Dear old Mitch…
Heavy hearted, Harry went back into the house.
Chapter III
The next few days passed in a fever of activity. Informing his dismayed servants that he intended to travel abroad for several years, Harry instructed a worried Anderson to dispose of all the furniture, and a glum Jed Cotton to sell the horses he kept in London, plus his curricle and chaise. He himself repaired to the office of an extremely disdainful Crosby Frye, who professed himself no longer interested in handling Sir Harry's affairs but condescended to grant him a short interview. There was, he imparted frostily, no slightest chance to dispute the outcome of the card game at this late date.. Further, M. Sanguinet was now in England and would be more than justified in taking immediate possession of the property he had won eighteen months previously. Did Sir Harry have bills of sale or receipts that might be acceptable in a Court of Law, he should unearth them at once and present them to M. Sanguinet's man of business, or his bailiff. "Devil I will!" raged Harry, thrown into a fury. "My brother's and my own belongings will be removed from the Grange whether the curst Frenchman likes it or not! And if he don't like it, I'll show the fella my Mantons by way of a bill of sale!"
When Anderson and Jed Cotton had discharged their tasks in Town, Harry sent Major Domo and Head Groom next to Moire to convey his horses by easy stages to Tattersall's. They also distributed the letters that he had directed to each of the servants. Anderson returned with word that most of the staff had packed up and departed the Grange that same day, but the butler—who had been at Moire when Colin Redmond was a child—would await Sir Harry's arrival, as would one or two other long-time retainers. Of M. Sanguinet or his bailiff there had been no sign, a state of affairs Redmond could only pray would continue until after his final removal from the old house.
Between the sale of his belongings and hunters, Sir Harry now found himself able to cover his few debts and bestow a generous amount upon each member of the staff of his Town house. His farewell to Mrs. Thomas was miserable, but vowing he'd given her enough to keep her comfortable for a year, that steadfast lady declared she would stay with her sister in Mitcham and wait until dear Sir Harry came to fetch her.
Next morning, glancing around at the two valises and three portmanteaux packed and ready in his now-empty bedchamber, Redmond marshalled his rather tattered nerves and summoned Sergeant Anderson. It was of no use, he knew, to employ his 'foreign travels' tale. Andy knew better. Therefore, to an extent he told the truth. His father had invested in a venture that had failed disastrously. All their possessions had been swept away in the resultant chaos. He himself was returning to the military, but had made provision for Anderson to enter the service of the Marquis of Damon at Cancrizans Priory. "You know Lord Damon," he smiled. "Poor fellow was living like a hermit, but now he's about to be married and must spruce up the old place. I shall rely upon you, Andy, to give him all the assistance you can."
Anderson took up Redmond's best beaver and, brushing it carefully murmured, "We going back to the old 43rd, sir? I could easy get—"
"Dammit, man! You do not go with me! I may not be able to get in! They're cutting back the Army, you know, now that the war's over. You must fend for yourself." A gaze of such injured reproach was then turned upon him that he cried, "Oh, gad! Do not look at me as though I had sprouted serpents' teeth! I cannot pay you—you clunching looby!"
"Sorta like a bank account, it'll be," grinned the Sergeant, undaunted. "You hang onter me wages 'til you can pay me. then—"
"Blast you! Will you get it through your thick skull that I am discharging you? I do not need a major domo! Andy—" he put out his hand, his face suddenly haggard. "My good friend, I—"
"Cor!" ejaculated the Sergeant. "Lookit that! Don't need a man, indeed! Helpless as a newborn babe you'd be without me!" Evading Redmond's hand, he straightened the immaculate sleeve and tidied the lace cuff beneath it.
Furious because his eyes were growing dim, Harry swung roughly away. Anderson's face fell and he watched the broad shoulders with an expresson it was as well his much-tried employer did not see.
"I am deeply appreciative," Harry said gruffly, "of your loyalty. In the event my finances improve I shall certainly take you back into my service. But meanwhile—" he turned short about, "I have told the Marquis you will go down to Dorset, and a post chaise has been ordered for eleven o'clock. You had best pack whatever you will need."
Anderson, stretching out one hand appealingly, begged, "But— sir… "
"That is an order. Sergeant!"
