Flushed with rage, Devenish fairly exploded to his feet. “Now, by God, it is long past time for someone to attend to that nasty mouth of—”
Slanting a glance at his wife’s dismayed face, Leith intervened with a sharp, “Dev! Easy!”
“I see we arrive barely in time to prevent bloodshed.”
The rich, laughing voice sliced through that taut instant. Redmond, his face suddenly very pale, sprang up to face the two men who now entered the room. “Harry!” he half whispered. “Oh, my God!”
Beaming, Jeremy Bolster hastened to shake the outstretched hand of the young baronet. With a wink, he said sotto voce, “Dashed timely, old fellow.”
Sir Harry Redmond was a shade wider in the shoulders and an inch shorter in stature than his younger brother, and lacked Mitchell’s good looks, but he was a pleasant-faced young man, blessed with vividly green if rather narrow eyes, the strong Redmond nose and chin, and a usually agreeable disposition. The brief look he turned on Mitchell was grim, but he drew his companion forward and, shaking hands with Leith, said, “Jove, Tris, you’ve changed a trifle since last we met!”
Leith grinned, while trying desperately to remember just when and where he had met this man. There could be no doubt of his identity, not after that betraying exchange of glances between him and Mitchell; otherwise, he’d have had not the least notion who he was. “Oh, Boney rearranged my face, as you see,” he said easily.
“For the better,” lied Sir Harry. “You’ve not met my uncle, I think? The Reverend Mordecai Langridge—Colonel Tristram Leith.”
The Reverend, a short, plump, middle-aged cleric of rather colourless aspect and mild brown eyes, acknowledged the introduction bashfully. Neither of the newcomers was known to Rachel or Devenish, and when they had been presented, the little clergyman turned to Mitchell with a look of helpless apology. “Well, here we are, my boy,” he said wryly. “You might have guessed we’d find you out.”
Mitchell shook hands with him and greeted his brother uneasily. “Now, Harry,” he murmured, “do not fly into the boughs. I simply saw no reason why—”
“Did you not? Then you and I have some caps to pull.” Anger flared in the green eyes, to be banished by a swift smile. “But not now,” said Sir Harry, and clapped his brother heartily on the back.
Mitchell uttered a smothered exclamation and jerked away from that heavy hand.
“Bantling?” Alarmed, Sir Harry reverted to the nickname that had not been used this year and more. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” gasped Mitchell, but sat down rather abruptly.
Tristram Leith’s suspicions, stirred when Bolster arrived, now hardened into cold certainty. He said in his deep drawl, “I’d not call it ‘nothing.’ Your brother was set upon.” His tone was cool; his dark eyes met Sir Harry’s frowning ones in a steady warning. “By thieves.”
Harry might be temporarily out of his depth here, but not for a second did he imagine that chance had brought these men together. Leith’s plea for caution had been unmistakable, however, which meant that someone must be kept in the dark. A shrewd glance at the most logical person confirmed Harry’s first impression that she might be in the family way, which explained Leith’s concern. To what extent the Colonel was involved with the Sanguinet clan, Harry had no idea. The last time they’d met had been at a ball in Madrid, with the mighty Wellington present, and Leith in his regimentals dazzling all the pretty signorinas. He hadn’t been a staff officer then, of course, nor had his handsome face been marred by the scars Waterloo had left him.
With these thoughts racing through his mind, Sir Harry bent over his brother, peered into the strained face and said, “Thieves, is it? Jupiter, but they found poor pickings, I’ll wager. Minor damage, old fellow?”
A guarded relief came into Mitchell’s eyes. “Very minor, mon sauvage.”
“Do sit down, gentlemen,” said Rachel, who had already summoned a maid to bring more cups. “May I offer you coffee, Reverend?”
Mr. Langridge happily accepted a steaming cup and needed no urging to further deplete the macaroons. Occupying the chair next to him, Sir Harry stirred sugar into his cup. “My apologies for intruding upon you, Leith. Is—er, Strand about?”
“In Town, I’m afraid,” Leith answered. “Good gad! Listen to that fool Brutus! Better send a footman out to him, m’dear.”
Rachel rang her little hand bell, and as the maid hurried in, the Reverend said uneasily, “Your dog’s a bit of a tartar, eh?”
“Did he annoy you, sir?” asked Leith. “My apologies. I assure you that he is all bark and no bite.”
