Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  "Sanguinet feared you might stir things up if you sought retribution for your father's death; but, for many reasons, he could afford no more scandal. You did not constitute an immediate threat. At first, there was still the possibility you would die of your wounds. When you did not, your passion for racing and sports, your involvement last year in that nasty business with Lord St. Clair, your entire, somewhat hazardous way of life promised to take you out of the picture for him. And meanwhile, he was very busied with other matters. Your uncle played into his hands by concealing the truth from you."

  "If you were aware of all this, why was none of it brought out?"

  "Unhappily, I was not aware of it all. I was in France then, on— another matter. Still, Parnell was watched, and he knew it. When I returned to England having quite failed my assignment, I was—er— indisposed, but I began to tie some loose threads together, and it seemed to me that if I could not catch this tiger for his major crimes, I might snare him for the minor ones."

  "Minor . . ?" Harry half whispered, his eyes glittering behind their narrowed lids. "My father's death was… minor?"

  "Comparatively. But Sanguinet could not afford to let you meet his ward; to allow you to—compare notes, as it were. You owe me your life, really, for the only reason you were not killed at his estate was that he knew I was close by."

  "And hoping he would have me killed, of course!"

  Diccon shrugged. "I knew he desired his daughter. It was my hope, and a very chancy one, that being hit in so vulnerable an area, he would become emotionally involved and make a mistake."

  "And—-we were to be his mistake!" said Harry through his teeth. "We were the bait for your tiger. You set us out—and gave not a tinker's damn whether he destroyed us!"

  With cold hauteur, the Runner corrected, "Say rather that I would sacrifice the Household Cavalry—to the last man—-would it destroy Claude and Parnell Sanguinet."

  "Why—you cold-blooded devil!" breathed Harry. "You could have warned me! You could have given me a fighting chance! Instead, you abandoned us. Knowing his men were all about, you stood by and watched him force Nanette to—my God! Did you watch him whip Mitchell, hoping he would die? Now damn your merciless soul!"

  Wild with fury, he sprang, his arms swinging up, the chain between the handcuffs flashing for Diccon's throat. The Runner moved also, lightning fast. One sinewy hand shot out to catch the chain. The heel of the other struck once in a vicious chop across Harry's throat, staggering him.

  A lithe figure ran from the steps. Strong arms swept around Diccon, pinning him from behind. His head smashed backward, but Bolster was not without experience in encounters with the Watch and, ready for just such tactics, he evaded the manoeuvre. One of Diccon's heavy boots kicked savagely, but again, was avoided.

  "Step back, my lord!" The Reverend Langridge stood beside the drive, the hunting gun in his hands tremblingly pointed at the Runner. "Do not be lulled to a false sense of security by reason of my cloth, sir!" he warned shrilly. "Sir Harry Redmond is the head of my house. Further, you trespass on Lord Moulton's property, and I have a perfect right to shoot a trespasser!"

  Bolster stepped away, eyeing the clergyman with astounded admiration. "J-Jove! You're a prime gun. sir! You all right. Harry?"

  Holding his throat, Harry whezzed. "Diccon claims… to be… from Bow Street!"

  "Does he. by God! Can he p-prove it?"

  Looking to Lady Salia who had also come out and watched them with fearful anxiety. Harry nodded. "I—rather suspect… he can."

  "Sounds d-d-deuced smoky to me." Bolster eyed Diccon truculently. "Thought you said the silly a-a-a fella was a smuggler? Here Diccon—you just take those ha-ha-ha manacles off Sir Harry!"

  "Gladly, my lord," Diccon agreed with a faint inclination of the head. "If your friend will tell me he did not shoot M. Parnell Sanguinet—in the back."

  Bolster slanted an uneasy glance at Harry but said loyally, "Had he been shot in the no-no-nostril, he'd be just as dead."

  "Mordecai Langridge.'" Wilhelmina sailed around the corner of the house, a formidable figure, feathers swaying with the speed of her approach, her stentorian voice at full volume. "Put that hideous thing down at once!"

  "N-No! Pray—do not!"' Bolster pleaded.

  The gun wavered and Diccon, well aware of the peril of a loaded firearm in nervous hands, paled a little.

