Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (28 page)

Despite a flaring surge of anxiety and impatience, Lisette
managed
to be calm. "I know how difficult it must be for you, but I beg you,
Mandy. If you are truly my friend, tell me."

"I am indeed your friend, Lisette." Amanda clasped her hand,
her
gentle eyes moist with sympathy. "I will never forget how kind you were
to me and Strand also was so good and I know Lucian thinks him a jolly
good fellow for he said so which he don't always about every man." Not
appearing in the least short of breath after this scrambled utterance,
she folded her hands in her lap and, fixing her green eyes on them,
began, "Lucian says that Mr. Garvey was remarking how much he cares for
you and that you care for him also." She heard Lisette gasp but, not
daring to pause, swept on in her rushed fashion. "He laughed and said
that you had given Strand a—a run for his money because you cared for
him,
Garvey I mean." Expecting a shriek or even a swoon, she slanted a
fearful glance at Lisette and saw her sitting rigidly, staring at the
fire, her face without colour, her eyes wide but not tearful.

After a moment, Lisette asked in a far-away voice, "And—my
husband heard all this?"

"Yes and Lucian says he was absolutely splendid and threw a
full glass of wine in Garvey's face!"

"Dear… God!" whispered Lisette, closing her eyes.

"Oh my heavens!" Amanda wailed, throwing an arm about her. "Do
not swoon, please!"

Clinging to her, dreading the answer she must receive, Lisette
whispered, "When do they meet? Did Strand have the choice of weapons?
Yes—he must, of course. But he has no chance, Mandy. No chance at all!
Oh, merciful—"

"Stop! Stop!" Quite unnerved, Amanda said, "There is not going
to be
a duel for another man was there and stopped it and I cannot recall his
name but he was French and Lucian said he seemed to exert great
influence over Mr. Garvey and Lucian dislikes him very much and says he
is a menace which does not seem quite fair since he stopped the duel,
does it?"

"No." Pressing a hand to her brow, Lisette tried to think.
"Could it have been a Monsieur Sanguinet, perchance?"

"It was! How clever of you to guess and who would think
anyone
could make Mr. Garvey draw back from a duel when everyone knows he is
such a dead—" She bit back the rest of that observation in the nick of
time, and went on hurriedly, "But he did and Lucian said Garvey was so
outraged he thought him like to have a seizure and went roaring off
cursing like a bull! Garvey I mean not my dear Lucian."

Morse entered at this point, followed by a neat maid carrying
a tray with the
impedimenta
for the tea ritual. Smiling mechanically, Lisette manipulated teapot,
cream, and sugar, her thoughts in chaos and one dread fear uppermost:
Strand must be mad with rage and humiliation. He certainly would
attempt to trace the rumour to its source. Whatever would he say when
he learned the source was her own sister?

At
precisely the same time that Amanda
was closeted with
Lisette, two other meetings were taking place in rainy London Town. The
first of these was held in the cosy parlour of Bolster's lodgings in
Ryder Street; a fragrant parlour, due to Strand's precision with such
things as a steaming bowl, lemon peel, and cloves. By reason of that
same bowl, now set on a trivet in the hearth, it had for a time been a
merry parlour, but now Clay was dozing in his chair, and conversation
had become desultory. Bolster was still pondering the one problem, and
Strand, his brow deeply furrowed, his brain clouded with the fumes of
the potent brew, stared at his glass, seeing again Lisette's small hand
resting so fondly in Garvey's clasp, her glorious eyes smiling up at
the man; hearing Garvey sneer, "… she tells me she is his wife in name
only… she returns my affection as fully."

Bolster muttered, "Women! They're the very devil, dear old
boy.
You're perfectly contented until they come into your life and show you
how much more wonderful it could be—and then, dashed if they don't turn
around and take it all away!"

"Jeremy," said Strand, "you're drunk. Y'never stammer when
y'drunk. Why's that, d'you's'pose?"

The mystery held Bolster's attention for some moments. "Don't
know,"
he admitted at last. "Y'right though. P'raps I'd best stay drunk all
the time, eh?"

"Good idea. I'll join you. Drink up, ol' fella." Strand
lurched over
to the bowl to refill their glasses. He spilled considerable of his
first ladleful, a feat that made them both laugh so much there was no
point in again attempting it until they were able to stop chortling. He
managed the task eventually, by which time they both were seated on the
rug before the hearth. Strand saluted Bolster gravely with the ladle,
put it aside, and remarked that the more he thought on it, the better
the idea seemed.

