Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (7 page)

That he had done so was obvious. He said unevenly, ''Your
perspicacity is—
extraordinaire
, ma'am."

Remembering that high-squeaked enquiry intended only for the
kitten's ears, Charity could not be too offended by his sarcasm.
Holding Little Patches against her neck, she asked innocently,
"Whatever were you doing up there?"

He drawled a bored, "Fiddling, of course."

"And not even in Rome." She smiled and ventured an oblique
glance at his profile. It was small wonder his looks had ruined him,
for the women must certainly flutter around him. And yet he showed no
signs of dissipation, his features, although cynical, also revealing
intelligence and sensitivity rather than having the full-lipped
sensuality she had noted in some famous rakes, such as Junius Trent,
who had been pointed out to her in Town recently and was judged to be
exceedingly attractive.

Redmond had said something and was turning to her curiously.
She said, "During your solo concert you appear to have scratched your
cheek, sir."

Faintly indignant, his eyes slanted to her burden. "On a stray
branch."

"Liar!" thought Charity.

"So much for surveying the legendary beauties of Strand's
estate," he added.

"Is that what you were doing, then?" Gently, Charity detached
Little Patches from her jade beads and set her down. "I trust you found
it to your liking, sir?"

"There being only one possible reply to such a question, I
shall say that I found every tree and bush beyond compare.''

She flushed. She had been judged insipid, evidently, which
being the case she would not further her efforts to make polite
conversation.

In silence, therefore, they proceeded across the turf, Redmond
setting a rather slow pace. This exactly suited Little Patches, who
bounced along more or less with them, but pausing now and then to wage
all-out war against the dire menace of some threatening weed or
wildflower.

Charity was by nature a friendly person, and after a while the
pointlessness of nurturing hostile thoughts against this ill— mannered
young man eased her indignation. After all, she reasoned, he would very
soon take his boorish way out of her life, and others would be
afflicted with him, poor things. She allowed her thoughts to drift to
Justin and Lisette, wondering idly what they were doing in Town. Her
reverie was broken when Redmond halted and stood looking back the way
they had come. Little Patches appeared to have worn herself out, and
sat looking after them in a forlorn way.

"Poor little mite," said Charity, stopping also. "I'll carry
her in my basket."

"You would be better advised to let her learn a lesson. The
stupid animal got out here. Certainly she can find her way home."

"She could have made her way down the tree," thought Charity,
but since she was not supposed to know of that event, she did not voice
the comment but went to the rescue. Even as she reached for the kitten,
a butterfly provided a new diversion, and the contrary Little Patches
went bounding off after the colourful insect. "Wretch!" whispered
Charity and returned to Redmond, who waited with a decidedly smug
expression on his face.

Determined to carry off this minor embarrassment with aplomb,
Charity was further mortified when her slipper encountered a shifting
pebble and her ankle turned. She staggered. Redmond leapt to support
her, but when she looked up gratefully, she surprised a mocking grin.
He believed her stumble to have been deliberate! Oh! The insufferable
egoist!

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he enquired with questionable
sincerity. "You must think me remiss for not lending you my arm long
before now."

Charity knew her cheeks were blazing, but refusing to lower
her eyes, she tore free from his hold."To the contrary! I cannot think
such
a sacrifice is necessary, sir," she said, in a frigid tone that very
few people had ever heard her employ. She had expected that her
response might annoy him, but was unprepared for the fury that turned
his eyes to steel. "It is not necessary, in fact," she went on, "for
you to accompany me back to the Hall."

He said raspingly,"I hope I am not such a boor as to leave you
out here alone, ma'am."

"Oh?" she murmured.

He stamped along beside her.'' I must admit to amazement that
you are permitted to be forever wandering about the countryside
unchaperoned, like any—" He bit off the rest of that remark.

"Wanton… ?" prompted Charity. "I know very little of the
behaviour of such women. But I am sure you can enlighten me, Mr.
Redmond."