“Oh, really!” protested Langridge. “He was ready to tear us limb from limb! Eh, Harry?”
“That’s odd,” Leith muttered. “Usually, he’s the gentlest creature.”
“He must reserve his dislike for Redmonds,” said Mitchell. “I rated the same treatment when I first arrived.”
“So you did.” Leith turned to Bolster. “Well, Jeremy, Brutus was once yours—can you shed some light on this?”
“Far as I know,” replied his lordship, looking levelly at Sir Harry, “he only loathes one creature in the whole world. Donkeys.”
“Aha!” said Mitchell. “So Mr. Fox is still at Moiré, is he?”
Sir Harry nodded and, seeing Leith’s puzzlement, explained, “Mr. Fox is a donkey. A very unusual donkey, I might add.”
“I was surprised he was still there,” said the Reverend, restoring his cup to its saucer. “I made sure Diccon would have—”
Rachel’s spoon clattered ringingly onto the silver tray. Her gasped “Diccon!” was drowned by Devenish’s exuberant shout.
“Diccon! I knew it!” He sprang up, exclaiming, “I knew Sanguinet had come out of his hole at last! That is why we are all here! Has each of our lives been touched by that damned villain, then?”
Leith crossed to sit beside his wife and take her cold hand. “My love,” he murmured urgently, “never look so afraid. We know very little yet. There may be nothing to it at all.”
She clung to him, her face deathly pale. “Tell me truly, have you heard from Diccon?”
“I have not. And only look at you working yourself into a spasm. Go and lie down upon your bed, and I will—”
“No! I have always known this day would come, but—Please, dearest, let me stay. I promise not to be a nuisance.”
He scanned her face worriedly, lifted her hand to his lips, then returned to the men who by common consent were discussing Devenish’s new chaise and appeared to have noticed nothing of the tender little scene. “Very well, gentlemen,” said Leith, his voice taking on the subtle ring of authority, “let’s have at it. I know, of course, how Claude Sanguinet has affected the lives of my own family, but—”
“Forgive me, Colonel,” interjected Sir Harry apologetically, “but we do not know of it. Perhaps at this time we should all lay our cards on the table.”
Leith was silent, his eyes flickering to his wife. Rachel’s hands were tight-gripped but she seemed to have her nerves under control. He said carefully, “I must know first, have any of you gentlemen been in touch with Diccon?”
Jeremy Bolster raised one muscular hand. “I have. Had a letter from the old boy telling me to come here at once, but he didn’t say who I was to meet, only not to say anything.”
“I had a letter also,” said Sir Harry and, looking steadily at his brother added, “I think.”
Reddening, Mitchell nodded. “You did.” They were all staring at him, especially that clod Devenish. He bit his lip, then added clearly, “You are perfectly correct, gentlemen. I intercepted my brother’s letter and came in his stead.”
“Jove!” gasped Devenish, appalled.
Redmond turned narrowed, deadly eyes on him, and Sir Harry intervened swiftly, “My brother seems to think that because my wife recently presented me with a very beautiful little son, I must henceforth be wrapped in cotton.”
Frowns became smiles. Leith’s gaze turned speculatively to
the cleric, and Sir Harry explained, “My uncle was up to his revered ears in our little tussle with the Sanguinets, and thus feels entitled to be in on whatever is brewing.”
Langridge flushed and mumbled something about likely being of very little use.
“What is brewing, Tris?” demanded Devenish eagerly. “I had no letter.”
“Nor I,” said Leith, “though I fancy Diccon knew I was here and means to join us. And in view of the attack on Redmond—”
Sir Harry interrupted intently, “Then they were not thieves?”
“They knew me,” Mitchell admitted. “It was quite apparent I was to be disposed of before I could get here. Luckily, I’d anticipated something of the sort and so carried my sword.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Bolster, indignant. “You might have told me, Mitch! I can be tr-trusted, after all!”
Mitchell’s cold eyes softened. “Of course you can, Jerry. The thing was that Diccon said to tell no one of it, and—” He was on shaky ground and said hurriedly, “For that matter, you didn’t take me into your confidence, either.”
“Fooled you,” said his lordship with simple pride. “Fooled old Harry, too. At least,” he peered at his friend in sudden doubt, “I think I did.”
