Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (32 page)

"At the least," she corroborated gravely.

For a breathless moment his eyes remained locked with hers,
then he turned and, totally unaware of the fact that his Aunt Dora was
addressing him, stalked from the room, closing the door softly behind
him.

Hawkhurst did not put in an appearance at luncheon on that
hushed and clammy afternoon, and the Admiral, in a grim mood,
contributed little to the conversation. Dora chattered brightly, her
occasional quotations obviously irritating her father. She lapsed into
quivering silence each time his irked glance shot at her, but so
ebullient was her nature she was soon merrily prattling once more.
There could be little doubt that she loved Wetherby yet went in
considerable awe of him. Euphemia had become very fond of the cheerful
little woman and, despite her own heavy heart, decided she would have a
chat with the old gentleman and try to persuade him to a more kindly
attitude towards his daughter.

When the meal was concluded, however, Bryce begged a moment
alone with her. They went into the music room, and, when the door
closed, he diffidently expressed his thanks for her enthusiasm over his
paintings.

"It is I should thank you," she said warmly. "But should you
not be studying art, Colley?"

He gave a helpless gesture. "My dream, Miss Euphemia, but—"

"Mia," she corrected.

He grinned and went on, "If only Hawk would—That is—" He bit
his lip, looked up at her shyly from under his brows, and said in a
voice made hoarse by nervousness, "Aunt Dora says that you… that Hawk
might listen to you. And I—I thought you… would…"

"Intercede for you? Gladly. But it is only fair to tell you
that I have not found your cousin highly persuadable."

"Nor I. The most stubborn man alive, in fact."

"I hope not," murmured Euphemia, "else my task must be
difficult indeed."

Misinterpreting her remark, he said anxiously that he did not
mean to saddle her with a heavy burden. "If you find him intractable, I
beg you will make no attempt to convince him. I'd not have you upset
for the world, and Hawk can be," he grimaced, "cutting as the very
deuce."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "You should have shown him
your work long since, you know. I'm surprised your Mama did not
recommend such a course to you."

"Mama ain't an art lover, Miss—er, Mia. She hasn't seen much
of my work. And besides, she was afraid—" He hesitated again, then
blurted out, "I am so scared he might… laugh."

His face was scarlet, and, realizing at last how intense a
nature was concealed beneath that boyish charm, she said quietly, "That
is unfair, Colley. You have given him no chance."

"I know," he groaned. "And truly, old Hawk is the greatest
gun! It's not that I don't
like
him, Mia! He's
splendid, whatever people think, but—"

She placed a hand on his sleeve, her smile quieting his
remorse. "Of course. I understand. When I speak to him, may I tell him
of your 'secret' room?"

"Yes, you—you may. In fact, my Aunt D-Dora and I—Well, you
did
suggest a showing. And we're getting everything… ready." He mopped his
perspiring brow. "Oh, egad! What a stupid cawker!"

Euphemia laughed. "No, no. Only tell me where this dragon of
yours may be found. I shall seek him out at once."

"Will you? Jove, but you're a good sport! Hawk's in the
stables, I expect. Leith sent Sarabande home, and he's looking him
over. Loves that black devil."

Outside the fog was still dense, with visibility little more
than ten feet. It was so cold that Euphemia wondered the vapours did
not freeze solid, but instead they swirled about her unpleasantly as
she made her way towards the stables. How typical of Tristram to return
the Arabian, in despite his avowed intention to keep him. She recalled
now that Hawkhurst had seemed relatively undismayed when she'd broken
the news of his abduction. He'd probably known his friend would be
above so petty an action.

She heard laughter from the stables and, as she entered, saw
Hawkhurst standing before an end stall, caressing Sarabande's proudly
tossing head. "… devil he did," he was saying. "You might as well tell
me, John. I'm not like to blame you for whatever that madman said."

The stocky, middle-aged groom threw a hesitant look at Manners
and, receiving a confirmatory nod, answered, "As near as I recollect,
sir, he says as how you stole summat as he's been arter fer these two
years an' more. So he felt all right in stealin' summat o'yourn."

"Blasted hedgebird! And did he say why he was returning his
spoils?"

"Oh, he ain't sent nothin' else, sir. Only the 'oss."

Euphemia caught a glimpse of Hawkhurst's flashing grin, then
Manners translated in his quiet way, "The master means, why did he send
Sarabande back to us?"