"What idea?" asked Bolster, blinking at him owlishly.

"Why, t'join you. When y'go to—to Europe with ol' Mitch
Redmond."

Bolster lay down on the rug and howled with mirth. Propping
himself
on one elbow, he peered at Strand, who was watching him approvingly,
and said a succinct, "Went."

"Y'did?" Strand frowned, digesting this. "Y'mean—y'already
back?
'Magine that! Clay, ol' fella, d'you know Bolster's back? He don't
answer, Jerry. Why won't he answer? Don't want to talk to th'
laughingstock, eh, Marcus?" And awareness knifing through the fog, he
drew a hand across his brow and sat hunched over and silent.

Bolster placed a consoling hand on that bowed shoulder.

"Should have done as I told you," he pointed out with a slight
hiccup. "Never fails. Worked f'me." He sighed. "For a while… Why don't
we go to Africa? Might get eaten by lion, course. Or elephant. Do
elephants eat people, d'you know, Strand?"

"I did try it," muttered Strand, rather lost in the maze of
his
friend's monologue. "Took me an age, but—waste. She—she never even
owned she saw it."

"Oh," said Bolster, his hazel eyes filling with tears. "Thass
so sad, ol' sportsman. I—can't bear it!"

Clay opened one eye, failed to locate his friends, stood, and
promptly fell over them. When the hilarity over this feat had died
down, he sat on the carpet with them and told them sternly, if
indistinctly, that they were both thoroughly foxed. Their vociferous
indignation did not convince him. "Must be," he said judicially.
"Stands't'reason. You wouldn't be sitting on the floor was you sober.
'Sides, y'can't go anywhere, Strand. Not now."

"C'n go anywhere I want!" Strand flared. "Oh, you think m'wife
would
'ject? Well—" he bent closer and leered confidingly—"when I come home
after my li'l trip to Sil'vrings, she said—y'know what she said? She
said I'd perfect right't'come an' go as—chose. So I choose to—go 'way."
Having delivered himself of which, he curled up on the floor and went
to sleep.

Clay said solemnly, "He don't know how't'handle women. Never
did,
Jerry. Silly fella should've told Lisette th' truth. She's spoiled on
'count of being so pretty, an' awful high in th' instep, but she's a
good heart, y'know."

Bolster thought about this for a while, then offered, "No.
Couldn't've. I couldn't. Could you? Under circumstances?"

" 'Course I could!" Clay paused, then amended slowly, "Well,
p'raps
not, but you ask me, ol' Justin got just's much pride as lovely
Lisette. An'—" He swung around, waving an emphatic finger, only to find
he'd lost Bolster again. Relocating him, comfortably settled with his
head and shoulders propped against Strand's back, Clay bent and went
on. '"Nother thing—that r'dic'lous business with Garvey—"

"Gad!" Bolster opened drowsy eyes. "Wasn't it famous to see
his high
an' mightiness back down like that? Wonder I didn't—laugh out loud."

"Mus'n laugh at James Garvey!" Clay warned. "Matter of fact,
Jerry,
been thinking. You'd best keep an eye on ol' Justin. Garvey's not th'
type to let this go, an' Justin ain't thinking clearly jus' now."

Bolster yawned. "Glad to. You goin''t'keep eye…'s'well,
Marcus?"

"Wish I could, but—" Clay shrugged wryly—"got to go to Horse
Guards. P'raps next time, Jerry. P'raps next time…"

The
third meeting involved only two
gentlemen. It was quieter than either of the others, but by far the
more deadly.

Claude Sanguinet was one of those present. Apparently
engrossed in
the cuticles of his right hand, he was seated in a comfortable Sheraton
chair in the sumptuous suite he maintained year round in London's
luxurious Clarendon Hotel.

James Garvey was the other occupant of the room. Standing with
one
shoulder propped against the mantel, his brooding gaze on the leaping
flames of the fire, he waited through a long silence, then, flinging
around, demanded harshly, "Well? You had me brought here. Say what you
want, and be done!"

"Why, my dear James," Sanguinet answered in the French he
invariably
resorted to in private, "you were not obliged to obey my—er—summons,
did you not so desire."

"The devil I wasn't! That peasant, Shotten, would likely have
rammed a knife under my ribs had I refused."

