"Were it not for the sun," interrupted Salia, shutting off his words by the simple expedient of placing her cool fingers over his mouth, "he would have lost the arm, Mitchell." She slapped Harry's lips gently as he kissed her fingers, and added a quiet, "Perhaps— too late."
"It was infected, then?"
"Gangrene had set in. Ah, no, my dear! Never look so terrified. The title is quite lost to you, rest assured."
"My lady," he said unsteadily. "I do not know how to thank—"
"Pooh! The remedy is not mine but has been handed down for generations among my people. My grandmama was a gypsy, don't forget, and their lore is very much a part of me still. Likely you thought us quite mad when you found Harry out here, but between the sun and my herbs and fomentations—"
"And the fact I'm such a deucedly virile chap," contributed the irrepressible Harry.
"Cling to that thought," advised my lady, twinkling at him, "for it is time for another poultice!" She chuckled at his wailing protest, then left them, having first warned that her patient must not be tired.
When she was gone, Mitchell resumed his seat on the bed, conscious that his brother had been covertly scrutinizing him and dreading lest he refer to the abasement he shrank from discussing.
Harry, however, had no intention of commiting such a faux pas and instead asked, "How is Mr. Fox?"
"Up and about again. Camille sent a cart for him, and some of his grooms conveyed your four-footed friend to the Priory. He's still there, for I didn't know what to do with him and have heard nothing from Diccon."
They talked for some time—largely of their chances of proving that Sanguine had been responsible for their father's death, and then Mitchell said that Camille Damon had insisted he should be taken to the Priory as soon as he was sufficiently recovered, and that a very capable midwife from Pudding Park had aided immeasureably in his recovery.
Wondering how complete was that recovery, Harry murmured that he'd heard Damon speak of her, and then, with forced nonchalance enquired, "Who… else was at the Priory?"
"Gad, who was not! Camille, of course, though he was gone most of the time—seeking you, I later discovered. And Bolster, stammering so badly we could scarce understand him, wherefore I knew he was up in the boughs! And both of 'em telling me the biggest whiskers imaginable so I'd not suspect what my maniac of a brother was about! Andy—grumping about and telling me of Mrs. Radcliffe until I wished I'd never let him so much as lay eyes on a book!" With superb innocence, he went on, "Oh, and Miss Carlson, who— Hey! Lie down!"
Harry had started up, his face flushed with eagerness. "How does she go on? Have the Sanguinets been hounding her? Is she safe? Does she talk? Is—"
Mitchell thought a relieved, "At last!" and put in dryly, "She is frantic, naturally, but quite recovered. She stays with her aunt, and I collect the Sanguinets have made no attempt to take her back—dare not, probably, for fear of what she might say. She's in the deuce of a taking to discover where you are and makes no bones about accusing us of keeping the truth from her. She forces her servants to haunt the offices of the constables and the Watch, and accompanied us into Town several times to tell the Runners you had been trying to protect her and that Parnell Sanguine had attempted to murder you."
"And—they believed her?"
Mitchell looked down, not answering, and Harry knew that Parnell had done his work well. "They believed her short of a sheet, more like," he muttered.
"She told them you were pinned under the tree when you shot him…" Mitchell glanced at him obliquely. "We live in a modern age, Sauvage . . . The surgeons say the ball hit Sanguinet's back— level. No angle. So you see, it makes no sense."
Harry was silent. Then he reached out to clasp the slim, nervous fingers that twisted so endlessly at the fringe of the coverlet. "Mitch… dear old lad, you know that of all men I'd keep no secrets from you. Were they my own."
Mitchell nodded. Then, standing, asked, "Does Bolster know?"
"He guessed. He'll say nothing. But I shall involve you by asking that you get me out of England as soon as possible. And—alone."
Mitchell stared blankly at the pleasant sprawl of the old house. "It will break her heart, Harry. Surely you could at least write to her?"
"Of course. As soon as I'm able."
After a long, troubled silence, Mitchell said, "Aside from the fact that she is overset with worry for you, she is her own sweet self. Do you suppose—can she have… forgotten—what really happened?"
"I pray so. And, God willing, will never remember."
