Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (16 page)

"So I gather." Irked, Mitchell said, "Considering how you
begged my brother to come, I would think—"

"Ah," murmured Diccon, "but that, you see, was your brother.''

"Who has just as much reason to detest the Sanguinets as have
I!"

Diccon smiled infuriatingly and began to push a walnut around
his wineglass.

"Sanguinet, I will remind you," gritted Mitchell, leaning
forward, "murdered my father."

"But we were never able to prove that, you know. Parnell
contrived to Sir Colin's ruin, certainly, and persecuted the lovely
lady of whom you were so fond, but—"

Mitchell had raised his wineglass, but at these words his hand
jerked so that the rich port splashed onto the gleaming oak. His eyes
lifted to meet Diccon's, and that intrepid gentleman was put in mind of
the glare he had once beheld in the eyes of a cornered panther.
"Perhaps," said Mitchell with silken softness, "you will be so good as
to explain what you mean by that…insinuation."

"Insinuation? But, my dear fellow, I had always understood you
to be, ah, very fond of Miss Carlson."

"She is not Miss Carlson," said Mitchell, still with his head
slightly downbent while he glared up at Diccon from under his black
brows. "She is the lady Harry Redmond. And if you dare to imply—"

"That you were in love with her? Of course you were.
She
knew it—Harry knew it—Parnell knew it! And when he found you alone
together in the woods—"

Mitchell's chair went over with a crash. Standing with fists
clenched, he raged, "I never laid a hand on her, damn you! She loved
Harry. I respected that, and I respected
her
!"

Diccon leaned back, very much at his ease, his eyes as cool as
Mitchell's were blazing. "You loved her," he repeated. "Parnell
persecuted and terrorized her and victimized you and your brother. And
Claude pulled the strings for all of it, and engineered your father's
death. Wherefore, you want him dead at your feet—no?"

"Yes!" snarled Mitchell. "I'll beat him at his own game, and
call him out or strangle him with my bare hands if I have to! Is
that
what you want? Is that what you've been sneering and hinting and prying
after? Then hear this, Mr. Tinker or Spy, or whatever you are, I may
not be the man my brother is, and I may be no more than a liability to
you, but with or without you, I'll find Claude Sanguinet, and—"

Diccon laughed jeeringly. "And you'll die in that moment! Oh
yes, that's what I wanted, Redmond. To know just how you will behave in
a crisis. And it is as I suspected. You don't give a groat for England.
Your only interest in this is personal vengeance!"

"You lie, blast you! I love my country!"

Leaning forward then, Diccon slammed one clenched fist on the
table and demanded tensely, "And do you love it enough to be ruled by
my decisions? Will you agree to do exactly as I say? Will you swear
that if Sanguinet's throat is within your grasp and I give you a no,
you will obey me?"

Mitchell stared down at him. His taut body relaxed. He
laughed. "Like hell!"

Diccon leaned back again. "Goodbye. And good luck." But as
Mitchell strolled to the door, he called slyly, "Pray tell me before
you depart, sir. Where do you mean to search? La Mancha?"

Gritting his teeth, Mitchell flung around. And the mockery on
the lean face of this strange man banished his own scowl abruptly.
"Why, you slippery devil," he said in belated comprehension. "You
know
where he is!" He stalked back to stand facing Diccon once more. "
That's
why you called together the few men you trusted, all victims of the
Sanguinets, all intent on their destruction no matter what the cost!
You did not come asking us to search them out, but to go in there and
fight! Only you are too damned devious to say it straight out!"

"Nonsense. A handful against hundreds? I cannot afford such
heroics, Redmond. Mine is the meaner task. To spy and creep and learn,
so that England may be forewarned—if only she will listen!—and gallant
heroes such as yourself can later charge in to glory.''

There was bitterness in his voice. Watching him, Mitchell
remembered some of the things Harry had told him of this man. And of
Leith's story of the months Diccon had spent in Brittany inside Claude
Sanguinet's fortress chateau, risking death every instant and knowing
that few in England would care if he paid the ultimate penalty for his
devotion.

"Small thanks you get for your trouble," he acknowledged
slowly.

