Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Tristram said gently, “You rescued your lady, of course.”

  “And married her, praise be! But it was a chancy business. For a while, it looked—” He paused, his eyes sombre, then said in a brighter tone, “I believe I have neglected to mention that through all of this I was aided and abetted by a Good Samaritan who called himself Diccon. At the finish he came to Newgate where I was spending an enforced, ah, holiday, and dashed if he wasn’t all elegance and the officials bowing and scraping to him. He got me out of a very sticky mess, told me something of his real occupation, swore me to secrecy, and ordered me to stay clear. I rather gather,” he ended whimsically, “that I have been recalled.”

  Devenish said with enthusiasm, “Jove! Between the lot of us, old Claude hasn’t had things all his way!”

  Leith turned to Bolster. “And you, Jerry? I’d no idea you had tangled with the Sanguinets. Where do you figure in all this?”

  With typical modesty, his lordship asserted that he’d had little to do with it, save for trying to “give old Harry a boost, a time or two.”

  “Stuff,” said Sir Harry. “You saved my bacon, Jeremy, as well you know!”

  “It would seem to me,” said the Reverend, “that— goodness gracious, only listen to your gentle lapdog, Leith.”

  The terrace doors burst open, and a tall, thin, shabbily dressed man with a mop of curling brown hair that escaped untidily from a disreputable old hat, fairly shot into the room and slammed the door behind him. Turning an irate scowl on Leith, he said with breathless indignation, “Blast it all, Colonel! I had to run like the devil to beat that tiger of yours into the house!”

  At the sight of this newcomer, Rachel had whitened and shrunk a little farther back into her chair. The men, however, were all on their feet. Leith said, “My regrets. But you might have let me know you were calling this conference.”

  “Diccon!” His face one big grin, Sir Harry strode to wring his old friend’s hand. “Damme if I didn’t think Claude had got you at last!”

  “You may believe he gave it a good try!” His own saturnine features breaking into a rare smile, Diccon grabbed Harry’s arms for an instant, then turned to run keen eyes of a very light blue over the assembled group, his gaze lingering an extra second or two upon Mitchell’s expressionless countenance. He turned to Leith. “As for you, sir, I did send you word. Because of it, my messenger died in one of those clever little ‘accidents’ at which Claude is so adept. Frankly, I am astonished that so many of you have arrived intact, for I’ve no doubt our fanatic has my letter and knows what we are about.” He went over to grip Leith’s outstretched hand and then bowed with courtly grace to Rachel. “How do you go on these days, Mrs. Leith?” he asked gently. “I fancy you must be wishing me at Jericho, rather than here, cutting up your peace.”

  Her voice quivering a little, Rachel answered, “I have very often thought of you, Major, and wondered how our England might be going on, were it not for devoted patriots such as yourself.”

  At this, his assured poise deserted him. He all but shrank from her, his lean face flaming. “No, no, ma’am! It is, after all, only a—a job of work. Could I find a l-less taxing one, I’d have backed away long since. Assure you.”

  “You’ve properly panicked him, Rachel,” said Devenish gleefully. “Lord, but I’d not have thought it possible our famous Diccon would show yellow! Speaking of which, is Diccon really your name?”

  With a shaken grin, Diccon said, “One of ’em.” He made his way around the group, shaking hands and nodding to each man in a terse way, as though begrudging the time spent in such formalities. His greetings completed, he moved to stand with his back to the fireplace. Leith took him a glass of brandy, and he accepted it gratefully, raised it in a brief salute to them all, and took a healthy swallow. “My thanks,” he said. “I needed something to restore me. Claude’s run me the deuce of a chase. We started out four. Where the others are, Lord only knows. I can only pray they’re alive.”

  The Reverend asked diffidently, “Had you far to come, Major Diccon?”

  “From the Essex coast, sir. Though it was a wild goose chase, as I’d suspected. And time running out, blast it!” He sipped the brandy again and ran his eyes around the intent circle of faces. “You know why you are here, I take it? Dear Claude has been very busy, and I am outwitted and outmanoeuvred, as usual.”

  “Do you know what he plans?” asked Leith.

  “Or when he means to strike?” said Devenish.

