Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  "Did she turn you down again, mon Sauvage?" Mitchell, a jug of hot water in one hand, watched him.

  "Didn't offer again," Harry smiled. "I'd no right to offer in the first place." He resumed his shaving, thereby avoiding his brother's too-penetrating eyes as he confessed, "But I'd not realized I loved her then, you see. I imagined myself nobly offering her a way out of a difficult situation."

  "I see. And now—you do realize. And thus cannot offer?"

  "Here? Would you? Under the circumstances we Redmonds have come to?"

  There was no answer. By way of the mirror he had propped in the angle of a branch, Harry discovered a wistfulness in Mitchell's lean face. "Perhaps," he said reluctantly, "you should know that I have no claim on her."

  "After near a whole week with the lady? Mitchell's smile did not quite reach his eyes. "You must be losing your touch, old fellow."

  "Beyond doubting. Now, we've much to discuss, but first—tell me about the Ravishing Beauty. Was her doting sister vastly relieved by her return?"

  "Indeed she was. A fine taking they were in. You'd not credit the dramatic tale I dredged up to account for her absence, though I'd time and enough to invent it, Lord knows! How she jabbered! All the way, or at least until we were stopped and—"

  Amused, Harry inserted a curious, "Stopped?"

  "Four times, actually. By men hunting for Miss Carlson. And had it not—"

  "For—who?" In the act of drying his face, Harry swung his head up, peering at his brother over the towel.

  "That should be whom"," Mitchell corrected, shedding his jacket.

  "When using the personal pronoun, you must—" Familiar with the glint that lit Harry's eyes, he grinned, "Miss Carlson. By your leave, gaffer, I'll borrow the razor." Doing so, he went on, "The missing heiress. Remember?"

  There must, thought Harry, be lots of Carlsons in England… He slung the towel over his shoulder, retrieved his jacket from a branch, and tossed the packet of letters to Mitchell. "I doubt it's the same woman, but—see what you make of those. I found them at the back of a drawer in Papa's desk at Moire." He emptied the bowl as Mitchell began to read, and slipped cautiously into his jacket. The left sleeve had been very neatly patched. He touched the dainty stitches tenderly…

  "It is!" Mitchell exclaimed. "It is the same woman! For God's sake, Harry—what does it a!l mean? Is she totally demented?"

  Baffled, Harry sat down and, while Mitchell shaved, told him all that he knew of it. Despite his deep affection for both his sons, it had not been Colin Redmond's habit to confide in Mitchell, whom he had considered not only an impractical dreamer but also a schoolboy. Since Harry had been too ill at the time of the Carlson tragedy to be troubled with such worrisome matters, the brothers were thus equally in the dark. Mitchell, however, attached far more importance to the accident than did Harry. He shared Harry's persistent belief that Colin Redmond had been gulled, but having seen the chateau in Dinan and heard his brother's description of Sanguinet Towers, shook his head over the likelihood of Parnell's having been behind some devious plot to acquire the Redmond estates and fortune. "There is absolutely no motive, Sauvage," he said earnestly. "Sanguinet would no more take such desperate risks for Moire than you would be willing to besmirch your honourable name for— for Diccon's tent! If there was anything underhanded about that card game, I suspect it's a case of cherchez la femme."

  "What—the Carlson woman?"

  "Yes. She held a grudge against my father, and is very obviously all about in her head—poor creature."

  "That may be, yet she is scarcely capable of disguising herself as a man and bluffing her way through an evening of cards."

  "Of course not, but there are a dozen ways she might have arranged it." Mitchell washed his face and, reaching for the towel, asked, "How well were Cobb and Cootesby acquainted with my father?"

  "So far as I'm aware, not at all."

  "Aha!" Now suppose the Carlson woman had some little dalliance afoot with one of 'em? She persuaded him to arrange the card game, drug Papa's wine, and afterwards they may even have had his mare tripped, or—"

  "Her lover must have been infatuated, indeed, to countenance an involvement in murder," Harry pointed out quietly.