  "This—person," quavered the Reverend, paling even more, "says he intends to haul our Harry off to gaol, m'dear."

  His life's companion was only momentarily disconcerted. "Harry is a grown man and must take the consequences of his actions. I warned him. Besides, if he is innocent he will be spared, for does not St. Matthew tell us, 'if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed…'

  "The Colosseum." pointed out the ever-practical Bolster, "was likely f-filled with folks who had faith, ma'am. Lions ate 'em up. Sorry, but—there 'tis."

  "Enough!" she roared, lifting her hand dramatically. With a sort of leap Bolster retreated a pace behind Lady Salia. Turning to her shivering husband, Wilhelmina reminded, "Langridge. you are in Orders! Put that weapon down this—"

  "Oh… be quiet . " gulped the Reverend.

  Four stunned pairs of eyes turned to him.

  "What… did… you… say… ?" demanded his lady, terribly.

  His bridges burned behind him, Mordecai went the distance and, keeping his gaze on the Runner, said, "Pray be still, madam." Wilhelmina's jaw dropped, and taking advantage of the awed silence, he went on, "I shall hold him here. You get to the stables, dear boy. The grooms will strike those fetters from your wrists in a trice!"

  "By… George . . !" said Bolster, enormously impressed. "Courage above and b-beyond, sir! Come on, Harry!"

  The twinkle faded from Diccon's pale eyes. "I really am from Bow Street, Reverend, and it is only fair to warn you that this is a very special case with international ramifications. Your calling will not help you—no more than Lord Bolster's rank will protect him. If I am in any way interfered with, you and your lady, together with Lady Moulton, must be judged accomplices."

  Wilhelmina recovered sufficiently to turn a stern frown on the Runner. "How dare you threaten my husband, sir?" she said with somewhat dubious logic.

  Harry, his eyes locked with Diccon's, swallowed pride and pleaded, "Five minutes start? For friendship's sake . . ?"

  "By force only," answered the Runner inexorably. "In which event these people will have no choice but to flee the country."

  "Much would we care for that!" Lady Salia came to slip her hand in Harry's arm and smile fondly at him. "You surely cannot believe, my dear, that we could be happy, knowing your life was the price of a short sojourn abroad? Besides, John has grumbled incessantly that we have not yet had a proper honeymoon. We shall travel, and have a lovely time. And at all events, you will be acquitted very soon, so that we can come home again."

  "Very soon…" Never was more probable. Watching her sweet face, Harry thought of how long she and John Moulton had been kept apart by a capricious Fate. And now at last they were joyously together in the home they both loved. He glanced at Bolster. His friend's grin was as bright, his loyalty as true as ever. And Jerry was to be married to Amanda as soon as she returned from Belgium. How would little Mandy like living in exile? His aunt was watching her husband, an expression in her eyes he'd never seen before and that he now realized was admiration. As if sensing his regard, she turned to him and smiled, and he knew that she too would stick by him, whatever the cost.

  Bolster saw hope die from his eyes and cried furiously, "You cannot prove your innocence, you great g-gudgeon! They will surely hang you!"

  "Oh, no they will not!" Langridge repudiated hotly, but as Diccon gave a grim smile and stepped forward a pace, he blenched.

  Bolster whipped the gun from his shaking hands. "Your pardon, sir, but—not quite in your line, y'know. Toddle off, Harry. And good luck, d-dear old boy! I'll hold this Trap 'til you're away safe."

  Diccon said a quiet,
"I trust you are prepared to fire, my lord," and again paced forward.

  A deadly glint lit Bolster's usually mild hazel eyes. "One more step," he gritted softly, "and I will blow your miserable head off!"

  "No, you won't," Harry intervened. "It is of no use. He's only following orders, and—"

  Bolster's jaw set, and the angle of the gun shifted. Recognizing that this intrepid young man had every intention of crippling him, at the very least, Diccon threw up one imperative hand.

  Three stern-faced men armed with pistols stepped from the shrubs beside the drive, and although the weapons were not aimed, their eyes were fastened steadily on Lord Bolster.

  "Oh… damme!" groaned Jeremy, and lowered his weapon.

  Her calm breaking, Lady Salia gave a sob and, running to throw herself into Harry's arms, was balked as the handcuffs came between them. "Must you put those horrid things on him?" she wept.

