Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  "Admit it, then! You killed Parnell Sanguinet with this. You shot him in the back with this silver pistol! Do you confess?"

  The black-hearted devil was after Nanette! Well he'd not drag her into this, the slimy, damned trickster! "How many times must I say it?" he raged. "Are you totally caper witted? Yes! Yes! Have done, man!"

  "Well, damn your eyes and limbs! Why in the devil didn't you tell me that at the start?"

  The lantern was raised to reveal Diccon, tall and astoundingly elegant in a long-tailed black jacket and grey pantaloons, his cravat a masterpiece, his features contorted by anger. "You miserable, blasted hedgebird! If you had only trusted me, none of this would have been necessary!"

  For an instant Harry merely blinked at him. Then he leaned against the wall and this time was not forced to stand upright. "Trusted… you?" he echoed. "Why you slippery serpent! You've deceived and manoeuvred and confounded me from the first instant we met! I'd have to be looby to trust you!"

  "Well, I hope you're satisfied! Ten days of purgatory you've put me through! Keeping you in here, wearing you down until I could tear the truth out of you! Is that what she shot him with?" He tossed up a hand as Harry crouched, ready to spring, and the guards moved forward. "Why, you cockaleery doddipoll! It ain't possible! Can you not understand? No one could have shot Parnell Sanguinet with this pistol! It's brand new. It has never—ever—been fired! When my men finally found it yesterday, it was not even loaded!"

  "But, if I did not shoot him," said Harry slowly, massaging wrists from which the loathed chains had just been struck, "and Miss Carlson did not…"

  "Who did?" Diccon's thin fingers drummed briefly on the top of the battered old desk. His office was a cluttered little room not much larger than Harry's cell, sparsely furnished, and with only two wooden chairs for visitors. "I rather fancy we'll have a deuce of a time to learn that. Many men had reason to hate him, any one of whom could have crept into the room in the darkness and confusion, without being seen by either you or the lady."

  Tensing, Harry leaned forward. "Damn you! Have you known all the time I did not shoot him?"

  Diccon gave an amused chuckle. "You begin to know me too well. No—" he gestured placatingly, "do not add my murder to your— unsavoury reputation."

  "Devil! Yet you dragged me through the streets like some—some common filth, kept me in this—hell . . ! And all the time—blast your eyes! Why?"

  Staring inscrutably at the ravaged young face, Diccon read rage there, and suffering and sorrow, but not hatred. Even now Redmond was too much the military man not to understand the demands of duty, too intelligent to be shabbed off with pure nonsense, and too innately decent to warrant such. It was, in fact, damned difficult not to be fond of the quixotic gudgeon… "I suspected," he admitted, "that you were not the killer. You, however, were named by M. Claude Sanguinet." He frowned, and again his narrow fingers did their nervous beating on the desktop. "A very powerful man. You ran. Miss Carlson disappeared. Your friends brought all the force they could muster to your defence, and made life blisteringly hot for me, deuce take 'em! Miss Carlson came forward then and attempted to clear you of kidnapping her, of course, but that charge was obscured by the greater one."

  "But—you knew!" gritted Harry. "And you also are—a powerful man."

  "Not that powerful, else I would award this nation's highest honour to whomever did pull that trigger!" His eyes glinted briefly, then he gave a wry grin. "I'm just a poor public servant, unfortunately. And I was faced with a shrewd campaign by a man with unlimited funds. The populace was stirred to a frenzy by allegations that you would be acquitted because of your rank. Versailles was furious because one of her top diplomats had been murdered. The Foreign Office and the Horse Guards…" he shuddered. "They were berserk! Prinny was in a ghastly squeeze, and when you ran and would say nothing to clear yourself, they all hove a sigh of relief and said, en effet, 'So be it!" I had no choice but to—"

  "To haul me half across England in manacles?" blazed Harry.

  Diccon said lazily, "My masterstroke. It worked rather well, I thought."

  The wind taken out of his sails, Harry stared at him blankly.

