Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (15 page)

She reached down as she spoke, and he came at once to shake
her hand. "An excellent notion! How you would brighten my house, Miss
Buchanan." Her brows arched her amusement at this, and, thinking her
even more attractive than he had heard, he stepped back and explained,
"My brother told me you were Hawk's guest. And Leith has spoken of you
often. Can you spare me a moment? Or do I detain you?"

Mildly surprised by his use of Hawkhurst's nickname, she
allowed him to lift her down, and he took the reins, leaving his gun
and the game-bag propped against a tree as he walked on beside her.

"You know Tristram Leith?" she asked.

"Yes. Very well. We are old friends, which makes it a bit—er,
awkward for him, I'm afraid. Tris has told me he intended to offer for
you again. Dare I presume to ask if he was accepted?"

She was a little taken aback but, meeting his laughing glance,
could not be angry and replied, "Leith is one of my very dearest
friends. I really do not think I could get along without that
friendship."

Gains shook his head. "Poor fellow. Then there's still hope
for the rest of us, I take it?"

"Heavens! You make your mind up swiftly, my lord!"

"He who hesitates," he grinned. "Shall you mind adding a
one-eyed man to your legion of admirers? My left orb is blind, you
know."

"Yes. I have heard of it, and have often wondered…" She
frowned. "Forgive me; I've a dreadful tongue, as I've lately been
reminded."

He noted the sudden frown in her eyes and asked a shrewd,
"Hawkhurst? Ah, I could wish you did not stay at Dominer."

"My brother is with me, my lord."

"Oh. Well, I'd not meant to imply—" He smiled in response to
her questioning look and said, "Do not believe everything you hear of
him, Miss Buchanan. He's not quite as black as he's painted."

Such magnanimity from one who had suffered so cruelly at
Hawkhurst's hands utterly overwhelmed her, and she stared at him,
recovering her voice at last to stammer, "How very generous of you to
say so. I can scarce believe any man could be so forgiving. Or have I
been misinformed perhaps? I was told that Hawkhurst… er—"

"Did this?" He gestured toward his eye. "Yes. But it was—" He
rephrased, with a small shrug. "Some of the things I said to him were
quite unforgivable."

"Then one would think a gentleman should have called you out.
Or perhaps—Oh dear! There I go again! And the subject must be painful
to you."

"Not now. Nor have we faced one another in a pearly dawn at
twenty yards, if that is what you mean." His light manner evaporated
and he said with a touch of grimness, "Though it is, I fear, only a
matter of time. And does he continue to abuse my dog, that time may be
extremely brief."

It seemed to Euphemia that the time for their confrontation
had been four years back—and over a matter of far greater moment than
Hawkhurst's threats against a canine interloper. But she could imagine
Simon's horror were she to comment to that effect and therefore said
with a smile, "I shall have to bear witness, sir, to the fact that
today Sampson struck the first blow."

They had come out onto a high, rolling heath, with a
spectacular view of the countryside beyond, and Gains halted, facing
her in dismay. "What? That stupid animal never trotted all the way over
there again?"

"I fear he did. And raced jubilantly through the house,
scattering rugs, breaking Han vases, and leaving the master flat on his
back."

"Good… God! Not that superb vase in the dining room? The
Admiral gave it to him. Oh, but this is frightful."

Euphemia eyed him curiously. "You know a good deal about your
mortal enemy, sir. May I ask who is 'the Admiral'?"

"Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby—Hawkhurst's grandfather and a
fierce, magnificent old warrior who remains, thank heaven, very much my
friend. Hawk idolizes him, with good reason. But Wetherby's seldom at
Dominer since… er… these days, so may not notice the absence of the
vase does he come this year. As for my knowledge of the family, Hawk
and I grew up together, a long time ago, as it seems now." He looked
sad all at once, then brightened. "If you will look down the slope to
your left, Miss Buchanan, you'll see my home. Small, compared to
Dominer, but my brother and I would be overjoyed to welcome you. Will
you come and take a dish of tea with us? I've a splendid housekeeper
who would not leave your side for an instant, did you consent."

