Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Pardon, monsieur. Mademoiselle Strand, Monseigneur desires your immediate presence in the book room. You will please to follow…?”

  The lackey’s quiet voice had sounded almost in Charity’s ear. Her heart jumping into her throat, she reached for the kitten.

  “May I keep her for a little time? She is a pretty creature.” Guy spoke calmly, but his eyes and his smile said, “Be brave.”

  Following the lackey, however, Charity did not feel brave. When she had been trapped at Claude’s chateau in Dinan, she had been with Rachel and Agatha, and very soon had come Tristram and Dev, with Raoul adding his dauntless support. Now she was all alone. She forced her drooping chin higher. No, she was not alone. She had Guy and the boy Lion! She walked into the book room proudly, only to stop, stunned.

  Two men stood laughing softly at some private joke. Claude was one, his hand resting in a friendly way on the shoulder of the other. A tall, dark, and much disliked Englishman …

  Claude looked up and saw Charity. “Ah, so here you are, dear lady,” he said, all joviality. “Come and meet a countryman.”

  Mitchell Redmond turned, still smiling. Abruptly the amusement was wiped from his face. His lips parted, and for an instant he looked dumbfounded.

  With scathing contempt, Charity said, “That any Englishman could be so low, so treacherous, is beyond belief!”

  Recovering his wits, Redmond groaned, “Oh, egad! I am judged and found wanting.” And as Charity’s small head tossed higher, he went on with a bored smile, “Do pray present me, Monsieur Sanguinet. Who is this, ah, patriotic lady?”

  Who was she? The conniving traitor knew perfectly well who she was! Her mouth opening to scourge him, Charity saw the swift gleam of warning in the grey eyes, and she was again shocked. What on earth…?

  Glancing curiously from one to the other, Claude murmured, “You were about to say, my dear…?”

  Her mind reeling, Charity managed a chill, “That I have no wish to meet this turncoat.”

  “Ah, but I must insist. Mr. Rivers has rendered me so great a service, the least I may do is reward him with an introduction to so charming a lady. Rivers, this fiery creature is Miss Charity Strand.”

  Redmond bowed, but made no move to take Charity’s hand, nor she to extend it. Claude was saying something about her relationship to Tristram, and she was vaguely aware of Redmond making a sneering response, but she scarcely heard, her every effort bent upon concealing her emotions. It was obvious that Redmond played a part, in which case he had either come here to attempt a rescue or to spy upon Sanguinet. Numbly, she thought, “Redmond!” The last man in the world she would have expected to take up the challenge. But he certainly had not come alone. Tristram must be close by, and Dev—and perhaps her brother. A rush of joy and weakness threatened her with tears. As from a distance, Claude’s voice penetrated her introspection.

  “Miss Strand? Are you still amongst us?”

  She forced her eyes to meet his. “Unwillingly, sir.”

  He chuckled. “Is she not a delight? So sharp a tongue, in despite her unhappy situation.”

  “Do you admire such in a lady, monsieur?” drawled Redmond, very obviously bored.

  Claude turned his head slowly. There was no amusement in his eyes now. “I admire courage,” he said, “especially in a female. I do not permit impertinence. Especially in an Englishman of whom I know but little.”

  Frowning, Redmond pointed out, “You know that I come from Admiral Deal.”

  “So you tell me.”

  “Jupiter! You are hard to convince, monsieur! I put Diccon to rest for you. I brought you his journal. If that does not win your confidence—”

  Claude made an impatient gesture. “Oh, enough! Enough! Have I not admitted that I stand indebted to you?” He stepped closer to Charity and led her to a chair. “You are upset, my dear. Is it because this turncoat has murdered your old friend?”

  Redmond had not killed Diccon, that was certain, but he had evidently managed to convince Claude he’d done so. Lord, but he trod a dangerous path, this man she had judged so contemptuously! She answered, “I had not thought one so brave as Diccon would be slain by such as your friend.”

  “But he is not my friend, you know.” Claude darted an amused smile at Redmond. “A valuable tool, merely.”

  “Alas,” mourned Redmond. “I lose on every suit. However, ma’am, console yourself. I was not alone in ridding the world of the pest that called itself Diccon. Merely the lucky one.”

