Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  Harry touched the funny little bun on top of that so-precious head and breathed, "You are sadly… unchaperoned. ma'am."

  She raised her head slowly, her eyes meeting his with the sweet shyness that whispered to him of a promise he must not acknowledge. "Yes. Harry."

  "And… all alone." he sighed.

  "Yes—Harry."

  Surely one little kiss would not be so very improper . . ? But conscience said sternly that it would be most ungallant. wherefore he muttered, "I must not—take advantage of you, little one."

  "No… Harry," she whispered, her voice incredibly caressing.

  "I… will not," he vowed taking her by the arms.

  "Nor I… Harry," she breathed, lifting her face for his kiss.

  He bent toward her.

  "Sir Harry! Sir Harry!"

  The familiar bellow blasted that enchanted silence. Nanette jerked under his hands, her languorous eyes opening wide.

  Astounded. Harry released her and swung around. "Anderson!"

  Chapter XIII

  The Sergeant was toiling breathlessly up the slope, a gig drawn by a grey mare standing in the lane below him. He thrust out his hand and, as Harry ran down to take and wring it gladly, gasped out, "Oh, sir! How… how glad I is to see yer!" Puffing hard, his gaze slipped to where Nanette had returned to the table and in some confusion was toying with the flowers. Amazement and dismay chased one another across his rugged features, but he said nothing.

  "How in the devil did you find me?" Harry demanded. "I thought you had gone to Cancrizans Priory. Did you receive my letter?"

  "No, sir. I did go to Cancrizans but you wasn't there; and Lord Bolster was fair aside of hisself, thinking as—Cap'n . . ?" he scanned Harry's face anxiously. "You all right? You look a bit pulled."

  "A small accident. Nothing much. Is the Marquis at the Priory?"

  "No. And it don't look like 'nothing' to me," muttered the Sergeant uneasily. "Lord Damon got it into his head you'd up and gone to Monsewer Sanguinet's house in Kent, so he drove off yestiday like the devil was behind him."

  Well aware of Camille Damon's driving habits, Harry chuckled. "Good old Cam! Did Lord Bolster go with him?"

  "No, sir. I think be went to the Grange to see if you was there. And I went to Beechmead Hall, thinking you might've got there by now, or gone to Lord Moulton's house. But I'm very glad—that is— I…" The honest eyes lowered. He snatched off his old beaver and began to turn it, staring down at it wretchedly. "I don't hardly know how to—to tell yer. You knows, Captain, as I'd give all I got not to cause you no grief."

  "Of course I do. But never grieve, man. If this is about my—"

  Shoulders squared, the Sergeant drew himself to attention. "Let you down, sir. Proper. I ain't never forgive Mr. Mitchell fer—fer that there spill you took in '13." A bleak look frosted Harry's eyes and his chin lifted slightly. The Sergeant's heart fell, but he went on doggedly, "I allus held that no man could get so lost in a book he didn't rightly know what was going on about him. But…" anguish crept into the dark eyes. "I done it, S'Harry! I let yer brother go orf with a pistol in his pocket! One o'your Mantons as he'd told me just the day afore he didn't plan to pull the trigger of. Pull the trigger, sir! And that there duelling pistol with the finest hair-trigger you don't hardly have to breathe on! It was a bloody miracle he didn't get hisself killed calling out that Sanguinet! The poor Count de Roule said as he done right well, but just the—"

  "You've seen de Roule?" Harry interposed eagerly. "He was not treated roughly, I hope?"

  Puzzled by the Captain's lack of concern for his brother, Anderson answered, "Matter of fact, he was knocked about a bit, but— tough as nails, that'n! Even if he is a Frog. No—it's Mr. Mitchell, Captain! Lor'—what a dance he led me! What with milling kens, and hanging from winder sills by his finger nails—"

  "Mitchell?" Harry ejaculated. "Oh, come now, Andy! My brother a housebreaker—a prig? That's doing it up rather too brown!"

  "True as I stand here! I tell you, Captain, we'd the Runners after us in Town, and the Watch in Hampstead; and then he drug me onto a perishing ship, what was pure horrid, and me so sick as a dog! But—I got to admit it, S'Harry. He's a plucked 'un! And I was as wrong about him as ever I could be. But—Gawd knows where he is now or… what's happened!" And his voice broke.

  Overcoming his amazement at this further revelation of his brother's wicked antics, Harry clapped him on the back. "Never worry so, you old war horse! He was here with me only a minute ago, and looking amazingly well, moreover!"

