“I think him very brave indeed,” she said, her heart fluttering frantically against her ribs.
“Would you believe me,” said Claude, all benevolence, “if I say that within ten minutes—less perhaps—this so-called brave man will kneel before me? Will grovel? Will tell me each detail I ask? Will betray his king, his country, his family? Will even plead that I question you instead of himself?”
Charity slanted a quick glance at Redmond. He stood very still, watching Claude levelly. “No, sir,” she said. “That I would not believe.”
“Ah. So—I must prove what I say.” He beckoned to Shotten, who had stood with his head slightly tilted, watching the quiet drama as one somewhat perplexed by it all. Claude turned aside a little, murmuring something into Shotten’s ear. The big man began to grin, laughed, looked at Redmond, and walked to a corner of the room.
Charity was trembling. She felt Guy’s hand tighten on her elbow. She saw Shotten take something from the wall and come back. At first she thought the object he carried was a long-tined broom of some kind, but as he came closer she saw it to be a multithonged whip, and for an instant the room blurred before her eyes.
His grin exultant, his eyes very bright, Claude said, “Do you know, Redmond, you do not look well. I wonder if perhaps you are … remembering?”
Redmond said nothing, but his gaze was fixed unblinkingly on that murderous whip, and suddenly his face was drawn and white as chalk.
“You may let him go,” said Claude. “He will do nothing. You see, he is too frightened.” He took the whip from Shotten, and the footmen stepped back.
“I wonder,” Claude said, “if you really came here to save Miss Strand. If so, I expect you labour under that strange delusion that men of your stamp call l’amour.”
Redmond shook his head.
“You must not lie to me any more,” chided Claude. “Do you know, Miss Strand, this poor fellow is acquainted with one of these. See—” He reached out and shook the whip in Redmond’s face.
Flinging one arm before his eyes, Redmond fairly leapt back.
Claude laughed delightedly. “You see? He is terrified. I shall tell you why. It happened—oh, one year ago, or thereabouts. My beloved brother, Parnell, had a ward he admired deeply. An annoying chit, but he planned to make her his bride. Harry Redmond had the gall, the unmitigated insolence, to persuade her that Parnell was a bad man, and so frightened her that she ran away with him. Parnell followed, naturellement. When he came up with their camp, Harry was gone and had left this fine fellow to guard Annabelle. She knew that she had been very naughty, and she was afraid she might be spanked, so she hid. Now, my Parnell had a little—just a trace you understand—of the temper. And he did not propose to spend a great time searching the woods for his capricious lady. So he tied Sir Harry’s brave brother to a cart, and he whipped him until Annabelle heard how this hero screamed, and came back. To save him.”
Her eyes enormous in her pale face, Charity stared at him. So that was how Redmond’s back had been so brutally scarred! Appalled, she kept her eyes from Redmond, but she knew that he was standing with his head downbent.
Guy said in a strained voice, “He did not make one sound, Claude. You know this.”
“I saw Mr. Redmond’s back, Monsieur Sanguinet,” said Charity. “I wonder he did not die.”
“It is a pity,” sighed Claude. “But we shall take up where my dear Parnell left off. Or would you prefer to tell me now, my dauntless Briton?” Again, he shook the whip and, again, Redmond shrank, one hand lifting protectively. “Look at the pride of it,” said Claude, laughing. “Will you not observe the valour? Do you not find it pathetic, mademoiselle?”
Redmond’s dark head sank lower. His fists were tight-clenched, but he neither moved nor spoke.
Hilarious, Claude said, “Do you—do you know what he has been doing this year and more? He has been roving Europe, fighting, womanizing, getting himself such a wicked reputation as a rake and a duellist—no? No! He has been trying to prove he is still a man! And now—here we are again, brave one. Another lady to watch you whine and crawl. Another whip. Is it worth it, eh?”