  "Well, perhaps he also needed money—or hoped to win Moire for himself."

  "I cannot think it likely. Maude said they all sought to persuade my father to stop playing, and when he would not they withdrew from the game until only Sanguinet and Papa continued. Besides, Mitch, had such a plot been hatched, surely M. Diabolique would be the last man they'd invite—knowing he is a skillful player and would be hard to handle in such a situation. And if Sanguinet himself was the 'lover,' he'd be far more likely to have simply picked a quarrel with Papa and called him out. No, the plot becomes too thick, I believe. Unless…" He paused, his eyes gleaming suddenly.

  "What? What?" Mitchell demanded, turning from emptying the bowl.

  "Well, the Carlson woman seems to have stirred up quite a bobbery in claiming that Papa withheld evidence at the investigation into her brother's death. Now, suppose one of the players was the man she suspected of that murder? Suppose he also believed that Papa knew more than he'd admitted—or…" He frowned thoughtfully, "—or that he might recall something. To kill him outright must reawaken suspicions in the Carlson matter and point to himself. On the other hand, to ruin Papa, send him off so heartsick he could logically be supposed capable of misjudging a jump, and then stage an 'accident'…"

  "By God!" raged Mitchell, very white. "The dirty hound!"

  They stared at one another grimly, but then Harry gave an exclamation of impatience. "And what fustian!" For it makes no sense at all!"

  "But it does!" Mitchell wrestled with his cravat and argued hotly, "More sense than for Papa to have suddenly changed the habits of a lifetime! Or for M. Diabolique to destroy a man and reduce his sons to penury for no logical reason."

  "Because we cannot come at a reason does not mean there is none. But had my neat little theory been correct, Papa must have been a fool to drink and gamble with a man he knew harboured a desperate need to see him dead, or might possibly do so. For I'm sure Miss Carlson had told my father whom she suspected."

  Mitchell's exuberance faded. "And Papa was no fool," he sighed.

  "True. Good God! What a horrid mess you've made of that. Come here, do!" Mitchell meekly submitting, Harry wrought a passable cravat upon him, while cogitating, "Yet consider, bantling. Papa and Schofield are both dead. Cobb appears to have vanished. And now our female suspect has left the scene in macabre fashion."

  "The devil!" gasped Mitchell. "You do not think—the poor woman…?"

  "The devil, indeed." Harry's voice was harsh suddenly, his eyes narrowing to slits and a look appearing on his face that Mitchell had seldom witnessed. "I'd not put anything past Parnell Sanguinet! Nothing whatsoever!"

  Briefly they were silent. Then Harry looked up from his efforts and nodded,—"You'll do. You would horrify the Bond Street Beaux, but at least you look fairly civilized." The obvious retaliation that of them both, Mitchell was by far the more presentable, was not forthcoming. Something was being worried at in that scholarly mind. "Wake up!" Harry urged. '"Breakfast awaits!"

  They started off together, but Mitchell's steps slowed. Stopping also, Harry turned back to regard him with the questioning lift of one eyebrow.

  "I rather suspect," said Mitchell in a hesitant fashion, "that I have been sadly indulged all my life."

  "And only proper you should admit it."

  Unsmiling, Mitchell turned a rock with the toe of one dusty boot and, watching this vital effort, observed slowly, "Habits—are hard to break."

  "Oh, egad! You're about to go from Piccadilly to John O'Groats to reach St. James's! Get it said, Mitch!"

  "It is only…" Mitchell was decidedly flushed, "that I do not think I would care to be… all alone in the world, you know."

  Harry stared at him, then teased, "Uppity brat! D'you think you've sole hunting rig
hts on the Sanguinet clan?"

  Flashing a quick, shy glance at him, Mitchell said, "Jacques de Roule was likely in the right of it when he said I had beginner's luck. You—are not a beginner, Sauvage."

  "No. But I am a pretty fair shot."

  "And Parnell Sanguinet a very different article to his brother, I hear. Harry—" One thin hand came out to clamp onto his shoulder. "Is it irrevocable?"