  "Suppose," murmured Diccon, "we had allowed you to stay in the Surrey Gaol as Leigh-Hunt was permitted to do? Suppose you'd been decently fed and housed? You'd have appeared at your trial with your proud head high, as elegant and defiant as you could stare, would you not?"

  "Be assured of it!"

  "Birdwit! And you'd have been hanged!"

  Harry's eyes widened and, silenced, he leaned back in his chair.

  "I'll tell you this," Diccon imparted, scowling, "much of your misery was self-induced! Had you allowed yourself to be taken by my bubble-fingered men, and God knows I'd enough of 'em seeking you!—you'd have fared better and not come so nigh to having your neck stretched."

  "By God . . !" gasped Harry. "You mount a subtle campaign, sir. But—I could wish I'd been allowed to know of it!"

  "Had you been of a different stamp, you would have. But—you're a hell of a poor actor, Redmond. I thought—when we put you in that little box…" He saw Harry's eyes narrow again and waved his hand apologetically. "Yes. Your brother told me that you feared small places. My regrets. But—I'd to choose between letting you hang—or trying to break you."

  Harry fought back an all-but-overmastering urge to smash his fists into that suave countenance. "And—did your scheme work well enough that my innocence will be believed?"

  "Don't be a fool. There are those who will always cherish the notion that the aristocracy won again!" He smiled, but there was no answering smile in the eyes that watched him. Redmond, he thought, had detected a break in the rope…

  "You said," Harry observed slowly, "Sanguinet has unlimited funds'. If that is so, then—why was Carlson murdered? Had Sanguinet already appropriated his stepdaughter's fortune?"

  "Not to my knowledge. He's vastly well breeched. But nobody needs money like a rich man, you know."

  The light tone failed to banish Harry's frown. "My father's murder," he muttered, "was in some way connected with that damnable coach!"

  Diccon's expression changed not in the slightest. Only a faint flaring of the thin nostrils accompanied his puzzled, "Coach . . ?"

  Harry stood and, leaning forward, placed both hands on the desk. "Frederick Carlson was not murdered so that Parnell could appropriate his daughter's fortune—you said so yourself. Yet he was murdered. Dreading scandal, or any investigation, Sanguinet had my father brutally killed. Why? Because he saw the first murder—or was it because of something else he saw? Something Sanguinet dared not have revealed…" He saw a flicker in Diccon's eyes and swept on triumphantly, "It was that coach—wasn't it? If Parnell was troubled by daylight, he could simply have installed dark curtains. Instead, he went to elaborate lengths to make his coach appear to be unoccupied! Why?"

  "What matter?" Diccon opened his drawer in bored fashion and began to pare his nails with a knife he found there. "He was a madman…"

  Harry slammed clenched fists on the desk. "You lie! Tell me, or I'll—"

  "That will do!" Diccon's eyes were a blue flame, his mouth a hard, thin line. He put away the knife and snapped, "Sit down, Captain!"'

  Harry's jaw set, and his own eyes blazed, but he felt suddenly as though he stood before his Colonel's desk, and he sat down.

  "I have used you,'" Diccon said curtly. "And will make no apologies for having done so. Nor should you feel abused, since your father's death has been avenged. To all intents and purposes, Colin Redmond was killed because he saw murder done. Because I have— er—deceived you, I put myself to the bother of attempting to bring you off from this. But be aware, friend, that I could just as easily have thrown you to the wolves and let your heroics reap the full penalty! Be still!" The silence that followed those thundered-out words was absolute. Then Diccon leaned forward, a smile leaping into his eyes, a warmth softening his voice. "Harry—confound you, you're a pest, if ever I was saddled with
one! But you are also an honourable gentleman and entitled, I suppose, to an explanation. I will have your word though, that you will speak of this to no one . . ?"

  "You have it."

