Feather Castles (23 page)

Rachel stared after him as he turned his horse back towards the chateau and rode off, his seat a disaster. Shaking her head, she urged the bay to a canter. Why on earth should the poor man have become so petrified simply because she had expressed the intention to go up and see the portrait? And why was he so afraid of Claude? Why was Madame so afraid of Claude?

She rode through a verdant countryside, a place of gentle hills and soft valleys interspersed with rich farmland. A beautiful sight, but one that only deepened the trouble in her eyes. Once, during a ride with Claude, she had remarked on the contrast between his lush acres and the barren countryside surrounding them. He'd said this was the result of a proper use of water. “I am blessed, you see, by the possession of several fine wells, in addition to the stream.”

“But does the stream not continue past your lands?”

“No, it goes underground about half a mile inside my lodge gates.”

“I see. Still, if the local farmers dug wells, could they not have such irrigation?”

“It is a possibility, but—so far as I'm aware—the only wells rise on my property. And,” he had grinned conspiratorially, “can you credit it? The stupid peasants refuse to meet my price.”

Lost in thought, she was recalled to the present as her mount shied in fright. A guard had stepped from a copse of trees, a large hound cavorting around him. Rachel had heard dogs baying distantly, but this was the first one she had seen and, a typical British faunophile, she kicked her heels home, turning the bay towards them. The hound underwent a frightening metamorphosis. Even as the guard snatched vainly for its leash, it raced at the bay, teeth bared, eyes glaring and savage. Frightened, the bay neighed and plunged. Rachel fought the animal's attempt to bolt. The guard whistled shrilly, and at the last instant the hound dropped to a crouch, still snarling fiercely at Rachel.

The guard ran up and seized the dog's leash, apologizing profusely for the incident. “The dogs are not usually out during the daytime, but this one, he must have a thorn removed from his pad, so I take him home.”

Stunned by the ferocity now held in check, Rachel asked, “Are there many guard dogs?”

“
Oui,
mademoiselle. It is necessary.” Obviously hoping to please her, he said, “Monseigneur is the great and wealthy man. In his chateau are many lovely things and secrets of State, also. One may not guess of the evil thieves that are kept away by me and my comrades, and our hounds. Monseigneur has, I am sure, warned Mademoiselle not to go into the grounds after dark unless he has ordered the hounds kept in?”

She smiled, nodded, and rode on. But she was thinking that Claude had said nothing about the hounds. He must have feared to alarm her, and doubtless there were servants about to stop her, did she start to go into the grounds at night. The thought lingered, and she could not dismiss it. “Servants … to stop me … to stop me.”

The rise ceased to charm, and her desire for private thought had waned. She returned at a canter to the chateau, the rush of wind past her face dispelling the nebulous fears that lurked at the back of her mind.

As she entered the stableyard, Gerard stepped from the shadows and took the reins. Irritated, she kicked her foot from the stirrup and began to slide from the saddle. He was very quick. He caught her, but did not put her down immediately, holding her above him instead with surprising strength, his hot eyes flickering over her.

“How—
dare
you!” she raged. “Put me down at once! And do you
ever
touch me again, monseigneur will hear of it!”

Gerard became as white as she was flushed. He restored her to her feet and stepped back. “I cast myself on your mercy, mademoiselle,” he said, humbly. “I was lost in—in admiration. But I had no thought to offend.”

Seething, she swept past and into the clean sunlight. But she took with her an impression of a sidelong glance from black eyes in which ardour had been replaced by malevolence. And she knew she had made an enemy.

*   *   *

Having tended Diccon's broken ribs and sundry lacerations, the apothecary departed, warning that on no account must the victim be moved for at least two weeks. Tristram had been asked to remain in the small room to which the injured man had been carried, in order to assist the apothecary. He had admired the patient's endurance, for only when the verdict was rendered had Diccon betrayed distress. Once they were alone, however, he indulged in a blast of frustrated cursing, and having blasphemously railed against the perversity of Fate, enquired as to the whereabouts of Sister Maria Evangeline.

It was the second time he had asked and, like a half-forgotten dream, something concerning this man and the nun stirred in Tristram's mind. He failed to capture the elusive impression, and replied, “So far as I'm aware, the lady is back at her convent. And if you whip yourself into such a state, friend, you'll be laid down on your back for longer than two weeks.”

