Strand's rumpled fair head jerked around to stare at the youth. "Lion… ? By Jove—it is! But, you're Garvey's tiger!''
Afraid, and his conscience extremely uneasy, Lion stammered, "I—I ain't not—no more, I ain't."
"Oh," said Strand. "Well, I shouldn't wonder! What the deuce have you done to your hair?"
And suddenly it seemed so hilarious that Charity began to laugh and couldn't stop, her peals of mirth so infectious that they all were drawn in until the castle rang with the sound of it. "Oh," gasped Charity, wiping her eyes. "If that isn't just like you, Justin! Here—here we are… just this minute escaped from that wretched man… and you must worry because Lion was made to dye his hair!''
"Well, it looks awful." Strand grinned. "Come along now, and meet our host!"
They proceeded to the steps, where Major Craig Tyndale was presented. His hair was a few shades darker than that of his cousin Alain Devenish, and his pleasant features showed small trace of that ebullient young man's famed good looks. He bowed over Charity's hand and begged that she come inside. "My wife is away, ma'am, but I know she would wish you to borrow whatsoever you might need. I'll send a maid upstairs with you do you wish to refresh yourself and change your dress."
Charity thanked him as he led the way into the lofty Great Hall and thence to a large and comfortable drawing room, since she told him she could not bear to be parted just yet from her loved ones. She had been determined to dislike this man who had stolen away the girl Devenish loved so devotedly, but she found that despite herself she warmed to him for his quiet manner, his grave smile, and his pleasant Canadian accent. His grey eyes were not perhaps as fine, but much more friendly than those of Mr. Redmond, she decided.
Devenish said brightly, "Welcome to the haunted castle."
Tyndale glanced at him, but said nothing.
"If you could only know how glad I am to be here,'' Charity said fervently. "I have so much to ask you—and so much to tell."
Tyndale led her to a comfortable chair and went over to tug on the embroidered bell-pull. Strand and Leith seated themselves on a sofa, Devenish perched on the arm, Bolster, Sir Harry, and the Reverend Langridge pulled chairs closer, and Lion sat on the jut of the hearth, watching Little Patches creep about, making a dramatic stalk of this new place.
"My poor girl," said Leith kindly, "you have had a dreadful time. You know, of course, that we failed you miserably."
"Followed the wr-wrong coach," Bolster said with a wry nod. "Lot of silly g-g-gudgeons!"
"Just so soon as we realized what had happened," put in Sir Harry, "we rushed up here, because—"
"Because I'd told them what transpired here with good old Claude last year," Devenish interposed. "We was expecting to find Diccon here…" He glanced curiously at Mitchell.
"It looks," said the Reverend in his mild voice, "as though my nephew was luckier than us all."
Mitchell, who had drifted away to stand quiet and aloof beside a side window, met his brother's curious stare. "Diccon's dead, I think," he said flatly.
Sir Harry's face twisted. "Oh, never say so!"
"Are you perfectly sure?" Leith asked, his own face paling.
"Then you've not heard from diLoretto?" Mitchell countered.
"Your man?" Puzzled, Sir Harry shook his head. "What has he to do with Diccon, bantling?"
Mitchell's lips tightened. "It's a long story. I'm not sure we've the time." He turned to Leith. "I don't mean to be melodramatic, but could you send a man up to the battlements to keep watch?"
"By Jove!" Devenish exclaimed, his handsome face brightening. "Old Claude?"
Mitchell nodded. "Very likely, I'm afraid."
A rather rumpled butler hurried in and crossed to receive Tyndale's orders. He looked astonished and left quickly.
Mitchell glanced at the clock as it chimed the quarter hour. "I'll be as brief as possible," he said, and embarked on a very abbreviated version of his journey to Birkenhead and the fight at the bridge. "If Diccon was not killed," he added, "he showed no sign of life. I knew diLoretto had apparently escaped detection. I fancied he'd have contacted you by this time."
The butler and a maid came in at this point with trays of coffee and cakes. Mitchell drew up a chair and continued his tale, pausing only to ascertain that a footman had been sent to the roof to warn of any approaching vessel. He spoke tersely until he reached the point of their final confrontation with Claude. Hesitating, he finished abruptly, "There was a bit of a tussle in the war room, but thanks to Guy we were able to get away and—"
Indignant protests interrupted him. Devenish said, "Come on now, Redmond. You can't fob us off like that. What kind of tussle? And how did you escape?"
