Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (23 page)

He wavered towards the door but on the threshold turned back
to look at her for a long moment. "Leith," he mumbled, "Leith's the…
luckiest man I know."

"Yes, for he has purloined your black Arabian, sir!" she
flashed, and had the satisfaction of seeing shock appear in his eyes. "
Will
you go? And—trust me! I'll handle him."

The shadow of a smile playing about his lips, he said, "I
believe you may, at that."

He left her then, and, watching his reeling stagger along the
hall, she shuddered, then called a desperate, "Send Manners to me. I
shall be in the drawing room."

He waved a response, almost fell, then stumbled on again.

The fire was still smouldering in the drawing room, and with a
sigh of relief Euphemia piled two more logs on the dying blaze, poked
at it cautiously, and was rewarded by a sudden flicker of flames.
Lighting candles with frantic haste, she thought that the room was a
little chill, but having come from a long and undoubtedly cold ride,
the Admiral would probably find it warm enough. A beautiful old mirror
hung above the credenza on the right wall, and she flew to it, uttering
a moan of apprehension as she viewed her wind-blown hair. And she had
no comb, for she'd left her reticule in—

She spun around, horror-stricken, as the door opened, then
felt limp with relief. "Manners! Thank heaven it's—" She paused. Across
his arm the groom carried the new cream brocade gown she had intended
to wear on Christmas Day at Aunt Lucasta's. From one hand her best
pearls dangled, and comb, hairbrush, and perfume bottle were clutched
in the other. "Oh, wonderful!" she exclaimed. "But, is there time?"

"If you're quick, Miss." He shot a conspiratorial smile at her
and murmured, "The old gentleman's very angry, I'm afraid. Good thing I
opened the door for him instead of that young fool, Strapp. But, he's a
stickler for manners, and I thought… this dress might be—er, better."

She glanced around. There was no obliging screen in this room.

Manners laid the gown across a blue velvet chair. "I'll leave
you and stand guard outside, in case—"

"No! I've no time for modesty now. Turn your back—and for
heaven's sake don't let anyone in!" She struggled with buttons and
fasteners as he returned to the door and faced it obediently. "The
Admiral's preferences, Manners!"

"He likes Spanish cigarillos, Miss. There's a special box in
the dining room. I'll get them directly I leave you."

"What about wine?"

"Port. Mr. Hawkhurst keeps a supply of 'seventy-three in the
cellars. I know, because Mr. Ponsonby let me try a glass once. I'll
basket some. It will be cold enough and should be welcomed, I would
think."

"Excellent," gasped Euphemia, muffled under the brocade.
Surfacing breathlessly, she asked, "Can Mrs. Henderson muster a decent
meal, d'you think? I know men. My Papa was never so vexed as to come
from a day on the march and find a poor table."

"Nell says she's some cold chicken and a pig's cheek. There's
no time to make a pie, but there's a dish she knows with potatoes and
curried meat she says will serve. Miss, can I go? Mr. Hawkhurst—"

Struggling vainly, Euphemia moaned, "Manners, are you wed?"

"Yes, Miss." He grinned at the door panel. "Buttons?"

"Yes. You're a gem! Come, do—and strive never to remember
this, or I shall be as disgraced as your master!"

He spun around quickly and, searching her face, saw the
mischievous smile as he started forward, his eyes admiring. Her hair
was rumpled and coming down, but the pale gown accentuated the rich
colour of it, and the pearls made her fair skin seem almost luminous.
She might not be a beauty in the strictest sense of the word, thought
Mr. Manners, but by heaven she was a fine-looking girl!

Euphemia stood before the mirror unabashedly as he fumbled
with the four-and-twenty small buttons at the back of her gown. Plying
the hairbrush, she said, 'Tell Mrs. Henderson to be sure to make as
many sweets as possible. If she has none, a trifle—well soaked with
wine—should serve. How does your master go on?"

"When I left just now, he was… ah, a trifle indisposed, Miss."

"The lemons!" exclaimed Euphemia around a mouthful of
hairpins. Manners chuckled, and she said, "Poor soul! Well, he'll feel
better for it. Now, tell me. Has Admiral Wetherby any pet subjects?"

"I've heard he was devoted to Nelson. And he's an admirer of a
new artist called Constable. One of the few, I think."

"Thank you." She coaxed a ringlet over her shoulder. "Now,
have you told the old gentleman to come in here?"

