"Stay back," he shouted. "In the name of the King, I arrest this man!"
His battered assailants eyed each other uneasily, then moved closer, like a pack of wolves circling a solitary but dangerous prey.
"Do as he says," ordered Monteil with surprising calm.
Dragging his captive with him, Diccon began to edge towards the stove and the heavy iron cauldron. Mac had not appeared, nor had he set off the signal, which meant that Monteil's juggernaut, Ti Chiu, might be lurking about. The varmint he'd shot was crawling to his feet. Reinforcements were badly needed.
Monteil said, "My dear friend Claude Sanguinet is dead thanks to the connivings of you and your friends. You have interfered with my plans too many times to be pardoned. Yet I cannot but admire you, Major. You are a fighting machine par excellence. England treats you shabbily. Work for me, and you will be treated very well indeed."
"Don't be absurd."
"I was afraid you would answer so," said Monteil with a sigh.
The man with the cut arm stood between Diccon and the cauldron that anchored the cord to their distress signal. "Move!" snapped Diccon, and, scowling, the bully backed away.
Diccon snatched blindly for the cauldron, but his hand grazed the hot stove and for a fraction of a second his attention shifted.
From behind came something that blurred past his eyes. He was jerked back and a crushing weight was across his throat.
He heard howls of triumph and a soft snuffling chuckle. Ti Chiu! He struck out with his dagger and that animal-like chuckle became a blood-freezing growl. His hand was seized and twisted so that the dagger fell from his numbed fingers.
Unable to draw breath, he clawed desperately at the mighty arm that was strangling him. His lungs were bursting… his ears rang… he could no longer see… Abruptly, the stranglehold was gone. He sagged helplessly, gulping in air, groping blindly at the table for support. Barely conscious, he heard echoing voices, but his dazed eyes were focusing again and they focused on a heavy iron cauldron. If he could but reach it without attracting their attention… He allowed himself to sway and sink to his knees, his left hand swinging out apparently helplessly to send the cauldron crashing down. He thought a pained but exultant, 'Excelsior!'
Monteil was saying something. "… not propose, my dear Diccon, to search the vastness of your Lanterns… cooperation by far the most advisable."
They were hauling him to his feet and supporting him roughly. Something wet and cold slapped at his face. He blinked, and Monteil's soulless eyes were peering at him. The razor-sharp tip of his own dagger was tapped on his chin. "I believe you heard me," purred Monteil. "Certainement you know what it is that I desire. And you know that I get what I want. One way—or another. Why not tell me now? I know you are a brave man. I respect this. There is not the need to prove it further."
Diccon looked around blearily. Five of the hounds. And Ti Chiu counted for another five. The odds would have been dim with the mighty Chinese alone. He said hoarsely, "What have you… done with my… man?"
Monteil gave a deprecating gesture. "This, it is of peu d'importance. Where is The Sigh of Saladin?"
"If I knew," croaked Diccon, "d'you think I'd still be in this mouldering ruin? I don't even know if—if it's fact or… fiction."
A shadow hove up before him, and he realized they'd lit a branch of candles.
Ti Chiu's deep rumble sounded. "The Runner lies."
One of the ruffians gave a gasp. "He's a Runner? Gawd!"
Monteil said conversationally, "You possess, I have before remarked it, beautiful hands, Major. Ti Chiu will start there, I think. One finger at a time."
The great paw of the Chinese giant stretched out.
Diccon said, "Dammit, I told you! I don't know where it is!"
Ti Chiu chuckled and seized his wrist, forcing him to his knees again.
Even as he went down there was a loud explosion, then a series of sharp retorts. Vivid flashes lit the room. Ti Chiu released Diccon and quailed against the wall with a yowl of guilt and fear.
"Nom de Dieu!" gasped Monteil.
The back door was wrenched open and a liveried groom ran in. "Someone's sent up a buncha rockets upstairs, Monsewer! Some sorta signal. Be seen fer miles, I reckon! There'll be troopers here, on the double!"
Monteil unleashed a burst of French and Italian profanity. His men began to edge for the doors with muttered comments about Runners and The Law.
Recovering himself, the Chinese towered over Diccon. "Ti Chiu he will break this for honourable master. Then we go. Very quick."