What he would like to do, he thought, was to spank her. Hard.
They were entering the woods now, and she trod along the farthest edge
of the narrow path, preferring to allow her skirts to brush against the
undergrowth rather than risk an encounter with his own person. He said
haughtily, "I doubt your brother would appreciate my rendering such
instruction, Miss Strand. Indeed, I am surprised you would desire so
improper a topic of conversation.''

The horrid beast had won that round. "Oh, I do not," she
assured him. "But you were bored when I attempted to engage you in
commonplaces."

Such forthrightness had not often come his way from a lady,
and he was so taken aback as to be tardy with a counterattack.

Charity allowed him no extra time. "I expect that was my
fault," she went on, "for I've had very little practice at it, since my
brothers do not encourage what they consider intellectual trivia. If
you insist upon conversation, I must try to find a topic that interests
you, for I believe that is
de rigueur
for a
polite lady, no? Let me see—ah! I have it! We shall exchange gossip."
She beamed upon him kindly.

Redmond blinked. "I think I am being roasted. Unless you have
been told I am an unconscionable gabblemonger.'' He said this, well
aware that it would prompt an immediate and flustered denial. Miss
Strand, however, did not react according to convention, instead
knitting her brows in silence. Irked, but faintly intrigued, he prodded
at length, "Ma'am?"

"My apologies, Mr. Redmond. I was casting my mind over some of
the things I have been told of you."

"Were you, by gad! It must have been a good deal."

"A deal, at least."

Stunned, his gaze darted to her in time to see the quiver that
tugged at her shapely lips. "The devil!" he protested.

"No, no! I assure you, Mr. Redmond, no one has called you
that. Not, er, in my hearing, at least."

He was quite unable to hold back a grin at this excellent
riposte
and said promptly, "I am maligned, alas. I pray you will not believe me
a monster.''

"Oh, of course I do not." And after a thoughtful pause, she
went on, fancying she extended an olive branch, "I suppose, for our own
secret reasons, we all present a false character to the world, do we
not?"

She could scarcely have blundered onto a more unfortunate
choice of words. Redmond stiffened. "The ladies certainly do. One way
or another."

So much for olive branches, thought Charity, and yearning to
push him into the nearest bramble bush, said calmly,"We have little
choice. Whatever our private inclinations, we are obliged to conform to
expected patterns of insipid accomplishments; to speak inanities lest
we be judged bluestockings; to strive always to meet the male notions
of beauty, however far we may be from hoping to achieve such a state.''

Scanning her with resentful eyes, Redmond felt no compelling
urge to argue the point as she undoubtedly expected him to do. She was
not a beauty, nor ever would be. Her face was too gaunt, and her shape
more that of a boy than a young woman. The eyes, one had to admit, were
quite beautiful, and that red-gold hair not at all bad, especially in
the sunshine, but her manners were deplorable. He responded, "I fancy
every man has his own unique concept of beauty. As for being a
bluestocking, do you perhaps mean that you enjoy to read? Or do you
refer to those appalling spinsters who are well informed on everything
from politics to philately and delight in proving to any gentleman how
inferior is his own knowledge by comparison?"

"Oh, for an axe!" thought Charity, but she somehow managed a
creditable little titter. "Acquit me of that, I beg. Surely you must
know that a girl has to do far less to be judged a bluestocking. Let
her only discuss anything more intellectual than gossip, fashions, or
babies, and she is in real danger of being set down as 'clever.' A
state no male can endure in a woman." She parried Redmond's frigid
glare with a glittering smile and swept on, knowing she was being
outrageous. "It is all based on fear, though few would acknowledge it.
The gentlemen
deplore
silly, empty-headed
females—and invariably marry them, if only to assure themselves of how
superior they are. And also," she appended loftily,"so that they may
continue their various indiscretions under the very noses of their
wooden-headed wives."

"Which would account, no doubt," he sneered, "for the untold
numbers of poor hapless males who are trapped 'neath the cat's foot."

"If a male is poor and hapless, Mr. Redmond, he will sooner or
later wind up under
somebody's
foot, whether it
be that of his parent, spouse, or superior officer. The point is that a
gentleman has so vast a scope compared to a lady. And when one sees
what most men make of their lives…" She paused, eyeing him with faint
reproach.

