Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (12 page)

Hawkhurst was Sir Simon's next quarry and was run to earth in
the library, half-sitting against the reference table, one booted leg
swinging and a grim expression on his face as he stared down at a
letter he held. He wore riding dress and was as usual quietly elegant.
Surveying the cut of the bottle green jacket, the fit of the buckskins,
the impeccably tied neckcloth, and the absence of any jewelry save for
his large signet ring, Buchanan wondered that Colley, so obviously
admiring his cousin, did not look and learn.

Hawkhurst's head lifted at his approach. For an instant he
stared unseeingly. Then, recovering himself, he came to his feet and
offered his felicitations upon his guest's improved state of health.

"Yes, well, that's why I came. To thank you, sir. You've been
dashed decent about it all, and I'm truly sorry, for we've been a
confounded pest, I've no doubt!"

"I am quite sure of it," murmured Hawkhurst and, noting the
immediate upward toss of that sandy head, chuckled, "I meant—that I'm
sure you are sorry, and with no cause, for it has been our pleasure.
Egad, Buchanan, do you go through life so curst hot at hand, I wonder
you've survived this long!"

"Well, you damned well deliberately provoke me!"

"I apologize. I prefer your rage to such abject gratitude, I
admit."

The twinkle in the grey eyes was irresistible. Buchanan
grinned and was at once invited to play a game of billiards. How could
one hold a grudge under these circumstances? He decided one could not,
accepted with delight, and they spent a pleasant hour together, at the
end of which time he had lost approximately seventy-eight thousand
pounds (fortunately all represented by buttons!). Hawkhurst played a
skilful game, his movements carelessly graceful, yet containing the odd
suggestion of leashed power that epitomized him. He was every inch the
aristocrat and unfailingly the courteous host, and, scanning him
surreptitiously from time to time, Simon knew a touch of uncertainty.
Did
rumour speak truly? Was this man who had so courageously rescued Kent
also capable of having murdered his wife and their child? The lined
face, the heavy brows and jut of the chin, the firm mouth, all bespoke
an individual one would not lightly cross; certainly, a potential for
ruthlessness hovered in the cold grey eyes. The trouble was that they
were not always cold, nor was the mouth consistently set into that
thin, uncompromising line. When Hawkhurst laughed, as he did
occasionally during their game, the ice vanished, the eyes sparkled,
and the harsh face underwent such a transformation that Buchanan was
shocked into remembering that years ago he had from a distance actually
admired the fellow—and even more shocking, that Hawkhurst was only four
years older than himself!

Their game was interrupted when a large, neatly clad, and
shrewd-eyed individual appeared in the doorway, made his bow, and
announced, "The horses is ready, sir." Hawkhurst sighed and put down
his cue. "What a merciless tyrant you are, Paul."

The large man grinned and said he would wait in the kitchen.
Hawkhurst turned to Buchanan and offered his apologies, saying wryly
that his bailiff was extremely demanding. He begged that Sir Simon
proceed exactly as though he were in his own home, then started for the
door but, with his hand on the latch, turned about to asked
interestedly, "And what is your verdict, Buchanan?"

Buchanan stared at him.

Hawkhurst put up his brows. "What, no conclusion? And after
all those sidelong glances… all that frowning deliberation! My poor
fellow, how very vexing for you! Allow me to be of assistance. I am
innocent! Pure as the driven snow! There, now you may be at ease for
the remainder of your stay."

And, with a cynical grin, an infuriatingly mocking bow, he was
gone.