  "W-With… you . . . sir?" The downcast head shot up, hope brightening those remorseful eyes. "Does ye really mean it? Mr. Mitchell's safe? Not hurt, nor nothing? He's—home?"

  "And up to his old tricks," smiled Harry. "He's supposed to be fetching our luncheon but has completely forgotten us, I have no doubt."

  "Thank… Gawd!" Anderson gulped. "Oh, sir, you don't know how I blamed meself! It was all on account o' that there book! Mr. Michell got me interested in it on the packet, and I brung it with me. I got so wrapped up in the tale I coudn't hardly set it down. That night your brother went orf with the Count, I didn't even look up when he came back fer the pistol. I couldn't forgive meself when I realized what he'd took, and me doing nothing to stay him! The very thing, sir—the very thing what I'd held agin him!" He beamed mistily. "Might say as how I got taught a lesson, eh, sir?"

  "I'd say you obviously benefitted from it, for I think it splendid that my brother interested you in books." Recalling the implication in Mitchell's letter, he added curiously, "By the bye—which one are you reading?"

  "It's called The Mysteries of Udolpbo." said Anderson cheerily, "and it's all about this poor young woman what—"

  "Mysteries of Udolpbo . . ?" Harry gazed upon this old soldier, upon the craggy features, the broad shoulders, fierce mien, and upright carriage that not even the loss of his leg had been able to change. "The—the one by—Mrs. Radcliffe . . ?"

  "S'right, sir. You might think it's just fer the ladies, but never you believe it! Reg'lar exciting, it is! Scary castles, and open graves, and—"

  "By… thunder!" blinked Harry, struggling manfully to overmaster his mirth. "Forgive me. Sergeant. I forget my manners. I'm escorting a lady to Devonshire and must make you known to her."

  Anderson darted a stern glance at Nanette. "Oh, I know her, sir. Spotted her right orf." He hesitated briefly and, his long years of service giving him the right, scolded, "I'd've thought as how you'd got enough trouble, Captain. The whole countryside's a'looking fer that lady! If you're caught with her—well, I hopes you know what you're about, and that's a fact!"

  Harry grinned and, with one hand loosely clasped on his shoulder, led Anderson toward Nanette. "What a worrier! I'm hopeful of getting her to Devon unrecognized. Otherwise, I fear her reputation will be—somewhat tarnished."

  "And your neck somewhat stretched, sir!" nodded the Sergeant grimly. "A great lady like her—and all the rewards as is posted! Lor'! Awful chancy!"

  A terrible apprehension gripping him, Harry interrupted in a strained voice, "Great . . . lady . . ?"

  "Well, I know she ain't got no title, but still—S'Harry, if Miss Carlson's father chances ter come up wi' you . . ! Cor luvvus!"

  Harry all but staggered. A roaring in his ears drowned Anderson's stern warning. Miss Carlson? His beloved little shrew? It could not be! It must not be! Yet in that crushing moment he knew somehow that it was. That his poor, terrified waif, the persecuted girl whose 'wicked stepfather' had demanded she "marry for money" was in fact one of the wealthiest heiresses in all Europe! And worse—the tender, fiery, warm, and wonderful little lady to whom he had given his heart was the same fiendish madwoman who had dared suspect his beloved father of complicity in a murder."

  "S'Harry . ?" Anderson was peering at him anxiously. "It I said summit as I shouldn't've . . ?"

  Harry somehow managed to reassure him, and when Anderson persisted that he looked "like a shirt what's been run through th
e mangle," he barked a laugh, said that he was starving merely, and sent the Sergeant hurrying back to the gig to join the search for Mitchell.

  Nanette was adding some greenery to the flowers. She glanced up as Harry approached and asked lightly. "Who was—" One hand flew to her throat. "W-What is it? Why—do you look at me… so?"

  He advanced to seize her arms in a merciless grip—so different from the way he had held her only moments before. "And—why," he grated, "why did you lie to me? Miss Annabelle Carlson."

  Her face became as white as his own. Briefly silent, she recovered to quaver, "L-Iisten. I beg of you to—"

  "To listen to more lies? More nonsense about 'wicked stepfathers' and lecherous uncles? You deceived me from the first! Why?"

  "Y-You… l-lied, too. You's-said you were Harry Allison."

