Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (19 page)

Junius drew back, and licked his lips nervously. "I— er,
merely stole a kiss, sir. She's a buxom wench and—"

"And when her brother sought to defend the chit, you and
Pollinger beat him, eh? Do you know how that will sound should this
come to a court of law? You damned young fool!
Must
you lust to bed every woman you meet?" As if goaded beyond endurance,
Trent's arm flew up and he back-handed his son hard across the face.
Junius staggered, then stood with head bowed, one hand clutching his
cheek. "I vow to God," panted Sir Selby, "I'd be justified in taking
you to a surgeon and having you—" His eyes slid to Valentine's shocked
expression. He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "Get
out—you imbecilic animal," he muttered. "And I'd best never again see
you dare to attack your cousin in his father's house! Out!"

Another moment Junius stood there. Then, his taut form relaxed
and a sly smile dawned. "My apologies, sir," he muttered, and with a
short bow went out and closed the door quietly behind him.

Trent shook his head, and walked around his desk. "Alas," he
sighed, sinking into the chair and reverting to his usual bland manner,
"one has such hopes for one's children, and then—"

"Uncle," Montclair intervened curtly. "Spare me the
performance, I beg you."

Sir Selby blinked at him. "Performance… ?"

Montclair nodded. "You have outdone yourself; don't spoil it.
I have one question for you, however. How close is the friendship
between your good friend Monteil and Mrs. Henley?"

"There is none!" Trent seemed to resent the implication. "They
are scarcely acquainted. I think he met her here for the first time on
Tuesday."

"Do you?" Montclair crossed to the door. "Then I think
you
are the one is mistaken, sir." He went out.

There was no sign of Junius and the long hall stretched out in
serene silence. It was all so peaceful and gentle. It didn't seem
possible that just a few moments ago, unbridled savagery had reared its
ugly head in the elegant study. He could well imagine how shamed and
infuriated Junius must feel to have been so brutally chastised in front
of the man he hated. As for his father—the veneer of civilization was
thin indeed.

He muttered, "Phew!" and walked slowly to the stairs, thinking
with nostalgic longing of the years before his parents had died. How
happy they'd been then. Now Longhills had become a battleground, and he
was so confoundedly tired of it all. But there was no use wishing he
could escape. There was no escape; not if he was to protect the estate
for Geoff.

His troubled look deepened to a frown. The state of the mails
was deplorable, but surely Geoff must have received at least one of his
letters? It was possible, of course, that he was moving about too
rapidly for correspondence to reach him; possible even that he was
already en route home. Still, another letter had this morning been
despatched to the errant lord of the manor, and if
that
missive didn't bring Geoff back, then there would be real cause for
alarm. Actually, the footman had gone off with three letters. The one
to Geoffrey, plus notes to Jocelyn Vaughan and Alain Devenish, asking
if they would consent to act as seconds in the forthcoming duel with
Lyddford. Montclair could picture their reactions. It would take a day
or two for the request to reach Joss in Sussex, but Dev's estate was
sufficiently nearby that he would likely receive his letter tomorrow.
He might very well ride to Longhills at once. Heaven knows how many
times the volatile Devenish had been out, but it would be just like him
to deliver a stern homily on the evils of duelling before agreeing to
act for his friend.

Montclair's faint grin faded as his thoughts turned to the
brazen widow and Imre Monteil. Early yesterday morning, the Swiss had
said he was leaving for Brussels. Yet this afternoon he'd been at
Highperch Cottage, and to judge by the way he'd been slobbering over
the Henley woman's hand, one might suppose them to be lovers. His lip
curled. The jade had a quality that drew men, that was abundantly
evident. First Junius, and now Monteil. A pretty pair of admirers for a
lady!

He thought irritably, 'And no concern of mine!' On the other
hand, it
might
concern him. Monteil very
obviously coveted Highperch. And he was the kind of man who took what
he wanted, one way or another. It was possible that he had made the
widow an offer for Highperch on the off chance that she might win her
ridiculous lawsuit. Imre Monteil would catch cold at that! Mrs. Henley
had not the remotest chance of getting her greedy hands on the dear old
cottage!

