Mitchell's initial suggestion was chat they at once proceed to Chichester, and Nanette enthusiastically endorsed such a course of action. Harry, however, pointed out that neither Daniel nor Andy had as yet returned from the tavern.
"Andy?" said Mitchell in astonishment. "But—he's at Cancrizans."
"He was. He found us and left here only moments before you arrived, seeking you. And Daniel went after you earlier. Did you meet neither?"
A flush burned Mitchell's cheeks and he admitted shamefacedly that he had "sort of wandered off" with his emigre and forgotten the tavern entirely.
"No matter," Harry nodded. "They'll be back directly, I daresay. Meanwhile, may we beg that you tell us your story, ma'am?"
"Very politely, Sir Harry?" Nanette twinkled, praying for an answering smile.
He bowed. "Very politely—Miss Carlson, or may I say Miss Annabelle?"
"My name is Annabelle," she said, her hopes fading as she met his grave regard. "But Mama preferred the French version— Nanette."
"I see. And when you told me that Parnell Sanguinet sought to force you into a marriage for money, you meant for your money, n'est-ce pas?"
She nodded, her small hands gripped tightly together because this cool, judicial air was frightening her. "That was one of the reasons, at least."
"And you believe your brother was killed because he sought to prevent your marriage to Guy?"
"Yes." Her eyes darted from one to the other of them. "Always, I feared it might happen, for my stepfather has a—a way of dealing with those who oppose him."
Mitchell frowned, and Harry said slowly, "I'd think he would have kept you in France and not allowed you to attend the Seminary, did he intend to wed you to his brother."
"I doubt he so much as thought of me then. He despises children and stayed away from us for years after Mama's death. Which was as well because Frederick loathed him—and as for his brother, Claude . . !" She shuddered. "I used to dread lest my brother would say something—or even look, merely. Frederick had such a way with his eyes." Her own became sad and nostalgic, and for a moment she was silent, then went on, "My aunt Amelia in Devonshire had loved Mama dearly and wrote to ask that I be sent to the same Convent school she had attended. Frederick was at Eton by that time, and I missed him terribly and was wild to come. Papa's man of business agreed; so I came, and we were able to see one another occasionally, until he bought a pair of colours."
"He did?" Harry interjected shrewdly.
"Well, Papa bought them for him. It was one of the few times he had ever agreed to anything Frederick asked. We were, in fact, surprised."
Harry was not in the least surprised and, glancing up, saw in Mitchell's grim expression an echo of his own conclusion. "Nan— er, Miss Carlson," he said quietly, "forgive me, but—your mama was a lady of vast wealth, I understand. Did her fortune pass to her husband—or to her son?"
"To Frederick. And then, if he left no heirs, to me. But Parnell Sanguinet was far more wealthy than Mama. I don't think he married her for her fortune but because she was very lovely and much sought after and admired."
"When I was at the chateau," Mitchell interposed thoughtfully, "I gained an impression of great wealth. They look to be living as high as coachhorses. Do you believe the fortunes of the Sanguinets have been depleted by such extravagances, Miss Nanette?"
"I don't know. Something happened." She shrugged expressively. "I heard that Claude—he is the eldest brother—had some disastrous financial ventures. And I knew his political connivings were terribly costly, for he was always into this or that intrigue. Also, he bought a huge old manor house on one of the Scottish islands and poured money into it, though I did not know of that until recently."
Mitchell's fine brows lifted. 'That's odd. What on earth would a French aristocrat want with a Scottish manor house?"
"Does Claude control the family coffers, then?" asked Harry, impatient with this digression.
"Yes. I have very seldom met him, thank heaven, for he is most horrid. I heard him once talking to Guy. He spoke so softly, and laughed many times; but Guy was white as death, and me—I was purely terrified!"
She looked as if even the memory frightened her, and Harry at once changed the subject. "Did you have a come-out? I don't seem to recall hearing of it."
"I was to be presented and have a London Season when I turned seventeen. I was—oh, so excited, and Frederick enormously proud of me. But then…" The animation faded from her vivid face, and she shook her head. "Papa came."