Through the days that followed, Harry mended steadily. His athletic pursuits had kept him in top condition, and his basic good health enabled him to gradually throw off the effects of the infection that had so nearly claimed his life. He maintained throughout his customary air of lazy good humour, but inwardly he chafed at the delays. That he had reached Greenwings at all was miraculous, and Salia had undoubtedly saved his life; but she and John Moulton had known their present happiness for a comparatively brief time, and Harry fretted bitterly against being the possible means of casting a shadow over that joy. He paced his room endlessly, fighting the weakness that clung with such infuriating persistence, and had so far progressed as to be allowed downstairs to prowl the library one morning when a familiar voice called his name. He swung around to find Bolster hastening towards him.
"Jeremy!" he cried, seizing his friend's outstretched hand. "Deuce take it, but I'm glad to see you! Sit down! Sit down! And tell me what's afoot. I'm so pampered and coddled I have no idea what's happening. How does Mitch go on? I see you've managed to keep him away. And—"
"He's not the only one we've m-m-m- kept away. Your lady imagines you safely in France, else—"
"Where I should be by now!" Harry flashed, his heart having given a painful jolt at the mention of Nanette. "Jerry—I must get away from here! I cannot guess why I've not been discovered these past three weeks, but heaven forbid the Moultons should be involved! Is there any chance it can be arranged?"
"All done, d-dear boy. That's why I come down. Damon has re-re-re cousins all over the Continent. Place must positively ooze em! His yacht will carry you to Cherbourg on Friday, and he's m-made arrangements for you to be met."
Greatly relieved, Harry next and rather diffidently enquired if it was possible Lace might be taken along. This, it seemed, was also arranged. Marvelling at their thoughtfulness, he lapsed into a long silence.
Glancing up, he found Bolster watching him with a sympathy that brought the colour burning into his cheeks. "I've written Nanette a letter," he said awkwardly. "If you—would be so kind as to deliver it."
"Of course—be delighted. Jilted her nicely, I t-trust?" His lordship strolled nonchalantly to sprawl on the deep window seat and, meeting Harry's steady stare, assumed an expression of saintly innocence. "Lay you odds you made a mull of it. What did you say? Were you c-cold or n-n-noble?" He raised one languid hand. "Do not dare strike me! I can afford to lose no more teeth. Besides, I've known you since we was in sh-short coats. I have every right to be told what—"
"Devil you have!" Harry strode closer.
Bolster sighed, closed his eyes, and raised his chin resignedly.
Forced to a reluctant grin, Harry demanded, "How did you know, damn you?"
"Obvious. You're a hunted man and must leave the country."
"I could have asked her to accompany me."
"Could." Bolster's voice dropped a little and he finished with the oddly judicial solemnity that occasionally marked him. "Except—it was in the back, my bold knight."
Harry turned away and walked over to the window. Watching him, Bolster sighed heavily. That poor little Miss Carlson was head over ears in love with his friend was very obvious. That she was too blinded by the tender emotion to realize how hopeless was that love was equally obvious. But Harry knew. The dear old boy was smitten at last; and Cupid, having waited so long, had loosed his arrow with cruel perversity. For despite his laughing eyes and app
arently light-hearted view of life and its foibles, Harry was a product of his upbringing. He would live and if need be die by the Code of Honour, without question. And none knew better than he that however villainous, however depraved Parnell Sanguinet had been, it was unthinkable that his daughter should wed the man believed to have murdered him. As if that weren't bad enough, he was so dashed proud… the little gal was a great heiress, whereas old Harry… God! What a horrid mess! Bolster glanced up from under his lashes. Harry was staring into the garden. What did he see—his empty future? The man loved England devotedly and would be fortunate did he ever set foot in it again… always granting they could smuggle him safely to France! After that, what hope for him? No fortune, no properties—and he'd certainly be too damned high in the instep to accept any help!—torn from the woman he loved; universally despised for a treacherous shooting…
"If you're going to cry, old sportsman, I'll be dashed if I'll dry your tears for you"
His lordship jerked his yellow head up and was slightly stunned to find a twinkle in the eyes that met his own.
"It ain't that bad, you know," consoled Harry, smiling despite his own heavy heart.