His face as expressionless as his voice, Mitchell said, "I escaped because Miss Strand wields a fearsome spear. And because Guy rescued me." When the shouts of excitement died down, he added, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I shall let someone else finish the story." He stood amid a flat silence and sauntered from the room.
Bolster and Harry exchanged mystified glances.
Guy said quickly, "Perhaps I may tell you …?" Urged to do so, he described the battle with typical modesty, so that Charity often felt called upon to interrupt. No mention was made of Mitchell's ordeal, but between them they painted so graphic a picture of that struggle that cheers rang out when they finished.
As soon as he could make himself heard, Leith asked, "Do you know when the crown is to be delivered? Is there a definite time?"
Leaning in the doorway, Mitchell said, "It is to be taken to the Pavilion at Brighton. There will be a dinner party before the ball to commemorate the Battle of Waterloo, and Claude has sent Prinny a note saying that the crown is presented to him in honour of the occasion.''
His news was greeted with dismay.
"Wednesday?"
"And today's Saturday! Egad!"
"Can we reach London in less than five days?" the Reverend wailed.
"Not London, sir, Brighton," corrected Leith. "And we must!''
"If we ride like hell," said Devenish, ever the optimist, "we could do it in half the time. Certainly by the eighteenth!"
Leith said thoughtfully, "If we could just get some backing."
Tyndale nodded. "Someone will have to go to the authorities."
"Authorities!" Devenish regarded him with scorn. "Just like you, Craig, to want to bring in a lot of pompous officials."
"Doubt they'd listen, old f-fellow," said Bolster.
"They wouldn't listen to me," Leith agreed. "Or even to poor Diccon. The only other man who could help us is in Russia. We're on our own, gentlemen. Dev's right. If we appeal for help, we not only invite endless delays and the prolific red tape of officialdom, but we're more than likely to be clapped up as dangerous lunatics."
Charity intervened hopefully, "But Mr. Redmond said your wife has a relation living nearby, Major. Her grandpapa?"
"Very true, ma'am. General Drummond. And the old fellow is a fighter—he'll move heaven and earth to help."
Automatically assuming command, Leith said, "Then you must go to him at once, Tyndale."
"I'd sooner go with you, Colonel. At all events, I doubt the General could find us help in time."
"Perhaps not. But if we fail, somebody in authority must attempt to make the truth known."
Tyndale looked downcast, but he strode over to tug on the bell-rope once more, and when the butler ran in with an immediacy that betrayed the fact he'd been close by, he said, "Send word to the stables, if you please. We shall need six"—he scanned the tense group—"no, forgot Mr. Redmond—seven fast horses, and a coach and four. Quickly, man!"
The butler flew.
Also taking inventory, Guy said, "Major Tyndale, you have also forget me, I think?"
Tyndale glanced questioningly to Leith.
Tristram said, "Guy, under the circumstances, I think it best you stay clear. You can help us most by going with the Major and providing any needed details."
"And what about
me?" demanded Charity, as they all stood. "I'll not be left, Tris!"
He smiled at her fondly. "My dear girl, you have done splendidly, but you surely do not intend to gallop down Scotland and the length of England with a bunch of wild men who—"
"Of course she don't," Strand interjected. "My sister will ride with you, Tyndale."
"Precisely why I ordered up the coach and four," said the Major.
Her eyes blazing with indignation, Charity declared, "Well, I'll not! I have been kidnapped and bullied and petrified these two weeks and more! I'll not now be abandoned miles from home. Besides, I want to see how Rachel goes on."
"For heaven's sake, do not talk such rubbish, child," said Strand in his impatient fashion. "A fine sight you'd present in your muslin gown, riding at the gallop!"
Mitchell drawled, "Do you mean to argue about it much longer, we'd as well start preparing our blacks."
Tyndale said briskly, "We'd best arm ourselves, gentlemen. The gun room is this way."
As they hurried into the hall, Strand seized Charity's elbow. "Find yourself a cloak, love. The wind's coming up."
