Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (29 page)

It was as much as Marietta could do to get through the door,
but
once inside there was no getting out again until she'd been regaled
with the story that she'd already heard three times, at least. Samuel,
it seemed, had been captured by a press gang and delivered to a
merchant ship. After some adventures "on the High Seas" which became
more hair-raising with each retelling, the vessel had returned to the
Pool of London. He'd managed to escape and had at last made his way
home. Sam was in the shop, grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly
enjoying his notoriety. He looked bronzed and the picture of health,
far from the ill-used and starving victim of a brutal ship's captain.
Marietta was reminded that when the tale had reached Sir Lionel's ears
he'd dismissed it as poppycock, saying that if the boy had been aboard
ship at all it was likely a free-trader's ketch, and that he'd gone
willingly, in search of adventure. Whereupon, of course, she had seized
the opportunity to remark that another of the crimes laid at Diccon's
door could be dismissed.

Having exclaimed properly and congratulated Samuel's proud
parent on
his safe return, Marietta succeeded at last in claiming her letters.
She went outside to find Bridger looking irritated because he'd been
obliged to walk the team several times around the village while waiting
for her. She wouldn't have taken the carriage at all save that there
had been such a great armful of flowers to be delivered, but the wind
was rising now and she was glad enough to climb inside and settle back
against the worn squabs.

One of Aunty Dova's spangles sparkled on the seat beside her.
She
took it up absently, thinking of the little lady and of the terrible
warning she claimed to have seen in her Mystical Window Through Time.
The picture of Eric flying for his life with dragoons close on his
heels was frightening indeed. It was also nonsensical.

Eric had always been the soul of honour. Some years ago when
one of
his school friends had been caught cheating, he'd been horrified and
quite cast down because someone he liked had done so shocking a thing.
Even as a very small boy he'd always played fair—when he played. She
smiled faintly. Actually, he'd not much cared for competitive sports,
his interest tending to wane so that he would soon wander off and find
some less taxing activity. He'd once engaged in a fiery discussion with
Papa on the subject of politics and it had become clear that he had
only scorn for the present government. But that was not alarming, for
most young men seemed to enjoy railing against established order. The
memory of his sudden affluence brought a worried frown. But although
she could not like his leaving the university and venturing into the
risky world of finance, it would scarcely bring the military after him.

Impatient with her worries, she picked up the mail and glanced
through it. A bill from the haberdashers in Eastbourne. Another from
The
Times
—a
luxury Papa refused to forego. A letter— She stared with a qualm of
unease at her own name inscribed in Eric's familiar scrawl. She had
supposed him to be on his way home. If he was writing, it must mean
that he was delayed. She broke the seal hurriedly.

My dearest Etta:

This will come as a shock, but I cannot spare the time to be
tactful.

I sensed that you doubted my tale of handling the investments
of
wealthy gentlemen. You were right, love. Have you heard the term
"industrial espionage"? That is what I am doing, Etta. I am at present
entrusted with the details of a new kind of fuel for lamps. It's in the
experimental stage, and, as you may guess, is guarded jealously. I am
to deliver a copy of the formula to a German competitor. Are you much
shocked? I hope not.

However, it is against the law. And I have been found out. I
don't
think they know my identity, as yet, but although I dodge
about Town
there are Runners hard after me.

I must get out of the country, and thanks to you I think I
know how
to manage this. I write to warn you to be on your guard if any Runner
or Constable should come poking around.

Don't despise me, dearest and best beloved of sisters. I have
done
what seemed best for us. I can but pray I have not disgraced you. If
things go well I will escape this beastly net and come to you with all
speed. Meanwhile, be careful, and try to think lovingly of

Yr. ever devoted brother, Eric

Ignatius, Lord Dale, ate alone in the Downsdale Park breakfast
parlour, which was just as well, for despite the pale sunlight that
beamed in through the windows he was not in the best of humours. The
information that Mr. Blake Coville had taken himself off for an early
ride did not distress him. One would be as well pleased, he thought, if
that young pest would take himself back to Town and remain there. His
sire had been a tiresome enough guest, with his studied elegance and
grave know-it-all demeanour, but at least Sir Gavin hadn't set the
maids in an uproar and caused the usually placid housekeeper to fly
into the boughs and carry tales to Lady Dale.

