Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (39 page)

Slanting a glance to the side, Hawkhurst saw her agonized gaze
and thought, This must be goodbye, my dearest love. Either way. And he
said softly, "Last chance, Buchanan. Give her up."

"Never. But it was a filthy way to treat you after what you
have done for us. I apologize for that."

"Thank you. Twelve paces?"

"Ten, if you please. It's night, and I lack your skill."

"As you wish. I will call."

They began to walk, pistols raised at their sides, while
Hawkhurst's calm voice counted off the strides. As they moved apart,
Euphemia's eyes shifted from one to the other: Simon, slim and straight
and proud, Garret, hobbling painfully without his cane, but by far the
deadlier of the two. And watching the erect carriage of his head,
despite his uneven gait, her eyes blurred with tears, and her prayers
were fast and frantic.

And then, that fateful, heart-stopping word: "
Ten
!"

They turned simultaneously, only Hawkhurst staggered very
slightly, then staggered again as the deafening blast of Buchanan's
pistol rent the silence.

Euphemia felt frozen, her breath held in check. Beside her,
Stephanie gave a small moan and sank to her knees whispering, "My God…
my God!"

Smoke curled slowly from Buchanan's weapon. Blood was slipping
down Hawkhurst's forehead, and he could scarcely see, but his arm held
steady, the long wicked barrel of the Manton aimed unerringly at
Buchanan's chest. "Give me your word… damn you! Don't make me kill you!"

The pistol fell from Buchanan's hand. His head went up a
little. He was very white, but he stood in silence, unwavering.

Stephanie was also silent, still upon her knees, watching in
horrified fascination. Beside her, Euphemia felt as though they were
all suspended like the figures in a cameo on this clear, cold winter's
night. The serene moonlight made the scene even more incongruous—Hawk,
with his arm so rigidly outstretched, the pistol gleaming in his hand,
Simon, bravely waiting for death. She thought a numbed and trite, and
only eleven days before Christmas…

Hawkhurst's head was less punishing now; he could feel blood
cold on his cheek, but the ball had come short of stunning him, and he
could see more clearly. He sighted with care. He'd given the sneaking
cur every chance, God knows. Euphemia's voice, shaken with grief,
echoed devastatingly in his ears: "Do you not yet know what it
really
means to love?" His hand trembled, but it was his duty to protect the
ladies of his house. "I told him I would enter a convent… Gary, dear
one… I beg of you." Dammit, he must not fail! Nor must he torture
Buchanan, who stood there so staunchly, blast him! He'd chosen his
route, hadn't he? He gritted his teeth and fired, the sharp retort
shattering the peaceful country quiet. Through the billow of smoke, he
saw Buchanan crumple and go down. Stephanie screamed thinly. He lowered
his arm and walked away as both girls rushed to that still figure.

Stephanie reached her lover first and dropped to her knees,
sobbing out his name.

Kneeling at the other side, Euphemia saw her brother's eyes
flicker open. "Good… God!" he breathed, incredulous. "Am I not dead?"

Stephanie gave a choked cry and bent to kiss him. Euphemia's
eyes dimmed with grateful tears, but ever practical she asked, "Where
are you hit, Simon?"

He blinked at her, then sat up, holding his left forearm.

Euphemia drew a great sobbing breath, sent a silent prayer
winging to heaven, and managed to request with relative calm that
Stephanie run to the chaise and fetch her reticule.

Five minutes later, the flesh wound in his arm bound, and his
coat slung about his shoulders, Buchanan walked to the man who leaned
against the curricle in a silent waiting. "Did I hurt you badly, sir?"

"Did you try?" Hawkhurst countered in a tone of blasting
contempt.

Buchanan bit his lip. "Had you remained still, I'd have missed
you entirely."

"My apologies."

Euphemia went to Hawkhurst and with her handkerchief gently
wiped the blood from his face. "Thank you!" she whispered. "Oh, Hawk,
thank you! I know how easily you might have killed him."

He grunted and said a grim, "Do not expect my blessings,
Stephie."

Her lips quivered. "You have… mine," she said on a sob.

Gripping his wounded arm, Buchanan said, "Thank you for this,
Hawkhurst. I don't feel quite so worthless."