  "Only because I'd no wish to advertise that I was quite in Dun territory! Now let us have your excuse, madam!" The scorn in his voice flailed her, and when she did not reply, he shook her savagely and demanded. "Why did you hold men to be worthless animals? Because they dared court the lovely heiress?"

  She struggled vainly to break free. "I was beseiged! Some pursued me honestly, for myself But most of my devoted suitors scarcely saw me for the lure of gold that dazzled them!"

  Releasing her. Harry's lips curved to a pale, humorless grin. "So that is why you grimaced and acted the idiot. To escape the fortune hunters."

  "Yes. Partly But—"

  "And you dared believe that of me?" he thundered. "You thought I stayed with Diccon purely to get my greedy hands on your damnable money?"

  "Harry! I did not—know you." she choked out pantingly. "When you first came. I thought perhaps—"

  "What did you think? Oh, but this is rich! For the love of God! Did you imagine I arranged to be beaten so as to win your sympathy? Did you? Of course you did not! Now, let us have some plain speaking for once! You knew very well I'd no notion who you were and that I believed your lies about your mercenary sire."

  "But—I really was—"

  "You knew," he overrode harshly, "how desperately I wished to speak with Annabelle Carlson, yet you chose to keep silent and mock me with your grimaces and contortions! I'll own you played your part well, ma'am! You should've trod the boards, by God! How you ferreted and dug and wheedled information out of me! 'Tell me about your dear papa, Harry! Tell me about Moire. I love to hear of your happy times . . !' Faugh! What trickery and deceit!"

  Reaching out her hands to him, Nanette half sobbed, "Can you not understand? I was alone and utterly desperate. I had run away in defiance of all… convention. Risking my good name—my future. At first, I sought only to—"

  "To discover what manner of savage I was? What the devil did you take me for? When had you to fight off my unwelcome advances? When did I behave dishonourably towards you? Did I once hold you against your will, and—and kiss you?"' Longing even now to kiss away her tears, racked by despair, he raged, "Did I?"

  "Please—please," she begged. "Let me explain!"

  "Oh, you will explain, ma'am!" He took her by the shoulders again, grating, "By thunder, but you'll explain! You shall tell me why you hounded my gentle father with your nonsense! Why you'd the consummate gall to accuse him of—"

  Vaguely, he had been aware of the distant drum of hoofbeats. Now, Mitchell rode up, flung himself from the saddle and ran to tug at Harry's gripping hands. "You're hurting her! Are you run mad? Let her go!"

  His face murderous with rage and pain, Harry whirled on him. "Where in the devil have you been?"

  In all his life his brother had never employed such a tone toward him, and glancing from Nanette's tears to Harry's ashen-faced despair, Mitchell stammered, "I'm… sorry. I-I met a French emigre, and we fell to talking about the Revolution. I'm afraid I simply forgot—about our lunch."

  "Oh, to hell with our lunch!"

  Mitchell's eyes took on a look of shock, and Nanette's head lowered. Harry spun away, battling for control, and looked blindly out across the Downs, at the morning that had been so beautiful and was now bleak and empty. The ache in his head seemed to join with that in his arm; but the ache in his heart was deeper yet, the more savage because even whilst he had loved her with such reverence, knowing at last what real love meant, she had believed him to be a scheming fortune hunter. With a dull sense of bewilderment he knew that in just these few seconds his every dream for the future had been wiped away, with no hope of retrieval. His path was clear, however, and must be followed with some semblance of dignity. He took a deep breath, pulled himself together, and turned back to say with frigid politeness, "I do apologize, ma'am. I was behaving like a boor. But whatever else, you are a woman. Alone."

  Aghast, Mitchell caught at his sleeve. "Harry! Do not talk to her like that! You're ill, old fellow. Your arm—"

  Harry wrenched free. "And you are late, Mitch. But—allow me to present you to—" He bowed with mocking grace. "Miss Annabelle Carlson."

  Speechless, Mitchell stared at her.

  "Do not," Nanette whimpered. "Ah, do not—look at me like that.'"

  "Forgive us, Miss Carlson," said Harry. "We loved our father, you see. And he is dead. So we must ask you a question or two. Very politely."

  Nanette flinched to that cold tone, and Mitchell frowned and set out the stool for her.

  She went instead to stand beside the table and faced them with hands folded as though she were on trial. "I loved my brother also, gentlemen. He was all—I had left. The gentlest, most warm-hearted boy…" Tears hung on her lashes. She brushed them away impatiently and, her little chin high, said in an only slightly quivering voice, "During his last leave, your father saw him foully murdered. And would say nothing. I implored him to speak, but he insisted I was mistaken. And so that evil man went free!"