"No. I'm not ready to leave England yet, fool. He's a peer now. If they don't find him the whole countryside will be up. We'll deal with him, but this is not the time, and I've other plans."
Looking down at Diccon, Monteil's thin mouth curved into a smile although his eyes were as cold and dead as ever. "When you did battle with my dear friend Parnell Sanguinet," he said softly, "your comrade Harry Redmond stole Parnell's lady for himself. Your fight with Claude Sanguinet resulted in Mitchell Redmond finding his bride. This past spring I admired a pretty widow on the Longhills estate in—"
"Didn't get your wish that time, did you?" said Diccon recklessly.
Monteil's smile faded into a deadly glare. Ti Chiu grunted and stepped forward. A pulse throbbed beside Monteil's left eye, but he raised a delaying hand and said softly, "Another overdue debt. But my point is that you, my fine soldier"—he bent suddenly, and wrenched Diccon's head back—"never seem to—how is it you say?—end up with the girl. You are not, perhaps, a strikingly handsome man. Nor, however, are you plain. Indeed, the fair sex would find you attractive, I think." The knife in his hand glittered, and Diccon prepared to try and defend himself against the sudden slash that would disfigure or blind him. "You are still a young man," went on Monteil gently. "You should be, to use one of your crude English expressions, setting up your nursery. I wonder if you may have, at last, found a lady whom you… desire for your wife?"
Diccon was suddenly icy cold.
The groom announced urgently, "Riders coming, monsewer!'
"Go, then," snapped Monteil without turning. "And you may take these bumbling clods with you! Except for Ti Chiu. It would be so easy for me to destroy you, my dear Diccon," he went on. "But I am granting you a little time to think about The Sigh of Saladin. And to put a price on your—future. Adieu. We will talk again."
A moment later the kitchen was empty save for the man who sagged against the wall, massaging his bruised wrist and staring blankly at the overturned table.
"It worked!" exclaimed Jocelyn Vaughan, jubilant as he hurried back into the kitchen, a branch of candles in one hand. "Poor old Whinyates would have rejoiced! The whole blasted sky lit up! I'll not be surprised if half the county comes in at the gallop." He inspected the graze across Diccon's cheekbone that Lem Bridger was tending. "You had a close call, old fellow. Dash it all, I told you it was a risky business to stay down here with murderous treasure hunters lurking about! You must hire some guards!"
Diccon asked, "How's Mac?"
"Tucked into bed. He lost a tooth, which he says he can ill afford, and there's a lump the size of a duck egg on his head. But he'll do. His whole concern is for you. I wonder those bastards didn't put a period to you before they turned tail and ran."
"I suspect the notion that I was from Bow Street threw them into a flutter."
Vaughan laughed. "If I know you, they took some damage along."
Diccon flinched away from Bridger's hands and the groom exclaimed, "That's an ugly bruise on your throat, sir."
Vaughan sobered and asked, "Ti Chiu again?"
Diccon nodded.
"I'll stay here tonight, sir, if it's your wish," volunteered Bridger. "I've brought my blunderbuss. It's old, but worth twenty pistols in a scrap. I know Sir Lionel would be willing. He'd've come himself but he was afraid to leave the ladies all alone."
Diccon thanked him but refused the offer and sent the groom back to the dower house wit
h instructions to be on guard. Bridger's eyes grew round, and he left.
There came a clatter of hooves outside.
Vaughan strode to the window. "By George! It's Williard and half the village! And here comes— Be dashed if it ain't Dale with most of his people by the look of it!"
Diccon said, "We discovered we've some mutual acquaintances."
Vaughan stared, then hurried to the back door.
In this time of open flame for heat and lighting, all men rallied to aid their neighbours against the terrible threat of fire, and soon the courtyard was crowded, waggonloads of villagers augmenting the stream of carriages, curricles, and riders.
Mr. Innes Williard, in full evening dress, was incensed to realize that his dinner had been interrupted so that he might come to the aid of the common vagrant who was trespassing at Lanterns. He uttered a scathing denunciation of rascally demobilized soldiers who went about vandalizing private properties.
Ignatius, Lord Dale, was his usual haughty self. After a narrow-eyed scan of Diccon he said, "I thought we were coming to help put out a fire. Are you all right, Temple and Cloud?"