“She is not!” said Diccon, fretfully. “I went there. She never returned.” He groaned. “Damme, what a bumble broth this is!” His hand gripped at the coverlet. He was clearly in much pain, his pale face shining with perspiration, yet his agitation of mind appeared to render all else of little significance.

Raising his tall frame from the bench against the wall, Tristram stepped closer to the bed. “The apothecary charged you not to talk. If you keep on—”

“Devil take it, man! D'ye think I hunted you out for no better purpose than to lie here like a—a curst effigy?” Diccon's head tossed against the pillows. His eyes were beginning to acquire the glitter of fever, and he muttered, “Of all the stupid, clod crushing things! To have bent to pick up my purse just as a mouse ran in front of that confounded brute!”

“Is that how he cornered you? I had thought perhaps you didn't know your business. As a groom, that is.”

Diccon lay still, and slanted a narrowed glance at him. The soldier's eyes were amused, and the scarred features held a quite different expression to the bewildered look of helplessness he remembered. There was an assured tilt to the head now; a firmer set to the wide mouth. “You see more than I thought,” he acknowledged. “Do you know who you are?”

“No. But I have remembered a few things. That I was a Colonel, for instance. My friend, the one who got the horse away from you, seems to think I was one of Wellington's aides-de-camp.”

Diccon exclaimed an enthusiastic, “Does he, by God! Then your identity will be simple enough to discover.”

“So I think. To which end I mean to go at once to the Horse Guards.”

“Very good. After you find the nun for me.”

“My regrets,” Tristram smiled. “But I would prefer not to delay my own investigations further. I have—”

“I'll remind you, Colonel, that I helped haul you off that bloody field. And even had I not done so, as an officer your first obligation is to your country.”

Considerably taken aback, Tristram frowned, “To my country? What the devil? Who are you? No groom, so don't try to gammon me.”

A sudden wry grin lit Diccon's drawn face. “As you say, sir. You outrank me. By two steps, in fact.”

Tristram moved closer, leaned both hands on the bed rail, and directed a piercing stare at the invalid. “What's all the dust about, Major?”

Astounded by the suddenly commanding manner, Diccon thought, “Oh, he's a Colonel, all right!” and aloud answered, “I'm after the Sanguinets, sir. Have been in fact, for over a year. It has become a—a sort of personal crusade.”

“Personal?”

Diccon gave a bitter snort. “Aye. And thankless. I'm thought ripe for Bedlam at the Horse Guards. My commanding officer less than half believes me, and the only reason I'm allowed to continue my enquiries is that someone in the high echelons of Whitehall had a naval officer for a nephew and suspects Parnell Sanguinet may have had a hand in his sudden demise.”

“The nephew was murdered?”

“Shot by a highwayman, ostensibly, but under rather smoky circumstances. Thus, a highwayman's savagery grants me the chance to unmask one of the greatest villains of our century—can I only bring it off!”

His hands suddenly icy cold, and his voice very quiet, Tristram asked, “How is Miss Strand implicated in this?”

“She is—” Diccon's hesitation was very brief, “a key figure.”

“I … see. Then—she knows what he is.”

Something in those halting but unemotional words awoke a sympathy in Diccon's seldom touched heart. He tried to shrug, winced, and gasped painfully, “Don't see how she could—help knowing.”

“No. Of course.” Tristram took a breath, squared his shoulders and asked coolly, “What do you suspect he's up to?”

“I'll make it brief, sir. Thanks to a highly-laced conniver in London, Claude Sanguinet was presented to the Regent. Claude can be the most polished, charming aristocrat one could wish to meet. Their friendship prospered, and in time the Prince was pleased to accept some small gifts from him. A Rubens; a Rembrandt; a Cellini bowl.” He met Tristram's startled eyes and nodded wryly. “Prinny's mad for art, and short of funds. Sanguinet has thus thoroughly ingratiated himself, but Prinny's not so stupid as he looks, and I think our Frenchman grows impatient.”

“You—
think?
”

“I
know!
He hatches something, but—what, I do
not
know. He's power mad. His sire was a murderous despot. Claude differs from him in one respect: The old man wanted riches. Claude wants power. He'll stop at nothing to attain it.”