And Parnell, thought Harry, found that the child he'd virtually abandoned had blossomed into a beautiful girl. A girl undoubtedly judged the finest prize in the matrimonial sweepstakes. Frowning, he said, "I wonder you didn't accept an offer before he began to interfere. Girls marry at sixteen, often."
"Well, I was at the Seminary, you see—or with Aunt Amelia, who is very strict. Still—there was one boy of whom I became quite fond. Aunt Amelia approved, but—Papa would have none of him. He told me it—it was the gold that put the shine into his eyes. Not love for me."
Harry swore under his breath, and Mitchell uttered a scornful, "What fustian! I'll wager the poor fellow was scared off, if the truth be told!"
"No, Mr. Redmond," Nanette contradicted in a sad, small voice. "He was bought off. Papa paid him quite a large sum to—remove his attentions. And then boasted to me of it."
She kept her eyes lowered, but Harry sensed how much that piece of deviltry had hurt her, and his right hand clenched tight.
"Good God!" Mitchell ejaculated. "Surely your brother could have done something?"
"When he came home from Spain and learned what was going on, he was enraged. He went roaring into Papa's study." Her eyes looked back into the past and she said softly, "I heard Papa tell him I would marry Guy. Frederick became even angrier, and Papa played with him… laughed at him… mocked him, in his cruel, clever way. When it was over at last, Frederick came up to my room. I expected him to be in a passion, but instead he seemed almost elated. He said that I was not to worry any more, because at last he had found a way to put a spoke in the wheel of M. Diabolique."
Harry asked intently, "What did he mean?"
"Would that he told me. I suppose it was some scheme to prevent my marrying Guy. He went out, in a great hurry…" Her voice cracked a little. "He was killed—that very night." She blinked up at Harry and said beseechingly, "Can you wonder I suspect my papa? But—I have no proof! Nothing! And—no one will listen."
The brothers glanced grimly at one another. Mitchell said with indignation, "I would have thought one of your many admirers would—" but his words faded before the stricken look that flashed across her face.
"While I was in mourning," she said, "there could be no thought of marriage, of course. When I came home, Papa saw to it that only the—what Frederick used to call the 'raff and chaff were allowed near me. He knew that I'd have none of them. I became the target for every fortune hunter, military rattle, and libertine at large…" Mitchell darted a startled glance at his brother, but Harry's face remained expressionless. "A naval officer I'd met abroad persisted in courting me," Nanette went on. "Papa disliked him intensely. I knew… I knew how dangerous it was… but—I was so lonely, and afraid… I told him all I suspected." She drew a hand across her eyes. "He was shot to death one night. By a highwayman—or so they said."
"Jupiter!" gasped Mitchell. "Parnell turned to the High Toby!"
"Or bought the services of such!" Pale with anger, Harry exploded, "God! It defies belief!"
"The Sanguinets are all-powerful," Nanette sighed. "Papa can be very charming and persuasive, when he wishes. If people began to question, he told them that I was 'very ill'—that grief had caused my intellect to become disordered. It was hopeless. And so at last I refused all gentlemen callers and went about only with my school friends, or Guy. Papa was out of the country for much of the time, and although I was not allowed to live with my aunt any more, gradually, I began to be happy again. He had�
� given me a little rope, I suppose. But last month he came back. And very soon I—I saw how… he looked at me…"
Enraged by her sorrow, yearning to comfort her, and loathing the man who had so victimized her, Harry grated, "And so you ran away."
She nodded. "I ran to Sister Maria Evangeline. She is a good, brave woman. But Papa's men found me, and I knew that if they took me back, he would never again let me out of his sight. I was half out of my wits with fear. And then Sister Maria Evangeline herself took me to Diccon—not the clergyman, as I told you, Harry—because she knew him and said he could be trusted to escort me to my aunt. I put on my maid's dress and tried to make myself look so that no one would recognize me. I know it was—a dreadful thing to do, but—I was so desperate, I was beyond caring." She paused, then finished in a scratchy, pleading little voice, '"It really was . . . quite dreadful…"
Again the eyes of the brothers met in a mutual rage; then Mitchell said frowningly, "But—if Guy becomes your husband, be will have control of your fortune. From what I saw of him, I'd not judge him a weakling. Parnell would likely get short shrift."
