Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (32 page)

"Little shrew," he said huskily, having quite forgotten the
presence of his awed brother. "I swear to you—upon my honour—that so
long as I live Parnell Sanguinet will not lay a hand on you!"

Sergeant Anderson returned from the tavern alone, Daniel
having left a note with the proprietor explaining that he had been
summoned to join Diccon but that he and the Trader would likely come up
with them in Chichester, and to look for them at the Market Cross at
three o'clock. The Sergeant greeted Mitchell with scowls and scolding,
while his eyes betrayed the joy his words denied. He had purchased
bread, cold ham, a fragrant and still-warm apple pie, ale for the men,
and a mug of lemonade for Miss Nanette. He was the hero of the hour
and, having happily satisfied the pangs of hunger, they journeyed on in
great good fellowship.

They reached Chichester in mid-afternoon. Taking no chances,
Harry gave the quaint old town a wide berth, skirting the environs
until they came upon a pleasant glade some way off the road and hidden
from it by a large clump of poplars. They all agreed it was a perfect
campsite, whereupon Mitchell went into the town armed with a firm
resolve not to be diverted, a list of necessary supplies, and
instructions to locate Diccon and return as quickly as possible.

Very aware that a certain anxious gaze was fixed upon him,
Harry proceeded to become very busy indeed. The moment Nanette had been
assisted with the unloading of her various boxes of 'vital
necessities,' however, Anderson, while ostensibly helping Harry locate
the most suitable spot on which to erect the tent, growled a soft, "I'm
coming with yer!"

"The devil you are!" flashed Harry, but just as softly, and
with a weather eye on the girl. "My brother would do splendidly alone
here under normal circumstances, but he's not ready to take on Parnell
Sanguinet!"

"No, and not likely to, hidden away in the wilderness."
Anderson gave a derisive snort. "Anyone has to face Monsewer Diabolock
this arternoon, I don't reckon as how it'll be Mr. Mitchell. And well
you knows it, Captain."

"Well, you just bear in mind, my lad, that
I'm
the Captain and you're the Sergeant!" grinned Harry. "Which has nothing
to say to the purpose, since we're both of us civilians at the moment."
No answering smile lit the craggy features, and clapping a hand upon
Anderson's shoulder, he said, "Was there ever such a worrier? I wonder
you've not succumbed to an irritation of the nerves long since—you're
worse than a little old lady with your fidgets! Come now and help me
free Mr. Fox from his poles."

Within the hour, Mitchell rode in. He had accomplished his
shopping and strolled about town for a while, then rested in the Market
Cross and watched the various comings and goings without catching sight
of either Diccon or Daniel. Harry was disturbed by this intelligence.
He would have welcomed the presence of at least one of the men, for he
could then in good conscience have allowed his brother to accompany him
to Howard Hall. His every instinct urged him to remain with Nanette
himself; but one of them must see Cootesby, and if there should be
trouble at the campsite, he, with his injured arm, would be the least
effective. Besides, despite his scholastic abilities, Mitchell was
still inclined to be shy and awkward when faced with polished, worldly
men. If Cootesby was the conniving and treacherous scoundrel Harry
suspected, the boy would be no match for him.

Troubled, he tucked his hand in Mitchell's arm, and they
wandered to the edge of the glade together. For a moment they gazed in
silence at the tree-clad slope beyond; then Harry said a grave, "I'm
sorry, Mitch."

A look almost of relief sprang into the grey eyes. "Yes. I am,
too."

"The thing is—we cannot both go, can we?"

"Certainly not." Mitchell put out his hand and, with a trace
of shyness, said, "No more military actions, if you please, gaffer."

Gripping that hand hard, Harry's eyes were very serious for a
moment, then he grinned. "Look to your own command, bantling!"

Anderson had the sorrel gelding saddled and ready. Harry swung
easily astride the animal and leaned to take the small hand Nanette
reached up to him and assure her he would be back well before dusk. He
started off with Mitchell's cheery, "Don't be late for dinner!" ringing
in his ears. "Keep yer eyes open, Captain!" exhorted the Sergeant
glumly. "Do be careful! Oh,
do
be careful!"
called Nanette, and even Mr. Fox sent a vaguely anxious bray after him.

Clad in his ill-assorted garments and worn shoes, Harry rode
out feeling as though he wore chain mail and carried not Diccon's baton
but a lance of shining steel.

