Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Leith said, “No. We were caught. Luckily, one of the officers chanced to be an old friend of mine, Miles Cameron. It was through Miles’s intervention that I was able to get my hands on Sanguinet.” He sighed. “However briefly. Well—it’s all over now. And how are you feeling, my dear?”

  “Well rested, thank you,” she said, her voice a trifle too nonchalant. “They tell me I have slept for two days. They also tell me that my—that Mitchell is—here. Is he conscious yet?”

  Her eyes searched Harry’s face. He longed to say the words she so obviously prayed to hear and instead answered very gently, “Not at the moment, Charity. Sound asleep.”

  “He has not spoken … at all?”

  Sir Harry bit his lip and yearned to be elsewhere. “Not, ah, well, he has been a trifle feverish, you know. Not, er, lucid, exactly.”

  Her heart twisted. So he had not asked for her. It was logical, of course. They had survived a nightmare of danger and because they had fought their way through together, she had dared to hope … But that gallant, handsome, altogether adorable gentleman would not want a plain little dab of a girl. Not once their terrible … wonderful idyll was done.

  They all saw the light go out of her eyes, and they rallied around at once, exclaiming at her long sleep, marvelling at her endurance and bravery, teasing her, loving her. She responded somehow, longing to see him, to be assured that he would live, that he was not suffering too dreadfully. And instead she laughed with these dear friends who tried so hard to ease her sorrow.

  Another gentleman stamped to join them. A tall, grey-haired, irascible-appearing individual with a rasp of a voice, a lantern jaw, black eyes deep-sunken under great bushy eyebrows. “How the deuce,” he said, ignoring protocol completely, “do you expect me to get this damnable fever down when no one will cherchez la femme?”

  Charity gave a hurt little gasp.

  “Your pardon, madam,” he snarled, scowling at her. “My manners are deplorable, I’m told. I am Belmont.” Without waiting to hear who she was, he demanded, “Is the boy’s brother here? Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, why ain’t you out searching for the woman instead of standing here, fooling about? Do you want him to die?”

  Terror-stricken, Harry mumbled, “I did not think— I mean, surely there’s no thought of that, my lord?”

  “Good God, man! Are you daft? That young fool rode and fought his way for—what is it? three hundred miles?—in a state when anyone with half a brain would have taken to his bed! How it is his lung ain’t pierced, I don’t know, but he is beyond exhaustion, that I do know, and he cannot rest. He has a smashed shoulder, is battling a high fever besides, and is half out of his mind for the woman he loves. And you ask if he might die! ’Fore God, I’ve lost patients for half as much! Fretting and worrying will kill men quicker than any bullet. Find the woman! And fast! Else we very well may lose the lamebrain!”

  Frantic, Harry stammered, “But, but I don’t know who she is!”

  “He’s your brother and you don’t know his chères amies?”

  Throwing an anguished look at Charity’s pale, stricken face, Harry blurted, “Well, Mitchell’s been abroad for—for nigh a year. The, er, lady is French, I know, but—”

  “Any fool knows that! What is your name, if I may ask, ma’am?”

  In a frozen croak of a voice, Charity managed, “I am … Mr. Redmond’s wife, sir,” and she wondered if this was how it felt to die of grief.

  For all his harsh manners, Lord Belmont was not an unkind man. He heard the note of pathos in that cracked little voice, and his heart plummeted. “Oh, ecod! I am indeed sorry, Mrs. Redmond.” He turned a dismayed face to Harry. “I shall take my clumsy mouth away at once. My humblest apologies.” He fled, but turning at the door added, “I assure you, the case is really becoming quite desperate. Try and find this Madame Mulot, or—”

  “What?” screamed Charity, spinning to face him, her face shining with a great joyous light. “What did you say?”

  “Jupiter!” thought Sir Harry. “To think I ever judged her plain…!”

  * * *

  Mitchell really did not want to wake the third time. It was all too wearying and painful, and he was so very hot and without hope. But then a gentle hand was stroking his hair, a soft, broken, beloved voice murmured, “Wretched, most odious rake, oh, why must you call for me by that name?”

  His eyes shot open. He turned his head, not caring how remorselessly the pain clawed through him. And she was there, her tanned, beautifully boned face close to his, her great eyes liquid with love, her cool hand touching his cheek.

  It was all right, then.

  He gave a deep sigh. “My little mouse,” he whispered, and with a faint but contented smile fell asleep.

