arm was about him.
Over the roaring in his ears, he heard the familiar voice, harsh with
anger.

"Poor fellow… Second attack this week—worse than he was
before! God only knows what that unprincipled harpy and her cohorts
have done to him… Hurry, my love, and send a groom for Sheswell at
once…"

With a great effort, Montclair fought away the sickening
giddiness. "No. Better… now. I—don't want… Sheswell…"

The first cellar was chill and very dark, and stretched off
like a vast and deserted warehouse until it was swallowed up by the
gloom. Montclair paused to light two candles in a wall sconce. The
resultant small circle of brightness pushed back the dark, and neat
rows of folding tables that were used for garden parties leapt into
view beside him. Most of the articles stored on this level were
furnishings and supplies that were periodically put to use. He walked
along the clear space between bedsteads, chairs, and chests under
holland covers, his mind on the just concluded interview with his aunt
and uncle. He had been dismayed by the attack of dizziness, following
so soon after the one he'd suffered on Tuesday. For some reason the
illness had not struck him since that very bad first week at Highperch,
and he'd begun to hope it had run its course. An unwarranted optimism,
evidently. However, this particular siege had served a purpose; Sir
Selby and Lady Marcia had sought him out so as to discuss the eviction
of Mrs. Henley and her family. His flat refusal to instigate such a
procedure had infuriated them, but since he was clearly unwell they had
been unable to indulge their wrath, and, obviously seething, had left
him to Gould's care.

The attack had been sharp, but short, and fortunately he'd
recovered in time to meet Babs. Still, he was none too steady on his
feet, and trod carefully down the worn stone steps leading to the lower
cellar. The darkness was deeper, and mustier, and the silence became
absolute. He held his candle higher and called, but there was no sign
of Barbara. She must be having difficulty slipping away, poor chit.
While waiting for her he amused himself by inspecting the accumulation
of unwanted articles that had been relegated to this ignominious
retirement. There were quite a number of old paintings, some with quite
beautiful frames, all covered with a thick layer of dust. Poking
through a pile of crockery and bric-a-brac, he came across a blackened
statuette that he found to be a splendid reproduction of the Montclair
Mermaid fashioned from what he suspected to be sterling silver. Vaguely
irritated that it should have been discarded, he carried the mermaid
along with him, and had in short order succumbed happily to the disease
that seems to afflict all people who search through attics or cellars
crammed with long forgotten, and unexpectedly fascinating articles.

Twenty minutes later he had also rescued a charming inlaid
tray, an Etruscan bowl, and a Chinese pottery horse that he thought was
very old, possibly of the T'ang Dynasty, in which case it would be
quite valuable. Still there was no sign of Barbara, but he was in no
hurry, thoroughly enjoying this voyage of exploration.

Quite suddenly, there was a difference in the quality of the
air. The rear door must have been opened. Why on earth would Barbara
have come down that way when the approach was from the hillside and
rather sheer? It dawned on him then that no one but Yates and himself
had a key to that door. He swore softly, blew out his candle, and drew
the pistol that nowadays he always carried in his pocket. Grim and
ready, he waited. There came the scrape of a tinder box, followed by a
glow that grew brighter. A tall press blocked his view, but the light
was steadier now; the candle must have been put down. A shadow slanted
across the room. Montclair caught a glimpse of riding boots and heard
the faint jingle of spurs. Not Barbara, that was certain! He strode
forward, pistol levelled. "Stand, or I fire!" he commanded ringingly.

The intruder swung around.

"Chew bad being to mices frens," alleged a familiar and
somewhat nasal voice. "But chew goodly kinds to mices lady. Mostly
Angelo forgiving chews."

Montclair had to fight a ridiculous surge of delight. "What
the
devil
are you doing in my cellar?"

"Angelo overlookings theses lamps," said the Spaniard, taking
the question literally. "Very old, very finely. Mices elves buyings for
loveliest—"

"Good God! What again? Be damned if you ain't a merchant by
inclination—always trying to buy something!" Montclair strolled nearer,
and glanced at the lamp the senor was holding. Despite the dust it was
an interesting piece fashioned of heavy crystal, the shade a series of
finely etched panels that were each remarkably beautiful. "Besides, I
didn't mean that," he said. "I meant—
why
are you
here?" Hope quickened his heartbeat. "Have you brought a—a message for
me, perhaps?"

"He is here because I asked him to come, Val." Candlestick in
hand, Barbara hurried from the stairs. She gave Montclair a fond smile,
but went straight to the Spaniard.

Angelo put down his lamp and bowed to press his lips to her
fingers. "Mices loveliest," he murmured with ardour.

"You came," sighed Barbara redundantly.

'Oh, my God,' thought Montclair.

It took a very few minutes to verify his fears. Miss Barbara
Trent and Senor Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand were deeply
in love. The Spaniard followed Barbara's revelation by making an
extremely lengthy and incoherent offer for his lady's hand in marriage.

"I'm afraid I didn't quite understand all that, senor," said
Montclair as soon as he could break into this dramatic oration. "But I
gather you wish to marry my cousin, in which case your application must
be made to Sir Selby Trent, not to—"

"No, Val," said Barbara.

It occurred to him belatedly that she had changed from the
nervous child he knew. There was a new set to her chin, a brighter
light in her eyes, and a becoming colour in her formerly pale cheeks.
Being of the personal opinion that de Ferdinand was a little mad,
Montclair found it incredible that his cousin could really have given
her heart to so volatile an individual. The tender expression she
turned upon the Spaniard left little doubt but that she loved him,
however, and he in turn regarded her with such slavish adoration that
Montclair dreaded what the end might be. "You must realize, Babs," he
said gently, "that even if I had a legal right to do so, I could not
give you my permission."

"I know exactly what Papa would say," she argued. "And so do
you. They all are determined I must marry Sir Dennis Pollinger, and
sooner would I be dead."