Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (42 page)

Lisette submitted to being hurried to the stairs. "If you mean
Strand, ma'am, I neither know nor care! As usual, he blamed me for
this, as though—"

"Stuff! The poor lad had good reason, I suspect. Beatrice is
here!"

Lisette's lips tightened. The perfect end of a perfect day!
"How nice," she said dryly.

"It ain't. At all. Good gad, how these stairs tire my poor old
limbs. Your arm, Madam Hauteur! Now, when we meet your sister, you will
be so kind as to follow my lead!"

Gently aiding this frail old tyrant into the drawing room,
Lisette
checked momentarily. Beatrice sat huddled on the sofa and was in the
act of accepting the glass of wine Norman offered. Much shocked,
Lisette thought her sister looked to have aged ten years. Her usually
elegant coiffure was tumbled and untidy, with wisps hanging at all
angles. Her dress was creased, her half-boots muddied, and she looked
positively shrunken. But worst of all was the expression on her ashen
features, an expression that went beyond grief to a dulled resignation
that was appalling.

Forgetting everything except that this was her sister, Lisette
started forward with a little instinctive cry of sympathy. She was
restrained by a claw of a hand.

Norman turned to them and gave a gesture of helplessness, then
put
down the wine and came to give Lisette a kiss, and whisper, "Another
bumble broth! Gad! What a family! Is poor Bolster killed?"

Lisette shook her head, but before she could speak, the old
lady said harshly, "Well, madam?"

Beatrice raised haggard eyes, then cowered back against the
sofa.

"Your machinations, Lady William," my lady said in that same
acid
tone, "near cost Jeremy Bolster his life, which would likely have
resulted in that ninny Amanda Hersh grieving herself into an early
grave." Tears brimming in her dark eyes, Beatrice began a plaintive
response that was ruthlessly overriden. "To those two lives," observed
the old lady grimly, "we may well add Justin Strand, of whom I—at
least—am extremely fond. On top of that, you have very likely broken
the heart of your husband, who is so foolish as to love you!"

The effect of this indictment was shattering. Norman, who had
retreated to the side of the room, quailed in horror as Beatrice burst
into a storm of sobs, and began to sway back and forth in a frenzy of
grief.

Unmoved, the old lady snorted, "A pretty display! And one that
will
avail you nothing. You had best make your peace with your sister,
madam!" The only effect this had was to increase the volume of the
lamentations, whereupon my lady barked, "Norman! Run and get a pitcher
of cold water!"

Only too glad to escape, he shot for the door.

"No-no…" Beatrice raised a wet face and reddened eyes. "I know
what—what I must do…"

At the door, Norman looked back, pleadingly. Lady
Bayes-Copeland
nodded, and he fled, closing the door quietly behind him. The old lady
settled herself on the edge of a loveseat, but Lisette, chilled by
apprehension, remained standing.

"I—I will confess," Beatrice announced between sniffs.
"Though—though I am not the first lady ever… to take a lover, I
suppose."

"To take a lover if one has an inattentive, repulsive, or
unfaithful
husband is one thing," said my lady tartly. "In your case there was
neither excuse nor justification. And to plot with that lover to the
jeopardy of another member of your own family is despicable!" Her cane
rapped on the floor to emphasize that terrible denunciation and she
repeated it in her harsh, cracked old voice,
"Despicable,
I say!"

Her head down-bent, Beatrice said tremulously, "Yes. Only—
only I thought James loved me. He said—"

"James?" echoed Lisette, astounded. "
Garvey
?"

Beatrice nodded. "He said he had a score to settle, and—and so
I
told him what Charity said about—about Strand leaving you on your
wedding night. And about him staying away a week or more. It was James
circulated the rumours that you had deliberately repulsed your
bridegroom. When Strand confronted him in The Madrigal, James said that
you had told him you were a wife in name only and that you were in love
with James."

One hand flying to her throat, Lisette exclaimed, "Oh, my God!
No
wonder Strand challenged him! How I wish he had told me the whole and
I'd not have—" A bony finger jabbed into her ribs. She cast her
grandmother an irked glance, but said no more.