So now he had been judged a failure in life! Furious, he
donned the mantle of polite boredom that had daunted several managing
mamas. "I have not the slightest doubt, ma'am, but that you, for
example, would have taken the opportunities I have so shamefully
squandered and turned them to good account. Had I but a
soupçon
of your ambition I might very well be Prime Minister by now!"

Markedly undaunted, Charity opened her eyes at him and
enquired, "Is
that
what you aspire to, Mr.
Redmond? My, but I should never have guessed you to have a turn for
politics."

"Very astute of you, Miss Strand," he snapped, forgetting to
be condescending. "For I find politicians to be a set of pompous bores
with whom I mingle as little as possible."

"Really? I expect your vast experience in such matters should
influence me to change my own opinion. I cannot help but wonder at Lord
Palmerston, you know. Such a charming gentleman, and I have never found
him a bore. I must ask him how he came to be so taken in."

Redmond, who admired Palmerston, concentrated upon where he
might bury this revolting woman, after suitably strangling her, and how
Brutus might be dissuaded from digging her up again.

Charity said with kind encouragement,"Now, surely there must
be
something
to which you aspire, sir? Besides
being Prime Minister, which might be rather difficult, do you not like
to be a politician first?"

He replied with a teeth-bared smile, "Oh, there was, my dear
lady. I like to think I have achieved it."

"A—
duellist?''
she cried, her eyes
becoming so round that his fingers fairly itched for her throat.

For a moment he did not trust himself to speak. Then, a pulse
twitching beside his jaw, he ground out, "There are occasions, Miss
Strand, when even murder is… well justified!"

"Who are you? And what are you doing to Little Patches?"

The clear, girlish voice caused Mitchell Redmond to drop the
willow branch he had been trailing to amuse eight ounces of incredible
ferocity, and he spun around guiltily.

A scrawny, untidy damsel of some ten or eleven summers stood
watching him. Her dark hair was a dishevelled, frizzy mass with an
occasional lurking curl that looked surprisingly glossy, perhaps
because it was unexpected. There was a streak of mud along one side of
her pointed plain little face, and more mud on the white muslin dress,
and she clutched a rather wilted bouquet of wildflowers in a slim,
muddy hand.

"I am Mr. Redmond," he said. Alert brown eyes scanned him with
an eager expectancy, as though he must have something very pleasant to
tell her, and his slow smile dawned. "And who are you, Mrs., er…?"

She giggled. "Storm. Josie Storm. And I'm not a missus yet,
'cos I'm only twelve. We think. Here—" She thrust her bouquet at him.
"Hold these, if you please."

He accepted the charge, betraying no dismay that his hand
thereby became muddied also, and curious because her careful but
slightly less than cultured speech did not quite match that expensive,
if sullied muslin.

Miss Storm swooped upon Little Patches who had sat down to
cleanse one paw, and gathered her up. Returning to stroll along beside
the tall man, she cuddled the purring kitten and explained, "Just for
now, I'm a ward. 'Course, I might be a missus when I grow up, unless
Mr. Dev decides to—" She pursed her lips and peeped up at Redmond, her
face all sparkling mischief.

She was, he realized, much prettier than he had at first
thought. Her hair was undeniably frizzy, and her chin pointed; her
mouth was too generous and her nose, although straight, lacked
distinction. Yet there was about her an air of friendliness and trust
and an irresistible brightness. He wondered what this "Dev" fellow had
in mind for her.

"Who, dare I ask, is Mr. Dev?" he drawled. "And what is it
that he's to decide?"

Miss Storm released the now squirming kitten, who at once
began to stalk a drifting dandelion seed. "He's Alain Jonas Devenish,"
she announced, as though the utterance of that name rated a roll of
drums. "My guardian. And I'm not 'lowed to say what he might decide.
You got very nice eyes, but you're not so handsome as my Dev.
'Specially when you frown."

'' Am I doing so? My apologies. Quite terrified, are you?''

The resultant beam illuminated her face. "No," she said with a
giggle, and tucked her hand confidingly into his as they walked on
again. "But you did look cross. Why? Do you know my Dev?"