Redmond’s head came up. He leapt for Claude, but was pulled back, his arms twisted so savagely that he gasped with the pain. “Damn you…” he said brokenly. “Damn you! Face me man to man—with swords or pistols, or bare hands, if you’ve the—”
“Nonsense! I do not play silly heroics. You will tell me now. You did tamper with my book, did you not? You changed some of the entries.”
Redmond watched, haggard-eyed, as Claude swung the whip lazily, the thongs swishing in a faintly metallic whisper. Hypnotized, he muttered, “I—did.”
Charity winced and had to turn away.
“And the matter of Admiral Deal’s treachery. This was your invention?”
Redmond was silent. One of the footmen shoved him and said contemptuously, “You should have a care, monseigneur. I think he will very soon faint.”
They all enjoyed this witticism, while Charity blinked away tears, Redmond’s eyes closed and his head bowed low, and Guy stood very still, face grim.
Without warning, Claude cracked the whip so that just the tips of the steel-laced thongs touched his victim’s chest. Redmond jerked back against the footmen’s restraining arms. His voice a harsh croak he admitted, “Yes. I altered it.”
“Now that,” said Claude, sobering, “was very bad in you. You see, a brave man you are not, but an actor you are. I believed you when first you came here. And thus, Gerard carries with him the Admiral’s death warrant. I fear I cannot at all hope to countermand that order, and the Admiral was useful. I am vexed with you, Redmond. But, we must proceed. Now—there was very much in Diccon’s little book that was quite the—what is it you say?—the eye-opener. It would be only sensible for you to make a copy for yourself, no? So that when you go back in triumph to London, having slain this wicked dragon that is Claude Sanguinet, you may lay your so dangerous proofs at the feet of your foolish Prince. So you see, I must ask, did you make a copy, my friend? Did you?”
Redmond shook his head, perspiration streaking down his agonized face.
Smiling, Claude trod closer yet, the whip lifting.
“Don’t…” Mitchell whispered, shrinking back. “Please … please don’t.”
Claude swept the whip high. And frenziedly, Redmond cried, “I copied it!”
Gripping her hands together and pressing them against her trembling lips, Charity prayed.
Amused, Claude said, “Do you see now of what stuff heroes are made, my dear? This whimpering apology for a man would cut your heart out if I asked it.” And turning back to his victim, he demanded, “Where is the book you copied? Speak up, Sir Gallantry. Where is it?”
Redmond’s head was low again, but he did not answer. Charity could guess the shame he must be feeling, and she felt an aching pity for him.
“Do you know,” Claude murmured, enjoying himself hugely, “I believe that now I shall prove a point.” Swinging the whip, he strolled towards Charity. “Watch, Redmond, and give me my answer when you tire of hearing this innocent girl scream.…”
“Like hell I will!”
Two startled footmen found that the shaking craven they so contemptuously held had become a wild man. With a primeval growl Redmond tore free from their careless clasp, caught an arm of each man, and swung with a strength born of fury. Two rogues came suddenly and violently eye to eye and, groaning, clutched their battered faces.
Whirling about, Claude swung the whip and sent it hissing at Redmond’s back. Charity heard the crack as those wicked thongs landed. She saw Redmond’s slim body arch, his head jerking back. Claude laughed shrilly and swung up the whip again.
Guy leapt to catch one of the whirling thongs and tugged with all his strength. The whip was wrenched from Claude’s hand and sent spinning into a far corner. With an incoherent snarl of fury, Claude turned on his brother.
Through his teeth, Guy said, “You have threatened those
I love, kept me in subjugation, shamed me all my life. But, by God, I’ll not stand for this!”
Claude’s hand darted to an inner pocket.
Propelled by the accumulated misery of long wretched years, Guy’s fist came up. It landed hard and true. Claude did a little backward leap into the air and lay down before he touched the floor.
The two footmen, meanwhile, recovering and enraged, had plunged at Redmond. He met them eagerly, dealt out a whizzing left and sent one staggering, but was himself half stunned by a mighty uppercut that reduced the room to a shimmer and brought a deafening roar into his ears. He reeled blindly.