He ran lightly down the remaining stairs and, proceeding to
the main block, went to his bedchamber to wash and change clothes.
Gould had a note for him. There was no seal, and the direction was a
simple V.A.M. The message was brief, the handwriting so blotched and
quavery that it was difficult to read, but he deciphered a plea that he
meet Barbara in the summer house. She had crossed out the first time
she'd indicated, and replaced it with "six o'clock." Under her
signature, the round innocent hand had added pitifully, "Please—
please
,
Val. We
must
talk about this before tomorrow! Do
not fail me—I beg you."

He had no intention of failing her, and folding the paper he
frowned down at it. The poor chit had been weeping when she wrote this.
Such a timid little soul… It was remarkable, really, that she'd found
the courage to help him with that demented Spaniard this morning.

He ate luncheon alone in his study, watching the storm that
had blown up, but with his thoughts on little Barbara until he turned
to his music and all else was forgotten. At half-past four he had an
appointment with a tenant farmer. The sturdy man was protesting the
fact that his previous complaints had been ignored and debris from the
flood still blocked the stream. "It overflows into my barns and the
henhouse, Mr. Valentine. Keep it out, I can't. And clear your stream,
Mr. Yates won't!" It took some time to calm the indignant yeoman, and
it was five o'clock before a vexed Montclair left his study. He had
instructed Yates to have the stream cleared weeks ago. Clearly, his
order had been countermanded. So another battle loomed. He thought,
'Damn!' but went in search of his uncle.

There was no sign of Trent in conservatory, gallery, or great
hall, but when he went to the south wing and approached the Venetian
withdrawing room, he heard his aunt's shrill voice, followed by
Junius's laugh. Sir Selby was with them, and Montclair's cool request
for a private word with his uncle did not please my lady.

"I see no reason for us to be disturbed," she said haughtily.

"None, my love," agreed her spouse. "Come in, Valentine. We
may talk in front of our own, I hope."

"We were discussing the wedding," said Junius with a sly grin.
"I expect you're fairly panting to hear the details, eh?"

"Not known for your quick wit, are you, coz?" drawled
Valentine.

Junius flushed angrily, and Lady Trent snapped, "There is no
call for rudeness."

"Nor for Babs to be rushed into something she does not wish,"
Montclair countered.

"My daughter will do as she is told," put in Sir Selby. "She
is obedient to her parents' wishes, as becomes a properly bred-up girl.
Come now, Valentine. You know very well all our plans are made. Cannot
be making changes now, dear lad."

"Much too late," agreed Junius. "It would be very bad
ton"

"
That
, at least, you are well qualified
to judge," drawled Montclair. To his dismay the room wavered before his
eyes as he spoke. He thought, 'Oh Lord! Not another attack?' and said
quickly, "I came to talk to you about Ladies Valley Farm, sir. Hatchett
was just here. The property is still being flooded. I told Yates to
clear the stream some time ago. And I particularly want the cellar of
the old Folly boarded up. It appears nothing has been done in either
case. Perhaps you'll be so good as to tell me why?"

"Valentine, Valentine," sighed the baronet. "You never will
understand that these things take time. And there is the expense to be
considered."

"Expense be hanged! It's a downright disgrace that we—"

"How
dare
you, sir?" shouted Lady Trent,
jumping up in one of her swift rages. "And
who
are you, I might add? A snip of a lad who has not yet seen thirty
summers! A younger son with
no
authority, who has
travelled little about the world and has accomplished nothing save for
a babble of useless music! I am aware you and your brother both were
indulged as children and allowed to sauce your parents! Certainly your
lack of proper unbringing has never been more apparent than when your
spleen is turned on your poor uncle who strives with patience and
loyalty to safeguard Geoffrey's estates from his brother's hare-brained
irresponsible schemes. Apologize at once!"

White with wrath, Montclair attempted a response, but his
dizziness had increased to the point that he was instead obliged to
clutch at a chair.

"Bravo, Mama," laughed Junius, applauding. "Only look, you've
frightened the gudgeon so that he is weak in the knees!"

"You know—damned well—" gasped Montclair furiously.