"C-Course it ain't!" Bolster confirmed, adopting a manner so joyous one might think he'd just come into a fortune. "And—after all, you have often said you'd never marry."
"I have, indeed."
"And—you always had more than your share of opera dancers. To say nothing of your Spanish barques of frailty. And then there was your l-little ladybird in—"
"Yes, well, may we please omit the inventory, Jeremy?"
"By all m-m-means. Point is—you've often been in love—eh?"
Harry winked, but his thoughts turned wrenchingly to a sun-dappled woodland clearing and a girl in a plain round gown, with flour on her pert nose and her brow wrinkled with concentration as she offered her definition of love. So apt a description of how he felt these days… "an empty picture frame"—only complete when she was near…
From outside came a blast of sound, an ear-splitting cacophony as welcome as it was familiar. With a whoop he was through the open window and calling, "Diccon! Mr. Fox! Jove, but I'm glad to see you!"
Left alone, Lord Jeremy Bolster ran one square, powerful hand through his straight yellow locks and, undeceived, swore long and fluently.
"A very close shave, friend Harry. Lucky I was to get out've it!" Having already exchanged handshakes with Redmond, Diccon now watched the reunion of man and beast, as Mr. Fox leant his head against his friend's waistcoat and, with closed eyes, chomped ecstatically upon a note from Mitchell which Harry had generously offered.
"I'm most sorry to hear it." Harry pulled the little donkey's ears, glanced up, and asked, "Your amateur smugglers?"
"Aye. Got me into a proper bumble broth, they done. But," the lugubrious features reflected anxiety. "I hear as how you got into a worse mess."
"Yes, but never mind about that." Harry turned from Mr. Fox and, facing Diccon squarely, asked, "Why did you not tell me who she was? Why all the business about her having been given a ride with a cleric, and you coming upon her by chance?"
"We-ell… I ain't much at being a gentleman—or nob, as y'might say. But I ain't much at breaking me word, neither. And I give it to her, Sir Harry, when that there Sister Maria Evangeline put her in me care. The Sister and me, we've had—er, dealings before… Speaking o' which, I'm very grateful to you fer dealing so kind with my friend here."
Harry patted the donkey. "That was largely my brother's doing. I suppose you're aware of how Sanguinet served Mitchell?"
"Yes. A nasty customer, that one. I hopes as how yer brother's full recovered?"
"He seems… very fit."
Diccon noted the troubled look in the green eyes and said kindly, "Why, he's a sensitive gent, sir. And to be flogged like that—in front of the lady as he cares fer—why it's enough t'make any proud young buck feel a bit less'n a man, I 'spect."
It was the very thing Harry feared, and he stared at the Trader's gaunt face wonderingly. "I've not surprised you with anything, have I? Do you know everything that's happened to us since last we saw you?"
"Why, it's the Fellowship o' the Road, Harry. Word travels far'n fast. Le' see now… I knows as ye went to see Lord Cootesby. And how they hunted you down over to Winchester—almost had the noose about yer neck that time! But…" He took himself by the chin and, shaking his head wonderingly, muttered, "What I cannot come at is how a fine, upstanding young chap like yerself would happen to shoot even so mad a dog as Parnell Sanguinet… in the back. Now that there's really got me scratching out me cock loft, as y'might say, for there's them as it fits—and them as it don't…" He waited, an expression almost of pleading on his face.
"It was—an accident, really," Harry offered lamely.
"You mean… as ye did—do it?"
How incredulous those pale eyes—and God bless the man for his incredulity!
"Yes. But—he wasn't much to grieve for… was he?"
Diccon sighed and took from his pocket the snuffbox Harry had given him. He proffered it and, being courteously refused, took a pinch himself, inhaled, sneezed, wiped at his eyes with his copious handkerchief, and sighed again.
Harry sensed he had been judged and found wanting. Disturbed by that fact, he said, "I see that you still have the box. Not traded yet, eh?
Diccon polished the snuffbox on his sleeve. "I been offered for it. But I don't trade what's give me by—special folk. This here, f'r instance…" He rummaged about in the cart and turned with the baton of the Bow Street Runners in his large hand. "Remember this, Harry?"
"I do indeed…" And with a pang he remembered also how well Nanette had wielded it. "Was it given you, Diccon? You promised to tell me of it someday."