  Harry looked full into the grey eyes. "I'm afraid it is."

  Diccon had left two of the smugglers' hacks for their use, and it was decided that Harry and Mitchell would ride while Nanette and Daniel drove in the cart. They were on the road by eight o'clock and progressed cautiously through a silent and sepulchral world in which hedgerows loomed like dark shadows through the rolling vapours, and occasional travellers rushed upon them only to immediately vanish into the encompassing drifts. Mitchell remained beside the cart, gratifying Nanette's insatiable thirst for details of Moire Grange and their life there; but Harry rode ahead, his mind grappling with his many problems. As the miles slipped away, he formulated and rejected one plan after another, arriving at length at the conclusion with which he had started; Cootesby held the key to their future, for what he would tell them must determine whether they launched a battle for revenge and restitution or abandoned all ties with the past and built new lives for themselves.

  "What a snail's pace!" Mitchell spurred to his side. "Three hours and more and I doubt we've gone fifteen miles! At this rate we shall reach Chichester when Cootesby has removed to Brighton for the summer!"

  "I doubt Daniel could persuade Mr. Fox to move faster even did he deem it wise. I know it's frustrating, Mitch. But it's safer for Nanette."

  "Oh. Yes, of course. How stupid of me," Mitchell was quiet awhile, then murmured, "Do you suppose her papa really is the ogre she paints him?"

  "Diccon appears to believe her, and he's a deal more shrewd than he appears."

  Mitchell said nothing, but noting how that sensitive mouth tightened, Harry said a noncommital, "Don't like him very well, do you?"

  Mitchell shrugged. "He makes me uneasy. I could not say why."

  Despite himself, amusement lurked in Harry's eyes and, knowing him so well, Mitchell said resignedly, "Go on—laugh at my nonsense."

  Harry did not laugh, however. Diccon had all but mocked the boy, and it was scarcely to be expected that someone as youthfully defensive and proud as Mitch could forgive that. Therefore, he merely warned that such gloomy imaginings were doubtless the result of hunger, and suggested that Mitchell ride on ahead and find a tavern where he might purchase them all a luncheon. "I presume you still have some of your ill-gotten gains?"

  Mitchell grinned, nodded, and seconds later had disappeared into the fog.

  Reining back, Harry waited until the cart drew level then kept pace with it. Nanette scanned him anxiously and asked how he was feeling, and when he had answered her blithely, if inaccurately, that he felt 'perfectly fit,' she said, "Whatever do you suppose has become of Diccon?"

  He turned to Daniel, but the gypsy youth was concentrating on his driving and appeared not to have heard the question. "I doubt he could find us in this murk," Harry replied easily. "Besides, he may have had to lie low for the night since I hear Riding Officers are on the prowl."

  She giggled. "Poor Diccon. His smugglers were not a very experienced set of rascals, were they ?"

  "No, indeed." Both smile and voice held a caress. She gazed at him, her own eyes soft, then shivered suddenly. Concerned, he said, "Are you cold, my shrew? I'll fetch a blanket to wrap round you."

  She shook her head. "It's just that I am—so very frightened."

  "Little wonder," he thought. To banish the distress in her sweet face, he told her some of Mitchell's adventures, winning her back to gaiety until he mentioned the duel. He saw at once that he had erred and sought to change the subject, but she questioned him intently, becoming so pale at last that he teased, "Just like a woman! You abhor duelling yet must know every last gory detail! Cheer up, little one! The sun is coming out. Look—already the fog is thinning."

