Claude Sanguinet had not wished to be present at this banquet. It was, in fact, infuriating that it had become necessary to ensure he was invited, but after the fiasco that had resulted from Mitchell Redmond’s escape, after the unforgivable ineptitude that had failed to bring about the death of that British thorn in his flesh, Claude had felt that he must be present—just in case anything went awry. His dash down the length of England had been less exhausting than that of his enemies, for he had travelled in luxuriously sprung coaches, with teams of blood horses to bear him in speed and comfort day and night, but even so, he was tired, irritated, and nervous as the moments dragged slowly past.
Because a ball was to follow, the dinner had been less than heroic in scope, but Sanguinet, not a man of large appetite, viewed the twelve entrées with inward disgust and was heartily glad when the covers were removed in preparation for the wine and nuts.
At last! It was time!
He smiled at a remark of the Brigadier to the effect that Prinny was in rare form tonight, and his brown eyes slanted obliquely towards the Regent, a vast figure, his orders glittering on his great chest, his fat face red and perspiring, but his manner polite and amiable, betraying not the faintest sign of hauteur. “Fool,” thought Claude with contempt and glanced to the doors.
He was not disappointed. Very soon a splendidly uniformed officer of the Household Cavalry ushered in a tall, black-clad gentleman who bore a small brass-bound wooden chest, carried high between both hands. A ripple of interest ran around the long table, and the noisy guests quieted.
“Well, now,” said the Regent, his round features weathed in a benign smile, “what’s all this, eh?”
The officer snapped to attention. “With your permission, sir, Monsieur Claude Sanguinet begs to be allowed to present a token of his respectful esteem on this historic occasion.”
Several glances were directed at Sanguinet. The Duke of Wellington’s dark eyes were expressionless; Lord Liverpool’s austere countenance wore a slight frown, and Lord Castlereagh tilted his handsome head thoughtfully. The Regent, almost childishly delighted, leaned forward insofar as his bulk allowed and called down the table in French, “This then is your grand surprise, eh, Claude? The honours go to Wellington tonight, not to me. My thanks, however.”
Gerard was allowed to step forward and place the little chest on the table. The Regent unfastened the clasp and swung open the lid. For a moment, he peeped inside, saying nothing. Beside him, Wellington leaned forward, and his dark brows lifted.
Almost inaudibly the Regent said, “Now … by Jove!” His pudgy hands lifted the crown from its purple velvet and it came into the light like a thing of glory, rich gleams darting from rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, together with the myriad sparkling hues of diamonds. Cries of admiration rang out. Prince George’s pale eyes shot to Sanguinet. Obviously awed, he asked, “Is it … the Charlemagne?”
Sanguinet smiled and made a slightly deprecating gesture.
Across the table from the Regent, a somewhat inebriated General called, “Put it on, sir! Let us see you in’t!”
“Well, I, ah, don’t know … about that.…” The Regent looked rather shyly at Wellington.
Already thoroughly bored, the Duke said with a tight smile, “Why not, sir? It certainly is a splendid gift.”
George grinned happily. “Well, damme, but I shall!” He lifted the crown.
Sanguinet held his breath. Gerard, his dark face unreadable, stepped back and began to drift towards the serving tables.
The Prince lowered the crown again. “A mirror! Some one of you fellows fetch me a mirror!”
A lackey slipped into the corridor, removed a large oval mirror from the wall, and carried it into the Banqueting Room.
The Regent, who had been holding up the crown of Charlemagne so that all present might exclaim over it, turned in his chair and with both hands began to lower the crown onto his head. He was frowning a little, because of a noisy commotion that had suddenly arisen in the corridor.
A loud crash and the doors burst open. There were shouts of “Stop him!” and “Warn His Highness!”
The Prince paused, his full mouth pouting, his face both dismayed and disappointed. Wellington was on his feet, his hawk gaze turned to the astonishing figure fighting his way into the room.