"Aye—I did." The Trader hesitated. "It ain't a story as I dare tell many folk—or I'd've been worm bait long since… Still—" He gave a slow grin. "Seein's you and me got more in common now than what I thought—I'll tell you. This here's only half the story." He began again to hunt through the miscellany and at length exclaimed "Aha! You won't never believe this! Close yer eyes and hold out yer hands…"
"Is it heavy?" Harry enquired, eyes obediently closed,
"Lord love ye—no. No heavier than… that!'"
A sharp click. A coldness about his wrists. And with a spasmodic contraction of the muscles under his ribs, Harry knew—too late. Opening his eyes, he stared down at the twin steel bracelets and the chain that looped between his wrists.
In stern and cultured accents, Diccon proclaimed, "Captain Sir Harry Allison Redmond, in the name of the King, I arrest you for the wilful murder of M. Parnell Sanguinet!"
Chapter XIX
Harry's head came up slowly, and meeting that stunned look of disbelief, Diccon said a regretful, "In the old days, Sir Harry, that nasty piece of business would have been accomplished with less embarrassment for such as yourself. I am truly sorry. But grace and finesse are, alas, going by the board."
How different he looked, thought Harry numbly; his shoulders erect now, the lazy grin displaced by a look of power and purpose. "And… I…" he stammered, "m-must be the… sorriest fool of all time. For—I fancied you… my good friend."
"Had you seen fit to confide in me, sir, you would have been told the truth. Had you sworn you did not murder him I should have accepted your word. Indeed, I still will do so." He searched the thin face narrowly, but receiving only the same shocked stare, shook his head. "There is a time, you see, for friendship. And a time for duty."
"And—a time for smuggling?"
The bony shoulders shrugged. "I have many callings, sir. Wandering minstrel, tinker, trader, smuggler. All part of the overall policeman."
Recovering his wits gradually, Harry riposted, "Or is 'policeman' also a masquerade?" Diccon made no answer and his expression changed not one iota, yet Harry experienced a sense of extreme danger. Heedless, leaning forward he said, "Do you know what I think, Mr. Bow Street Runner—or international spy
—or whatever in the devil you really are . . ?"
Diccon's voice had taken on a purring quality as he murmured, "My, but you have a rare imagination."
"Together with a belated perception! It was all planned, was it not? From the very beginning!"
"If you refer to the death of your father…"
"No—but you knew of it, didn't you? All the time, you knew exactly why my papa was killed. And by whom!"
"There is a deal of difference, Sir Harry, between 'knowing' and proving. Your father was killed because he witnessed the death of Frederick Carlson. Another killing was undesirable and he was allowed to live, but only for so long as he believed it accidental. He sent a note to Bow Street, saying that he had recalled a detail that might be of import and asking that an officer be sent 'round to talk with him. Regrettably, his note was intercepted. He was interviewed by an imposter, and later lured from Town—to his death."
"And was it to track down his murderer that you followed me? Oh, pray do not trouble to deny it. Our first meeting I ascribed to chance, but I thought it odd that I kept encountering you. It was not coincidence. You had me watched!"
"Every instant," Diccon admitted coolly. "I was waiting to intercept you on the night Dice shot you down. My men erred, else I'd have put a stop to that business…" He frowned a little, then said judicially, "though it worked out well enough… While you were at Sanguinet Towers, Miss Carlson was brought to me—also prearranged, although she did not know that."
Stunned, Harry fought to appear calm. "You left a lot to chance. When I went to Maidstone I'd every intention of taking the stagecoach—then what would you have done?"
"When you returned from your Good Samaritan efforts on behalf of the young soldier, you would have found the seat already taken. Oh, do not look so chagrined. I don't think you were entirely deceived—you suspected the call of the cuckoo… did you not?"
He had suspected, but only at the back of his mind. His stupid brain had wondered at the fact that Diccon wandered away from time to time, and that the cuckoo's call had sounded so clearly; but he'd been so preoccupied with his own problems he'd not put the two together. Seething, he burst out, "You deceive very well, Diccon! Why? Because Sanguinet wanted me dead? Did you thereby think I knew something?"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 32