His face set and grim, Tristram was briefly silent. Then he asked, “Where do you gather your information?”

“At the chateau in Dinan. It lies some few miles inland from the Brittany coast. The unlamented Sanguinet
père
built himself a palace surrounded by an enormous estate. Claude now rules it, and those so unfortunate as to dwell there, with a hand of iron. Through a cunning little trick, I managed to be taken on as a groom. I have been with him almost a year now, and to an extent am trusted. I was able to learn something at last, and when I was sent over with the horse, hoped to pass my knowledge on to Sister Maria Evangeline. I learned she was last seen in company with you, so went to Strand Hall, and thence traced you here. And now I'm smashed and foundered when it is of the utmost urgency that I return to Dinan!”

Tristram straightened. “You have my sympathy, Major. But—”

Scowling up at him, Diccon rasped, “I want a sight more than your sympathy, Colonel! That girl fancies me to be in Dinan. I must get word to her that—”

Tristram smiled thinly, and in turn interrupted, “If your people could track me here, they can certainly get word to Strand Hall.”

“Rachel Strand is not in Sussex. She has been in Dinan these past two weeks and more.”

Tristram said nothing, but his tall frame stiffened, and his hand on the bedrail tightened spasmodically. “By her own choice,” he said. “Good day.”

“I heard she threw you over,” sneered Diccon. “You forget that she also saved your life.”

En route to the door, Tristram froze.

“And now you turn your back on both her, and your country. A fine gratitude. Sir.”

Tristram swung around and looked at him levelly. “Miss Strand has chosen her—life and her mate. And it does not appear that my country is very much interested in your theories, Major. However. I will strive to find the nun—shall that satisfy you?”

Diccon grunted and grumbled, but at length said, “It shall have to, I collect. Very well. Tell her—it has to do with the painting on the second floor.”

“What has? Which painting?”

Shifting painfully, Diccon groaned, “Fiend take it! If I knew, I would tell you! All I have is that somehow the plot is connected with a painting on the second floor. A work Sanguinet has commissioned. Colonel—you'll not fail?”

Tristram said woodenly, “I'll do my best. That is all I can promise.”

*   *   *

“Me sensibilities is offended,” said the carter huffily, turning his wagon into the yard of a large half-timbered inn called “The Pink Palfrey.” “Besides which,” he rested an irked glance on Devenish, “I ain't in the business to cart no half-ducks about.”

“She is not a half-duck!” Devenish protested indignantly, clasping Mrs. O'Crumbs to his bosom. “And furthermore, I don't think you've the sensibility of an earwig!”

“Oh, you don't, don't yer?” the carter said with a sad want of originality, climbing down from his high perch.

“No, I do not!” Devenish reiterated. He clambered over the tail. “Anyone who finds suet pudding palatable is an utter oaf!”

“And any cove,” opined the carter, setting aside his whip and rolling up his shirtsleeves, “any cove wot says good British suet pudding is a 'bomination wot should be fed only to stray warthogs—which is wot you says—any cove wot says that, is a slimy toad wot wouldn't know muck fer rolling in it!”

“Here!” spluttered Devenish, his fair curls all but standing on end as he thrust Mrs. O'Crumbs under the preoccupied Tristram's nose. “Hold her!” And struggling to extricate himself from his tattered coat, he panted encouragement for the carter to sport his canvas, put up his mauleys, stand and fight like a man!

“Hey!” Tristram returned to reality and sprang lightly down from the wagon. “Let be! God, Dev! Are you at it again?”

“Curst rogue took our lettuce!” snarled Devenish, plucking frantically at one recalcitrant sleeve. “Now he will not live up to his bargain!”

The carter, taking in Tristram's height and breadth of shoulder, reached for a cudgel. Tristram seized Devenish by the arm. “It is just as well. I've decided not to go to town, at all events.” He retrieved Mrs. O'Crumbs who had been deposited in the wagon again and coolly ignored the carter's recommendation that he pop Devenish in a bottle and cork it. “You could let 'im orf on Guy Fawkes' Day,” leered the carter. “Reg'lar shower o' sparks 'e'd make.” He tossed an arm in a wide arc. “Whiizzz!”