Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Without another word, Charity guided her horse down the hill and across the meadows towards the belt of woodland that marked the start of the Strand preserves. She set a steady but not fast pace and, ignoring Mitchell’s smothered mutterings of impatience, waited for him to fall from the saddle.

  She was still waiting half an hour later when they followed the winding drivepath up the slope and stopped in front of the Hall. A stableboy sprinted to take the horses, his eyes becoming round as saucers when he noted Mitchell’s bloodstained rags. Not waiting for assistance, Charity kicked her little boot free of the stirrup and jumped down. Mitchell had kept his back ramrod straight during the ride; she watched to see how his arrogance would dictate that he manage the dismount. Instead of swinging down in the customary manner, he tossed his leg up over the mare’s mane and slid down gracefully. She saw the sheen of sweat on his brow and around his mouth, but he gave not the faintest indication of discomfort, staring instead at the great house for a moment before remarking in an awed and quite unaffected way, “What a jolly fine place!”

  The front door opened and the butler came out onto the terrace, his slim figure as immaculate as ever, his hair a silver gleam in the early afternoon sunlight. His pale blue eyes shot to the unexpected visitor and widened, and immediately his attention flashed to Charity. She looked strained, and there was blood on her gown. He asked in sharp anxiety, “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Yes.” Grateful for the solicitude, she smiled at him. “I am perfectly well, thank you, Fisher. But this gentleman has had some—er, trouble. This is Mr. Mitchell—”

  “Redmond,” Mitchell finished. “Has my man arrived?”

  Charity blinked. At breakfast neither Tristram nor Rachel had mentioned the imminent arrival of a guest. Fisher, however, seemed not in the least surprised, and advised that Mr. Redmond’s chaise had indeed arrived and his valet awaited him above stairs.

  “Redmond…?” thought Charity, her brow wrinkling. “Now where have I heard that name before?” And then she gave a gasp as Redmond had the effrontery to ask, “Who else is here?”

  Fisher hid his own surprise admirably. “We have no other guests at present, sir.”

  Redmond scowled as he strode confidently across the terrace and came near to colliding with the doorjamb. Charity was mildly disappointed when Fisher caught him at the last instant and guided him through. “Easy, sir,” he said gently. “May we hope Sir Harry and his lady plan to join us?”

  Charity smothered another gasp. Sir Harry Redmond had been believed killed at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo, but had been found alive days later and had surprised everyone by surviving his wounds after a long convalescence. Dimly, she recalled that there had been some scandal involving Sir Harry, but just what it was eluded her, and she wondered uneasily what could possibly bring such a celebrity to this quiet corner of Sussex.

  Mitchell Redmond, meanwhile, having firmly denied the possibility of his brother’s arrival, had drawn away from the butler’s supporting arm. “Have my man down here, if you please. He will assist me.”

  Fisher beckoned to a hovering parlourmaid and sent her scuttling up the stairs in search of Mr. Redmond’s valet.

  Charity murmured, “Is my sister from home, Fisher?”

  Having vainly attempted to persuade Mr. Redmond to sit down, the butler said, “They went out for a drive, miss.”

  Redmond said autocratically, “I must see your master directly he returns.”

  With difficulty, Charity restrained herself from sweeping him a low and royal curtsey. The arrogance of the creature!

  There came a flurry of volubility from the stairs, and a plump gentleman’s gentleman, very black of hair and eye, and very white of skin, ran down to them. Charity had been expecting someone as supercilious as his employer and was amused by this excitable individual who fluttered about Redmond, wringing his hands, uttering a spate of Italian lightly interspersed with English, and having many references to someone called “Mama Mia.”

  Redmond looked suddenly exhausted, as though his strength had stretched only until this moment. Wearily, he muttered something in fluent Italian. The valet glanced at his master’s back, groaned, and clapped a hand over his eyes, then slipped out of his own discreet coat to throw it around Redmond’s shoulders.

  “A thous’ pardons, signorina,” he apologized, casting an anguished look from Charity to his shirt sleeves. “I am indecent. But Signor Mish-hell”—he shrugged, a gesture that involved every inch of him—“have mos’ the need-a. You forgive, si?”

