Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Very softly, Claude said, “Stand aside … little bastard.”

  His fists lifting, Guy replied grimly, “Not this time.”

  On a marble platform in one corner of the room stood a tall marble clock; a cunningly wrought mechanical device that now shattered the tense quiet to begin its preordained salute to the hour. Doors opened on each side of its wide base, and a parade of porcelain figures began to emerge and make their jerky way from left to right to the accompaniment of a peal of merry bells.

  Claude’s narrowed, glinting eyes turned to the source of that sound. He ran to seize the massive timepiece. With astonishing strength, he raised it high above his head and turned to his brother.

  Guy uttered a gasp, jerked Charity behind him, and threw up both hands prepared to defend himself against that great weight.

  Face purpling, teeth bared, Claude hesitated, his enraged glare shifting to Jean-Paul. “Mais non!” gasped Jean-Paul, retreating.

  Claude turned and hurled the still chiming clock straight into the large and lovely Chippendale mirror that hung over the fireplace.

  The crash was deafening. For an instant the room was alive with hurtling shards of glass and marble. Guy whirled around, pulling Charity closer and bending above her. Jean-Paul essayed a frantic leap for the shelter of a bookcase. Only Claude did not attempt to shield himself, but stood there, his shoulders a little hunched, his arms slowly lowering as the porcelain parade was ended for all time and the pealing little bells gibbered discordantly into silence.

  Peeping at Claude, Charity saw the slim shoulders rise and fall again, as though he had sighed deeply. She saw also that Guy’s hand was cut and that Jean-Paul had suffered a graze across his cheek.

  Claude turned to them. His face shone with perspiration, but the madness had faded, and a mild smile curved his mouth. Astonishingly, he was completely untouched, although he had been closest to the exploding mirror.

  Guy wrapped a handkerchief about his small injury while watching his brother steadily.

  “So,” said Claude, strolling forward to eye Charity with amused contempt, “you said nothing. Why, I wonder? Did you fancy you were protecting your sister? Your fine sister who broke her promise to me as soon as my surgeon had restored your health?”

  Charity thought, incredulous, “He behaves as though nothing had happened!” Somehow she managed to answer, “Your doctor kept me chained to an invalid chair long after I should have been well. You used my illness and prolonged it, so as to force Rachel to agree to marry you.”

  “And now I shall use you once more, I believe.” Claude stepped closer, saying gently, “Were I to have one of your fingers removed and sent to your so-gallant brother-in-law every three or four days, say, I wonder how long it would be before he agreed to exchange his life for yours.…”

  Charity felt sick.

  Guy said in a low growl, “She will not be harmed, Claude.”

  Claude threw back his head and laughed merrily. “Whilst you live to prevent it? Ah, do not tempt me, Guy.” He sauntered to a crimson and black bell-pull and tugged it.

  The door opened at once, and a scared-looking footman entered, his eyes becoming round and more scared when he saw the condition of the room.

  Claude said, “This lady is Mademoiselle Strand. Take her to the room we prepared for Mrs. Leith.” He nodded to Charity. “Go with him, foolish girl. And do exactly as you are told else, despite my noble brother, I shall be quite happy to arrange that your stay with us is very uncomfortable indeed.”

  The bedchamber to which Charity was conducted was not uncomfortable in the least, however, except for the iron bars outside each window, and the large, hard-eyed woman, incongruous in the uniform of an abigail, who waited there. Stamping about the room, hanging up gowns and flinging undergarments into the chest of drawers, she informed Charity that her name was Meg and that she wasn’t nobody’s fool. “Gulled poor Ella proper, didn’t you, Miss Strand? Well, you won’t gull Meg, so don’t never try it.”

  Charity did not deign to reply, quietly putting off her cloak and bonnet and dropping them on the bed.

  Two footmen arrived, bearing a hip bath and followed by a line of servants carrying buckets of hot water. Charity’s attempt to dismiss her truculent abigail was not successful. Folding massive arms, Meg revealed that “the Frenchman gent” had ordered her not to leave her charge for an instant. “Me bed’s in there,” she added, nodding her untidy, greying head towards the adjoining dressing room. “So you needn’t think as you can get up to mischief after dark, neither.”

