Leaning to Mitchell's ear, Charity called above the tumult, "What time shall they sit down to dine, do you think?"
"At any minute, I fancy. Though to judge by this crush many will be delayed."
"Oh, Mitch! What if Claude presents his gift at the start of the meal?"
"I doubt it. Were I he, I'd have it delivered towards the end, when Prinny could quite logically be expected to suffer a seizure, and in—" He broke off, staring to the gates of the drive that wound through the lawns to the Pavilion, and the line of Household Cavalry flanking both sides of the entrance. "It looks," he said slowly, "as though we dare not approach by the direct route, m'dear."
Following his eyes, Charity gasped with fright. A tall gentleman stood conversing earnestly with one of the splendidly caparisoned officers. A dark man, who wore his black garb well and was obviously sufficiently important to be respectfully attended to. "Gerard…" she whispered.
"Now look a little to the right. That's Shotten, see? With the high-crowned brown beaver. Ah! And over there—two more of Claude's rogues!"
"Oh! And look on the other side of the drive, by the yellow flowers—that sullen-looking creature in the green coat— that's Clem! One of the men who kidnapped me! Oh, Mitchell!" She turned to clutch his arm in dismay. "Whatever shall we—"
An impatient group pushed past. Mitchell winced and staggered. A shout went up, and clinging to his arm, Charity saw a fine town carriage of dark brown, trimmed with silver, the crest on the door very familiar. "Vaille!'' she screamed, and pushing through the crowd, waved desperately. "Vaille.'"
A handsome, distinguished face appeared at the window. The Duke of Vaille scanned the throng, but then his coach was past and Charity's cries were swallowed up in the roar of acclaim as he was recognized. Two splendidly mounted cavalrymen walked their horses forward, eyeing the girl suspiciously.
Tears of frustration in her eyes, she stretched out her hands appealingly. They reined up and one of the magnificent beings leaned down from his Olympian heights. "Move along, ma'am," he said with firm officiousness.
"Help me,'' she begged. ''My husband has a message for Prince George, and—"
Shouts of laughter arose, the nearest people eyeing her with delight.
"Oo's got wot?" asked a fat man with a very red and perspiring face and a reek of gin.
"The gal's old man," explained a tall youth wearing an atrocious red waistcoat. He pointed to Redmond, who was striving unsteadily to make his way to Charity's side. "He's got a message fer our Prinny," he said with a guffaw. "A very good friend he is, I'll lay you odds. Whether he's got a hat or not!''
Another laugh was drawn from the crowd. "A lushy lad, was you to ask me, General," said the fat man, nodding up at the amused cavalryman.
"Listen to me," cried Charity, "please! If you will only—"
Angry shouts rang out somewhere along the line. The soldier straightened in the saddle, wheeled his horse abruptly, and clattered off with his comrade.
The attention of the group shifted. Redmond made his way at last to slip an arm about Charity's waist, and she leaned against him, tears of helplessness in her eyes. "Oh, Mitch! We are so close! How awful if we're to be beaten by indifference… at this stage…"
The disturbance ahead had become a violent altercation. The guardsmen rode their horses ruthlessly amongst the crowd on the flagway. Shouts and screams arose. There was a splintering of glass, and people began to run. Mitchell whipped his arm about Charity and somehow forced a way back to a recessed shop door that suddenly opened.
The man about to exit carried a large bag, and a comrade beside him ducked back inside as Mitchell turned towards them. The first man with a quick movement held a glinting knife in his hand. "One sound, my cove," he snarled, his eyes narrowed and deadly.
Mitchell glanced past him into a dim interior. A small emporium by the look of it. He whispered, ''Two out—two in?"
The first man grinned; the knife disappeared. "Come on then, mate," he answered softly.'' Good luck to yer. But you best be quick. Our friends along the way'll be gone in a coupla winks!"
Mitchell took Charity's arm and said importantly,'' Goodnight, Jenkins. See that merchandise is delivered before ten o'clock, there's a good fellow."
The two thieves passed him with deferential bows, the first man murmuring a laughing, "Garn!"