"James was like a madman after their quarrel in The Madrigal,"
Beatrice continued, staring blindly at the rug. "I tried to comfort
him, but all he could say was that his honour must be satisfied. He
begged me to—to convey to him anything I learned about you. He said…"
She closed her eyes briefly, her hand beginning to tear at her
handkerchief. "He said that if he could just wipe out that stain on his
honour, he would—would take me away. That William could obtain a
divorce and James would wed me. Lord help me! How little I guessed…"

She began to weep wretchedly, but Lisette was appalled and
made no move to go to her.

"When you arrived at Strand Hall and discovered Lisette meant
to visit her sisters-in-law," rasped my lady grimly, "you
knew
that Rachel and Charity were not at Cloudhills. You did not apprise her
of that circumstance, but instead sent word to your scheming lover.
Correct?"

Lisette gasped out a disbelieving, "Oh, no! You never did?"

Hanging her head, Beatrice whispered, "Yes. It—it was wicked
in me,
I know. But… I loved him so, and I thought— Oh well, never mind about
that. I sent a note to James by my groom that very night. When he
received it, he writ a letter to
you,
Lisette,
begging that you not run away to Tristram Leith. And he had the letter
taken to Strand at Silverings—as if in error."

"How vile!" uttered my lady in accents of loathing.

Very white, Lisette muttered, "Strand already suspected that I
cared for Leith. If he—if he read
that
…"

"He did, of course," my lady interpolated dryly. "He'd have to
be a
ninny or a saint not to! And so he set off at the gallop to intercept
you."

Lisette threw both hands to her cheeks, but after a moment's
puzzling said, "But if Strand learnt I spent the night at Cloudhills,
alone with Leith, why did he call out
Bolster?"

Lady Bayes-Copeland directed a chill stare at Beatrice. "Ask
our traitor."

Wincing, Beatrice explained, "He did not discover that. But
Bolster did."

"And was so gallant as to attempt to spare you—all of us— the
stark
tragedy of having your husband shoot down your brother-in-law!" said my
lady.

"But—but…" stammered Lisette, "surely he knew that Justin
would call him out?"

"That simpleton?" The old lady gave a scornful bark of
derision. "He
is brave as he can stare, I grant you, but not one for deep thinking.
Nor imagine I think the less of him, for he is a fine boy. Do not
forget, my dear, that he and your husband have been friends all their
lives. I suspect our quixotic peer traded on that friendship. He
probably had no notion Strand would really believe him to have been
your secret lover, and hoped merely to confuse Strand into delays, thus
providing time in which to reason him from his rage. Instead, Strand
called him out and then shot him. Utter folly!"

Beatrice's head sank even lower. Almost inaudibly, she
whispered, "N-no."

"What the deuce d'you mean,
no
?"
demanded her grandmother fiercely. "Do you add an admiration of
duelling to your incalculable idiocies, madam?"

Beatrice wet dry lips. "Strand d-did not shoot Bolster,
Grandmama.
James was there. He followed Devenish and then hid behind a tree,
intending to shoot Strand in case Jeremy should delope." She heard a
startled exclamation and, flashing a frightened glance upwards, saw
that her grandmother had come to her feet and that the two women stood
there, like some familial tribunal, watching her in horror. Cringing,
she faltered, "Only

B-Brutus upset James's team, and James missed his shot and—
and wounded Bolster by accident."

There was a brief, stunned silence, even the unquenchable Lady
Bayes-Copeland rendered speechless by this shocking disclosure. Then,
"Now… now here's shameful treachery, indeed!" she breathed. "Which I
shall ensure is well circulated among the
ton!
Must I name you a party to this dastardly plot, wretched girl?"

"No! Oh, no!" Clasping her hands together prayerfully as she
blinked up at them, Beatrice sobbed, "I beg—
I pray
you believe me! I thought James would manoeuvre Strand into a duel and—
and wound him—just a little… perhaps. But I never
dreamt
he meant murder! I was waiting at his lodgings when he came home." She
saw her grandmother's lip curl contemptuously, and rushed on. "He was
like a man possessed, and took a—a sort of cruel delight in telling me
what he had tried to do. I was—absolutely appalled. I taxed him with
having deceived me, and he laughed. I was so frightened! I begged that
we run away, and be married in Italy when William gave me the divorce."

"Little fool!" snorted her grandmother. "Garvey never loved
you
!
It is Lisette he wants."

