He smiled humorlessly, and spurred harder. If his intuition proved correct, his enemy might have dealt him a better hand than he knew. Moire Grange was an old house, with a priest's hole and secret escape route dating back to the days of Henry VIII. It should be a simple matter to get into the Home Wood, and from there to the butler's cottage, the larder of which contained the entrance to a tunnel that led directly to the pantry of the Grange…
His thoughts and the blackness of the night were disrupted by a flash of lightning. The mare jibed and neighed her fear. She was an unlovely creature with a hammer head and a jolting gait that caused Harry's arm to throb ever more wearyingly so that he thought with longing of his so-missed Lace and her sweetly smooth and untiring gallop. The hack had bottom, at least, for he'd set a wickedly dangerous pace through the storm, drawing heavily on his knowledge of the road. He'd no sooner had the thought than the mare shied. A carriage was halted at the branching of the road ahead, the guard holding his lantern so as to read the signpost which informed the traveller that Horsham lay ten miles to the northeast, and Haslemere ten miles northwest.
A shout from the carriage was followed by a small scream. The lantern drew a blue gleam from the musket the coachman levelled at Harry. He reined in at once, holding up his right hand, and shouted over the clamour of the wind an offer to be of assistance. Apparently reassured by his cultured accents, the coachman howled, "How's the road to Horsham, sir?" to which Harry replied, "Awful, I don't doubt. Take it slowly or you'll lose a wheel at the least."
A feminine voice called, "Sir! Pray come here!" and he walked the mare to the carriage, narrowing his eyes against a flurry of wind-driven rain. "Oh, sir," the voice was pleasant and sounded to be that of a mature lady in some perturbation of mind. "Are we safe upon this road? I've heard Devil Dice preys upon those who journey hereabouts." She leaned to the open window as she spoke, the guard's lantern illuminating her plumply pretty face.
"Why, you look to be well-protected, ma'am," said Harry. "But were I you, I'd slip that necklace under the squabs."
Her white hand flew to her bosom and the diamonds that sparkled there. "Oh, but I should feel unclad without them!" She moved closer, saying flirtatiously, "Such a charming smile as you have, dear sir. We've met before—no?"
"I fear that pleasure has been denied me. Do you travel alone, ma'am?"
"No, my sister is with me." She drew up the fur-lined hood of her pelisse. "She is under the seat, foolish creature! We should have reached Horsham long since but were delayed by first one piece of trivia, then another. And finally were forced off the road by a most cloddish crew and all but overturned!"
Harry tensed. "I wonder could it be the coach I am striving to come up with. Were there outriders?"
"Several. And a more surly lot I never encountered. Not the type you would associate with, I am very sure! Are you… quite positive we have not met before, sir? Good gracious, my mind must be getting addled, for of late I seem to see you everywhere! Could it have been in Paris? I would swear…"
Her bright eyes searched his face uncertainly. Harry assured her he could not have forgotten so charming a lady and was favoured by a rippling laugh, the notification that he was a saucy rogue, and the extension of a small, gloved hand through the open window. He kissed it impudently, bade her farewell, and rode on. "A more surly lot I never encountered…" It had to be Sanguinet's party! He had guessed rightly!
The rain did not fall as drenchingly in the Home Wood, but all about was the thrash and rattle of tossing branches; leaves and debris filled the air, and the occasional muffled crash of some great limb falling bore witness to the fury of the storm.
Leading the frightened mare, Harry progressed steadily and could not but be grateful for the uproar. When he had come to the top of the hill he'd watched the lodge gates for some time and thus discerned an occasional glow that spoke of a cigar or pipe. Guards were posted, probably armed with orders to shoot first and question later. He had made a wide detour therefore and now, knowing every inch of these woods, came at last in sight of the butler's cottage. A light gleamed in the parlour window, but he saw no sign of movement inside. Joseph was no longer here, of course; but before he left, would he have bothered to remove the key from under the loose brick by the step? The audaciousness of entering through the front door was appealing. He tied the mare, strove to quiet her jumpy nerves for a minute, then started forward only to be staggered by a mighty gust. From somewhere above him came a deafening crack and a dark mass smashed to earth scant feet away. The mare screamed, bucked and reared frenziedly. Running for her, Harry was too late and she tore free and fled into the night. If she was seen, his presence would be made known. Still, she'd run off to the north, away from the main house. With luck she'd go clear to the boundary and onto Westhaven's preserves with none the wiser. Meanwhile, the sooner he was about his business the better.