Mitchell’s wig was gone; the urn had paid the supreme penalty when he’d aimed it at a zealous hussar in the corridor, and now he eluded those who grappled with him by the simple expedient of slipping out of the voluminous dressing gown they grasped.
Several of the waiters ran for him. Colonel Colborne sprang up to block his path, his chair going over with a crash. Many of the guests, shouting alarm, were also standing.
Desperate, Mitchell called, “Sir! The crown is—”
Sanguinet, his pale face a mask of rage, jumped up and fired a small derringer at close range, the retort shattering in that chaotic room.
Mitchell was slammed back as if by a giant hammer. He caromed into the men who pursued him and was thrown to the floor.
“Crown…” he gasped faintly. “Musn’t put on—”
The burly guardsman straddling him, drew back one fist with a snarl of rage.
Wellington’s resonant voice pierced the uproar. “Stop! That’s young Redmond! Let him up, I say!”
Colborne, who had also recognized this brother of his erstwhile comrade in arms, ran to pull the guardsman back.
Someone else charged through the doors—a stocky little man in the full dress uniform of a general officer, with beside him a tall ragged young giant, his dark hair tousled and the right side of his tired face badly scarred.
“Leith!” cried Wellington.
Sanguinet’s face twisted with hatred. He gestured imperatively.
The bosky General who had urged the Regent to put on the crown was suddenly cold sober, another derringer appearing in his hand as he aimed at Leith and fired. Leith staggered, recovered, sprang onto a vacated chair and launched himself across that noble table. The Regent moved faster than he had been known to do for some time and was clear as Leith’s long shape blurred past him. Claude snatched up the crown even as Leith’s strong hands clamped about his throat. They both crashed to the floor to the accompaniment of shouts of alarm and excitement. With all his strength, Claude swung the crown and brought it smashing against the side of Leith’s head. The young Colonel’s hold relaxed, and he lay still.
Colborne, on one knee, his arm supporting Redmond’s shoulders, asked urgently, “What is it, Mitch? Try and tell us, old fellow.”
Mitchell could see only a dazzling blur. A great noise was ringing in his ears, and Colborne’s words came as from a great distance. With a tremendous effort he pulled the notebook from his pocket. “Crown…” he whispered. “Poisoned … San-Sanguinet…” The words faded into a sigh and he was suddenly a dead weight in the Colonel’s arms.
“That murdering damned weasel,” snarled Wellington, snatching Diccon’s notebook. He whirled about. “Sir! Do not touch the crown!”
Two shrieks rang out almost simultaneously. The first was uttered by Sanguinet, who, having struggled to his feet and grinned down triumphantly at Leith, was now frenziedly examining a small scratch on the middle finger of his right hand. The second scream issued from Charity’s lips as she ran into the room and saw Mitchell lying unconscious in John Colborne’s arms. Falling to her knees beside him, she sobbed out his name and, clutching his unresponsive hand, looked imploringly into Sir John’s startled face.
“Mais non! Mais … non!” The shrill wail, unutterably desolate, keened through the uproar. Claude Sanguinet, his face ashen, raised clenched fists and shook them in the air in an agony of frustrated fury. Another sound escaped his writhing lips. Neither scream nor shout, it died into a terrible, strangling sob. Before the collective gaze of that stunned gathering, Monsieur Claude Sanguinet sank to the floor. One hand, in a last convulsive grab, fastened onto the tablecloth, dragging it downwards. The crown of Charlemagne fel
l with it, to lie beside—but not on—the head of the man who had schemed and murdered and plotted for so many years and at the end had contrived only to bring about his own death.
Chapter 20
Mitchell’s first awakening was hellish. His left side was on fire, his right shoulder made breathing an agony, he ached from head to foot, and—worst of all—she was not at his side. Whenever he dared open his eyes, he peered through the mists, but she was not here. He knew that he was in a strange room of great size and richness; he knew that kind hands tended him; he fancied to have seen Harry a time or two; and somehow he knew that England was safe. But she was not here. Why did she not come? Was she hurt? Or ill? Or had she decided he was beneath contempt after all…? Had that ghastly confrontation at Tordarroch so disgusted her that, now it was all over, her sensibilities had righted themselves and she did not want to see him again? Hot, miserable, and pain-racked, his head began to toss, which made the pain worse. And so he lay there, increasingly fretful and despairing, calling for her, in vain.
