Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  The Capitan looked dubious. "I dunno if Etta's finished her yet. We could bring Miles Cam'ron."

  'We could. But Capitan Rodolfo liked the ladies, don't forget."

  'He did?" Astonished, the daring highwayman asked, "Why?"

  'Well, he was a Spaniard, you know. A Latin." This evoking nothing more than puzzled incomprehension, Diccon said with a lurking smile, "Latin gentlemen are particularly fond of the ladies. Capitan Rodolfo always kissed them, before stealing their diamonds."

  "Ugh!" exclaimed Arthur, revolted. "How 'gusting! Then I won't be him! Who else? I dunno if Robin Hood held up stagecoaches."

  'I think they'd not been invented then, old fellow. You might consider The Dancing Master. He was very successful for a time, and so far as I know they never hanged him."

  Arthur was dubious. He would prefer, he said ghoulishly, to be a rank-rider who had met his end facing his captors with a scoffing laugh before swinging on the great gallows known as Tyburn Tree. Diccon provided some more likely candidates, but Devil Dice was dismissed as being "too new"; the Hounslow Horror's preference to shoot his victims through the eye lacked appeal; and although his famous mare, Black Bess, was an inducement, Dick Turpin's humble start in life as a butcher had a certain lack of dash. Diccon wasn't quite as sure as his fellow-conspirator that Mrs. Cordova "wouldn't mind a bit" if her "friends" were borrowed, and he pointed out that time was passing and it might be as well to press on with the scheme. Bowing to such logic, Arthur took off his mask and required that it be re-tied. "I'll change to The Dancing Master," he announced. "An' you're the stagecoach driver."

  This being decided, they went in search of the third passenger, and "Lady Dora Leith" was carried out to the donkey cart-cum-stagecoach.

  It was a bright, if rather cloudy morning. The wind was still blowing, flapping The Dancing Master's cloak as he climbed onto the seat beside Diccon. Lem Bridger had driven Marietta and Fanny to Cloud Village to pay the chandler's bill and purchase candles, chicken feed, oats, and other such vital necessities. Mrs. Cordova had intended to stay at home, but when she had suddenly recalled an appointment and hurried off to Madame Olympias' caravan, Arthur had seized the moment to fill the doomed "stagecoach."

  The highwayman laid out the route, Friar Tuck joined the expedition and was appointed Stagecoach Guard, and, Mr. Fox having been bribed with an old shopping list, the conspirators set forth.

  They had been gone only a few minutes when Sir Lionel wandered up from his workroom in search of someone to try out the new flea trap. The house had that oddly flat feel that tells of the absence of human beings. Sir Lionel shouted a few times, but then had a vague recollection of Marietta telling him that she and Fanny were going shopping. He supposed they must have taken Dova with them. Major Diccon also appeared to be off somewhere, probably with Arthur. It was good of the fellow to be so patient with the child, who seemed to regard him as his own personal property. He padded rather disconsolately into the withdrawing room. Not a soul. Not… a… soul! He brightened. This was his chance, by Jupiter! On the thought he ran up the stairs at quite remarkable speed, and within ten minutes was hurrying down again, clad in riding coat and buckskins.

  Only yesterday when he'd admired Orpheus, the Major had asked if he'd care to accompany him on a ride, offering to take one of their hacks for his own mount. Sir Lionel flattered himself that he had been used to cut quite a dash exercising his big black in Hyde Park. Of course, Moonlight had not been quite as sprightly as Orpheus. A fine animal, though, and plenty of spirit for a nineteen-year-old. Still, like any other man, Sir Lionel did not care to make a spectacle of himself and had been secretly relieved when Marietta had forbidden that Diccon should ride yet, thus enabling him to decline the offer. The Major had offered, though, and if he had meant to limit his invitation to a time when they would ride out together, he'd not said as much. Exactly.

  The stallion rolled his eyes and stamped about a bit while he was being saddled up, but made only a small show of biting, or flattening his ears. Sir Lionel utilized the mounting block, then guided the big horse out of the yard. The stallion tossed his head and snorted, eager to run. Sir Lionel's pulses quickened as he felt the power of the animal. If he was obliged to cling to the pommel a few times when Orpheus danced in a circle, why, there was no one to see, and he was at least keeping his seat. He managed to hold to a walk, then to a trot. When Orpheus broke into an impatient canter, his heart began to pound, rather, but—oh! the silken gait, the proud crest! What a horse! Perhaps, when they were up the hill a little way and past these trees he would dare to touch the smooth sides with his spurs. There, they were clear now, and—

  An oncoming rider and a scream caused him to pull back on the reins, and his heart thudded into his boots. He knew that voice and thought a panicked, 'Devil take it, she's cornered me again!'