"Yes," Beatrice wept, covering her face once more. "So he
admitted,
at last. And taunted me so—so savagely. It had all been lies from the
very beginning. Strand had never boasted of having 'bought' Lisette, as
James told me. He said he had at first intended to kill Strand, but
then realized that if he waited until after they were wed, Lisette
would be a—a very wealthy widow—''

"
Foul
!" screeched my lady, her cane
striking the floor in a staccato outburst of indignation. "And you
could
listen
to such— such wicked infamy, and not
come to me—or your papa—with it all? Oh, for
shame
!"

"I dare not come to you," choked Beatrice. "James said if I
told one
word of what had happened, he would say I planned it all with him! And
he boasted that he would s-soon wed the lady he—he really loved, and be
a rich man besides. Oh…! When I think what I have done! And—and my
poor, good, grieving William! Oh, how I wish I was dead! I wish I was
dead!"

"Very Drury Lane-ish," sneered her grandmother, giving the
bell pull
a tug. She glanced at Lisette, who stood in white-faced silence,
staring down at her sister. "What is in your mind, love? That we must
warn Strand?"

"Yes," Lisette answered numbly. "And that I once was so
unpardonably
foolish as to wish I could wed James Garvey— instead of Justin!"

All night the rain beat down steadily, drenching the
waterlogged
countryside and turning the usually gentle drift of the river to a
boiling race, the roar of which penetrated even the thick walls of
Silverings. With the dawn, the
Silvering Sails
rocked
uneasily in her small inlet, protected to some extent from the
mainstream, but occasionally caught by a surge of waters so that she
strained at the ropes securing her. One might have supposed that the
man who had toiled for so many hours refurbishing the vessel would
evince some concern at this sight, for the river became more littered
with mud and debris, the safety of the inlet more threatened, with
every hour that passed. In point of fact, however, Justin Strand,
seated in the windowseat, his back against the walls, his legs across
the length of the cushions, saw neither storm, river, nor boat.
Wherever he looked, even if he closed his eyes, three faces haunted
him: the white, still features of Jeremy Bolster, poor little Amanda's
stricken expression, and the scornful countenance of the girl he had
worshipped and wed, and who had so carelessly betrayed him. All the way
back to Sussex he had been able to think of nothing else. Throughout
the hours of darkness he had paced the floor, racked with guilt and
fear for Bolster, and scourged by the knowledge that Lisette, denied
the love of the man to whom she had given her heart, knowing how deep
was the devotion offered by her husband, had still rejected him,
choosing to take his best friend for her lover.

He ran a distracted hand through his rumpled hair, reminded
that he
had come within a hair's-breadth of calling out Leith—a mistake that
would surely have broken Rachel's heart. There were levels to tragedy,
he acknowledged; for instance, his personal grief was intensified
because it had been Bolster who betrayed him. Bolster, whom he'd always
held to be the very soul of honour, and totally above such base
treachery. Yet, even so, he had not intended to—

A hand touched his shoulder gently. A troubled voice asked,
"Sir! Be
ye all right? It do be almighty hot in here, so hot as a furnace, yet
ye be a-shivering and a-shaking like any aspen tree!"

Strand looked with a smile into Best's honest eyes. "I'm
afraid I may have contracted a cold."

"Ar," said Best, uneasily. "Well, I do wish as how Mr. Green
would come."

Until they reached here last evening, Strand had quite
forgotten
that he'd left instructions for his valet to return to the Hall. He had
sent the other groom off at once, with instructions that Green was to
come down to Silverings, but after the heavy rains of the night, it was
quite possible that the roads were flooded. "I'm sure he will get here
as soon as he can," he said. "Are the horses dry?"

The stable roof, Best admitted, was beginning to drip in a few
places, and he was in fact going down there now, to see if he could
make some temporary repairs. "It do be a great pity," he added with a
reproachful glance at his employer, "as that fancy French cook bean't
here, seein's young Johnny bean't able to have come back in time to do
the job."

The image of the lofty Rene condescending to look at the
stable
roof, much less soil his talented hands upon it, brought a gleam to
Strand's tired eyes. "Then let us hope," he said bracingly, "that young
Johnny returns with Mr. Green. Meanwhile, do you need help, let me
know."