Overhearing, Tyndale said, "You will find whatever you need in my wife's room, ma'am." He walked beside her and gestured to a hovering lackey.
The brothers were alone. Mitchell regarded Harry without expression. A faint smile curving his lips, Harry went over and tilted his brother's chin up. "Caught one here, I see," he murmured, lightly touching the bruised mouth. He dropped his hand onto Mitchell's shoulder. "Well done, halfling! Gad, but I'm proud of you."
Mitchell met his eyes squarely. "Only because Guy and Miss Strand did not tell you the whole. I was listening outside." He saw Harry's smile fade into a look of consternation but nerving himself, ploughed on. "Do you know what Claude said? He said I'd spent these last thirteen months trying to prove my manhood."
Harry had thought the same. Shocked, he managed to say with relative calm, "Is that so? Well, if it was truth, you've certainly proved it."
"No." Mitchell turned away, picked up a dainty Sevres compote dish and inspected it unseeingly.
Angered, Harry exclaimed, "Good God, Mitch! If this coup does not convince you, I do not know what will! You longed to face Claude. You did, and—"
"And learnt to the full what cowardice—real, panicked cowardice—feels like."
Harry caught his breath. With his tense gaze fixed on that stern averted profile, he waited.
"When Claude discovered my true identity, he—" Mitchell set the compote dish down with care and turned to face him. "He questioned me."
"Bastard! With his fists, I take it?"
"No. With a whip."
Harry stiffened and his dark brows drew together over slitted eyes.
"I showed yellow as a dog," said Mitchell flatly, his head well up, but his thin hands clenching and unclenching nervously.
"Well, er, well, dammit, of course you did! What more natural, considering that only a year ago you were near killed by that flogging you—" Mitchell jerked his head away. And longing to throw an arm about those rigid shoulders, Harry said stoutly, "You recovered yourself. That's the important thing. In spite of your very natural reaction, you got them out of there."
"Guy got us out. I recovered myself I suppose you could say; to a point, that is all."
Indignant, Harry argued, "Miss Strand said you fought like a tiger. That don't sound like 'to a point.' "
Mitchell could no longer meet those fiercely loyal eyes, but Harry must know the bitter truth. His voice began to falter, as he said, "When Claude threatened me with that whip, I couldn't describe how I felt. And—when it struck me… oh, it wasn't the pain that I mean, exactly. It was as if I was— petrified. I simply couldn't move. If—if Guy hadn't torn the whip from Claude—" He took a deep, trembling breath. "I doubt you'd be proud of me today, Sauvage."
Damning Claude Sanguinet from the depths of his soul, Harry growled, "I am not proud of you now. You blasted idealistic young idiot! What you experienced was shock. And perfectly understandable. Good God, Mitch, must you set yourself on a pedestal so impossibly high you're not allowed to be human?"
"Set myself on a—" gasped Mitchell. "Well, of all the—"
"Be still! Now you just listen for a minute! I've seen better men than you, or me, or even Leith, panic in battle: seasoned fighting men who suddenly faced something they could not deal with, so that they ran, screaming, from the field. And I've seen the best of them come back and fight again—more gallantly than before." Harry paced to grip Mitchell's arm strongly. "Give yourself a chance, you blasted high-in-the-instep young chawbacon!''
Mitchell shook his head miserably. "You say that now. But if I'd behaved in so cowardly a way on a battlefield, you'd have likely had me shot out of hand." Before Harry could comment, he pulled a small, battered notebook from his pocket. "I carried this in my boot until today. You take charge of it, Sir Captain. Diccon thought it vital that it should be delivered with the greatest despatch to someone in authority. Wellington, I'd think would be—"
"The devil I will!" Harry waved the book away. "I don't want the blasted thing! You got it. You deliver it."
"For the love of God! Have you understood nothing I've told you? If Claude should get his hands on me again, and I have this, I might—"
"Turn yellow, as you did this time?" finished Harry brutally.
Stunned, Mitchell stared at him.
"Panic for an instant?" went on Harry. "Then fight on, as you did this time? Well, what in hell's wrong with that? Oh no, my lad! You'll not shove the responsibility off onto me. I've the utmost faith in you. Besides—" he slanted an oblique glance at Mitchell's pale face, and added, "I've done my share. I fought on the Peninsula. You didn't, you young rapscallion." His own heart twisted as he saw his brother flinch. "I'm getting old," he said blandly.