Mr. Williard's jaw dropped ludicrously. A spreading incredulous silence became an enthusiastic welcome for the returned lord of the manor. Diccon was one of their own; Sussex born even if he'd not had the sense to spend much time in his home county, and the anticipated disaster became a minor celebration. There were shouts of anger when he told of a greedy and unprincipled gang of thieves, hunting for the fabled treasure that, in his personal opinion, did not exist. Vaughan took several of the more curious upstairs to inspect their improvised alarm, and, in accordance with custom, the volunteer firefighters were offered ale and whatever the larder could provide.
It was two hours before the last waggonload of cheerfully singing villagers drove out. Innes Williard took his leave, saying irritably that it was beyond him to know why people found it necessary to conceal their true identities, for such deceits led to nothing but "needless embarrassments." Diccon, who was very tired, ignored his comments, but expressed with quiet courtesy his thanks for Williard's help.
A few minutes later, he walked outside with Lord Dale to offer another small speech of appreciation to his lordship and his retainers. Watching from the doorway as the two men shook hands, Vaughan heard Dale say solemnly, "Have a care, Paisley. The Swiss is not likely to give up and may well be involved in the other matter!"
Vaughan went back into the kitchen and gathered up the bone of a joint, a small hunk of cheese, and an empty bottle of pickled onions.
Diccon came in and sprawled on a chair with a sigh of exhaustion.
"They wiped out our rations," said Vaughan.
Diccon yawned. "You'll be able to take breakfast at the dower house. I fancy you're first oars with Miss Fanny, after your heroic rescue." Vaughan threw a heel of bread at him, and he laughed and asked, "No, seriously, how does the poor lady go on?"
"Very well. She's a resilient little soul. I vow she was more inclined to shoot Coville than to swoon!" He smiled fondly. "I could talk of her forever. But I'll restrain myself, for you look properly wrung out, old fellow. What an ordeal! You must fairly ache for your bed."
"I'm too tired to climb the stairs. Besides, I have something to say to you, and I want to know what happened when you went after Coville."
"Nothing." Vaughan's expression hardened. "The swine has gone to earth somewhere, but I'll come up with him, never fear."
"I wish you joy of him. Now you may ask the questions that are burning your tongue."
"Thank you, Major, sir. I'll not trouble you with many." Straddling a chair Vaughan asked, "Firstly, why did you tell Bridger to be on guard at the dower house?"
Diccon frowned. "Monteil left me with a veiled threat. He's deduced I have a—a fondness for the Warringtons."
Aghast, Vaughan said, "Good Lord! You never think he means to take revenge on you by striking at them? He would! Dammitall, he's without conscience!"
"I agree. One or other of us must always be up there." Diccon drew a hand across his eyes wearily. "You'd best get on with your questions before I fall asleep."
"Yes. Well, you were at Downsdale Park when Miss Fanny was attacked. Why? I thought old Dale blamed you for letting Mr. Fox eat his letters?"
"He did. I got them back for him."
"How the deuce could you do that?"
"Quite simply. Young Sam South fancied some adventure, so he's been leading the free-trading life with our Yves. When he landed a few days ago I sent him off to the Horse Guards for copies of Dale's letters."
"The… Horse Guards? Dale? Oh, you quiz me! The man's a high-in-the-instep bird-brain!"
"So I thought till Smollet wrote that Dale's a power behind the Whitehall scene, and an authority on international espionage."
"The devil you say! Then the papers Mr. Fox gobbled up were—"
"Were of rather vital importance." Diccon sighed. "Finished?"
"Almost. What did Dale mean just now when he spoke of 'the other matter'?"
Diccon stared at the fire. "You've quick ears, friend."
"And you don't mean to tell me, I see. Or is it that you cannot tell me?"
"Both," lied Diccon. He stood and stretched. "I'm for bed."
"One more thing, please. Of a different nature. I've spoken to Sir Lionel, and I'm now an approved suitor. But I want Fanny to have a London Season. She's—" His colour rose as Diccon slanted a raised-eyebrows glance his way and he said defensively, "Well, she's seen nothing of the world, you know."
"And you want to give her a chance to look over the competition? Noble. She's a beauty, Joss. You're a good man, but she'll be besieged. You're taking quite a risk."
"I dare to hope the risk is small. My last question is—if I win her—dare I also hope I'll have you for a brother-in-law?"