  "If my father said he saw nothing—Miss Carlson," said Harry softly, "then be assured—he saw nothing."

  "I can be assured of one thing," she flashed with a return of her old fire, "that your father lied to protect his friend."

  "By Jupiter!" frowned Mitchell. "Forgive me, but—that is not so!"

  Harry's eyes were a narrow glitter in his white face. He lifted a restraining hand. "The lady will, I am certain, have an explanation for so vicious a statement."

  Nanette flushed and began to speak with slow reluctance. "I became very ill after the Enquiry into my brother's death. My stepfather sent me to a cousin in Buenos Aires, and I remained there for over a year. When I returned, my friends, thinking to protect me, spoke of anything buy my bereavement. I was unaware of your papa's death until quite recently, when I discovered how totally he had deceived me."

  A stiffled exclamation escaped Mitchell at this; but Harry, his cold gaze fixed on Nanette, made no comment.

  "The night Frederick was killed," she went on, "there was a full moon. Sir Colin admitted at the Enquiry that the murder vehicle passed his own so closely that the wheels almost scraped. He was, in fact, incensed and leaned from the window to berate the other driver. Yet he denied having seen the crest on the door panel—a crest I know was there! I taxed him with the lie!" Ignoring Harry's sharply downdrawn brows, she hurried on, "I told him that I knew who had murdered my brother—and why. He pretended to pity me and said he had never met the man and that the other carriage had, in fact, been quite empty! Such wicked untruths!"

  His fist clenched, Harry said, "If you really believed that, ma'am, why did you not testify yourself? It would certainly have been allowed."

  "I begged to do so! But my solicitor would not hear of it. I would be disgraced, he said, and judged mad." She tossed her head angrily. "Much I cared. He was just afraid—as everyone is afraid!"

  "Afraid?" sneered Harry. "Of whom?"

  "Why—my papa, of course."

  Mitchell's jaw dropped and he gaped at her.

  Harry murmured cynically, "Oh, you've not heard the half of it, Mitch. Miss Carlson's papa, having murdered her brother, is so depraved as to wish her to marry his!"

 
"His… brother?" echoed Mitchell. "Her own uncle?"

  Nanette's lower lip began to thrust outward and her eyes to spark.

  Harry nodded. "For—money." And the corners of his mouth lifted into an unpleasant smile.

  "Your brother. Mr. Redmond," said Nanette stormily, "has the very fine sense of humour, no? He finds it droll that a helpless girl is bullied into wedding someone against her will; that her adored brother was murdered—cut off at the beginning of a so promising life! That her stepfather, urging his brother to wed her, looks at her himself with eyes that… that…" And she stopped, bit her lip, and shook her head as if refusing a thought too horrible for contemplation.

  The mockery vanished from Harry's face. He stepped closer to her and breathed an aghast, "Little one—what are you implying?"

  "That . . " she looked up at him with pathetic entreaty, "that— heaven help me! I think he—desires me… himself!"

  "Now—by God!" whispered Harry.

  "It cannot be so!" Mitchell cried. "You do not describe a human being, Miss Carlson, but a—a veritable monster!"

  "I describe a handsome and distinguished gentleman," she said, her sorrowful gaze still upon Harry. "The man your papa insisted he had never met—who was not his friend. Whom he, in fact, disliked, if only by repute. And yet whose hospitality he enjoyed— knowing I had named him my brother's murderer! I describe my illustrious stepfather—M. Parnell Sanguinet!"

  "To justice!" said Harry with taut intensity. The three tin cups clanked together. "To justice!" echoed his companions, and the toast having been drunk, they all sat down; Mitchell, cross-legged upon the blanket; Nanette on the stool; and Harry perched against the table, close enough to catch the fragrance of her, yet not quite touching her.

  The wild jubilation that had followed her disclosure had both delighted and astounded Nanette, for when her true identity had been revealed she had supposed them also to be aware she was Sanguinet's stepdaughter. There was no questioning her story now. Elated because at last they had a clue to the mystery surrounding their father's death, the brothers had whooped and embraced and pounded at one another before apologizing most humbly for having doubted her. Mitchell's face had been alight and open as he bowed to her. Harry's had contained an element of reserve, and if she trembled at what that reserve might imply, she was too relieved to dwell on it. For the time being it was sufficient that they believed her.