When Buchanan recovered sufficiently that he was able to
restrain the impulse to stalk the nearest footman and strangle him, he
decided that he might as well get to his letters. He caught a glimpse
of Miss Hawkhurst in the hall and brightened, but she ran quickly up
the stairs, almost as though seeking to avoid him. He went into the
library, where he spent a great deal of time sharpening a pen, while
thinking of a dozen people he should, but did not care to, write to. He
was reprieved when Lady Bryce buttonholed him and desired he take
luncheon with her and her niece. Like any basically healthy young man,
he was always ready to enjoy a meal, and he was also eager to hear of
Miss Hawkhurst's journey and what news she had of the war. Therefore,
he willingly took his place beside Lady Bryce in the small dining room
and thanked her for having taken the trouble to deliver his letter to
his great aunt personally. She at once launched into a rapturous
account of what a delightful cose she had enjoyed with her "dear
friend" Lucasta. Murmuring a polite response Buchanan was reminded of
the extremely irate letter he had yesterday received from the hand of
her "dear friend's" groom. "You wretched boy!" Great Aunt Lucasta had
commenced, not mincing her words. "How
could
you
have allowed that
odious
Carlotta Bryce to come
to my house? I have been obliged to invent an involved tale to explain
her presence, for, allow the gabblemongers to know where you are now
domiciled, I will
not
! And does
she
spread the tale (ingratiating hornet that she is!), I shall deny it!"
The missive had gone on at great length, bemoaning the fate that had
flung them in the way of the evil Garret Hawkhurst, and concluded with
the warning that, page or no page, did Simon not remove his sister from
"that den of infamy" within another week at the latest, his poor aunt
would have to set aside her preparations for the holidays, in order to
come for them! Even Hawkhurst's suave hauteur, thought Buchanan, must
crumble before the full flood of Lady Lucasta's famous tongue. Which,
under the circumstances, would not do! No, he simply must ensure that
they arrive at Meadow Abbey well before his aunt's patience expired.
And certainly before the much vaunted Musicale—a sure fate worse than
death!

He was diverted from his thoughts by the advent of a maid, who
conveyed Miss Hawkhurst's regrets, but she was fatigued of her long
drive and begged they would excuse her. Buchanan was disappointed, and
his feeling that the girl was seeking to avoid him deepened.

At half past two o'clock, Buchanan's elbow slipped off the arm
of the chair in the library and woke him. He had settled down to think
about the next letter he would write and must have dozed off. He
stretched, took up his solitary effort, and wandered into the hall to
deposit it in the jade salver for delivery to the post office. Yawning,
his idle gaze encountered the stern stare of a splendid gentleman in
periwig and laces. The portrait was beautifully preserved, and the
frame a work of art in itself and, reminded he had not yet visited the
gallery, he made his way up the spiral staircase and thence to the
sweep of stairs that led to the top floor. To his left lay the game
room and servants' quarters. He turned right, past more guest rooms and
salons, until the corridor curved into the South Wing and approached
the gallery. The floors here were especially fine, the rich parquetry
embellished with many cabinets and screens, all in the oriental motif.
The gallery doors stood open, and beside them an exquisite chinoiserie
clock occupied a corner that echoed the chinoiserie design, even the
flooring having been inlaid so as to continue those elegant lines.
Impressed, Buchanan wandered into a long, wide room, graced here and
there by thick rugs and brightened by recessed bays through which pale
sunlight traced the latticework of dormer windows onto the boards.
Richly carved credenzas and chests held bouquets of chrysanthemum and
fern. And along the walls an impressive array of Thorndykes and
Hawkhursts looked down upon the visitor with varying degrees of calm,
amusement, or condescension.

Buchanan wandered among this august assemblage with mild
interest until he came to the portrait of a dark young man with
high-peaked brows and a lean face mainly remarkable for a pair of
speaking grey eyes and a wide and whimsical mouth, both of which
features put him in remind of their host. Thick hair tied in at the
nape of the neck and foaming Brussels lace at throat and wrists
proclaimed an age of elegance now, alas, lost to the world. Buchanan
leaned closer and read on the gold plaque, "Christopher Valentine
Thorndyke—Fourth Earl of Aynsworth."

Staring upwards, conscious of an odd feeling of liking for the
man, he was startled by a small clatter. He turned about and saw a
spool rolling towards him from one of the bays, the thread jerking as
though desperate hands strove to retrieve it. Buchanan swept it up and,
winding it carefully, walked after that leaping strand. He suspected
the identity of the lady he would find in the bay and was not
disappointed. Miss Hawkhurst, clad in a plain green gown and with a
shawl about her shoulders, was sitting in the window seat. She all but
shrank as he strolled towards her, still rewinding the thread. He
offered his spool in silence, and she stood to accept it, a swift flood
of colour coming painfully into her cheeks and sending her pale lashes
fluttering downward.

"Why," he asked gently, "do I frighten you so?"