  Charity raised a hand to her eyes and had no need to feign a trembling. “Monseigneur,” she whispered, “must I remain in the same room with this creature?”

  Claude bent over her and with a hand on each arm of her chair, asked, “Do you truly find him so repulsive? He is very fair to look upon—no?”

  Redmond looked smug, and Charity had to struggle to conceal her admiration. “He is an abomination,” she exclaimed, her lip curling. “Pray excuse me from breathing the same air!”

  “Oho!” Laughing, Claude stepped back. “Run along then. Now do you see how well I am mastering your strange English sayings? But friend Diccon’s writing I cannot unravel, so Rivers must stay to help me. I shall send for Gerard, to—”

  Two hearts missed a beat. With his hand on the bell-pull, Claude paused. “No, he is gone, of course—what am I thinking of? Ah, I have it! My so dear kinsman shall be pressed into service.” He eyed Charity mockingly. “You will not object to that, I fancy?”

  When Charity was shown into the central courtyard, however, Guy was nowhere to be seen. She could have wept with chagrin. She must discover what Claude meant when he said that Gerard was gone. Was the infamous crown really on its southward journey? Her desperate anxieties were eased slightly when Lion came to take her for a drive around the island. As he escorted her upstairs in order that she might put on a warm cloak and hood, she said, low-voiced, “I must speak with Monsieur Guy. Can you get word to him?”

  He stared at her, and she was obliged to caution him lest his surprise attract attention. “What fer?” he hissed, striding along the corridor beside her. “He’s dog’s meat. The same rotten breed as the other.”

  “No. He is a good friend, but you must not let any other person know of this. Oh, Lion, I am trusting you. I beg you will be true to me.”

  “Don’t need to,” he muttered, then, opening the door, added a surly, “Hurry up, miss. I got more important things to do.” And he gave Meg a disgusted look which pleased and amused that sour handmaiden.

  How Lion managed it, Charity could not tell, but when they drove out, Guy Sanguinet rode escort. The closed carriage proceeded around the island in bright, pale sunshine and bitter cold. Charity saw several ships in the landlocked harbour: a fine schooner, probably the vessel that had brought Mr. Redmond here; three ocean-going barges, and a yacht that she recognized at once as Claude’s luxurious La Hautemant. She breathed a sigh of relief. If Gerard had sailed for England, he almost certainly would have travelled on that vessel. Her optimism was soon shattered, however. When Guy ordered the coachman to pull up and invited her to walk along the cliffs, he pointed out La Hautemant, and asked if she remembered the yacht. “Claude bought a new and more modern vessel last spring. He calls her Se Rallumer. She’s very fast.”

  “To … rekindle…” whispered Charity.

  “Oui, to rekindle the flame,” he said sardonically, and as Charity lifted scared eyes to his, he shrugged. “We are from an old and royal house, you know. Our ancestors once ruled Brittany. Claude thinks that he will relight the fire of our destiny.” He shook his head and muttered in disgust, “La folie plus profonde!”

  Very frightened now, she cried, “He has gone, hasn’t he? Gerard has taken the Charlemagne crown to England?”

  Guy stared at her, then looked fixedly out to sea.

  “He’s scared to open his budget, ’count of me being here,” Lion said scornfully. “I won’t blab, guvnor.”

  Guy looked at the boy steadily, then turned
to Charity and said in French, “My dear lady, I do swear to ensure that no harm will befall you.”

  “Never mind about me! Help me get word to England. Guy, I implore you! My God, what we have all suffered in these endless years of war! Do you want it to start again? Oh, Guy, it must not! It must not!”

  He walked away and with his back to her muttered, “If it was you and your own Justin, would you betray him to his death?”

  “Justin is an honourable gentleman,” she cried. “And always he has been kind and good to me. Claude is cruel and vicious—a murderer many times over, and he treats you—” She bit her lip and was silent.

  “Yes. As if I were beneath contempt.” His fists clenched. With his eyes on the horizon, he said, “Perhaps I am.”

  Not understanding their words but alarmed by their intensity, Lion asked, “What’s up missus? Is that there Frenchy—”

  Charity reverted to English. “He plans to kill Prince George.”