He leapt the small picket fence, ran across the debris-littered patch of lawn, and flattened himself in the shadows of the tall yew hedge beside the door. Lightning flared in a brilliant betrayal that laid bare his place of concealment; but after long, tense seconds there was still no sign of reprisal and he crept to the doorstep. The key was there! He snatched it up, breathed a triumphant, "Aha!" and peered in through the parlour window. A scrawny-looking woman was asleep in the armchair beside the fire. Harry fitted the key very carefully into the lock and raised the latch. The door creaked a little as it swung open and his eyes darted to the sleeper; but despite that small sound and the blustery rush of air, she made no movement, continuing to snore softly. He closed the door, wiped his muddy boots thoroughly, then tiptoed to the kitchen.
By the faint light from the parlour he discerned muddle and disorder, with many unwashed pots and pans lying about. The shelves lining the larder were no neater. Harry carefully lifted out the lowest of the shelves against the rear wall, revealing the narrow blackness of the aperture beneath. This was the entrance to the priest's hole, that ancient escape route thanks to which many youthful indiscretions had been committed. As he started to put the shelf down, the end struck the wall with a crash he'd have thought would wake the dead. He stood tensely, cursing his clumsiness, his ears straining; but the soft rasp of the woman's snoring continued smoothly, and he could breathe again. He balanced the shelf carefully on a pile of empty bottles, then crept into the kitchen to appropriate a candle and tinderbox from the table. He slipped them into his pocket, went back to the larder, and deposited a piece of currant cake into his other pocket. He was taking up the shelf again when the front door slammed wide and a man's voice bawled, "May? Are ye awake, old woman? I'm cold and wet and starved!"
The kitchen began to brighten to the approach of a lamp. His heart pounding, Harry knelt, snatched up the shelf, and backed down the remembered old steps, groping his way and lowering the shelf into place over his head as heavy footsteps thumped into the kitchen. He heard a rattle of crockery and the woman whining her mystification over where the candle could've got to. He fumbled for the tinderbox, lit the candle and, shielding the flame cautiously, scanned the shelf above him. One of the threadbare cleaning rags it held was hanging through! It might not be discovered for weeks; on the other hand, did anyone seize it, the tunnel would be found and his life might well be forfeit. He tiptoed down the narrow steps, poured some melted wax onto the lowest step, and settled the candle into the puddle. Creeping upwards again, the man's coarse voice was clear.
"… won't never escape him again, I can tell ye! Stupid chit! And if that there Redmond shows his nose, we're ready for him!"
"D'ye suppose the Frenchy'll kill him, Shotten?"
Shotten! So Devil Dice lived in Joseph's cottage! Harry lifted the shelf a fraction, dreading it might scrape and betray him. Light glared into his eyes and he saw to his horror that Dice stood scant feet away.
"I 'ope he does!" barked the highwayman. "Monsewer never has forgive me fer saying I put a period to him and then him turning up alive where we didn't dare di
sh him!"
Dice halted before the shelves and began to rummage about. Holding his breath, Harry edged his way downwards.
'One of these days," said Shotten, "I'll get loose o' that damned Frog, and— Hey! What's this?" Harry's heart jumped into his throat. He eased the shelf into place and pressed back against the mouldering wall. "Why—dang ye, May! You went and et my piece o' that cake! Here I come home after a hard day…"
Staying for no more, Harry sighed with relief and started off. The low, narrow passage, doubtfully reinforced here and there by rotting timbers and bricks, was shrouded by webs that assured him nobody had passed through for a long time. He ate the cake as he went; it was dry and heavy but took the edge off his hunger, and he grinned, picturing Shotten's rage had he but known the man they sought was dining at his expense. He hurried on through the chill, musty gloom, crouching low and encountering only spiders and a solitary mouse during his journey. Surely he now held the advantage of surprise, for most of Sanguinet's men were guarding the grounds and no one would expect him to suddenly appear inside the house. With luck he might be able to find Nanette and win her away without being detected, though he would likely have to wait until everyone was abed. It shouldn't be too long a wait, for it was already long after midnight…
It never occurred to him that he was rushing headlong into an enemy stronghold, that he had no weapons and was hopelessly outnumbered. He thought only of his love, and vengeance.
