Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles

by Patricia Veryan

  "A duck, sir. But if that annoys you…"

  "Annoys me?" Claude slipped his free hand through Tristram's arm and, walking between them to the stairs, said warmly, "How could anything you do annoy me? I am eternally in your debt. As to clothes, your groom at chambers has already called in the tailor. He awaits you now, and by tomorrow your ball dress shall be ready."

  "Tomorrow? Is that possible? I am scarce an easy fit, you know."

  "True." Sanguinet's quizzing glass was upraised and swept his guest from boots to crown. "My, but you're a big fellow. Even so—I assure you, the problem is small compared to others we have—ah, dealt with. My people, you see, are hand-picked, and are highly—efficient. Now, you will, I beg, accept my apologies, but my steward has assembled a host of matters requiring my attention. I shall look forward to bettering my acquaintance with you at luncheon."

  Tristram bowed, and Claude watched him speculatively as he started up the stairs. Turning to Rachel, he said, "My love, my love, you grow more beautiful each time I behold you. Yet—do I detect a certain—disquiet?"

  "I am very glad you have returned," she answered in a low tone. "Gerard insisted Captain Tristram stay. I have tried to be polite, but—"

  "But? My dear girl! The gentleman saved your life, no?"

  "He was brave, I own. But we repaid him. Guy allowed him to be carried over to England on La Hautemant; he was funded and given clothes. Surely, that was sufficient?"

  He laughed softly and, twining one of her curls about his finger, mused, "My funny little English girl. How quaint you are. Is there a price on one's life? Your so precious life, especially? His face is sadly marred, I admit. Does that give you a disgust of him? He must have been a well-enough looking fellow at one time, and certainly of gentle birth, for both speech and manners are impeccable. What so displeases you?"

  Rachel sighed. "I cannot really say. Except—once, when he was delirious, he spoke of—murder!" She raised frightened eyes to his face. "I cannot but be uneasy in his presence. Claude, I wish you will send him away!"

  "A murderer?" He glanced after the now vanished Tristram. "Why, how very interesting. I must certainly learn more of the fellow."

  Rachel walked along the corridor with eyes blind to the sumptuous decor and a heart heavy with a sense of impending disaster. Tristram must not attempt that desperate assault on the second floor! He would surely be seen, and then— She shivered, trying not to believe what her instinct told her would happen, but she had a sudden mental picture of Gerard's acid smile and cold eyes; of the brutish faces of some of the guards. Dear God—it did not bear thinking of! And surely such things did not happen to ordinary people. But Claude was not an ordinary person. There were ghastly stories concerning British officers captured during the war. A spy would warrant even more savage treatment; especially any man daring to spy on a Sanguinet!

  A lackey had flung open the door to her bedchamber, and here she stood, motionless in the corridor, like a total henwit! She murmured her thanks and hurried inside.

  Her intention to sit by herself and try to think of a way out was abandoned at once, for from the petit salon came the sounds of weeping. Tossing hat, riding whip, and gloves onto the bed, she flew to open the connecting door. Agatha was the lady in distress, kneeling huddled beside Charity's chair while the girl bent forward, trying to comfort her.

  "Good heavens!" cried Rachel, hurrying to them. "Whatever is wrong? Is it Raoul?"

  "N-no, miss." wailed Agatha, apron to streaming eyes. 'it's—it's—"

  "It is me," said Charity, sternly. "Rachel—were I able to stand, I would shake you! Hard!"

  "What… on earth?"

  "She made me tell," Agatha gulped damply. "M-Miss Charity tricked me, and—"

  "And extracted the truth as to what has gone on all these weeks! Though it needed very little to confirm what I already suspected. Rachel—" Sudden tears swam into Charity's shadowed eyes. "Oh—Rachel! How could you? How could you think I could—could bear to know you had's-sacrificed yourself for—for me?"

  "Dearest!" Rachel's own eyes filled. She leaned to embrace her sister, and they wept together, all three, until the ridiculous aspects of this scene striking her, Rachel sniffed, "What a… set of watering pots… we are!"

  Drying her eyes, Agatha stood, and they all began to talk at once. Agatha, striving to justify her 'betrayal'; Charity, confessing she had bullied the poor girl into it; and Rachel, assuring them she forgave them.

  Clasping her sister's hand tightly, Charity said, "Come— sit here beside me. Now—promise me, darling: No more secrets, else you will make me feel my days are numbered!"

