Sir Gavin, also rendered speechless, made a fast recovery. “As you see, my lord, it is well worth the price!”
“It is beyond price,” murmured Diccon.
Sir Gavin laughed. “You’ve not heard his bid, my dear boy.”
“If I am become your ‘dear boy,’” said Diccon ironically, “I’ve no doubt you already have named your share of the price.”
Sir Gavin gave him a look of loathing.
Visibly shaken, the Arab returned the picture to Marietta. “For The Sigh of Saladin, and on behalf of my people, I will pay you the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, Major Paisley.”
“Half a million—pounds?” gasped Sir Lionel, his eyes goggling.
Dazed, Diccon thought of Lanterns, proudly and graciously refurbished and set amid a groomed park and gardens. He thought of other things and, aware that his step-father waited with barely concealed jubilation, turned to Marietta. She was watching him, her expression grave. He asked, “Well, ma’am? Do you think I should accept his lordship’s offer?”
A moment she hesitated. Then, she shook her head.
“Right!” exclaimed Sir Lionel heartily. “Good girl! Never accept the first offer, I told her! Beautiful thing like that; an object of antiquity. Worth a king’s ransom. Ain’t that right, Diccon?”
His face cold and closed, the sheikh said, “I do not care to haggle in this matter. I would point out, Major, that it could provide you with a new manor house. A new”—he glanced at Marietta—“and glorious life.”
“Very true,” said Diccon. “Still, I must refuse.”
The guards muttered angrily.
The sheikh’s jaw tightened. “Very well,” he said, reluctantly. “But this is my absolute and final offer: One million pounds.”
From Sir Lionel and Coville came simultaneous gasps.
Diccon gazed at Marietta for a long moment and it seemed to Sheikh Ibrahim that a silver flame lit those hitherto enigmatic blue eyes.
Diccon said quietly, “As I said before, The Sigh of Saladin is beyond price. It is not for sale, my lord.”
The sheikh’s lips curled back from his teeth in a soundless snarl. Three muscular hands reached for three murderous scimitars.
Sir Lionel said a dismayed, “Not for sale? But—my dear boy…!”
Sir Gavin yelped, “You’re mad! There’s a limit, even to Mr. Ibrahim’s generosity!”
The sheikh demanded coldly, “Have you an explanation, sir?”
Diccon took The Sigh of Saladin from Marietta and held it up to the light, marvelling at the beauty of it. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that my ancestor considered this to be a prize of war. But to my mind sacred objects belong to the people and the nation of their origin.” Unused to making speeches, he thrust the picture at the sheikh. “It’s yours. But not because I believe it was stolen dishonourably.”
There was an instant of stunned silence. Then, five howls fractured the quiet of the gardens. Two of rage from Sir Lionel and Sir Gavin; three of joy from the sheikh’s bodyguards.
“One million pounds—truly a king’s ransom—and you whistle it away?” roared Sir Lionel. “You’re stark, raving mad!”
“If I had my way you’d be placed in Bedlam under strong restraint!” raged Sir Gavin.
Not daring to look at Marietta, Diccon knew that they were probably right. But it was too late for him to change now. He would undoubtedly be a stupid fool all his days.
* * *
Arthur knelt on the rug in Marietta’s bedchamber and watched her arrange her shawl. “Why was Papa so cross with Sir G’waine yest’day after those men in the dresses were gone? I ’spect that’s why he went home so quick.”
“They weren’t really dresses, dear. They’re robes that men wear in the country they come from. And Papa thought that Diccon should have done something in a rather different way, that’s all.”
“Oh. You’ve tied your bonnet three times, Etta. He went away yest’day y’know. An’ it’s already today aft’noon.”
“I know. But he’s still not very strong, and I don’t expect he’ll go anywhere just yet. And besides—” Marietta started to fashion the bow again, then sighed and gazed at her reflection. “Oh dear. I suppose the truth is that I’m just a coward, Arthur. I never did anything like this before.”