Howard Hall, the country seat of Lord Howard Cootesby and the
home that most often saw him in residence, was situated a mile or so
west of the town. It was a tall, narrow house of red brick and
nondescript design, perched on a hill that rose like the dome of a bald
head from an encircling band of woodland. It was towards these trees
that Harry now rode, his thoughts upon the people he had left behind.
Usually, the more hazardous the endeavour the higher the quivering
sense of excitement that would grip him, his reaction to any challenge
invariably one of eagerness to confront the unknown, to test his own
mettle to the fullest. Today he felt tense and plagued by apprehension.
Perhaps, even with Andy and Mitchell to guard her, Nanette was in
jeopardy… And surely, even to entertain such thoughts was disloyal; the
Sergeant was magnificent in a scrap, and Mitchell had certainly proven
himself to possess both nerve and stamina.

He shook off his gloomy forebodings and urged his hack to a
faster gait, but almost immediately slowed again. A short distance into
the woods, a man lay stretched out, shoulders propped against a tree.
He was clad in sombre black, but mindful of his encounter with Devil
Dice in just such a spot, Harry's fingers closed around the baton in
his pocket. Gargantuan snores were emanating from the sleeper. Amused,
he prepared to ride on, wondering that the nearby trees did not sway.
He knew of only one other gentleman capable of such powerful resonance.
Old Maude, it would seem, had a rival. Unless . . ? He dismounted and
stepped closer. It couldn't be! The shape was sufficiently pear-like to
be that of his uncle, but— By gad! It was! Now why on earth was the
Reverend Mordecai Langridge napping in Lord Howard Cootseby's Home Wood?

"Langridge!" quoth Harry sepulchrally, about a foot from the
sleeper's ear.

The Reverend burst into a frenzy of convulsed movement. His
arms flew out, he uttered a yelp, and, scrambling to his feet, peered
about in bemused dismay, gasping, "Yes, my love . . ?"

Harry gave a crack of laughter. Langridge stared his
disbelief, then came to grip his nephew's hand delightedly. "We were
correct, then! I am so glad… to… His smile died into stark shock. "Good
gracious me! Poor lad! What ghastly—er—attire! And— what's this? Blood
stains? Have you fought Sanguinet? Is he dead then? They are an evil
clan, my boy, and will enact full vengeance, I fear!"

"Do not bury him yet," Harry chuckled. "I ran afoul of an
honest Welsh bull, merely. Nought to worry about." He glanced down at
his ill-assorted raiment and muttered a rueful, "Forgot about my
hand-me-downs, though. Blast! Well, at least you are presentable,
Uncle. You can get me past the butler."

The Reverend led the way to a stolid-looking mare who was
comfortably devouring a nearby shrub. "My horse threw a shoe, I'm
afraid. But—as for getting you into the Hall, dear lad—out of the
question! Quite."

Harry ignored this daunting prophecy but was forced to admit
the mare could not be ridden. "We'll walk," he decided. "Come on, Uncle
Mau—decai. Tell me why you are here."

If Langridge noted the small slip, he gave no sign of it, and
still insisting that their journey was pointless, was drawn along by
his nephew's more forceful personality and as they went, explained his
presence. Harry's absence had smitten him, he said, to the point that
he had finally ridden to Three Fields in hopes of finding him there.
"But you were
not
there," he said redundantly,
"and Lord Jeremy was from home, so I followed him to Cancrizans and had
no sooner arrived than the Marquis returned from Sanguinet Towers in a
positively towering fury. Such language!" Considerably in awe of
Camille Damon, he shook his head. "Seldom have I seen so violent a
temper in such a young man, though he curbed it upon learning of my
calling and apologized most humbly, while all the time those strange
eyes of his were positively shooting out sparks of rage.

Harry laughed. "He received a rude reception from Sanguinet,
did he? Good old Cam. I can all but see him fuming. I hope he didn't
seriously offend you, sir. He's a hell of a—er, that is, he's a
splendid fellow, you know. Was Jerry there?"

Lord Bolster, it appeared, had indeed been present, and the
three had decided that Harry would undoubtedly attempt to question the
gentlemen who had taken part in the fateful card game. "So the Marquis
drove to Hampstead to see if you had yet visited Mr.Sprague Cobb, and
Bolster and I came here and have been taking turns watching the road so
as to warn you." Here, the Reverend halted, flung up one hand
dramatically, and exhorted. "You
must not
go on
with this, my boy! It is quite useless, and—"

"To the contrary." Walking on. the laughter that habitually
lurked in Harry's eyes vanished entirely. "I have reason to suspect
that Parnell Sanguinet had a more compelling reason than I'd dreamed
for arranging my father's death."

