Up went Diccon's bushy brows. "Plural, is it? I'd have thought you would feel an obligation to Guy. After all, you shot him, and yet he was decent enough to stop—"
"If he is in this with Claude, then of a surety Guy too!" The sly amusement in Diccon's eyes caused Mitchell's to become bleak. "Furthermore, Major, I do not recall remarking that I did not care what became of Prinny. If I happen to consider him to be a liability rather than an asset to England, it does not imply a lack of patriotism."
"I doubt the royal gentleman would agree. In point of fact, you could be clapped up for such a remark. And, speaking of liabilities, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that is exactly what you are to me.''
"So I gather." Irked, Mitchell said, "Considering how you begged my brother to come, I would think—"
"Ah," murmured Diccon, "but that, you see, was your brother.''
"Who has just as much reason to detest the Sanguinets as have I!"
Diccon smiled infuriatingly and began to push a walnut around his wineglass.
"Sanguinet, I will remind you," gritted Mitchell, leaning forward, "murdered my father."
"But we were never able to prove that, you know. Parnell contrived to Sir Colin's ruin, certainly, and persecuted the lovely lady of whom you were so fond, but—"
Mitchell had raised his wineglass, but at these words his hand jerked so that the rich port splashed onto the gleaming oak. His eyes lifted to meet Diccon's, and that intrepid gentleman was put in mind of the glare he had once beheld in the eyes of a cornered panther. "Perhaps," said Mitchell with silken softness, "you will be so good as to explain what you mean by that…insinuation."
"Insinuation? But, my dear fellow, I had always understood you to be, ah, very fond of Miss Carlson."
"She is not Miss Carlson," said Mitchell, still with his head slightly downbent while he glared up at Diccon from under his black brows. "She is the lady Harry Redmond. And if you dare to imply—"
"That you were in love with her? Of course you were. She knew it—Harry knew it—Parnell knew it! And when he found you alone together in the woods—"
Mitchell's chair went over with a crash. Standing with fists clenched, he raged, "I never laid a hand on her, damn you! She loved Harry. I respected that, and I respected her!"
Diccon leaned back, very much at his ease, his eyes as cool as Mitchell's were blazing. "You loved her," he repeated. "Parnell persecuted and terrorized her and victimized you and your brother. And Claude pulled the strings for all of it, and engineered your father's death. Wherefore, you want him dead at your feet—no?"
"Yes!" snarled Mitchell. "I'll beat him at his own game, and call him out or strangle him with my bare hands if I have to! Is that what you want? Is that what you've been sneering and hinting and prying after? Then hear this, Mr. Tinker or Spy, or whatever you are, I may not be the man my brother is, and I may be no more than a liability to you, but with or without you, I'll find Claude Sanguinet, and—"
Diccon laughed jeeringly. "And you'll die in that moment! Oh yes, that's what I wanted, Redmond. To know just how you will behave in a crisis. And it is as I suspected. You don't give a groat for England. Your only interest in this is personal vengeance!"
"You lie, blast you! I love my country!"
Leaning forward then, Diccon slammed one clenched fist on the table and demanded tensely, "And do you love it enough to be ruled by my decisions? Will you agree to do exactly as I say? Will you swear that if Sanguinet's throat is within your grasp and I give you a no, you will obey me?"
Mitchell stared down at him. His taut body relaxed. He laughed. "Like hell!"
Diccon leaned back again. "Goodbye. And good luck." But as Mitchell strolled to the door, he called slyly, "Pray tell me before you depart, sir. Where do you mean to search? La Mancha?"
Gritting his teeth, Mitchell flung around. And the mockery on the lean face of this strange man banished his own scowl abruptly. "Why, you slippery devil," he said in belated comprehension. "You know where he is!" He stalked back to stand facing Diccon once more. "That's why you called together the few men you trusted, all victims of the Sanguinets, all intent on their destruction no matter what the cost! You did not come asking us to search them out, but to go in there and fight! Only you are too damned devious to say it straight out!"
"Nonsense. A handful against hundreds? I cannot afford such heroics, Redmond. Mine is the meaner task. To spy and creep and learn, so that England may be forewarned—if only she will listen!—and gallant heroes such as yourself can later charge in to glory.''