Grinning, the second footman snatched a heavy fourteenth-century mace from the wall and advanced, lifting the spiked iron weapon with both hands.
Guy was engaged in a desperate battle with Shotten. Frantic, Charity also purloined a weapon from Claude’s prized collection, and the footman gave a shriek as she drove the spear home. Dropping his mace, he clutched his wounded dignity and spun to confront Charity. His face contorted with rage and pain, he ran at her. Frightened, but still holding her spear level, she retreated.
Redmond shook the mists from his brain, came up behind the footman, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Pardon,” he said politely.
The footman whirled into a right that came at his chin like a sledgehammer, and he sank from the fray.
“Look out!” screamed Charity.
Not lacking courage, the first footman was doggedly returning to the attack. Redmond laughed and dispensed a left jab which sent the man to join his friend on the floor.
In the other contest Shotten’s hamlike fist had sent Guy reeling back. Shotten followed with a sizzling right jab. It was blocked. From some unsuspected reserve of strength, Guy summoned an uppercut that caught Shotten squarely under the chin, and the big man went down with a crash.
Redmond had started for Claude, and Guy staggered to catch his arm. “Hurry!” he panted. “My … carriage, it waits for me. We can—”
“In just … one minute,” grated Redmond.
“No!” Guy struggled to hold him.
Redmond ripped out a string of profanities and wrenched away. “He may be your brother, but he’s a stinking bastard and not fit to live! I’ve—”
“There is no time for your vengeance! We must get Charity away. The whole staff will be after us in a second only!”
Dazed by this swift chain of events, Charity experienced a jolting sense of excitement. It had sounded—it had really sounded as though Guy could help them escape! Certainly, he himself would have to leave now, for Claude would never forgive him. She ran to tug desperately at Redmond’s other arm. “Please, please, Mr. Redmond! If Guy will help us, we may still have a chance! Please, for England, we must try!”
Diccon’s voice echoed in Mitchell’s ears: “You don’t give a groat for England.…”
The blaze of madness died from his eyes. For a moment, he still stared down at her. Then, drawing quickly away from her touch, he muttered, “Yes. Of course.” He strode to open the rear door and peer outside.
Guy meanwhile had hurried to drop to one knee beside his brother’s motionless form. He touched Claude’s wrist and, reassured, stood, then bent again to slip a large ruby ring from the lax hand.
Redmond called, “The coast is clear now.…”
“My regrets,” said Guy, taking Charity’s hand, “but we have not the time to pause for wraps.”
She smiled, undaunted. Watching her, a twinkle came into his eyes. He asked gravely, “Do you really mean to keep the spear?”
Charity had quite forgotten she clutched the weapon and, with a rather shaken laugh, dropped it.
They went outside. This level of the castle was encircled by a drivepath that curved up to join the main approach road. A brisk breeze was blowing, ice on its breath, but Charity was too nervous to notice such a trifle. Hope was reborn in her breast as she followed Guy along the drive, but she trembled with the fear that, just as this miraculous chance was offered, it might be snatched away.
A closed barouche was before them, the coachman having providentially walked his horses a little way while waiting. A groom jumped down and opened the door, then let down the steps.
Guy handed Charity into the luxurious vehicle and she sank into a corner, praying, “Please God, let them not come.…”
Redmond climbed in, sat in the other corner, and looked out the window. Guy entered and pulled the rug over Charity’s knees before sitting beside her.
The barouche lurched; the horses’ hooves clattered on the cobblestones.
They were moving!
A great tide of thankfulness welled up in Charity’s heart. To her horror, she burst into tears.
PART II
The Race
Chapter 13
The Captain came into the luxurious saloon as the yacht began to make its way along the channel towards the open sea. “One might think,” he grumbled, “one might think, I say, that Monseigneur would have allowed us the small time of preparation!”
Charity turned from the porthole and Guy ushered her to a chair. “When my brother says ‘at once,’ I do not argue, mon capitaine. But if you tell me this cannot be done, I shall be happy to convey your message to him.”
