"Don't you know what she thought?"
The unease that had been gnawing at Harry all day deepened. There was a coldness now to Mitchell's handsome features. The eyes were hard; the mouth set in a sardonic line. Had Parnell's whip so changed the boy? Or was it that he, too, loved Nanette and was grieving . . ? "I suppose," he evaded, "you will be returning to your little schoolhouse?"
If Mitchell was vexed by that evasion, he gave no sign of it. "I think not," he said slowly. "If you've no objections, I mean to spend the summer in the south of France, with Jacques and Bolster."
Bolster? De Roule was to be expected; he and Mitch had formed a deep attachment shortly after that dreadful mess Lucian St. Clair had become involved in last autumn, but—Bolster? "Are you sure? Since Jerry will be shackled soon, I should have thought he'd—" Harry broke off, Mitchell's grave expression recalling several hints that had come his way and that he'd ignored, unwilling to believe anything could go wrong with so ideal a match. "Oh, the devil!" he groaned. "Mandy has cried off!"
Mitchell nodded. "Bolster knew you would worry for his sake. And he had no wish to add to your burdens."
"Damn and blast!" Harry stood, paced to the fire, and kicked angrily at the smouldering log. "It's because of her murdering hound of a brother, I collect?"
"She feels, so I hear, that she is unfit to become Lady Jeremy."
"That curse gudgeon!" Harry spun around. "He said not one word of it! I thought, once or twice, he seemed a trifle glum, but—oh, dammitall! How could Mandy be so feather-witted? He adores her! She must be mad to throw away every chance of happiness for both of them just because of her high-in-the-instep pride! And what in the deuce are you grinning about?"
"It would appear," Mitchell shrugged, "to be the onset of an epidemic."
A slow flush darkened Harry's face. He turned away and stared down into the dying fire.
"If you do not offer for Nanette, you're a prize fool."
"Then… I am a prize fool."
"Yes indeed!" Mitchell's lip curled his scorn. "Merely because she chances to be an heiress?"
"One of the richest heiresses in all Europe."
"And one who loves you—for reasons unknown."
Harry gave a wry smile, though the acid cynacism was bewildering. "I wonder. Or was it all part of Diccon's plot…"
Mitchell's frown became thunderous. "By God! If you were any other man . . !" But realizing that his fist had clenched, he turned from Harry's wondering stare and said hurriedly, "Moire is a fine old place, with a splendid park, and—"
"And would fit into a corner of Carlson Terrace and be lost."
"For lord's sake, Harry! You do not care about her money— you've never had the least sense in such matters! Instead of considering her happiness, you choose to immolate yourself like some stupid noble knight of old! Why in the name of god don't you fiery pride, said sadly, "On the day my little shrew stooped to do that, my haughty cub, I would indeed wed her."
The next month swept by. Required to testify at several hearings and with the Bow Street coach becoming a regular visitor to Moire Grange, Harry was also engulfed in the business of his estate and the mass of correspondence that had accrued during his absence. He performed the latter task in leisurely fashion, since his eager search through the pile had discovered nothing addressed in the feminine hand he so longed to see. Over two months since he had last laid eyes on his love, with no word—no sign… She had written him off, obviously. Perhaps it was as well.
Mitchell had left for Brussels, where he was to join de Roule and Bolster. Jeremy had fled directly after Harry's homecoming, unable to confront his friend with the news that he had been jilted. Ten days after his departure, a long letter of explanation arrived at Moire, but since his scrawl was all but illegible, his spelling outrageous, and the phrases hopelessly disjointed, Harry was only able to guess at most of the contents. That Jeremy was totally grief-stricken was very obvious, however, and he at once dashed off a letter to Mitch begging to be kept advised of Bolster's state of mind.
Diccon drove down one morning and, during a brief visit, idly let fall the news that Devil Dice was now being sought in connection with the murder of Parnell Sanguinet. Dice, it seemed, had been a very unwilling tool for the Frenchman, his services secured by Sanguinet's knowledge of his true identity. He had escaped soon after being apprehended in Winchester and thus far had avoided recapture, although posters were up from Land's End to John o'Groats. Harry shuddered, knowing all too well the nightmares of such a flight; and having remarked dryly that such sentiments were wasted on 'that vermin', Diccon took his leave.
