Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  Mrs. Cordova sighed. “I fear you are right, Mr. Vaughan. On more counts than one.”

  * * *

  “Of all the chawbacons!” exclaimed Vaughan stretching his cold hands to the kitchen stove at Lanterns. “How could you not have expected it would pass to you? After your great-uncle’s death surely you realized it was a possibility?”

  Diccon tilted his chair backward, settled his spurred heels on the kitchen table, and regarded his friend drowsily. “With one great-uncle, one uncle, and two cousins between me and the title, why should I suspect that illness would claim two, the war another, and a hunting accident the last?”

  “Even so, anyone who turns down a proud and ancient title such as yours should be placed under strong restraint!”

  “Did you gallop all the way from Town to give me that unwanted opinion? Or have you joined the ranks of treasure hunters?”

  “Treasure?” Vaughan sat straighter. “What treasure? I demand that you tell me at once!”

  Diccon groaned and appealed to MacDougall, who was busied with potatoes at the sink. “I can’t bear it. You tell him, Mac.”

  The Scot obliged, inserting several pithy opinions of his own which made Vaughan chuckle and Diccon swear. When the tale was told however, Vaughan’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “What a jolly good hunt we’ll have! Is that why you’re here, Major, sir?”

  “Oh, no,” said Diccon mildly. “I came to murder my mama so as to get my hands on my inheritance. Past time, wouldn’t you say?”

  MacDougall threw down the potato and waved his hands in the air, muttering a furious burst of Gaelic at the ceiling.

  Vaughan watched Diccon uncertainly, then laughed. “Long past time. I’ll keep your ghoulish secret provided you do not give me the room in which the poor lady is buried ’neath the floorboards.”

  Diccon’s rare and brilliant grin was slanted at him. “You’d be better advised to go back to Greenwings, Joss. Ti Chiu is fouling our good Sussex air.”

  “Ah,” said Vaughan, sobering. “So you know.”

  “Did you come to warn me?”

  “I did. How did you find out?”

  “He found me. Broke in here a few nights back and we had a slight tussle.”

  More Gaelic rumbled from the direction of the sink.

  “And you’re alive?” said Vaughan, incredulous. “I thought you looked a shade wrung out, but the great lout must be losing his power. Last time we encountered him he levelled … how many of us?”

  “Six, or was it seven? But I think he came here only for The Sigh of Saladin, not for me. If he’d recognized me…” He shrugged.

  “It would be a case of ‘de mortius nil nisi bonum,’” said Vaughan lightly. “So you want to run me off from a jolly good adventure! Blister it, Diccon! That you have survived to the ripe old age of three and thirty astounds me, but the fact that you’re six years my senior don’t make you my grand-papa, so stop being a marplot!”

  “My good idiot, in the spring we spoiled Imre Monteil’s scheme to make off with a fortune in stolen objets d’art. We extricated his chosen lady, who is—”

  “Who is to become Mrs. Valentine Montclair next month. I brought your invitation, by the way.”

  Diccon’s eyes brightened. “Did you, by Jove! That’s good news! Which doesn’t alter what I was saying. Between us, we ruined and infuriated a very dangerous man, and he swore vengeance on—”

  “On all of us. After you let him get away!”

  “I let him—” Diccon swung his feet down from the table and said indignantly, “Devil take you, Vaughan! I did my damnedest to—” He checked, glared, then said reluctantly, “Well, I suppose you’re in the right of it. I did. The more reason—”

  “For me to tuck my tail ’twixt my legs and scamper off, eh? What good would that do? After they dealt with you, they’d come after me, sure as check! There’s safety in numbers, my tulip.” Vaughan raised a silencing hand as Diccon started to speak, and added airily, “Besides which, I’ve a far more compelling reason to stay at your tumble-down ancestral pile.”

  Diccon knew that dreamy look. Incredulous, he shook his head. “So soon? Ye Gods! Can I believe it? You’ve found another ‘one and only’!”

  “I’ve found the only one, rather. Oh, I know you’re not in the petticoat line, but how can you live so near to the exquisite Miss Warrington and not have noticed how glorious she is?”

  For a moment Diccon watched him levelly and in silence. Then he said quietly, “She is much admired.”