  Dismayed, Lord Bolster asked, “Have you no backing at all?”

  “None, my lord,” returned Diccon, answering the last question first.

  Leith said, “What of Smollet? He knows the truth, and he told me Wellington knew also and thought we’d done not too badly.”

  “The General has been packed off to St. Petersburg. As for Wellington…” He sighed. “To be brief, Claude baited a trap, as a result of which I convinced Smollet and the Duke that we had pinpointed Claude’s headquarters. A great deal of money was spent in staging an immediate military strike at one of the Channel Islands.” He leaned forward and said intently, “Gentlemen, I was on that island. I saw Claude’s men drilling. I saw vast supplies of weapons. Yet on the night our forces landed they were opposed only by a confused citizenry who’d been told France was invading. They put up a small but gallant resistance.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Devenish.

  “It didn’t take long to get things more or less sorted out,” said Diccon. “But when the smoke cleared there was not a sign—not a whisper—of Sanguinet’s men or supplies.”

  “Jove, what a bumblebroth,” muttered Sir Harry. “Casualties?”

  “Thirty-nine wounded, including two young boys not yet in their teens, and two cows. One damned costly boat lost in the surf, and a small fortune wasted in ammunition. To say nothing of repairing shattered cottages and paying for trampled crops. The miracle is that no one was killed. You can well imagine the reaction in London. Prinny was raging; Whitehall was apoplectic; Smollet was disgraced; Wellington was embarrassed, to say the least. I am decidedly persona non grata in Whitehall.”

  There was a stunned silence. Devenish broke it. “That damned cunning bastard! But surely Wellington must know you were hoodwinked?”

  “It was essential we move very fast. We’d been waiting for just such a chance. My word was trusted—and acted upon. It has all been hushed up, of course, but when Wellington finished with me … I can only wonder he did not rend me limb from limb.” He gave a wry shrug. “Not that I’d have blamed him.”

  Leith, who had seen the Duke enraged, shuddered.

  “Do you say that because of this, er, unfortunate mis-mis-mis- fiasco the entire matter has been relegated to the st-status of fantasy?” asked Bolster.

  Diccon shook his head. “Smollet still believes me. Wellington … I don’t know. He requested that in future before I invite a disaster I at least produce proof of my findings. Proof!” He swore softly. “Small chance of that!” With an impatient movement he straightened his shoulders, the sense of restrained urgency that so often characterized him radiating from him as he went on briskly, “Of one thing I am very sure. Sanguinet is mustering a ragtag army of dissidents, traitors, soldiers of fortune, malcontents. And he has top military men from all over Europe whipping them into a well-armed, well-trained force that will all too soon be capable of rolling over any resistance our ill-equipped depleted garrisons might drum up to meet them.”

  “Capital,” muttered Sir Harry, cynically. “Is that all?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Diccon paused. “As a prelude to his little venture, Claude means to do away with the Regent!”

  Chapter 7

  Through the following stunned silence, the Reverend Langridge gasped, “Do … away with—? Good heavens, man! You cannot be serious! Do you tell us that—that miserable conniver means to murder Prince George? But—but he’s the heir-apparent!”

  Mitchell said scornfully, “Why go to the trouble? Prinny�
��s an ineffectual, bungling fool. What threat could he be to Sanguinet?”

  The remark provoked several frowns, and Diccon turned a gaze of ice onto the younger man. “Your personal, and unfortunately expressed views, sir,” he said in a tone as cold as his look, “do not alter the fact that our Prince could become King at any moment. Were he to die just now—”

  “There would be widespread rejoicing,” drawled Mitchell acidly.

  “By God!” Devenish sprang to his feet, eyes ablaze. “I’ll be damned if I will stand here and listen to–”

  “Enough!” Angry, Leith also stood. “Mr. Redmond, I take leave to remind you that you are a guest in my home and that both your words and manner are offensive to the rest of us! Also, that my wife is present.”

  Mitchell had the grace to redden. With his brother’s glare transfixing him, he said, “I apologize, Mrs. Leith. Not for my views, but for having voiced them in your presence. I shall hold my tongue.” He moved to a chair at the rear of the room and sat down, having apparently lost interest in the proceedings.