Claude smiled. "He is a loyal soul."

"A soul is something he knows as little of as do you know
loyalty!
You humbled me today, Claude! Forced me to my knees in front of half
London. And after all I've done for you! Tell me of loyalty!"

"But, my dear friend"—Sanguinet waved a languid hand— "you
brought it on yourself. Has it become good
ton
in
London for a gentleman to so publicly repeat the confidences of a
lady—and with her unfortunate husband present?"

"Justin Strand ain't begun to know what 'unfortunate' means!"
snarled Garvey, his handsome features twisting to a singularly ugly
expression. "This is no lightskirt we speak of, Sanguinet! I want the
girl. And I mean to have her!"

"Over his—ah—dead body?" Sanguinet prompted, amused.

"I had rather he was alive to see it, but—damn his soul!— yes!
From
the moment I saw Lisette Van Lindsay I knew she was bom to be my wife.
He stole her from me, not by his charm, and not by reason of her love,
for she despises the clod! But because—damme how it galls!—because his
was the larger fortune!"

Sanguinet chuckled. "You might, I believe, have dispensed with
the adjective."

His fists clenching, Garvey scowled at the elegance of the
Frenchman. "It
was
large, until you ruined me,
just as you ruined Rupert Strand! I wonder does his son know of it."

"Do you know, James," purred Sanguinet, "almost, you bore me.
If you
chose to gamble and lose in one or two of the clubs I chance to own,
that is scarcely to be laid at my door. Did I not help when you were
desperate? Did I not provide you with home, servants, all the luxuries
of the fine gentleman?—which, I may add, you are not, my James." He
laughed, his light brown eyes shining as they met Garvey's murderous
glare. "We suit, dear my friend. You have the useful connections. You
can open those certain doors in London to which I require admittance.
And I—I have the bottomless purse. We suit. It is the satisfactory
arrangement."

"It did not suit me this afternoon! But for your interference
I
could have called out that brown-faced cit and removed him from my
path."

"Cit? Surely, you are too harsh, my dear. But I collect you
crave an
exercise for your so renowned marksmanship. A ball straight to the
heart, no?"

"No. When the time comes I shall place my shot through the
liver, I think. With luck, it will take Strand a week to die."

His eyes suddenly icy, Sanguinet came to his feet. "Brutality
disgusts me. Even when my loved brother Parnell was alive, some of his
traits—" He broke off abruptly.

Seething, Garvey did not dare to speak his rage and instead
goaded slyly, "Do you tell me then that
you
bear
no malice toward Tristram Leith, after he ran off with your intended
bride? That
you
plan no vengeance?"

"My plans are not to be shared with you." Sanguinet's dark
head
lowered, and when he raised it the look in the brown eyes that
glittered from under his brows brought a dryness to Garvey's mouth. "I
will tell you that this insult, it shall be dealt with. In time. But it
is a matter not to be compared to your puny bunglings. I am no ordinary
man, Garvey. This fact it would behoove you to remember. Always."

Garvey knew a nervous impulse to laugh, but one did not laugh
at
Claude Sanguinet, especially not while that strange red gleam lit his
eyes. He was mad, egocentric, and totally ruthless, but as deadly as
Garvey was, he knew himself puny indeed, by comparison, wherefore his
eyes fell and he was silent.

His mood changing in one of those inexplicable shifts that
more than
anything else had convinced Garvey the man rightly belonged in Bedlam,
Sanguinet said amiably, "As to Strand,
mon ami,
do whatsoever you will."

"But—you said…"

"Mon Dieu!
Am I so abstruse? If you wish
the fool
destroyed— destroy him. But I am known to have been wronged by the
family, and you are known to be my friend. I can afford no further
breath of scandal. I must remain the injured party. So it is that there
must be no possible way of connecting you—and thereby me—to the foolish
little affair. Were you wise, my James, you would simply hire an
assassin. Lord knows there are sufficient available."

Garvey scowled. "No. It must be by my own hand."

"As you wish. But I shall make myself very clear. Because of
this
Leith I am delayed. It will take me now many months, perhaps, before my
plans against this so foolish government of yours, they come to
fruition. I do not permit, James, that these plans be jeopardized, nor
even slightly flawed, by reason of the lust… the clumsiness… of one
man." His voice a purring caress, Sanguinet raised one hand gracefully,
and asked, "Is understood?"