"Thanks?" Diccon's lip curled. "I want no thanks. What I need
is support! But to most of the powers in Whitehall I am a fanatical
gloom merchant. A glory-seeking opportunist whose fearsome dragons have
been created purely for my own aggrandizement! While Claude
Sanguinet—ah! What a gentle philanthropist; a confirmed Anglophile; a
God-fearing, loyal, and fond friend of the Regent. A gentleman
sans
reproche
! And I, a bungling idiot, so that Smollet has been
forced to retreat, and even Wellington looks at me askance!" He stood
and paced to glare broodingly down into the fire.

Mitchell watched him for a moment, then sat on the edge of the
table and said in a subdued voice, "So you have tested me all day, have
you? Well, I fear your judgement was well-founded." Diccon swung
around, surprised. Mitchell admitted wryly, "You want more of me than
I've the courage to give. God knows I'm willing to side you in a scrap,
but if you mean to venture into Claude's camp, to masquerade as one of
'em—Lord, no! That kind of heroism is beyond my—"

"What a blasted awful thing to say," interrupted Diccon with
considerable indignation. "Heroism, indeed! And if it did come down to
that, I'd not be astonished to find you've more of your brother in you
than I had at first—" He broke off, his head tilting, listening
intently. "Ah! Here comes my word, at last!"

"So
that's
why we had to reach here
tonight! I was—" And in turn Mitchell paused, his eyes widening. From
the hall came a familiar voice upraised in song. A tenor voice growing
louder until the door was flung open and the song died away.

Antonio diLoretto bowed with a flourish and straightened, his
dark eyes full of mischief as they flashed from Mitchell's astonishment
to Diccon's scowl.

"Tonio!" exclaimed Mitchell

"It's past time," grunted Diccon.

"I am here," proclaimed diLoretto, redundantly.

"You're a blasted spy!" cried Mitchell with justifiable wrath.
"For nigh two years I've paid you to be loyal to me, while all the time
you worked for"—he gestured towards Diccon— "
him
!

"Ah, but, signor, have I not-a serve-a you well? Am I not-a
loving you like the brother? Did I not—"

"You're late," Diccon interpolated sharply.

DiLoretto came into the room and closed the door, then removed
his cloak. "I was detained," he said with a shrug.

The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped and darkly stained,
the tear revealing a crude bandage around his forearm.

"Is it bad?" asked Mitchell, stepping forward quickly.

"Were you followed?" Diccon rasped, his eyes darting to the
door.

"Me?" protested diLoretto. "I am the eel, the shadow! They do
not-a see even what is the way I go!"

Pulling up a chair for his valet, Mitchell observed, "Someone
saw the eel long enough to inflict that."

"A chance shot at the night. This, she is-a nothing! Less-a
than nothing!"

Impatient, Diccon demanded, "Then give me
something
.
Was I right?"

"Major de-Conn, I bow! I am all of admiration. You are—"

''For God's sake,'' roared Diccon. ''
Was I right
?''

"Yes," said diLoretto gravely.

Diccon breathed a gratified sigh.

"And-a yet again," diLoretto went on with a flourish, "no!"

Sir Harry Redmond was blessed with remarkably keen eyesight,
but peering into the moonless night, he failed to discern the hole in
the rutted lane and swore as he stumbled and went to his knees.
Following close behind, Bolster almost cannoned into him and exclaimed
with a breathless laugh, "I s-say, old tulip, if you're that t-tired,
you'd best mount up again."

From out of the gloom, Devenish called cheerily, "Poor advice,
your lording; farther to fall. Tris? Are you still amongst us? Do you
know where we are?"

"I'm here, Dev. And unless I mistake it, we're a shade west of
Folkestone. There's a fine old posting house ahead we shall have to
have a look at. It would never do for us to pass our quarry in the
dark."

"Small chance of that," muttered the Reverend, surreptitiously
clinging to the tail of his nephew's mount. "I'd never fancied one rode
to the rescue at this dashing crawl!"

"We're moving," Leith pointed out. "Which is likely more than
Sanguinet's people are doing. You know the legend of the tortoise and
the hare, sir."

"Quiet!" cried Sir Harry sharply, and, still kneeling, bowed
forward.

"What the devil's he doing?" hissed Devenish, peering down at
the baronet.

"P-praying, I think," Bolster whispered.

Redmond sprang up. "Don't be an ass, Jerry! Leith, there's a
heavy vehicle coming up behind us. A dray, perhaps. Though I'd not have
thought they'd move produce at this hour of a moonless night."

