Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (40 page)

Senor de Ferdinand uttered a shriek and clapped a hand over
her lips. "
Madre de Dios
!" he gasped, forgetting
himself in his horror. "Chew deadling be, I yump in rivers! No, no!
Angelo firstly deploying theses mens nasty!"

"Destroying, my dearest," corrected Barbara, smiling at him
lovingly. She turned to her troubled cousin. "I mean to wed him, Val.
Yours is the only consent I care about. I shall elope, if I must."

He frowned. "I know you've been very unhappy, Babs, and I do
indeed understand your situation. But I must consider your welfare. We
know nothing of Senor de Ferdinand"—he slanted a faint smile at
Angelo's anxious and intent face—"save that he's always trying to buy
everything in sight."

"For mices loveliest. Chess!"

"I appreciate your motives, certainly. But—senor, this simply
will not do. I have no right at all to order Barbara's future, but she
is my cousin and her happiness is most important to me. If her heart is
set on this, I promise I'll do all in my power to help you, but I'll
not see her disgraced by a runaway elopement to Gretna Green."

With several vehement nods the Spaniard drew a folded paper
from an inner pocket. "Mices elves buyings theses. Other the days."

Montclair took the paper and scanned it briefly. "Good Lord! A
Special Licence?"

"Angelo somethings wanting, Angelo gottings."

Montclair stared at him. "These aren't easy to come by. How
the deuce did—" He abandoned that pointless line of enquiry and
returned the licence. "Very good. But how am I to know that you don't
already have a wife and a well-filled nursery? Or that you—"

The Spaniard gave a snort of wrath, stamped his foot, and drew
himself to his full height. "Senora de Ferdinand they's not! Nurseries
they's not! Angelo de Ferdinand, mices elves, honour the bull
yentleman!"

"I will accept your word that you are an honourable man," said
Montclair, contriving to maintain an air of gravity. "But I know
nothing of your background, save that you appear to make your home with
Mr. Lyddford and Mrs. Henley. Which is certainly not an indication that
you are able to support my cousin in comfort."

"Mices loveliest wishings palace, she havings! Herses elves
wanting castles or Prinny's vermilion at theses Brightons, she havings!
Angelo Francisco—"

"Miss Barbara… ?" Winnie's plump and scared countenance peered
at them from the steps. "They're looking everywhere for you, Miss," she
quavered. "Oh, do come quick!
Ever
so quick,
Miss!"

"Chess!" said Angelo, seizing his love's hand. "Comings ourses
elves, mices Barbara. Nowly!"

"No!" said Montclair. "If they catch one whiff of this, senor,
your lovely lady will be whisked away and you likely clapped up before
you know where you are. Babs is underage and her parents have full
legal control over her. You'd best get back to your friends, before
you're caught."

"He's perfectly right," said Barbara, frantic at the thought
of danger to her beloved. "Go now. Val will handle everything, don't
worry."

"But, Angelo's wishes—"

"Oh, Miss!
Do
come!" begged the abigail
tearfully.

Reluctantly, Angelo returned his key to Barbara and took his
leave.

Montclair walked across the cellar with his cousin, easing her
apprehensions by promising faithfully that was it at all possible, he
would see her safely married to her unorthodox suitor.

"One thing, Babs," he said, as they climbed the stairs. "Where
did you get my key to the back door?"

"It's not yours, Val. Winnie persuaded my brother's man to let
her borrow it." She whispered desperately, "I beg you will not judge
Senor Angelo because he—he sometimes brags a little. He is so kind, so
gentle with me."

He reassured her as best he could, but when she left him and
hurried after her abigail his steps slowed, his thoughts turning to his
own problems. He now had two more pieces to add to his puzzle: at least
one of the vagrants from Highperch was conspiring with his lazy
gardener, for there could be no doubt that their meeting had been a
secretive one. Also, there was the business of Junius having a key to
the cellar entrance. In the year 1645, a troop of Oliver Cromwell's
Roundheads had discovered the rear door, entered the Manor, slaughtered
twenty-five of its Royalist defenders, and set fire to the building so
that much of the East Wing had to be rebuilt. Since then, the two keys
to that door had been jealously guarded. His own key (Geoff's,
actually) was locked in his desk. He'd seen Yates's key this morning
when the steward had opened the safe and grumbled good-naturedly that
his key ring all but made him lean sideways when he walked. Somehow,
Junius must have got his hands on one and had it copied. Perhaps he
only wanted it so as to slink into the house after enjoying one of the
wild nights his father would frown upon. On the other hand, Junius was
very obviously both obedient to and afraid of Monsieur Imre Monteil.
And the Swiss gentleman had a very havey-cavey business relationship
with Andrew Lyddford.

