Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Claude looked with benevolence from one to the other. “How pleasant it is,” he purred, “when old friends are reunited. You two”—he snapped his fingers at Jean-Paul and Clem—“wait outside.”

  Jean-Paul’s face did not change, but Clem scowled as they went out.

  A sturdy little brass-bound wooden chest, dark with years, lay on the reference table, and Claude walked across to rest his hand on it for a moment almost caressingly. Glancing up at Gerard, he asked, “This not once has left your sight?”

  “Not for one instant, monseigneur.”

  Claude nodded. He drew a small key ring from his pocket, fitted one of the keys into the lock, and opened the lid. It seemed to Charity that his face softened as he surveyed the contents. Certainly, when he looked up at her, his eyes were kinder than they had been since her arrival.

  “You have an interest in history, as I recall,” he murmured. “You will find this to be intriguing.”

  Curious, she trod across to him and peered into the box. Somehow, she had expected something ugly or evil; instead, she saw the interior of the little chest to be lined with purple velvet, and on a thickly cushioned base a thing of beauty: an exquisitely fashioned crown, clearly of great antiquity and richly bejewelled, the gleams of great sapphires, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds flashing even in the dimness of the chest.

  Watching her rapt face with delight, Claude took a pair of cotton gloves from the table. He put them on and lifted the crown very carefully. “See,” he said softly, holding it up to the light.

  It resembled a small helmet, the top portion supplanted by two intricately carven golden hoops, and the sides consisting of eight plates, variously encrusted with jewels or adorned with enamelled paintings, the colours still clear and true despite the passage of the centuries.

  “Oh,” whispered Charity, overawed. “How very beautiful.”

  “Can you date it, do you think?”

  Her brow wrinkled. She said hesitantly, “I would say it is Frankish. Tenth century, perhaps … or even earlier. It could, in fact, very well be—” Breath held in check, she looked up. “My heavens! Never say— It cannot be—”

  Claude chuckled his triumph. “But it is, my clever little creature.”

  “Charlemagne…?” gasped Charity. “But—but it must be priceless!”

  “Just so. I hate to part with it. I really do. Although I shall get it back, of course. But to know this splendid work of art actually rested on the head of the mighty Charles … Such a fall from grace that it soon must adorn—however briefly—your poor foolish George.”

  Charity met his innocent smile with a sharpening gaze. “You mean to present this to the Regent?”

  “Oh yes.” He sighed. “Such a pity that it was necessary to tamper with the pretty thing. But clever, very clever, I must admit. Here—let me show you.” Very cautiously, he placed the crown on its side in the chest, then turned it until the great ruby in the centre front was face down on the velvet.

  Gerard murmured, “Sir, Miss Strand can scarce be in sympathy with your plans. Do you think it wise to demonstrate—”

  “Miss Strand is our guest,” said Claude. “She will not leave us until our coup is fait accompli. If then. See, my dear…” He pointed to one of the round small discs that linked the main plates of the band, this disc alone being slightly out of alignment with its fellows. “A small substitution we have made. Watch.…” He pressed his index fingers on the right side of the little golden disc, pushing it gently into line. And as it straightened, Charity thought to detect a faint flicker in the centre; nothing more, but gooseflesh started on her skin, and Claude, drawing back, looked up at her like a schoolboy who has just performed a brilliant feat.

  “What—what is it?” she whispered.

  “A little needle. So long as there is no pressure on the band, it is withdrawn, but I learnt the size of the so dear Prince’s hats. When the crown is in place on his empty head it will fit very snug. The right side of the disc it will of necessity be pressed into its proper position. That small straightening is all that is required to cause the needle to spring forward. Scarcely a threat, eh? So tiny a thing. Ah, but you see, dear mademoiselle, it is death. The needle is coated with a poison many times more venomous than that of a cobra. The merest scratch will bring about all the symptoms of a seizure of the heart. Within a few minutes of donning the crown your fair Florizel will expire. And do you see the delicious touch of it? He will appear to have died from natural causes!” He beamed at her, eyes bright and triumphant.

