Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (19 page)

Sampson regarded her with tolerant amusement, lolled his
tongue, turned onto his back and stretched, then allowed his legs to
droop in a most impolite abandonment. Euphemia's frustrated moan faded
into a gasp as she heard Hawkhurst's distinctive voice raised in a
shout for "Parsley!"

"Oh, my God!" she ejaculated. "Come and help me, quickly!" The
maids, however, craven in the face of peril, had deserted. Her knees
turned to water. How
ghastly
if she was found in
here! But she could not allow the foolish animal to be slain. "Kent,
run and find something he might like to play with!"

The child ran to the dressing table and returned bearing a
riding crop with an intricately carven grip inlaid with
mother-of-pearl. He gave the insouciant hound a prod in the ribs with
this. Sampson half opened one eye and was transformed into a maelstrom
of energy; legs writhed, back twisted, ears flapped, and tail wagged
furiously. He stood on the bed, then launched himself for the "stick,"
landing with a crash against a chest of drawers, thus sending two
candelabra and a clock toppling.

"Good! Now, hurry!" cried Euphemia, running for the door.

It was too late Hawkhurst's voice, raised in irritation, was
already in the hall. With a stifled sob, Euphemia drew back. Heavy
brocade curtains, matching those of the bed hangings, closed off what
appeared to be a dressing room. Pushing Kent before her, and with
Sampson bouncing along, flourishing the crop that now resided between
his jaws, she made a dart for it, swung the draperies closed behind her
and, finding a heavy door also, pushed it to, praying it might not
squeak. It did not, but before she could latch it, the hall door burst
open and she shrank back.

"… damned well ruined is what drives me into the boughs!"
Hawkhurst was exclaiming. "If a man cannot shoot straight with a
Manton, he's no business owning one!"

"I wish you will not treat it with such levity, Mr. Garret!"
protested the agitated voice of Mr. Bailey. "It is my opinion the
Constable should be summoned. You might well have—"

"Stuff! Where's my riding crop?" Euphemia threw a hand to her
mouth, her heart thundering as she heard the clatter of articles moved
by impatient hands. "Dammitall, Bailey! I collect I've left it in the
stables. My head is full of windmills these days!"

Sure that he would next look in the dressing room, Euphemia
hove a sigh of relief as he grumbled on, with Bailey making small
placating remarks. It was probably a brief respite at best, however,
and she would positively die of mortification if he discovered them in
here! A grinding sound brought her startled gaze downward. Sampson was
single-mindedly devouring his prize, while Kent, kneeling beside him,
watched his efforts with admiration. It was doubtful that the crop
could be wrested away without considerable commotion, and she dared not
risk latching the door. Retreat was the only answer. She glanced
swiftly around the dressing room. A tall mahogany chest held a clutter
of male articles, several letters, and a miniature of a dark-haired
woman with a sensitive mouth, and eyes of the same clear grey as those
of Hawkhurst, his mother, beyond doubting. There was a full-length
standing mirror and a recessed area with a clothes-rod, on which were
hung the garments he would probably wear for luncheon. A hunting gun
was propped against the side of the chest, and a dark blue quilted
satin dressing gown was tossed carelessly over a straight-backed chair.
Her eyes flickered swiftly over these items and flew to the door at the
rear of the small room. She tiptoed to try the latch and could have
wept with chagrin. It was locked, and there was no visible key.

"… might be down in the stables," Hawkhurst was calling. "Oh,
and be a good fellow, tell Dr. Archer I'll ride back with him."
Bailey's distant voice raised an immediate protest, and Hawkhurst
responded, "Devil, I will! Tell him!"

The door was closed, and she gripped her hands in relief. If
he intended to ride again he was not likely to change clothes now. But
that revolting dog was grinding like a full-fledged grist mill!

Hawkhurst muttered a vexed, "What the… hell!"

He must have seen the fallen candelabra and clock. With a
flutter of the heart, Euphemia knew that, if he next found dog hairs
upon his pillow, they would be undone, for he would certainly initiate
a search for the culprit.