"Ar. Well, now, these is Colonel Leith's words, y'understand,
sir. He says, 'Now I come to think on it, he'll likely (meaning you,
sir) be too noble to claim the prize wot he won, so he best have the
'oss back arter all.' "

Sudden and unexpected tears stung Euphemia's eyes. Dear
Tristram, how well he knew the man she loved. God keep you, my best of
friends, she thought and turned away, wiping her eyes.

"I had not heard you come in." Hawkhurst was beside her, but
his cool manner vanished as he saw her sudden rigid dismay. "What is
it? What's wrong?"

She pointed to the splendid hunting rifle that lay on the
bench. "Is that… the Manton you found when you were shot at?"

"Yes. Why?"

It was as if she stood once again in that lonely copse on the
land of his enemy. Almost, she could see Maximilian Gains smiling up at
her as he set his gun and game-bag aside. She had marked at once the
beautiful inlay in the stock and grip of that gun. She felt betrayed
and yet still could not believe him capable of such cowardly treachery.
Besides, even if he did own the weapon, it need not necessarily follow
that he had fired it, and—

Hawkhurst touched her elbow. "You have seen that before, I
think, ma'am. Was it on the day you became lost? You rode toward Chant
House, I understand, and I believe you said you met someone… ?"

"Oh, yes. I met a gentleman," she managed breathlessly. "A
most charming gentleman, who…" She gave a nervous trill of mirth. "Who
at once professed to have fallen in love with me." Hawkhurst's lips
tightened, and she plunged on, desperate to divert his suspicion from
Gains. "An extreme handsome fellow in his way, but rather too smooth of
tongue, and with great eyes almost too large for—" Her words ceased,
for Hawkhurst's face had become dark with passion, so that for the
first time she feared him and drew back.

"What did this 'extreme handsome fellow' look like?" he
hissed, taking her wrist in an iron grip. "Had he dark, curling—" His
gaze shifted past her. He pulled himself together, released his hold,
and snapped out an irked, "Well?"

With a murmur of apology, Bailey proffered a letter. "I'd not
have brought it down, sir, only I chanced to discover it in the pocket
of your green jacket and thought if might be important."

Hawkhurst took it, frowned at the superscription, and
muttered, "Oh, yes. Ponsonby gave it me last evening. I'd forgot it,
I'm afraid."

"It does say 'Urgent,' " the valet murmured. "Rather blurred,
but see there, sir."

Hawkhurst peered. "Is that what that is… Oh, well. Thank you,
Bailey."

The valet bowed and trod his stately way from the premises,
gesturing sharply so that Manners and the groom at once followed.

Hawkhurst broke the seal of his letter and, returning his gaze
to Euphemia, said grimly, "You were telling me of this weapon, Mia."

Dare she tell him?
Should
she tell him?
It would most assuredly precipitate a duel, and she knew wretchedly
that she not only feared for her love but dreaded the thought of Max
Gains lying dead at his feet. Her intuitive belief that Gains had not
pulled the trigger persisted, but she knew that intuition is not
infallible. She would discuss it with Simon; he would know what to do.
She put a hand to her temple and murmured, "I wish I could be of more
help, but I cannot quite recall."

He frowned, but murmured, "By your leave, ma'am," and began to
read his letter. The result was electrifying: his face convulsed as
though he had been stabbed. "No!" he groaned. "Oh, God! No!" And he
bowed forward, shoulders hunched, and clenched fists beating in
maddened frustration at the workbench.

Heart in her throat, Euphemia cried frantically, "Whatever is
it?"

He pulled away from the hand she placed upon his sleeve, cast
her a look of wild-eyed despair, and, with a sound between groan and
sob, ran past her and into the rolling fog.

Distraught, she stared after him. A scrap of paper must have
been torn from the letter by his violence and lay at her feet. She
snatched it up and read the words that had been penned in so neat a
hand:

I keep my
avourite retreat.
come alone
! And
I, as you know. I
h my people. If
thout being
factories, or

M.