  “As I was saying, gentlemen,” Diccon resumed, “for the Regent to be slain would be disastrous. The Princess is beloved, but she is in the family way and it would be some time before she could be expected to function capably. Prince Leopold is foreign and with little power. More than this, the aftermath of our long war has resulted in widespread public unrest and dissatisfaction with the status quo. Only look at the uproar in January when the Regent drove to open Parliament. A near riot. Hostile crowds, rocks thrown, the possibility even of a shot having been fired at his coach. Our national debt is staggering and cripples our economic policies. The death of the Regent would be the final straw to throw the nation into anarchy. What a perfect time for Sanguinet to strike! Our army has been largely disbanded and it would take more time than we would have to conscript sufficient men or weld them into efficient regiments.” He bent forward slightly and, looking at them in turn from under his bushy eyebrows, said with slow emphasis, “This nation, gentlemen, would be at the mercy of a soulless fanatic and a well-equipped army of murderous rabble!”

  They eyed one another, appalled, while the midday sun slanted in pleasant golden gleams through the tall windows, and distantly, Brutus could be heard barking in a desultory way.

  “But you must have some idea of where Sanguinet is headquartered,” said Leith. “Certainly so large an operation cannot have gone unnoticed.”

  “One would think not. But”—Diccon spread his long bony hands expressively—“I had my first hint of Claude’s new plan a year since and am little the wiser today. Six weeks ago I had what seemed a second glimmer of hope, and I went into Essex to sniff around. But it was another red herring. I dare risk no more precious time. The men loyal to me are being whittled down, either by violence or by their need for regular meals. Thus, gentlemen, I now call upon you who have good cause to loathe the Sanguinets. For the sake of our England, I ask your—”

  Imperceptibly, the bulldog’s barking had drawn nearer, and it became increasingly difficult to distinguish Diccon’s grim words as a disturbance in the hall grew to a small uproar. Abruptly, the doors were flung open. The butler and a footman came in, supporting between them Best’s sagging form. The groom’s head and face were streaked with blood, one coat sleeve hung in shreds, and the visible areas of his face were deathly white.

  Leaping to his feet, Leith cried, “Best! What on earth—Over here, Fisher. Lay him on the sofa.”

  Pushing through the men who crowded around the stricken groom, Mitchell exclaimed harshly, “I knew it! Best, where is Miss Strand?”

  A faint, horrified cry broke from Rachel, and Leith turned to throw an arm about her. Turning a taut face to Redmond, he demanded, “What the devil do you mean?”

  Mitchell ignored him. “Best? Try to tell us, man. Has Miss Strand come to any harm?”

  The groom tried valiantly to answer, but his words were inaudible. Diccon came up with a glass of brandy and handed it to Fisher.

  Rachel quickly came between them, took the glass, and dropped to her knees beside the sofa. “Hold his head up,” she urged and, as Fisher obliged, held the glass to Best’s lips. He took a few sips, coughed, and waved the brandy away. “Colonel,” he gasped out, “I tried! As—as God be my judge … I tried!”

  Leith dropped one hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Of course you did, poor fellow. Just try to tell us what happened. Where is Miss Charity?”

  “Gawd knows, sir. Mr. Redmond is right. He made me go with her. She didn’t … want me, but … then this great big black coach come and … and they was just too many on ’em, sir. I told her to run quick … and I tried … to hold ’em, but … Oh, I do be that sorry, Colonel! They got her! They took Miss Charity … they took her…”

  Uproar followed his words. Leith, terrified for his ashen-faced wife, picked her up bodily and deposited her in a deep chair. Mrs. Hayward hurried into the room, followed by two of her maids bearing medical supplies and a bowl of hot water. Even as they ministered to the injured man, Diccon continued to question him relentlessly.

  Devenish meanwhile caught Mitchell by the arm and spun him around. “What the devil do you know of all this?” he demanded angrily.

  “It was the very thing I was hastening to take up with Leith when you saw fit to delay me in the stables,” Mitchell answered, a miserable sense of guilt gnawing at him.

  Leith, who had sent the footman running to make hot tea for his wife, now left her and came up, his face pale and taut. “Explain, if you please.”

