Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Charity's heart sank. She had failed. She was no heroine, but a shivering, miserable coward…

  Jean-Paul called, "Clem? You have opened your curtains again, yes?"

  "No, I ain't. No reason to. No one can stick their long nose in here."

  "The reason is because monseigneur does not wish a coach that shows closed curtains and might en effet have very many persons within. Monseigneur wishes a coach that carries one gentleman. You comprehend?"

  "No," jeered Clem. "I'm too stupid, Frenchy!"

  But Charity heard him moving about and the faint increase of brightness in her stuffy prison told her he had done as Jean-Paul commanded.

  On they went, bounce and rattle and sway and jolt, while the air in the central enclosure became ever hotter and stuffier and Charity's head began to ache. Little Patches had gone back to sleep, which was as well, for Charity was very sure they would not treat the little animal kindly once she was discovered. If she was permitted to alight at the next stage, she would try to smuggle the kitten out and let her run off. "You are so pretty, tiny one," she whispered. "Someone will take pity on you and give you a home." She pulled her cloak gently over the kitten, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.

  She awoke with a start. The faint glow at the edges of the screens was tinged with red. It must be sunset, and still the carriage steadily ate up the miles. If they had turned back to the south coast while she slept, they would come to the end of this part of their journey very soon.

  Clem was grumbling about the advanced hour and his need for sustenance. "Ain't had a perishin' crumb since morning," he declared. "Abaht time we stopped fer a bite o' supper."

  "You know where we are told to stop,'' Jean-Paul pointed out. "You would not wish to vex monseigneur."

  Clem's response was a growl of profanity that left little doubt as to his opinion of monseigneur.

  Wondering wretchedly whether poor Best had survived; whether Rachel was making herself ill with grief and worry; whether Tristram and Dev had already set out in search of her, Charity's eyes fell. She gave a gasp. Little Patches was very obviously feeling the effects of this long confinement. She had jumped to the floor and was scratching with one minute paw at the screen, trying to thrust her nose around the edge. Charity bent cautiously and took her up. The pink mouth opened protestingly, but they were crossing a bridge at that moment and the sounds of the wheels on old cobblestones drowned out the kitten's cry. Trying to soothe her, Charity murmured, "I have the same need as you, little one, but whether we will be permitted to attend to it is another matter.''

  "Monsieur Jean-Paul," she said, timidly.

  "The lady's awake," jeered Clem. "What a pity!"

  Ignoring him, Charity said, "I, er, have a problem, I fear. Of—of a personal nature.''

  "Cor blimey!" said Clem in an affected voice. " 'Ere we is, miles from the nearest water closet!"

  Charity's cheeks burned and she longed to toss her slipper into his nasty face, even as she had done to Mr. Redmond. Redmond… a clear picture of his haughty elegance rose in her mind's eye, bringing with it a pang of longing for family and friends, and all the dear and gentle security of Strand Hall.

  Jean-Paul said reasonably, "The lady has been quite good, Clem. She is, after all, only human, and carries the babe besides."

  "A sight better orf she'd be if she didn't," grunted Clem.

  "Not insofar as our kindly employer is concerned. He wants this babe very much, and I for myself should not wish to bring our guest to him in a poor state. No, no. We must stop for the new mama, I think."

  Charity felt chilled. Claude wanted Rachel, but more, he wanted her child! So this was the vengeance he planned for Tristram. That gallant man's heart would break were his wife to fall again into Sanguinet's hands, but to know his helpless child was in those same hands, to guess at the horrors the Frenchman meant to inflict… Shivering, she thought, "But Claude does not have his intended victim!" And if the worst should happen, if she herself were murdered, Tristram and Devenish would know—surely they would know, and they would be prepared. Rachel would be guarded night and day.

  Her nobility faded away. She was shaking like a leaf, for however hard she tried to be brave, she could not stop thinking of the moment when she would face Claude. Of the look that would come into those hot brown eyes when he saw her… Of the violence he might visit upon her in his rage and frustration. Her blood ran cold, and her knees turned to blancmange.

  The carriage began to slow, and she recovered her wits, snatched up the kitten, and thrust her back into her pocket.