Her colour fled, and, dropping the spool into her workbasket,
she said, "Oh, no. You do not. At all. But I like to work up here, for
the light is good, and I—I like to be alone."

It was cold in the room, for the fires were not lit, and her
finger had been like ice. Undeceived, he touched her elbow. "Please do
not be afraid of me. Can you believe I mean harm to someone as good—as
gentle, as you?"

The downbent head flew up, the big eyes wide with earnestness.
"
No
! Never! It is only that… that Aunt says—" She
bit her lip and was silent.

"Your Aunt Carlotta?" He might have known! "What does the lady
say? That I am of shocking repute, and you must not—"

She smiled wanly. "She thinks you splendid, of course. But
your sister offered to… that is… she wants to… to teach me how to… to…"

"To make yourself into the beauty no man in his right mind
could resist," he finished kindly.

"She is so good," she gulped. 'To be willing to help me try to
be… a little less plain and—and dowdy, than I am."

"Oh, what fustian!" He took her hand in his friendly way and
said an encouraging, "My sister is a very sweet soul, Miss Hawkhurst,
but the world's busiest arranger. I vow she arranged the lives of so
many people in Spain that her victims are known as 'Mia's Mandates'!" A
twinkle crept into her shy eyes, and he nodded, "Truly. You may ask
anyone! Untold couples who live blissfully in the delusion they found
one another of their own ingenuity are wed only by reason of her
cunning machinations!" A rich little gurgle of merriment resulting, he
squeezed her hand slightly and, releasing it, persisted, "Now to what,
precisely, does Aunty object?"

The flush on her cheeks heightened, which made her look
unsuspectedly attractive, he thought. But not looking away now, she
said quietly, "She says, do I try to be—er, to put on—airs, you must
believe I am… I…" But she was too well bred to bring herself to say it,
and her gaze flickered and fell again.

"
What
?" gasped Buchanan. And with a peal
of laughter, said, "Setting your cap—for
me
?
Throwing out lures? Oh, that's rich!"

She flinched and stepped away, head bowed. And cursing his
clumsiness, he moved closer behind her and said, "But, dear lady, how
could this be? I am safely wed. And with three hopeful children."

A small gasp broke the silence that followed. For an instant
Miss Hawkhurst was rigidly still. Then she turned a rather pale face to
him and said gaily, "You… are?"

He nodded. "So your aunt cannot accuse you of such naughty
mischief."

"She… she most assuredly cannot."

"I think we must confound her, you and I. You may let Mia play
her little games, if that is your wish, for you are safe with me, and,
if you wait until some
eligible
young gentleman
is here, Aunty may then really contrive to throw a rub in your way.
When she is convinced you have totally ensnared me, we shall tell her
all her suspicions are for nought, and by that time you will be the
rage of four counties, at the very least!"

Her laugh was sweetly musical, if somewhat breathless. "Oh,
thank you, sir! You and your dear sister are just… too kind."

"I cannot deny it. Wherefore, I am lonely and neglected, and
your sewing can wait, can it not? Come now, and tell me who was this
very fine young gentleman."

He led her to the portrait, and looking up, her eyes softened.
"Lord Christopher. Is he not handsome? He was the first Thorndyke to
own Dominer, and my great-grandfather on Mama's side. And here…" she
moved to the portrait beside that of Lord Aynsworth, "is his lady wife."

Following, Buchanan viewed a lovely young woman with coppery
golden ringlets and eyes of a rich green, long and wide, and filled
with an inner happiness that the artist had in some magical fashion
captured on the canvas. "Leonie, Countess of Aynsworth," he read, and
murmured, "She looks as though she were thinking of something very
beloved."

"Probably her husband. My Grandpapa says they were the
happiest couple he ever knew. In love all their lives."

A wistful smile touched her eyes, and watching her, he said,
"I expect, someday, you will find such a love."

"I pray so, but to how many is given such a very great gift?"

The smile died from Buchanan's eyes. For one brief year he had
thought to have possessed such a gift and dreamed it would last
forever. But the bubble had burst, leaving nothing but this painful
yearning for the might-have-been. He looked up and, finding her
concerned gaze upon him, asked brightly, "Should you care to go for a
ride? Oh, do say you will. Would Hawkhurst object, do you think?"