"Nor I." Low-voiced, Leith called, "Gentlemen, I suspect we've
dawdled faster than we knew. Let's give a look at this nocturnal
traveller.''

They separated, Redmond and his uncle moving to the left side
of the road, Devenish and Bolster to the right, and Leith sitting his
horse squarely in the middle.

Soon, they could hear the slow beat of many hooves, the
snorting of nervous horses and the grind and creak of wheels. A dark,
moving mass loomed against the night sky.

"Halt!" commanded Leith ringingly, adding a fallacious, "In
the King's name!"

"
Mon Dieu
!" a man screamed. "
En
avant! En avant
!"

A whip cracked. Neighing in panic, the coach horses plunged
forward.

Sir Harry raised his pistol and a stab of flame sliced the
darkness, the explosion deafening. All then was confusion. The
Frenchman on the box was shouting; the terrified horses screamed and
plunged; the right wheeler got one leg over the trace; the left leader
collided with his partner; the carriage rocked crazily. A shotgun blast
added to the din.

Devenish flung himself recklessly at the side of the coach,
clambered up, and grappled with a shadowy individual who ripped out
ferocious Gallic oaths even as he beat madly at his attacker. On the
other side of the vehicle, Bolster wrenched open the door and plunged
inside. Leith dismounted and grasped the ribbons, attempting to quiet
the terrified team. Coming up beside the box, the Reverend Langridge
levelled an enormous and quite inoperable blunderbuss. "Do you
surrender?" he howled.

"
Mais oui! Mais oui
! Do not fire,
monsieur,
s'il vous plait—
do not!"

Devenish, whose flying fist had connected to good effect,
panted, "This one will give us no trouble, sir. Tris, throw me your
tinderbox and we'll have a little light here."

Leith went over and handed up his box, and Devenish lit one of
the lamps.

A chaotic scene was revealed. The coach horses were in a
hopeless tangle; the guard sagged, unconscious, over the side of the
box; the driver cringed, whimpering before the menace of Langridge's
blunderbuss.

"Jeremy," Leith called, "is Charity all right?"

Bolster stuck his golden head out of the wide-flung door. "
'Fraid we've made a, er, slight error," he said in a decidedly hollow
voice. "Charity ain't here.
This
coach really
is
empty!"

"Oh, God!" Leith groaned. "We've been duped, then. That damned
rogue has had us following a decoy coach!"

Sir Harry muttered sombrely, "God help poor little Miss
Strand. We've lost her!"

Far beyond the dark depths of sleep, someone was calling,
"Miss! Miss! Wake up!" Charity was warm and snug, and the effort to
respond was great, but respond she must, and somehow she forced her
eyes open and blinked stupidly around the dim and unfamiliar room.

A plump woman, her features indistinguishable, was bending
over the bed, tugging at her shoulder.'' Your brother and your French
cousin be waiting," imparted this shadowy individual. "They axed me to
wake ye. Be ye 'wake now, miss?" The heavy hand commenced the tugging
again, and Charity pulled away, saying drowsily that she was indeed
awake and where in the world was Agatha?

The tugging ceased. The woman deposited a candle on a rickety
chest of drawers. "Fit for Bedlam, poor lass," she muttered under her
breath. "Just like the genelmens said." She turned back to the bed.
"Now you please to wake up, miss. I'll fetch a pitcher of hot water
directly."

She was gone when Charity fought her way out of the morass of
the feather bed and tried dully to recall the events of the previous
day. They had reached this lonely inn at nightfall when she was so
exhausted by the long hours of rattling about in the great coach that
she had barely been able to totter into the old building. She had a dim
memory of Jean-Paul engaging in a murmurous conversation with a little
round-eyed fat man who had peered at her in obvious unease and
remonstrated until the Frenchman brought out his purse. This civilized
act had apparently lulled the host's fears, and she had been ushered
upstairs by all three men and shown into a tiny, low-roofed chamber
under the eaves. It was the oddest thing that she had been unable to
talk to the innkeeper. Every time she tried to speak, her voice was
suspended and the words would not come. The door had been slammed shut,
and a key turned in the lock. Rushing over to the window, she at once
discovered why this particular room had been chosen. The window frames
had been painted with a too generous hand so that there was no way to
force the windows open. Wearily, Charity had unfastened her cloak,
released a yawning kitten and, staying only to remove her gown and hang
it on a convenient hook, had crawled into bed.