  “How horrible!” Charity groped for the nearest chair and sank into it, her fascinated gaze fixed on his pleased face. “And for what earthly purpose?”

  “What else but to be of aid to my fellow man,” he answered piously. “To relieve the conditions so intolerable that now exist among Britain’s poor. Consider the riots, the unrest among the masses. And who shall blame them? They fought an endless war. Their reward for all the death and suffering and privation is taxation of the most crushing. They are cursed with mounting unemployment and working conditions that are very bad.”

  “And do you say that you mean to correct all these injustices?”

  “Let us say,” he qualified with a grin, “that they must be brought to believe I shall. The time it is right for change. And so I help matters. My men are everywhere about, guiding and, ah, consoling your unfortunates.”

  “You mean stirring them up for trouble!”

  Claude winked at Gerard like a crafty schoolboy. “The lady thinks me very naughty, eh mon ami? No, no, Miss Strand. My people merely educate your peasants. To a point. But you must not—what is it you say?—put the whole in my dish. I may be the natural leader, but you would be very surprised to know how many of your Prinny’s most trusted advisers are loyal to me. To say nothing of certain high-ranking army and navy officers who will do whatsoever I tell them. Now—allow me to continue.”

  He righted the Charlemagne crown, locked the little chest, and, removing his gloves, restored them to the table. “Within twenty-four hours of the Regent’s death,” he went on, “Liverpool, your admirable Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, and Lord Castlereagh will have been assassinated, apparently by angry mobs.” Smiling at Charity’s horrified gasp, he picked up the chest and handed it to Gerard. “Be careful of it,” he said. “Extreme careful, my dear friend.”

  Gerard took the box. “Be assured, monseigneur,” he murmured and went out. The appalled Charity caught a glimpse of Clem and Jean-Paul and of several other men still waiting there, and then the door closed.

  Claude settled himself on an adjacent sofa. “What,” he enquired smugly, “do you know of such institutions as Child’s and Hoare’s, and Coutts’, dear lady?”

  Watching him with fascinated disbelief, Charity managed, “I—I know they are fine banks. My brother deals with Child’s.”

  “And you know, of course, of this rising leviathan, the Bank of England?”

  “Yes. A little.”

  “I wonder if this is possible—that you comprehend such intricacies as gold reserves? Ah, I know the minds of you gentle ladies are fashioned for simpler matters, so I shall be very brief. Your Bank of England holds in its vaults sufficient gold to enable it to supply smaller banks, in the event they may suffer a setback.” He drew a fine enamelled watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, wound it absently a few times, then restored it to his pocket. “On the day following the assassinations,” he said, “there will be just such a setback. Throughout the world, large businesses in which I either hold a controlling interest, or with which I have, ah, connections, are heavy depositors with the establishments I have mentioned. On the day designated, every one of those concerns will demand immediate withdrawal of all their funds. Even so formidable an institution as your noble Bank of England will be forced to refuse aid.” He smiled happily at Charity. “Simultaneously, into the major banks of every large city in your island, my dear, will come prominent men of business also demanding their funds. Th
ey will speak of a Panic—and alarm will become consternation, and consternation, in the event, a Panic. One after another, the banks will fall. Oh yes, I do assure you they will. The greatest banking houses, the mighty financiers will be helpless—this, it has been contrived. One man—at last—will intervene. One man will rescue the toppling economy of dear, damp England.”

  Her wide eyes fixed on his bland smile, Charity whispered, “You.”

  He bestowed a slight bow upon her. “Not alone, of course, although ostensibly so. I have my backers in Vienna, Paris, Berlin, in Switzerland, and Rome. But to all intents and purposes I will be the saviour. And I will be proclaimed as such. Did you know that our Prinny has arranged for me to become a legal citizen of Britain? So accommodating. My eager supporters who even now await the start of this train of events, will soon demand that I be named to some public office. Such as … Prime Minister.” He gestured gracefully. “Do you see? It is just beginning, but—do you see?”