  * * *

  Wellington said grimly, “We think we got ’em all, gentlemen. Most of the ringleaders, at all events. Gad, but that murdering little weasel had his web spun from Dinan to Paris to Vienna to the Hebrides and points south to Brighton!” He leaned back in his chair in the privacy of one of the visitor’s apartments and looked from General Smollet, whom he detested, to Leith, whom he had always thought a splendid officer. “Had it not been for you and your friends—”

  “One in particular,” interjected Smollet, recklessly.

  The Duke did not care to be interrupted and turned upon the General a look that froze Leith’s blood and had been known to make men’s knees knock like castanets.

  Bristling, the sturdy little Smollet thought, “Devil fly away with him!” and his grey eyes, fierce under their beetling brows, darted sparks. “Had it not been for a very gallant gentleman named Diccon,” he persisted, “these fine young fellas would never have had their chance, sir. Nor the Regent his life. For more than five years that poor devil—”

  “I am well aware of Major Diccon Paisley’s record,” interpolated Wellington.

  Surprised by the new name, Leith’s dark brows twitched upwards.

  His chin aloft and his eyes cold, Wellington continued, “He knew the chances he took when he entered the Intelligence Service.”

  “He paid the price willingly,” growled Smollet. “And got precious little thanks for it.”

  “I doubt he asked any, sir!” But the Iron Duke liked an officer who stood by his men, and he thought suddenly that Smollet put him in mind of poor old Picton. The height in his manner vanished. With a mischievous twinkle, he added, “He’ll likely continue to pay the price until he finds the sense to enter a less nerve-racking business.”

  Leaning forward, Leith asked eagerly, “Then he has survived, sir?”

  “Where that gentleman is concerned, it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended.’” Wellington smiled. “As will be the case with you, Colonel, and your magnificent efforts for England.”

  Smollet, who had found it necessary to blow his nose, now exclaimed, “My lord! You cannot keep such a matter quiet!” He had said “my lord” instead of “your grace!” Oh, well, too late now! He went on rather feebly, “Too many knew of it.”

  “The people who knew of it have already taken an oath to keep silent. Good God, man! Have a little sense. To publish such a desperate affair can only inspire some other group of fanatics to try the same thing! With England in the throes of this accursed economic shambles, and the Regent as popular as—” He bit off that sentence, finishing grimly, “It must never become public knowledge! The best service one can render to those who would prevail by threat and terror is to make their deeds known. Stifle ’em, and you destroy ’em!”

  General Smollet nodded, but muttered, “Then poor young Redmond will never receive the honours he deserves.” He glanced to Leith. “How is the boy?”

  “Much better, sir. Since we brought his lady to his side, his recovery has been remarkable. I doubt he will want to leave here, though, he’s been so pampered these last two weeks.”

  * * *

  “You have got to get me away from here, mon sauvage,” said Mitchell imploringly, gazing at his brother’s amused co
untenance.

  “Ungrateful clod.” Harry stretched comfortably on the end of the bed, his back against the carven bedpost. “Here’s our poor Prinny doing all he can to show his gratitude, and—”

  “No, but he scares me to death! I woke up yesterday afternoon and there he was again, peering at me for all the world like some doting parent. The minute he saw my eyes open, he jumped up and started babbling all sorts of rot, and then came at me with a sword that must have been used in the Crusades! For a minute I thought my last hour had come, I don’t mind telling you!”

  “The devil!” said Harry, straightening. “He never did!”

  Bolster, straddling a nearby chair, chuckled. “So you’re knighted, are you, Mitch? That’ll put you in your pl-place, Harry!”

  Feigning indignation, Harry said, “Of all the impudent mushrooms! I suppose you fancy yourself quite my equal now, halfling?”

  “Er, not exactly,” said Mitchell, staring very hard at the coverlet.

  “And what, dare I ask, may that mean?”

  Slanting a glance up at this brother he had always loved and admired, Mitchell said with the old gentle humility that was delighting Harry, “I could never be that, you know.”

  “True,” said Harry, winking at Bolster.

  “And besides,” said Mitchell, hesitantly, “Prinny did not name me a baronet exactly.”

  Outraged, Harry snarled, “Why, that ungrateful—Then, why the sword?”