“I do not say it cannot be done,” answered the Captain, turning his very round and very red face from its preoccupation with the channel and directing a hard stare from Guy to Charity to Mitchell. “I only say it is odd.”
“Odd?” Guy’s brows lifted. “I brought you a message yesterday, sir, that you were to provision and prepare La Hautemant for Monseigneur’s imminent departure. You have, I presume, done this?”
“I have, of course,” replied the Captain, his snowy whiskers bristling. “But it was my understanding that Monseigneur was to board us. Not”—his gaze turned pointedly from Charity’s unlikely garments to Redmond’s bruised face—“others.”
“My brother appears to feel he has the right to change his plans,” Guy said cuttingly. “He desires that his betrothed be conveyed to England with the utmost speed, so as to await him there.”
Captain Godoy was relatively new to the service of Claude Sanguinet, a fortunate happenstance, since the former captain of La Hautemant had known Charity well and been aware of the circumstances of her flight from Brittany. Nonetheless, Guy’s nonchalant announcement of a betrothal he had never heard of caused the fat little Belgian to direct another hard stare at this girl he judged to be somewhat less than a diamond of the first water. Guy took up Charity’s left hand, on the third finger of which glittered the great ruby he had appropriated from his brother. “You are not, I am assured, doubting my word?”
The Captain knew that ring. He was fond of rubies and had in fact admired the peerless stone. “I must return to the bridge, monsieur,” he said with an immediate and considerable lessening of his annoyed demeanour. “It shall be as you say. Once we are clear of the channel, we— Yes, Monsieur Esmon?”
A thin young man, resplendent in his officer’s uniform, came in and said in a high-pitched falsetto, “A boat is putting out from the shore, sir. We are signalled to wait.”
Godoy strode to the porthole again.
Charity gave a gasp. Redmond stood, his mouth becoming a thin, hard line. Guy rasped angrily, “No! My brother distinctly ordered that—”
“These are Monseigneur’s men, monsieur,” the Captain interpolated, peering shoreward. “We shall wait.”
And so they waited, nerves stretched tight and eyes straining to the small craft that came rapidly over the choppy grey water, her six oarsmen rowing hard and the one passenger hunched over in the stern. A man of small stature.
Frozen with despair, Charity thought, “It is Claude. He has won, after all.”
Redmond, his keen eyes fastened to the distant figure, his body tensed for desperate action, let out his pent-up breath in a faint hiss and said, “Your fiancé is all consideration, ma’am. He sends your little pet along.”
With a l
eap of the heart, Charity cried, “What? You mean it is not—”
“Alas, I fear Monseigneur could not himself come,” Guy interjected swiftly. “You will see him very soon, Miss Strand. I think you know the messenger…?”
Watching the boat come alongside, Charity said, “Oh, it is Lion! With Little Patches. How very kind in Monseigneur!”
Captain Godoy grunted and gave it as his opinion that he did not like cats on board La Hautemant. “They bring bad luck!”
“Nonsense,” said Charity, her heartbeat subsiding to a gallop. “You should be glad to have one on board, to keep down the rats.”
* * *
“So you are to keep down the rats, are you, petite chatte?” Guy stroked the kitten who purred ecstatically on his lap. Laughing, he added, “A very small rat would make short work of this one, I think.”
They were gathered in the comfortable parlour of the private suite to which they had repaired as soon as the yacht was well out to sea. Guy was occupying a deep chair, Charity sat beside Lion on a small sofa, and Redmond leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded, his eyes turning often to the porthole beside him, searching the dusk for any sign of a pursuing vessel.
“How glad I am that you brought her, Lion,” said Charity. “But however did you manage it?”
His eyes alight with excitement, the boy said, “It was pure luck, missus. That there old fusty-faced maid of yours done it. I went up to see if you might like to go for a ride, and that maid was so busy jaw-me-deading that Little Patches went hopping off. Straight for the basement steps she goes like a flash, and I runs arter her.”
“I wonder why she kept going down there?” murmured Charity.
Sanguinet's Crown Page 20