"And I do not care!" raged Claude. "Is it truth? Did they use my carriage as that stupid bastard claimed?"
"Leith sent the women off in it. The guards are coming as fast as possible, but the stables are like a madhouse, and—"
Sanguinet swore blisteringly, and swung to Tristram, his face maniacal. "You knew—damn your soul! You knew—and made mock of me!"
Tristram came to his feet, then bowed in a deep and stately obeisance.
Clutching his hurt, Devenish laughed feebly, "Hoist by… your own petard, eh, Claude?"
"You find it amusing, do you?" hissed the maddened Sanguinet. "I have another funny little thing for you! Only watch!"
He spurred his horse away. Devenish began to struggle frantically, shouting an imploring, "No! Do not! Please—I beg you!" He managed to get to his knees, but crumpled helplessly.
Watching Sanguinet, Tristram stiffened, and swore.
Ever faithful, Mrs. O'Crumbs wove her erratic way in search of her beloved master. And laughing uproariously, Sanguinet rode straight at her. The little duck squawked and flapped her scrawny wings as she darted about in a frantic attempt to escape those flying hooves, but Claude dug home his spurs and his high-strung mount plunged and reared, neighing in fright. Quite suddenly, the uneven contest was won: the tattered wings ceased their frenzied beating; the squawks were silenced.
Devenish groaned and turned his face from that pathetic heap of smashed feathers.
Tristram rested one hand consolingly on his shoulder, then straightened. Head slightly lowered, shoulders a little forward, eyes narrowed, he waited, poised on the balls of his feet, as Sanguinet rode back, jeering, "Was that not the funny-joke?"
"Most amusing," said Gerard, unsmilingly.
"Why do you not laugh, English fool?" demanded Sanguinet. His glistening eyes swung to Leith—and widened in alarm. His recognition of peril was belated. With an inarticulate growl of rage, Tristram sprang.
Gerard jerked up his pistol, but, quick as he was, Tristram had already seized Sanguinet's arm, and Claude, his riding whip flailing, was in the line of fire. Ignoring the blows of the whip; scarcely feeling them, Tristram heaved mightily. Sanguinet clung to the pommel with one hand, but his efforts were useless against the Englishman's flaming fury, and he was torn from the saddle. The guards did not stay to assist their lord and master; their fear of The Pox outstripped greed or loyalty, and they melted into the night. Strengthened by passion, Tristram swung Claude as though he had been a child. Gerard, who had leapt from the saddle, pistol ready, received his employer's heel just behind the ear, dove gracefully into a peony bed, and did not rise. At the culmination of his swing, Tristram released his hold. With a terrified screech, Claude soared high over the pool and landed with a mighty splash in the centre.
Probably as yet unaware of the threat of smallpox, two more guards burst from the trees, and others were sprinting down the hill. Sanguinet was floundering about, his spluttering shrieks spurring the oncoming men to more frantic haste.
"Up, Dev!" Tristram panted. He slipped a hand under the injured man's arm, and lifted.
Devenish struggled gamely, but his face contorted with pain and he swayed and sank again, his eyes closing.
Tristram swung that sagging form across his shoulder and began to run. A shot rang out, the ball whistling past his ear.
"Never mind them!" howled Sanguinet. "A moi! A moi! I am drowning!"
Hysteria was strong in that watery command, and the guards raced to the pool, but those following turned aside to pursue the fugitives.
Devenish was a dead weight, and the rage that had bolstered Tristram was diminishing. His head, which had been pounding ever since he was struck down in the chateau, seemed to become more painful with every stride; his vision began to blur with the ceaseless effort; and each breath seared his lungs. He could hear the steady pound of feet behind him. They were not shooting—Claude could not risk his death until those screens were safely recovered. His stride faltered. He must keep on! He must! Soon, he was weaving drunkenly; there was a roaring in his ears; to breathe was agony. He couldn't last much longer…
"Colonel!Mon Colonel! This way! Me—I am come!"
Tristram blinked stupidly at a familiar face, hanging disembodied in the air. Raoul. Raoul!
Clambering down from the box of the carriage, the little groom swung the door open. With a sob of thankfulness, Tristram stumbled to him. "I knew… you would come… for us!" he wheezed.