  Leaning heavily on his arm, Redmond said, “Miss Strand, this is Antonio diLoretto, my man. Miss Strand, er, cut off my garments, Tonio. And, ah, tied me up.”

  There was a whimsical gleam in his eyes, and the tug at the beautifully shaped lips enhanced his good looks to a degree that Charity found deceptively unfair even as she wondered that she’d thought his mouth thin and cruel. DiLoretto left her little time to recover. Abandoning his hold on Redmond, he bowed so low that his pomaded curls all but brushed the carpet. With impassioned voice and dramatic gestures he came near to sobbing as he exploded into a flood of mingled English and Italian, his speech so rapid that Charity caught only the words “art,” “life,” and “feet.” The monologue ended as abruptly as it had begun. In the midst, or so it seemed, of a death scene that would have made Edmund Kean envious, this droll little man spun around, seized his employer once again and said with brisk authority, “We now uppa go stairs.”

  Charity closed her parted lips. “What on earth do you suppose he said?” she asked Fisher, as the oddly assorted pair disappeared along the first floor landing.

  “Something to the effect that he is your slave forever. That his heart will break if you do not allow him to sacrifice his life for you, and that, meanwhile, his soul is at your feet. I think,” replied the butler.

  “Good gracious!” With one hand on the banister, she asked, “Did you know that Mr. Redmond was coming today?”

  “I had no idea, miss. But”—he hesitated—“when his man said they were expected, I assumed Mr. Redmond must be acquainted with Mr. Justin or the Colonel. I hope it was in order for me to—”

  “Don’t be silly, of course it was. And I fancy he must know my brother-in-law, because of the way he asked for him just now. Where have you put him?”

  “The green room, miss. In view of Mr. Redmond’s injuries, I fancy his man had best stay with him. Would you wish that I send for the doctor?”

  “Yes, please do.” Charity said uneasily, “I hope this business will not upset my sister.”

  Fisher’s thoughtful gaze drifted down her rumpled gown. Following his eyes, she exclaimed, “Oh my! I must hurry and change.”

  Fisher said with a twinkle, “Yes, miss. I fancy the sight of you just now would be a decided shock for Miss Rachel.”

  “And we must allow nothing to alarm her at this particular time, must we, Fisher?”

  They exchanged understanding smiles, then Charity started up the stairs. She had taken only a few steps, however, when a rapid pounding from below was followed by a startled exclamation from Fisher. Charity turned back, having first taken the precaution of clinging to the rail.

  A tawny tornado galloped full-tilt up the stairs. Tongue lolling, powerful paws flying, ears back, the large grinning bulldog tried to jump into her unavailable lap, rebounded down three steps, gambolled up again, succeeded in wiping his long tongue around her chin, turned around in midair, landed heavily, and stood stock-still. He had caught a new scent.

  Charity, who had been angrily adjuring the dog to “behave,” glanced at Fisher in amazement. “My heavens! I do believe he is obeying me.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Fisher, straightening the cravat that had become disordered when he was flung against the wall, “he knows that—”

  His words were cut off. With every indication of a dog defending his mistress against a murderous threat, Brutus hurled his challenge up the stairs. Charity threw her hands over her ears
and commanded the “bad dog” to be quiet. Fisher added his own exhortations to the din, and two downstairs maids joined in the howl for silence. Brutus quite enjoyed it, but he tended to become bored very rapidly, and, deciding that enough was as good as a feast, ceased his roars and trotted sedately down the stairs and across the hall towards the kitchen.

  The humans sighed with relief. Fisher signalled to the maids, and they departed. Charity wondered uneasily why Brutus had taken so violent a dislike to Mitchell Redmond.

  * * *

  Charity’s abigail was putting the last deft touches to her hair when the door opened and Rachel entered. No one, seeing them together, could have the slightest doubt but that they were related, but the likeness was manifest in the fragile build that was characteristic of all three Strands, in their mannerisms and grace of movement, rather than in any marked similarity of features. Rachel Strand Leith’s hair was a light dusty brown, containing none of the red tints that caused Charity’s locks to be termed sandy. A famed beauty, Rachel had a shapely figure that was just beginning to betray the fact that she carried her first child, but if anything, approaching motherhood lent a deeper radiance to the delicate features, only a slight trace of fatigue marring her loveliness.

