Mrs. Cordova managed to break in on this ecstatic inventory and shaking her head observed fondly that Fanny lacked sensibility. “Your tongue runs on wheels, Miss! Your poor sister is more upset, I vow. Go and lie down on your bed for a while, Etta. Sweet child, you are shaking like a leaf!”
Marietta needed little persuasion. As she closed the door she heard Fanny murmur, “Poor Etta! I forgot how disappointed she must be in Mr. Coville!”
But it was not Blake Coville’s disgraceful conduct that had brought the despair to her eyes. When she reached the privacy of her room she sank onto the bed, staring blindly at the window, as grief-stricken as Fanny was elated. Diccon Paisley was an Intelligence Officer! How lightly Vaughan had relayed that news, and how horribly everything had at once fallen into place. She could hear him declaring so humbly that he had nothing to offer her but his friendship, and managing to imply that he yearned for much more. ‘Nothing would give me greater joy than to serve you.… If you are ever distressed and need someone to talk with.…’ Words that had warmed her heart because like a stupid she’d believed them to be sincere. But they weren’t sincere at all. They were instead cunning and full of guile.
She had reached out to Diccon gratefully. Like a gullible idiot she had confided in him! Had she been completely blind? From the very beginning he had told lie upon lie! Small wonder he had been so eager to conceal his real identity! Small wonder he’d claimed to be a penniless free-trader! He had not come here to restore Lanterns. Rather, he was a cold and calculating spy, slithering about his terrible business, managing glibly to talk his way out of whatever shadow of truth might compromise his plan while he hunted his prey. He had even stooped to use Arthur to inveigle himself into her affections and win her confidence.
He had succeeded on both counts, far more thoroughly than he could know. And as a result there was a deep ache in her heart; the cruel hurt of loss and betrayal. The tears came then; a storm of wracking sobs she had to stifle in her pillows and that left her weak and exhausted. Wearily, she went to the washstand to bathe her reddened eyes.
He was clever—Jocelyn had said he was ‘one of the best.’ But she would fight him. Somehow, she must circumvent his scheming deceit. Above all, her adored Eric must be rescued. It was terrible to know that he had broken the law, but in a way the difference was slight; Eric was an industrial spy, Diccon was a government spy. Diccon spied for pay, whereas Eric had meant only to help his family.
She sighed miserably, and wished love had not come to her, since it brought such pain and disillusionment. Well, love and grief must be shut out now, and forgotten. Her only thought must be to—somehow—find a way to outwit the cunning Major.
* * *
Mrs. Cordova answered Diccon’s knock, but instead of admitting him, she stepped out onto the terrace, closing the door behind her.
He asked anxiously, “Is she— Are the young ladies all right? Dale’s head groom said there’d been trouble here.”
She spread the skirts of her evening gown and began to hum softly. “So you were at Downsdale Park, were you, my lord? Some—urgent business, perhaps?”
“Yes.” Her persistent use of his title was a minor irritant. Ignoring it, he repeated, “Is Miss Marietta—”
“The pastry man had urgent business as well,” she said inexplicably. “I sent him to Lanterns. You’ve seen him already, I’d not be surprised.”
Gritting his teeth, he fought for patience. “I’ve seen no ‘pastry man,’ nor do I know what—”
“He looks like pastry,” she clarified. “Uncooked, you know. With black currants for eyes.” Diccon tensed, and she giggled. “Ah, yes. You do know, don’t you, Major? Beware! He’s an evil—”
Marietta opened the front door. “Aunty? Who is it?”
She was pale and there was a strained expression in her eyes, but she appeared to be unharmed and with a great surge of relief Diccon reached out to her. “Thank God, you’re all right!”
How terrified he looked. She thought bitterly, ‘Such a clever one!’ and made herself take his hand. “Quite all right, I thank you. Do come in.”
He held her hand tightly as he stepped into the front hall.
Mrs. Cordova skipped past them and went up the stairs, chanting softly to herself.
Searching Marietta’s face, Diccon said, “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Oh dear. Has it spread about already?” Making no attempt to reclaim her hand, she said ruefully, “I’d hoped we could avoid a scandal. Do you know what happened?”