Ladies were awful strange, he thought. What was there to be a coward about? All she had to do was talk. What was scary ’bout that? “If you’re ’fraid,” he said, “you’d better grid up the lions.”
She turned and looked at him. “I’d better—what, dear?”
“Grid up the loins. That’s what Lem told me to do when Sir Strut hissed at me an’ I was scared. He says it’s out of the Bible.”
The light dawned. “Ah! So it is. Perhaps Lem didn’t speak loudly enough for you to hear properly. It really says, “‘Gird up thy loins.’” She saw his mouth opening and added quickly, “Which means—gather up your courage.”
“Oh. Why doesn’t it say that, then?”
“Well, because we say things a little differently nowadays.”
“Why?”
“Because times change. And time is changing very fast, so I’d better hurry, hadn’t I.” She tied the bow and took up the valise that lay on the bed. “How can this be heavy? It’s empty.” She set it down again and lifted Friar Tuck out. “Were you going to come and offer me moral support, moggy?” she asked, holding up the cat.
“We’re both coming,” said Arthur.
“No, dear. I really don’t think—”
“We must, Etta! You might forget to grid your loins on the way!”
It was, she thought with an inner quake, very possible.
* * *
After a long and emotional reunion with Orpheus and Mr. Fox, Diccon left the paddock and wandered across the field behind the manor, irritated because he still tired so easily.
Vaughan came to meet him and called a greeting. Still Sir Lionel’s house guest, he’d promised to come and look over the damage to the old wing this morning; something Diccon had not been able to bring himself to do.
“Beautiful day, Major, sir,” he said, his eyes keenly appraising his friend.
“Very,” agreed Diccon. “Well, what’s your verdict? Am I alive?”
Vaughan laughed. “You look less like a corpse every day. I really believe you’ll survive.”
“I am still persona non grata at the Warrington establishment, I take it?”
“The old boy judges you ripe for Bedlam.”
“Add to that my despicable conduct with regard to his heir.”
“It was his heir who was despicable—not your conduct. I told him any self-respecting officer would have done the same. Myself included.”
“Did you! That was good of you, Joss. But in the matter of the sheikh, did you also judge me ripe for Bedlam?”
“Oh, absolutely. But—I’m … Well, what I mean is—” Vaughan finished in a rush, “I’m jolly proud that you number me among your friends, dear old looby.” Very red in the face, he mumbled something about “giving Mac an assist,” turned to bolt, then stopped dead.
Seven horsemen were approaching at the gallop. Seven followers of the Sheikh Ibrahim, mounted on superb black Arabian horses, riding abreast, robes flying, and high-held scimitars glittering wickedly in the morning sunlight.
“Jupiter,” muttered Diccon.
Vaughan sprang to his side. “And I left my pistol in the saddle holster,” he said grimly. “Fiend seize the fellow! He’s taking revenge on your blasted ancestor!”
The Arabs were upon them with a thunder of hooves and a chorus of ear-splitting battle cries. There was no chance to run; no hope of an attempt at defence. Side-by-side, pale but unflinching, Diccon and Vaughan faced that thundering charge, waiting to be cut to ribbons.
At the last instant the Arabs divided and circled the two men. Still shouting, they raced around them in a dwindling circle. Abruptly, they slowed, formed a single line facing the Englishmen, and were still.
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The central rider walked his horse forward and, scant paces from them, halted once more. The curving blade of the scimitar shot out. It was all Diccon could do not to recoil but then he saw that a small velvet bag was tied to the end of the blade. He reached out and removed it.
At once that deafening war cry rent the air. The riders who had sat as if carven from stone spurred their horses into another encircling gallop gradually widening until, whooping and howling they raced off and out of sight.
“Phew!” gasped Vaughan. “Life around you is never dull, old pippin! I suppose your almighty sheikh is demanding satisfaction, is that what those flamboyant manoeuvres were all about?”
Diccon took a piece of paper from the bag, scanned it, and held it out with a hand that trembled.
Vaughan was no less shaken and it was some moments before he was able to croak, “Oh … egad!”