"Oui! But of course. Raoul have come. And in the notch of time!" After which dramatic, if slightly inaccurate announcement, he urged, "Inside! Vite! Poor Monsieur Devenish—Raoul will help."
They hauled Devenish inside while the howling guards drew ever closer. It was all Tristram could do to clamber in. Sobbingly exhausted, he sprawled on the squabs. A musket roared, and the ball smashed into the door.
"The screens!" shouted Raoul, scrambling back onto the box.
Tristram dragged himself to his feet, then almost fell as Raoul swung the team and the carriage rocked to the sudden surge of power. Incredible as it seemed, little more than an hour had passed since Devenish had so nobly sunk his teeth into Claude Sanguinet's perfumed soap; however, that hectic space had allowed little chance for conversation and he had neglected to ascertain just how the screens were attached. It had been his thought that the wooden strips along the tops fitted into some kind of track across the carriage roof, but his seeking fingers could discover no such track, and now that they had left the illuminated area of the grounds, only the occasional beam of the lanterns lighting the drivepath lit the interior. Raoul was whipping the team to a thundering gallop; soon they would reach the lodge gates, and still Tristram could not locate the screens. His heart was hammering tensely when at length his fingernails detected grooves. He pushed to no avail, but the thin panel yielded when he slid it to the side, and at once the screen unrolled, the shorter sides flopping down onto the seat cushions, and the long centre section stretching neatly to the floor. There was a small separation between the cushions on each seat, and the screen tucked down inside, while a hook under the rug slipped into a matching hole in the wood trim of the screen, holding it taut. "Halfway home!" he thought, but now the coach was slowing. Gritting his teeth, he sprang to the other side and repeated the process, his fingers seeming clumsy and fumbling. They came to a halt as the screen dropped across Devenish's slumped form. Tristram dragged him inside the dark and tiny concealment, propped him against the squabs, and worked feverishly. He was slipping the hook into place when a gruff voice jeered, "You fairly flew. Monseigneur took your nose off for not collecting his guest, eh?"
"Mais oui! Did he not!" Raoul mourned. "This poor fool did just as Monsieur Gerard ordered, only it was quite incorrect. Let me pass with all speed, I beg. Already, I may never be forgiven."
"They came here, asking if you had gone through. What is going on up at—"
Devenish moaned, and stirred weakly. Tristram gasped, clamped a hand over his mouth and held him still, scarcely daring to breathe.
"Who have you got in there?" Another voice, sharp with suspicion.
Nerves tight, Tristram waited.
"Who else but Bonaparte and Ney, and four brigades of Cavalry?" scoffed Raoul bravely. "Can you not see, maggot-wit, that I carry no one? Do you delay me, I shall inform monseigneur why Raoul he is late!"
"Listen to the bantam!" The voice was very close now. "I shall look under the seats nonetheless, for something it is not well tonight. Otherwise why should all the guests run off?"
Readying himself for action, Tristram stood. The screens would assuredly be detected under a close examination.
"Why, the news have leak out. About the younger Miss Strand. What? You did not know of this?" Raoul imparted in a solemn tone, "She and Doctor Ulrich and perhaps her sister also, have been stricken with the Pox!" And, inspired, he added, "Raoul is much afraid, for he was speaking with the lady but yesterday!"
"Sacre bleu!" The guard retreated rapidly
while admonishing Raoul to take the carriage through and not loiter about.
The carriage began to roll once more, Raoul whipping the team to a gallop.
Tristram sank down, drawing a deep breath of relief.
They were away!
Chapter 17
Three crowded days later, Tristram guided Charity's uncertain steps to a bench in Strand Hall's once luxuriant pleasure garden. "There," he smiled, as she sat down, her wide eyes fixed in triumph on his face. "Did I not tell you that you would be riding before the month is out?"
"Oh—can I believe it?" she said breathlessly. "Dare I believe this is really me? And that I walked—I really walked!"
"You most assuredly did! And practically unaided! Your brother will—"
Aghast, he stopped speaking, for she had seized his hand and nursed it to her cheek. He felt dampness and when she looked up in response to his stammered protests, saw her eyes abrim with tears. "I just do not know how to thank you," she said chokingly. "You have been so—so splendid. And we, alas, have brought you only sorrow."