Hawkhurst gave a cynical snort. "Do you not?"

For a long while there had been silence between them.
Hawkhurst, apparently busied with his driving, had said not a word in
response to Euphemia's two attempts at conversation. Not daring to
disturb that frowning concentration again, she occupied herself with
her own thoughts. Simon had kissed her lovingly, begging her
forgiveness and asking that she journey with them back to London. She
had forgiven him, of course, but had refused to go with him, not only
because she must await Kent's return but also from a reluctance to
leave Hawk so abruptly. Whatever Simon may have thought, he had said
only that he would write to her and that he wished her every happiness.
Stephanie's parting with her brother had been poignant. Hawkhurst had
growled that he prayed she would not come to regret this decision
bitterly and turned from her pleading eyes with cold disdain, only to
swing around at the last moment, sweep her into a fierce embrace and
whisper that she could return at any time, knowing she would be greeted
with love. She had clung to him, weeping but overjoyed. Simon had
started to put out his hand, then lowered it, a gesture Hawkhurst had
apparently been quite unable to see. Watching Simon's painful flush and
Hawk's implacable stare, Euphemia had known sorrow for each of them,
but since her brother might very well have been lying lifeless on that
cold little patch of turf, her overwhelming emotion had been one of
thankfulness.

Now she glanced up at the stern features of the man she loved
and tried once more. "He will be good to her, dearest," she said
softly. "Try not to hate him."

He turned his head and for a moment stared at her blankly.
Then, as if comprehension suddenly dawned, ejaculated, "My God! You
should not be here!"

"I know," she smiled. "I am properly compromised now." But,
despite her outward calm, she was frightened. Several times, on that
wild journey here, his demeanour had puzzled her. He had voiced no
protest when she had refused to accompany Simon and Stephanie to
London, which had surprised her. Instead, he had struggled into the
curricle, said not a word when she climbed up beside him, and, until
just this moment, behaved as though totally unaware of her presence. He
was gripping his knee, and she leaned forward to appropriate the reins.
"Foolish boy," she scolded with tender solicitude, "You should have let
me drive as I asked. Your leg is paining you."

He drew a bewildered hand across his eyes. "I must be
unusually stupid tonight. I cannot seem to think. Give me the reins,
Mia."

Unease tightened its hold on her. Rage, scorn, bitter
disappointment, she had been prepared for. But this withdrawn confusion
was terrifying. He had done his best, he must know that. However much
he loved Stephie, he was too strong an individual to be crushed by the
knowledge he was beaten—or by fear of his grandfather's inevitable
fury. Perhaps… Her heart fluttering, she asked, "Have you lost your
love for me because of Simon?"

"Yes. Now give me the reins, if you please."

"No! And you tell the most dreadful whiskers, Garret
Hawkhurst!"

Instead of simply possessing himself of the ribbons, as he
would normally have done, he leaned back without further argument. "No
one need ever know…" he muttered, half to himself. "Colley can escort
you and the boy to Bath, first thing in the morning."

She did not comment, and he sighed and lapsed into morose
silence. The curricle moved smoothly along the silver ribbon of the
road, while the moon sank lower in the sky, and only the hoofbeats and
the distant voice of an owl disturbed the stillness. Euphemia thought
Hawkhurst was sleeping but, slanting a glance at him, discovered that
although he was slumped against the squabs, his brow was deeply
furrowed as he stared ahead. Common sense argued that this was not
surprising behaviour. He had been weakened and brutally hurt by that
trap. Instead of remaining in his bed as Dr. Archer had demanded, he
had suffered a night that would have taxed a well man. He must be in
much pain, on top of which he was tormented by the loss of his beloved
sister. But intuition would have none of common sense. She had come to
think of him as unquenchably indomitable, a man who might reel under
Fate's buffets but would always come up fighting. Now he seemed utterly
crushed. She drove on, worrying at it, and as the miles passed was
plagued by the certainty that something else had happened, something to
eclipse even the shock and grief of Stephanie's elopement. Was that
what had brought him downstairs at half past one tonight? Or could he,
perhaps, have suspected that Stephie and Simon loved one another? Had
he been prepared to start after them? But she rejected the notion at
once, for his reaction had been one of total shock. Recalling that
terrible moment, she shivered and then tensed. When he had snatched
Simon's farewell message from her, he had said, "Another letter? Gad!
It is a deluge!" A
deluge
? She had the answer now
and pulled the team to a standstill. "My darling! You have heard from
Mount again!"