Chapter XVI
The great house was very quiet when Harry at last judged it safe to open the panel. The shelves no longer contained the large bread bins but were crowded with dairy products, some of which had been carelessly propped against the rear wall and were displaced by its motion. He heard something topple and even as his eyes rested upon the middle shelf, several eggs sailed past to land with soft crunches on the floor. He listened tensely, but aside from the kitchen cat who at once investigated this fortuitous event, there was no disturbance. Harry began to clear the shelf, but the space was small and the Sergeant's coat cumbersome. He slipped out of the coat, deciding he could reclaim it on the way back, and crawled through the aperture. The pantry door was partly open; lights still burned in the kitchen but he heard no sound as he closed the panel. The cat looked up at him warily but, when he stooped to stroke her, resumed her self-imposed task of tidying up the eggs remaining. His eye caught by a pitcher of ale, Harry bore her company for a moment while he drank thirstily, thinking that it was dashed considerate of whomever had designed the tunnel to begin and end it in a pantry. Distantly, a clock chimed the hour. Three. By now most of the servants would have retired… He tiptoed to the kitchen door and pushed it open a crack. The familiar room stretched before him, neat and empty. He strode swiftly across it, running one hand caressingly along the tabletop. Entering the flagged corridor, nostalgia tightened its grip on him. Home… The home where he and Mitch and his father had been so happy. He was dazzled then by a lightning flash. A reverberating peal of thunder drowned his footsteps as he hastened towards the stairs. A few feet ahead, the door to the small salon swung open suddenly and a footman backed out carrying a tray piled with teacups and a teapot. Harry made a dive for the open door of the main dining room. He flattened himself against the wall in the darkened room, and the footman grumbled past en route to the kitchen.
Harry uttered a sigh of relief, then ran lightly down to the salon.
He leaned to the door, but could detect only male voices—no little shrew… Across the wide central hall, light glowed from under the library doors. At any moment the footman might finish in the kitchen, but with luck would go straight to the rear stairs. Harry made a dash for it, down the corridor, across the hall, and to the sweep of the curving staircase, where he halted abruptly. A gentleman was sauntering down those stairs. A dark, well-built, elegant young man of moderate height, one arm carried in a sling, who paused also, took in the intruder's shabby garb but intrepid manner and, with an amused lift of well-shaped brows, enquired calmly, "Have I perhaps the honour to address Sir Harry Redmond?"
"Damn!" thought Harry. He bowed. "M. Guy Sanguinet?"
Sanguinet bowed in turn, contriving to make the gesture graceful despite his injury and his position on the stairs. With a twinkle in his hazel eyes he observed, "You are of an impudence, sir!"
"All in the point of view," Harry pointed out cooly. And thinking that Guy bore little resemblance to Parnell, added, "This happens to be my house."
The thin lips took on a cynical twist. "And you have come home to die, enfin?"
"I have come in pursuit of the murderer who killed my father."
Sanguinet restored his hand to the railing and shook his head. "Mais non. Your papa shot himself, as I told your brother. I regret to have to—" Amazingly, a long-barrelled pistol of gleaming silver seemed to leap into the hand in the sling and was aimed steadily at Harry's heart, wherefore he checked his forward plunge. Sanguinet nodded gravely. "The quarrel with you, Redmond, I have not. Give me your word to leave Moire as you came, and—"
"The devil I will!" Surprised nonetheless by this leniency, Harry exclaimed, "Do you seriously expect me to leave Miss Carlson to your brother's tender mercies?"