  Charity ignored her and began to disrobe. Meg snatched the garments as they were shed, but beyond tossing a sponge and towel onto a chair and pulling it within reaching distance, she made no further attempt to help. Charity was painfully conscious of the woman’s scornful gaze and of her own small breasts and boyish slenderness. She fought against betraying an awareness of Meg’s insolence, and only later, when she was seated before the dressing table and the woman drew a hairbrush so roughly through her curls that it brought involuntary tears to her eyes, did Charity say sharply that there was not the need for such force.

  “You’ll want to look your best, I thought, my lady,” smirked Meg.

  “I have no title,” said Charity, her chin high. “You are as aware of that as you are aware I am not here of my own free will. You are insolent, and also I have to assume you are a criminal.”

  “Hey!” protested the big woman angrily. “Who you calling a criminal?”

  Charity lifted one hand in an unknowingly regal gesture. “I know Monsieur Sanguinet well enough to believe that he does not wish me to be served with impertinence. If you address me in so rude a fashion again, I shall ask that you be replaced.”

  The woman glared at her, but after a moment she said grudgingly that there was no need to fly into a pucker. She was more tractable after that, but her pale blue eyes glittered with malice and Charity could not be at ease with her.

  Whatever her shortcomings, Meg knew her trade. She arranged Charity’s hair in a most becoming style, completing that task when a knock came at the door, and Guy asked to be admitted. Charity slipped into a wrapper and went to sit beside the fire.

  Impeccable in a dark brown velvet coat and beige pantaloons, Guy said, “Merci. That will be all.”

  Meg, standing militantly behind Charity, said, “Monseigneur said I was to stay by her. Day and night,” she added with a sneer.

  Guy smiled. “Would you wish your feet to direct through that door,” he enquired, “or should you prefer that I bodily convey you?”

  “Monseigneur says—” Meg began, folding her arms.

  Purposefully, Guy walked towards her.

  “Like to see you try it, I would,” she shrilled.

  “By all means.” He reached for her and she squealed and ran. Closing the door behind her, he turned to Charity, both hands held out, his comely face a study in regret. “Oh, ma chérie, mon petit chou, how very much I am sorry for this.”

  To be in the company of this man who had been such a good friend after her father’s death, to see the sorrowful apology in his hazel eyes, to hear the fondness in his voice, overwhelmed Charity’s tattered nerves. She was in his arms in a rush and sobbing gustily into his cravat. “Oh, Guy! Oh, Guy … he will murder me, I know it! Or … worse…”

  “Now you know that I will not allow such a thing to happen, little one.” He hugged her tight for a moment, then drew back, smiling into her tearful eyes. “Claude has, alas, very many faults but you need not have the fear he means to violate you.” He patted Charity’s blushing cheek gently. “He has, you see, a most willing lady residing here. And besides, whatever else he may be, I never have known him to force a woman. He has too much of the pride for that. Now come, compose yourself, for we have only a little moment of the time.” He led her to the small sofa and sat beside her. “Tell me this quickly, does anyone know you are here? Is there any hope for help to come to you?”

  She shook her head. �
�A red-haired boy named Lion was kind,” she whispered. “He said he would help me if he could.”

  “So there are two of us…” He looked grave, then said bracingly, “And two it is better than not one, eh? Now, you must be brave, chérie, and have some faith in this Guy Sanguinet who is not such a bad fellow, despite his bad blood.”

  Charity wiped impatiently at her eyes. “If you did but know how grateful I am. But, Guy, forgive me, but … so often Rachel and I wondered why…”

  “Why I remain with my infamous brother?” He said with a twisted smile, “It is a debt of love. One I have been tempted very many times to cancel. But cannot. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you of it. But for now, I am sent on the errand. Claude’s yacht is to be readied for departure. Some men have come with letters from England and news of importance. I do not know what this is. But you are summoned to dine with him. I shall contrive to have this boy, Lion, assigned to guard you if I can. You are sure you can trust him?”