  Just now, her deep blue eyes clouded with anxiety, she hurried to Charity saying, “Dearest? What is this I hear about your having become involved in a duel and arriving home covered with blood? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, but how vexing of them to worry you so!” Charity stood to hug her. “I particularly wished to spare you any alarm.” She dismissed her abigail and when the girl had left them, asked, “Was it Best told you such stuff? I vow he gossips like an old woman!”

  “No, it was not Best.” Rachel allowed herself to be guided to the sofa in the adjoining parlour. “And I’ll not betray my source of information, so never try to worm it out of me. Come, Charity. Sit here beside me and do not try to fob me off with fustian, as Fisher did.”

  Seating herself obediently, Charity explained, “All I did was try to help a—er, gentleman, who had been hurt in a duel.” She knew her hesitation had been noted, and added resignedly, “Oh, very well. I’ll own I had sooner describe him as a boor, for a more arrogant, ill-mannered, ungrateful wretch I never met!”

  “Mitchell Redmond?” Considerably astonished, Rachel exclaimed, “Why, he is the very nicest boy. I’ve not seen him for years, but as I recollect he was so well featured as to take one’s breath away.”

  “And still is. Though not nearly so handsome as your Tristram. And I hope you may not be disappointed when you meet him, for I can assure you that his disposition does not at all equate with his looks. Unless you could like an acid-tongued cynic.”

  Rachel was quite aware that her sunny-natured sister very seldom took anyone in such deep dislike. Perplexed, she said slowly, “I’ve heard a few rumours, of course, but set little store by them. You know what the gabblemongers are. The Mitchell I knew was shy and gentle, and most shockingly absent-minded, which used to drive his poor brother fairly into the boughs. He was quite a scholar and always had that handsome head stuck into a book. Now they say he is become a rake, which I cannot believe! Why, I recall meeting him in Town once, just before Justin went out to India, and who should chance to trip past but Dorothy Haines-Curtis. She spent at least ten minutes simpering and fluttering and flirting, while Mitchell grew red as any lobster and was so aghast he all but sank through the pave! Justin thought it hilarious, but Mitchell was truly embarrassed to death.”

  Charity tried vainly to visualize Mr. Redmond in such a state, and asked dubiously, “Are you quite sure, love? His brother is quite well thought of, I know, for he was a war hero. Could you be confusing them?”

  “Heavens, no! No one could do so, for they are totally unlike. Harry is the dashing one. I think you have not met him?”

  “No. But Justin says that Harry Redmond is a splendid fighting man, and Jeremy Bolster once spent ten minutes trying to tell me something about Sir Harry; it was to do with a false charge that had been levelled against him, I believe, but I couldn’t quite understand it all. You know how Jeremy is.” She paused, it becoming apparent that Rachel was not attending. She asked, “What is it, dear? You are not worried about Mr. Redmond?”

  Rachel started. There had been something about Harry Redmond a year or so back. At the time she had been absorbed with rearranging Cloudhills and adjusting to her newly married state, but there had been quite a scandal, and she was sure it had to do with one of the Sanguinets. Apprehension touched her, causing her heart to flutter, but she did not mean to worry Charity over such vague trifles and so responded hurriedly, “How rude of me to go wool-gathering! No, I was thinking about Tristram.”

  “I might have known,” said Charity, laughing at her. “And what has he been doing to bring so troubled a look?”

  Rachel’s blue eyes softened as they always did when she spoke of her husband. “Nothing really, except”—she blushed faintly and looked away—“these late weeks he has been a touch uneasy, you know. Which is so silly, because although I was a little unwell just at first, I am healthy as any horse.”