Kent tugged at her skirts and peered up at her, his small face
anxious. Poor child, she must not frighten him. She forced her pale
lips into a smile and bent to whisper, "I do not wish Mr. Hawkhurst to
be cross with Sampson, dear, so we shall play a little game of hide and
seek. Try to keep him quiet." Intrigued by the game, he nodded, and she
draped the large dressing gown over the crouching boy and the busy dog.
Sampson raised no protest, and Euphemia's hopes escalated as she heard
Hawkhurst stride across the room and open the door. Thank heaven! She
eased the dressing room door open and peeped between the curtains.

"Fillman!" he bellowed, then grumbled, "Why don't you answer
the bell, damn your ears?" He slammed the door. The draft sent the
curtains billowing outward, and, sure she would be seen, Euphemia
jumped back. Her elbow struck the door causing it to swing wide and
crash against the wall. She barely had time to gasp with fright before
two strong hands wrenched the curtains apart.

Hawkhurst towered over her, his face grim and deadly. She
could have sunk but stood her ground, her knees shaking and her reeling
brain searching frantically for the convincing explanation that did not
exist.

Hawkhurst, on the other hand, quite literally sprang back, so
obviously flabbergasted that she knew a nervous need to giggle.

"Wh-What…" he gulped. "What… in the
name
of… ?"

Her mouth very dry and her face very red, Euphemia said
feebly, "I—I was… er—lost."

"Lost?" he echoed, recovering somewhat, although he was pale
with shock. "I have encountered many 'lost' people on my estates. But
never, I must admit, in my bedchamber!"

"Well, I can understand that would… er… be so," she stammered,
tottering valiantly into the bedchamber. "But… I did not quite know…
that is…" She floundered helplessly. What on earth could she say to the
man?

His eyes, chips of ice now, slanted from the fallen candelabra
and clock to the curtains behind her. "What have you been about?" he
demanded suspiciously. "I have been a slowtop again, is that it? And
this whole damnable thing was a badly managed scheme to—"

'To do—what?" she countered, indignation banishing fear.
"Steal that Rembrandt you have in the gallery? Make off with your
twenty-foot tapestry from the dining room? But, of course! I have 'em
both. One tucked in my ear and the other up my sleeve! Would you wish
to inspect, perhaps… ?" And she leaned to him, pulling out her ear lobe
in angry mockery.

Her slight movement was accelerated as his hands clamped onto
her shoulders and pulled her to him. She was crushed against his chest,
and he was bending to her mouth. She did not scream but, even as she
struggled, knew that this was scarce to be wondered at. What must he
think of her? And he was so terribly strong, she could not break free.
Her heart began to leap erratically. His lips were a breath away. A new
light was in his eyes, a look of such tenderness that her anger was
transformed into a sudden and hitherto unknown terror. Gone was her
famed calm in time of crisis, gone the cool courage that had always
enabled her to meet whatever Fate flung at her. Out of this
debilitating panic came a strangled sob, and, jerking her head from his
questing lips, she gasped, "I have none but myself to blame for this
crude assault. God knows, I should have had more sense than to
investigate a strange sound—in the bedchamber of the most notorious
libertine in England!"

For an instant he stood very still. Then he straightened and
stepped back, bowing slightly, a twisted smile bringing no trace of
mirth to eyes over which the lids once more drooped cynically.

She felt drowned by remorse and reached out to him in an
intense need to make amends, but before she could speak a sound
penetrated the silence, a sound as of grist being ground between heavy
millstones.

Hawkhurst's gaze flashed to the dressing room. "Strange sound,
indeed!" he breathed, and sprinted for the curtains. And in that same
instant, as though a capricious Fate decreed it, Sampson elected to
gallop for freedom, the remnants of the crop carried triumphantly
between his jaws, a piece of mother-of-pearl shining atop his muzzle.
He caromed into the advancing man, and, caught off balance, Hawkhurst
reeled into the wall. Sampson plunged for the door. Quite undismayed to
find it shut, he diverted himself by tearing three times around the
room, sending rugs, a chair, and a lamp tumbling. He then bounded onto
the bed and crouched, panting happily, perfectly ready to participate
in whatever game was next offered him. Hawkhurst, less amiably
inclined, gave a howl of rage. "Get off my bed! Down, you damnable imp
of Satan! Blast your fleas! What's he got there… '? My
whip?
By God! But this is too much!" He made a dive for the dressing room and
emerged, gun in hands and murder in his eyes.

