The 'clearing' Mitchell had found was actually more of a hollow and to a solitary wanderer must have seemed a forbidding spot, ringed about as it was by rocky slopes and hemmed in by the brooding darkness of the trees. The smugglers, however, had proclaimed it parfait, for the fire's glow was less likely to be seen from outside the deep declivity and the hurrying breath of the night wind was happily excluded. With much zestful singing, the men bustled about, erecting the tent, building the fire, and unloading and tending to their animals, while a stout individual named Henri took charge of their combined provender and, with a deal of interference, engaged in the preparation of a meal.
As Mitchell had promised, a stream ran close by and, water having been heated, Lady Nerina retired to refresh herself. Harry, meanwhile, was led to the fireside and required to sit down so that Nanette might replace the dressing on his arm. Mitchell at once hastened to watch the proceedings, and Harry exclaimed impatiently, "At last! Now tell me how it chances that not quite three weeks ago I put you into a post chase for Oxford, have since confidently imagined you to be toiling at your studies, and instead discover you tonight, leading a band of smugglers through Sussex! Furthermore—" He stopped with a hiss of indrawn breath as Nanette attempted to loosen the last layer of bandage, which had adhered to the wound. She flashed an anxious glance at his face. Mitchell had been given a brief account of Harry's encounter with Willyum Brown's fine Welsh bull and volunteered to dress the arm, "for I am sure you must be tired, ma'am, and would like to join your friend."
"Oh, no you don't!" said Harry. "She has hands like a feather."
Nanette smiled. "Thank you, kind sir. It comes from practice, you see, Mr. Redmond. I have spent much of these past few days tending to your brother's hurts. Indeed, he is a most violent young man!"
Curious, Mitchell said, "You've a lot to tell me, I can see. I— Good God! That's no 'little cut", Sauvage! Yves! Over here, s'il vous plait!"
The Frenchman hurried over, a plucked chicken dangling from one hand. He passed the fowl to Mitchell and, acquiring a professional air, inspected the arm. When told the injury had been wrought by a bull, he pursed his lips. "This must be very well cleansed and sewn—tout de suite!"
"But," Nanette's voice was sharp with concern, "you are not a surgeon."
He made a grand gesture. "Have no fears, mademoiselle; I have care for the swine of mon père any time these ten years and am most skilled."
"Swine!" Harry exploded, then broke into laughter. "Mitch, you coxcomb! A fine respect for the head of your family! Thank you— no. I prefer Mr. Chatham's dentist."
"What—Maxwell?" Mitchell shook his head dubiously. "Last time we were at Beechmead, Lucian St. Clair told me all his patients die."
"Whereas I, my friends," Yves interpolated with simple pride, "have yet to lose one swine."
Harry gave a hoot of mirth, and despite the worry that lurked in his eyes, Mitchell chuckled. Nanette, however, was not amused. "Men!" she exclaimed. "How can you jest about such a horrid great gash? Ah! You cannot! We have no laudanum."
"Got something a da—er, a sight better," said Harry. "One of the advantages of having a free trader in the family!"
Mitchell nodded, clambered to his feet, and went towards the neatly assembled casks. Yves, meanwhile, having gathered hoc water and clean rags, approached his patient and requested Nanette to provide him with a needle and thread. Her horrified expostulation that he had not washed his hands brought an indignant assertion that he had indeed done so. "This very morning, at the first light!" He thrust out two grubby palms in support of his statement. Nanette shuddered, and bowing, Yves said grandly, "Very well, since tonight we dine in high fashion!" and wandered in search of soap.
Nanette's smile was rather forlorn and Harry saw her glance down at her dusty and stained gown. "Oh, what a dolt!" he ex-claimed. "There is a parcel in the cart, little one. A small token for Diccon, and something for you."
Her bright eyes came around to him eagerly, and he told her to go and make herself pretty so that they all might celebrate when the surgeon was finished "with this swine."