“Only that your sister was molested. I have no details.”
Briefly and without drama she provided the details.
When she finished he was tight-lipped and his eyes glinted anger. He said tersely, “Dammitall! I should have warned him off!”
She smiled faintly at this proprietary attitude. “Why? Does he make a habit of attacking young ladies when he’s in his cups?”
“Drunk, was he? Something has set him off, then. He’s afraid of his father and has had to repress his true feelings for years. Sometimes, if he’s under a lot of strain his control snaps, and when it does he’s capable of anything. My dear, I am so very sorry. I feel responsible. Was Miss Fanny much hurt?”
‘My dear?’ How could he? How could he? She struggled against showing her revulsion, and said, “You are in no way responsible, and you did try to warn me, so pray do not blame yourself. Fanny is bruised, but more angry than frightened.”
It seemed to him that her eyes were rather too bright and that the becoming colour in her cheeks had been applied, which was not her usual habit. Enraged, he thought, ‘That filthy blackguard properly frightened her!’ He asked, “Did Joss see it?”
“Yes. And handled the matter deedily.”
‘They’ll go out, then,’ thought Diccon. He said, “Blake has ruined himself, and he need not count on his sire to stand by him. The least hint of scandal sends Sir Gavin straight into the boughs, and there’s no doubt this tale will be all over Town by morning.”
She started to lead him towards the withdrawing room, but he declined her invitation to stay for dinner, saying he would not intrude on them at such a time. “Please give your father and Miss Fanny my sympathy and good wishes. I’ll call tomorrow, if I may.” As if in an afterthought, he asked, “Does your brother know of the business?”
He meant Eric, the viper! She answered guile with guile. “Yes. Arthur saw it all. Did I neglect to mention that when Coville struck my sister, Arthur sprang to her defence and gave him quite a pummelling.”
“Did he, by Jove! My compliments to the rascal! He came down to return Mr. Fox, but I was away, unfortunately.”
“He wanted to see you, but he was rather worn out, poor dear, so I put him to bed early.”
They walked out onto the front terrace. The sun was low in the sky, throwing a warm pink glow over the land, softening the lines of the house, and turning the clouds to scoops of pink sherbet. Diccon, however, was oblivious to all beauty save the one who walked beside him. Hating this, he said, “Coville must be called to account, you know, ma’am. I fancy Joss will— Or, perhaps your brother Eric has insisted on that right?”
Marietta’s hand clenched hard. He fished adroitly did Diccon Paisley of the Intelligence Service! “I think I had better not answer you, sir. Duelling is unlawful. And despite your—illicit activities, you are still a soldier, no?”
She had spoken lightly, but it was an evasion. And if she felt it necessary to evade … ‘Damn!’ he thought, and replied, “Officially, I’m on leave at the moment, Miss Marietta. And to say truth, I’m—I’m very seriously considering leaving the Army and settling down.”
This, of course, was said to lull any fears she might have. “At Lanterns?” she asked demurely. “Would it not be too quiet here for you?”
“I’ve had my fill of action.”
He was watching her narrowly. He must not suspect how bitterly she despised him. She forced her lips to smile and said, “You must have led
such an exciting life.”
“Interesting, certainly. I’ve seen a good deal of the world; met a lot of fascinating people. Not to mention some dashed tricky, ugly customers.”
“Such as this individual Mr. Vaughan spoke of? Monsieur Monteil?”
He drew a breath and wondered what else Joss had told her. “Yes. Your aunt says he visited Madame Olympias. It seems he covets The Sigh of Saladin. Among other things.”
“Is that surprising? A great many people would like to find it. But if it is really priceless I shouldn’t think there was much to be gained by stealing it. Surely, nobody would dare buy it?”
“Imre Monteil is not motivated by money, ma’am. He’s extreme wealthy. Made a fortune in munitions. He likes to acquire lovely things, with or without the owner’s consent. And he has a deep hatred for England.”