  “Admired! She should be besieged by men who would adore her! Worship her! Be honest now—have ever you seen such a beautiful lady?”

  “Once. A long time ago.”

  Remorseful, Vaughan exclaimed, “Gad, what a clumsy clod I am! My apologies, old fellow! I shall say no more about it.”

  Diccon gave a dismissive gesture, and there came a muffled grunt from the sink.

  Typically, Vaughan was able to control his exuberance for only a moment, then he burst out: “But having loved, you can understand how I feel, can’t you? Those sparkling eyes. The shapeliness of her. The pretty way she has with her little laugh, and her soft voice. Can you wonder that I took one glance—well, very few—and was enchanted? She is a fairy-tale princess, personified!”

  Diccon wandered over to push more wood into the stove, then stood gazing down at it.

  Very quiet now, MacDougall turned from the sink and watched him.

  “Do you mean to court her?” asked Diccon.

  “I mean to win her! And I shall! Uncle John and Salia will adore her, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she will love Greenwings, surely?”

  “It’s a beautiful old place.”

  Vaughan glanced at his friend’s broad shoulders uneasily. “You have reservations, I think. Oh, Jupiter! Is she bespoken? Have I formidable competition? I’d the strongest feeling that she was as much affected as I.”

  Diccon’s fist clenched hard. “Of course you have competition,” he said harshly, turning to face the dismayed younger man. “You saw her beauty and her gentleness. Did you also have time to consider her courage? Did you stop to think how hard it has been for a gently bred-up girl to be reduced to living in near poverty? To have to juggle duns and try to outmanoeuvre an irresponsible brother and a foolish spendthrift father? I think her greatest fear is that she may not be able to keep them all together, but thus far she has contrived, and managed also to keep a cheerful spirit and not go about bemoaning her lot. She is as valiant as she is beautiful, and she deserves the best, Joss. The man to claim her must offer her comfort and a release from worry and care. And above all—undying love and constancy.”

  Astonished, Vaughan exclaimed, “Be dashed! Who’d have suspected a fire-eater like you to spare a thought for such things? I’m glad you approve. At least…” His brow wrinkled suddenly. “I think you approve. Was that a low lance you just hurled? About—constancy? I may have fancied myself in love a time or two, but—”

  “Or a dozen!”

  A frosty note came into Vaughan’s voice. “You have a list, perhaps?”

  “Devil I do! But from what I’ve heard there was a beauty in Spain—something to do with a bullfighter, I think St. Clair said. And several other ‘one and onlys’ whilst you were in the cavalry. Then came the beauty Rich Saxon eventually married—”

  “Felicity Russell,” said Vaughan, grim-lipped now, and coming to his feet to stand very straight, as though in a tribunal. “And Alicia Wyckham, whom I would have wed, only she changed her mind. I know now that I gave my heart to not one of those lovely creatures. Nor did any of them suffer at my hands, I promise you. Can you claim as much?”

  The flush drained from Diccon’s face leaving him very pale. For a moment the guards were down and his eyes betrayed him. He ducked his head and turned away. “No,” he said in a hoarse half-whisper. “You are—perfectly right and—”

  But Vaughan had seen that stricken look, and with a muf
fled exclamation he sprang to clap an arm about the other man’s shoulders. “I had no right at all! I’m a hasty-tempered, brawling maggot-wit and don’t deserve my friends. You know my faults and naturally fear for the lady … and—” Glancing past Diccon, he encountered MacDougall’s eyes. The Scot, he knew, had always liked him, and the glare that was scorched at him now struck like a physical blow and shocked him into belated comprehension.

  He drew back, and looking at Diccon’s averted face, demanded, “All right. Let’s have cards on the table. Who else courts the lady?”

  Diccon sat down and said wearily, “Among others, my stepbrother, Blake Coville.”

  “Deuce take it! Is that make-bait lurking about here?”

  “Yes. And about her. And there are a couple of other fellows. Neither fit to wipe her shoes, but one has money. Her father favours Coville.” He gave a short and bitter laugh. “Thinks he’s plump in the pockets.”

  “Ain’t he?”

  “He was. But he’s a gamester. I suspect he’s under the hatches. I doubt Sir Gavin knows that. At all events,” he forced a smile, “you are the most eligible bachelor, Joss. I wish you—the best of luck.”