Leaving the breakfast parlour, his lordship wandered down the
corridor, frowning because the expected packet had still not arrived.
It was an ugly business that should have been nipped in the bud long
ago. Not a bit of use old Smollet holding him to blame because that
damned ass had eaten the original report. If the London people were so
anxious, they should have sent a rider down here at the gallop with the
replacement pages.

He opened the door to his study. This room was inviolate, even
to
his own family, for although it was not generally known, the stout,
snobbish, and far from impressive baron also possessed a keen
diplomatic sense and often dealt with matters vital to the security of
the nation. Lost in thought, he stepped onto the thick rug, looked up,
and stiffened in outraged astonishment. He could move fast at need, and
his hand flashed to a cabinet drawer and emerged gripping a small
pistol. Aiming it steadily at the tall man who was engrossed in the
papers on his big desk, he said, "How the devil you broke in here, sir,
I don't know. But—" He broke off, glowering as the intruder turned to
face him. "You! Gathering more snacks for your confounded donkey,
perchance? I caught you fairly this time, you treacherous scoundrel!
You may consider yourself under arrest!"

"More flour! More flour!" said Fanny, glancing up from
shelling peas to check on her unlikely assistant baker.

Swathed in a large white apron, with a dab of flour on the end
of
his nose, Vaughan raised two hands covered in sticky dough and surveyed
them with revulsion. It had looked so easy when he'd arrived and found
Miss Fanny kneading her bread. She'd dismissed his pleas to go for a
walk on this beautiful morning, saying the bread must be "set to rise"
before she could leave. Watching her in fascination, he'd begged to be
allowed to "have a turn," and she'd agreed, saying with amusement what
fun it would be to have "a dashing aristocrat" toiling in her kitchen.

Now, he spread his doughy fingers and reached for the flour
bin,
only to have her jump up and run to use a scoop to sprinkle the board.

"You can go on, now," she advised, returning to her chair.

"How much longer?"

"Until it's smooth, of course," she said, dimples flashing.

"But every time it's smooth, you say it's got to have
blisters."

"So it does. I'll tell you when it's ready." She glanced at
him from
under her lashes and said, "Perhaps my sister will come back by then,
and you'll be able to have your chat without bothering to take me for a
walk first."

"Jove," he exclaimed, glancing to the windows apprehensively.
"If Miss Marietta's coming back I'd best get cleaned up."

A tiny frown wrinkled Fanny's brow. Lost in love, she had been
counting the minutes till he arrived, and it had been a little hurtful
when his first request had been to see Marietta. He had asked twice how
long it would be before Bridger drove her home from Cloud Village, and
while kneading the dough he had lapsed into profound silences as though
considering some weighty problem.

She said, "If you are so anxious to be ready for Marietta, by
all
means leave that, Mr. Vaughan. I had not meant to delay you, and I can
finish the kneading while you wash your hands." She was sure he would
realize she was quizzing him and would respond with some of the
light-hearted banter that sprang up so comfortably between them.
Vaughan, however, was preoccupied, and without comment began to take
off his apron.

There had been only one adoring look from him today, and that
very
brief. Perhaps his affections were not as deeply engaged as she'd dared
to dream. He was, after all, a brilliant prize on the Marriage Mart,
who could walk into Almack's and take his pick from the cream of the
current crop of highly born damsels. What a contrast was Miss Fanny
Warrington, who never had been and probably never would be presented to
Society. Marietta, on the other hand, had been presented, was
beautiful, and didn't make gauche remarks or become impatient with the
perplexing creatures called gentlemen. It was not remarkable that once
having met her, Blake Coville had never even noticed her little sister.
Now it would seem that Jocelyn Vaughan, who had noticed and had stolen
her heart away, was also turning his beloved but fickle eyes towards
Marietta.

She said rather tartly, "I collect your thoughts are far from
bread
dough, Mr. Vaughan." And with sad double entendre, "Or did the game
lose its appeal once you'd tried it?"