His departure emphasized a fact that Harry had been seeking to ignore: He was lonely. Mitchell and most of his friends were either abroad or in the country. Jocelyn Vaughan had written, inviting him to spend the summer at a "jolly fine house" he'd rented on the Steyne at Brighton, but although he was fond of Vaughan, Harry's spirits were downcast and the thought of a stay with that dynamic young Corinthian lacked appeal. He was in no mood, either, for the social whirl offered by Lord Edward Ridgley. The Earl, an old and dear friend, was the best of company, but so warm hearted he could not fail to be dismayed by any trace of low spirits, and to be obliged to feign cheerfulness was more than Harry could undertake. He apprehended at this point in his reflections that he missed his friends—yet did not wish to be with them. He decided, therefore, that this was the perfect time for him to go into London, for he must sooner or later do something about acquiring a house there, and although he could leave the matter in Anderson's capable hands, it was a task he preferred to attend to personally. To this end, he ordered his curricle prepared for the following morning, and having infuriated both Anderson and Jed Cotton by saying he would be driving himself, instructed the Sergeant to pack a valise with sufficient clothing for a few days in Town.
Next morning he was on the road before noon. The greys were fine steppers and eager to go, and he gave them their heads whenever traffic permitted, flashing along the turnpike at speeds that brought shouts of wrath ringing out behind him. It was a fine day, the air brisk and a stiff breeze blowing. He concentrated upon the beauties of field and hedgerow, of deep blue skies, the invigorating smell to the air, and how extremely fortunate he was to be here at all. He could, he told himself determinedly, have been killed in Winchester, or died when his arm became gangrenous. Even now he might be slowly going mad in that nightmare slot of a cell in Newgate, or perhaps at this very moment mounting the steps of a scaffold. He had so very much for which to be thankful. He sighed and urged the greys onward, waving his whip gaily at an infuriated heavyset gentleman who shook a fist in response, his whiskers all but sticking straight out from purpling cheeks as the curricle shot past with a good inch to spare.
Harry lunched at a favourite old tavern outside Dorking, unable to pass by the place where he was assured of receiving a warm welcome. Sure enough he was bowed to, beamed upon, and ushered to his customary table with so much pomp that one might have suspected the Regent himself had arrived. They had never doubted dear Sir Harry—not for one single second, the host's good wife imparted, sotto voce. Others had, thought Harry, beyond a doubt. Even now a young lieutenant of hussars was surveying him furtively. He would, he realized, for a time, at least, be a target for curiosity wherever he went. There was only one way to handle it… His friendly grin brought an immediate answering smile and the two young men were very soon not only sharing a table but an animated discussion of how Blucher should have brought up his troops at Waterloo. When it transpired that his new acquaintance was journeying to Tunbridge Wells and a mill between Gentleman Thorpe and the Tooting Terror, Harry's plans underwent a radical change.
At four o'clock he was sitting atop the Lieutenant's chaise in a field outside the Wells, lustily cheering the efforts of two blood-spattered, muddied and perspiring pugilists whose efforts having been considerably prolonged by much wrangling among their seconds, seemed likely to be halted by the weather. Heavy clouds were buil
ding, and Harry was irritated by the knowledge that he should have brought his chaise, as Andy had urged. He was not so enchanted by the mill as to allow his greys to stand in the rain and, having invited the Lieutenant to visit Moire, returned to his curricle. Many other gentlemen were attempting to leave. Harry jockeyed his team expertly through the near-impossible tangle of vehicles, only to be backed into on the very fringe of the crowd by an exceedingly youthful would-be Corinthian driving a high-perch phaeton.