Diccon was on the edge of exhaustion, his bruises throbbed, and Imre Monteil's threat hung always at the edges of his mind. "How many times must I tell you?" he said with a flare of irritation. "No! I cannot!"
Vaughan stood, and faced him. "Is the reason that you 'cannot' connected to the disappearance of your mama?"
"Yes. Now—let me be!"
He started to the door.
Vaughan said, "Then what has Smollet to do with it?"
Diccon paused, swore, and walked on.
Vaughan took three quick strides and stood with his back against the door. "Your pardon, but I must know."
His fists clenching, Diccon stared at him, then laughed stridently. "What's this? The gallant cavalry officer galloping to the rescue again? History repeats itself, doesn't it, Lieutenant? Always the same! You glorious fellows in your scarlet and gold!
Sabres drawn, dashing in where only the brave dare go! While men like me creep and crawl about, peeping and spying and sniffing out traps and potential disasters! A sorry crew, and earning only sneers, or—"
Vaughan's hand cracked across his mouth like a pistol shot, cutting off the bitter words.
Diccon gasped and stood rocking on his heels, staring in bewilderment at the handsome, honest face.
Vaughan said gently, "Sorry, old lad. You were becoming a trifle shrill."
A trifle shrill.
Suddenly, Diccon was just too tired to struggle anymore. He sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.
After a minute Vaughan bent over him and offered a glass of cognac. "Here. You need it. You're worn to the bone, and I shouldn't have—"
"No. You shouldn't." Diccon lifted the glass with a hand that shook. "But you have." He took a generous sample of the wine. "And perhaps you've the right, at that. It's in the Bible."
Puzzled, Vaughan went to the shelf that housed the few books Diccon had brought here. The Bible was very old and most beautifully illustrated. He took it down, and opened it and a letter fell out.
Diccon said sardonically, "I thought that a fairly safe hiding place."
Vaughan flushed. "If you suspect I've been searching Lanterns fo
r your personal correspondence, you may go to the devil!"
"No. But I knew you'd recognize the writing if you saw the direction. Like a sentimental idiot I wanted to spare you, when it's likely better that you should be forewarned."
Vaughan turned the letter over. He did recognize the writing, and said apprehensively, "Smollet!"
Diccon nodded. "General Sir Nevin's latest communique. Read it. As you said, you must know."
Vaughan unfolded the page, read swiftly, turned paper white, and closed his eyes. "Dear God! Diccon—you cannot connect Eric Warrington with this?"
"You appear to have done so—without the slightest delay."
"Smollet says, 'Any young fellow from the Sussex area who is suddenly and unaccountably plump in the pockets.' There might be many such."
"Who are believed to affect disguises on frequent journeys to Europe? It fits, Joss."
"But—but this is treason, man! D'you realize? No, it must be coincidental. Some other fellow."
Diccon lit a candle. "You'll never know how I pray that is so. Good night, Joss."
Vaughan read the letter again, then ran into the corridor. "Wait! What are you going to do?"
With ineffable weariness Diccon started up the stairs. "Have a look at poor Mac."
"Yes, of course. But—you know what I mean."
"What can I do? Wait. Hope old Nevin's following the wrong scent, as you said."
"And—heaven forbid!—if he's right?"
"Pray that I'm not the fellow who has to… deal with it."
"But—but you're on sick leave! They can't ask you—"
Clinging to the banister rail Diccon turned and looked down at him. "Whitehall wouldn't let me off that easily. Nor would my conscience."
"But—"
"Whether I'm on sick leave or not, I'm a military officer. I've taken a solemn oath to serve my country." Diccon shrugged, and went on up the stairs. "Besides," he added bitterly, "I cannot stomach traitors."
Chapter XV
The news of the attack at Lanterns had frightened all three ladies at the dower house, and Marietta was scarcely able to conceal her panic. All her bitter resentment of Diccon's duplicity was swept away by the fear that he had been hurt, and she was beside herself with anxiety until Bridger returned and assured them that "his lordship" was safe. Later, Vaughan came back, to give them a detailed report. He seemed more elated over the splendid fight Diccon had put up than dismayed by the event itself. Worn out, Marietta went up to bed soon after he left again. She passed a miserable night, despising her weakness because, knowing the threat Diccon posed, fearing him and wanting to hate him, she could not stop loving him.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns Page 24