Mitchell closed the door behind them. A muffled squawking met his ears. He glanced over the top of a counter and into the wide and furious eyes of a gentleman with great white eyebrows and glaring brown eyes, who was bound hand ana foot and gagged with a zephyr shawl.
"Good gracious!" gasped Charity. "Poor man! Let us—"
He drew her back. She looked at him enquiringly.
"Poor girl," he said, sighing. "How I drag you down! I believe we are become what is known as Flash Prigs…
Ten minutes later, a neat gentleman's gentleman and an equally neat lady's maid left the quiet premises and blended into the good-natured crowd.
Holding her bandbox carefully, Charity said, "Mitchell, are you quite sure that Mrs. Fitzherbert still uses her little house in the Pavilion grounds?"
He was not at all sure that the Regent's ex-wife ever came near her erstwhile home, but it was, he thought, the best chance they had. "We shall soon find out," he said. "Now, we must walk around to the tradesmen's entrance. This way, ma'am."
They hurried back the way they had come, pushing through the crowd until at last they were able to get across the street, ducking under the noses of an irate team of horses and the recipients of the comments of an equally irate coachman. Approaching the side entrance, however, they were again foiled, for several cavalrymen guarded that gate and were supplemented by three individuals looking so grim and burly that they were either Runners from Bow Street or Sanguinet's people.
Mitchell drew Charity into the shadows, fretting as the minutes crept past, wondering desperately how to bluff his way through. And then a flurry of shots rang out from the direction of the front entrance. The cavalrymen were away at the gallop, Sanguinet's men after them, and the sole remaining guard busily occupied with a cart from Gunter's. Mitchell seized Charity's arm; they walked swiftly to the far side of the cart and were past and along the path in seconds.
"I wouldn't of asked you to come, sir," the footman explained earnestly, walking downstairs beside the austere majesty of the butler, " 'cept that the manservant's a strange sort of cove—more like a gentleman than a valet, and the lady—"
"Exactly so," intervened the butler, his egg-shaped face declining in a slight nod so that the light of the chandelier in the entrance hall gleamed on his bald head. He walked ahead with sedate and unhurried steps. The young woman appeared neat enough. But the man affected too haughty an air, carrying his shoulders in so proud a way that— But here the butler's eyes drifted to the shoes, and he was aghast. One always judged by the shoes. Shoes should shine. Shabby they might be; a little. Perhaps a trifle out of the fashion, even. But shine they must. This man did not even wear shoes! The objects upon his feet were riding boots—and those a mass of mud! The butler levelled a disdainful glance at the unfortunate footman. "Gentleman, indeed!" he murmured with derision. The footman flushed and hung back as the butler descended the last three stairs, prepared to depress the pretensions of this insolent "gentleman."
Reaching the ground floor, the butler lifted his eyes and suffered a severe shock. The young woman looked completely worn out, and she watched him with a sort of tense desperation. The man was deathly pale, his handsome features haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, and an ugly gash marring his high forehead disappeared into the tumbled dark hair. But even as he stood there swaying a little unsteadily, his head was drawn back with a faint but unmistakable arrogance, and the tired grey eyes were amused as he said in a deep cultured voice, "Yes, I'm afraid we present a frightfully odd appearance. I apologize for coming to Mrs. Fitzherbert in such a way, but will you be so kind as to tell her that we must see her at once?"
T
aken aback by both tone and manner, the butler reacted instinctively. "We are seldom here these days, and Mrs. Fitzherbert is not at home, sir."
In a weary voice that was as cultured as that of her companion, the girl wailed, "Oh, Mitchell! After all this!"
Charity sagged against Redmond as she spoke, and he gripped her shoulders, the smile in his eyes replaced by a glare. "A chair for my wife. At once! "he demanded crisply.
"Y-yes, sir," gasped out the butler, gesturing to his subordinate.
A triumphant gleam crept into the footman's dark eyes. He'd knowed them two was Quality the instant he'd seen 'em! Old grizzle-guts had been set down proper by the young nob! Gloating, he raced to carry over a straightbacked chair, then tore off in search of the brandy the butler ordered.
His own miseries forgotten, Redmond dropped to one knee beside Charity, took the glass the footman sped to hand him, and lifted it to her pale lips. "Just a sip, my dear," he urged.