  Jean-Paul pulled the screen aside. The scarlet glow of a magnificent sunset flooded in, and Charity blinked, dazzled by that warm light after the gloom of her little prison.

  "Come, madame." Jean-Paul opened the door and let down the steps, then sprang down and reached out to her. Charity took his hand and moved stiffly to stand beside him.

  They had stopped on a lonely country lane. There was no sign of habitations, woods stretched out to either side, and distantly hills rose, dark against the crimson sky. The outriders walked their horses up and watched, grinning.

  Clem had left the carriage also, and came around to grumble at Jean-Paul because of the delay. "Take her in them trees. It ain't Carlton House, yer royalty, but you gotta take what's here, as they say." His beady eyes flickered down Charity, and she drew her cloak around her, trying to create the illusion of breadth around her flat middle.

  "This way, madame." Jean-Paul led her to the trees, Clem following.

  The two men stopped and turned to face her. Shrinking with mortification, Charity pleaded, "You will allow me some privacy?"

  "Privacy!" Clem spat at a passing butterfly. "Cor! Go on, missus! Or it's up in the coach again!"

  Jean-Paul said curtly, "Do you try to run from us, I shall not be responsible for you. But we will turn our backs, madame."

  "Ho, no, we won't!" argued Clem. "You got maggots in yer head, Frenchy? When she hoists up them dainty skirts, it'll be ter run like a rabbit!"

  They glared at each other. Charity fled quickly into the trees, released the indignant kitten, and looked about her in desperation. Nothing. No lane, no cottage, no sound of voices. It was hopeless. If she ran or tried to hide they would catch her and then Clem would have his way. At the very least, they would beat her… Despairing, she attended to the wants of nature, then glanced around for the kitten. There was no sign of her. It was as well. The poor little creature would be safer out here than—

  Some way off, a woman laughed.

  Charity's heart gave a great leap, and she began to run wildly in the direction of the sound. A frantic mewing arose. She had looked too far afield for Little Patches. The kitten had evidently been playing about her skirts and now was being bounced about as she strove to climb up. Charity retrieved her and returned her to the much used pocket. The woods became denser as she ran, and she could hear no more laughter, no sound except, terrifyingly, the thump of heavy feet behind her. "Help!'' she screamed at the top of her lungs, and tried to run faster. There was no response to her scream, no friendly call or sudden appearance of country people to come to her rescue. Only those remorseless boots coming ever closer. They were closing the gap, but she must get away… she must! She could hear heavy breathing now, a savage panting mutter of rage. She gave a panicked sob as a sudden jerk at her cloak wrenched her backwards and she fell.

  Cursing, his face distorted with fury, Clem loomed over her.

  Charity knelt, drawing the cloak around her and huddling lower, one hand upthrown to protect her face. "Please don't… don't!" she implored.

  "I have… warn you, madame," panted Jean-Paul, coming up with them.

  Clem drew back his brawny hand.

  "My—my baby!" sobbed Charity in desperation.

  The Frenchman's eyes drifted down her crouched figure. "Mon… Dieu . . . " he breathed.

  "You want a lesson, you do," snarled Clem.

  Jean-Paul caught his arm. Following the Fr
enchman's gaze, Clem's jaw dropped. "By grab!" he gasped. "It's— moving!"

  Charity glanced down. Little Patches was settling herself again. The cloak bulged and shifted.

  "I'll be gormed!" Clem muttered, awed. He lowered his fist and took Charity gingerly by the elbow. "You got spunk, ma'am. I'll give yer that."

  Charity fought an almost overpowering need to laugh. She clambered to her feet and at once Jean-Paul was supporting her. She said with a plaintive sigh, "I am… so very tired…"

  "Soon, madame," said Jean-Paul soothingly, "you shall have good food and a comfortable bed. Very soon, now."