Anderson snapped to attention. "Orl right. Captain! I'll go. And I'll ride the post chaise what you had no business a'calling up seein's we're going to have to practice strict economies from here on out! When I'm done with his lordship, I'll come back. Tomorrer. On the Accommodation Coach!" Saying which, he tossed a sharp salute and thumped his way out.
Looking after him, torn between tears and laughter, Harry groaned, "Oh… hell . . !"
He ate lunch alone in the kitchen, that being the only room having a table, then wandered back into the quiet salon. Staring down at the rich carpet, he decided to start for Moire immediately and put up at "The Silk Purse" overnight. As soon as Norrie, their old nurse, was snug somewhere, he'd remove his belongings and Mitchell's and dump them at the Priory, or at his cousin Whitthurst's house in Kent. Then he'd be free to track down the gentlemen who'd participated in that fateful card game. He'd seek out Schofield first, of course. He frowned. What in the deuce was he to do with Norrie? Papa had given her a cottage on the grounds of Moire, for the balance of her life. But now—
"Bonjour, amicus, humani generis …" Camille Damon limped in from the kitchen, and with only the lift of one black brow to express his surprise at the bare room, disposed his elegant self in a window seat.
"Blast you. Cam," said Redmond with a show of indignation. He crossed to pour his friend a glass of the excellent brandy he'd placed on a tray in the empty bookcase. "I've troubles enough deciphering your French! To pair it with Latin just ain't fair!" Camille. widely held to be the most handsome man in London, merely flashed his brilliant grin and held up his glass in a silent toast. Joining him, Harry asked, "Why am I the friend of the human race'?"
"Because, dear my Capitaine, I am in a—er—spot of difficulty. You can assist, will you be so kind, by selling back to me your shares in the Spa of the Swallows."
Lord Damon was the major stockholder in the spa, now a thriving success. But it was unlikely he was being pressured into acquiring more shares. Knowing which, Harry exploded, "The whiskers you tell! You're as bad as ever, Cam! I wonder my cousin Sophia dare contemplate a lifetime with you!"
The Marquis's rich laugh greeted this sally, but during the ensuing conversation he sensed that Harry's trouble was not to be shared, and understanding that some things may only be handled personally, did not press the point. He agreed to provide a place for Anderson, and enquired blandly whether Harry might be aware of a motherly type of woman who would consent to remove to the spa. "We need," he said, apparently unaware of Redmond's searching gaze, "such a lady to assist guests with small indispositions."
Whatever he might suspect, Harry could only gratefully suggest his former nurse—on a temporary basis. Damon gave every appearance of delight and begged she be urged to consider the position. Having refilled his lordship's glass, Harry rested his hand for a brief instant on the peerlessly clad shoulder of this man who had himself known too well the depths of despair and loneliness. Camille looked up at him. It was a look that spoke volumes and, turning away, Harry felt humbled and asked huskily, "During your wanderings about the Continent, did you ever hear of a chap named Sanguinet?"
The glass that was idly turned between the Marquis's strong fingers became suddenly motionless, the clear eyes very still. "To my sorrow," he drawled. "Matter of fact, he's one of the fellows I called out. Do you speak of Guy?"
"No. How many are there?"
"Trois. Claude, Parnell, and Guy. I ca
lled out the youngest."
Damon's marksmanship was legendary, wherefore Harry enquired if the remaining Sanguinets sought vengeance. With a faint smile Damon said that Guy had refused to meet him. "Did he, by Jove!" Harry gasped. "Yellow?"
"Mon dieu—no! He said that he had no intention of committing suicide so as to oblige me. We therefore settled the matter with a target shooting match. I would be happy to report he was at once dropped by the ton, as you obviously suppose. I gather you know little of the breed. Attend me, mon cher. Few men would dare give a Sanguinet the cut direct. Are you, by some unhappy chance, involved with one?"
"Parnell." And Harry added eagerly, "Nasty?"
Without a trace of amusement, Damon answered, "They call him M. Diabolique. And with excellent reason."