An hour later, his right rear wheel badly sprung, one of his greys limping from a sprained knee, and his temper considerably frayed, Harry reached the nearest livery stable. It was full dark before he was sufficiently satisfied with the condition of his horse to summon a hackney and venture into the by-now teeming rain, and his mood was not lightened by the jarvey's disclosure that the Wells was crowded to overflowing by reason of the mill. His vexed insistence that the man must know of something brought only the mournful verdict that there was nought as would befit 'his honour'. Harry smiled faintly and thought that the jarvey, at least, had not recognized him! He was about to return to the livery stable and attempt to hire another team when the route they followed brought a jog of memory. He instructed his driver to turn right at the next corner and, disregarding the firm observation that "there ain't nothing fitting down there!" peered eagerly through the downpour.
A weeping willow that drooped beside the lane… a wide sweep of lawn, and at the edge, a sign, rain drenched and creaking in the wind, that proclaimed, "Mrs. Burnett's. A Refined Boarding House for the Genteel Traveller."' In a voice rendered hoarse by nostalgia, Harry told the jarvey to pull up and wait. He sprang lightly down and, with the collar of his splendid six-caped coat upturned and his hat tilted jauntily over one eye, ran to the door.
The angular lady at the counter looked up in no little astonishment as the tall young Corinthian closed the door on a flurry of wind and rain and, doffing his hat, revealed a head of thick, slightly curling dark hair and a pair of fine eyes that not only brightened her own but brought a dubious recognition.
"Aha," smiled Harry, relieved that she had not exclaimed in outright horror at the sight of him. "So you remember me, ma'am."
"Well now, sir," she said uncertainly. "Seems as if I do—and then again, I doesn't. I don't usually forget eyes… But—the only young gentleman I can recollect with eyes like yourn was a naughty rascal wot fair turned this old place upside down with his pranks and mischief!" She leaned across the counter, imparting zestfully, "You wouldn't never believe it, sir, but I'd a nun staying in the house that night, and—"
"Sister Maria Evangeline," nodded Harry.
Much shocked, Mrs. Burnett drew back. "Oooh!" she gasped, pointing a bony finger. "You're… him! You're that naughty rascal! Oh, my stays and shoelaces! Oh, goodnight!"
"Now that," he grinned, leaning closer to pinch her blushing cheek gently, "is exactly what I wish to discuss with you—dear Mrs. Burnett…
Chapter XXI
Harry awoke to the unfamiliar clatter of a coach passing underneath his windows. The chill of his nose told him the morning was brisk, but the mattress was a soft billow of feathers and the sheets seemed almost perfumed… He lay there, fully awake, but keeping his eyes closed, remembering the last time he had occupied this very room, wishing he could turn back the clock, and achingly aware that despite all the perils, the happiest days of his life had been spent wandering the pleasant lanes and by-ways with Diccon and Nanette… "Little one… my beloved… how I miss you…"
A soft knock at the door announced the arrival of the maid with the early coffee he'd ordered. Sighing, he opened his eyes and summoned a smile as the girl trod into the room, tray balanced on one hand.
"Good morn—" he began in his polite way.
Her reaction was not quite what he had expected. Her eyes became round as saucers, her mouth taking on the same shape as the tray dropped from her hands. "Oh! Oh, my lor'!" she gasped, taking a hurried step back, oblivious of the wreckage at her feet. "Well, I never!" And she fled, turned at the door to peep back in, and with a squeal, vanished.
"I'll be damned!" ejaculated Harry.
"Ravishers usually are," murmured a soft feminine voice.
Captain Sir Harry Allison Redmond sat up faster than he'd ever moved in his life. A vision stood beside the modest dressing table. A vision clad in a wrapper that was a misty blue cloud of gauze; a vision with huge hazel eyes full of love and mischief, and flecks that echoed the lacy blue cap tied demurely over her shining black curls.
"Wh— Wha—?" croaked Harry.
"The last time we were alone together in this boarding house," said Nanette yearningly, "you called me a—er… what was it? Oh, a 'Puss'! And you told me you were 'not a bad sort'…"
"It—it was… you?' he gulped, idiocically.
"Then and now, beloved. Only this time—willingly."
Her eyes were limpid, her mouth soft and inviting.
"See here'" Harry remonstrated, pulling the sheet primly around his chin. "What—what the deuce are you . . . doing in my bedchamber?"
