Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Redmond made an impatient gesture. “I have, as you’re doubtless aware, conducted several. However, I ain’t yet so foolhardy as to take on three men at once.”

  “The devil you say! It was not a duel?”

  “Very shrewd.”

  Leith stiffened, thinking, “Impertinent cub!” and wondering why he had expected to meet a mild-mannered scholar. With a veneer of frost on his voice, he said, “May I ask if it is your custom to wear a small-sword when you travel?”

  “Scarcely.” Quite aware of the changed tone, Redmond smiled faintly. “I’ve discovered, though, that in case of emergency a pistol can be fired only once.”

  So the man had been expecting trouble. Perhaps he carried valuables about his person. Leith asked, “Thieves?”

  Surprised, Redmond turned painfully on the pillows and settled back with a cautious exhalation of breath. Good gad! If the man really thought it had been thieves, then he knew nothing and this must be handled very carefully indeed. “Have you another suggestion?” he countered, probing.

  In view of the fact that this individual was apparently something of a duellist, Leith answered dryly, “I can think of several possibilities.”

  To Redmond that remark suggested that this man might be playing a deep game. In which event, he would brave the water after all. Watching for the reaction, he said a tentative, “I came here because I’d a letter from”—he dared not say “Diccon”—“from the Trader.”

  Racking his erratic memory, Leith could recall no Trader. “Did you?”

  “Concerning my father,” Redmond went on.

  Again, Leith’s recollection played him false. Beyond a vague knowledge that Redmond’s sire was a fine sportsman, he couldn’t seem to put a face to the name, but it was very possible he was a friend of the family. “I, er, trust Sir Colin is well,” he murmured hopefully.

  That he had erred was at once obvious. Redmond looked horrified and exclaimed, “Hardly! He was murdered in ’14!”

  “Good God! How damnable for you! Do you know who did it?”

  “Oh yes,” said Redmond, a deadly glint in his eyes. “We know, my brother and I. I believe you are acquainted with Harry?”

  Leith sighed and gave up. “I might be,” he admitted wryly. “There’s a deal I cannot remember, even now. Only bits and pieces, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, is that the way of it? Must be beastly annoying for you, Strand.”

  “It is, indeed. But I see you mistake, sir. Justin Strand is my brother-in-law, and presently in Town. I am Tristram Leith.”

  “Oh, Lord!” gasped Redmond, dismayed by the pitfall he had so narrowly avoided.

  Leith’s expression became chill. He stood and said coldly, “You have heard my name before, I see.”

  Redmond considered him. Egad, but it was a big fellow. “I should have, I take it. I’ve been in Europe a great deal the last year or so. But I fancy the uniform became you.”

  “So you have heard of me!”

  “No, I tell you.” Redmond grinned. “But military is writ all over you. Cavalry? You’ve seen service, I gather.”

  Instinctively, Leith’s hand lifted to his scarred cheek. “Yes. Boney gave me something to remember him by. I wound up on Wellington’s staff, actually.”

  “Did you, by God!” Looking suddenly boyish without that cynical hauteur, Redmond sat up, flinched, swore, but asked eagerly, “Waterloo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jove—what luck! How I’d love to have been there! Invalided out, eh?”

  “No.”

  Nonplussed, Redmond watched him. That flat denial could mean anything—even that he had been cashiered. He thought impatiently, “What stuff!” The man was the very essence of pride and integrity, and the last type the military would have kicked out. On the other hand, it did not do to jump to conclusions, as that silly little chit had done this morning when she’d caught sight of his own back. The muscles under his ribs cramped, and he thrust away the recollection. He was laid by the heels for the present, else he’d ride out at once and track down Strand. Or better yet, Diccon himself. Instead, all he could do was wait to see what developed. An anxious frown pulled his brows together as in his mind’s eye he saw again the letter that he had most dishonourably intercepted. It had been addressed to Sir Harry Redmond, Moiré Grange, Hants., but he’d recognized the untidy writing of the direction and had broken the seal with not a second’s hesitation. The message had been very brief:

  Harry—

  Claude S. is on the move at last. Meet me at Strand Hall near Horsham, in Sussex. Tell no one.