  In this instance, he wronged the widow. Mrs. Isolde Maitland was a handsome woman with a superb figure, luxuriant auburn hair, and well-cut features. If her hazel eyes were bold, they were also large and bright, but they looked better than they saw. In fact, the widow was short-sighted, and as her brother repeatedly warned, she should wear her spectacles instead of hiding them in a drawer. She had not glimpsed Sir Lionel through the trees and was really startled when he burst into sight. It tookonly an instant, however, for her quick wits to seize this golden opportunity, and she said with a breathless little laugh, "My goodness, dear sir, you are so sudden! How you frightened me, you daring thing! You may go now, Murphy. I shall be quite safe with Sir Lionel." A brisk wave of her hand dismissed her following groom who rode off, hiding a smirk. "At least, I think I will be safe," she added coyly.

  Sir Lionel said in a hollow voice, "You're far from home, ma'am."

  'Can you guess why I so often ride this way?" she purred, urging her brown mare closer.

  Orpheus snorted and bucked, and Sir Lionel clung desperately to the pommel. "Best not… venture too close," he gasped, surviving the threat without a marked degree of skill. "He's— he's somewhat of a handful."

  ''Ah, but not for such an accomplished rider as yourself." She narrowed her eyes, peering at the grey. "What a large creature! And how well you look in the saddle, dear Sir Lionel. Though, I vow, were I your lady I would be terrified to see you up on such a brute. But then, I was ever protective of those I… love."

  Sir Lionel quailed inwardly, and took refuge in silence.

  Undaunted, she swept on, "I'd no least notion you enjoyed a morning canter. I wonder if you will be so generous as to allow me to share your rides?"

  'Oh, he ain't—ain't mine, ma'am," gulped Sir Lionel, allowing Orpheus to trot. "Belongs to a fellow who stays with us. Temporarily, that is."

  'Ah, yes. My dear brother told me of your—er, guest. Not a very charming one, I gather. Poor Innes was rather hurt to receive such Turkish treatment at your hands. Under the circumstances… But I told him that you'd not have allowed it for an instant! Sir Lionel Warrington, I said, is the very soul of honour, and would never permit his bosom bow to be insulted. Especially since our two families seem likely to become even more… close."

  As if to emphasize her words, she leaned nearer. "I should not flatter you, sir, but—I am just a silly girl with little willpower. So I will confess that I have such an admiration for you! It fairly wrings my heart to see a lonely gentleman struggling to deal with a large family without a lady at his side. Truly, you are the type to throw other men into the shade and make a girl's heart beat faster! Yes, I own it, though it makes me blush! My dear brother says I must not betray my feelings or you will think me fast, but I told him—no such thing. Sir Lionel Warrington has been about the world, I said. He would understand a lady's heart. I have no fears on that head, I said. And furthermore…" On she went. Flapping her eyelashes at him in that appallingly coy way. The least misstep and she would claim he'd popped the question. And she wouldn't be a gentle and loving wife as darling Elsa had been, for Isolde Maitland cared not a rap for anything but the title.
He could speak plainly, of course, and advise her to set her sights on some other poor fellow. Only, burn it! he owed Innes that confounded five thousand! If only he could escape! If only he'd stayed at home! She'd never have caught him had he not ventured out.

  Chapter VII

  ''Jus' give me time to find a good place to lurk, please," said The Dancing Master. "An' then you come, an' I'll jump out waving my trusty horse pistol, an' being a Very Vill'nous Rank Rider, an' I'll freeze your blood when I roar, 'Stand an' d'liver!' " He removed the "Guard" from his lap and climbed down from the donkey cart, practising his Villainous Scowl, then asked anxiously, "Has you brought something to d'liver?"

  Diccon had persuaded Bridger to make a few purchases in the village, and he admitted to having some "valuables" stashed away, this bringing a beam to interfere with the scowl. "But you'd best not roar terribly loud, Villainous Rank Rider," he cautioned. "Mr. Fox is sensitive and we mustn't upset him."