  “It seems I am now … the, er, first Baron Redmond of Moiré.…”

  “What?” Leaping to his feet, Harry howled, “Why, you damned insolent puppy! Do you mean to tell me that flabby—that Prince George— Do you say you are a Baron and I a mere Baronet?”

  Mitchell threw back his head and laughed so hard he wrenched his shoulder. Harry and Bolster laughed with him.

  * * *

  Wandering around the book room, tapping his whip against one gleaming topboot, Mitchell glanced at the crowded shelves, admired the beautifully wrought reference table, and peered out of broad windows to a sweep of lawns and the distant blue loom of the Surrey hills, bathed in the sunlight of this warm July afternoon. “What d’you think of the estate, m’dear?” he asked.

  Charity, who had been watching him lovingly, said, “It seems very large for a single man. Has Guy a lady somewhere, do you suppose?”

  “Every man has a lady somewhere.” He grinned. “Taking his time about coming. Tris did say he was better, didn’t he?”

  “He said Guy was sufficiently recovered for us to come and see him. Mitch, I’m so glad he has decided to live down here close to us, so that—” She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

  The doors had opened, and Guy Sanguinet was on the threshold. A tall, angular, cross-looking woman pushed the invalid chair, and Guy, a gaunt, white-faced shadow of himself, smiled gladly as he saw them, extending a very thin right hand. “My dear friends,” he said, pressing Charity’s hand to his pale lips, “how very good of you to come and see me. Merci, madame. You can be so kind as to the tea things bring.”

  Mitchell gripped Charity’s hand steadyingly as Guy’s dark head turned to his attendant. She bit her lip and fought for self-control, vexed because Leith had not prepared her.

  Mrs. Nayland slanted a grim look of warning at Mitchell, then stamped out, slamming the door behind her.

  “How are you now, my dear fellow?” asked Mitchell, wheeling the chair closer to the sofa and then seating himself beside Charity.

  “Much better, I thank you. Leith have came to see me—did you know it? Ah! And I have forget the thing très importante! My congratulations! How happy I am for your marriage.”

  “You must come to our wedding,” said Mitchell, grinning broadly.

  Guy stared.

  Charity explained, “The announcement of our betrothal went to the newspapers last week. We are to have a formal ceremony, you see, Guy. Although I am sure the gossips are having a glorious time with all the rumours.”

  “But you are secretly married—no? And thus I shall claim my privilege.”

  Charity stood and bent down to be kissed.

  Guy regarded her with fond concern. “You must not weep for me, little one. Only look—” He lifted that thin right hand again and flexed the fingers. “I am fortunate, most. At first, they say I never shall move either hand again. Now—see!”

  She was quite unable to say anything sensible and tried desperately to smile despite the painful constriction in her throat.

  “And your legs?” asked Mitchell bluntly.

  Guy shrugged. “Oh, une chose si petite.… How much more pleasant is it to be wheeled about and— Ah, little one! Do not! Do not!”

  “Oh, Guy!” gasped Charity, disappearing into her handkerchief. “Oh, my dear! You have known so very much … of sorrow! It is not fair!”

  Mitchell said with unwonted sternness, “Madame Mulot!”

  She blinked, wiped her eyes, and said in a thready voice, “I know. I am behaving very badly. I’m sorry.”

  “It is not ‘bad’ for this French fellow to know he is loved,” said Guy, smiling steadily. “And marriage, my dear, have suit you very well. You are the lucky man, Mitchell.”

  “I am, indeed.” Squeezing his wife’s trembling hand, Mitchell asked, “Is there anything you wish to know, Guy? About Claude?”

  Just for an instant, a bleak look came into the clear hazel eyes. Guy said tersely, “No.” Then he added, “Ah, here is my good helper and our tea.”

  Charity poured, of course, and they enjoyed tea and little cakes, while chattering about the Reverend Langridge’s return to health and Bolster’s joyous reunion with his Amanda and of how furious Lisette had been when she learned her beloved Justin had suffered a recurrence of the malaria she fought so determinedly.

  “How fortunate he is, to have the lady to watch over him,” said Guy, and because they all knew such a blessing could never be his, he at once went on hurriedly, “Tell me of your so beautiful sister, Charity. How is Rachel?”

  “Very well. She fairly radiates health and happiness, thank heaven.”

  “And, you will pardon, but there is the chance, perhaps … for me to be told when the babe arrives?”