"Drunk as a duck!" The familiar tones brought Harry swinging around to run back down the stairs. "I resent that, Jerry," he grinned, proceeding to shake hands with his lifelong comrade. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"Come t'tell you I'll take Cotton into my service, as you asked." Lord Jeremy Bolster tossed the hat, cane, and gloves onto the window seat Damon had vacated some twenty minutes earlier and, sitting beside his belongings, ran a hand through his straight yellow hair. "Hear you're off to Paris. D-dashed good idea. London's positively bare of company! Mandy's in Brussels with Lucinda Carden…" Mention of his beloved brought worry to cloud his eyes briefly, but he went on as blithely as ever, "Cameron's been posted to Dundee; St. Clair's off honeymooning; Vaughan and Saxon are in Vienna. Blasted desert. I'll go with you, Harry, dear old boy."
Redmond thought a horrified, "Lord!" They knew each other like brothers and had few secrets, this making it the more difficult to lie, "Wish you could, but it's an invite, y'see. And they wouldn't— it's no one you—ah—know."
"Oh." Bolster took up one of his gloves, inspected it, and, his pleasant features guileless, murmured, "Ain't nothing wrong, is there? I m-mean…" He poked all the fingers of the glove inside out while stammering, "If you ever n-n-needed help, you w-w-w you'd come to me… I trust?"
"Naturally—you cawker!" Harry turned to the window and, looking rather blindly into the grey afternoon, asked, "Shall you go to Newmarket?"
There was no reply. He glanced around. Bolster was standing and removing his jacket. His face was angry, a determined light in the hazel eyes. "Been f-f-friends a long time, Harry," he said quietly. "Don't expect whiskers. Sorry—but…" He started to roll up his sleeves.
It was an odd demonstration of loyalty, but it was Jeremy. And perhaps for the first time the enormity of his personal disaster broke upon Redmond. For the first time he faced the fact that there would be no more pleasant gatherings with friends at White's or Watier's; no evenings at Drury Lane, or Ranalegh, or Vauxhall; no more riding to hounds, or summer boat parties and picnics. No improvements at Moire Grange—in fact, no Moire Grange! His entire way of life was vanishing forever. Henceforth, he would be a man alone, and near destitute. He sat on the window seat and bowed his head.
"Here…" The kindly voice seemed very far away but recalled him to his surroundings. Bolster, his expression grave, proffered a glass of cognac. Very red in the face, Harry gasped, "Good God, Jerry! Your pardon! I just—er—"
"Clodpole!" said Bolster unequivocally. "Drink your damned wine, and—tell me about it."
So he did. He changed a few of the essential details, but basically he told the truth. When he finished, Bolster glared at him. "If I'd be-be-be-acted like that, you'd have punched my head!"
"Yes," admitted Redmond humbly. "Likely I would."
"Roses," Bolster observed after a short silence, "don't grow on cabbages."
Harry looked at him blankly.
"Your papa," Bolster clarified. "Very fine g-gentleman. Dashed f-fond of him, y'know. Wouldn't have done it. It's very mingle-mangled, Harry. We'll simply have to get to the b-b b-b—we'll have to come to the root of it."
"The Silk Purse" was a charming old hedge tavern midway between Guildford and Godalming. The proprietor, a proud veteran of the 95th Rifles, was an old friend of Redmond's, both having served with the peerless Light Division, and Harry invariably broke his journey here en route to or from Moire. On this brilliant May morning he emerged from the inn with slow and laggard step, heedless of the fragrance of the roses that bloomed about the door; of fluffy clouds sailing in a deep blue sky; the cheerful cackling of the hens scratching in the yard; or the saucy glance of a milkmaid, foaming pails a'swing from the yoke across her dimpled shoulders. He came to a halt and stood stubbing one splendidly shod toe at the dust, lost in thought.
Bolster's words of yesterday kept coming to mind… "Your Papa—very fine gentleman… Wouldn't have done it." Jerry was right, for it made no sense. But what made even less sense was the motive. Behind every cheating hand at a game of chance was the lure of money. Yet, having won a rich prize, Sanguinet had made no least attempt to claim his spoils and had allowed a year and a half to drift by, having apparently not even bothered to view the property he now owned. Such generosity was unheard of! The uneasy suspicion dawned on Redmond that he might well be faced by a gentleman so kind as to have deliberately held back from causing him more grief. It would be a trifle difficult to blow his head off were that the—
A rapid tattoo of hooves broke through his reverie. An ostler was attempting to hold Lace, but she had glimpsed her beloved master and was frisking about with much flirting of ears and rolling of eyes. "Lace!" called Harry. "Quiet, girl!" At once she was motionless. Grinning, the ostler looped the reins over the pommel and stood with arms folded, watching. For a minute they stood like so many statues, then Harry whistled sharp and clear. The mare tossed her head, galloped to him, and circled daintily to stand behind him, her velvety muzzle whuffling at his left ear. Laughing, he swung into the saddle, then leaned forward to stroke the glossy arched neck.