  "I wish I could remove 'em, ma'am, I do assure you. But, I've reason to know how handy he is with his fists." Diccon gestured to his men, one of whom whistled, and a black coach rumbled around from the front of the house.

  Lady Salia pressed a hand to her lips, and Harry jerked his head to Bolster who at once came over and drew her gently away. "You're never going to haul him off in that monstrous thing?" he raged, patting Salia's shoulder. "Deuce take you! He's a baronet!"

  "A baronet who has murdered a foreign diplomat of noble birth," Diccon pointed out. "However, I will not take Sir Harry to gaol in the coach. He can ride with me."

  Two saddle horses were brought forward, at the sight of which Langridge cried an aghast, "Ride? Through the streets? With those—damnable shackles for all to see?"

  Diccon smiled faintly. "Are you ready, Sir Harry?"

  Harry was assisted into the saddle. Langridge and Bolster came to clutch his hands, to stammer out promises of aid and support, and to watch, grieving, as Diccon mounted and took up the bridle of the other horse.

  One of the Runners climbed into the cart. The other two entered the coach.

  Harry bent to kiss Wilhelmina and Salia, and with his head well up and his face paper white, began the journey to gaol.

  Convinced the Surrey Gaol would be a likely destination, Harry's heart sank when they passed through that pleasant county and came to the outskirts of the great city. But long after the countryside had given way to cobbled streets and ever denser buildings, long after the clear air was sullied by the smoke from countless chimney pots, and the sweet songs of birds replaced by shouts and turmoil, by jostling crowds and the unceasing rumble of wheels, he would not believe Newgate. They passed through slums and the black coach pulled up very close to protect him from the hail of bottles, stones, and refuse that greeted the appearance of a flash cove—a nob—and in bracelets! But not until he saw the great glooming pile rising above the shacks and nightmare dwellings of the poor could he credit it. Not until they rode into the yard and he was ordered by a stern Diccon to dismount, and then was gripped by each arm and hauled unceremoniously into the terrible old building did it finally burst upon him in all its horror. Captain Sir Harry Allison Redmond was no more. In his place was the villain in the poster—an accused murderer and kidnapper, who would be despised by the upper strata of those who inhabited this hell on earth, and hated by the lower.

  Once inside the building he was subjected to a brief interrogation. Stunned and exhausted, he no longer saw faces and knew only that he passed under a succession of eyes, variously stern, sneering, or hate-filled. He was dully aware of tramping along noisome, narrow, and odorous corridors; of a dim door flung open to reveal a dark, tiny cell, the murky slot that served for a window, a sagging cot. A sardonic voice informed him he was "too hoity-toity t'be in with the rest of 'em!"; a hand shoved violently at the small of his back. He staggered forward, heard the door clang shut, and crouched, head bowed, trembling, in the near darkness.

  "Sit down in it, sir! Do not step over it! Sit down in it . . !"

  The voice was so real it might have been in the room with him. His head jerked up and he peered around dazedly. General Craufurd had been used to scream that adjuration at his men did they dare step over a puddle in the line of march… Harry sank against the dank wall. He was not in Spain surrounded by his indomitable troops. He did not hear the tramp of countless feet, the hoofbeats of horses and mules, the shouted ribaldry of the men. He heard instead a drunken yowling, the rattle of a tin cup across bars; a song without melody or decipherable words that told of despair, and the sobbing of some poor woman, God help her!

  He closed his eyes and bowed his forehead against the stone. "My father was Sir Colin Redmond," he whispered, "and my grandfather, General Lord Harry Allison…" He repeated it time and again, until at length the crushing sense of being buried alive faded a little, until his pride reasserted itself, and he pushed panic back whence it had sprung. He looked up at the window' again and squared his shoulders. A grim smile curving his mouth he muttered, "Thank you, sir. I may have to sit down in it—but, by God! I'll not step over it!"

  "So you shot him," said the dispassionate voice, because you were struck by the falling tree. And you did not see the lightning."

  This time, the questioning seemed to have lasted for several days, with each question more asinine than the last. Harry was very tired and longed to lean against the wall of his cell. He sighed, knowing that would not be permitted, and raising one hand against the glare of the lantern, said wearily, "I did see the lightning. I did not see it strike the tree. Bonjour, Diccon."

