Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (47 page)

The door to the main salon crashed open and Mitchell ran
forward, hands outstretched. Harry strode to take them, regarded his
brother's twitching mouth mistily, then swept him into a fierce hug.

Joyful shouts rang out. "Welcome home!"

"Good old Harry's back!"

"Our gaolbird!"

He had to draw a sleeve across his eyes hastily as they
crowded around him. Bolster, beaming with joy; Camille Damon, his smile
a white gleam in his dark face; Sergeant Anderson, blinking through a
glitter of tears. John and Salia Moulton watched smilingly from the
open salon doors, and Harry went quickly to kiss Salia and shake hands
with Lord John. "Sir, I pray you will forgive the trouble I caused—"

"Nonsense, boy," said Moulton kindly, slapping him on the
back. "I am only delighted we were able to be of help."

Harry turned to his brother. "Mitch… Is it—truly ours again?"

"Lock, stock, and barrel,
Sauvage."

"Claude Sanguinet was—ah—prevailed upon to… deed it back to
you," nodded Moulton, his brown eyes alight. "Together with your
fortune."

"He had no choice when Mrs. Penderly told her story." Lady
Salia squeezed her husband's arm fondly and, smiling up into his
pleasant, ruddy features, added. "John and Harland were prepared to
take it to Prinny himself had he not done so."

"Harland? I thought the Earl was still in Paris."

"Came back specially," said Mitchell. "You'd not have believed
the fury he and the Duke of Vaille turned on Bow Street!"

"And my honoured sire," put in Damon with a mischievous grin,
"can be a terror when aroused—as I can testify."

"D-Did you know your smuggler is a c-c-confounded
major
?"
asked Bolster. "Do not ask me of wh-wh-what… Free Traders, most likely!
But when he found that Penderly woman, it turned the trick."

"Ah, but Claude Sanguinet tried to wriggle out of it!"
Mordecai Langridge hurried to clasp Harry's outthrust hand and wring it
hard. "But I would have none of it! 'My nephews,' said I, 'have
suffered enough at the hands of your murderous clan, sir!' Far be it
from me to speak ill of the dead, for it goes against my calling, as
well you know, dear boy, but Parnell Sanguinet was a monstrous evil
creature, and there comes a time to call a spade a spade!" He turned to
his wife who had followed majestically. "Ain't that right, m'dear?"

'"Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!'" she
quoted, beaming as she turned from wrapping Harry in her large embrace.

"Gad . . !" Bolster whispered in his ear. "What's that?"

"Sounds like
Macbeth
," breathed Harry.

"
Hamlet
," Mitchell corrected softly.

Lady Salia came to take Harry's face between her hands and,
smiling fondly up at him, said, "Welcome home, my dear."

Home . . !

The fire in the pleasant panelled lounge was dying now, and
neither of the brothers was willing to disrupt his comfortable
occupancy of the deep armchairs to add another log since it was well
past midnight. "Y'know," murmured Harry sleepily, "we scarcely ever use
this room… Pity."

Half to himself, Mitchell said, "I still cannot credit it!
When Diccon said that those blasted newspaper articles had proven
'quite useful' I was ready to strangle him."

Harry sat straighter in his chair. "You were at Newgate?"

"What the devil d'you mean by that? Of course I was at
Newgate! Every damned day! As were Bolster and Cam!"

"I should have known, of course," apologized Harry, and by
neither look nor word betrayed his inner consternation at that swift
boil of anger, so foreign to his hitherto mild-mannered brother.

His very gentleness, however, was a rebuke. Mitchell coloured
up and drew an impatient hand across his brow. "I'm sorry." He gave a
taut smile. "Frightfully hot at hand these days, am I not?"

Harry acknowledged that they'd both had a bad few weeks and
paused, the new tensions between them causing him to choose his words
with care. Before he could utter them, Mitchell said hurriedly,
"Speaking of the Sanguinets, the thing
I
cannot
understand is that silver pistol. Why in the devil did Guy carry it in
his sling? Why was it not loaded?"

A small crease appeared between Harry's brows. He had lost his
opportunity to try and talk out the problem. But quite obviously the
questions had been tossed in so swiftly because Mitchell did not wish
to discuss his troubles. Respecting that, he answered, "I cannot but
feel sorry for the fellow. He was properly caught. Loving the girl his
brother was hounding; too much of a gentleman to countenance it, too
loyal to his brother to fight him."