  The Dancing Master nodded, and hurried off along the lane scowling busily.

  Amused, Diccon watched that hop, skip, and jump progress. A fine little chap was Master Arthur Warrington. Briefly, he dreamed a dream of himself and Marietta comfortably settled into a charmingly refurbished Lanterns, and with little children playing around them.

  He started when there came a distant shout. He was forgetting his duties. The Guard was sound asleep. He grinned and slapped the reins on Mr. Fox's back, and the "stagecoach" rattled up the slope.

  Safely hidden at the bend of the lane, pistol in hand, and mask in place, The Dancing Master waited, tense with excitement. The hoofbeats were confusing as they seemed to be coming from higher up the lane, instead of from below. But now they were upon him.

  With a high-pitched squeal, he leapt from his place of concealment and roared, "Stand an d'liver!" whereupon several things happened very rapidly.

  Two riders cantered around the corner from the north at the same instant that the "stagecoach" arrived from the south.

  Already irritable because of the slow pace and the human who bounced so ineptly on his back, Orpheus let out a scream of fright, and reared, his hoofs flailing at the air.

  Diccon sprang up, shouting, "Out of the way, boy!"

  Arthur hurled himself aside.

  Friar Tuck awoke like an uncoiled spring and shot under Mr. Fox's nose, yowling a protest.

  Startled, the little donkey brayed shatteringly and tried to bolt, causing Diccon to be flung back on the seat.

  Trying to control her scared mare, whose nerves were not helped by the wild gyrations of Orpheus, Mrs. Maitland shrilled, "Warrington, hold your brute still!" She squinted at the donkey cart. "Isn't that… Dora Leith?"

  Diccon grabbed for the reins, but the widow's piercing tones further upset poor Mr. Fox, who essayed a buck. The cart rocked wildly, and "Lady Leith" was tossed out.

  Arthur had been correct. Marietta hadn't quite finished the "lady." In fact, parts of "her" were only tacked in place. The fall was fatal.

  Mrs. Maitland's was not a kindly nature, but she had not seen this latest addition to Mrs. Cordova's collection, and believed she witnessed a decapitation. Her shriek was ear-splitting and sent Orpheus into a shy that propelled Sir Lionel into a soaring flight cut short by the law of gravity. Fortunately, his plump form cushioned the widow when she slid from the saddle in a dead faint.

  Marietta and Fanny had encountered Innes Williard in the village, and the gentleman had insisted that he and his head groom escort their coach on the return journey. They came upon the scene in time to see Sir Lionel sprawled in the dirt, clutching the widow in his arms.

  'Papa!" cried Marietta, trying to open the coach door.

  "Whatever are you doing?" gasped Fanny.

  Not one to miss an opportunity, Mr. Williard thundered, "Unhand my sister, sir!"

  'Eh?" said Sir Lionel, dazed.

  Escaping the coach and running to bend over her sire, Marietta asked, "Are you all right, Papa? Whatever happened?"

  'Sir Lionel very gallantly saved Mrs. Maitland when she fainted and fell from her horse," said Diccon, battling laughter.

  'As usual you talk rubbish!" Mr. Williard dismounted and thrust the reins at his groom. "M'sister never fainted in her life. And if she did," he contradicted himself, dropping to one knee beside the widow, "there must have been some damned good cause."

  Recovering, Mrs. Maitland moaned, "Oh, oh, oh," and threw her arms around his neck, wailing, "Poor woman… she has lost her head!"

  'And so have you, by the look of things," snapped her insensitive brother. But for the first time, catching sight of the unfortunate figure in the ditch, he recoiled, aghast.

  'No, no. Pray do not be distressed, ma'am," said Marietta, kneeling and taking one of Mrs. Maitland's hands. "It's my aunt's newest effigy—not the real Lady Leith."

  'As anyone can see, who's not half blind," snarled Williard, pulling himself together and casting a blighting glare at his sister.

  With comprehension came rage. Mrs. Maitland turned on Diccon, shrilling, "Oh! How horrid you are! You deliberately tried to frighten me!"

  'A shameful and dastardly trick to play on a helpless lady," roared Williard.

  'Nonsense," said Diccon coolly. "I regret the lady was frightened, but it was an accident.

  'If you would be so kind as to—get off my lap, ma'am?" ventured Sir Lionel.

  Williard pulled the widow up, and Diccon left the cart and helped Sir Lionel to his feet.