“Oh, you did,” Sir Harry acknowledged. “Although Uncle Mordecai and I were both rather curious as to why you suddenly left the Priory and went haring off with some ramshackle excuse about having promised to drop in on Strand.”
“All we need now,” said Mitchell, “is the omniscient Diccon.”
“I hope to God he’s alive,” muttered Leith. “The man has led a charmed life up to now, but if Claude really is on the move, Diccon may also have been—er, intercepted.”
There was a short silence. Mitchell broke it. “Are we to infer, then,” he drawled, “that your visit here was a coincidence, Devenish?”
Devenish stared at his boots. “Matter of fact,” he said reluctantly, “I came because I—had a, er, feeling.” From under his lashes he saw the faint curl of mockery to Mitchell Redmond’s lips, and added a defiant, “Yes, I’m aware it sounds stupid, but it’s God’s truth!”
“Then are we to understand you have also brushed up against our fine Frenchman?” asked Sir Harry.
Devenish grinned. “Might say that.”
“You might indeed,” said Leith. “Very well, let’s pool our information while we await Diccon.” Again, his dark eyes sought his wife’s beauteous face. “My own initiation into the schemes of the Sanguinets came about rather by accident. I’d taken a bit of a rap on the head at Waterloo, as you can see. Unfortunately, it left me with no memory. My wife, who was Rachel Strand at that time, was in Brussels with her sister, and Rachel was so kind as to help me. Later, I met Diccon, who’d been working for Claude in Brittany, in the guise of a groom.”
“He’s a damned brave fellow,” Sir Harry put in. “We knew him as an itinerant tinker.”
“And as a Bow Street Runner,” murmured the Reverend Langridge, reminiscently.
“And a Free Trader,” said Mitchell, his eyes stern. “Although I’ve no doubt he in fact is a spy, eh, Leith?”
“At all events,” Leith went on, having apparently not heard the question, “Rachel was betrothed to Claude Sanguinet, and she and Charity journeyed to his chateau in Brittany. Diccon had warned me that Claude plotted the overthrow of the British government, and I suspected, rightly, that Rachel was there to discover something of Claude’s plans.”
“By Jove!” said Sir Harry, looking at the silent girl admiringly.
“Dev and I decided to follow,” Leith went on. “That’s about it. We managed to get into the chateau. We found out that Claude meant to kidnap the Regent, and—”
The Redmonds and Mordecai Langridge were all on their feet, the air ringing with their exclamations of incredulity.
“Kidnap Prinny?” cried Sir Harry. “How?”
“Claude had caused a special carriage to be made. It had partitions fitted inside the ceiling that could be rolled down to conceal a central compartment, the outsides of the partitions very cunningly painted to represent an unoccupied interior. Claude, as you may know, had inveigled himself into Prinny’s good graces. He planned to trick the Regent into entering the coach. Very soon, our trusting Prince would be drugged—easy enough of accomplishment—and the screens would be lowered. To all casual passers-by, an empty coach would drive through London Town and away to a secret location.”
Lord Bolster, who had been listening in a rather bewildered fashion, asked, “But why? Claude Sanguinet already has most of the money in the world.”
“But not the power, my lord,” said the Reverend, nodding solemnly.
“Right you are, sir,” Leith agreed. “Claude’s ancestors once ruled Brittany, and the poor idiot fancies himself royal. With Prinny in his hands, Lord knows what he could have forced the government to do.”
Sir Harry, his face grim, muttered, “A black coach. And four black horses.”
“And the coachman and outriders wearing black livery,” said Mitchell, broodingly.
“Then you’ve seen it also?” asked Leith.
“To our sorrow,” said Sir Harry. “But ours was in England. Yours, I take it, was in Dinan?”
“Yes. Thanks to which we were able to win free and bring our girls safe home. Later, I was so fortunate as to persuade Rachel to take me to husband, and here we are.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” exclaimed Mitchell. “I know that damnable chateau. It’s a veritable fortress. If you got out unscathed, it was nothing less than a miracle.”
“I got out unscathed. Devenish brought a memento with him. A crossbow bolt.”
“Did he, by God!” Sir Harry said. “I’d heard Claude Sanguinet has a passion for medieval weaponry. You are fully recovered, I trust, Mr. Devenish?”