Quick to seize his advantage, Junius pretended outrage. "Do
not swear in front of my mama, you clod," he cried, leaping at his
cousin and giving him a shove that sent the weakened man reeling
against a table.

Montclair could see two Junius Trents. He knew he was being
baited because Junius fancied him too dizzied to give a good account of
himself, but he managed to push himself away from the table and clench
his fists. Before he could raise them, Junius struck hard.

Sir Selby leapt to steady Montclair as he staggered back.
"Have you forgot what I told you, Junius?" he demanded, barely hiding a
grin,

"I was but defending my mama 'gainst his naughty language,
sir," said Junius primly. "You cannot blame me for that, surely?"

Montclair's head was clearing a little. He took out his
handkerchief to wipe his bloodied mouth and said in a steadier voice,
"You are a brave man, cousin."

"Now only look—you have cut him." Sir Selby clicked his tongue
reprovingly. "Could you not see that he was suffering one of his
attacks?"

My lady tittered. "Poor Montclair. I vow I must give you a
pity party."

Junius howled with laughter.

Montclair's breath hissed through his teeth, and the look in
his narrowed eyes caused his aunt to draw back in sudden alarm.

"Now, now—do not lose your temper, dear boy. They were just
funning," said Sir Selby.

"We have come to a sorry pass," said Montclair harshly, "if
that is—" But he broke off. He was too angry, and a gentleman did not
frighten a lady. Even a Lady Marcia Trent. He turned and stalked out of
the room, his cousin's mocking laughter following him.

Lord, but she was a merciless harridan! And he was a fool for
having allowed the pair of them to make him so angry, for certainly he
knew what they were. Striding rapidly across the park towards the
summer house, Montclair thought of a hundred ways he might better have
handled the matter, a hundred things he might better have said. Still,
it was as well he'd left when he had, or he might have said something
awful that one does not say to one's own flesh and blood.

'I vow I must give you a pity party…'

Her harsh voice echoed in his ears. He scowled and dug his
hands deeper into his pockets. If only Geoff would come home. Gad, but
he missed the old cawker! They could get rid of the Trents then, and
life would be bearable again.

When he entered the little copse of beeches at the top of the
rise, the sun was going down, sending an occasional beam through the
lowering clouds. Homeward-bound birds swooped and chattered, settling
noisily into their own particular trees. The air was beginning to be
chill, the eastern horizon already darkening to dusk, and a clammy mist
was beginning to writhe up from the wet grass. He thought absently, 'It
will be foggy tomorrow…' and hurried his stride in case Babs in her
distraught state had neglected to bring a shawl.

Lost in troubled thought, he roused to the awareness of a
faint rustling behind him, and jerked his head up. A lone ray of
sunlight followed him and painted his shadow on the grassy ride, but it
painted another shadow: a grotesque figure towering high above him, one
mighty arm raising a great cudgel high.

Montclair spun around, throwing up his left arm to protect his
head. He was too late. Before he had a chance to see who—or
what—menaced him, the shadows, the fading light, the woods, were riven
into countless whirling fragments. There was pain, brief and terrible.
Then, nothing at all.

"Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand," repeated Señor
Angelo, and started to rap himself on the chest but thought better of
it. "Mices elves."

The footman deigned to lower his eyes to a point just above
the top of the Spaniard's dark head. 'No card; talks very odd; no hat;
untidy hair; cravat horrid.' Concluding this regrettable silent
inventory he restored his gaze to the cloudy skies once more, and
intoned sonorously, "Was Mr. Montclair expecting you this morning… sir?"

The footman tended to run his words together. Señor Angelo,
who should not really have ventured forth on this chill foggy day,
found the singsong utterance incomprehensible. He also began to feel
rather wobbly on his feet. The stableboy was experiencing some
difficulty in controlling the visitor's spirited horse and, amused, the
footman turned to watch the contest. Señor Angelo seized his
opportunity, ducked past the footman, and occupied the marble bench
just inside the front doors. He was a small man and nimble even in
adversity, and the footman, tall and secure in his dignified might, did
not see the swift manoeuvre and continued to ignore the visitor while
enjoying the stableboy's efforts.