  “You lying rogue!” growled Vaughan. “You do nothing of the sort! You love her yourself!”

  Diccon linked his hands between his knees and stared down at them, saying nothing.

  MacDougall growled and strode forward, the long paring knife glittering in his hand.

  “And your Scottish humbug knew it!” accused Vaughan bitterly. “Are you going to let him slit my gizzard with that potato peeler, Diccon?”

  “Don’t be a fool. He wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Aye. I would, that,” argued MacDougall his aspect fiercer than ever. “Sooner than let this pretty stripling come ’twixt yersel’ and the lassie!”

  Vaughan uttered a strangled howl. His face flaming with rage, he leapt at the Scot. “Damn you! How dare you call me—”

  MacDougall sprang to meet him, the knife flying upward.

  In a lithe uncoiling, Diccon was between them. A twist and a heave, and Vaughan hurtled across the table and took it down with him. Diccon’s fingers clamped around the Scot’s wrist. “Drop it!”

  All the fierce pride of his fighting clan was in MacDougall’s blazing eyes. The grip around his wrist tightened inexorably, but he would not release the blade. Diccon said softly, “Please, Mac.” A smile crept into his eyes and he added, “He can’t help it, you know. I think the poor cawker was born in a volcano.”

  MacDougall had never been able to resist that half-smile. He grunted, and the knife clattered to the floor. “It’s yersel’ means tae step aside wi’oot a fecht, then, is it?”

  “I’ve never had the right to address Miss Warrington, much less fight for her hand.”

  “Mon, ye addrrress her every time ye look at her!”

  Vaughan crawled back into view, and peered blearily over the edge of the table. “That was a deuced fine … toss, Major, sir,” he panted. Where’d you—where’d you learn it?”

  “From one of Claude Sanguinet’s Lascar cut-throats in Dinan.” Diccon helped him to his feet. “My apologies. But I don’t have many friends. Can’t afford to have them killing each other.”

  Dour and silent, MacDougall righted the table.

  Diccon steered Vaughan into a chair and asked, “Do you mean to call me out, Joss?”

  Vaughan sighed heavily. “I rather suspect we’re at Point Non-Plus. I can’t in honour court my friend’s chosen lady.”

  Diccon looked down at him and knew that here was a man worthy in every respect to marry his beloved. Young, thoroughly decent, courageous, handsome, and with a large fortune. The urge to strangle him was strong, which was pure dog-in-the-manger selfishness. It was not impossible for Vaughan to have formed an immediate and lasting attachment. If he himself really loved her—and Lord, how he loved her!—he should be rejoicing at her opportunity to make what everyone would consider a brilliant match.

  He was, he discovered, incapable of such saintly behaviour, and it was as much as he could do to admit, “My own case is quite hopeless, Joss, else I promise you I’d fight for her every step of the way. But—if I must lose her, I couldn’t wish to lose to a better man.”

  “Thank you kindly,” said Vaughan acidly. “But I’ve no wish to win by default.” He frowned. “Of course, you are a—er, a touch old for her, and that might—”

  “Nine yearrrs isnae a major gulf,” growled MacDougall.

  “Nine? Why, if she’s a day over nineteen, I’ll—”

  “What?” gasped Diccon, his head jerking up.

  “Hoot-toot! ’Tis Miss Fanny is the laddie’s one and only!” howled MacDougall.

  Vaughan stammered, “Eh? You never supposed—?”

  “You said ‘Miss Warrington,’ you block! Marietta’s the elder.”

  “Oh. But you argued that she’s so beautiful, and I thought surely—”

  “So she is, deuce take you! What—are you quite blind?”

  “Well, I—er, I—” To each man his own vision, thought Vaughan, and said with rare tact, “I suppose once my eyes had rested on Miss Fanny, I simply didn’t see anyone else!”

  MacDougall was at his elbow with a beaming grin, a mug, and a bottle of cognac. “Will ye no sluice some o’ this over yer ivories, Lieutenant?”

  “By George, but I will!” said Vaughan.

  “We all will!” With not a twinge of saintly regret that Marietta had just lost a splendid suitor, Diccon raised his mug. “A toast to your good fortune in having found your true ‘one and only,’ Joss. And may your courtship prosper!”