Applause surprised him. Three carriages had slowed in the lane to watch the little byplay. Handkerchiefs waved from the windows and several pretty faces smiled upon them. Harry bowed theatrically, doffing his hat and urging the well-trained mare into an equine bow that won more clapping. Straightening, he froze, his attention riveted upon one window and the vision who leaned from the shadowed interior to smile upon him. He viewed the face of an angel. The fur-lined hood of her pelisse draped softly over hair as pale as morning sunlight, the gleaming tendrils curling about delicate features and an exquisitely fair and clear complexion. Her nose was small, shapely, and only very slightly uptilting; her mouth a rosebud above a dimpled little chin. The sweetly proportioned forehead was adorned by finely arched brows, subtly darkened, and the eyes—never had there been such eyes… large and blue as cornflowers in that bewitching face. She said something, and although he was too stunned to distinguish the words, he knew that her voice was sweet and pure as the notes of a nightingale. And then a soft pink flooded those dewy cheeks, her lashes swept down shyly, she drew back and was lost in the shadows as the coach pulled away.
For a moment Harry was too stunned to move. Recovering his wits, he attempted to follow, only to be thwarted by the arrival of a noisy group of young Bucks. They had been a nuisance during the night, and now crowded around Lace, their drunken and loud-voiced admiration hampering his efforts to escape. When at last he was able to elude them, he turned the mare onto the lane and galloped in pursuit of the carriages. It was a good three miles before he came up with them, but at last they were ahead. As he drew closer, the coachman looked around with obvious apprehension, then grinned and slowed a trifle, and Harry waved his gratitude. He came up with the window, hat in hand and eyes eager. Inside, he could see smiling young ladies and. closest to the window, the object of his admiration, turned slightly away, her hood concealing her features.
"Ma'am…" called Harry brazenly, "may a gentleman offer a gift to a lady whose name he does not know… ?"
The concealing hood was turned shyly towards him, but still he could not see her face. The other girls, far from appe
aring shocked by this outrageous impudence, seemed vastly amused and, encouraged, he beseeched, "Have pity, fair one… your name—I beg… See—I bring you something lovely…" He tossed the large pink rose he had gathered (at the expense of a thorn in his thumb), through the window, "… though it hasn't an iota of your loveliness." She took up the rose—he saw her little hand reach for it, and urged Lace closer in an attempt to see her countenance. "My Fair—forgive me, but… I…" He faltered into silence. She looked up at last and thus revealed far different features than those he so longed to see. A small face, with wisps of dark hair straggling untidily about it; eyes hopelessy crossed; and a mouth that hung open in a lunatic lack of comprehension as she gazed dully at him. The shock was a near physical thing, like a blow to the midriff. He knew his jaw had dropped; he knew those wretched girls were all but hysterical, With a tremendous effort he recovered himself. He must not allow his revulsion to become apparent. By her plain round gown of coarse dark blue stuff, he guessed her to be an abigail. Poor creature—how cruel of them to serve her so! He waved his hat and said merrily, "Alas—that you show no mercy to a poor swain! Ride safely, my Fair!" and slowing Lace's smooth canter, tried not to hear the squeals of mirth that came from the rapidly departing carriage.
Staring after them, his smile vanished, leaving his pleasant face rather grim. Those girls should be spanked! But—perhaps it was as well, for what was the use of pursuing that golden vision? He was possessed of neither fortune nor expectations. He was, in fact, the kind of man hopeful mamas would dub a fortune hunter and instruct their daughters to avoid like the plague! That peerless little beauty was undoubtedly en route to Town—perhaps to be presented at the next Drawing Room. The lateness of the Season would be no deterrent to such as she, and many a lucky Corinthian and Buck would worship at her shrine before she'd been in London a week. He turned Lace back towards the "Silk Purse," smiling wistfully at the thought of the consternation the lady's arrival must cause among Almack's debutantes. How he'd love to see it…
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 4