"He certainly tried to help me, irregardamnless!" Mitchell's
eyes were very grim, "Considering I'd put a ball through his chest, it
was pretty decent of him."

The fine hands were tight clenched, and sensing how hard it
had been for him to refer to the matter, Harry said easily, "I think he
had decided to get Nanette away somehow. He took the pistol but daren't
load it for fear he'd actually shoot Parnell. He bluffed me with it
fairly. When I saw it in Nanette's hand later, I was sure she'd shot
her stepfather, to save me." He added with a wry smile, "And I suppose
she
thought
I
had shot him."

"Don't you
know
what she thought?"

The unease that had been gnawing at Harry all day deepened.
There was a coldness now to Mitchell's handsome features. The eyes were
hard; the mouth set in a sardonic line. Had Parnell's whip so changed
the boy? Or was it that he, too, loved Nanette and was grieving . . ?
"I suppose," he evaded, "you will be returning to your little
schoolhouse?"

If Mitchell was vexed by that evasion, he gave no sign of it.
"I think not," he said slowly. "If you've no objections, I mean to
spend the summer in the south of France, with Jacques and Bolster."

Bolster? De Roule was to be expected; he and Mitch had formed
a deep attachment shortly after that dreadful mess Lucian St. Clair had
become involved in last autumn, but—Bolster? "Are you sure? Since Jerry
will be shackled soon, I should have thought he'd—" Harry broke off,
Mitchell's grave expression recalling several hints that had come his
way and that he'd ignored, unwilling to believe anything could go wrong
with so ideal a match. "Oh, the devil!" he groaned. "Mandy has cried
off!"

Mitchell nodded. "Bolster knew you would worry for his sake.
And he had no wish to add to your burdens."

"Damn and blast!" Harry stood, paced to the fire, and kicked
angrily at the smouldering log. "It's because of her murdering hound of
a brother, I collect?"

"She feels, so I hear, that she is unfit to become Lady
Jeremy."

"That curse gudgeon!" Harry spun around. "He said not one word
of it! I thought, once or twice, he seemed a trifle glum, but—oh,
dammitall! How could Mandy be so feather-witted? He adores her! She
must be mad to throw away every chance of happiness for both of them
just because of her high-in-the-instep pride! And what in the deuce are
you grinning about?"

"It would appear," Mitchell shrugged, "to be the onset of an
epidemic."

A slow flush darkened Harry's face. He turned away and stared
down into the dying fire.

"If you do not offer for Nanette, you're a prize fool."

"Then… I am a prize fool."

"Yes indeed!" Mitchell's lip curled his scorn. "Merely because
she chances to be an heiress?"

"One of the richest heiresses in all Europe."

"And one who loves you—for reasons unknown."

Harry gave a wry smile, though the acid cynacism was
bewildering. "I wonder. Or was it all part of Diccon's plot…"

Mitchell's frown became thunderous. "By God! If you were any
other man . . !" But realizing that his fist had clenched, he turned
from Harry's wondering stare and said hurriedly, "Moire is a fine old
place, with a splendid park, and—"

"And would fit into a corner of Carlson Terrace and be lost."

"For lord's sake, Harry! You do not care about her money—
you've never had the least sense in such matters! Instead of
considering her happiness, you choose to immolate yourself like some
stupid noble knight of old! Why in the name of god don't you fiery
pride, said sadly, "On the day my little shrew stooped to do
that
,
my haughty cub, I would indeed wed her."

The next month swept by. Required to testify at several
hearings and with the Bow Street coach becoming a regular visitor to
Moire Grange, Harry was also engulfed in the business of his estate and
the mass of correspondence that had accrued during his absence. He
performed the latter task in leisurely fashion, since his eager search
through the pile had discovered nothing addressed in the feminine hand
he so longed to see. Over two months since he had last laid eyes on his
love, with no word—no sign… She had written him off, obviously. Perhaps
it was as well.

Mitchell had left for Brussels, where he was to join de Roule
and Bolster. Jeremy had fled directly after Harry's homecoming, unable
to confront his friend with the news that he had been jilted. Ten days
after his departure, a long letter of explanation arrived at Moire, but
since his scrawl was all but illegible, his spelling outrageous, and
the phrases hopelessly disjointed, Harry was only able to guess at most
of the contents. That Jeremy was totally grief-stricken was very
obvious, however, and he at once dashed off a letter to Mitch begging
to be kept advised of Bolster's state of mind.

