Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (27 page)

A blow on the shoulder that almost knocked him into the fire
disturbed his reflections and sent the wine in his glass splashing in
all directions. A familiar voice cried, "Strand! You miserable
varmint!" and he spun around to be seized in a hug that he gladly
returned.

"Marcus!" He set down his depleted glass to grip Marcus Clay's
uniformed shoulders. "And a Major, by gad! I've not seen you since—"

"Since the Spring of 'twelve when I was home on a repairing
lease."
The soldier's eyes, bright with affection, scanned the lean face of his
friend. "What the deuce happened to you? You're brown as a berry!"

"I'm positively pale compared to when first I came home." And
in
answer to the questioning lift of this schoolmate's dark brows, he
elaborated, "India. But enough of me, tell me of yourself. Did you see
any of the action? You must have, I take it, to win all your rank.
Lord, what luck! I demand—"

Here, an irked hissing warned that they disturbed the peace of
others, and they adjourned to a pair of high-backed chairs beside the
window. The dark head and the fair leaned closer together as they
enjoyed a low-voiced conversation that bridged the years since last
they had met. Clay was a personable young man, now happily married and
the father of four hopeful children. He spoke lightly of his military
career and said little of the exploits at Waterloo that had made him
into a national hero, but Strand was enthralled. Too enthralled to
notice the room filling and the level of conversation rising until he
heard his own name, spoken in a contemptuous drawl that caused him to
stiffen in his chair.

"… gave Strand the devil of a run for his money." Holding
forth at
the centre of an amused group, James Garvey laughed, and went on, "She
is incalculably far above the man, of course, and from what she tells
me, everything you've heard is truth, and she is his wife in name only."

Strand, who had sprung up, reeled as though he had received a
physical blow, and stood momentarily stunned with shock, while Clay,
coming to his side, slipped a hand onto his shoulder and glared
wrathfully at Garvey's back.

Quite unaware of their presence, Lord John Chester, his
youthful
face alight, demanded, "How the deuce did the lady manage it, I wonder?
And how are you privileged to know, James? Have you seen the bride of
late?''

"Very often." Garvey dug him in the ribs. "And often late. You
must
know that I worship at her shrine, and she returns my affection as
fully. She never had any use for Strand, except that his—''

Battered by hurt and fury, Strand tore free from Clay's
attempt to
restrain him. Growling a curse, he caught Garvey by the arm and swung
him around. "You," he stated unequivocally, "are a foul-mouthed,
unmitigated liar, sir!" And he dashed the contents of his glass into
that handsome countenance.

A chair went over with a crash amid an explosion of
excitement.
Then, a breathless hush fell. Every man present was on his feet, and
new arrivals, at once becoming aware of the tense atmosphere, crowded
the open doorway.

Garvey accepted the handkerchief Chester offered, wiped his
face, and drawled, "Will you second me, John?"

"But, surely that will not be of the necessity immediate, my
James?"
The smooth voice with its pronounced French accent came from the door.
Garvey tensed, paling, and his head jerked towards the speaker, a
slight, very elegant gentleman, who watched the proceedings with a
faint smile upon his mild features. "Claude…" breathed Garvey, his
voice barely audible.

Strand had not seen Rachel's former fiance for some years, but
it
seemed to him that the notorious Claude Sanguinet had not changed one
iota. He must be forty, at least, but his dark hair was untouched by
grey, his face unlined, his figure as trim as ever. "You mistake!"
snapped Strand, still pale and trembling with rage. "This fellow
bandied my wife's name about, and—"

"And you the felony compound, eh, Monsieur Strand?" Claude
Sanguinet
shook his head reproachfully. "Your indignation she is nonetheless
warranted, for I also have hear my friend's so regrettable remarks. It
would be well, James, did you make the apology, no?"

His eyes flashing, Garvey smiled. "Impossible, I fear, Claude.
I have taken a glass of wine in the face, and—"

"Quite impossible," Strand confirmed grimly.

In some circles, Sanguinet was thought to be the most
dangerous man
in Europe, but there was no hint of this in his manner as he murmured
gently,
"Mais non,
gentlemen. This cannot be. The
bride would be
assurément,
devastated. As would
I, dear my James."