Euphemia, however, had seized her opportunity. The door stood
ajar, and the echoing thump of four large paws, punctuated by an
occasional crash, drifted to them.

"Out of my way, woman!" raged Hawkhurst. "How in the devil did
that worthless mongrel get in here? By thunder, I'll murder the—"

"Be still!" she admonished sharply. "The child is here."

Infuriated, he swung around to discover Kent, who had crept
out from under the dressing gown, and now stood white-faced in the
doorway to the dressing room. "Did
you
let that
miserable hound in here?" Hawkhurst demanded. "What in the deuce are—"
And he broke off, fury fading into consternation.

Kent, his face twitching, shaking his head pleadingly, was
shrinking back. Frowning, Hawkhurst started towards him. Euphemia ran
to snatch the gun from his hand. He cast her an irked look and strode
for the boy. "Kent, now you must certainly—"

But the child, sobbing in his pathetic, soundless fashion, was
stumbling ever backward across the dressing room, until the locked door
barred his way, until his fumbling hands, pressing frenziedly at the
wall, could find no escape. And, accepting the inevitability of his
fate, he cringed there, arms flung upward to protect his face, his
slender body crouched and shuddering in anticipation of the beating
that must follow.

Hawkhurst stared down at him in stark horror. Forgotten now
was the dog or the whip that had been his father's. Forgotten, even,
the girl and her scorn that had seared him. The years rolled back, and
he himself stood thus before the raging tutor, terror making him sweat,
and the cane whistling down at him… He fell to one knee and adjured
softly, "Kent,
never
do that. Not to me, boy."

The voice held a caress, and, reacting to it at once, the
child peeped between his shielding arms and found the dark face
magically transformed. The mouth curved to a kindly smile, the harsh
lines had vanished, and the anger in the cold eyes was replaced by a
gentleness such as made the threat of savage reprisal a thing
impossible. Daring to breathe again, Kent lowered his arms. Hawkhurst
reached out. For a moment the boy stared wonderingly, then with a
thankful gasp, threw himself into those strong arms, to be enfolded and
held firm and safe against a corduroy-clad shoulder.

Blinded by tears, Euphemia crept away and left them together.
And, running to her room, for one of the few times in her life, she lay
on her bed and wept with total abandonment. When at last the paroxysm
ended, she lay there limp and exhausted, breathing in great shuddering
gasps, and bewildered by her own hysteria. She sniffed, sat up, and,
drying her tears, took herself firmly in hand. How ridiculous to behave
in this missish way. There was no reason to tremble so, nor to feel so
frightened and lost. Whatever was the matter with her? Hawkhurst would
understand now why she had ventured into his bedchamber. He surely
would not take her for the wanton he had evidently assumed her to be
when first he found her there. He would soon apologize for having
seized her so brutally… so tenderly…

Unaccountably, her eyes grew dim again, her throat tightened
painfully, and with the memory of his stricken eyes tormenting her, she
thought achingly, Oh, I
wish
I had not spoken so!

Mrs. Graham would not be comforted. In a highly agitated
state, the little lady gestured dramatically all along the upstairs
corridor. Her sister-in-law, she mourned, would be furious, and there
was not a bit of use to pretend innocence, for she never had been any
good at dissembling, and Carlotta would know in a trice that she had
been aware of the scheme.

"But, you
were
innocent, Dora," Euphemia
smiled. "Now pray do not worry so. Hawk—hurst must like his new sister.
And if
he
likes her, Lady Bryce will not dare to
scold you."

Apparently unaware of that swiftly corrected slip, Dora merely
heaved an apprehensive sigh. In an attempt to change the subject,
Euphemia commented on what a fine young man Coleridge appeared to be
and asked if his cousin really meant to force him into the army.

They had by this time come to the Great Hall and started
toward the gold lounge where the family had lately formed the habit of
meeting before luncheon. "I doubt he would force Colley to go," said
Mrs. Graham. "But, he would like him to buy a pair of colours, for he
is afraid, I think, that…"

"That his own reputation may ruin Coleridge?" asked Euphemia.

"Why, how well you have come to know us in these few days, my
dear." Dora made a convulsive grab at her tumbling crocheted shawl, and
then paused to try and disentangle it from the holly branches in the
great Chinese urn beside the music room. "Yes, partly that. And
partly—well, Hawk was in the military, and—"