Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  He scanned the house narrowly. “Did he wear armour, ma’am?”

  “No, and I wish you will not make light of it. I saw him!”

  “Then it is likely just some poor Waterloo veteran starving politely. Now, if you will mount up, Miss Warrington, I—”

  “I shall do no such thing! What if it is a—a thief, or a real highwayman? No, do not be brave and noble. I know you mean to investigate, and I’ll not leave until you’re sure all is well.”

  He looked down at her with the whimsical half-smile that she was coming to like so well. “I’ll have your promise,” he said, “that if you should hear an uproar, or if I’m not back in five minutes, you will ride ventre à terre for the dower house.”

  She nodded, and watched as he avoided the drawbridge, sprinting lightly across the moat to the main entrance. He paused there for a second. A pistol, long and gleaming, appeared in one hand. The door opened, and he seemed to melt into the inner shadows. It occurred to her that he’d made not a sound.

  The instant he entered the house, Diccon sensed that someone was there. It was an instinct that had served him well in the past and that he never ignored. He stood behind the door, unmoving, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. If there was more than one intruder, which was very likely, they must not be in this room, or they’d have attacked when he was silhouetted against the light. He drifted across the hall to the main staircase, alert, tense, one finger hovering over the hair trigger of the pistol.

  The faintest creak.

  He stood motionless, looking up.

  Someone was moving along the balcony. He shouldn’t have let Marietta come here. If this intruder was Ti Chiu…! He glanced swiftly behind him, but the entrance hall was empty.

  Aiming steadily, he called, “One more step and I fire!”

  The response was immediate and indignant. “Hoot, toot! And is this the thanks I get for being tossed aboot on that miserrrrable ship forever and a day?”

  “Mac!” Diccon released the hammer with respectful caution and ran up the stairs to grip the hand of his valet/groom/general factotum. “Welcome back! Tell me quickly, is it done? Nobody knows?”

  “Aye, ’tis as ye wished, though in a court o’law I’ll swear I had nae hand in the wicked business, ye ken?”

  “I know, you old curmudgeon. And I do thank you! Man alive, but I’m glad you’re home at last!”

  “Home is it?” grumbled the Scot. “A fine home this is! Are ye aware ye’ve had callers? When I came in the kitchen door, a body ran oot the front. And y’r pairsonal belongings hae been rummaged and mauled aboot something shameful! Come and see fer yer ain self.”

  Accompanying him, Diccon muttered frowningly, “Likely just a tramp.”

  “Hah!” MacDougall opened the door to the vast bedchamber. Light flooded in at the windows, revealing the chaos wrought by ruthless hands. “Dinna be telling me ye left it in this state,” said the Scot, and turning to face his employer in the bright room, he gasped, “Whisht mon! Ye’re something changed!”

  “Oh—a slight accident, but—”

  “I’m thinking there’s more changed than that! I’ve nae seen that look in y’r eyes since—”

  “Well never mind that,” said Diccon, his face rather red, “Let’s see what the varmint made off with, and you can tell me about Italy. But be quick. There’s a lady waiting.”

  “Is there then?” said his man smugly. “I’d a wee bit thought there might be!”

  * * *

  The moments dragged past and with each one Marietta became more tense and apprehensive. Surely, five minutes had gone by? There had been no uproar, in fact she’d heard nothing in the least ominous, yet the very silence seemed to throb with menace. She kept her eyes fixed on that great front door. It still stood partly open, the afternoon sunlight slanting in to paint a bright bar across the inner darkness. He should be back by now. If all was well he’d not leave her standing here for so long, worrying. She began to creep forward, as if drawn to that open door yet ready at the least sign or sound of danger to run, as she’d promised.

  But when the sound came she halted and stood very still, transfixed. It was the last sound she would have expected; the mellow strains of a violin, masterfully played. Astonished, she began to move forward again, and the music grew louder, swelling into a soaring and proud melody. She was so intrigued that she paid no attention to the hoofbeats until they were directly behind her. With a yelp of fright, she whirled around.