* * *
MacDougall smoothed the back of Diccon’s coat and said approvingly, “Right bonnie ye look, and no mistaking!” He pulled out a chair. “Sit ye doon, sir, and have a wee bit brrrandy while I pole up the hacks.”
Diccon took up the “wee bit brrrandy,” stared at it, and put it down again.
He smiled foolishly at the open door, wondering what Marietta was doing on this bright and breezy afternoon, and what she would think of— A carriage was stopping outside. He took up his helm and crossed to the door. Mac had been speedy.
He was mistaken. There was no sign of his coach, or MacDougall. The dilapidated Warrington carriage, the roof piled with baggage, stood in the courtyard and Lem Bridger was handing Marietta down the step. She wore a bonnet and a travelling coat, and, as usual, at the sight of her his heart bounced up behind his teeth. He walked quickly towards her, and she turned and saw him. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Full dress regimentals? How splendid you look, Major. Are you summoned to Whitehall?”
“Yes. But never mind about that. Where are you going?”
“Away,” she said with a sigh, walking to the house with him.
“Away? What d’you mean—away? Away where?”
She shrugged. “Something has to be done. Eric borrowed my—our—savings. We’re properly in the basket now. So I’ve decided to take a post as governess.”
He stopped walking and looked down at her, aghast. “That’s the most nonsensical thing I ever heard! You won’t make any money at it. And besides, you know Vaughan will provide for your family.”
“I expect he will, when they are officially betrothed. But he wants a long engagement so that Fanny can have a London Season.”
“Yes, but—”
“He has offered, of course, but Papa says we cannot take charity from a comparative stranger. He has his pride too, Diccon.”
“Does he! I wonder that he didn’t—” He bit back the angry words, and demanded, “Where are you going to look for this post, I should like to know? And what will you do until you find one?”
With brave but pathetic resignation she said, “Oh, I shall manage. Somehow. I have, in fact, already accepted a post—at least for a trial.”
“You have? When did all this transpire? And where is this fabulous opportunity?”
“I wrote after it last month. I didn’t tell anyone at the time. But I received a reply yesterday, and with Papa in such a taking, and my—my last hope … gone.” She peeped at him from under her lashes. “I can at least spare my family the upkeep of a spinster daughter. So I’m off to Edinburgh, and—”
“Edinburgh? S-spinster? Oh, come now! You’re doing it up too brown—What I mean is—”
“It’s quite all right,” she said wistfully. “I understand, Diccon. But you have been so good—I just had to—to say…,” she turned from him and dabbed at her eyes, saying on a sob, “… good-bye.”
His eyes narrowed. He demanded, “Understand—what?”
“That I have no portion—”
“You mean dowry.”
“Well, yes. And you need—or will want to find—a lady of wealth and position.”
He looked down at her demurely bowed head, and drawled, “Like—Mrs. Maitland, perhaps?”
“She is very wealthy, I hear. And—you know she has always yearned for a title.”
“Has she, indeed!”
“She may be a touch—scratchy. But I expect she will be willing to restore Lanterns.”
“How very good of you to plan such a delightful future for me. And just think, I could stay here and see Arthur every day, and think of you in Glasgow, and be—”
“Edinburgh.”
“—Edinburgh, and be perfectly content at long last!” He snorted. “Oh! If ever I needed two hands!”
She peeped up at him again and saw laughter mingling with the indignation in his eyes. “Why, dear Diccon?”
“To spank you.” He dropped his shining helm, seized her arm with unexpected strength and pulled her to him. “Hard! A governess, indeed! Who put you up to this blatant attempt to force my hand?”
“Arthur,” she admitted shamelessly. “He’s afraid I’ll let you get away and he wants you for a brother-in-law, even if you judge me unfit to be your wife, so—”
Much tried, Diccon uttered a ferocious growl and cut off her confession with remarkable proficiency considering that he had only one usable arm.