Tristram sat beside her, the trouble that lurked at the back of his own eyes becoming more pronounced. "You think she will refuse me?" he asked, offering his handkerchief.
Charity dried her tears and blew her small nose. "In her shoes, I would."
He glanced at her sharply bat read only sympathy in her gentle face, and there was no chance to pursue the subject further, for Agatha came to them with word that Justin Strand was now able to receive the Colonel.
Tristram had hoped to catch a glimpse of Rachel, but when he entered the dim coolness of the house there was no sign of her. The butler ushered him to the master bedchamber at the front of the first floor, and closed the door softly behind him.
Walking across the large room, Tristram was engulfed in a tide of thanks for his efforts in behalf of Rachel and Charity. He shook the thin brown hand Strand offered, obeyed a request that he pull a chair closer to the chaise longue on which the sick man rested, and sat down, scanning the features speculatively. Thick light hair framed a sun-bronzed face that was strong despite its present almost skeletal thinness. Eyes as blue as Rachel's met his gaze unwaveringly; the nose was inclined to be Roman; the jaw firm, and the mouth well chiselled. Not a handsome face, but reflecting a character to which Tristram warmed at once. He threw up one hand to stem the tide and grinned easily, "You had best be done with your thanks, else you may put yourself in a vulnerable position. I am come to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your sister."
Strand smiled, but some of the warmth faded from those intensely blue eyes. "I'm dashed sorry I must lie here like some languishing girl on such an occasion. How does Devenish go on? My sisters tell me he'd a rough time of it."
The evasion, Tristram did not doubt, was deliberate. Accepting it, he said, "I believe he will make a good recovery now he is safely in his cousin's care. You know, I expect, that we were so fortunate as to reach Dinard ahead of Sanguinet's hounds, and that the people at Le Canard Borgne hid us in the cellars?"
"Yes. Rachel tells me you persuaded an apothecary to go there and remove the bolt. Poor fellow—was it very bad?"
"Quite bad. He's pluck to the backbone, but luckily fainted before the worst of it. Rachel nursed him devotedly, with the result they now quarrel like brother and sister."
Strand grinned. "She didn't say that. She mentioned that he was shy."
"True. But one cannot for long remain shy with the lady who applies hot fomentations to one's thigh—or holds the bowl when the motion of the seas is ah—unpropitious."
"Oh, gad! A poor sailor, is he? Likely that was worse than all the rest."
"So he told us," Tristram agreed with a twinkle. "I regret to report that he behaved on that occasion with a total lack of valour, and even went so far as to say he wished the bolt had found his heart rather than his leg!"
They both laughed, and Tristram asked quietly, "Are you putting me off because I subjected your sisters to the rigours of a smuggler's ketch on the way home?"
"No, sir." For an instant, Strand was thrown off his stride, and a faint flush appeared beneath his tan. Recovering, he said, "Though, I'll own I cannot quite understand how you were—er—acquainted with smugglers. That is to say, I do not mean to appear censorious, but…"
"I was more than acquainted with them. Devenish and I worked our way to Dinard aboard the yawl of a friendly free trader. We had no choice, actually. Pockets to let, for both of us. And so, you see, on the return journey we were treated as," he smiled, "brethren."
Strand sighed and shook his head regretfully. "I collect there is a great deal yet to be told, and I should dearly love to hear it, but I know you are anxious to get to Whitehall."
"I am. I should have ridden there at once, but I first had to get Devenish safely bestowed, and then return the girls to you."
"For which I am ever in your debt." Transfixed by an unblinking gaze, and realizing this man would not be put off, Strand added a reluctant, "As to your request—my regrets, Leith. But I cannot give my consent."
Tristram's heart sank. "I suppose I expected that. I'll warn you that I am become heartily bored by the Strand pride. I am deep in love with Rachel. I've every reason to believe she feels the same. I mean to wed her—with or without your approval."
"I doubt that, sir." A wry smile curved Strand's mouth. "No—do not eat me! But I cannot feature a man such as yourself essaying a dash to the Border whilst I lie here knocked out of time. More importantly—I know my sister. She will never wed you." His eyes became bleak suddenly. "Not now."