  It was, and soon a brisk breeze blew away the remaining wreaths of vapour. They were traversing a copse of sun-dappled young trees when Mitchell returned, proclaiming exuberantly that he'd found a likely looking tavern a few miles ahead with "some of the juiciest looking roast beef you ever saw!" Having set all their mouths to watering, he admitted he had not brought any of this deliciousness with him since he'd been unable to locate his purse. By the process of elimination they discovered he had last seen it after breakfast. The thought of riding all the way back to the clearing infuriated Harry, but since the purse held all that remained of their funds, he decided the journey must be undertaken. Nanette, however, prevailed upon him to first search the cart. For half an hour they waded through Diccon's incredible collection of belongings and 'tradeables,' then suddenly realized Mitchell was not among them. Harry tore around to the far side of the cart and discovered his brother comfortably sprawled against a wheel, engrossed in a translation of Virgil. All but gnashing his teeth with fury, Harry advised him that they would bury the book with him! "Does it not occur to you, hedgebird, that we have all been searching for what you were so besotted as to misplace, while you lounged at your ease?"

  "But, I found it. Do you take me for a cocklehead? I had put it where I'd be sure to find it—in the breadbox. Here!'" He shook the fat purse under Harry's nose, then leapt to his feet and backed away in alarm.

  "Then why in the devil—" grated Harry, advancing on him in a crouching menace, "could you not have the simple decency to—"

  Mitchell made a mad sprint for his horse, vaulted into the saddle and, reining about, grinned, "Behave, gaffer, lest I bring you porridge for lunch!"

  "Dare you return with less than a splendid repast, and, by God, we'll have roasted Mitchell!" Harry strode forward, but Mitchell was away, riding like a centaur, his laugh floating back after him. The irate Harry stood and watched him, hands on hips, unable to hold his anger as he noted with pride what a splendid seat his exasperating brother possessed.

  A grinning Daniel took up the reins once more, Harry helped Nanette to the seat, mounted his good natured but poorly gaited hack, and they were off again, following the lane under a canopy of branches, the sunlight turning the young leaves a pure yellow green. The air grew warmer and was sweet with the fragrance of blossoms. They rounded a curve and came out onto the rolling velvety slopes of the South Downs, with just ahead a small stand of birches rising from a carpet of bluebells. Nanette clasped her hands at the sight. "Oh, Harry! It is so pretty! May we camp and eat luncheon up there by the trees?"

  He agreed that this was a capital idea and led the way up the rise, asking that Daniel keep a weather eye out for Mitchell. By the time they had made camp, unharnessed Mr. Fox, and set him to graze, however, there was still no sign of either Mitchell or their lunch. It was long past noon, and knowing both Nanette and Daniel must be as hungry as he was, Harry at last sent Daniel after his wayward brother. "You'll probably find he spotted some likely looking tome through a cottage window and is haggling with the owner over price!"

  Daniel went riding off, and looking around at this pleasant Down country Harry thought how lovely it was. But turning, he saw something lovelier. Nanette was gathering bluebells. She was kneeling, looking down at the bright blossoms she held, and he crossed to her, tenderly watching the dance of one curling tendril of dark hair that the breeze fluttered against her temple.

  She gave a little cry and raised a distressed face. "Oh! How thoughtless! I have no vase for them. What a wicked waste!"

  "So few," he consoled. "And they grow wild, after all."

  "They are perfect living things! I could not make one—but I have destroyed them—needlessly."

  Smiling, he went over to unearth a rather battered tin from the can and pour into it some of the water from the bottle they carried. Returning, he bowed, "A vase for my lady's bouquet."

  Nanette was d
elighted and decreed that they should grace the luncheon table, and when Harry had lifted the folding table from the cart, she covered it with the oilcloth tablecloth' and placed the 'vase' in the centre. She stood back, eyeing the effect admiringly, and he loved her the more because she was undismayed by the worn old cloth and battered tin and saw only the beauty of the flowers. This, he thought, was how she would travel through life— surmounting the heavy ground with her steadfast gaze turned always to the new hope that followed every sorrow. She looked to him for comment- Despite his silence, his eyes were very eloquent; and because she had learned to read his moods there, she became tongue-tied also. Then she noticed how his hand gripped his injured arm and she all but flew to his side and starred to unbutton his cuff. "Oh! I did not change the dressing this morning, and it is paining you. No, do not pretend otherwise! I can tell by the… the way... " And she stopped speaking, her busy hands stilled by his strong clasp. Trembling, she gazed down at those long, slim fingers, not daring to look up.