Euphemia admired Chant House, a sprawling Tudor edifice set in
a spacious park dotted with great old oak trees. She thanked Lord Gains
for his invitation and liked him the more for the fact that he made no
attempt to argue with her refusal. His offer had been a mere courtesy,
of course, for they both knew her unchaperoned presence in the home of
two young bachelors would be unthinkable, and that this very
conversation was, in fact, quite improper. Therefore, having also
refused his offer to get a mount and escort her, she listened carefully
to his directions, promised to ride this way again with her brother at
the earliest opportunity, and sent Fiddle picking her dainty way down
the slope towards the east and Dominer.

The clouds were darker than ever now, and the air so cold her
breath hung upon it like little clouds, while Fiddle blew white smoke
as she cantered along. Euphemia was only vaguely aware of cold, clouds,
or Fiddle, however, for her thoughts were on Maximilian Gains, his
gentle courtesy, and the gallantry that enabled him to speak of his
enemy with comparative objectivity. He was, she decided, a most
remarkable young man, and she at once popped him into the small group
of her favourites, which included such gallants as Jeremy Bolster, John
Colborne, Harry Redmond, and Tristram Leith. It would be a great pity,
she thought, if Gains and Hawkhurst were to meet on the field of
honour, for, although they looked to be much the same age and each in
splendid physical condition, she could not but think that Gains would
have little chance against Hawkhurst's cold ferocity. It was
remarkable, really, that they had not fought, for surely—

She had been riding along in the lee of a hill and, having
come to the end of its sheltering bulk, rode out into the wind at the
same instant as a horseman galloped around the curve. Fiddle let out a
terrified whinny and shied. For the second time that day, Euphemia had
to call up all her skill to quiet the chestnut. When at last she
succeeded, she found the new arrival sitting his horse while staring at
her with unblinking stillness. An extremely well-favoured gentleman,
this. Slim and tall, he was richly clad in a brown greatcoat that must
have all of ten capes, the furred collar buttoned high about his finely
moulded chin, and a furred beaver clapped at a jaunty angle over curls
that shone like gold even under the threatening winter skies. He was
mounted on a showy hack, very long of tail and rolling of eye, whose
bay coat shone almost as brightly as did his owner's hair. But
Euphemia, wise in the ways of men and horses, found the gentleman's
brown eyes rather too large, his mouth, although perfectly curved, too
full and sensuous, and his horse entirely too quivery of nerves and a
shade too short in the back for all his show and bluster.

Thus, for an instant, each took stock of the other, and the
man's recondite look gave way to admiration, as his dark eyes flickered
from Euphemia's hood to the shapely boot that peeped from beneath her
habit. Off came his beaver with a flourish, down went the golden head,
in a bow remarkable for its grace, in view of the cavorting bundle of
nerves he bestrode. "Well met, Madam Juno," he said in a pleasant,
well-modulated voice. "Are you just arrived? I pray so, for our dull
evenings will be brightened if that is the case."

"You are newly come to Dominer, sir?" she countered smoothly,
conscious of a fervent hope this was not so.

"Dominer? No, by Jove! Ah, but you jest, ma'am, for no lady
such as yourself would sojourn at so wicked a spot! Allow me to
introduce myself. I am John Knowles-Shefford, of Shefford's Den in
Yorkshire." Again his bow was profound, but his questioningly upraised
brows won only a cool smile and the response that, did he journey to
"the wicked spot," her identity would be made known to him.

Briefly, he looked genuinely taken aback, and she realized
that he was older than the five and twenty she had at first guessed,
perhaps by as much as a decade. He recovered himself and began to pour
out apologies, ending his humble pleas for her forgiveness with, "Ah,
fair Juno, must you abandon me in this wilderness?"

Impatient with his verbosity, yet amused nonetheless, she
teased, "You are scarce two miles from Chant House, sir. I would
suppose your chances of reaching it safely to be excellent."

His eyes swung in the direction she indicated. "Yes, but Max
is a dull dog, and it is lonely there. What, will you be away then?
Your name, lovely one, I beg you! At least give me leave to call upon
you in Town—But, no, alas! You mean to leave me, disconsolate and
drear."

"Drear?" she laughed. "But, really sir!" She bade him good
day, not unkindly, and with a kick of her heels sent Fiddle off towards
Dominer once more.

The man she had left sat unmoving for a few minutes, watching
her ride from sight. And as he watched, the foolish smile vanished from
his face, leaving it with another expression—an expression that would
have caused Euphemia much disquiet.