There was bitterness in his voice. Watching him, Mitchell remembered some of the things Harry had told him of this man. And of Leith's story of the months Diccon had spent in Brittany inside Claude Sanguinet's fortress chateau, risking death every instant and knowing that few in England would care if he paid the ultimate penalty for his devotion.
"Small thanks you get for your trouble," he acknowledged slowly.
"Thanks?" Diccon's lip curled. "I want no thanks. What I need is support! But to most of the powers in Whitehall I am a fanatical gloom merchant. A glory-seeking opportunist whose fearsome dragons have been created purely for my own aggrandizement! While Claude Sanguinet—ah! What a gentle philanthropist; a confirmed Anglophile; a God-fearing, loyal, and fond friend of the Regent. A gentleman sans reproche! And I, a bungling idiot, so that Smollet has been forced to retreat, and even Wellington looks at me askance!" He stood and paced to glare broodingly down into the fire.
Mitchell watched him for a moment, then sat on the edge of the table and said in a subdued voice, "So you have tested me all day, have you? Well, I fear your judgement was well-founded." Diccon swung around, surprised. Mitchell admitted wryly, "You want more of me than I've the courage to give. God knows I'm willing to side you in a scrap, but if you mean to venture into Claude's camp, to masquerade as one of 'em—Lord, no! That kind of heroism is beyond my—"
"What a blasted awful thing to say," interrupted Diccon with considerable indignation. "Heroism, indeed! And if it did come down to that, I'd not be astonished to find you've more of your brother in you than I had at first—" He broke off, his head tilting, listening intently. "Ah! Here comes my word, at last!"
"So that's why we had to reach here tonight! I was—" And in turn Mitchell paused, his eyes widening. From the hall came a familiar voice upraised in song. A tenor voice growing louder until the door was flung open and the song died away.
Antonio diLoretto bowed with a flourish and straightened, his dark eyes full of mischief as they flashed from Mitchell's astonishment to Diccon's scowl.
"Tonio!" exclaimed Mitchell
"It's past time," grunted Diccon.
"I am here," proclaimed diLoretto, redundantly.
"You're a blasted spy!" cried Mitchell with justifiable wrath. "For nigh two years I've paid you to be loyal to me, while all the time you worked for"—he gestured towards Diccon— "him!
"Ah, but, signor, have I not-a serve-a you well? Am I not-a loving you like the brother? Did I not—"
"You're late," Diccon interpolated sharply.
DiLoretto came into the room and closed the door, then removed his cloak. "I was detained," he said with a shrug.
The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped and darkly stained, the tear revealing a crude bandage around his forearm.
"Is it bad?" asked Mitchell, stepping forward quickly.
"Were you followed?" Diccon rasped, his eyes darting to the door.
"Me?" protested diLoretto. "I am the eel, the shadow! They do not-a see even what is the way I go!"
Pulling up a chair for his valet, Mitchell observed, "Someone saw the eel long enough to inflict that."
"A chance shot at the night. This, she is-a nothing! Less-a than nothing!"
Impatient, Diccon demanded, "Then give me something. Was I right?"
"Major de-Conn, I bow! I am all of admiration. You are—"
''For God's sake,'' roared Diccon. '' Was I right ?''
"Yes," said diLoretto gravely.
Diccon breathed a gratified sigh.
"And-a yet again," diLoretto went on with a flourish, "no!"
Sir Harry Redmond was blessed with remarkably keen eyesight, but peering into the moonless night, he failed to discern the hole in the rutted lane and swore as he stumbled and went to his knees. Following close behind, Bolster almost cannoned into him and exclaimed with a breathless laugh, "I s-say, old tulip, if you're that t-tired, you'd best mount up again."
From out of the gloom, Devenish called cheerily, "Poor advice, your lording; farther to fall. Tris? Are you still amongst us? Do you know where we are?"
"I'm here, Dev. And unless I mistake it, we're a shade west of Folkestone. There's a fine old posting house ahead we shall have to have a look at. It would never do for us to pass our quarry in the dark."
"Small chance of that," muttered the Reverend, surreptitiously clinging to the tail of his nephew's mount. "I'd never fancied one rode to the rescue at this dashing crawl!"
"We're moving," Leith pointed out. "Which is likely more than Sanguinet's people are doing. You know the legend of the tortoise and the hare, sir."