“Have you reported him? I suppose you are obliged to—to—”
“Try and lay him by the heels? Actually, it is the duty of any citizen to arrest a criminal, Miss Marietta. I’ll own I’m surprised he’d dare return to England. I had no idea he was spinning his webs again.”
“You make it sound as if he is interested in more than your treasure.”
“He’s an evil man with a finger in many pies. If The Sigh of Saladin exists it certainly would draw him like a magnet. It’s ironic really that the legends of my family should cause our paths to cross again. Oh well, I must hope that others will deal with him.” He said repentantly, “And only look at me keeping you standing here, as though you hadn’t enough to worry about tonight! Your pardon, ma’am. I’ll take myself off and let you get back to your family. Good night.”
He bowed, offered a slight military salute, and walked briskly to the gate where Orpheus was tethered.
The sun was lower now, the skies a deep crimson. Watching his tall, erect figure silhouetted against that glow, it seemed to Marietta as though he walked into fire. And despite her efforts, once again, her eyes were dimmed with tears.
* * *
Could any lady look lovelier than Marietta had looked just now, her pretty silken gown bathed in the sunset glow, and with a glow of affection in her sweet eyes? How very dear she was. And how unworthy he was. What would she think if she knew the contents of General Smollet’s latest letter? How would she feel if she knew of his conversation with Lord Ignatius Dale?
Diccon sighed heavily and reined Orpheus to a walk. Gazing blindly at the rippling scarlet ribbon the sun painted across the waves, he reflected that neither Dale nor Smollet had named names. Nor had he. His suspicions were no more than that, and he clung desperately to the hope that he was levelling his lance at a dragon which existed only in his imagination.
Eric Warrington was weak, perhaps; selfish and a braggart, certainly. But lots of fine men had overcome youthful follies and gone on to carve distinguished careers for themselves. He flinched to the recollection of that slurred voice—“I’ve set more than my toe outside the law.… I am an exceeding high paid courier.… If the Riding Officers knew…” Lord above! How much more incriminating could it be?
And, of all men, why must it be her brother? His perfect lady. His pure and brave and beautiful love. The thought of the misery that might lie ahead for her was wrenching. His chances of winning her had always been slight, but that made her no less precious, no less to be protected from hurt. If only he could spare her. If only it didn’t all tie together so damnably!
Reaching Lanterns he dismounted, unsaddled Orpheus and turned him out in the paddock. The skies were darkening as he walked across the courtyard, but Mac had not yet lit the candles and the house was silent.
He stepped inside. Instead of the smells of dinner, he breathed the faint cloying scent that was used by only one man of his acquaintance. Quicksilver in his reaction he sprang away from the dark figure that lunged at him. The pistol he always carried whipped into one hand, his dagger into the other.
A club flailed at him, but he was well-versed in the art of close combat and the weapon whispered through his hair.
“I want him alive, remember!” The howled warning carried a slight accent, and Diccon’s identification of Imre Monteil was verified even as he vaulted the kitchen table to avoid a slashing knife blade.
A big man, a chair swung high, sent it hurtling at his face. He dodged, but one of the legs raked across his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. He leapt and kicked out savagely in the French style and a wailing cry sounded as he ducked under a flying club and his dagger struck down the man who aimed it.
“Are you all slugs?” shouted Monteil furiously. “Sapristi! You’re four to one! Finish it!”
One of his henchmen snatched up an iron skillet and flailed it at Diccon. It was solidly heavy, and would have broken his skull had it landed squarely. He dropped to his knees, the skillet whizzed over his head, and he fired. His opposition was reduced to two, plus Monteil.
The confidence of the Swiss waned. Cursing, he pulled a duelling pistol from his pocket and stepped from the corner where he’d watched what should have been an easy victory. Diccon was up and launched himself before Monteil had the chance to steady his aim. The duelling pistol barked shatteringly. The shot grazed Diccon’s forearm. He hurled his own pistol at an advancing ruffian and in a continuing blur of movement his dagger was at Monteil’s throat, his free hand twisting the man’s arm up behind him.
“Stay back,” he shouted. “In the name of the King, I arrest this man!”