“Perfectly fit, thank you,” said Devenish. “However, I had another encounter with our Claude last year. I was visiting a—a cousin of mine who has inherited a castle in Ayrshire. The old place had stood empty for decades and we’d gone up to look it over. Turned out a little clutch of Free Traders had found the castle exactly suited their own nefarious pursuits and took a very dim view of the owner’s arrival. At least, that’s what we thought at first. Eventually we discovered Sanguinet was behind the whole business and had arranged a neat funeral—for me.” His eyes were remote for an instant. He said with a rather forced smile, “He’s a busy fella.”
Leith said gravely, “He doesn’t like you, Dev. After all, you did kick him.”
A broad grin spread across Mitchell Redmond’s face, and he raised his cup in salute to Devenish.
“Life does have its moments of bliss,” sighed Devenish. “Anyway, he had his man put a bolt through my leg, so I cannot see his right to hold a grudge, silly chap.”
“He does, however. He has in fact a consuming passion to see you dead, and you know what they say about the third time. It might well behoove you to stay clear of this imbroglio.”
“Pooh,” said Alain Devenish. “Nonsense.”
“What escapes me,” said Sir Harry, “is why none of it has been made public. Is it unreasonable to suppose that Claude Sanguinet should have been denounced as a criminal and yourself praised?”
“Praised!” Devenish gave a cynical snort. “Old Tris was politely asked to resign his commission.”
“The devil!” said Mitchell. “Is Whitehall run mad?”
Leith said with a wry shrug, “They would not believe us. Whilst we were running for our lives with Sanguinet’s pack at our heels, Claude was sending powerful emissaries to London, claiming I had invaded his home for the sole purpose of abducting his fiancée, and had in the process tried to murder him.”
The reverend gentleman, who had been following all this with breathless attention, now leaned forward and asked eagerly, “Had you so?”
“Well—not very successfully.” Leith’s mouth twitched into a faint grin. “I—er, threw him in the pool.”
Awed, M
itchell asked, “Never say it was that bottomless one by the Pagoda?”
“You have it,” said Devenish, laughing. “Unhappily, Claude survived and is regarded as a much-wronged man, while Tris is disgraced and shunned. Symbolic justice, eh?”
“Enough of me,” said Leith briskly. “May we hear your story now, Sir Harry?”
“Since we are all comrades in arms,” responded the young baronet, his green eyes twinkling, “we can drop the title, if you please. As to our tale—egad, I scarce know where to begin. I’ll try to be brief. We knew Claude to be the motivating force of the clan, but we’ve not run up against him directly. Our encounter was with Parnell. Did you know him?”
Leith shook his head. “I know they called him Monsieur Diabolique. My wife knew him.” He glanced at Rachel, but she was staring at her interlaced fingers and did not look up. “Nasty,” he went on quickly, “was he?”
“Very nasty,” said Sir Harry.
Mitchell said, “Harry,” in a flat, quiet voice.
Harry looked at him sombrely and nodded. “Parnell Sanguinet,” he began, “was a savage, gentlemen. I think he was mad, but that didn’t help us, of course. My father died soon after I was brought home after Ciudad Rodrigo. I was still very much an invalid, and we were not told until much later that he had been ruined at play and committed suicide. Oh, never look so aghast, it was not the truth—merely what we were led to believe. Needless to say, Mitchell and I and my uncle fought to clear his name.”
Devenish’s brows went up, and he whistled softly.
In a very small voice Rachel put in, “Parnell Sanguinet came to this house many times. Charity and I were terrified of him although I suppose he was a well enough featured man. I remember that he spoke of a girl who was his ward, and we felt so very sorry for her.” She knit her brows. “Nanette—was it?”
Sir Harry hesitated, then said slowly, “Quite right, ma’am. It’s too long a story to tell now. Suffice it to say that in trying to help her, we annoyed the Sanguinets and things became a bit, er, frenzied. Towards the end of it, I was fighting my way out of an ambush with my uncle to side me.” He saw surprise on their faces, and smiled. “Do not be deceived. This gentle cleric is a fine fighter, you may believe me. Anyway, Mitchell had stayed behind to guard Nanette. We had thought their hiding place quite safe, but they were discovered. Nanette was dragged off, and my brother near killed.” He darted a glance to Mitchell, who was gazing with deep concentration into the fire, and there was a small, hushed pause.
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