The next time he awoke, he thought for a wonderful moment that she had come, but his vision clearing, he saw that it was an older lady in a starched white apron, sitting in the chair beside his bed, tatting, her thin fingers flying, the thread somehow shaping itself into an intricate little square. Mitchell stared at it until his eyes began to blur. He heard the door open and turned eagerly, then clutched wildly at the coverlet, biting back a cry of pain. Things became a trifle dim, but suddenly the disembodied face of a very fierce-looking man loomed over him. A gentle voice said, “Easy, lad—easy. We will bring her to you, just as soon as we can. Try to sleep now.”
But they did not bring her, and the weary hours dragged past until he slid gratefully into darkness.…
* * *
Sir Harry Redmond sat at a black japanned escritoire in the small but elaborate ante-room, writing industriously. A vivid bruise along the right side of his forehead, extending downwards into an equally vivid black eye, made his efforts a trifle tedious, and he was turning his head to squint awkwardly at the paper when a large hand clapped on his shoulder, causing him to toss the pen into the air and give a little jump of shock.
Tristram Leith smiled down at him and murmured a conciliatory, “Sorry, old boy. Didn’t realize your nerves was in such a state.”
“Well, what the deuce would you expect?” exclaimed Sir Harry indignantly. “Only look at what you’ve made me do! Ink all across the blasted thing, and it’s my third attempt to write to my wife. By George, if you didn’t carry your arm in that stupid sling, I—” He checked, his green eyes becoming narrower than usual, and asked sharply, “What news, Tris?”
Leith threw one long leg irreverently across the end of a long Egyptian-style sofa with griffin’s feet and said laconically, “A groom just brought word that my wife goes along nicely.” His dark eyes softened. “Thank God! She sent me a letter.… What of your brother? Awake yet?”
Sir Harry’s lips tightened. “Several times. But he’s drifted off again, fortunately.”
Leith nodded, having weathered such a storm himself. “It’s not a coma, I hope?”
“No. But for the most part he’s out of his head, poor old fellow. The doctor says he’s completely exhausted and may sleep for several days. Do you know, Leith, that blasted idiot has a bruise on his side you’d not believe. Rode all the way from Hadrian’s Wall with three cracked ribs and said not a word about it!”
“Did he, by God! You must be very proud of him, Harry. Has—” And Leith interrupted himself to shout a glad, “Dev! Jupiter, but I thought you’d never get here!”
Leaning heavily on the arm of Lion, whose hair was now half-brown and half-red, Devenish hobbled to grip Leith’s outstretched hand, be pounded on the back by Sir Harry, who had also sprung up to greet him, and to remark with considerable indignation that he’d never have come had he known what he was letting himself in for. “Did you know,” he said, casting a wary eye towards the closed door, “that Wellington himself is in the Saloon? He told me that England could be proud of us and gave me a clap on the back that damn near knocked me into the fireplace!”
Leith and Sir Harry exchanged uneasy glances. Leith muttered, “The old fire-eater didn’t say as much to John Colborne after he’d right-shouldered his Fifty-second out of that blasted cornfield at Waterloo and pretty well saved the day!”
Devenish shook his head glumly, then said, “Lord, what a cawker I am! How does your brother go on, Harry? I hear he was a trifle knocked up.”
“Sleeping now. Claude’s shot broke his collarbone, and the doctor had a devilish time digging the ball out, but we think he’ll make a good recovery.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Devenish. “When the Duke said they’d called in Lord Belmont, I was afraid—”
Whitening, Harry sprang to his feet. “Called in—who?”
“Belmont. Didn’t you know?”
“Be damned if I did. Why? Do you know about this, Leith?”