  Orpheus tossed his head at her and walked on past, ears forward, hooves thudding hollowly on the ironbound planks of the drawbridge.

  Marietta drew a sobbing breath of relief and closed her eyes for an instant, a hand pressed to her galloping heart. When she looked up, the big grey was half-way up the steps, peering into the hall. She hurried forward as the melody rose to a crescendo and died away. Diccon came to the door, replacing a violin in its case and watching her with a diffident smile.

  She clapped her hands with genuine admiration, and he bowed, then patted the grey’s neck as the big horse nuzzled him. “I told you he follows a tune,” he said, propping the violin case against the wall.

  “So you did! And how splendidly you play, Major! When did you learn such skills? And why did you never mention it? And how could you have been so horrid as to leave me worrying here all this time without so much as calling to me that everything was all right?” Anxious again, she asked, “It is—isn’t it?”

  He took up Orpheus’ reins and they began to follow the moat along the north wing. “To answer your last question first, Miss Warrington, you were perfectly right. There was someone inside the house.”

  “And you stayed to chat, did you? With whom, pray? The lady?”

  She had a brief impression of utter stillness, then he said, “Actually, she is rather difficult to converse with, since she carries her head in a bucket. However—”

  “Wretch!” she said with her lilting laugh. “Next you will say you’ve had a chat with Saladin!”

  “Oh, several chats. He won’t tell me where it is, if that’s what you mean. The fellow’s a real marplot.”

  “Then you know the legend of the jewelled picture?”

  “But of course. Why do you suppose I stay here?”

  “Well, to say truth, I thought it was handy to the beach and your free-trading friends. Now, will you answer my other questions, or do you mean to fob me off on that subject also?”

  He smiled at her use of the cant term. “My grandfather was an accomplished violinist. He began to teach me when I was three years old.”

  “Surely that was very early. Was it hard for you?”

  “No. It was my greatest joy. Grandpapa had a small violin made for me. In fact I still have it, just in case someday I may teach my own son—” He broke off abruptly, the steely look returning to his eyes.

  “You play splendidly. You must know I mean to demand that you play for us at the dower house. Unless—” She hesitated and added with care, “Am I intruding on very personal ground? If so, I beg pardon.”

  At once his expression lightened. “How could I be anything but pleased? Amateur musicians love a captive audience, you know.”

  “Your performance just now did not sound in the least amateurish. How is the piece called?”

  “‘The Honourable.’ I wrote it for Sir John Moore, who was one of the most truly honourable gentlemen I have ever known.”

  Marietta stopped walking and put an impulsive hand on his arm. “You composed that beautiful music?”

  He nodded, her admiration causing his lean cheeks to flush with pleasure.

  “But—how wonderful! What a great gift! Is that why you stay here, all alone? To concentrate on your composing? What else have you written? Oh, I must hear it all!”

  “I’m afraid you have, ma’am. At least, that is my only concert piece.”

  Bewildered, she said, “But—why? How could you have thrown away such talent in exchange for a military life? You should have s
tudied with a famous composer, or at some great school of music, like—like that university in … in Paris is it?”

  “Can you mean the Sorbonne, perhaps?”

  “Yes, that’s the place.”

  Briefly, his long fingers covered the small hand on his arm. He said huskily, “How kind you are. Thank you. That was my dream, certainly. But—life has a way of rearranging dreams, alas.” He paused, as if again viewing a past only he could see, then he said brightly, “Do not be thinking me a failure, however. A few friends are willing to let me play for them now and then. Mr. Fox doesn’t mind, and Orpheus is a true afficionado.” His eyes met hers. He said with a little hesitancy, “If I dare believe that my music has pleased you, then I have scored a—a true triumph.”

  “It has indeed pleased me, Major. Now, do you mean to tell me who was inside the manor?”

  Gazing down at her, he muttered, “What? Oh! My man has returned. MacDougall is my good friend as well as my servant. You must come and meet him. He’s going to fetch tea into the garden for us.”

  Amused by his proprietary air, she said, “That would be nice, but I wonder what Lord Temple and Cloud would think of us trespassing on his property like this?”