  “Quite sure. Oh, Guy, when is the yacht to sail? And where?”

  “This, I do not know. Now, listen to me, chérie, you must not show my brother a tearful face. Claude, it shames me to say it, is a very bad man, but he have admiration for courage.”

  “Yes. I’ll try, but … I am very afraid, you see.”

  He took up her hand and kissed it, but said nothing.

  Charity asked hesitantly, “Does he—can he possibly still want Rachel?”

  He frowned. “He want her. Not with love, assurement. But because she dared to—how do you say it?—to spurn all he offered. His hand, his wealth, his power—so much power, chérie. This, for the first time in his life, a lady rejects. He does not quite, I think, comprehend. For with love, you see, he has not the acquaintance. He wants control of Britain. He wants Rachel. And, you must know this, little one, he wants your fine brother-in-law, Leith, and his good friend Monsieur Devenish—he wants them very dead.”

  “I know,” she whispered, wringing her hands. “Oh, I know!”

  “He will use you in any way he can to win these things. So you must be brave and clever. And you must be patient, Charity, for I can help you only at just the right time, or—” He paused, raising one hand for quiet.

  From outside came the sound of hurried footsteps. Guy stood and walked toward the door. “If things are very bad, send your Lion to me. Courage, mon pauvre.”

  He opened the door. Meg, accompanied by two tall footmen, stood beside a shrunken-looking woman. It was obviously the housekeeper, clad all in black, her grey hair pulled tightly back from angular features. She had eyes as cold as the ocean beyond the windows. She said in French, “This servant has displeased monsieur?”

  “She has. She is an uncouth, ill-mannered, insolent peasant. And no fit companion for Miss Strand. How came you to hire such?”

  A thin smile did little to warm the housekeeper’s face. “She was engaged by Monsieur Gerard, sir. No doubt”—a sly light crept into her eyes—“you would wish to discuss the matter with him.”

  “I think not. I shall discuss it instead with my brother. Good day, Miss Strand.” And he strode off, to return before the door closed and push it wide again. “You,” he said to the startled Meg, “keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall tell Monseigneur to move you to one of the other islands.”

  Meg turned to the housekeeper as the door closed. “You wouldn’t let him, would you, madame?” she asked agitatedly. “’Course, that one and Monseigneur ain’t whatcha might call bosom bows.”

  “If you refer to Monsieur Guy,” said the housekeeper in flawless English, “he and his brother are not devoted. What they are is Sanguinets. It would be most unwise to forget that!”

  * * *

  How Charity contrived to set one foot beneath the other as she walked down the stairs, she did not know. Every inch of her fought to draw back, and she was shaking, only the knowledge that Meg watched from the landing forcing her to continue. Guy’s threat of banishment to another island had evidently been a major one, for the formidable abigail had since been almost desperate in her eagerness to please. The housekeeper’s parting remark had troubled Charity, however. She had known Guy for years and had always found him a perfect gentleman and a most delightful companion. That he was an honourable man also, she had no doubt, but he was a Sanguinet. Even though he did not admire his brother and was deeply fond of her, Claude’s wrath could be a terrible thing. Guy might be willing to risk that wrath, but to assist her to escape must also spell his brother’s doom and the end of the grandiose plans for which Claude had plotted and schemed through so many years. It scarcely seemed realistic to expect Guy to hazard so much for her sake. “But it is not for me alone,” she thought. “It is for England!” A foolish thought, as she at once realized, because Guy was French—not English.

  At the foot of the stairs, the housekeeper waited. She led the way to a large room, ushered Charity inside, and withdrew. Charity glanced around apprehensively. She stood in a warm and graceful salon furnished in the French style; all white and gold daintiness. At first, she fancied she was alone, but the smell of tobacco smoke hung on the air and served to warn her, so that she was able to school herelf to react with outward calm when Claude Sanguinet arose from a high-backed chair beside the fire.

  He wore evening dress, as did she, and he looked, she decided, trying to quiet her leaping nerves, gentle and benign as he threw a cheroot into the fire. “How charming that I may have the pleasure of your presence at dinner,” he said suavely.