He intended to tackle Junius about the key, but the Trents had
a dinner engagement that evening, and took Junius and Barbara with
them, so he dined alone, plagued by an irritating sense that he had
seen something in the cellar that was important, something he should
have at once recognized to be of special significance. Whatever it was,
it eluded him. He retired to his study, worked hard at his music for
several hours, and went up to bed vexed by the knowledge that he had
accomplished very little of any worth. Gould interpreted his gloomy
expression correctly, and was so quietly diplomatic that at length
Montclair's introspection was pierced. "Am I behaving like a bear?" he
asked laughingly. "What a trial I am to cause you to creep about as if
on sheer glass."

"You are not a trial at all, Mr. Montclair," said the valet
politely, then added with daring, "Only—I wish I might think you happy."

His employer's eyes became veiled. "I have much to be thankful
for, Gould. I am alive when by rights I should be thoroughly dead. I
live in a beautiful house. I am cared for by patient and faithful
retainers. A great deal more than many men can claim, eh?"

Yet even as he spoke those hollow and empty words came another
nudge at memory. What in the world was his brain trying to tell him?

After Gould left, he lay frowning at the book in his hands. It
had been something in the cellar… And it was connected to something
he'd said to Gould… What had he said? He'd spoken of the beauty of
Longhills… and of his faithful servants… not much else. However he
racked his brains the puzzle would not be solved, and at length,
frustrated, he slammed the book closed and leaned over to blow out his
candle. His outstretched hand checked, and he stared at the water
pitcher, his own voice echoing in his ears. "… to creep about as if on
sheer glass…" That was it! Glass! Into his mind's eye came Angelo
holding up that crystal lamp. For a long moment he remained stiff and
silent. Then, "By God… !" he whispered, and flinging back the
bedclothes began to get dressed again.

Everyone had gone to bed when he made his way down to the
second cellar, and the dark stillness seemed to press in about him. He
had carried a branch of candles this time, and lit those in the wall
sconces as he went along. His searching gaze found the lamp at last,
and he went eagerly to inspect it. The Chinese student he'd admired at
school had been most interested in the manufacture of glass, and from
Li he had learned something of the procedure. The diamond-point
engraving on the panels of the shade was exquisitely done, the clarity
and the hatching, which was without exception worked in a single
direction, marking it beyond doubt as having been fashioned in the
Netherlands, some time in the sixteenth century. It was a rare work of
art. Montclair's breath hissed through his teeth and he began to search
carefully through the haphazardly piled articles.

When he climbed the steps half an hour later, his eyes were
narrowed, his lips a tight line. The pieces of the puzzle were falling
together in a way that could no longer be ignored, and always the
evidence pointed in one direction. The hurt and disillusion that had
racked him were intensified, but now to those emotions was added rage,
deep and searing.

Charlie Purvis handed Allegro's reins to Montclair and peered
up into the stormy face anxiously.

"You sure you won't let me ride with you, sir? He's awful
frisky, and you're not—" He broke off, his sleepy eyes widening as
Montclair slipped a long-barrelled Boutet pistol into the saddle
holster. "Mr. Valentine," he said in a changed voice, "I don't know
what you're about, but it's a wild night and I'm going with—"

Montclair said curtly, "You're going back to bed, Charlie.
What I'm about is my own affair, and I shall handle it without
interference."

The big bay cavorted, impatient to be gone, but Purvis's hand
clung to the bridle still. Montclair's expression lightened. He reached
down to grip the Welshman's shoulder. "You're a good fellow, and I
thank you for your loyalty. Just in case anything should go wrong, I've
left a letter for Mr. Devenish telling him what I suspect. It might be
as well for you to take it down to Devencourt. At once. Gould will give
it to you, but say nothing of it to anyone else, understand?"

"Aye. I'll be mum as chance, sir."

"Good man. Now—stand clear!"