  “Oh, I doubt he would object.”

  “Easy to say, sir. But suppose he should come riding in this very moment? Then what would you say?”

  “I would likely be speechless with astonishment. To the best of my knowledge no peer of the realm has set foot on the place for more than a decade.”

  “He has been abroad, so I was told. But I should warn you that he is back in London and likely to come down here very soon.”

  “Really?” He looked at her thoughtfully, then asked, “Will this suit for our tea party, ma’am?”

  A blanket had been spread on the weedy turf that once had been lawns, and a sturdy, rather dour-looking man, probably in his late forties and very neat in a dark brown habit, was setting a laden tray on a stool.

  “Oh, lovely,” said Marietta, undaunted by thick mugs, a tin teapot, and a chipped plate piled with bread and butter.

  Diccon said wryly, “Far from a fashionable party, I’m afraid. But I think you’ll find the tea worthwhile.”

  “However illegal,” she murmured. “But never fear, I have lived in Sussex long enough to ask no questions.”

  “In which case you may enjoy your tea with a clear conscience. Over here, Mac! I must make you known to Miss Marietta Warrington. Micah MacDougall, ma’am. Sir Lionel Warrington and his family are leasing the dower house, Mac. And you had best set me straight on something since you know all the ton gossip. Is Lord Temple and Cloud in London?”

  Having jerked a stiff bow to the young beauty who smiled at him so charmingly, MacDougall directed a level stare at his master. “Tae the best o’ my knowledge, Major, he isnae.”

  Marietta said, “If he has left Town it must be all the more likely he means to come here, no?”

  “Nae, Miss Warrington. I fancy Lanterns willnae see Lord Temple and Cloud again. I’ll tend tae the hacks, sir.” A curt bow and the Scot strode away.

  Marietta sat on the blanket and looked after him curiously. “I wonder how he could possibly know that. Servant hall gossip?”

  “Undoubtedly. It spreads like wildfire and is usually infallible.”

  Perhaps it was, she thought, yet it did not match what Sir Gavin Coville and his son had said.

  Diccon sat beside her and she poured the tea, spread damson jam on a thick slice of bread and butter, and, perhaps because she was out in the clear sunlit air, found both exceptionally delicious. The moments flew while they chatted easily, discovering a shared love of children and music, the paintings of that rather odd but brilliant gentleman, Joseph Turner, and a difference of opinion over the prospect of a steamship ever crossing the Atlantic Ocean without sails, which Marietta thought unlikely and Diccon was sure would be accomplished within a few years. After a short companionable silence, she asked if he really was at Lanterns to try and find the legendary Sigh of Saladin, and what he knew of it.

  “Not a great deal,” he admitted. “You may be sure I’d be delighted to find the pretty thing, but what I was able to learn is very likely one part fact and ninety-nine parts fiction. When you consider how rumours fly around London Town and are embellished and enlarged upon in only a few hours, you can imagine how a tale would become distorted over six centuries.”

  “But legend says that it is a picture comprised entirely of gems and framed in solid gold—true?”

  He nodded. “Supposedly captured from under Saladin’s nose by Lord Simon Cloud during the Third Crusade, brought to Lanterns, and then lost again while the manor was under attack by the French. Some stories have it that Saladin himself sent emissaries here to try and retrieve it.”

  Refilling his cup, she said, “With his great wealth, I wonder that the sultan would have gone to so much trouble over one small picture.”

  “Because it was a national treasure, ma’am. Entrusted to his keeping. He was reputed to be a proud and honourable gentleman and counted it a shameful blot on his character that he had failed his trust. That is why they named it The Sigh of Saladin, you see.”

  She finished her tea and was quiet for a little while, drowsily content, thinking of the mighty sultan and the treasure he had lost. She roused when Diccon waved a bee from her hair. “I wonder,” she said, “if it will ever be found.”

  “If it is, the finder will be a very wealthy man. And his children and grandchildren after him, I’d guess.” He added with a grin, “If he’s not murdered for it! Only find an object of great beauty and you also find an army of cut-throats ready to take it away.”

