Marcel said, “There are not as many as usual in the chateau. Monsieur le Comte ordered most of his staff and all the maids to his home in Paris.”
“Wants as few witnesses as possible,” grunted Skye. “Time to go, Valerian!”
“In a minute or two. We’ll first let the sounds of their revelry reach to the tower and lure away whatever guards are up there.”
With his gaze on the leaping flames of the fire and the men who sat or sprawled about it watching the three women and drinking from wine bottles, Marcel said, “Do not wait too long, messieurs—if you value your womenfolk!”
Herbert said urgently, “He’s right! Come on, Gervaise!” He sprang up, drew his pistol and ran for the side door, which they’d already found, as Marcel had promised, to be unlocked. He ignored his cousin’s hissed “Easy, you fool!” and sprinted impetuously into a long, gloomy hall. A short but powerfully built individual lounging at the foot of a flight of stone steps turned around, startled by the sound of the opening door.
Aided by the element of surprise, Herbert sprang, flailing his pistol at the guard who reeled back and went down without a sound. As Valerian and Skye raced in behind him, Herbert exclaimed triumphantly, “One less to reckon with, cousin! And taken out of commission silently!”
“But unwisely, alas,” sighed Marcel, trotting to join them. “This was Hector Basseport, Madame’s spy, on whose aid we were counting!”
Herbert’s groan was drowned by Valerian’s snarled “Fumble-wit!”
“No time for blame,” snapped Skye. “Are these the stairs you spoke of, Marcel?”
The coachman dolefully confirming this, Valerian told him to wait and try to warn them if the need arose, then the three young men sprinted up the steps, along another cold and deserted passage to where a spiral staircase lifted into a gloomy darkness.
Valerian drew the others to a halt and whispered a tense “Listen!”
Above them they could hear men’s voices and laughter that became louder. “They’re coming down!” hissed Skye.
“We’ll welcome them,” said Valerian. “Under here! Quick!”
They crouched under the staircase, close against the wall, hearing now the faint strains of a violin and what sounded to be a mandolin accompanied by the rhythmic chimes of a tambourine. Heavy boots pounded above their heads, and the glow of candles gleamed through the treads. Valerian tensed, expecting at any instant to hear shouts of alarm and prepared to respond to a challenge.
A voice with an Italian accent shouted gleefully, “… and there are women, my good comrades! And wine!”
They came clumping down the stairs, stumbling in their eagerness.
One of them laughed and remarked upon how fortunate it was that Monsieur le Comte was away.
“While the cat’s away…,” jeered another.
‘Three!’ thought Valerian. ‘Easy odds!’
In that instant Skye’s scabbard struck against the wall.
“Hi!” exclaimed the first voice. “I thought I heard—”
“Likely the unfortunate Englishman above-stairs!” said the Italian impatiently. “Who else could it be? And he’s helpless, poor stubborn fool. Move! If we don’t make haste that great glutton Dag will drink up all the wine!”
“Ah, but there will still be the women!”
“Oh, no there will not!” muttered Valerian between his teeth, holding back Skye and Herbert as they inched forward.
The guards were down then and all but running along the passageway towards the lower staircase, while dwelling so exultantly on the treats in store that they didn’t hear the nemesis that followed.
The first man took the steps two at a time, his friends galloping noisily after him.
Valerian cried, “Now!”
The third guard checked, one foot on the second step. Before he could turn, Valerian shoved him between the shoulder blades with all his strength. The guard was hurled forward to land with a howl on the back of his comrade, who in turn caromed into the first man. All three were down then, tumbling and rolling in a wild helter-skelter of arms and legs and breathless yells and curses that ceased abruptly as they crashed onto the lower corridor.
Two lay unmoving. The third rogue dragged himself dazedly to a sitting position, mumbling something in Italian.
Valerian swung up the barrel of his pistol.
Herbert said, “Allow me, cousin.”
With a flourishing bow Valerian stepped aside.
Herbert flailed his pistol and the Italian joined his comrades in slumber.