“And—besides,” gasped Marietta when she was able to speak. “He likes Mr. Fox, so you see I had to do as he asked, regardless of my own—”
After another blissful interlude they discovered to their mutual surprise that they were sitting on the step of the main entrance and that Marietta’s head, bonnetless, rested comfortably on Diccon’s right shoulder.
“Are you sure, my lovely one?” he asked, kissing her ear. “I’m not one of your London beaux always ready for an endless round of parties and routs and musicales.”
“Nor am I,” she said. “Even if we could afford it.”
“And I’m not a brilliant conversationalist, but tend to stand about like a speechless dullard, besides being cursed with my antiquated notions—as you’ve seen.”
“Well, that’s true,” she agreed, reaching up to touch his empty sleeve with a very gentle finger.
“Besides—and you must face it, Marietta, you’re such a lovely little thing, and—well, I’m probably going to be a bit of a nuisance, which is easy to dismiss now, but will likely get tiresome after a while.”
She nodded. “I expect it will. And I would be much wiser to refuse your splendid offer—”
“Which I haven’t yet made.”
“Which you have as good as made, sir! But the problem is that, though I searched the whole wide world, how could I hope to find another almost-nobleman to compare with the man I so love and honour and simply cannot exist without, or—”
She was interrupted at some length. With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “So you came here to entrap me, you saucy schemer. I suppose all those portmanteaux and band boxes atop your coach are empty?”
“Yes. I would have come sooner in fact, but I couldn’t very well entrap you when you owned an objet d’art worth a million pounds.”
“But you would be willing to entrap me had I not a penny.”
“Not one penny?” She chuckled. “I don’t think you’re quite that deep under the hatches, are you, my love?”
“Not … exactly.” He took his arm from around her, and drew from his pocket the bank draft that had been most dramatically delivered by a troop of magnificent Arabian horsemen.
Marietta glanced at it, and her own breath was snatched away. “Oh!… Oh, Diccon! The sheikh?”
“He says it is the reward, and not even half what he was really prepared to pay.” He pursed his lips. “Still, it’s an enormous amount. Do you think I should refuse it?”
“No! I do not! Oh, my dear! How wonderful of him! We will be able to restore Lanterns, just as you’ve so longed to do! There will be room for all of us. And—”
“Oh, no there won’t! On the estate—yes. At Lantern
s, just you and I, beloved, and our staff. Er, for a while, at least.” Marietta blushed, and he chuckled and kissed her temple. “Now I’ll take you home in my coach, and Lem can follow.”
In swift alarm she cried, “You’re not going to start for Whitehall today?”
“No. In a month, perhaps.”
“Deceitful man! Then why are you so magnificent in your regimentals?”
“Because I must call on your sire and make a formal offer for my lady, and the uniform makes me look—well, a little more impressive, I hope.”
“You are always impressive, Major. Besides,” she added with a giggle, “what you have in your pocket will impress my sire enormously.”
They had reached the coach. Of Bridger there was no sign, but a trill sounded from the open door, and Friar Tuck yawned, and stretched his front legs over the edge of the seat.
“Arthur!” gasped Marietta, repentantly. “Oh dear! I quite forgot!”
“I knowed you would!” The little boy blinked at her. “I shouldn’t of goed to sleep. Did you grid your loins?”
“Did she—what?” asked Diccon, intrigued.
“Never mind!” said Marietta.
He grinned and kissed her ear again.
Cheered by this demonstration, Arthur said, “Oh. Did she do it right, Sir G’waine?”
Diccon put his arm around his love and smiled down at her. “She did indeed,” he said, knowing his lonely years were done. “She did it exactly right!”
“Good,” said Arthur. “Then I think I’ll go and see— I said—” He stopped. They weren’t listening, but it didn’t matter because there was no longer any doubt that he’d have Diccon for a brother ’law.
Accompanied by Friar Tuck, he skipped off happily in search of the Lord of the Larder.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
PREVIOUS NOVELS BY PATRICIA VERYAN
The Mandarin of Mayfair
Never Doubt I Love
Lanterns Page 34