The half hour that followed was not destined to rate among the high points of Harry's life Concealing his apprehension admirably. Mitchell sat close at hand, keeping the patient's cup well filled with cognac, and at the first stitch of the needle, he launched hastily into the explanation his brother had demanded. It was, he pointed out, all Harry's fault, for had he not from the outset sought to deceive, none of it would have happened. Harry's attempt to protest was foiled by a need to grit his teeth, and suppressing a shudder, Mitchell said, "I returned to Town to discover you already departed. Crosby Frye—er—confirmed my worst fears about my father… and when I learned Sanguinet owned a chateau in Dinan, I assumed you'd gone tearing over there to see what he could tell you. I followed, naturally, in a gallant attempt to keep you out of trouble, for in view of your predilection for hare-brained escapades… He laughed "No, don't eat me, Harry. I was really quite justified in—
'In…in calling out Sanguinet, and—" Harry's vehemence was again shut off, and he leaned back, lips tight.
Mitchell tendered the cup. "Oh, so you heard about it. It was all so damned nonsensical. When we reached the chateau—did I tell you I took Anderson with me? Poor fellow, I'm afraid we became separated in all the commotion after I shot Sanguinet, but—
"After you …what?" gasped Harry, sitting up again, while Yves also gaped his astonishment.
"Well, I'd not really meant to, you understand," Mitchell explained earnestly. "But when I first went to the chateau the place was crawling with guards and they were so dashed unfriendly. Wouldn't tell me if you was there or not, and looked ready to cut up rough, so I had to leave. I chanced to meet Jacques de Roule of all people, in Dinan, and it turned out he was to be a guest at a masquerade party Sanguinet was hosting that evening. Drink up, old fellow, you look a bit green around the gills… Well, Jacques is a jolly good man, as you know, and to make a long story short, he took me along with him. I'd not told him anything of my father's connection with Sanguinet, of course. " He hesitated and, well aware of his brother's unyielding adherence to the Code of Honour, said with a trace of anxiety. "It was a trifle underhanded, but—had I done so, d'you think he would have invited me?"
"Very likely not," Harry said dryly.
"Precisely. And in view of the attitude of Sanguinet's people, I took the precaution of carrying one of your Mantons in my pocket. Now don't get up in the boughs, for lord's sake!" His boyish grin disarming Harry's indignation, he went on, "It is the most incredible place, Sauvage! They must be so rich as to buy several abbeys! The chateau itself is all gold and crystal and red velvet, and full of art works. And the gardens! The entire hill is divided into separate areas, each landscaped in a given theme so as to—"
"The… devil with—the hill! What happened between you and—"
"All right, all right." Mitchell wrenched his eyes from that horrifying needle. "When we came inside everyone was masked, of course, and I could not discover Sanguinet. Nor anyone I knew, save for…" He paused and said musingly, "One of the ladies, a charming Puritan, seemed to know me. She beckoned at last, and when I went to her, told me she was a widow from Sussex and begged to know where we'd met before. Oh, laugh then, but she would not be convinced and finally teased me into unmasking. I could see that she was truly baffled… Well, at all events, it turned out she did know Sanguinet's costume and pointed him out to me. I think the fellow saw her do so, for he came over at once. He was all affability, but when I revealed my identity, at first denied having met my father, and then made a remark…" He hesitated, not daring to repeat what Sanguinet had said of Colin Redmond. "Er— to which I took exception. You must admit, I am not the least hot at hand, but…"
Beginning to feel sick and exhausted, Harry interposed jerkily, "Did you… slap him?"
"I'd intended to, but—unfortunately… Well, we were in the refreshment room, and I had collected a full plate of delicacies
for my Puritan, and—" Mitchell flushed and said sheepishly, "Jacques held it was frightfully gauche of me, but—I'd quite forgot the plate was in my hand, you see…"
"You would!" grinned Harry. "You never threw the lot in his face?"
Yves had again paused in his efforts as though he couldn't believe his ears, aware of which, Mitchell's flush deepened. "No, no! Well— not all. But—" He scanned Harry's face anxiously. "I fear a few cream puffs did rather… sail off."
"Cawker!" Gleefully picturing Parnell's sneering countenance adorned with cream puffs, Harry laughed, "When did you meet him?"