A moment later the door to the tower room burst open. Sword in hand Valerian sprang inside, crouched and ready for action, but the stark little chamber was empty save for a skeletal individual who lay on a cot and watched him in helpless apprehension.
“A new interrogator?” he said, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “You’d as well … kill me, and not … not waste more time. I’ll never—”
“Good God!” exclaimed Valerian in English, striding to the bed. “Are you Vance Clayton? They’ve really had a merry time with you, poor fellow!”
Struggling onto one elbow, Clayton gasped, “Who—who the deuce are you? Seen you before … I think.”
“Then you should certainly remember me.” Valerian slid an arm under his shoulders. “Can you walk? Jove! You weigh no more than a pound of feathers!”
His hazel eyes suddenly full of tears, Clayton said chokingly, “Are you Valerian? I can’t believe … Have—have you come to…”
“We’ve come to remove you from this palatial suite,” said Skye, hurrying to him. “Poor devil! We’ll have to carry him, Valerian.”
“No,” gulped Clayton, faint but with new hope dawning in his ravaged, beard-stubbled face. “Stronger than—than they think. How you come to be here I can’t … imagine. But—can stand … with a little help.”
Between them, they got him down the stairs to the lower landing, where Herbert was bending over the fallen. Straightening, he said, “You have him! My heavens, but he’s a mess! His sister will swoon away if she sees—”
Valerian interrupted hurriedly, “We don’t need to hang about here, gentlemen.”
Sagging in their supporting arms, Clayton gasped, “What—’bout my sister? Never say—”
“We won’t, for there’s no time,” said Skye briskly. “We must get on, gentlemen!”
Valerian agreed. “By all means. We’ve finished the verse, let’s tend to the chorus. Marcel tells me he and Madame will convey this lad partway, but there’s some tidying up to be done here.” He adjusted his scabbard, adding: “Which may not be accomplished quite so neatly.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” murmured Herbert. “There are three of them, cousin.”
Valerian looked at him sharply. “And three of us? A good thought! And a quick change of costume is indicated!” Taking off his own coat, he rolled one of the guards onto his back, pulled off his waistcoat and shrugged into it with a grimace of distaste. “Ugh! It fits here and there, but that’s the best that can be said for the poor thing! Let’s have Marcel in now, Herbert. He can take charge of poor Clayton and our own clothes. Be damned if I’ll venture out in public wearing these hideous garments!”
“A Dandy,” sighed Skye, appropriating a passable tricorne from another of the guards. “Even as I was told!”
Donning an ill-fitting coat, Valerian said with a grin, “A Deplorable Dandy, to be precise!”
Clayton was half-lying on the lower step, still looking as though he could scarcely believe this miraculous rescue. Glancing at him, Skye muttered, “It seems harsh to keep him and his sister apart. I doubt she’ll forgive you, Valerian.”
“Oh, no. I’ll be the complete villain, I’ve no doubt. But let her once catch sight of the sorry pass he’s come to and her every womanly instinct will demand that she stay at his side! And maudle over him all the way back to the port.”
“Well, and why not? Poor old Clayton could use some maudling.”
“Perhaps, but for
a score of reasons it would be unwise. Clearly he’s a very sick man. She’d be fussing at every point—we were driving too fast, or we didn’t stop often enough to allow her darling to rest, or we must procure him some medicine or nourishment, or some such thing.” He knew Skye was staring at him, and he added gruffly, “Besides which, I’d feel safer were she in my—our care than with Madame Granada, however resourceful that grande dame may be.”
“Humph,” grunted Skye. “Just as I thought!”
With a touch of defiance, Valerian said, “Well, here’s Marcel, so you may stop overworking your brain-box and devote your energies to helping us get Clayton to the coach.”
Hurrying in after Marcel, Herbert said urgently, “And then we must help the ladies! Those clods are clean raddled!”
“Is that all?” exclaimed Valerian. “Gad, they must have hard heads! I’d fancied they’d be sound asleep by this time! Up with you, Vance, my lad! You are going out driving, and we’ve to attend a party!”