Euphemia moaned in fear and bewilderment. However confusing
the fragment, one thing was clear. Hawk had gone to meet someone,
someone who had the power to command his instant obedience. A creditor
perhaps… ? Then, with sinking heart, she remembered that Lord Gains'
first name was Maximilian. And Gains' rifle had been used against Hawk
only three days ago! If her judgment had been wrong and Gains had sent
the letter, then Hawk may have gone to meet a man who wanted him dead!
And he had gone unarmed! Terror stricken, she started for the house.
But the letter had stressed "
come alone
…" She
paused, torn by indecision. Whatever the threat that was held over him,
it must be frightful indeed to so torment that strong man as to bring
tears to his eyes.

Even so, no matter what the note had said, he must not walk to
his death alone! She picked up the Manton and ran wildly in the
direction Hawkhurst had taken.

Half an hour later, chilled to the bone, feet in their
thin-soled velvet half-boots bruised and aching, hair straggling down
her forehead in wet strands, nose and ears blue with cold, Euphemia had
failed to find Hawkhurst, and knew herself hopelessly lost. At first
she had thought to hear him ahead of her, but each time, however
recklessly she ran, she had met only the ghostly trees, their mournful
dripping the one small sound to disturb the smothering silence. Now,
once again she heard a sudden crackling, as of someone striding through
bracken. It might be an animal, of course, but she dared not call, for
God forbid she should alert his enemy. She pressed on in the direction
of that brief sound, her eyes peering through the white clouds, her
ears straining. If only it were not so cold. Shivering, she went on,
until she seemed to have been walking for hours, and for all she could
tell might have turned completely around!

But, no! Someone was close now… A sudden heavy breathing to
her right… The fog eddied, and a dark shape loomed up, dim and
monstrous. She stood there, shaking with terror. A deep, bellowing
"mooo-ooo…" rang out, and she could distinguish great gentle eyes and
short horns. Her laugh was slightly hysterical, and her knees were
shaking so that she could scarce continue. What in the world was a cow
doing so far from the Home Farm? Or
was
she on
the Home Farm? She started off again, her eyes becoming round with
excitement. When Leith had taken her to the hilltop ruins, he'd said
they were part of Hawk's Home Farm, and that they'd often come here as
boys. The ruins, then, might well be the "favourite retreat" mentioned
in the letter! And Gains would certainly be aware of it! She tightened
her grip on the gun and hastened on.

A wild shout came from somewhere ahead—a shocked, jerking cry,
smothering to a groan, and silence. Euphemia halted, her thundering
heart choking her. Then she began to run, calling, "Hawk? Where are
you? Hawk?"

But there was no further sound, and in the reckless speed of
her going she stumbled, fell, and rolled helplessly down a slope, to
fetch up at the foot with a thump that knocked the breath from her.
Gasping, she lay there for a moment or two, but then struggled to her
knees and groped about for the gun. It was a miracle it had not
discharged when she fell. And only then did she think, If it is loaded!
"Idiot!" she raged, "stupid imbecile!" But she sought for it,
clambering about on her hands and knees until at last she found it.

Sighing with relief, she stood and looked around her. The fog
was even thicker in this hollow, pressing in so that she seemed
swallowed up in a white and soundless sea. And she had lost her sense
of direction entirely! She had no slightest notion of whence had come
that despairing cry! Hawk could be lying somewhere—dying! And to
attempt to find him might be to in fact walk away! She would fire the
gun! She stopped long enough to assure herself that the Manton was
indeed loaded, but again was daunted by the realization that, if a
would-be murdered was nearby, she might need the shot.

"Hawk!" she cried desperately. And then, in a near scream,
"Where are you?"

"Here! Up here."

The voice sounded breathless and was muffled with distance,
but she could have wept for joy. He was alive! And she knew now which
way to go.

She struggled on and, coming to a hill, clambered upward,
heedless of cold, or aching feet, or her ripped, muddy gown, or
anything but her need to reach him. At last a glooming bulk rose before
her. It was the ancient wall on which dear Tristram had spread his
handkerchief for her and dimly, beyond it, soared the great
moss-and-ivy-covered tower. She put one hand on the wall and leaned
there briefly, her eyes straining to pierce the mists, while she fought
to catch her breath. Her call went unanswered, and she began to search
the outer ruins, but there was no sign of him. He
must
be here! He
must
! But he was not, and
reluctantly, she lifted her eyes to the last hope, the place Leith had
said he always retreated to when he craved solitude. There would be no
superb view today. Surely he would not have gone up there? "Hawk… ?"
she cried tremulously. "Are you up on the tower?"