"Guy loves me," Nanette acknowledged. "But—Claude and Parnell have some hold over him—I do not know what. Only that he fears them."
"Even so," Harry argued, "if he really loves you I very much doubt he would allow Parnell to steal your fortune."
Nanette stared down at her hands and muttered, "My fortune… My misfortune, rather. I hate it, for the grief it has brought upon me and those I love."
"Yet would find life bitter, indeed, without it," Harry thought cynically, and asked, "Does Guy know—that his brother, er, desires you?"
"No! This is what I so dread, for he is, as Mr. Redmond discovered, an honourable man. If Papa so much as laid a hand on me, and Guy learned of it… Dear God! I know what he would do. And—one way or another, he would be killed. I could not—I just could not… bear…" Her voice broke and she turned away, her lips trembling.
Stunned by such shocking revelations, Mitchell lifted incredulous eyes to his brother and caught his breath. The look was there now—the same tender, worshipful adoration he had glimpsed in the eyes of St. Clair and Camille Damon. His horrified comments were forgotten and he watched in breathless silence, feeling that he intruded upon something both private and sacred, yet not daring to destroy the spell by moving away.
Harry was oblivious to all but the grief of the girl he loved. The nightmare she had lived through would, he knew, have reduced most gently bred ladies to total, terrified submission. But Nanette had not submitted. God love her valiant soul, she'd fought as bravely as she knew how! A dozen impressions of her flashed through his mind. He could see her railing at him, laughing at him, ministering to his hurts, caressing Mr. Fox, wielding that ridiculous oar, singing her husky little songs by the campfire… A lump rose in his throat and his eyes misted. How indomitable she was—how warm and sweet, and unutterably beloved. And—how rich. One of the richest ladies in Europe, while he was just another 'military rattle'… another fortune hunter. He fought despair away and his jaw tightened. Whatever else, he could serve her. He could protect her from that evil, twisted man. And somehow ensure that she find happiness.
"Little shrew," he said huskily, having quite forgotten the presence of his awed brother. "I swear to you—upon my honour—that so long as I live Parnell Sanguinet will not lay a hand on you!"
Sergeant Anderson returned from the tavern alone, Daniel having left a note with the proprietor explaining that he had been summoned to join Diccon but that he and the Trader would likely come up with them in Chichester, and to look for them at the Market Cross at three o'clock. The Sergeant greeted Mitchell with scowls and scolding, while his eyes betrayed the joy his words denied. He had purchased bread, cold ham, a fragrant and still-warm apple pie, ale for the men, and a mug of lemonade for Miss Nanette. He was the hero of the hour and, having happily satisfied the pangs of hunger, they journeyed on in great good fellowship.
They reached Chichester in mid-afternoon. Taking no chances, Harry gave the quaint old town a wide berth, skirting the environs until they came upon a pleasant glade some way off the road and hidden from it by a large clump of poplars. They all agreed it was a perfect campsite, whereupon Mitchell went into the town armed with a firm resolve not to be diverted, a list of necessary supplies, and instructions to locate Diccon and return as quickly as possible.
Very aware that a certain anxious gaze was fixed upon him, Harry proceeded to become very busy indeed. The moment Nanette had been assisted with the unloading of her various boxes of 'vital necessities,' however, Anderson, while ostensibly helping Harry locate the most suitable spot on which to erect the tent, growled a soft, "I'm coming with yer!"
"The devil you are!" flashed Harry, but just as softly, and with a weather eye on the girl. "My brother would do splendidly alone here under normal circumstances, but he's not ready to take on Parnell Sanguinet!"
"No, and not likely to, hidden away in the wilderness." Anderson gave a derisive snort. "Anyone has to face Monsewer Diabolock this arternoon, I don't reckon as how it'll be Mr. Mitchell. And well you knows it, Captain."
"Well, you just bear in mind, my lad, that I'm the Captain and you're the Sergeant!" grinned Harry. "Which has nothing to say to the purpose, since we're both of us civilians at the moment." No answering smile lit the craggy features, and clapping a hand upon Anderson's shoulder, he said, "Was there ever such a worrier? I wonder you've not succumbed to an irritation of the nerves long since—you're worse than a little old lady with your fidgets! Come now and help me free Mr. Fox from his poles."