  "You were pinned by the tree," Diccon went on relentlessly, "yet you managed to free your arm, and fire—"

  "You, sir," Harry observed regretfully, "are baconbrained, that's what it is. The gun went off as I fell. I wish to see my solicitor. I have had no visitors since I came to this spa. It has been—" he thought a minute. "Two weeks . . ?"

  "Ten days, Redmond. And you have had visitors. The newspaper people…"

  "Egad! They have seen me, and sketched me, and talked their stupid damned heads off. And they do not listen any more than do you!" He peered vainly into the light. "Mr. Fox would be better company!"

  "When you were lying there upon your right side, was it—"

  "My left side, dear Diccon. My left side."

  "Ah, yes—you were trapped upon your injured arm—yet managed to free yourself—unaided. What an astounding stoic."

  "Man of iron, sir. Had you not realized?" His laugh sounded a trifle shrill, and he bit it back abruptly, repeating, "I wish to see—"

  "These . . ?" Diccon tossed some newspapers at him. Catching them, Harry swore. He was on the front page of the Gazette; the Morning Post featured a large sketch of him on Page Two; and he rated the third page of The Times. The captions seemed gigantic:

  'Aristocrat to Hang for Brutal Murder!' Titled War Hero in Newgate!' 'No coddling for Baronet Fiend!' The sketches showed him unshaven and gaunt, yet with a hint of jauntiness about him, as though even in this ghastly place he retained some remnant of pride. And that same pride flailed him. What must Mitch be suffering before such public disgrace? And Nanette . . ?

  Diccon was jabbering again—pounding at him, as he had done day and night seemingly, since his arrival. Allowing his tired eyes to skim a grossly dramatized article, Harry learned that although he was weak from injuries incurred while rescuing his victim from a maddened bull, he had been denied any special treatment. It seemed an odd report, and reading on, he learned that the Authorities were merciless by reason of the international aspects of the case and their fear of offending the French. Puzzled, he could only assume this to be blatant sensationalism. In actual fact, a doctor had visited him several times and pronounced himself well satisfied with the state of the arm. The next article had him chained to the wall in a mouldering dungeon reminiscent of the Middle Ages, yet in good spirits, though he stubbornly refused to answer any questions concerning the Brutal Crime, and denied adamantly that he was, in fact, Protecting Another! "Oh, my lord!" thought
Harry. And imagining Nanette in this hellhole, felt sick.

  A truncheon prodded him gently. "Horrified," he mumbled, scarce knowing what he was answering.

  "You are quite sure of that?" purred Diccon. "When Sanguinet was hit he looked—horrified . . ?"

  "What?" Still absorbed by the article, Harry muttered, "Oh, yes— yes. What would you expect, you jackass?"

  "I would expect it to be rather difficult for you to know that, Redmond. Since he was hit—in the back! My, what a long neck you must have!"

  Comprehending too late, Harry stumbled, "No! I—I was paying no attention, that's all. I—"

  "You spoke the truth for the first time since we brought you here!" Diccon's voice was a snap of steel. "Sanguinet was shot after you were downed! By someone striving to prevent your own mur—"

  "No!" cried Harry, dropping the newspaper. "He—it was—"

  "It was a pack of lies!" thundered Diccon, standing, his face eerily highlighted by the glow of the lantern. "You watched him killed by somebody else!"

  "No! Damn you! No! I killed him! I was holding the pistol when the tree feel, and—"

  "This—pistol . . ?"

  Into the brighter beam from the lantern came Diccon's hand, holding a black pistol. It was the first time Harry had seen it since he'd lain there helpless during that ravening storm; shocked into silence, he stared down at it. Almost, he could hear Sanguinet's gloating laughter, the voice of the thunder, the howling of the wind… He fought to think clearly… Diccon was trying to trap him, no doubt. They probably knew which was the correct weapon. "No," he muttered, drawing back instinctively, "not that one."

  Now those lean fingers held a weapon that gleamed silver in the lamplight, just as it had gleamed in Nanette's little hand. Harry swung his eyes away and nodded.