For a long moment, Tristram said nothing. Then he stood and, walking over to the window, observed, "I realize you know nothing of me, Strand, but—"
"Not know of you? Everyone knows of you! Tristram Leith—heir to a barony and a fortune; Leith, who acquitted himself so well on the Peninsula he was made one of Wellington's matchless aides-de-camp! Leith—admired by London's gentlemen and the beau ideal of her ladies!" Strand gave a cynical snort. "Much do I know of you, Colonel!"
Genuinely taken aback, Tristram turned to face him. "I thank you for the compliments, but—someone's been hoaxing you. I never heard such farradiddles!"
"Stuff! It's purest truth, whether or not you acknowledge it. I chance to be well acquainted with Jeremy Bolster and Timothy Van Lindsay—I heard them sing your praises long before I knew you were—er—involved with my sister."
"Yes, and a greater pair of booberkins you'd not wish to meet!" His face hot, Leith demanded, "Now listen to me, Strand—if it is this business with Sanguinet that disturbs you—why, people forget. In time—"
"They'll not forget the Strands. My father's reputation alone was sufficient to bring us to ruin. And as to his debts—"
"They can be paid. My father will—"
"The devil he will!" Strand sat up straight, eyes blazing, and two spots of colour lighting his hollow cheeks. "Why in the deuce d'you think I spent these past three years in India? I'll have you know, sir, I'm not an utter failure! Our debts will be paid in full! And if you think that will turn the trick, you're a maggot-wit!"
"My apologies if I offended." Tristram strode back to the chaise, his eyes holding a flare that would have warned his subalterns. "I wish to God I could stay and talk some sense into your addled brain. But I must get to the Horse Guards, and then to my father. When those matters are attended to, I'll come back, Strand! I mean to have Rachel for my wife and I don't intend to let the Strand pride stop me!" He thrust out a hand and, it being duly taken, said sternly, "Good day, sir. And I am glad to have met you!"
Strand watched that erect figure march to the door and, with a rueful smile in his eyes called, "Leith—you cannot know how I wish I could give you my blessing."
Tristram turned, flashed a grim stare at him, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Rachel sat in a shady corner of the rose arbour, trying to concentrate on the weeds that invaded the once pristine beds, and the amount of work that
must be done to restore the estate. Her fingers were nervously braiding the fringe that edged the pink sash of her sprigged muslin gown, and her thoughts strayed constantly to Tristram. He would seek her out at any moment, she knew. She also knew he had spoken with Justin, and what her brother would have said, wherefore her palms were wet, and her heartbeat wildly irregular. Whatever happened, she told herself sternly, she must be firm. She must not weaken, no matter if—
"Good morning, my dear."
The deep voice was quiet, but Rachel's heart bade fair to jump through her ribs and, despite her preparations for this moment, her breath was snatched away. She stood, her knees trembling as she faced him.
"I did not hear you come," she said tritely, fighting to control her nerves and to crush the familiar ache of longing that scourged her whenever she saw him.
Tristram pushed his broad shoulders away from the tree he leaned against and moved towards her. "I was watching you," he admitted, adding with a rather crooked smile, "I am forbidden to pay my addresses, you know."
She looked at him levelly, drinking in every beloved feature, and hearing as from a great distance her own voice say, "I know."
"What utter, rubbishing nonsense it is!" he exploded, anger and frustration uniting to unleash his rare temper. "You love me. I love you. And because of a pride that is foolish beyond permission—"
"Do you refer to the Strand pride, Tristram?" she intervened calmly. "Or to that of your own family?"
"My family would not shun us! My father is kind and understanding, and—"
"And would welcome Rachel Strand as the future Lady Leith? Forgive me if I doubt that."
He all but sprang to seize her by the shoulders and sweep her to him. "Much I care what you doubt!" he rasped, frowning down at her. "Or what my father thinks—or what the whole world thinks! Rachel—in the name of God! Don't allow this worship of pride and position to come between us. Do you think I could ever be happy again without you at my side? Do you think I give a button for the ton and their stupid unwritten laws?"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles Page 30