She sipped obediently, coughed, then blinked up at the three anxious faces that watched her. "Good gracious," she said faintly, "I am a silly. Whatever must you think of us, Gilford?"
"You know my name, ma'am? Alas, I do not recall…"
She said distractedly,''How odd that I should recollect that at such a time. I believe Harland chanced to mention it to me, though when—"
Gilford interjected eagerly, "Do you mean the Earl of Harland, miss? Why, I served with his brother, Lord Moulton."
"I fancied you to be ex-military,'' said Redmond."India, was it?"
"Aye, sir. And a more gallant officer never lived, if I may say so."
'' You may. Though I fancy my brother not far behind him. I must make you known to my wife. This is Mrs. Redmond. I am Mitchell Redmond, and—"
"Sir Harry's brother? I'll be— Forty-third, as I recall, sir? I well remember how grieved we all were when he was listed missing. Oh my, oh my! And I keep you here in the hall with your poor lady so distressed!''
"Why, we have come such a long way, you see," said Charity, managing to conceal her rising hopes and continuing to look woebegone.
"We rode down from Scotland," said Redmond, and seeing the butler's polite interest, went on, "We left Ayrshire on Saturday.''
"Cor!" gasped the footman.
Overlooking this lapse, the butler said, "Jackson, fetch refreshments into the breakfast parlour at once. Mr. Redmond, if you will just bring your wife this way, perhaps we can somehow be of assistance to you…"
Redmond assisted Charity to her feet, then took the timepiece from his pocket. Twenty-three minutes past nine…
The footman stood in stunned silence beside the door. Gilford, his face almost as pale as Redmond's, stared blankly at the decanter of wine on the table. "God in heaven!" he muttered. "It passes belief!"
"You have put your finger on it exactly,'' said Redmond with a wry smile. "No one will believe us."
"I never could abide that there Claude Sanguinet," the footman put in, stepping forward. "Slippery damned—"
"You forget yourself, Jackson," said the butler automatically.
"Oh no I don't, sir! Begging your pardon, I'm sure, but this ain't something as I can stand aside and do nought! Mr. Redmond, I'm your man! If I can help in any way. Any way at all!"
Redmond stood and put out his hand. "Thank you, Jackson," he said, as the footman came eagerly to shake hands. "I wish to heaven you could!"
"If only there was some way we could get into the Pavilion," Charity muttered, wringing her hands as the clock struck the half-hour.
Gilford bit his lip, sat down at the table beside Redmond, causing his underling to gape with astonishment, and rested his mouth against tight-gripped hands. Mitchell waited, praying his hopes had not been in vain.
As if gathering his courage, Gilford closed his eyes a second, then looked up resolutely. "You must know, sir, that Mrs. Fitzherbert is the Regent's legal wife in the eyes of the Catholic Church. The only lady he has ever been really happy with, if I dare make so bold as to remark. When the King and all the ministers kept at him that the marriage was unlawful and that he must wed Princess Caroline of Brunswick, it fair broke his heart. But…" He shrugged wryly, "I've no need to tell you what you already know. His extravagances brought about his downfall. This house was one of 'em. And after they'd married him to that woman he daren't come here any more. At least," he hesitated, "not so any could see…"
"Then it is truth," exclaimed Redmond exuberantly. "There is a tunnel!"
"Oh! How wonderful!" Her eyes bright with new hope, Charity asked, "Where?"
Panicking, Gilford said, "Oh, my Lord! I gave my solemn oath… if I am doing wrong…"
Seething with impatience, Redmond could not but respect the man's integrity. He said quietly, "Mr. Gilford, upon the sacred memory of the man I loved and honoured more than any other—my father—I do swear that all I have told you here is God's truth."
Gilford gazed for a long moment into those unutterably weary, yet steadfast grey eyes. Then he pushed back his chair and stood. "Thank you, sir. This way…"
"I'm coming too," said Charity.
Jackson pulled back her chair. "And me!"