Strand frowned from one to the other. Garvey was very white,
his
hands clenched at his sides, his narrowed gaze locked with Sanguinet's
mild one. Through a quivering silence that battle of wills was fought.
Then, incredibly, Garvey's eyes fell. He wrenched around as if impelled
by an unseen hand and, his gaze fixed on the sapphire in Strand's
neckcloth, said in a hoarse, strained voice, "It is… quite true that I…
spoke without… without consideration of the feelings of the lady. I—I
offer you my…" He seemed to choke, then gulped, "my—most profound
apologies, sir."

Somebody exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned!"

Strand's voice sliced through a flurry of comment. "You may
tell
your master over there that I shall take no apologies, Garvey. Not
unless you also admit—before every man here—that you lied. My dear wife
would never in this world have uttered such vulgar remarks."

"But you must own he
has
apologized,
Monsieur Strand," the Frenchman pointed out softly.

"He apologized for bruiting about malicious gossip concerning
my
personal life," said Strand doggedly. "He has not admitted that he
lied. My challenge stands."

There was a ripple of agreement. Mr. Garvey, it appeared, was
not so
popular as had been supposed, nor Mr. Strand as despised. Marcus Clay,
however, groaned inwardly. Whatever the hold Sanguinet had over Garvey,
it was too much to expect any man to take that ultimate insult.

Garvey's eyes slid to the Frenchman. "Only so far, Claude," he
warned, in a voice low and cracking with rage and humiliation.

"For the sake of a lady who shall be nameless, but for whom I
still
hold a deep affection," Sanguinet persisted, "I am my every effort
bending to avoid what must be a most
tragique
meeting,
Monsieur Strand. My friend was perhaps—" he shrugged— "ill advised. He
have repeat that which he is told. That which he believe come from
the—ah, unimpeachable source, shall we say? And he—"

"Shall we rather say
he lied?"
said
Strand very clearly.

"By… God…!" Garvey ground out between closed teeth. "If I—"

"You are, monsieur, a gentleman most
impitoyable,
I fear,"
sighed the Frenchman. He stretched forth an impeccably manicured white
hand. "James—my James—I must insist that you your mistake acknowledge.
Admit you—"

"Admit you lied!" Strand grated.

"For the sake of the Fair, I implore it," murmured Sanguinet.

"The devil!" snarled Strand. "For the sake of truth!"

Garvey was shaking visibly. His face was like putty, and beads
of
perspiration stood out on his forehead and trickled slowly down his
cheeks. For an endless moment he stood there, while only the ticking of
the mantel clock broke the deathly hush, and upwards of a hundred
gentlemen stood scarcely breathing, waiting. Then:

"I… I… lied!" Garvey's voice, somewhere between a snarl and a
sob,
rose higher. "Damn you, Strand! You have it! I—lied!" He turned, thrust
his way through the shocked crowd, and was gone.

Walking
slowly down the steps of The
Madrigal, very
conscious of the eyes that watched from every window, Strand knew
victory to be a cheap and hollow thing, and all his dreams like so many
autumn leaves, dead and withered, scattering to the four winds. So many
men had been eager to buy him a glass of brandy, to offer him their
congratulations after Garvey's dramatic defeat. Even old
Smythe-Carrington, making his majestic way across the room, had said a
stentorian, "Well done, m'dear fellow. Must protect honour—'t'all
costs. What?" and amid a chorus of endorsement, rumbled off again.
Bolster, who had been one of those so tensely watching from the
doorway, glanced at the set smile on the pale features beside him, and
uttered, "All m-my fault. Very bad."

"No such thing." Strand waved to Owsley and Hughes as they
climbed
into a brougham and drove away. "And you've my apologies for going off
without you this morning."

Bolster gave a dismissing gesture. "Should have w-warned you.
B-beastly mess!"

"It is." Strand glowered. "I wish to God he'd agreed to meet
met."

"Much b-b- safer," Bolster concurred. "He's ruined, of
c-course.
You've made a dangerous enemy, poor fellow. Gad! But he was r-raving!"

"Cannot blame him," Clay pointed out glumly, coming up looking
very
gallant in his regimentals, with the pelisse slung across his
shoulders. "Sanguinet properly forced him to his knees, and you all but
stepped on his face, Justin."