He smiled absently, wondering just how to ease into the
subject with
Miss Marietta. "I fancy I'm just unskilled is all. You ladies are far
better at such tasks."

"Is your cook at Greenwings a female, sir?"

"Good heavens, no! My uncle would faint at the very thought!
Our chef is a Frenchman. Quite a famous fellow, in fact."

"Really? Had I known I would have been quite in a quake when
setting my poor culinary efforts before you."

The curl of her lip escaped him. He was, he knew, ill-equipped
for
the role of deus ex machina; God forbid he should worsen a tricky
situation. Diccon was such a confoundedly private sort of man; not the
type to take kindly to interference, however well-meant. Him and his
confounded walls! Why was Fanny looking so put about? Whoops! He must
not have answered her! He said quickly, "Oh no. I think it is
remarkable how well you do; all things considered. Diccon told me, in
fact, that he enjoyed some jolly good meals whilst he stayed here."

'All—things—
considered
?' Love or no love,
at this her little chin lifted dangerously. "Is that so?"

"I promise you. He likes plain cooking. Which is surprising
when you think that he's travelled about the world a great deal."

Fanny drew a deep breath, then purred, "Indeed? Then, as a
'plain
cook' I may consider myself flattered, is that what you say, Mr.
Vaughan?"

"Oh, absolutely. Ah, here comes Bridger with the carriage. At
last!"
All unaware of the daggers that were being hurled his way from a very
pretty pair of hazel eyes, Vaughan dried his hands and shrugged into
his coat.

"Good morning, Miss Marietta! I've been waiting for you—"

"With the greatest impatience, dearest," put in Fanny, smiling
so
broadly that all her little teeth were on view. She hurled a damp piece
of linen at the much abused dough and, ignoring the fact that it missed
and flew into the flour bin, said to her bewildered sister, "Thank
goodness you are come to rescue the poor man. He has been bored to
distraction in my company. I shall go down and help Papa and leave you
in peace. Together.
Good day, sir."

"I fear I annoyed her." Vaughan sighed and held the back gate
open.

Hiding her frustration, Marietta walked through. Eric's letter
had
left her emotions in a turmoil and she'd intended to at once seek out
Aunty Dova, but Vaughan had clearly been waiting for some time and she
could scarcely refuse to talk to him. She liked Jocelyn Vaughan. His
admiration of Fanny had been apparent from the start, and she had begun
to entertain great hopes, for she thought he would be a devoted and
responsible husband. She said gravely, "Why, my sister did seem a
trifle put about, and she usually has the most sunny disposition."

"With an occasional storm," he said ruefully.

"Do you not care for a lady with spirit? Fanny can fire up,
I'll
admit, and she can be rather blunt, at times. But her bad humours are
very brief and she is always contrite afterwards."

He smiled. "It is what one most likes about her. There's no
posturing and fluttering with Miss Fanny. She's the most lovely,
feminine little thing, but it's straight from the shoulder with her.
The man to win her will have to be prepared to defend his opinions, but
he'll know few dull moments, I think."

"You like my little sister very well, I see. In which case I
cannot but wonder what you found to quarrel about."

"To say truth, I don't really know, ma'am. I was helping— that
is to say, she let me have a shot at kneading the dough, and—"

"I thought so." Smiling, she drew him to a halt and faced him,
using
her handkerchief to remove the flour from his straight nose and not
dreaming that from a distance this innocent task could look like an
embrace. "Did you drop the dough, or do something dreadful? She is very
proud of her cookery."

They walked on through the meadow towards the
little hump-backed
bridge that crossed the stream, and he said laughingly, "No, no! Acquit
me of such a crime! We got along famously on the cooking front. Then,
we were talking about Diccon, and—"

"Ah," said Marietta.

Vaughan glanced at her sharply. "She don't like him. Dare I
ask why?"

Marietta hesitated and chose her words with care. "During this
past
week you've had some chats with my aunt, Mr. Vaughan. Perhaps Diccon
has told you of Madame Olympias?"