  In haste—

  Trader

  Trader meant Diccon, of course, and that zealous and little appreciated guardian of Britain’s well-being seldom erred. If Monsieur Claude Sanguinet was “on the move,” there was no telling what devilment was brewing. One could but pray old Diccon reached Strand Hall before Harry got wind of it all!

  Mitchell put out his hand and, with a transforming grin that caused Leith to revise his first impressions hurriedly, said, “Very glad to know you, sir. I’m afraid I impose on your hospitality, and I’ll likely be a blasted nuisance for a day or two, but I assure you I’m a fast healer.”

  Taking that slim hand and surprised by the strength of its grip, Leith, ever courteous, answered, “It will be our pleasure to have you with us. Is there anyone you wish us to notify?” And he was at once intrigued by the schoolboy guilt that was reflected in the handsome face of his guest.

  “Oh, n-no,” stammered Redmond. “No one at all. Thank you.”

  Chapter 3

  “Well, I think it a very odd circumstance,” said Charity, walking slowly downstairs beside her sister. “He has been here for three days, surely there must be someone in this world who cares about the man and would be interested in knowing of his whereabouts? Sir Harry, certainly.”

  “Perhaps he told Dr. Bellows,” suggested Rachel, straightening the pink zephyr shawl about her shoulders. “On the other hand, he is a bachelor, and besides, it is possible that he does not wish to alarm his relations.”

  “I asked Dr. Bellows how he goes on, and he said that the wound is healing nicely.” Charity frowned slightly. She had not slept very well with such a man in the house, although Tristram would make short shrift of any attempted knavery. If she had warned him. For perhaps the hundredth time, she wondered why she had said nothing to anyone of Redmond’s shameful scars, instead allowing Brutus to sleep at the head of the stairs. There was little doubt that the bulldog had taken an immediate (and perfectly logical) dislike to Redmond, and would alert the household if the man dared to set one foot outside his door.

  Rachel laughed softly. “Whatever are you pondering? You look positively ferocious.”

  “No, do I? I was thinking of that strange valet, diLoretto. He has the other servants properly in whoops, you know. Mrs. Hayward told me that he has a little song or line of opera for practically any situation that arises, and does not hesistate to render it, wherever he chances to be.”

  “Yes, so Agatha told me. But he seems a very pleasant kind of man. I hope—”

  They had reached the ground floor and were starting across the entrance hall.

  “Oh, dear,” said Rachel, pausing. “Now what is Brutus about?”

  The bulldog’s frenzied barking did not contain the warning note he employed when strangers approached. His excitement was evidenced by ear-splitting squeaks and yips interspersed with his usual stentorian tones. The sisters halted and looked at each other uncertainly.

  “You do not suppose Justin is come home?” said Charity.

  There was no rumble of carriage wheels outside, however, and the door that opened was the one beyond the kitchen that led to the stableyard. Rapid thuds, accompanied by the click of nails, presaged the arrival of the dog, who hurtled at them from across the hall. Charity flung herself in front of her sister, shrieking, “Brutus! Down!” She had armed herself with a hastily removed slipper, but although she applied this imprompt
u weapon to the dog’s nose with firmness, once more her chin was lovingly caressed by what seemed several yards of pink tongue. “Horrid … beast!” she spluttered, staggering back.

  “Br-Brutus! You silly dashed pest!” There was laughter in the familiar voice.

  With cries of surprised welcome, both girls ran to greet the newcomer.

  “Bolster!”

  “Oh, Jeremy! How lovely of you to come! Is Amanda with you?”

  The broad shoulders of the man who strode across the hall were exaggerated by the many capes of the long drab driving coat he wore. He had snatched off his high-crowned beaver, causing straight yellow hair to tumble untidily across his brow. Beaming, he bowed over Rachel’s hand, straightened, his hazel eyes aglow with pleasure at this reunion, and turned to Charity to be seized in an impulsive, improper, and fond hug that delighted him. His ruddy features became ruddier. “I s-say, Charity,” he stammered, grinning from ear to ear and dropping his hat. “Here’s a jolly f-fine welcome! Hey! Brutus! Give it here, you curst commoner!”