* * *
“Sing an’… d-dance, girlsh,” howled Dag, stretched out by the fire, one hand propping his head and the other waving a wine bottle in time with the melody Madame Granada played on her fiddle.
“Louder! Louder,” roared the youthful Edmond, his scratch wig sagging to the side of his head, his eyes glazed and his face very red.
“I cannot play louder,” moaned Elspeth, rattling her tambourine vigorously. “Oh, why does Valerian not come? Only look how that horrid Dag leers at us!”
“Never mind him, miss,” said Freda, strumming fiercely on her lute. “The one to watch is that ugly Moret. He didn’t drink hardly any of the wine, and he puts me in mind of—of a crouching wolf!”
“About to spring!” agreed Madame.
No sooner had she spoken than a savage grin dawned on the scarred face and Moret was on his feet and stalking forward.
“None of that!” cried Madame Granada, moving quickly between him and Elspeth. “We’re here to play for you. Nothing more!”
“Out of the way, crone,” he growled, shoving her aside, his hungry gaze steady on Elspeth. “You’re here to play whatever games we want. And me, I want … her!”
With the word he sprang. Elspeth gave a shriek and jumped away, but his long arm flashed out, he caught her skirt and dragged her to him.
“Not … fair!” bellowed Dag, staggering up and seizing Moret’s shoulder. “I found ’em, so—so I’m first!”
“What you are—is drunk, you sot,” snarled Moret, fending him off. “You can take—Ow!” He released Elspeth hurriedly and clutched at his hand. Glaring at her balefully as she ran back, he snarled, “Scratch me, will you? Well, me, I never did—like cats!” He was after her but tripped on an empty bottle and fell to his knees, cursing.
Dag uttered a roar of laughter and sat down abruptly.
“Sing!” cried Madame Granada urgently. “Sing!”
Freda began to dance about, twirling her long skirts and singing shrilly,
“There was a youth and a well-beloved youth,
And he was a squire’s son.
He loved the Bailiff’s daughter dear,
That lived in Islington.”
Elspeth pounded the tambourine, two footmen joined in and sang the next verse lustily, until one snuggled down and went to sleep.
Rubbing his knee, Moret got to his feet again.
Watching him, praying Valerian would come with Vance, Elspeth caught a glimpse of three more ruffians running from the side of the chateau and her heart sank. “Madame!” she called despairingly. “Only look!”
They all turned to the newcomers, but, more single-minded, Moret lunged at Elspeth and clamped his arms about her. “I’ll teach you … pretty vixen,” he mumbled thickly, nuzzling at her throat. “When Moret wants a wench—”
Struggling frenziedly, she heard a familiar voice enquire, “What exactly have you in mind to teach the lady, Monsieur Crudity?”
Moret thrust Elspeth away and whirled about. Staggering, she saw Valerian, wearing odd-looking clothes and smiling mildly, but with his eyes fixed in a deadly challenge.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” she breathed, then gave a squeal of fear as Moret whipped out a horse pistol.
Valerian’s sword flashed into his hand and beat the pistol from the ruffian’s hand.
With lightning reaction Moret’s sword was in his other hand and he circled warily. “Where you have come from, I do not know,” he said softly. “But it is that where you go, I’ve no doubt.” He lunged with savage eagerness.
Valerian parried and thrust in a fierce and immediate response.
Elspeth was vaguely aware that Joel and Herbert were busily subduing the other rogues, but her fearful concentration was on this battle and she could not tear her eyes away. Moret was mouthing obscenities. Valerian was all smiles. Torn between fear and indignation, she thought, ‘He is enjoying this, the wretched creature!’
Skye came up beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right, my poor girl?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, not glancing at him. “Joel, that man is murderous, I know it! Stop this before he kills Gervaise!”
“He’s a fine swordsman,” said Skye, “and if I interfere he very well may kill Valerian.”
Elspeth gave a whimper of fear and pressed tightly clasped hands to her lips as Valerian swung lithely to one side, at the last instant avoiding a sizzling thrust. “Oh, my heavens!”
Skye said, “Come. We must leave this charming palace.”
Shocked by the awareness that for a moment she had forgotten their reason for being here, she turned to face him and asked eagerly, “My brother?”