Nanette smiled, loving him so much it was a pain, and loving him the more because although he trembled with longing for her, yet even now he strove to protect her. "Why, I am compromising you, of course. My own adored tyrant… my so-gallant gentleman who was willing to risk his dear life—to endure suffering and shame and danger for my sake. And yet is too proud to offer for me because of my so-hateful fortune."
A ripple of subdued but excited chatter broke out not too far distantly. Discerning Mrs. Burnett's outraged tones, Harry groaned "Oh, my God! What am I to tell the woman? Nanette, you naughty vixen, turn around! Quickly!"
Dimples peeping, she obeyed. He jumped out of bed, threw on his dressing gown and fastened the buttons hurriedly, then told her he was respectable.
She turned shyly, and noting that his rumpled hair was twisting into elf-locks she was reminded of their happy journeyings with Diccon. A tremulous smile pulled at her lips and her eyes blurred.
Gazing at her. Harry thought her exquisitely lovely She was ail he would ever want… all he would ever need, and in her face a worship that set his heart to thundering.
The thundering was echoed by a low bur persistent rapping at the door.
"Sir Harry! Sir Harry! Have you got someone in there'" Mrs. Burnett's voice was discreetly soft, yet shook with righteous indignation. "This here is a respectable house. I'll have you know!"
"I don't… understand," said the bemused Harry, retaining sufficient of his wits to ignore this interruption. "Did you follow me here?"
"But, of course. Nerina's brother was coming to that ridiculous mill, and she insisted we accompany him so that we might shop in the Pantiles. I have been praying for weeks that you would come for me… and trying to build up my courage to come to you in spite of that very foolish letter you sent. But—I was afraid you would send me off again. "This, I thought, must be handled very much with adroitement, for he is clever and I may lose him forever? We chanced to pass when you were leaving the stable, and I begged that we follow. When you came here, I knew what I must do.Nerina nearly fainted when I took rooms also, although it was silly because my dear Lindsay—the abigail who gave me her dress when I first ran away—is here with me."
"And doesn't know you are in here, I'll wager," he said, still struggling. "Nerina was right and it is—most improper, as you must—er, certainly… be aware."
"Terribly improper," she agreed. "But very necessary, all the same. I crept in here before anyone was about and waited for you to wake up so that I might entrap you! I am shameless, oui, but…" She held out her arms, "Ah, my dearest one, how could I resist so golden an opportunity?"
Dizzied with love and a joy he scarce dare acknowledge, Harry yet clung to his unyielding Code. "Are you—er, I mean—do you wear a… a nightdress under that—wrapper?" he stammered.
Blushing adorably, Nanette discarded the wrapper. She was fully clad in a charming gown of pale primrose crep
e, with a low, squared neckline and the bodice fastened with a tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. "I am not so abandoned as to appear before you in… my nightrail," she said breathlessly, only to add with an incorrigible twinkle, "The maid, however, assuredly thought I wore only a nightgown under my wrapper, so you are fairly disgraced, you know."
"Wretched little shrew…" he said in a choked voice, and reached out to her. With a muffled sob, she ran into his embrace. He caught her tight against his heart, and with his cheek against her hair and his eyes closed, murmured rapturously, "My darling… oh, my most precious vixen. Are you—quite sure?"
"Quite sure," sighed Nanette.
Wherefore he bent his head at last and kissed her thoroughly with a love that seemed more of heaven than earth.
"I'll give you a 'alf hour!" hissed a very earthy voice at the keyhole. "And then I'm a'calling of the Watch! Such carryings-on I never did hear in all me born days! Twice! Don't you never set foot in my house again! Barrynet, green eyes, or no! Imagine!" Still muttering her outrage, the good lady took herself off, her rapid footsteps fading into silence.
Harry deposited a kiss in the softness of Nanette's palm. "You must return to your room at once. I'll go down as soon as I'm dressed and try to calm her… somehow!"
"Will you? I wish I might hear it," she giggled, and nursing his hand to her cheek murmured "There is just… one thing, Harry…"
"What is it, my own, my heart?"
"I am afraid," said Nanette demurely, "you shall have to… marry me, now…
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 35