Daylight had faded now, and, while one of the lackeys lighted
the candles, another moved about the pleasant salon, shutting out the
cold dusk by drawing the thick, red-velvet draperies. With his frowning
gaze upon this innocent individual, Hawkhurst twirled the wine in his
glass impatiently and said a curt, "Of course, I am not angered!" He
glanced to Buchanan, standing beside him, saw the laughter that danced
in the blue eyes, and grumbled, "But, by God! I scoured that freezing
damned wood for better than an hour with my grooms, and—" He checked as
his guest strove not too successfully to look contrite and finished
with a wry grin, "Is your sister always so headstrong and impetuous,
sir?"

"Usually," murmured Buchanan, "only when extremely vexed."

"Indeed?" The dark head immediately jerked higher. "Well,
she'd absolutely no reason to—" But Hawkhurst paused, flushed, and
looked away. "Oh," he grunted, then took a sip of cognac and asked,
"How does the boy go on?"

"So far as I am aware, nothing has befallen him in the last
half-hour."

In a total departure from his usual assured manner, Hawkhurst
looked even more discomfited, and faltered, "I… I only dropped in for a
minute or two, and—"

"And left him smothered with books, pictures, magazines, and
that knife of yours that must drive the maids insane," grinned Buchanan.

"No, but I showed him how to use it. He'll not hurt himself, I
do assure you. He has quite a knack for—"

A crash in the hall was followed by a moan, a ripple of
feminine amusement, and a deeper male laugh. The door opened to admit
Dora Graham, her plump face apprehensive, followed by a smiling
Stephanie, and Coleridge Bryce. At the sight of that gentleman, the
enquiry on Hawkhurst's lips died, and Buchanan had to stifle a chuckle.
Bryce was awesome in a maroon-velvet coat, the shoulders of which were
padded to the point of being absurd. His shirt points were so high
that, were he to turn his head unguardedly, he must risk impaling an
eyeball, and wide-legged grey trousers, caught in at the ankles, did
nothing to mitigate the outlandishness of his appearance. After one
scorching scan, Hawkhurst ignored him and escorted his aunt to a chair.
He held his breath for a moment against her perfume, but then said
nobly, "How dashing you look, dear lady."

"I dashed a vase, love," she confessed remorsefully and,
slanting a hopeful look at him, added, "but it really did not have the
best of lines, Garret. Quite dull, actually."

He smiled into her anxious eyes. "Then I thank you for ridding
me of it."

Mrs. Graham heaved a sigh of relief and told him he was the
dearest boy. She really did look well this evening, in a gown of grey
velvet trimmed with blue beads and with her hair quite neatly arranged.
Stephanie's attempt to look her best had been less successful. The pale
blue linen made her look washed out; the high, round neck and large
bishop sleeves were too matronly for a young girl, and the beautiful
shawl she carried loosely across her elbows, being mainly embroidered
in shades of pink, white and red, quarreled with her gown. Buchanan,
who had looked up eagerly at the sound of her voice, noticed neither
unbecoming shades nor ugly sleeves, however, but, as he drew a chair
closer to the fire for her, thought only what a very pleasant person
she was.

The butler filled Mrs. Graham's glass from an elaborately
handpainted Oriental decanter. She sipped appreciatively, sighed that
she was so relieved to hear Miss Buchanan had at last come safely home,
and, sublimely unaware of the sharp glance that flashed between her
nephew and Buchanan, imparted, "The countryside hereabouts can be quite
dangerous, dear Sir Simon, if one is unfamiliar with it."

"Mia is a magnificent rider, ma'am. Lord Wellington once
remarked she is the only lady he knows who might be able to handle
Copenhagen."

"Did he so?" All interest, she leaned forward, at once
dislodging a comb from her hair. She made a clutch for it, and the
fringes of her shawl floated into her wine. "Alas!" she mourned
whimsically, "
Why
must I be such a clumsy
creature?" Buchanan at once retrieving the comb, she reached out to
take it. "Thank you, dear boy! Whoops! There goes my hankie!"

The "dear boy" again came to the rescue, bowed, but dared not
take another breath. Whoever concocted that cloying perfume of hers
should be shot! He moved back, managing not to betray his aversion, but
then found Stephanie's eyes upon him, so alight with michievous
understanding that he was almost undone.