“No,” said Tristram, adding in his calm fashion, “but I shouldn’t fly into a pucker. Prinny’s so blasted grateful to all of us that he likely feels obliged to provide the finest. I’m getting dashed tired of having him wring my hand ten times a day, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Good God!” said Devenish. “Knew I shouldn’t have come! How’s our battling invalid?”
Leith chuckled. “She sat by Mitchell’s bed not saying a single word after they’d hauled him into that Sultan’s tent of a bedchamber day before yesterday. I didn’t realize until they were finished with Mitch that Charity was fast asleep. She hasn’t stirred since.”
Harry shook his head. “Who’d have guessed that tiny, frail little creature could ride all this way…”
“If you d-describe me, Harry, you c-can—” The rest of that rather shaken utterance was drowned as the three friends turned, whooping, to greet the pale man, a bandage wrapped around his fair head, who tottered to join them.
“Jerry! You confounded idiot—you’re alive!” cried Harry, overjoyed.
“If you say so,” said his lordship, sinking gratefully into the chair Leith whipped around for him.
“’Course he’s alive, you dolt,” said Devenish, beaming. “Don’t you see that the ball took him in the head? Only place it could do no damage.”
When the badinage and laughter that covered their relief had died down, Harry asked, “How the devil did you get here? I wonder they let you leave your sickbed.”
“Pr-Prinny sent a d-damned great state coach for me. With two outriders, six horses, liveried coachman, a guard, and two footmen! Blessed if ever I saw such a commotion! They’ve got grooms r-riding hell for leather in all directions to noti-noti-noti-tell our families and find those of us who dropped along the w-way—did you know it?”
Amused, Leith said, “Justin will shrivel up, poor fellow. Or perhaps he’ll be so fortunate as to remain hidden.”
“Oh no, he won’t,” said Bolster. “They’re to fetch him tomorrow, I was t-told. Serve him right, silly clunch! And y-your uncle’s on his way, Harry.”
“I don’t suppose,” Devenish put in gravely, “anyone knows yet—about Guy?”
There was a brief silence. His eyes sad, Leith murmured, “How could two brothers be so unlike, I wonder? Guy so thoroughly decent. And Claude—”
“The late unlamented,” interposed Devenish dryly.
“So thoroughly—” Leith went on.
“B-b-b-b, rotten,” finished Bolster. “Well, let me tell you, Dev—” But he did not do so, because the door opened and Charity ran in.
“Oh, my poor … poor dears!” she said, half laughing, half crying, as the battered group stood to welcome her. “But you are alive, Jeremy! Oh, how grateful I am!” She flew to kiss him very gently, and he blushed and stammered and shyly kissed her back, while Devenish grinned and grumbled that the rest of them might as well have expired for all the attention they received and only because his lordship had all the rank. Whereupon, of cour
se, Charity turned to embrace him and then fluttered about like a bright butterfly in her pretty peach muslin gown, sympathizing with their hurts, praising them, her great eyes reflecting her deep affection for them all, but holding also an underlying anxiety that wrung Harry’s heart and made him dread the moment when she should come to him.
“A fine sister-in-law you will think me,” she said, as she gave him her hands, “to leave you to the last. It is only that you seem the least damaged, you see.”
“What—with this dreadful wound?” he protested, bending his dark head so that she might exclaim over his bruises.
She smiled, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his forehead lightly, asking how he came to suffer such afflictions.
“Why, it was when we’d come at last to the Pavilion after the most hair-raising series of brushes with our Claude’s rogues,” he said. “Properly set upon we were and had to run for our lives.”
“Ah,” she said intently, “so that was the shot we heard? It was because Gerard and Shotten and the soldiers all went rushing around to discover the cause that Mitchell and I were able to get past the gate.”
“Is that so? Then it was worth it, though the ball came devilish close to making a widow of Nanette.” Sir Harry pulled down his collar, disclosing a deep graze across his neck.
“Good heavens! But—you did escape?”
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