  “And yours also,” said Vaughan. They drank again and he exclaimed, “Hi! I’ve had a thought!”

  MacDougall lifted his glass willingly. “Losh, but we’ll drink tae that!”

  “No—seriously,” said Vaughan. “If I win my lovely lady, your lovely lady won’t be obliged to marry for convenience, Diccon! Don’t you see? I’m perfectly able to support the family! And you needn’t tell me you’re too destitute to be an acceptable parti! You may not claim your title, but you’ve a fine old name, and I seem to recall your mentioning once that you’ve a sizeable inheritance from your grandmama, to say nothing of all that back pay still owing you! And only look at this splendid estate. Oh, I know it’s been let go to seed, but if you was to turn it into a producing farm it would likely support you comfortably. There! Our troubles are over!”

  “If the lassies will hae either of ye,” qualified MacDougall.

  “Of course they will,” said Vaughan. “How could they refuse such a dashing pair? I’ll own I never expected to have a rascally free-trader for a brother-in-law, but barring that complication, there’s nought to stand in our way! Here’s to love and a pair of betrothals!”

  Diccon echoed the toast heartily. The threatened barrier between them had disappeared, which was certainly a cause for rejoicing, and not for the world would he throw a shadow over Vaughan’s happiness. But there were still formidable obstacles in his own path. Firstly, of course, was the tragedy of his mama; and then, even if Vaughan was accepted and the financial security of the Warringtons assured, Marietta might not want Diccon Paisley for her husband. Furthermore, the menace of the Swiss and his mighty killing machine, Ti Chiu, remained, and Sir Gavin and Blake Coville had to be reckoned with. The final and most potentially deadly threat was the newly arrived letter now residing in his pocket. But perhaps he was borrowing trouble. More than likely his suspicions were completely unjust. They had better be unfounded, by heaven! They must be!

  * * *

  “If you was to ask me, miss,” said Mrs. South, leaning over the counter of her tiny haberdashery and post office and speaking in a hushed voice, “that queer foreign lady takes advantage, expecting you to collect her mail!”

  Marietta had walked to Cloud Village on this cool morning to buy knitting wool and some buttons for Fanny’s new evening gown. She took up the two letters addressed to Madame Olympias in
care of Sir Lionel Warrington, and gave Mrs. South the three letters to be sent off. She could not but feel deceitful when she replied excusingly that Madame Olympias paid a generous rent in exchange for being allowed to leave her caravan on dower house property. “All we really do in return is keep an eye on the caravan and pick up her letters and messages.”

  “Aye, but it’s an imposition, if I may be so bold as to say it. What’s more, with all the open land round here, I don’t see why that there caravan has to be on Lanterns’ property!”

  “Why, Madame Olympias has to leave it somewhere safe, you know. She is in Town most of the time.”

  “Even so, there’s something very strange about that Madame, if you was to ask me. No one never sees her come. No one never sees her go. And where do she come from or go to? Aha! There you are then, ain’tcha! On top of my boy disappearing of hisself like that, I mean! I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

  To Marietta’s relief Mrs. South’s surprise was forgotten when Blake Coville came in, ducking his curly head as he entered the little shop and brightening it with his easy, assured charm. He dazzled Mrs. South with a smile, and bowed to Marietta. He had chanced to catch sight of her as he was driving through the village, he said, and nothing would do but that he take her home.

  The sky was acquiring a whitish look and the wind was a little more chill than she’d expected, and her shawl too light to provide much warmth. Marietta accepted Coville’s offer gladly, and made a mental note that some story must be conjured up to shield her aunt from a suspicion of witchcraft.

  He carried out her small parcels and handed her into the stylish curricle. “What luck to have captured you!” he said with an air of triumph.

  “Lucky for me, certainly. I thought you had gone back to Town, so that Sir Gavin could meet with the—er, sheikh, did you say?”

  He threw the warm rug over her knees, swung into the curricle and took up the reins a small villager had held for him. “Correct, ma’am.” Tossing a coin to the child, he guided his team along the cobbled street. “I could scarce wait to get back here. Dare I hope you missed me? You were in my thoughts every—”