"Old!" exclaimed Mitchell. "You're not thirty!"
"Ah, but I've lived hard…" He paused, the twinkle fading from his eyes. He said awkwardly, "And you forget, I've watched you grow up. I know that you could not possibly be a coward, Mitch."
Through a long silent moment their eyes met and held, the affection they usually disguised now very apparent. Then Harry said with an embarrassed laugh, "You'd better not be—else I shall have to break your stupid neck!"
Mitchell turned away. His voice rather muffled, he said, "Damned… cawker…"
Yolande Drummond Leith was only a little taller than Charity, and if her figure was more rounded, the difference in dress size was not so marked as to be impossible. Torn by guilt lest her determination cause the gentlemen to be delayed, Charity changed into a dashing dark blue riding habit, with trembling haste jammed a jaunty little blue hat on the curls the abigail had hurriedly brushed into a semblance of neatness, and all but ran along the hall once more.
She had been quicker than she knew; the men were gathered on the drive, watching grooms lead fine saddled horses from the stables, a closed carriage following.
Lion, holding Little Patches, came over. "You'll let me go along wi' you, Miss Charity?" he pleaded.
"Of course," she answered with a reassuring smile. "However could we—" She checked to a faint sound like a distant shout that seemed to be coming from— She jerked her head back. A small figure, high atop the battlements, waved madly. Spinning around she saw many men racing up the side path from the beach. Men armed with pistols, muskets, clubs, or the gleaming steel of sword and dagger. And to one side stood Claude Sanguinet, bruised and hatless, aiming a pistol at Tristram Leith's back.
''Tris!'' screamed Charity.
Leith whipped around.
Without a second's hesitation, Guy sprang in front of him.
A bright flame blossomed from the pistol. Horrified, Charity heard the following blast of the shot. Guy jerked backwards and fell.
The men grouped about Leith exploded into action. A volley of shots sent the attackers scattering for cover.
Leith shouted, "Mitch! Go! We'll hold 'em as long as we can!"
/>
Mitchell, now clad in a riding coat and boots borrowed from Tyndale, at once swung into the saddle of a fine grey horse. Crouching low over the animal's mane, he drove home his spurs and was away like the wind, a flurry of shots following.
Devenish sprinted to throw an arm around Charity and drag her around to the far side of the castle. Far below she caught a glimpse of a large ship riding at anchor, a longboat making towards the shore, crowded with more men.
"That triple damned idiot," fumed Devenish, glancing at the battlements. "Was he asleep up there?"
"Look! Look!" cried Charity. "Another boat, Dev!"
"The devil! Our Claude has brought a whole blasted battalion of his rogues with him! You must get out of this!"
Another outburst of shots, and Strand ran up leading a frightened bay horse. "Here you go, love," he cried, beckoning Charity to him. "Hurry!"
She ran to his side. He kissed her and threw her into the saddle. It was not a sidesaddle, but she threw one knee over the pommel and took the reins, bending to call a frantic, "But what about you and—"
"Follow Redmond!" said Strand. "We'll come."
The shots became louder and closer. Devenish slapped the horse's rump sharply. The mare needed no more urging and bolted madly down the drive.
Chapter 14
Half an hour later, having caught sight of Mitchell Redmond only three times, Charity surmounted a steep hill and scanned the road ahead in desperation. Her anxious gaze swept across dimpling emerald valleys and gentle hills framed by the dark blue of distant mountains. Here and there the chimneys of some isolated farmhouse rose above the trees. A corner of her mind scolded that the Scots called them crofts, not farms… Black-faced sheep grazed contentedly on the slope to her left. The sun came out from behind racing clouds, sending shadows scudding across the land. At any other time she would have joyed in the beauty of it all, but now she knew only dismay because as far as she could see there was no sign of horse and rider.
She turned in the saddle, looking fearfully back the way she had come. There was no sign of Claude's relentless followers, but neither did any loved and familiar figures gallop to accompany her. She urged her mount on, wondering miserably if Justin was unhurt… if Guy had been killed, or—
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown Page 21