  Mitchell said, “I was appalled to find that Miss Strand was in the habit of wandering about the countryside unescorted. From the moment we first met I made every effort to convince her not to do so.”

  His handsome features contorted with fury, Devenish snarled, “You thought this might happen? And you said nothing to Leith here? Or to me? Why, you—”

  Leith threw up a restraining arm. “Dev, not now. Had you previously seen that coach in this neighbourhood, Redmond?”

  “No, dammit! Of course I had not! And how could I say anything about Sanguinet when I had no way of knowing who else knew what was—”

  “It was Claude’s doing,” Diccon intervened briskly, turning from the sofa. “No doubt of it. Black coach, livery, horses, the whole ugly article. Your groom thinks they headed west. You shall have to get your men after them, Leith. Fast. Before that swine gets your sister to Dinan. I doubt you could broach his fortress chateau a second time.”

  Leith thought, “God forbid!” He looked to the men who watched him. “Gentlemen, are you with me?”

  Diccon’s voice cut through the immediate chorus of affirmation. “No, by God! They are not!”

  Stunned, they turned to him.

  “Heaven forbid that I should not sympathize with Miss Strand’s predicament,” he said. “But England has first claim on you.”

  His dark brows drawing together, Leith argued, “You want Sanguinet, no? Our ways then take the same path.”

  “Not if you mean to follow your sister to the coast. You would play right into Claude’s hands. I now believe his fortress must lie northward.”

  Devenish said keenly, “Scotland? Then you did pay some heed to what I told Smollet last year!”

  “Of course. We have had your cousin’s castle watched ever since your confrontation with the smugglers, but there has been no sign of free trading, nor any apparent link to Sanguinet. Even so, there are parts of Scotland that would provide more than enough privacy for Claude’s activities, and ’tis there I mean to search next. My apologies, Leith. Get your men away at once, but I must ask that you and these other gentlemen go with me.”

  Leith looked at his wife’s imploring face. Tears crept slowly down her cheeks, and her hands were gripped so tightly that the knuckles gleamed white. But she said nothing, leaving the decision to him, trusting in him. When he turned back to Diccon, his eyes were implacable. “My regrets, Major. My first duty must be to my sister.”

&n
bsp; “Aye! And we’re with you to a man,” declared Devenish stoutly.

  Mitchell contradicted, “Not quite. My regrets, Leith, but I’m with Diccon.”

  Devenish’s lip curled. Impatient, he said, “Come on, Tris! They gain on us every second that we stand about jawing!”

  Leith took his wife’s hand and hurried with her into the hall, Devenish, Bolster, Sir Harry, and the Reverend following. At the door Harry turned back. “Mitch,” he said quietly, “have a care.”

  His brother smiled in that warm, transforming smile so seldom seen of late. “You also, mon sauvage.”

  Diccon’s face, however, was thunderous. “I’d not expected this of you, Harry,” he said bitterly. “You owe me.”

  “I do.” Sir Harry looked troubled. “But Nanette was in just such a situation two years ago, Diccon. Knowing what terrors she endured, I simply cannot stand by and see another lady so abused. I swear we shall ride like fury to come up with you, once we have Miss Strand safely away. Only tell me where to go.”

  “Do not tempt me,” said Diccon sourly. Then, “I’ll go bail you ride on a fool’s errand. But when you’ve done, head for Castle Tyndale. I’ll leave word there.”

  Sir Harry nodded and turned away.

  Diccon called after him, “I hope you do rescue the lady.” And as Harry disappeared into the hall, he muttered, “But I doubt it.”

  * * *

  A sharp pain in her thigh jolted Charity back to a befuddled awareness. She was in a strange place; dim, very warm, and stuffy. In addition to these peculiarities, the room was rocking. Puzzled, she wondered if they were at sea; perhaps Justin had taken them out on the Silvering Sails and she had dropped off to sleep in the cabin.… But Justin did not much care for the sea, certainly not sufficiently to have taken them across the Channel at night. It was all very odd.… With what seemed a great effort she reached for the lamp beside her bed. Her groping fingers encountered a yielding yet scratchy surface, rather like starched linen. And there was a sound to accompany the jolt and sway of her room: a continuous pounding and rattling.