“Safely away,” he said. “Hurry now. They’ll—”
Madame Granada hurried to them and said admiringly, “Only look at that boy fight! A born swordsman if ever I saw one, but Moret’s a killing machine and ’tis not wise to toy with such ruffians.”
Swinging around to watch the fierce battle once more, Elspeth gave a sob of fear as Valerian eluded by a hair’s breadth the glittering blade that shot for his throat. He laughed and sprang to the attack, beating his opponent back, taunting him with every step.
Skye said severely, “He takes too many chances!”
Herbert ran up, shouting, “Come on, Gervaise! Don’t play with him, we must go!”
“Don’t! Oh, do not distract him!” cried Elspeth, terrified.
Valerian darted a glance at her, ducked under Moret’s flying sword, stamped forward and thrust straight and true.
“Finis!” said Skye, admiringly. “Jolly well done!”
His weapon falling, Moret stood staring at Valerian for an instant, then coughed, and his knees buckled.
Valerian swung his sword into the salute. “A good fight, monsieur,” he said, only slightly out of breath. “I thank you.” He turned to the little group watching and said with a sideways grin, “Why do you all stand there with your mouths at half-cock?” He wiped his sword on the coat he was discarding, then caught Elspeth’s hand and gave it a little tug. “Come along, do! I cannot fripper about here all night!”
14
“No, I do not understand!” said Elspeth heatedly. “Why am I not allowed to ride with Vance? Why have I not caught so much as a glimpse of him?”
Seated beside her in the rocking coach, Valerian said mildly, “Why are we returning in Marcel’s coach instead of riding with Lady Elmira? You forgot that one—among the other things you appear to have forgotten.”
“If you mean I forget to thank you for all you’ve done—of course I do not forget! You have my heartfelt thanks for keeping your part of our bargain!”
“Touché,” he murmured with a cynical smile. “That will keep me in my place. No, never scowl at me, brave girl, nor feel the need to remind me of how deeply I’m indebted to you for helping save my father. I told you we were able to bring Vance out of the hole where they had him—”
“Yes, but—”
“I told you he is well, but s
till weak, and therefore we deemed it advisable to spirit him away as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t see why I could not at least—”
“I know.” He took up her hand and planted a swift kiss on it, then seized the opportunity offered by her astonished reaction to this flagrant piece of flirtation to go on hurriedly: “But there was not the time. We’d intended, as you know, to let you both journey to Le Havre with Lady Elmira. For several reasons this became impractical…”
She was gazing at him in a startled fashion, her lips slightly parted. Not for the first time he noted that she really had the most adorable little mouth, the lips full and sweetly shaped and so innocent of affectation … He gave himself a mental shake and said, “No, close those pretty lips and let me explain. Firstly, Herbert rides with them and will be better able to transform your brother into the new edition of Mrs. Newell without a crowd hampering his efforts. Also—”
“I am scarce a crowd!” protested Elspeth, collecting the wits scattered by the unexpectedly delicious pressure of his warm lips on her hand. “You know how much I’d looked forward to seeing my dear brother, but you tricked me into going to Marcel’s coach believing he was there, and then told me he had instead been taken to the caravan! I am very sure he wanted—”
“Yes, but we cannot always have what we want in life, can we? And I’d think you should care more about his safety than satisfying your own wishes. Also, my cousin is convinced we’re being followed by—”
“By a brown coach. So I noticed, but—”
He tensed. “You mean a blue coach.”
“To the contrary, the coach I saw was quite definitely brown. It did seem to follow us for a while, but then it turned off, so I fancy ’twas merest coincidence. And since you set so little store by your poor cousin’s opinions, I fail to see why you’d take note of anything he claims to have seen.”
“I take note of this particular claim,” he said slowly, “because I dare not ignore any possibility that we are really being followed.”
“And that is why you let Vance travel with Lady Elmira? You think he will be safer in her coach.”
He avoided her searching gaze and added a feeble reinforcement: “It will give your brother the chance to become acquainted with Pixie.”
The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy Page 20