"Quiet!" cried Sir Harry sharply, and, still kneeling, bowed forward.
"What the devil's he doing?" hissed Devenish, peering down at the baronet.
"P-praying, I think," Bolster whispered.
Redmond sprang up. "Don't be an ass, Jerry! Leith, there's a heavy vehicle coming up behind us. A dray, perhaps. Though I'd not have thought they'd move produce at this hour of a moonless night."
"Nor I." Low-voiced, Leith called, "Gentlemen, I suspect we've dawdled faster than we knew. Let's give a look at this nocturnal traveller.''
They separated, Redmond and his uncle moving to the left side of the road, Devenish and Bolster to the right, and Leith sitting his horse squarely in the middle.
Soon, they could hear the slow beat of many hooves, the snorting of nervous horses and the grind and creak of wheels. A dark, moving mass loomed against the night sky.
"Halt!" commanded Leith ringingly, adding a fallacious, "In the King's name!"
"Mon Dieu!" a man screamed. "En avant! En avant!"
A whip cracked. Neighing in panic, the coach horses plunged forward.
Sir Harry raised his pistol and a stab of flame sliced the darkness, the explosion deafening. All then was confusion. The Frenchman on the box was shouting; the terrified horses screamed and plunged; the right wheeler got one leg over the trace; the left leader collided with his partner; the carriage rocked crazily. A shotgun blast added to the din.
Devenish flung himself recklessly at the side of the coach, clambered up, and grappled with a shadowy individual who ripped out ferocious Gallic oaths even as he beat madly at his attacker. On the other side of the vehicle, Bolster wrenched open the door and plunged inside. Leith dismounted and grasped the ribbons, attempting to quiet the terrified team. Coming up beside the box, the Reverend Langridge levelled an enormous and quite inoperable blunderbuss. "Do you surrender?" he howled.
"Mais oui! Mais oui! Do not fire, monsieur, s'il vous plait—do not!"
Devenish, whose flying fist had connected to good effect, panted, "This one will give us no trouble, sir. Tris, throw me your tinderbox and we'll have a little light here."
Leith went over and handed up his box, and Devenish lit one of the lamps.
A chaotic scene was revealed. The coach horses were in a hopeless tangle; the guard sagged, unconscious, over the side of the box; the driver cringed, whimpering before the menace of Langridge's blunderbuss.
"Jeremy," Leith called, "is Charity all right?"
Bolster stuck his golden head out of the wide-flung door. " 'Fraid we've made a, er, slight error," he said in a decidedly hollow voice. "Charity ain't here. This coach really is empty!"
"Oh, God!" Leith groaned. "We've been duped, then. That damned rogue has had us following a decoy coach!"
Sir Harry muttered sombrely, "God help poor little Miss Strand. We've lost her!"
Far beyond the dark depths of sleep, someone was calling, "Miss! Miss! Wake up!" Charity was warm and snug, and the effort to respond was great, but respond she must, and somehow she forced her eyes open and blinked stupidly around the dim and unfamiliar room.
A plump woman, her features indistinguishable, was bending over the bed, tugging at her shoulder.'' Your brother and your French cousin be waiting," imparted this shadowy individual. "They axed me to wake ye. Be ye 'wake now, miss?" The heavy hand commenced the tugging again, and Charity pulled away, saying drowsily that she was indeed awake and where in the world was Agatha?
The tugging ceased. The woman deposited a candle on a rickety chest of drawers. "Fit for Bedlam, poor lass," she muttered under her breath. "Just like the genelmens said." She turned back to the bed. "Now you please to wake up, miss. I'll fetch a pitcher of hot water directly."
She was gone when Charity fought her way out of the morass of the feather bed and tried dully to recall the events of the previous day. They had reached this lonely inn at nightfall when she was so exhausted by the long hours of rattling about in the great coach that she had barely been able to totter into the old building. She had a dim memory of Jean-Paul engaging in a murmurous conversation with a little round-eyed fat man who had peered at her in obvious unease and remonstrated until the Frenchman brought out his purse. This civilized act had apparently lulled the host's fears, and she had been ushered upstairs by all three men and shown into a tiny, low-roofed chamber under the eaves. It was the oddest thing that she had been unable to talk to the innkeeper. Every time she tried to speak, her voice was suspended and the words would not come. The door had been slammed shut, and a key turned in the lock. Rushing over to the window, she at once discovered why this particular room had been chosen. The window frames had been painted with a too generous hand so that there was no way to force the windows open. Wearily, Charity had unfastened her cloak, released a yawning kitten and, staying only to remove her gown and hang it on a convenient hook, had crawled into bed.