  “Then … you do not mean to invade England with an army?”

  Claude put back his head and laughed merrily. “How jolly that would be. And with myself astride a white charger twice as mighty, and one hopes better behaved, than Copenhagen. Alas, no, my dear. However, there will be an invasion of a sort. You have seen my men—very few, but you have seen some, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “The reason there are so few now here, is that most are already in place. I have, shall we say, shock troops, strategically placed throughout England. They have gathered near military barracks, armouries, naval installations, even around my so dear friends, the Runners of Bow Street. They poise—ready. Awaiting the word only, not to strike necessarily, but to, ah, dissuade any attempt at interference with my manoeuvrings.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Charity said breathlessly. “I cannot credit that you really could expect to succeed! You—you say it is only the beginning. What, dare I ask, is the ending? King Claude the First?”

  He pushed back a perfect cuticle. “Who shall say?”

  “I shall say!” Leaning forward in her chair, bold with rage, Charity cried hotly, “And I say—stuff! I know little about banking, as you said, but even I have heard of the Rothschilds. What of them?”

  He smiled. “How you do impress me, dear and quite uninsipid creature. Did I not say I have contrived?”

  “I don’t believe you! My brother told me that Nathan Rothschild kept Wellington supplied with bullion all through the war; that he managed somehow to transport it right across France. I cannot believe he would fail now!”

  Claude spread his hands. “Then you must doubt me, poor child. Until I prove you mistaken.”

  He sighed, but his smile was full of mischief, and she was shaken.

  “And—and what of Princess Charlotte? Or the royal Dukes? Do you mean to assassinate them also?”

  “There is not the need. So many in this land have never admired the House of Hanover. So many of your oppressed citizenry are eager to embrace a truly democratic state. To be done with all the pomp and nonsense of royalty. You will not deny that many of your aristocrats live in dread lest the yokels follow France’s lead and launch a revolution?” He saw her whiten, and murmured slyly, “Thousands of malcontents; the victimized, the starving; the once-proud weavers now herded like animals into stifling factories; the country families no longer allowed their small holdings. All waiting. All ready to burst into flame. Needing only the spark I shall provide.” He chuckled. “Liberté…? Egalité…? Fraternité…?”

  “Never!” Charity denied stoutly, her voice rather hoarse despite her efforts. “England’s pomp and nonsense, as you call it, is dear to the hearts of us all, because it is an inherent and vital part of the history that binds us together. Our people may grumble at times, and heaven knows there are social reforms that are decades overdue, but we try! Our leaders try to improve matters. And our people have only to leave these isles to see how much better we are served than are the citizenry of most other nations. Not for one moment would the average Briton stand for a Frenchman on our throne! Do you not know what happened only seventy or so years ago when a Scot—a gentleman with a thousand times more right than you—attempted to seize power? No, I tell you! No Frenchman will rule my country!”

  Gently laughing, he applauded. “Well said, my valiant one. Mon Dieu, but I admire you more with each moment that passes. But be reasonable, I beg. A Frenchman ruled you after the Battle of Hastings—no? Your people have endured a stupid, extravagant, Germanic hand for many years. Why not a brilliant one of royal birth from Brittany? Have I not pointed out that I do not seek the throne? Not until the time is right.… By then, with an English lady at my side, with the admiration and gratitude of all, I shall be quite acceptable to the populace. And I assure you I know how to deal with dissent. Thus, sooner or later, shall I assume my rightful place in the history of the world.”

  Had any other man uttered so grandiose a statement, Charity would have laughed outright. But here, in this great fortress, surrounded by the evidence of his wealth and power, she did not laugh. Staring at his poised confidence, she thought, “He believes it all! How utterly ridiculous that he really believes he will succeed!”

  And on the heels of that thought, came another: “It is ridiculous … isn’t it?”

  Chapter 11

  Charity slept poorly that night. Guy had not returned to join them, and she had dined alone with Claude, managing somehow to maintain a calm demeanour, constantly astounded that this egomaniac could address with affability a lady he had wrenched away from home and family; that he could profess concern for her welfare despite the ghastly fate he planned for her; that he could seem so relaxed even as he plotted a disaster that would shake the world, and evince no trace of regret for the callous murders his plans necessitated.