  "Very well." Diccon settled back in his chair, frowned through a thoughtful moment, then said slowly, "It is believed—it is known — that there is a conspiracy afoot that threatens both the life of the Prince Regent and the future of England." He raised one hand to quiet Harry's startled utterance. "We fight a group of fanatics. Power-mad, ruthless financial giants. The Sanguinets are up to their necks in it; not for France, but for themselves. The coach was a crucial factor in a coup that we managed to circumvent. Parnell later used that same coach for his own schemes, much to his brother's wrath." He shrugged, and went on in a milder tone, "More I cannot reveal, save that we lack the evidence to charge them… Take my advice, friend. You've run your race. You're free. Live. And do not concern yourself with matters best left to those of us whose business it is to handle them. You are exceedingly fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Mrs. Penderly."

  Taken off-stride by the abrupt remark, Harry knit his brow. Mrs. Penderly… the name sounded so familiar…

  "I understand," Diccon murmured, "that she met your brother during his assault on the Chateau Sanguinet, and later, encountered you near Horsham on the night Parnell met his just desserts."

  "Jove! Was it the same lady, then? Now I come to think on it, she did mistake me for someone else."

  "Your father," nodded Diccon, and in response to the surprised pucker of Harry's forehead, added, "Yes. Interesting coincidence, eh? She was with your father on the night of his death. I gather that in Dinan she took a great liking to Mitch—"

  "With—my father?" Harry interposed, totally mystified. "But Sir Colin was at Sanguinet Towers that night. How could he have had a—er…"

  "Romantic assignation? Oh, no. It wasn't that. They met purely by chance. A wheel had come off the lady's coach, and your papa was so gallant as to prevail upon his companion to stop and assist her."

  Harry stared at those impassive features. "I don't understand. If my father was at Sanguinet Towers, and—Besides he couldn't— What companion ?"

  "Good gracious, Redmond, you do muddle your phraseology. Why, the gentleman who accompanied your father, of course. Mrs. Penderly said he was most reticent, and wouldn't lift a hand—or even come near her. It was your papa who conveyed the ladies to the village inn, and your papa who rousted out the blacksmith and had the wheel repaired. He even paid the reckoning, since the lady had lost all her pin money playing silver loo at her party."

  His heart pounding madly, Harry came to his feet. "For God's sake man—what are you saying? Have you found a witness who says she was with my father on the evening of his death? How did you find her? Can you be sure she knows it was my father who—"

  Diccon thrust a miniature at him. Taking it, Harry stared down at his sire's beloved features. The last time he'd seen it, the miniature had been on Mitchell's bedside table at Moire… His eyes lifted wonderingly to Diccon's bland smile.

  "I showed it to Mrs. Penderly," the Runner nodded. "She's positive about the date because it was her sister's birthday party she'd been attending. And she's positive your father is the man who helped her. And—no, I do not propose to go into the details of how we were able to find the little lady."

  Harry slipped the miniature into his pocket, his tired mind groping… "Then… he must have been with her for some time that night…

  "From at least half-past nine o'clock until after midnight, she claims."

  "My… God . . !" Leaning forward, both hands on the desk top once more, his face flushed with excitement, Harry gasped, "Do you realize what that means? Diccon—if my father was with Mrs. Penderly, he could not possibly have spent the evening with Parnell Sanguinet! He could not have gambled away Moire, and his fortune!"

  A twinkle gleamed in those deep eyes. "Well now," drawled Diccon. "Ain't that a—as y'might say—interesting… development?"

  Chapter XX

  Daniel's blast on the yard of tin would have woken the dead. And Moire Grange was, it would seem, very much alive. Even as Harry marvelled at the excellence with which the fire damage had been repaired, the front doors were swung wide and before the carriage had halted a lackey ran to open the door and let down the steps. Joseph, openly weeping, followed. Not trusting himself to speak, Harry slipped a hand onto the old man's shoulder. "You're home… sir," the butler choked. "We're home!" Harry corrected gruffly, walking with him into the house.

  In the hall many of his former servants were drawn up, but the ranks broke and they greeted him emotionally, each one eager to seize his hand. Mrs. Norah Bacon curtsied, then threw her arms about him, sobbing, "I knew you would be cleared, Master Harry! I knew it!" Mrs. Thomas rushed to embrace him, lifting a wet cheek for his kiss. The loved and familiar scents of the old place filled his nostrils… Flowers and furniture polish… and a cake baking…

  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."