She had a vague recollection of a woman appearing beside the bed, with a glass of warm milk and a sandwich of cold roast beef. And there had been something to do with Little Patches. She sat up, holding her head which ached dully and seemed vexingly wooden…
A touch aroused her. The buxom woman was again beside her, a kind smile upon her broad, rosy-cheeked face. "Come along, poor creature," she said in that soft country accent. "Sad it is to see ye still so sick and wan. Your genelmens has paid me handsome to care for ye, and so I will. Only look, ma'am, I do have bringed your little friend.'' She held up Little Patches, and the kitten struggled free and leapt onto the bed to butt and purr and generally greet a familiar human.
Charity stroked her and fought to speak. It was a tremendous task. She said indistinctly, "You must… help. I—I am pris'ner. Please—help—"
"There, there, poor soul." The woman stroked her hair gently. ''Such a sweet face. What a pity. What a pity. Come, me dearie, and let Polly just wash you a little bit."
So Charity was washed and dressed. She lowered her head obediently when asked to do so, and a hairbrush was applied to her thick hair with brisk strokes. She was sitting at a table beside the window, drinking tea and eating some toast and strawberry jam. The woman was talking about Little patches and how the kitten had gobbled up the leftover fish last night. "Oh, but she's a saucy little sprat of a cat. Polly would like to keep her, yes, she would, surely."
And there was something she must say. Something very important… "Polly… brother will—come. Justin… tell him… tell him…"
"Yes, for sure I will, my dearie dear. Only he do be downstairs, this very minute. Waiting for ye. And so grieving and sad he scarce can speak, poor soul. And no wonder.'' A cloak was draped about Charity. Someone was holding her arm. It was Clem—not Justin. And Jean-Paul was arguing with the kind-hearted Polly.
"No, but it do be her cat, sir. I beg ye will not take it from the poor lass,
so fond of it as she is. I'll have the boy put a box and earth in your carriage… no trouble…"
They were in a cold, fresh dawn. The great black coach waited like the chariot of death.
Throwing off her strange lethargy, Charity tore from Clem's grasp and ran back to Polly, who watched, wringing her apron in distress.
"Help—help!" she cried frantically. "Do not let them… take…"
Jean-Paul said in a soothing voice, "No, no, dear Mary. We shall not take your little friend. You shall keep the cat." His arm slipped about Charity's shoulders, his fingers gripping cruelly even as he said a loving, "Dear lady, your poor brother waits to care for you." He turned her, shaking his head helplessly at Polly as Charity screamed shrilly. And under his breath, he grated, "Into the coach you go, madame. And—vite!"
She was inside the coach again, her shoulder feeling bruised and sore and her head spinning so. She leaned back against the squabs. Far, far off, she heard Clem grumbling, "… should have thrown the dratted creature at the fat mort! A rare sauce she's got, saddling us with one of her unwanted mogs!"
"Situation is," explained Jean-Paul patiently, "that the fat one has now a kind heart for us. Not a suspicious heart. This rough ground we travel must be got over as light as may be. Besides, this is a cat of many colours. I find it pleasing."
"You would," grunted Clem, disgusted.
Charity fell asleep.
It seemed that she dwelt in a strange void, midway between sleep and waking, in which she was aware of what took place around her, but only in a remote fashion. A portion of her mind told her that she was drugged, but she supposed they must not have dared give her too strong a dose, so that instead of being completely unconscious, she drifted in this trance-like state. The journey went on interminably, but the carriage was no longer stuffy, because the screens had been rolled up. She knew when, at some time in the later afternoon, the outriders left them, and she realized this would confuse the men who followed, for no longer was the coach escorted, nor did it appear to contain only one passenger. The men who guarded her were less antagonistic. Jean-Paul amused himself in playing with Little Patches, and even Clem chuckled occasionally and joined in entertaining the little animal.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown Page 12