Allegro reared, snorting, and Purvis jumped away. "Sir," he
called, "you forgot your hat!"

But Montclair had already been swallowed up by the blustery
darkness.

It was utter folly, thought Susan, wandering across the meadow
and lifting her face to the night wind, to brood so about the wretched
creature. He was unworthy of one second of her consideration. It was
all the fault of Fate, really. Fate was such a cruel trickster. She had
married Burke Henley willingly, and she'd been fond of him, but she'd
never given him her heart. She had saved it—for a man who in return had
despised her!

She was faintly surprised to find that her aimless steps had
carried her into the fringes of the woods. She'd come a long way, and
she should not really be out here alone, but it was hard to sleep of
late, and sometimes she felt a desperate need to escape from her family
and the cottage where there were so many reminders of— She frowned.

The moonlight came dimly through the trees, and she had no
difficulty making her way back along the rough path. Her steps slowed,
and she gazed at a swaying fern. How proud he had looked when he left
them. How cold and haughty and unforgiving. She'd begun to dream that
he loved her, instead of which he'd made it clear that he judged them a
pack of scheming murderers. What a hideous moment of awareness that had
been, and what a lesson. Never again would she—

She had been vaguely conscious of odd sounds, and now a great
rustling and snapping of branches sounded behind her. Frightened, she
wondered if it could be Junius Trent's savage dog. She'd heard several
accounts of the animal's viciousness, and the thought of facing such a
brute in the woods at night made her very sorry she'd not thought of
such a possibility before foolishly wandering out alone. She saw a
light approaching and thought nonsensically that dogs did not carry
lanterns.

Perhaps Trent was taking his hound for a walk. No, that was
silly also. The dog had the run of the estate, and anyway, why would
Trent take him out at this hour of the night? It must be at least
eleven o'clock.

A deep voice with a foreign accent said, "When master say do,
we do."

Whatever they were doing for their master was very likely of a
shady nature if it must be done under cover of darkness, and they
probably would not be pleased to find they'd been seen. Susan shrank
behind a tree, but with horrid perversity the light seemed to be coming
this way. If they came too close, they would surely see her! Already it
was too late to run away. She could see the lantern bobbing up and
down, hear the grumbling voices of several men. And they were headed
directly for her! There was probably not another soul in the Long-hills
woods tonight, but they
had
to choose the exact
path she had followed! She was wearing her dark green cloak, and she
gathered it around her and with a muffled sob knelt down, crouching
very low among the roots, and pulling the hood over her face. Seconds
later kneeboots were stamping so close that she could have reached out
and touched them, and she huddled there, shaking, scarcely daring to
breathe. A Scots voice complained that they'd "hae done better tae ha'
fetched the wee carrt closer." Another man swore in French and said
belligerently, "
C'est une absurdite
! But thees you
will tell us 'ow to do it,
hors de doute
!"

An oath greeted this sarcasm. They all sounded breathless, and
the man who had first spoken said a pithy "Many box. Jacques work—not
talk."

"Hold on a bit," gasped an English voice. "This accursed…
thing weighs a ton!"

The last pair of boots halted about six inches from Susan's
bowed head. If their owner glanced down he must see her! She prayed
with silent intensity.

A noisy collision. A burst of profanity made her shrink, and
was cut short by a roared "Get on, damn you! Almost made me drop the
lot!"

Grumbling, they moved on, their breathless voices gradually
fading away.

When Susan was sure there were no more coming, she peeped up.
She could see the last man outlined against the dim light from the
lantern, a large box balanced on one shoulder. She thought there must
have been five in all, and she gazed after them, trembling, scarcely
able to believe she had not been discovered.

The first man had said "Many box." And the Scot had mumbled
something about a wee cart. Very likely there were more boxes to be
unloaded. When they returned, she must be far from this horrid spot!
She clambered to her feet, taking care to make as little noise as
possible, and started back the way she had come, but curiosity began to
niggle at her. Where in the world could they be going? There were no
houses for miles. No buildings at all in the woods—save for that
hideous Folly. She peered around, but in the dark it was impossible to
tell how close she was to the ruins. Was it possible that
was
where they were going? Could there be a hidden room perhaps, where
smugglers met? Intrigued, she began to creep after them. The wind was
rising; the agitated branches would smother any sound she might make so
long as she stayed far enough distant—just close enough to see without
being seen…