He stared at her in amazement, and, seizing his hand and
clasping it between both her own, she went on, "What did he say? Is it…
very bad news?"

"How—" he gasped, thunderstruck, "how could you possibly know?"

"I love you! Have you forgot?
Tell
me!"

His hand lax in hers, he hesitated, then said dully, "I have
been permitted to… to see my son, Mia."

"
What
?" She searched his face for the
elation she should have found there, but he merely looked haggard and
very tired, the deep graze left by Simon's bullet a dark bar vanishing
into the hairline above his temple. "But
when
?"
she demanded. "You have had no visitors at Dominer since the Musicale,
and—" His faint, bitter smile alerting her, she stopped, a cold fist
closing about her heart, and faltered, "No! Oh,
no't Eustace
?"

"Eustace. Clever, was it not? Mrs. Frittenden—that's not her
name, of course—is Mount's aunt, so he says. When he learned of the
Musicale, he sent her to Dominer with the boy."

"But, how? Had he an invitation?"

"Didn't need one. Their carriage 'broke down' on the way, and
the Paragoys were so kind as to take them up, naturally supposing them
to be invited guests. When they arrived," he shrugged, "my aunt assumed
they were with the Paragoys." Speechless, Euphemia stared at him, and
after a small pause he went on in a low, stricken voice, "I
underestimated my enemy. He has chosen a revenge far more deadly and
destructive than the beatings and starvation he was used to taunt me
with. He has taken that—that splendid child and made of him a greedy,
spoiled, selfish little… crudity." He wrenched his head away and
groaned, "Can you imagine the… the
man
Mount will
make of him? My… lord!" He fought for control, regained it, and,
glancing at the silent girl, encountered such a wealth of love and
sympathy shining through her glistening tears that the ache in his
heart was eased. He pulled his shoulders back, and wiping away those
tears, kissed her on the brow. "What a night you have had. And how
wretched of me to burden you with—"

"With such awful… stuff!" she gulped fiercely. She saw his
brows go up and, taking his handkerchief, blew her nose, dashed away
the remnants of her tears, and averred, "I
never
heard such dreadful nonsense! That little brat is not your son!" A
rueful smile touched his eyes, and, desperate to spare him this last
bitter blow, she went on recklessly, "How do you know it for truth? Did
you recognize him? In the slightest? He was practically a babe when you
lost him. Can Mount
prove
that Eustace is your
son?"

Hawkhurst took back the reins and started the tired blacks. "I
am not a complete flat, you know. When I received the first demand for
money, I refused to pay a groat until I had a report from a reputable
physician as to Avery's health. The boy was injured in the accident, as
you are aware. The attending physician sent me a report—from Rome. It
was very explicit and included a complete description of Avery." He saw
Euphemia's mouth open and threw up a detaining hand. "Yes, I sent
agents to verify the physician's authenticity. Mount and my son had
gone, of course, but there is no doubt. It was Avery."

"But
how
can you be so
sure
!
Is there any distinguishing mark? A birthmark, or something of the
sort?"

To her dismay, he nodded. "When Avery was two, he knocked over
a glass. Before his nurse could reach him, he had trod on a fragment
and the sole of his foot was badly cut. It became infected and left an
odd scar. Our physician, Sir Alec MacKenzie, told me Avery would carry
it to his death. In his latest letter, Mount enclosed the doctor's
report on Avery's present health. It was from Sir Alec. He is retired
now and half crippled by rheumatism. He lives in Wales, but Mount had
persuaded the old fellow to examine Avery, explaining he was the boy's
'tutor' and that I had been out of the country for a long time. He knew
that nothing would induce Mac to betray me, and that I was aware of
that." He smiled at her wanly. "Thorough, eh?"

She blinked, but said with dauntless persistence, "Yes. And
clever enough to have copied the scar. Oh, I know that would be cruel,
but he is a vengeful and cruel man, love. And you are dealing with a
great fortune, and a title. Gary, there are all too many people
merciless enough to go to such lengths."