Within the hour, Mitchell rode in. He had accomplished his shopping and strolled about town for a while, then rested in the Market Cross and watched the various comings and goings without catching sight of either Diccon or Daniel. Harry was disturbed by this intelligence. He would have welcomed the presence of at least one of the men, for he could then in good conscience have allowed his brother to accompany him to Howard Hall. His every instinct urged him to remain with Nanette himself; but one of them must see Cootesby, and if there should be trouble at the campsite, he, with his injured arm, would be the least effective. Besides, despite his scholastic abilities, Mitchell was still inclined to be shy and awkward when faced with polished, worldly men. If Cootesby was the conniving and treacherous scoundrel Harry suspected, the boy would be no match for him.
Troubled, he tucked his hand in Mitchell's arm, and they wandered to the edge of the glade together. For a moment they gazed in silence at the tree-clad slope beyond; then Harry said a grave, "I'm sorry, Mitch."
A look almost of relief sprang into the grey eyes. "Yes. I am, too."
"The thing is—we cannot both go, can we?"
"Certainly not." Mitchell put out his hand and, with a trace of shyness, said, "No more military actions, if you please, gaffer."
Gripping that hand hard, Harry's eyes were very serious for a moment, then he grinned. "Look to your own command, bantling!"
Anderson had the sorrel gelding saddled and ready. Harry swung easily astride the animal and leaned to take the small hand Nanette reached up to him and assure her he would be back well before dusk. He started off with Mitchell's cheery, "Don't be late for dinner!" ringing in his ears. "Keep yer eyes open, Captain!" exhorted the Sergeant glumly. "Do be careful! Oh, do be careful!" called Nanette, and even Mr. Fox sent a vaguely anxious bray after him.
Clad in his ill-assorted garments and worn shoes, Harry rode out feeling as though he wore chain mail and carried not Diccon's baton but a lance of shining steel.
Chapter XIV
Howard Hall, the country seat of Lord Howard Cootesby and the home that most often saw him in residence, was situated a mile or so west of the town. It was a tall, narrow house of red brick and nondescript design, perched on a hill that rose like the dome of a bald head from an encircling band of woodland. It was towards these trees that Harry now rode, his thoughts upon the people he had left behind. Usually,
the more hazardous the endeavour the higher the quivering sense of excitement that would grip him, his reaction to any challenge invariably one of eagerness to confront the unknown, to test his own mettle to the fullest. Today he felt tense and plagued by apprehension. Perhaps, even with Andy and Mitchell to guard her, Nanette was in jeopardy… And surely, even to entertain such thoughts was disloyal; the Sergeant was magnificent in a scrap, and Mitchell had certainly proven himself to possess both nerve and stamina.
He shook off his gloomy forebodings and urged his hack to a faster gait, but almost immediately slowed again. A short distance into the woods, a man lay stretched out, shoulders propped against a tree. He was clad in sombre black, but mindful of his encounter with Devil Dice in just such a spot, Harry's fingers closed around the baton in his pocket. Gargantuan snores were emanating from the sleeper. Amused, he prepared to ride on, wondering that the nearby trees did not sway. He knew of only one other gentleman capable of such powerful resonance. Old Maude, it would seem, had a rival. Unless . . ? He dismounted and stepped closer. It couldn't be! The shape was sufficiently pear-like to be that of his uncle, but— By gad! It was! Now why on earth was the Reverend Mordecai Langridge napping in Lord Howard Cootseby's Home Wood?
"Langridge!" quoth Harry sepulchrally, about a foot from the sleeper's ear.
The Reverend burst into a frenzy of convulsed movement. His arms flew out, he uttered a yelp, and, scrambling to his feet, peered about in bemused dismay, gasping, "Yes, my love . . ?"
Harry gave a crack of laughter. Langridge stared his disbelief, then came to grip his nephew's hand delightedly. "We were correct, then! I am so glad… to… His smile died into stark shock. "Good gracious me! Poor lad! What ghastly—er—attire! And— what's this? Blood stains? Have you fought Sanguinet? Is he dead then? They are an evil clan, my boy, and will enact full vengeance, I fear!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 23