  Tossing restlessly on her bed, her fears for her own welfare became secondary to the nightmare that might all too soon engulf her country. Any thought that Claude would realize his ambitions, she dismissed as nonsensical. Her greatest dread was that his scheming might bring about a public revolt. England had known the bitter tragedy that is civil war; she was still recovering from a long and horribly costly conflict with Bonaparte. That she should be plunged into another bloodbath was too terrible to contemplate. That wretched, smiling little savage must be stopped. But how? How?

  There must, she thought, be someone in Whitehall who had not dismissed Diccon’s warnings as valueless. When they had escaped from Dinan and Tristram had reported to General Smollet, he had been ridiculed and only reprieved from a court-martial by resigning his commission. Yet surely the General would believe this time? If the word could reach him! It was terribly evident that there was very little time. That deadly crown might— She sat up, appalled. Had Claude given the wooden chest to Gerard not for safe-keeping, but to be conveyed at once to the Regent? “Oh … my God!” she moaned.

  A very small companion, who had watched drowsily, roused at these sounds of distress and made her little pilgrimage with high-held tail and grating purrs to render what solace she might. Charity gathered the kitten close, lay down again, and resumed her worrying until, quite exhausted, she dropped off to sleep.

  She did not awaken until Meg brought in her breakfast tray at eleven o’clock. An investigation of her wardrobe revealed many charming gowns, cloaks, and shoes. She regarded them without enthusiasm, but her long rest had restored her fighting spirit. However bleak the prospect, she would die sooner than allow Claude to know how deep was her despair. She selected a morning dress of white muslin with pale pink buttons fastening to a high squared neckline. Meg threaded a pink velvet ribbon through her curls and brought forth a lacy white shawl embroidered with tiny pink flowerets. Charity pinched some colour into her pale cheeks and went into the hall.

  Lion was lounging on a bench, engaged in desultory conversation with a lackey. He looked at her with cold dislike, his eyes warning her not to betray their friendship. She was so intent upon him that she did not close
the door fast enough, and Little Patches dashed out.

  Guy came along the hall. “Pray, what is this great brute of a creature?” he said, amused, and bent to appropriate the kitten and hold her up for inspection.

  Charity had prayed to see him. She explained Little Patches’ presence hurriedly. Lion stood and began to saunter off. Glancing back over his shoulder, his lips formed one word. It seemed to Charity that the word was “Careful.” He must be warning her against Guy. Certainly, he could not know that this particular Sanguinet was her very good friend.

  Guy was captivated with the kitten, and he carried her as he conducted Charity through the vast halls to a quiet central garden, shielded from the bitter northeast wind. The air was cold enough to cause Charity to pull her shawl closer about her shoulders, but the sunlight and fresh air were invigorating. Glad to be out of doors at last, Little Patches raced madly about, attacking waving blooms and, much to Guy’s amusement, throwing up both front paws at a gardener who toiled inoffensively at a nearby flowerbed.

  Wandering to a safe distance from the kneeling man, Charity murmured urgently, “Guy, have you seen the Charlemagne crown? Do you know what Claude intends?”

  His hazel eyes slanted to her. “To my sorrow. He has told you of his foolish ambitions, then?”

  She nodded and, placing one hand on his arm, murmured beseechingly, “He must be stopped! I know it is dreadful to ask your help, but—”

  “And useless, chérie. If such a one as Colonel Leith could not convince the wooden-heads in Whitehall, what chance has a Sanguinet? Ah, do not look so despairing. My brother has large dreams, but they cannot succeed, you know.”

  “They could succeed in the murder of the Regent and the setting off of an uprising. We British are fighting people, Guy. And when Claude told me of all his meddling with the banks, at a time when England is—”

  “Banks?” he intervened sharply. “How is this? I know nothing of banks.”

  “He means to cause a—”