"I tried, but… it's hard to tell him much. I wasn't able to
explain—"

Whatever had not been explained to the Admiral, Euphemia was
not then destined to discover, for a querulous voice was raised in the
hall, demanding, "Where in the
deuce
is everyone?
Lottie… ? Dora… ?"

"Doesn't he know they're at the rectory?" whispered Euphemia,
whipping her hair into place. Manners, wrestling perspiringly with the
last two buttons, groaned, "I had no chance to tell him, Miss. He was
full of complaints from the moment he alighted from his coach. His man
looked—Oh my! He's coming!"

"Here!" Euphemia swept up her discarded habit and thrust it at
him. In desperate haste she flung some perfume behind her ears, slipped
the bottle into a pot of ferns, and hissed, "Out the terrace door!
Quickly!"

He raced for the curtains, turned back suddenly, drew a fan
from his coat pocket, and tossed it to her. Euphemia caught it and,
collapsing into the nearest chair, gave a gasp of relief that just as
suddenly became a whimper of dismay. She still wore her riding boots!

The hall door swung open. She whipped her feet back and stood,
as Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby strolled into the drawing room. He
was indeed "a stickler for manners," for he wore knee breeches and a
black jacket. This much she saw before she sank into her curtsey.
Straightening, she smiled into eyes as dark and cold as a midwinter
night and with a quickening of her pulse knew she faced a formidable
adversary. The features of this erect old gentleman were little changed
from those in the portrait, only a few lines and the white hair
betraying the years that had passed since it was painted. She stood
slim and tall before him, unaware that her head was slightly thrown
back, as his quizzing glass was lifted and he scanned her with slow
deliberation from head to hem. She said nothing, wondering if he
suspected her knees were a trifle bent, so as to prevent her confounded
boots from showing.

The Admiral was, in fact, thinking that this girl was a cut
above Hawk's usual run of doxies. "How very remiss of my grandson," he
murmured, "to leave so charming a… lady alone."

"Yes," she smiled, having noted the deliberate pause. "Is it
not? But I shall not rail at him since he has sent so delightful a…
gentleman in his stead."

The quizzing glass, which had begun to lower, checked just a
trifle, and the dark eyes sharpened. "Since we are faced with the
embarrassment of no host, or hostess, to perform introductions, allow
me to—"

"But it is not necessary, my lord." Seating herself, feet
carefully tucked back, Euphemia added, "I know who you are, you see.
And I do believe I shall make you guess my identity."

"Indeed… ?" His tone held the barest hint of boredom, but his
interest had flared nonetheless. She was a graceful chit, with the
poise of a Duchess. Hawk's taste was most decidedly improved. He took
the chair she waved him towards—for all the world as though she
presided over this house, the brazen jade!—and his eyes lingered with
sardonic amusement on the fan she wielded.

Glancing down, Euphemia saw, too late, that Manners had taken
up the ruby-encrusted fan that Papa's officers had presented to her
last year. Her abigail had packed it by mistake, since it was by far
too ornate for a country house. She bit her lip in momentary vexation,
then continued to fan herself gently.

"I could scarcely have a notion of your identity, ma'am," he
shrugged quellingly. "And that such as yourself could derive any
pleasure from chatting to a crusty old sea-dog, I find… questionable."

"No, but it will be such a change, for you see I am accustomed
to chatting with crusty old military men." Her smile was as sweet, her
eyes as level as ever, but amused now, Wetherby suppressed a grin with
difficulty. "Military…" he said, tilting his head thoughtfully. "You
have a father, a brother, on the Peninsula, perhaps?"

"Only a brother now, sir." Briefly, sorrow touched her eyes,
and she stifled a sigh as she thought of her beloved father, and a
smile at the knowledge of how this interview must have infuriated him.

Manners entered to place the cigarillos and a tinder box at
the Admiral's elbow. "Mr. Hawkhurst had bespoken some wine for Lord
Wetherby," Euphemia lied softly. "You will not forget, Manners?"

"Your pardon, Miss. I will bring it at once."

"New man, I see," murmured the Admiral, his longing gaze on
the cigar box.

Wondering what he would say if he knew he had just been waited
on by the head groom, she evaded, "He is very good, but since your
grandson is short-handed tonight, sir, I shall have to ask that you
prepare your own cigarillo."

He glanced up eagerly. "You do not object, ma'am?"