  Usually, he preferred to speak French, but now he used English and Charity noticed that his command of the language had improved since last they met. “He has been preparing himself for his ascension to the throne,” she thought cynically. She also thought his sentiment the epitome of mockery, but because she knew his reputation with women, could scarcely force her reluctant legs to carry her closer to him. “Am I to be the only female, then?” she asked. “I had thought to find you surrounded with the type of, er, lady you admire.”

  “Like a harem?” His brows rose. “Oh, very good. So our insipid little invalid has some spirit after all.” He bowed her to a chair, snapped his fingers, and a footman, who must have silently followed Charity into the room, brought ratafia served in an exquisite crystal wineglass, offered on a gold tray. Claude waved, and the man bowed and withdrew, closing the doors softly.

  “Unfortunately, my dear Miss Strand,” said Claude, returning to his chair, “the women who come here must remain. At least, until my plans are brought to fruition. For you will apprehend that no one having seen my fortress can be permitted to leave.”

  A sharp pang pierced her heart, but glancing at him over the rim of her glass, she saw the sly amusement in his eyes. He was deliberately frightening her. Anger brought a defiant recklessness. “How could anyone desire to do so?” she said sweetly. “If nothing else, the climate is so salubrious.”

  He stared at her. “Have I misjudged you, I wonder? Stand up.”

  She had never been commanded so contemptuously. Further irked, she set aside her glass and stood, looking down at him with her head held high.

  Claude leaned back in his chair, wineglass held lazily in the air as he scanned her with insolent deliberation. “Turn around.”

  She murmured, “How nice it would be did you only say ‘please.’” But she obeyed. Facing him again, she saw the speculative light in his eyes, and her heart almost failing her, enquired, “Are you deciding how much I will bring on the slave market?”

  “Tiens!” he exclaimed admiringly. “So you have guessed your fate.”

  Then it was truth. She was to be sold to some loathsome Eastern harem. Or worse. The room seemed to sway, and her knees began to buckle. Dimly, she knew that Claude would be delighted if she fainted, and as from a distance she heard Guy’s words echoing, “… he have admiration for courage…” She dug her nails hard into her palms and fought away the dizziness.

  Claude was speaking again, his voice amused. “… are not beaut
iful, as is your sister, but you have improved a good deal in looks since last I saw you. You have spirit, which I admire. You have the family background that is essential. Have you ambition also, I wonder? Some women do, you know.”

  Astounded, she said unevenly, “The ambition to—to rule as your consort?”

  “Bravo!” He sprang to his feet. “Most women in your present position would be fainting at my feet, or in screaming hysterics. Not only do you succumb to neither revolting condition, but you stand here proudly and bandy words with me. You are times ten the woman I had supposed you to be. Ah—you are startled. Naturally so. Never mind. You will learn that part of my success derives from my ability to reach decisions with great rapidity. I have a clear mind, you see. Think on it, and upon all I offer you, and—”

  Daring to interrupt this ridiculous speech, she said, “How may you offer what you do not possess?”

  He laughed. “Must you see England at my feet before you agree? You do not know me very well. The prize is as good as mine, I assure you. And, in ten days or less…” He paused, eyeing her reflectively. “You had as well know. Either way, you are powerless to interfere. Come.”

  He walked to the door and held it open. Not averse to seeing some of the rest of this mighty old castle, and consoling herself with the fact that she had carried off the interview quite well, Charity followed.

  Claude bowed her from the room, then led the way along a high vaulted hall paved with gleaming stone, strewn with rich furs and rugs, lit by fine old ships lamps hung from the massy walls, and peopled by innumerable elegant footmen and lackeys who stiffened to attention at their approach. Around a corner and along another hall, to a recessed door that a lackey sprang to open.

  Three men waited inside a luxuriously equipped book room. Jean-Paul and Clem were unpleasantnesses that Charity was able to ignore, but with them was an individual she knew to be almost as dangerous as his master. It was all she could do not to shrink when his glittering black eyes turned to her. He smiled with thin mockery and bowed. “Gerard,” Charity half whispered.