  'It wasn't the Major's fault, sir," quavered Arthur, clutching his "pistol" and looking very scared. "We was just playing Highwayman, but—"

  Williard boomed, "I hold you responsible for your son's deplorable conduct, Warrington! And you had best pray my sister ain't seriously hurt! As for you, Major, dash it all, I'd think a grown man could find something more worthwhile to do with his spare time than to play games with children!"

  'We differ," drawled Diccon.

  'By grab!" exclaimed Mr. Williard's groom who had been watching Diccon narrowly. "I thought I reckernized you! We was in the same company at Waterloo. D'you remember me, Sergeant?"

  Marietta's eyes flashed to Diccon's expressionless face.

  Fanny, who had come to stand close to her, murmured, "Sergeant?"

  Innes Williard gave a bark of laughter. "Sergeant, is it? I knew you were no officer! Lie your way out of this, fellow!"

  Ignoring him, Diccon put out his hand. "Of course I remember you, Skipton. I'm glad to see you survived. Not many from our company did."

  The groom drew back, eyeing his employer uneasily. "Beg pardon, sir. Wasn't me place to have spoke up."

  ''You did well," said Williard, grinning broadly. "Now I'd like to hear what our pseudo major has to say for himself."

  Marietta said, "I am sure we all honour any gentleman who fought in that terrible battle. Regardless of his rank. But instead of standing about talking, we must get my father home, Maj— er, Mr.—"

  'Major is correct, ma'am," said Diccon, his smile awakening tiny laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes.

  'Ware deception, Miss Marietta," jeered Williard, helping Mrs. Maitland to mount up. "I fancy he'll claim a battlefield commission."

  'Are you subject to such flights of fancy?" Diccon raised his brows. "From sergeant to—major? Egad! It's clear to see you've never served in the army!" He turned to Sir Lionel. "You must go home in the carriage, sir. You've taken a nasty spill."

  Sir Lionel's eyes turned longingly to Orpheus. "But, I—"

  Marietta took his arm. "This way, Papa," she said firmly, leading him towards the coach.

  'I want our physician to look at you, Isolde." Williard raised his voice and called vindictively, "And you'll be hearing from me, Warrington. In more ways than one, I promise you!"

  Sir Lionel sat in his favourite chair in the book room and stared at the empty hearth, pondering Fate. Marietta had gone upstairs to put Arthur down for his nap; Dova was in the withdrawing room, fussing over her decapitated "friend"; Fanny was sett
ing out luncheon, and Diccon was at the stables attending to his hack. So, as usual, here sat the head of the house, deserted; with no one to confide in, or offer him sympathy. It had been thus, ever since his darling Elsa died. Trying to cope, all alone. And life was so deuced full of traps. It was clear that Innes Williard meant to be difficult over that unfortunate wager. And very likely Diccon would march back in here, claiming that confounded brute of a horse had a strained hock, or some such thing. Lord knows, he'd meant no harm when he'd taken the stallion out for a little jaunt, but—

  The faintest silvery sound alerted him, and he looked up to find the Major—or whatever he was—standing beside his chair.

  'By George!" he exclaimed. "You tread softly, man! I didn't hear a sound till your spur jingled. You don't mean to ride out again after luncheon?"

  'No. Before, sir. I rather think I've outstayed my welcome."

  'Fiddlesticks! Now sit down, do! Never think I care whether you're a major or a private! You keep m'cellar well-stocked and I'd be a fool not to comprehend that in your line of work small— ah, deceptions, are sometimes a necessity. Truth is, I owe you an apology for borrowing your hack without asking permission."

  Settling into the chair indicated, Diccon said, "No harm done, though I seldom allow anyone to ride Orpheus. He's a tricky brute to manage."

  'Speaking of which," put in Marietta, coming into the room, ginger jar in hand. "However did you manage to double our Chinese Funds, Papa?"

  Diccon, who had stood when she entered, acquired an apprehensive expression and edged towards the door.

  Mystified, Sir Lionel said, "How's that again?"

  'What is twelve from forty-two?" she asked, stepping in front of Diccon and looking up at him enquiringly.

  'I—er—," he mumbled.

  She nodded. "Too difficult, sir?"

  'If you can't deduct twelve from forty-two, you ain't even a sergeant," said Sir Lionel, laughing. "It's thirty of course, m'dear. What else?"