"When I would so much sooner have blown his head off,"
muttered Strand savagely.

Clay met Bolster's eyes, and glancing up in time to see that
meaningful exchange, Strand added, "You're thinking the situation would
more likely have been reversed." He shrugged and, striving for a
cheerful smile, informed them that he had learned a few things whilst
in India.

"Have you perhaps learned how to mix a better bowl of punch
than
that hideous concoction we used to brew up at school?" asked Clay, also
trying to be cheerful despite a heavy sense of foreboding.

"I have!" Strand slipped a hand through his arm. "And you and
Jeremy
shall come home with me, while I—" He stopped. Lisette would be at
home. He could not face the treachery of his beautiful wife; not now.
The wounds were too raw.

Bolster saw the suddenly stern look. "B-better not," he
advised,
taking Strand's other arm. "Cook there. Dreadful dragons, co-cooks.
Now, at my place, we'll be undisturbed."

Strand threw him a grateful smile. "Ryder Street it is, then.
And I'll brew you a punch you will never forget."

Clay cheered and hailed a passing hackney, and they all three
piled inside.

Having
changed into a peach velvet gown
with tiny pearl
buttons down the bodice, Lisette allowed Denise to arrange her hair in
a soft and feminine style that she knew Strand admired. By two o'clock
he had still not put in an appearance, and she dared not venture
out-of-doors until she knew just what to expect, so she lunched alone
in the breakfast parlour, listening to the rain patter against the
windows and wondering where he was, and what was happening. Her
appetite was poor. She ate sparingly, then wandered into the book room
where the fire was well established. The novel she selected could not
hold her attention. One horrible scene after another rose before her
mind's eye so that she scarcely saw the printed page. Suppose Strand
was jeered at wherever he went. That swift temper of his would flare,
to Lord knows what effect! Suppose he guessed that Beatrice was
responsible and drove straight to Somerset to challenge poor William?
He would slaughter that gentle creature, beyond doubting! The very
thought of such a disastrous train of events made her blood run cold.

Shortly after three o'clock she heard the door knocker and
tensed,
straining her ears. She could not detect Strand's brisk voice, nor the
quick, light step. Still, her heart jumped with nervousness when the
door opened. It was only Morse, bringing the salver to her, and she
took up the card it held, irritated and determining that she would not
be at home to any tabby who had braved this wet afternoon to sniff out
whatever juicy morsel she might let slip. The card was inscribed "Miss
Amanda Hersh," and, brightening, Lisette desired that her caller be
shown in, and that tea be served.

She stood when Amanda entered and said a welcoming, "Good
afternoon.
How charmingly you look in that green gown, and how very kind in you to
come and see me. Pray sit here beside the fire, it is so chill for this
time of year."

She was mildly surprised when Amanda, her little face deeply
distressed, seized her hand between both her own and said in a tragic
rush of words, "I came as soon as I heard. Oh you cannot know how sorry
I am you must be fairly retort and so soon after you are wed my poor
poor soul!"

Lisette blinked and, drawing Amanda to sit on the sofa beside
her, said, "I am humiliated, of course, but—"

Amanda breathed an astonished, "Humiliated? Good heavens!"

She looked quite shocked. Flushing, Lisette said, "I should
have
said 'ashamed,' I suspect. Is it not ghastly that such tales are—" She
trailed into silence, for Amanda was regarding her with stark horror.
Frightened, she demanded, "Mandy, what is it?"

"Oh, my!" cried Amanda, wringing her hands. "I was sure Strand
would
have told you by this time of the incantation at The Madrigal I did not
think to be the one to have to tell you."

In a detached way, Lisette thought, She must mean
confrontation, and
felt for a moment as though she were wrapped inside a glacier.

"I am truly sorry," Amanda faltered, "but after what Mr.
Garvey said Strand had no choice, and—"

"Garvey?" Lisette croaked. "Wh-where? When?"

"This morning. I am staying with my godmother Lady Carden you
know
and Lucian my cousin came and said it was a great pity Strand had not a
whip in his hand.''

Gaining some control over her numbed lips, Lisette asked
threadily, "What happened?"

"Oh! Do not ask!" Amanda pressed her hands to hot cheeks.
"Indeed I dare not repeat—"