  The sky was a glory of crimson and turquoise when they emerged from the trees, and the carriage waiting on the dusty lane, the outriders standing chatting beside their horses, the verdant landscape, presented an idyllic pastoral scene well worth setting upon canvas. Usually so aware of beauty, Charity viewed it without one jot of appreciation, until—Her eyes opened wider. The sun was going down, but it was going down on the wrong side of the carriage! If they had turned southwards, the right side should be presented to that descending orb, instead of which the sun was setting beyond the left side! So they were still heading north! If they continued thus, they would eventually come to Scotland. Surely Dev and Tristram were already close behind, and Dev would follow for only a short while before he would guess their destination!

  With this first faint glimmering of hope to sustain her, Charity climbed bravely up into the great black coach.

  Chapter 8

  Diccon set a pace that was as brisk as his tongue was still. Hour after hour they rode steadily northwards, crossing beautiful Sussex and entering Surrey above Horsham, but avoiding that old town, as Diccon had avoided all main thoroughfares and populated areas. Three times they stopped to rest the horses and refresh themselves, always at secluded taverns or farmhouses, and always for the briefest possible period. On each of these occasions, Mitchell attempted to learn more of Diccon's plans, but his questions were turned aside. The intelligence officer was morose and uncommunicative and would only repeat that since the last authenticated encounter with Claude Sanguinet had been in Ayrshire, it was the most likely place to start. He had earlier said that the castle had been under observation for a year with no sign of further activity. It therefore seemed obvious to Mitchell that more recent information must have been received, but that Diccon chose not to share it with him.

  The miles slipped past, the afternoon deepened, and Diccon's taciturnity began to gall. Instead of being welcomed as an ally, Mitchell was evidently mistrusted. He refused to acknowledge that his caustic references to the Regent might have inspired such an attitude, and began to think resentfully that he might better have stayed with Leith's intrepid little band. At least, when they came up with Sanguinet's coach— and he had no doubt but that they would do so—they would not only be able to rescue poor Miss Strand, but might even be able to pry some information from the men who held her.

  Charity's image haunted him. A most contrary girl, but she was gently born and had known more than her share of grief. Besides, the thought of any female being a helpless pawn in the hands of so soulless a villain as Claude Sanguinet sent a tide of rage seething through him. He consoled himself with the conviction that her captivity would be temporary. Soon, perhaps even at this moment, Tristram and Harry and the rest would gallop to her rescue. He could picture the depth of her relief and gratitude. And as soon as she was safely restored to her home, Leith would be coming after them hell for leather. They might even join forces before they reached Ayrshire.

  The sun was low in the sky when they neared Woking, the tired horses clattering wearily over a bridge across the River Wey. Diccon turned off the road and led the way into an isolated stretch of woods. Quite suddenly, gypsies were all around them. For an instant, Mitchell suspected an ambush and his hand streaked down for his pistol, but Diccon was welcomed respectfully, and the travellers were guided to a wide clearing close to the bank of the river, where stood a ring of about ten caravans,

  Mitchell was given into the care of an aged little man wearing a brilliant red scarf about his head and having very bright black eyes and a great, upcurving chin. His caravan was neat; Mitchell was invited to take off his coat; a bowl of hot water was provided, and while he washed, the old man brushed the dust from his coat. Thanking him, Mitchell went back outside. He found Diccon already seated by the camp fire, eating stew and conversing in the Romany tongue with three grim-looking men. A bowl of stew was brought to Mitchell, together with a thick slice of crusty bread. Simple fare, but he found it beyond words delicious, partly because it was eaten in the crisp fresh air, and partly because he'd been working up a hearty appetite since leaving Sussex.

  He no sooner finished the stew than fresh horses were brought up. Indignant, he declared that he had no intention of leaving Whisper here. At once a dozen heads turned his way, and a dozen pairs of hard black eyes bored at him.

  Diccon said, "She'll be safer here than going on at the pace we must travel. I'll grant he's no Arabian, but this hack is used to long hauls and hard knocks." Lowering his voice, he murmured, "And were I you, friend, I'd not be questioning the integrity of these folks. Unless you want another knife 'twixt your ribs."

  Mitchell mounted up and reached into his pocket for his purse.

  Diccon caught his eye, and Mitchell checked, then bent to shake the hand of the man who held the hack. "Thank you for your hospitality, friend," he said. "Shall you be camped here when we return?"