  “You had to spoil the romance! And I must get home, Major.” Smiling, she reached out and he sprang up to help her to her feet. She asked, “Are you sure you won’t stay with us for another few days? You cannot be very comfortable here.”

  He thanked her, but said that MacDougall could make a frozen ditch comfortable, and that he had work that must be done. He insisted on riding back with her, however. She said little on the return journey, and he suspected she was thinking of the lost Sigh of Saladin.

  Actually, Marietta’s thoughts were on Sir Gavin Coville and his son. If their suspicions were true and Temple and Cloud really did mean to come to Lanterns, Major Diccon could very well be in great trouble. To trespass in a peer’s home would be punishable by transportation, at least. And if his lordship should discover Diccon’s smuggling activities, the death penalty would certainly be imposed. She stole a glance at the man beside her. He rode with lithe ease and appeared to be relaxed but she experienced again the sense of leashed power. In his business he had undoubtedly learned how to take care of himself. Yves had said that the Major “should have been dead many times” but always survived. She hoped fervently that his luck would continue.

  They rode into the stableyard at the dower house and Diccon swung from the saddle, and walked around to lift her down.

  A familiar voice called her name. Marietta’s heart gave a little leap and she turned to see Blake Coville stride across the yard to greet her.

  His eager look faded into an almost ludicrous disbelief. Staring at Diccon, he cried, “You! I thought you were still at your friend’s convent!”

  Turning in bewilderment, Marietta saw that Diccon’s head was high, and on his face the forbidding hauteur she had seen when first they met. He said icily, “I am very sure you did!”

  “You are—acquainted?” asked Marietta.

  “To my sorrow, ma’am,” said Diccon. “I suppose I should have—”

  “Allow me to present my step-brother,” shouted Coville with fierce hostility. “The ignoble Mallory Diccon Paisley, Lord Temple and Cloud!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  It seemed to Marietta that for an instant everything was as if frozen. The mellow sunlight was as bright, the sky as deeply blue, while they all stood like so many statues: Coville slightly crouching, his face distorted with passion; Dicc
on straight and proud, his eyes meeting her shocked gaze steadily; Aunty Dova, who had come out onto the back step, smiling an empty smile.

  Finding her voice somehow, Marietta said threadily, “It’s not true! It cannot be true! You couldn’t … you wouldn’t lie to us like that.”

  “Oh, would he not!” Striding to face his step-brother Coville demanded, “Where is she, you merciless rogue? What have you done with Lady Pamela?”

  Ignoring him, Diccon said, “Miss Warrington, I have not lied to you, I only—”

  “Attend me, damn you!” shouted Coville.

  Diccon’s eyes narrowed and turned on him, glinting oddly. He said with soft but ineffable menace, “You had best hope I do not.”

  Coville drew back a little, then, to Marietta’s astonishment, turned and ran past Mrs. Cordova and into the house.

  “He has gone to get his courage,” said Diccon contemptuously. “Miss Warrington, if I did not tell you everything about myself, it was—”

  She felt betrayed and foolish, and deeply hurt, and she interrupted, “It was deliberate deception from the start! You knew very well who I was and where we lived!”

  “No.”

  “You said your name was Diccon.”

  “So it is. Your father did not give me time to finish my introduction, and—”

  “You neglected to add the rest of it! Why? To amuse yourself? You stayed in our home, pretending to be a poverty-stricken free-trader, and all the while knowing you own this house! Did you enjoy laughing at us? Was that a very funny joke, Major? Ah, but I forget, your rank is only another of your lies! Mr. Williard’s groom named you sergeant, and I was so trustingly stupid as to believe—”

  “No!” He caught her by the arms and said desperately, “Listen! Marietta, you must listen! I’ve been—”

  She wrenched free. “Do not dare to touch me! Will you deny telling me this very afternoon that no peer had visited Lanterns for many years?”

  “No, but—”

  “Do you deny that your ancestral title is Lord Temple and Cloud?”