Diccon drove down one morning and, during a brief visit, idly
let fall the news that Devil Dice was now being sought in connection
with the murder of Parnell Sanguinet. Dice, it seemed, had been a very
unwilling tool for the Frenchman, his services secured by Sanguinet's
knowledge of his true identity. He had escaped soon after being
apprehended in Winchester and thus far had avoided recapture, although
posters were up from Land's End to John o'Groats. Harry shuddered,
knowing all too well the nightmares of such a flight; and having
remarked dryly that such sentiments were wasted on 'that vermin',
Diccon took his leave.

His departure emphasized a fact that Harry had been seeking to
ignore: He was lonely. Mitchell and most of his friends were either
abroad or in the country. Jocelyn Vaughan had written, inviting him to
spend the summer at a "jolly fine house" he'd rented on the Steyne at
Brighton, but although he was fond of Vaughan, Harry's spirits were
downcast and the thought of a stay with that dynamic young Corinthian
lacked appeal. He was in no mood, either, for the social whirl offered
by Lord Edward Ridgley. The Earl, an old and dear friend, was the best
of company, but so warm hearted he could not fail to be dismayed by any
trace of low spirits, and to be obliged to feign cheerfulness was more
than Harry could undertake. He apprehended at this point in his
reflections that he missed his friends—yet did not wish to be with
them. He decided, therefore, that this was the perfect time for him to
go into London, for he must sooner or later do something about
acquiring a house there, and although he could leave the matter in
Anderson's capable hands, it was a task he preferred to attend to
personally. To this end, he ordered his curricle prepared for the
following morning, and having infuriated both Anderson and Jed Cotton
by saying he would be driving himself, instructed the Sergeant to pack
a valise with sufficient clothing for a few days in Town.

Next morning he was on the road before noon. The greys were
fine steppers and eager to go, and he gave them their heads whenever
traffic permitted, flashing along the turnpike at speeds that brought
shouts of wrath ringing out behind him. It was a fine day, the air
brisk and a stiff breeze blowing. He concentrated upon the beauties of
field and hedgerow, of deep blue skies, the invigorating smell to the
air, and how extremely fortunate he was to be here at all. He could, he
told himself determinedly, have been killed in Winchester, or died when
his arm became gangrenous. Even now he might be slowly going mad in
that nightmare slot of a cell in Newgate, or perhaps at this very
moment mounting the steps of a scaffold. He had so very much for which
to be thankful. He sighed and urged the greys onward, waving his whip
gaily at an infuriated heavyset gentleman who shook a fist in response,
his whiskers all but sticking straight out from purpling cheeks as the
curricle shot past with a good inch to spare.

Harry lunched at a favourite old tavern outside Dorking,
unable to pass by the place where he was assured of receiving a warm
welcome. Sure enough he was bowed to, beamed upon, and ushered to his
customary table with so much pomp that one might have suspected the
Regent himself had arrived. They had never doubted dear Sir Harry—not
for one single second, the host's good wife imparted,
sotto
voce
. Others had, thought Harry, beyond a doubt. Even now a
young lieutenant of hussars was surveying him furtively. He would, he
realized, for a time, at least, be a target for curiosity wherever he
went. There was only one way to handle it… His friendly grin brought an
immediate answering smile and the two young men were very soon not only
sharing a table but an animated discussion of how Blucher should have
brought up his troops at Waterloo. When it transpired that his new
acquaintance was journeying to Tunbridge Wells and a mill between
Gentleman Thorpe and the Tooting Terror, Harry's plans underwent a
radical change.

At four o'clock he was sitting atop the Lieutenant's chaise in
a field outside the Wells, lustily cheering the efforts of two
blood-spattered, muddied and perspiring pugilists whose efforts having
been considerably prolonged by much wrangling among their seconds,
seemed likely to be halted by the weather. Heavy clouds were building,
and Harry was irritated by the knowledge that he should have brought
his chaise, as Andy had urged. He was not so enchanted by the mill as
to allow his greys to stand in the rain and, having invited the
Lieutenant to visit Moire, returned to his curricle. Many other
gentlemen were attempting to leave. Harry jockeyed his team expertly
through the near-impossible tangle of vehicles, only to be backed into
on the very fringe of the crowd by an exceedingly youthful would-be
Corinthian driving a high-perch phaeton.