His battered assailants eyed each other uneasily, then moved closer, like a pack of wolves circling a solitary but dangerous prey.
“Do as he says,” ordered Monteil with surprising calm.
Dragging his captive with him, Diccon began to edge towards the stove and the heavy iron cauldron. Mac had not appeared, nor had he set off the signal, which meant that Monteil’s juggernaut, Ti Chiu, might be lurking about. The varmint he’d shot was crawling to his feet. Reinforcements were badly needed.
Monteil said, “My dear friend Claude Sanguinet is dead thanks to the connivings of you and your friends. You have interfered with my plans too many times to be pardoned. Yet I cannot but admire you, Major. You are a fighting machine par excellence. England treats you shabbily. Work for me, and you will be treated very well indeed.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I was afraid you would answer so,” said Monteil with a sigh.
The man with the cut arm stood between Diccon and the cauldron that anchored the cord to their distress signal. “Move!” snapped Diccon, and, scowling, the bully backed away.
Diccon snatched blindly for the cauldron, but his hand grazed the hot stove and for a fraction of a second his attention shifted.
From behind came something that blurred past his eyes. He was jerked back and a crushing weight was across his throat.
He heard howls of triumph and a soft snuffling chuckle. Ti Chiu! He struck out with his dagger and that animal-like chuckle became a blood-freezing growl. His hand was seized and twisted so that the dagger fell from his numbed fingers.
Unable to draw breath, he clawed desperately at the mighty arm that was strangling him. His lungs were bursting … his ears rang … he could no longer see.… Abruptly, the stranglehold was gone. He sagged helplessly, gulping in air, groping blindly at the table for support. Barely conscious, he heard echoing voices, but his dazed eyes were focusing again and they focused on a heavy iron cauldron. If he could but reach it without attracting their attention.… He allowed himself to sway and sink to his knees, his left hand swinging out apparently helplessly to send the cauldron crashing down. He thought a pained but exultant, ‘Excelsior!’
Monteil was saying something. “… not propose, my dear Diccon, to search the vastness of your Lanterns … cooperation by far the most advisable.”
They were hauling him to his feet and supporting him roughly. Something wet and cold slapped at his face. He blinked, and Monteil’s soulless eyes were peering at him. The razor-sharp tip of his own dagger was tapped on
his chin. “I believe you heard me,” purred Monteil. “Certainement you know what it is that I desire. And you know that I get what I want. One way—or another. Why not tell me now? I know you are a brave man. I respect this. There is not the need to prove it further.”
Diccon looked around blearily. Five of the hounds. And Ti Chiu counted for another five. The odds would have been dim with the mighty Chinese alone. He said hoarsely, “What have you … done with my … man?”
Monteil gave a deprecating gesture. “This, it is of peu d’importance. Where is The Sigh of Saladin?”
“If I knew,” croaked Diccon, “d’you think I’d still be in this mouldering ruin? I don’t even know if—if it’s fact or … fiction.”
A shadow hove up before him, and he realized they’d lit a branch of candles.
Ti Chiu’s deep rumble sounded. “The Runner lies.”
One of the ruffians gave a gasp. “He’s a Runner? Gawd!”
Monteil said conversationally, “You possess, I have before remarked it, beautiful hands, Major. Ti Chiu will start there, I think. One finger at a time.”
The great paw of the Chinese giant stretched out.
Diccon said, “Dammit, I told you! I don’t know where it is!”
Ti Chiu chuckled and seized his wrist, forcing him to his knees again.
Even as he went down there was a loud explosion, then a series of sharp retorts. Vivid flashes lit the room. Ti Chiu released Diccon and quailed against the wall with a yowl of guilt and fear.
“Nom de Dieu!” gasped Monteil.
The back door was wrenched open and a liveried groom ran in. “Someone’s sent up a buncha rockets upstairs, Monsewer! Some sorta signal. Be seen fer miles, I reckon! There’ll be troopers here, on the double!”
Monteil unleashed a burst of French and Italian profanity. His men began to edge for the doors with muttered comments about Runners and The Law.
Lanterns Page 24