  “Cart-horse,” amended Charity with a twinkle, but she was less amused than she seemed. Her large brother-in-law was, she knew, desperately afraid. His courtship of her sister, at a time when Rachel had been betrothed to that horrid Claude Sanguinet, had been as perilous as it was unorthodox, and had not only almost cost him his life, but had resulted in disgrace and social ostracism for them both. Despite such an unfortunate beginning, their marriage had been blissful, marred only by Tristram’s dread that the fulfilment of his hopes for children might also take from him his beloved wife. He had come near to fainting with shock when Rachel had gently broken to him that she was in a delicate condition, and he had subsequently guarded her with ill-disguised apprehension. It was true that the early weeks had not gone very smoothly. Nonetheless, Rachel had always enjoyed excellent health and when her time came would doubtless present her husband with a sound and beautiful baby. If Mitchell Redmond’s arrival could turn poor Tristram’s thoughts in another direction, thought Charity, the wretched creature might serve a useful purpose after all. “I wonder,” she murmured, “what brought Mr. Redmond here.”

  “I fancy Tristram will find out just as soon as Dr. Bellows has gone. I was so startled to see his chaise in the yard. And you shall not fob me off any longer, Charity. What is all this about a duel?”

  * * *

  The Honourable Tristram Leith’s swinging cavalryman’s stride slowed as he rounded the corner of the first floor hall. Dr. Bellows had paused outside the green guest chamber, a puzzled expression on his face as he stared at the closed door. The little doctor was, in fact, so lost in thought that he jumped violently when Leith came up with him to enquire, “Have you finished with our guest, sir?”

  “Goodness me!” exclaimed Bellows, almost dropping his bag. “How you do creep up on a fellow, Leith!” And peering up into the smiling countenance of the young man who dwarfed him, he said with less heat, “I have, but—he’s a peculiar fellow. D’you, ah, know him well?”

  “Don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Is he very bad?”

  “I wonder…” murmured the doctor inexplicably. Then, as if recovering his wits, he ran a hand through his thinning, reddish hair and drew Leith a few paces along the hall. “Bad? Oh no. Nasty cut. Lost some blood. I had to perpetrate some of me famous embroidery on the poor chap, which he endured bravely enough. All in all, it’s more painful than serious. Funny, though.” He pulled at his lower lip and muttered half to himself, “That back…”

  “Back?” echoed Leith, curious. “I’d understood Mr. Redmond was hurt in a duel.”

  “What? Oh—likely you’re right.” The doctor smiled absently, said his farewells, promised to call tomorrow, and hurried off.

  With the odd feeling that they had been talking at cross purposes, Leith watched the little man stamp down the hall, then turned and quietly entered the
bedchamber.

  Redmond lay on his side. His lean face was pale and had a look of exhaustion, but he heard the door open, and his long grey eyes watched the visitor levelly.

  There was a trace of guardedness about that steady stare, and again conscious of being caught in an unexpected current, Leith said, “I was told you wished to see me directly. Shall it tire you if I come in now?”

  “Probably,” Redmond answered. “But I must talk with you, as you should be aware.”

  Puzzled by the note of impatience, Tristram drew up a straight-backed chair and straddled it. “If you mean by reason of your turning our lands into a duelling ground…” he said with his friendly smile.

  Redmond’s lips twisted sardonically. “I take it you have noted that I am, most uncomfortably, lying on my side.”

  “Yes. Dr. Bellows informed me that you had suffered a cut on your back.”

  “Did he?” In a bored tone but with his eyes very intent, Redmond drawled, “May I ask what more your estimable physician had to impart?”

  “That the wound is not serious. And he will come and see you tomorrow.”

  Redmond watched him thoughtfully. He’d heard that Justin Strand was a man of driving energy and likeable but uncertain temperament. The mental image he’d formed did not match this poised young giant whose deep voice was a lazy drawl, and who must have been very good-looking before the right side of his face was scarred. Just now his expression was calm but there was reservation in the dark eyes and, amused, Redmond said by way of explanation, “I am very agile, you see.”

  Leith responded with courtesy, if not complete veracity, “And I am notoriously lacking in curiosity.”

  “Fustian! You’re likely thinking I turned tail and ran.”

  It was said whimsically rather than in anger, and Leith responded with a grin. “I’ll own the cut in your britches surprised me.”

  “Not so damned much as it surprised me!”

  He looked indignant, but Leith eschewed the obvious question. “How you conduct your duels is—”