"Half an hour later. For heaven's sake, Yves! Don't gawk at me— you're not done with your sewing! Yes, Sanguinet called me out at once. Lord, but he was furious. I never saw a man white and shaking with passion, yet so terribly mannerly. Oh—that surprises you, Sauvage? He was, I assure you. His friends urged that we delay until the morrow, but there was no containing him. I had humiliated him in front of his guests, he said (and I fear he was right!). De Charlet, his second, was concerned that the guests might learn of it, but Sanguinet said we could fight in the centre of the maze where none would see us—they've an enormous one in from of the chateau, and there's a clear space in the middle, about twenty feet across. "I'd chosen pistols, of course." He gave a wry smile. "Poor Jacques was sure my last hour had come. It seems Sanguinet's a renowned shot, and I—er…"
"Do not know muzzle from grip," Harry nodded grimly. "Blasted idiot."
"Well, at all events, I was looking around, thinking how beautiful it all was, for it truly was a lovely night. But then I remembered what he'd said." Mitchell's jaw set, and a fierce light Harry had never seen before crept into the long grey eyes. "De Charlet called 'Fire!' just at that moment." He shrugged and then said with his shy grin, "Jacques held it was beginner's luck."
Harry waved away the cup. "And you actually hit him?"
"Just below the left armpit. Horrid mess. But—to give the devil his due, he was dashed decent about it until—" Here, his teeth caught at his lower lip and, eyeing his brother nervously, he finished in a rush, "—until de Charlet lifted him and said, "Sacre bleu! Is it very bad, Guy?"
"Guy . . ?" gasped Harry.
Watching him in an agony of apprehension, Mitchell stammered, "You'll not disown me, will you?"
"You… shot the wrong… man?"
"Deuced awkward, isn't it? Guy was a trifle put about when he realized what had happened."
"I… should imagine… he well might be!" Harry looked at Yves, and Yves stared openmouthed at Mitchell, and they all fell into such a howl of laughter that surgery had to be temporarily suspended.
"Dashed clodpole!" sighed Harry at length, wiping his brimming eyes. "Did you not know there is more than one of the breed? I wonder you got away with your skin!"
Mitchell chuckled but, as a tearful Yves resumed his work, said slowly, "Tell you the truth, Harry, it was a trifle chancy. Oh, not because of Guy; he was a good sportsman. But when he fainted, his men were not very nice. Jacques and I had to run for it and would never have found our way out of the blasted maze had it not been for my lovely Puritan. She followed us and guided us out. Sauvage… ?" He leaned forward anxiously. "Are you all right?"
"Devil… a bit of it," said Harry dazedly. "I wonder Yves's papa has a single swine… left! Continue, Mitch, I beg you. It sustains me. Did no one attempt to stop you?"
"Well, the thing was that the shots brought many of the men rushing to the maze, but luckily they couldn't find their way to the centre. We were stopped once, but fortunately Jacques and I were able to down the fellows and change masks with them before any more came around the corner. We were almost out at last when a shout went up that I had shot Sanguinet. Next, the howl was raised to unmask—if anyone saw a man they didn't know, they were to seize him. I'll admit, I thought we were done for!" He was silent a moment then, his mouth curving to a mischievous grin, said, "Happily—many of Sanguinet's guests were—ah—not well acquainted…"
"Oh! Damn it all . . !" Harry groaned. "How I should love to have seen it!" He laughed unsteadily. "And so, while mayhem raged in the maze, you and Jacques made good your escape. But—how did you meet your free traders?"
Mitchell wiped his brother's wet face and held the cup to his lips once more. "Jacques went one way and I another. I stole a horse in the village, but Sanguinet's men were everywhere, and I could not come to the pension where Andy waited and finally had to make a dash for the coast with four of 'em hot on my heels. When my poor hack could go no further I ran until my legs gave out. The moon was down by then, and on the beach I overheard someone talking. It turned out to be this rascally lot carrying their kegs down to the ship. One of them crept up behind me and was preparing to split my skull when luckily—"
"He spoil our Gaston," Yves put in aggrievedly. "Only Gaston have know the ways on this side of the water. And M. Michel he throw Gaston down and spring his ankle."
"Yes, and they all but shot me out of hand," said Mitchell, "until they found out I am English. So we drove a bargain—they would give me passage and I would be their guide."
Mitchell's efficiency as a guide appeared to be questionable, and he and Yves wrangled good-naturedly over his accomplishments, or the lack of them, for the next several minutes.
Between the potent brandy and his brother's drollery, Harry managed somehow to endure without disgracing himself. He had seldom been more relieved, however, than when Yves pronounced his task completed, waved away their thanks, and returned to the group obsessed by dinner preparations.