  “Most assuredly,” said Charity, then laughed. “I can only hope poor Tristram’s nerves will survive it all. You knew, of course, that Major Tyndale came down and was presented to Prinny?”

  “Yes. Is a fine gentleman, that one. And what of our young hothead? How is the so intrepid Devenish? That leg was the big nuisance during your wild ride, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You’ll never get him to admit it,” said Mitchell. “The boy took care of him. Lion.”

  “And Josie takes very good care of Dev,” Charity put in. “She is a most dutiful daughter. And bullies him dreadfully.”

  “Bon. But this boy, the Lion. He will be placed in an orphanage, or working house, do you call it? This would not be good.”

  Charity sighed. “I have been worrying about him, I’ll own. He has been helping out in the stables at Silverings. Best says he’s willing, and a hard worker. But…” She hesitated, reluctant to speak of the high ambition the boy had once confided to her. “I know you will think me silly, but I cannot think that is the place for him.”

  “I agree,” said Mitchell, misunderstanding. “Lion is growing like the proverbial weed. He’s got a fine pair of shoulders. Might be quite a fighting man some day.”

  “You men and your fighting!” scolded Charity. “Haven’t we had enough?”

  “More than enough,” Guy agreed, laughing. “I wonder now, do you suppose this ferocious child might possibly be willing to come to me? It, er, would be company for me, and I could see that he had some sort of education…?”

  Charity clapped her hands with delight. “How perfect that would be! Mitchell, what do you think? He has no family, I know. This is such a beautiful estate—is there any reason he should not be allowed to come?”

  Mitchell hesitated. The boy was crude and u
ntutored. However, Mrs. Nayland had not impressed him as being a model of gentle concern either. He said slowly, “I should think it would be a jolly good solution. Guy? Are we tiring you?”

  Sanguinet, who had been looking rather furtively out of the window, apologized at once. “I beg you will forgive my manners of the most poor. And if that is the hint you must be upon your way—pray do not. I had hoped you might stay at least overnight.”

  They assured him they would be delighted to do so, but the grim look in the eyes of Mrs. Nayland had been properly interpreted, and Mitchell pleaded an unbreakable prior engagement. Guy looked so genuinely disappointed that Charity asked anxiously, “You are not alone here, surely?”

  “No, no. I have friends who come often to see me. Good neighbours, you know. And a companion I had hoped would return so that you might— Ah! Here she comes!”

  A familiar shape sprang lightly in at the open window. A small voice said a friendly, “Purrrttt?” And Little Patches ran to jump upon Charity’s lap, butt against her chin, submit to a few caresses, repeat the process with Mitchell, and then race to occupy Guy’s lap.

  Watching the cat as she turned around and around preparatory to settling herself, Charity exclaimed, “Oh, how she has grown! Guy, you cannot call her Little Patches any longer!”

  Guy stroked the cat, his eyes very soft as he watched her. “She is my most faithful friend. How glad I am you have allow me to keep her, Charity. So very much she brighten my days.”

  Mrs. Nayland came in to take the tray and levelled another steady stare at Mitchell.

  “Guy,” he said, promptly, “we must be on our way, I’m afraid. But before we leave, I would like to ask you something … if it is not too personal a matter. I, er, have wondered for some time—”

  “What it was that my brother hold over me—no?” Guy nodded, caressing Little Patches, but with his eyes frowning into the past. “You have hear,” he said slowly, “my brother address me as the bastard. This was truth, but not quite in the way you may think. Claude and Parnell have the same mother, you see, Papa’s first wife. My mama was a very gentle lady who died soon after I was born. Her mother, my grandmère, was most beautiful, but very proud. She had loved her daughter deeply, and because they were fine aristocrats but poor, had—how you say this?—had bragged a little, telling her friends how well her Lorraine have marry, how fine is her home, how devoted her husband. My grandmère, you must know, was very dear to me. Always, she was kind. And I”—he shrugged and said in a deprecating fashion, “well, I was a rather lonely little boy. One day, Grandmère was sleeping in her small house in Paris, and the wind it blow one of her pretty scarves too near the candle. The room catch fire, and my poor grandmère was very badly burned. Papa made some small provision for her, but there are many bills for very much. After my father died, Claude, naturellement, was head of the house. He find out quite soon that he can make me do what he want, by threatening to withhold the funds for Grandmère. She was…” His right hand clenched suddenly. “She was blind, and in much pain. And I was all she have, do you see?”