She gave a little trill of laughter. "Lud, no. In Spain, I—"
She stopped and bit her lip, as though she'd let the clue slip
unintentionally.

"Aha!" he ejaculated in triumph, opening the beautifully
inlaid box. "You betrayed yourself, ma'am! You accompanied your Papa,
did you? He was an officer, then!"

"Alas, you are too clever for me, my lord."

He chuckled and, applying flame to tobacco, puffed
contentedly, then, leaning back in his chair, asked, "Are you an… old
friend of my grandson?"

"We have been at Dominer not quite two weeks, sir. In point of
fact, we were on our way to Bath for the holidays when our carriage
overturned, and Mr. Hawkhurst was so kind as to bring us here."

"How unfortunate. No one injured, I trust?"

"My brother again, a little, poor dear," she said with total
innocence. "And my page became very ill un—"

"And now I have you, ma'am!" Wetherby sprang up with a
surprisingly quick, lithe movement. "You are Armstrong Buchanan's girl!
I heard his daughter had titian hair, and that her brother was come
home with a ball through his shoulder. I trust Buchanan sustained no
severe set-back?" He was bearing down on her even as he spoke, and she
lifted her hand saying a rueful, "Oh, my! How very quick you are!" He
laughed delightedly and bowed over her fingers. "Forgive me, my dear. I
was disgruntled, and supposed you to be—someone else."

Knowing perfectly well what he had supposed, she smiled, "Of
course. I thought perhaps you were a trifle into the hips after a
tiresome journey. And my brother is mending so nicely I fear he will be
returning to his regiment very soon. For which I have your grandson's
magnificent friend, Dr. Archer, to thank." The instant the remark
passed her lips, she saw his own tighten and, recalling Archer's
hostility, knew it was shared and that she had committed a
faux
pas
. Wetherby said nothing, however, and returned to his
chair.

Manners slipped back in with a tray of decanters and glasses.
The Admiral glanced at Euphemia, and she shook her head. He sniffed of
the bouquet when Manners handed him the glass, sipped, and sighed
ecstatically. "Hawkhurst keeps a fine cellar. I give him credit for
that, at least."

"He has been a splendid host, my lord. Indeed, we are most
deeply in his debt."

The old gentleman scanned her thoughtfully. This nice child
should not be here. Perhaps she did know what she risked. "I take it,"
he said with slow reluctance, "that you are aware of my grandson's
regrettable reputation, Miss Buchanan?"

"I am, sir. And find it far more regrettable that such wicked
slander should be permitted to flourish against so very gallant a
gentleman."

The Admiral all but dropped his cigarillo and practically
goggled at her. "Your pardon, ma'am? I had thought we were discussing
my grandson—Garrett Hawkhurst?"

"Indeed we were. How proud you must be. I am sure my brother
will wish to convey his thanks to you also, for, were it not for your
grandson, Sir Simon, myself and my page would all be in our graves
today."

Lord Wetherby, recovering himself with a visible effort,
leaned forward. "Dear lady, I see you have much to tell me. Would you
be so good as to begin?"

"I quite fail to see," said Amelia Broadbent, with a wrinkle
of her pert little nose, "what is so very remarkable about the fact
that Stephanie Hawkhurst has had all her pretty hair cut off and has
taken to using cosmetics in the most vulgar fashion!" Raising her own
carefully darkened brows, she added, "One might suppose the gentlemen
to be a bunch of witless schoolboys, the way they scurry around her!"

"And one more remark like that, child," said her fond parent,
smiling upon her fair loveliness with a terrifying expanse of bared
teeth, "and you shall be taken home and made to lie down upon your bed
with a dose of the elixir prescribed by dear Dr. Beddoes!"

This dire threat sufficed to have Miss Broadbent turn pale and
subside behind her fan, albeit sending many a jealous glance at the
small crowd gathered around Stephanie in the far corner of the gaily
decorated Church Hall.

All evening it had been thus. Upon the arrival of the
Hawkhurst party Stephanie had created a near sensation, both ladies and
gentlemen pressing in to admire the shy but well-liked girl. There had
been a small tussle between Ivor St. Alaban and John Stiles as to which
should escort her in to supper. A pointless tussle, since the handsome
guest of the Hawkhursts, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan, had claimed
that honour. Still, he could not be said to have monopolized his fair
prize at the table, and in fact they scarcely exchanged words, each
attending politely to the remarks of those about them and paying little
heed to one another.