  The boy gave a yelp of shock. “Whaffor? He might have maggots in his head, but that ain’t no reason to scrag the poor perisher! And we don’t need no Frenchy a-doing it!”

  “A philosopher,” murmured Guy dryly.

  Charity said, “Lion, this is very, very important. A friend of my brother has come to try and help. He was at my home when I was kidnapped and must have discovered I was brought here. You may have had him pointed out to you in London, for he is quite a noted duellist. If you recognize him, you must be careful not to show it. Will you promise me this?”

  His voice squeaking with excitement, Lion exclaimed, “Love a duck! I did see a gent like that at Strand Hall. Is it Mr. Redmond? He’s a right game ’un to—”

  “Redmond?” Guy interpolated sharply. “Sir Harry Redmond?”

  “His brother,” said Charity. “Lion, do you say you were at Strand—”

  Astounded, Guy again interrupted, “Mon Dieu! Is he mad? Claude will kill him without the one instant of hesitating! Gerard knows him well and there are others here who would recognize him at once!”

  “Does he know you, Guy? Have you met?”

  He said a clipped, “Oui,” then added with a faint smile, “Once, we fight a strange duel. He mistake me, do you see, for my brother.”

  “My heavens! Still, I beg you will help him get away from here.”

  Guy’s smile faded, and he said nothing.

  Tugging at his sleeve, Charity said desperately, “It has started, don’t you see? It has begun! And we stand here—doing nothing!”

  Guy remained silent, avoiding her eyes.

  Lion said staunchly, “Don’t you never worry, missus. I’ll help yer get orf this perishing island. We’ll save ol’ windy wallets Georgie!”

  “We will go back now.” Guy’s voice was cold and final, and when Charity attempted to plead with him, he walked to the coach and held the door open, his face inscrutable.

  Helplessly, she climbed inside.

  The castle was quiet when they returned. A brooding quiet, Charity thought as she walked with Guy across the echoing vastness of the Great Hall. At the foot of the main stairs, Guy bowed and prepared to leave her. Several footmen and lackeys were watching, but made reckless by anxiety, Charity caught at his arm and said a low-voiced, “Guy, please. Will you not—”

  “It is too late, ma’am,” he reiterated quietly. “Your people had every chance and did nothing. Now they are doomed by their own folly.”

  Angered, she said, “You are just as bad as he! By your very refusal to oppose him, you condone what he does!”

  He gazed at her for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he bowed again and walked off towards the book room.

  The housekeeper rustled over. “Monseigneur is delayed on a matter of business. He asks that you join him at luncheon, and later he will conduct you around the castle.”

  Charity went upstairs to change her gown. Claude had evidently decided there was no real need to guard her, for when she went into her room Meg was nowhere to be seen. It was some small relief, at least, not to have to deal with the surly woman. Wandering over to the window, Charity looked yearningly towards England. If Gerard had sailed last evening, he must already be far down the Scottish coast. Perhaps he meant to go ashore somewhere and travel overland to the south country. Sighing heavily, she turned to see Meg coming in from the parlour, a scowl on her face.

  “Ain’t no manner o’ use to blame me if she’s lost,” she grumbled. “The fireboy didn’t move hisself quick enough, and the dratted cat was through the door quicker’n a bee’s knees. Not my fault. I tried.”

  Dismayed, Charity knew there was no point in asking the household staff for help. Most of the lackeys and footmen were types whom she would not be surprised to see in Newgate Prison and who would be glad enough to help Little Patches along her way with a well-placed boot. With this unhappy conviction to spur her, she hurried through her toilette, noting vaguely that the lime green crepe looked quite well on her. She selected a crocheted shawl that promised some warmth, allowed Meg to drape it around her shoulders, and hurried from the room. Luncheon was to be served at two o’clock, and it was now a little past one.

  She prowled up and down the corridor with no success, ignoring the smirks of the servants as she called the kitten and hoping Little Patches had not wandered outside. Her efforts not succeeding, Charity went downstairs and again searched to no avail. She was about to go outside when a shy maid bobbed a curtsey and imparted the information that she had seen la chatte très petite run down the basement stairs. Charity thanked her and hastened in the direction indicated.