"Ah…" The Frenchman's eyes became very still. "Our triangle becomes a quartet. The lady have tell you, perhaps, that I too love her?" Harry nodded and Sanguinet said with a wry shrug, "But not, tristement, that she return my affection. Even so, you may be assured I do not permit that she is abused."
"May I? Yet you stood meekly by and watched your brother flog a helpless boy half to death!"
Sanguinet all but cringed. He said nothing, however, and moved down to the next stair.
The wind outside was so fierce now that Harry had to lean closer to make himself heard. "I am told you are a gentleman. Your brother is not. And you certainly know what he intends for Miss Carlson."
Brief but stark despair flashed across Sanguinet's face. "Permit that I say this—but you risk your life if—"
"No more than you, apparently, since you creep about concealing a pistol! Did you intend, perhaps, to use it on—"
His words were drowned in a bellow of thunder that shook the floor and rattled the windows. Simultaneously, the kitchen cat shot from the corridor, skidded in the hall, and tore up the stairs. Sanguinet's eyes widened in surprise. Harry sprang up the few steps separating them and grabbed for the pistol. He knew somehow that Guy would not summon aid—that this was purely between the two of them. And it was so. Struggling desperately, they stumbled downward. Both men were young, and each hampered by an injury. Evenly matched, therefore, they strove in grim silence for possession of the weapon, the ravening storm drowning the sounds of their efforts.
"Fool!" gasped Guy as they reached the lowest stair. "You will be… discovered… at any moment! Now go—and I swear—I shall not betray you."
"But—you are a Sanguinet," panted Harry. "Wherefore… your word is without value."
Guy swore and heaved mightily. Gasping with pain, Harry staggered, but Sanguinet was swaying, his face convulsed, the pistol wavering. Harry released his hold on it and struck instead for the jaw, connecting true and hard. Sanguinet's head jerked back; he crumpled, and Harry caught him and eased him to the floor. He ripped off the sling, untied it and, taking the fabric between his strong teeth, wrenched with his right hand until it tore. Working rapidly, he bound Sanguinet hand and foot, using the remaining strip for a gag. He then dragged the unconscious man to the well beneath the stairs, cursing under his breath at the pain this caused him. Returning, he snatched up the pistol and strode to the library doors. Lightning glared vividly. He waited for the peal, then opened the door.
The two who faced each other before the fire were too intent upon their discussion to be cognizant of his coming, and he shot the heavy bolt carefully and strolled toward them.
"… anything in this world—only name it," Parnell Sanguinet was saying grandly. As usual, he was clad in black relieved only by the white gleam of his cra
vat and the lace at his cuffs, his sombre garb accentuating the vivid beauty of the girl who drew back from his outstretched arms. A very different lady this, Harry thought with a pang, from his little shrew. She was elegant in pale green sarsenet, emeralds glowing at throat and ears, an emerald comb among the shining curls upon her head, and that head flung back, her attitude reflecting loathing. "There is nothing—in this entire world—that could induce me to share life with you," she said clearly. "Sooner would I be dead! And Guy will never allow you to—" Undeterred, he paced closer. "But Guy, dear child, will do as I wish."
"You underestimate him," observed Harry, the pistol very steady in his right hand.
"Sacré bleu!" The ejaculation was hissed out as the man whipped around to crouch, unmoving, before the menace of the pistol. Nanette uttered a gasping cry, her locked hands held before her mouth, her eyes reflecting a mingling of joy and terror. Lightning flashed once more, and Harry's skin crawled as the glow seemed captured in the pale slitted eyes, so that for an instant it was as if he faced a wild beast rather than a man. Without glancing to Nanette, he asked gently, "Are you all right, little one?"
"Yes, yes! Oh—but you should not have come!"
Sanguinet straightened. A small pulse beat beside his jaw, but he smiled and murmured, " Vraiment!" You have walk into my web, Redmond. Most unwise."
"Ah, but I do believe you have spun your last web, monsieur."
"Mitchell!" exclaimed Nanette. "Harry—he is not—"
"He's alive, No thanks to this carrion." He gestured contemptuously to her stepfather.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 27