  Brutus had no intention of relinquishing his prize and, with the beaver firmly gripped between his jaws, galloped jubilantly round and round the three people who pursued him, variously entreating, commanding, and threatening. Ears back, eyes narrowed, his powerful legs pumping, he tore up the stairs, collided with the two men coming down, and stiffened. It was the scent again! Fainter, but still beyond bearing. He crouched, growling around the beaver, only to be shocked by a voice like steel—a voice that brooked no falderal.

  “Behave!” it proclaimed ringingly. “Down, sir!”

  Charity, who had been about to berate the dog, was at once vexed that Mr. Redmond should presume to do so.

  Brutus, however, dropped so abruptly that he slid down the next stair. Looking up at the tall individual who had spoken with such authority, he humbly laid his prize at the man’s feet and assumed an air of fawning servility.

  “Do not toad eat me, you clumsy leviathan,” said Mitchell Redmond. “Be off with you!”

  “Well!” murmured Charity.

  Brutus grinned and wriggled his hips in the contortion that passed for a wag of his tail. His efforts were wasted, however, and he went dejectedly down the stairs.

  Tristram Leith snatched up the battered beaver and tossed it to its owner. “Greetings, Jeremy!”

  “Thank you, Leith. Hello, R-Redmond. You here?”

  “Evidently,” drawled Redmond.

  Bristling, Charity saw a matching indignation come into Rachel’s eyes. There was no cause for Mr. Redmond to speak so cuttingly. Everyone loved Jerry Bolster, for surely a kinder, more chivalrous person never drew breath.

  Leith crossed to shake his friend’s hand. “This is well timed, indeed,” he exclaimed. “You mean to spend a week or two with us, at least, I hope?”

  “Oh, do say you will, Jeremy,” urged Charity.

  “Did you bring your wife?” repeated Rachel eagerly.

  “No, as a matter of fact. That is to say, I left her in Dorset.” He turned his amiable smile on Redmond. “With your cousins, dear boy. I fancy you know that Sophia has presented Camille with twins.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Redmond, astonished. “I knew she was in a delicate condition, of course, but—twins!” For an instant he looked quite enthusiastic, but catching Charity’s eye, he added, “I wish Cam joy of ’em. One brat is a devilish nuisance, let alone a pair.”

  Charity could have scratched the obnoxious creature. He must certainly be aware of Rachel’s condition, and he was, besides being an unexpected guest, one for whom they had been compelled to summon the doctor, give lots of extra care, and prepare a special diet. They would have done as much for a horse, but the least he could do in return was to be civil!

  Seething, she said, “Be forewarned, Tristram. You are soon to have a ‘devilish nuisance’ foisted off upon you! Mr. Redmond, I believe you are acquainted with my sister?” As she spoke, she flung out a hand to indicate Rachel. Because she was angry, the gesture was exaggerated. It was also unfortunate, because she had completely forgotten that she still held the slipper, which now flew from her grasp and landed squarely in Redmond’s face.

  Bolster could not restrain a chortle. Leith quickly retrieved the slipper and returned it to Charity. Scarlet with embarrassment, she stammered out incoherent apologies.

  Redmond rose to the occasion nobly. It was, he assured her, of no importance whatsoever. Turning to bow over Rachel’s hand, he said with an enchanting smile, “Indeed, it fairly gave me back my own. What a block you must think me, ma’am. I trust you will forgive such gauche behaviour. The fact is, you are so slender I’d no least notion you mean to present Leith with un petit paquet.”

  “Oh, prettily said,” Rachel responded, laughter brightening her lovely face. “I am surprised to see you up and about so soon after your injury, Mr. Redmond.”

  Startled, Bolster intervened, “Injury? You hurt, Mitch? Not another duel?”

  Irked by the awareness that a pair of scornful grey-green eyes were fixed upon him, Redmond shrugged. “Something of the sort.”

  “Harry won’t like that, old fellow. Was saying to me only yesterday that he wishes—”

  His brows drawing into a dark line, Redmond interrupted, “My brother is in Dorset?”

  “No. Was. Went to see the b-babies, y’know. Told you—twins—”

  “Yes, yes! Lord sakes, Jerry! Where is Harry?”

  “On his way back to the Grange, of course. Likely he’ll come here when he don’t find you.”

  “Why the devil should he? Did you tell him I was coming here?” Redmond’s dark face flushed with irritation.