With a stifled sigh, Harry leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. To conceal the fact that he was almost as shaken as his brother, Mitchell launched into a vivid discription of the grounds at Chateau Sanguinet until gradually Harry's pallor began to be less frightening. When he was at last well roasted for having made mice feet of his first duel, Mitchell's grin held more of delight than repentance. "I have yet to hear your story, my revered dotard," he countered. "No sooner is my back turned than you vanish, to turn up in a cart driven by two ravishing beauties.!"
Harry chuckled. "My taste is none so bad, eh?"
"Bad! Never in my life have I seen so lovely a sight as The Tawnish! She'll have London by the ears when she comes out! I wonder you did not fall in love with her at first sight!"
"Matter of fact," smiled Harry, "I did, but—" He shoved himself away from the tree, staring incredulously.
The girls were leaving the tent, but it was not upon the angelically fair Nerina that his eyes lingered. Beside her was a lady who was all witchery from the top of her shining head to her little slippers. Her lush young body was enticing yet demure in the white muslin gown. Dark curls framed her piquant face, and the ribbon tied about her head awoke green lights in those brilliant hazel eyes. Her gaze flew to meet his, and her slender fingers touched the silver locket that hung upon the sweet curve of her bosom.
The noisy clamour of the smugglers faded to a hushed silence, through which Mitchell breathed an awed, "By… Jove!"
"Devil take it!" Harry thought. "My shrew is beautiful!" Her beauty lacked Nerina's fragile perfection; her gaze was more honest and direct; her mouth wider than Nerina's softly petulant rosebud lips, yet holding a sweet curve, withal; and the chin—that indomitable little chin… Why had he not seen how adorable she was? A flood of yearning swept him; he knew an irresistible need to take her into his arms and hold her… to tell her what was suddenly, breathtakingly in his heart. His past infatuations vanished and were gone forever, and in that moment he knew with total sureness that his tender, volatile, courageous little shrew had filled his life from the moment she entered it. And God willing, would fill it until the day he died.
Somehow he was on his feet and starting forward. But another was before him. Mitchell was bowing low and saying with a revoltingly charming smile, "Who is this, my lady? Introduce us, I beg of you."
Nerina muttered something, and Nanette laughed up into the young man's handsome
face. Harry stood rigid, his breath held in check. Nerina wandered to him and, looking at the two who stood in quiet converse, sighed, "What a pretty couple they make. Truly, your brother is a gentleman of most insinuating address, Sir Harry."
Mitchell? The girl had maggots in her attic, that's what it was! Insinuating address? His absent-minded schoolboy of a brother?
Nanette came to him then, her eyes scanning him anxiously. He looked very tired, she thought, but his colour was improved and when he cheerfully assured her he felt much better, she was vastly relieved. She laughed when he peered around the clearing and said he could not think what had become of the little shrew he'd been escorting to Devonshire. "Alas," she said gaily, "she is as shrewish as ever despite her new finery, but—Oh, Harry, the dress is perfect and I love my locket! Thank you!"
He managed to respond appropriately. But in his mind's eye was the dusty ribbon of the lane that afternoon, and Mr. Fox plodding along it, while Nanette said, "… it sounds as if you've never met the right one." To which, like a total knock-in-the-cradle, he had replied, "… and if I do, I'll probably be too stupid to realize it in time and she'll be snatched from under my nose by someone else…"
Dinner was a memorable feast. The brisk air whetted appetites and the fire painted its dancing light upon faces aglow with good fellowship. Henri had wrought a magnificent repast of roasted chickens, crusty hot loaves spread with butter and sprinkled with cheese, and to wash it down, a hearty ale.
Nanette was a faerie creature that night, sparkling with gaiety and seeming to draw an answering happiness from all about her. Harry's attempt to sit beside her was thwarted when Mitchell slipped into that favoured position and Yves occupied the space to her left. Betraying no trace of the hot flare of his irritation, he turned his attentions towards Lady Nerina. Even the nervous Beauty could not but be charmed by the adulation of the men who surrounded her, and having been promised she would be taken home as soon as they had eaten, she cast off her fears and entered into the conversation willingly, if somewhat inanely.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 19