The passage was narrow but tall enough to enable Redmond to stand erect. It was cold and clammy and shrouded with webs that indicated a lack of recent use, but it was well built, and recalling the distance from Mrs. Fitzherbert's little house to the Pavilion, Redmond thought, "It must have cost a fortune!" He walked very rapidly, so that Gilford, holding the lantern, was forced to trot to keep up. Having outdistanced the two following, Redmond murmured, "Now, when we reach the far end, Gilford, you must keep my wife back."
"You expect trouble, sir? Even inside the Pavilion? Surely, they would not dare."
"We saw several of Monsieur Sanguinet's men outside. We know some highly placed naval and military officers are in his pocket. I'd not put anything past 'em! Tell me where we will come out."
"In the Prince's apartments, sir. There is a double wall with a deep cupboard, and behind it, steps leading to this tunnel."
"And who else knows of it?"
"So far as I am aware, until tonight only the builders, and they were sworn to secrecy, myself, and the, er, principals."
They hurried on, Redmond panting now and holding his arm pressed against the sharp anguish that tore at his ribs with every breath; the butler, his limp ever more pronounced; and Charity, tottering along, dazed with exhaustion, the footman supporting her as best he could.
Taking out his timepiece again, Redmond peered at it. It was fifteen minutes to ten o'clock…
Redmond opened the cupboard door a crack. The luxurious bedchamber was deserted, the magnificent canopied bed that occupied the deep recess already turned down, and the royal nightshirt laid upon it. The chandelier hanging from the gilt-edged oval of the ceiling was a blaze of light, but several of the candelabra had been extinguished. As usual, the heat was almost overpowering. Redmond tiptoed across the room. He had instructed Gilford that when Charity and the footman came up they were to be told that he was reconnoitering and would return when he was sure the coast was clear.
He peered into the royal library, adjoining. He had once been invited to a musicale at the Pavilion but had never been in this part of the palace, and despite the desperate circumstances, could not fail to be impressed by the magnificence of the furnishings, the splendid torcheres and carven wall lights, the recessed bookcases and everywhere the Oriental influence with dragons abounding.
He started into the library, astounded that he was thus far undetected, but heard voices close by and retreated to the bedroom again. On the far side, the dressing room was silent, but as he stepped inside he came face to face with a manservant carrying a gargantuan purple-and-gold dressing gown. The man's eyes popped, and his jaw fell. It was no time for explanations. Redmond struck hard and true, caught the servant as he sagged, and eased him to the floor.
Beyond the dressing room was an ante-room. Redmond strode to the far door and opened it ca
utiously. All was quiet, but distantly he could hear music and the muted hum of conversation. Had the Prince already donned the lethal crown, the sounds would be very different, but every second counted now. Somehow he must pass along the major part of the Great Corridor, but lackeys were everywhere, to say nothing of an occasional military uniform; his own quiet garb would be noticeable by its very simplicity. He hesitated, then muttered, "As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb," turned about, and hurried back to snatch up the lurid dressing gown that he had draped over the manservant. It was so large that he and Harry and Uncle Mordecai could all have fitted into it, but he wrapped it around him and tied the sash about his middle. With the addition of the garment, the heat in the rooms was almost beyond bearing and he began to perspire freely, but there was no help for it. The lackey wore a powdered wig; Mitchell borrowed it and jammed it onto his head. Glancing at himself in one of the large mirrors, he gave a gasp. The effect was astounding. So astounding that in this outrageous palace-cum-mosque-cum-pagoda he might go unnoticed. En route through the ante-room again, he noticed a very large Chinese urn tastefully painted with scenes of Waterloo and heavy with filigree and gold leaf. A card lay beside it. It was a gift to the Duke of Wellington from some potentate. Mitchell eyed the urn thoughtfully, then, the effort making him swear, he picked it up and holding it on his right shoulder, stepped into the Great Corridor and strode along deliberately.
Itself a fantasy of art and light and beauty, it was a busy place. Magnificently liveried lackeys and footmen were everywhere; splendid officers stood about in small groups, and far in the distance, a constant stream of servants was carrying trays from the Banqueting Hall, trays piled high with plates, glasses and silverware, covered tureens and platters and great dishes still containing enough food to feed many average households for a week. The meal was apparently almost over. Claude's gift would likely be presented at any moment!
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown Page 31