  Bolster blinked at him and stepped back a pace. “Couldn’t. Didn’t know, my t-tulip. I only meant Harry might c-come here because I’d said I was coming.”

  Redmond scowled, and there was a short, uncomfortable pause.

  Taking Bolster’s arm, Leith led the way into the drawing room, while enquiring heartily after the delightful Amanda, Lady Bolster. Bestowing a disgusted look upon Redmond, Charity swept past beside her sister, leaving the pariah to saunter after them, deep in thought.

  Was it only a chance impulse that had brought Bolster into Sussex? Or had he also been summoned? Redmond glanced up and found Bolster watching him from across the big room, his open countenance absurdly concerned. Dear old Jerry. A gudgeon, but the very best of good fellows. Redmond winked, and at once a relieved grin lit his lordship’s face.

  Redmond wandered over to the window seat and sat there, looking unseeingly upon the fair morning, quite unaware of the indignant glances coming his way from Miss Charity Strand. Bolster and Justin Strand, he reflected, were good friends, so it was natural enough that Jerry should stop here—except that Strand apparently no longer resided here. He and his wife dwelt some twenty miles to the south at an estate called Silverings. It was possible that Jerry had gone there first, and come up here having drawn a blank. Redmond knit his brows in frustration. It would be simple to come at the root of it. He’d only have to ask, “Were you called here by Diccon, Jerry?” But suppose the answer was, “Yes. Were you?” What would he say to that? “Not exactly, old boy. I chanced to open one of my brother’s letters and read it.” He cringed inwardly, picturing Bolster’s horror at such a deed. The ultimate dishonour—to pry into a letter intended for another. And Jeremy could be so dashed high in the instep about some things. “My instincts,” he thought defensively, “were purely protective. Harry has already done battle with the Sanguinets, and he has a wife and little son to be considered.” Briefly, he felt not only justified but quite noble, but then conscience began to poke at him. The trouble was that one never really knew if one’s motives were pure. He might tell himself that he had acted altruistically, but had he? Or was the real truth of the matter that he was driven by a consuming thirst for vengeance? Was his real need to even the score with the despicable Sanguinets? To make them pay for what they had done?

  Memory slid backwards. He saw a
gain the woodland clearing … Sergeant Anderson sprawled nearby, and Parnell Sanguinet’s black-clad figure, those pale, macabre eyes narrowed against the afternoon sunlight. Almost, he could hear the velvety gentleness of that heavily accented, murderous voice.…

  He was sweating, and a deep trembling weakened his knees. He fought memory away.

  Bolster was saying, “… so I thought I’d come on here and say hello to old J-Justin, if he was about.”

  Leith joined with the ladies to renew his plea that Bolster stay until the Strands returned, which should be any day now. Delighted by their eagerness, Bolster agreed to remain. “At least for a few days, and only t-too glad to accept of your hospitality.”

  Amid much jubilation, Fisher was summoned and required to ask Mrs. Hayward to have a room prepared and to lay an extra cover for luncheon.

  Redmond said nothing throughout these proceedings, but when his lordship made his way upstairs to change his riding dress, he did not go alone. If there was some reason other than a whim for Bolster having come here, Redmond meant to ferret it out.

  * * *

  “I know you cannot abide children, Mitch,” said Lord Bolster, struggling into a pair of dove-grey pantaloons, “but those two new cousins of yours, I must admit, ain’t all screwed up and red and screaming like most babies. Shouldn’t be surprised b-but what they turned out to be quite tol-tol-tol-bearable.”

  Comfortably sprawled in a deep wing chair, Redmond stiffened and demanded wrathfully, “Who the devil said I cannot abide children?”

  “You did! Said they w-was brats and—”

  “Oh. Well—dammit, I wouldn’t have, had I known—But that blasted girl was glaring at me as if— Hell and damnation, what are they?”

  Bolster stared at him. In less than two years he had watched Redmond change from a shy, likeable, scholarly boy into an abrasive, hot-at-hand rake with a predilection for duelling. But he had never known him to be less than the soul of chivalry where the ladies were concerned, nor to speak of one in as unflattering terms as he had just employed. Sitting down on the bed, his lordship took up a shoe and began to put it on. “Boys. I said they was, in the dr-drawing room just n-now,” he added in mild reproof.