  She came to a flight of deeply hewn stone steps that wound around the massy wall, and she trod down with care. The lower regions followed the slope of the hill, and thus, although there were no windows at her end of the hall, far at the other end were narrow slotted apertures through which gleamed daylight. At this end, one lamp was lighted, revealing luxurious carpets and wall hangings with occasional chests or tables as elegant as those above stairs.

  Charity had thought the upper floor quiet and brooding, but down here it was as if the busy activity all about her had ceased to exist, so heavy was the silence. She wandered along, her “Here kitty, kitty, kitty” echoing off to be swallowed up. None of the heavy doors was open, save for a double door at the far end. She started towards it, thinking that the most logical place to search. It occurred to her, however, that if a servant had come down for something and Little Patches had followed, she might accidentally have been shut in. With this in mind, Charity reached out to try the latch of the next door she approached, only to recoil with a little gasp of terror. The latch was lifting. Suppose Claude was inside? Suppose he thought she was prying? The door began to open. Charity backed away.

  “Meeoooww…?”

  Limp with relief, Charity paused. Her heart gave a leap of excitement as Mitchell Redmond appeared, candle in hand and Little Patches squirming under his arm. In that first instant, Charity thought she saw alarm in his wide grey eyes. Then a twinkle came into them. He closed the door, let the kitten jump to the floor, and murmured, “No chaperone again, I see.”

  The light words, the quirkish grin, brought such a surge of emotion that Charity flew to give him her hand, murmuring incoherent thanks, and stammering out questions until he put his fingers across her lips.

  “No time for all that. Besides, you’ve small need to thank me, Miss Strand. I didn’t come galloping to your rescue.”

  It was like a dash of cold water in her face, and she drew back.

  He added, “Didn’t even know you was here. Deuce of a shock when I saw you, I don’t mind admitting. Thank God you had your wits about you!”

  It was foolish to be hurt. The important thing was that he had come. “It doesn’t matter about me,” she said staunchly. “How on earth did you reach here?”

  “Diccon learnt that some of Claude’s rogues had taken ship from Birkenhead, so we went up there to sniff around. We were set upon just before we reached the Mersey. We foug
ht off the first lot, but unfortunately Diccon was wounded. He begged that I take charge of a notebook for him, and I was going through his pockets in search of it when some more of Claude’s fellows arrived.”

  Charity intervened anxiously, “Poor Diccon is not dead, is he?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked sombre and went on, “I managed to convince ’em I’d killed him and here I am.”

  Eyeing him with horrified disbelief she whispered, “You mean, you cannot mean that you came here—all alone?”

  He said cynically, “A disappointment as a relief force, am I?”

  “No! Oh no! I was so very glad to see you!”

  He looked down into her upturned, earnest little face. “Poor chit,” he thought, “she’s had a frightful time.” But the glitter of tears lurked in those great eyes, and appalled, he took her arm and began to lead the way back along the corridor while saying at his most sardonic, “What a rasper! The instant you laid eyes on me you were at your judgements again, deducing I was hand in glove with the Emperor of the Darrochs!”

  She blinked. “Well, what could you expect me to think? He had his hand on your shoulder as though you were veritable bosom bows.”

  “But of course. I had just presented him with Diccon’s notebook.”

  “You— Oh, you never did?”

  In her dismay she halted, and halting also, he said with a grin, “It so happens, my doubting friend, that I also carry a little notebook. Luckily, I was able to copy most of what Diccon’s had contained and to, ah, revise his a trifle, before I handed it over.”

  “Oh!” Exuberant, she flung her arms about him and gave him a strong hug. “How simply splendid!”

  Redmond laughed softly, and looking down at her curls, caught in the light of the candle he’d hurriedly swung aside, he noted again that they were quite pretty. Like spun gold, in fact.

  Recollecting herself, Charity flushed scarlet and stepped back, but she persevered. “What did you do with your own notebook? If Claude should find it—”

  “Never mind about that. Tell me this, ma’am. Those carrion who stole you. Did they, er, I mean, were you … mistreated?”