"But—my dear boy, you do not understand.There is no possible
way that—"

"It is of no use, sir," Harry interposed. "I know what you
believe, but Mitch and I both think—"

"Mitchell? You have seen him? Now heaven be praised! Sergeant
Anderson came to the Priority quite overset with anxiety. I scarcely
dared tell you of your brother's rash conduct in Dinan! What the
ton
will make of it I cannot guess! How fortuitous he was not facing
Parnell as he surmised!"

"The
ton
may make of it whatever they
wish," said Harry, bristling. "And Mitchell would have done just as
splendidly had he faced Parnell rather than Guy Sanguinet! Now tell me
quickly, if you will, what you meant when you said you had come to ...
warn…" His words died. They were close to the house now, and the front
doors were swinging open. Three men armed with cudgels sauntered onto
the small area atop the sweep of wide steps. One wore the green of a
gamekeeper, but noting the black and gold livery of the others, Harry's
eyes narrowed. "Aha… I have it."

"They will not let you in." Langridge plucked nervously at his
sleeve. "When we first enquired for Lord Cootesby, they were so
insolent it was all I could do to restrain Lord Bolster. Come—before
there is a vulgar confrontation-"

Harry had detected a familiar face "Why, Uncle." he murmured,
his eyes beginning to sparkle, "A little vulgarity is good for the
soul." He shook off the Reverend's pudgy hand and strode forward.
"Well, well! My friend, Mr. Fritch."

Hatred glowed in the small eyes of the gamekeeper who had
manned the gatehouse at Sanguinet Towers. "I hoped as you'd come." he
leered hungrily. "Oh, but you don't know how much I hoped it!"

The butler trod timidly into view and stood just outside the
doors, wringing his hands. "You there," called Harry, ignoring the
menacing advance of Sanguinet's men. "I am Harry Redmond. Is your
master at home?"

'E don't know," sneered a red-faced, heavily built ruffian
with deliberate impertinence. "Come and 'ave a spot o' tea wiv me, Sir
'Arry! I got a nice crumpet 'ere wot you can try yer teeth on!" And he
smacked his cudgel into the palm of one beefy hand.

His companions let out loud guffaws, and the Reverend
whispered, "They're ugly customers! Come—you are in no condition to—'"

"Have you a pistol about you, sir?" enquired Harry softly,
keeping his attention on the sneering bullies.

"No. And lad—hasten! They are too many, and you—-"

"Yes, blast it all! Oh, well—cannot always play fair, I'm
afraid!"

With a lith spring, he was in the saddle. Langridge fell back
with a startled exclamation. Harry wheeled the gelding and galloped
back down the drive, followed by shrill hoots and shouted profanity.
When he'd enough distance, he turned about and slapped the sorrel's
flank hard. The animal fairly leapt toward the house. The three
stalwarts, who had converged upon a dismayed Langridge, now flung
themselves for the charging horse. Not without courage, Fritch raced to
intercept Harry at the steps and sprang forward, club upraised. The
sorrel stumbled and almost fell. The club whistled past Harry's ear and
landed glancingly on his mount's flank. Screaming, the sorrel bucked.
The other hirelings retreated from those flailing hooves with
commendable alacrity, but Fritch, caught off balance, was tardy.
Harry's boot shot out and connected with his narrow jaw. Fritch flew
backward and lay unmoving. Harry jumped the hack up the two remaining
steps and through the front doors, even as the butler sprang clear,
uttering a shout of excitement.

The foyer of Cootesby's ancestral hall was a good size, but it
had not been designed to accommodate a large, plunging, and thoroughly
frightened horse; and as two more men wearing Sanguinet's livery ran
from the rear of the house, it became very crowded, indeed.

Harry gave a whoop and guided the hack to the stairs beside
which a tapestry hung on a long iron rod- He sized the rod and whirled
the sorrel towards the eager group who charged him, the rail—tapestry
and all—held like a lance in his right hand. He caught the first bully
squarely in the chest, and the man zoomed backward carrying a comrade
with him. The other two separated. The horse screamed, its terrified
prancing hindering both Harry and his attackers, the tattoo of
hoofbeats deafening in that enclosed space. A door flew open at one
side of the hall and an elegant, grey-haired gentleman paused on the
threshold, staring in astonishment at the mayhem. To add to the uproar,
a Pekingese dog, having halted beside his master as though similarly
stunned, was galvanized into indignant reprisals and, yapping shrilly,
tore around the horse's hooves. Eyes rolling, the sorrel danced, the
dog yapped, Harry laughed, and Sanguinet's men dodged frantically to
avoid the thrusts of the makeshift lance and the cavorting gelding.