  "Who can say, Gorgio Rye? Your beautiful mare will be at Moire Grange when you reach there."

  Astonished, Mitchell said, "How the devil do you—"

  "If you are quite ready, Mr. Redmond," Diccon interrupted, "I've to be in Abingdon tonight."

  Jerking his head around, Mitchell gasped, "Abingdon?"

  "Too far for you?" Diccon shrugged. "I fancy your brother could teach you a thing or two about forced marches!"

  Through a rather set smile, Mitchell said, "I am very sure he could," and rode on.

  For three long hours scarcely a word was spoken. They were slowed when the dusk deepened into evening, for there was no moon and it was difficult to see their way. It was quite dark when Diccon at last rode into the yard of an isolated and inexpensive little hedge tavern.

  Mitchell dismounted wearily, followed the eager host into a low-ceilinged foyer, and up a winding stair. His room was tiny but clean, and he sprawled with a sigh of relief onto the soft feather bed. He forced himself to stand after only a moment, however, knowing he would be asleep in no time and having not the slightest intention of granting Diccon the opportunity to remark that Harry would not have been so easily tired. He took his toilet articles from his saddlebags and spent a short time in restoring himself to some semblance of tidiness before going downstairs.

  The coffee room the host showed him into was long and low, with whitewashed walls and dark settles and benches.

  A fire burned on the wide hearth, but the room was deserted. The host brought a bottle of wine, and Mitchell ordered a light supper, and still Diccon had not appeared. He was grinning to himself, thinking that he might be the one to scoff in the morning, when another gentleman entered.

  The newcomer was clad in a peerless riding coat and breeches, his neckcloth unostentatiously but impeccably tied, his topboots gleaming. A slender gentleman, with short curling hair arranged in a simple but attractive style, the aristocrat written in every proud inch of his tall figure.

  "Your thoughts must be exceedingly pleasant to bring such a smile to your face, sir," he said.

  Mitchell gasped, "Diccon! By Jove—I didn't know you!"

  Crossing to occupy the opposite chair, Diccon said coolly, "Good. Let us hope Sanguinet's spies don't."

  "I cannot believe it! Who cut your hair?"

  "I did. Have you ordered? Ah, I see you have."

  The host and his plump lady carried in a juicy ham and a plate of cold beef. Pickled beets, sliced cheeses, hot bread
, and a steaming gooseberry pie completed the repast, and the two men applied themselves to it with enthusiasm.

  Not until the host had removed the covers and left them to their wine did Diccon say, "Too tired to talk for a minute?"

  "It will be a novel experience," said Mitchell dryly.

  Diccon stared at him in puzzled questioning.

  '' No one,'' said Mitchell,"could accuse you of being garrulous, Major."

  "Oh." The suspicion of a smile twitched at the thin lips. "Nor you of being a lover of the quiet life. You've built quite a reputation since last we met, Mr. Redmond. I was surprised to learn that you are now reckoned a fine shot and a master swordsman."

  Mitchell took a walnut from the bowl. "They seemed desirable skills to cultivate—under the circumstances."

  "Did they?" Watching the younger man's inscrutable face and cold eyes, Diccon thought with a faint regret that the Sanguinets had much to answer for. "And what of the skills you once hungered after? What of your passion for musty old books and ancient history? Your dream of a fellowship at Oxford?"

  "Dreams change."

  "To become vendettas?"

  Mitchell cracked the nut between his strong fingers and said nothing.

  "I had thought your quarrel was with Parnell Sanguinet," Diccon went on blandly, "and he is dead."

  "Claude manipulated Parnell, as he manipulates everyone. And Claude is very much alive. And as for vendettas— Claude's rogues attacked me, if you remember."

  "Ah, yes. Your, er, duel. They likely mistook you for a patriot."

  In the act of selecting another nut, Mitchell paused and looked up. "Mistook…?" he echoed softly.

  "You said yourself you care not what happens to the Regent, which being the case I can only suppose that you accompany me in pursuit of personal vengeance."

  Mitchell frowned, then said deliberately, "It would give me the greatest satisfaction to assist the Sanguinets towards the hell they richly deserve."