  "I promise. And, oh, how wonderful to be able to unburden myself! Now," Rachel smiled mistily, "as proof of my reformation, I will tell you all that I know." She recounted a somewhat edited version of events, omitting only the depth of her fear of Claude. Her revelation of Tristram's plans brought a gasp from Charity, and a small scream from Agatha. "You see," she nodded gravely, "how hopeless it would be. It is not possible that the Colonel could gain entrance from the outside without being observed. And—and if the guards saw him—"

  "My poor dear!" Charity squeezed the hand she held. "You must be utterly distraught." She extended her other hand to Agatha and, looking up from one to the other, said softly, "We are three sensible women. Between us, surely, we can think of a scheme to help Colonel Tristram!"

  Rachel said ruefully, "You were not taken aback, were you, Charity? Have you suspected Claude all along?"

  "No! Oh, no! Nor imagine me an ungrateful wretch, I beg you! But—but I'll own I have found it hard to quite like him. And, oh, forgive me, dearest, but—I always knew that whatever he did for me was not really out of affection. He found me, if anything, rather… contemptible."

  Rachel winced. "I wish you had told me."

  "How could I, when he had been so good? And I could never be sure but that you truly nourished a deep fondness for him. He was such a support to you when Papa died. And—oh, is it not dreadful to feel so wretchedly guilty?"

  "It is indeed the horns of a dilemma," Rachel admitted, with a sigh.

  Agatha, whose expression had become increasingly irate, now put in vehemently, "Horns is right! And on monsewer's head, was you to ask me! I'm sorry, Miss Rachel, but you hasn't seen him like us servants do! Nor the poor folks what work on his farms and estates. His brother's not as bad as he is, and they call him Monsewer Diabolique—did you know it? Parnell, I mean. Not Monsewer Guy. I got nothing 'gainst him."

  "Why, Agatha!" Rachel exclaimed. "I'd no idea you entertained so strong a dislike of monseigneur!"

  "Dislike's a thin word, ma'am, when it comes to that one! By what my Raoul tells me, there's been many a good man killed what was in Monsewer Claude's path. Not straight out, you understand. But accidents-like. Carriages what goes and drives theirselves off of hillsides. Men just chancing to drop into pools and drown. Diplomatists driv to doing away with their poor sorry selves 'cause they was made to do what they knowed better'n to do! And—hands? Lor', Miss Rachel! There's no serving maid in this chateau but what has blushed for liberties taken! I could carry on for a hour, I could!"

  "Pray do not," said Rachel, pale and stricken. "Heaven forgive me! What have I brought you both into?"

  "Nothing we cannot get out of," Charity asserted bravely. "Do not forget the ball on Saturday. There must be many guests who would not refuse a plea that we be removed from this house!"

  Rachel thought that there would likely be not a one among the guests who did not have cause to fear the powerful Sanguinets, but she said only, "And on that same evening, everyone will be downstairs, in or near the ballroom, do you not think?"

  "Never doubt it, ma'am," nodded Agatha. "There'll be good food a'plenty on all tables, and none of the servants far from getting their share."

  Scanning her sister's thoughtful features intently, Charity asked, "What is it, love? Have you thought of some plan?"

  Rachel drew a deep breath and leant for
ward conspiratorially. "Yes. A very desperate one, yet not I think, so desperate as the Colonel's scheme. But—I shall need your help…"

  Claude Sanguinet was silent for a long time after Gerard had finished his report. Watching him as he leaned back in the chair behind the desk of this beautifully appointed study, Gerard wondered how it could be that so much power, so much driving ambition, could be contained in so insignificant a specimen. Were it the soldier, now, the nature of the beast might not seem so implausible. Still, Bonaparte was not a big man—nor, it was said, had been Caesar.

  "Do you know," murmured Sanguinet, glancing up from the nail he pared delicately, "I am always touched to discover loyalty in my staff."

  Gerard inclined his head with grave gratification.

  "On the other hand," Sanguinet went on, "my pleasure is reduced does loyalty stem from a less—shall we say, noble?— impulse." He waved the small knife he held and smiled beneficently. "You follow me?"

  With an unpleasant dryness of the mouth, Gerard said, "I am not sure that I do, monseigneur. I thought I was acting in your best interests, and—"

  "And yours, also?" Sanguinet resumed the care of his nails and, after a very quiet moment, observed, "Forgive, if memory serves me ill, but—was there not one Colette? A bewitching creature who brought enchantment to my nights a few years back?" A swift glance was directed at the stiffly immobile man before the desk. "When she ceased to— enchant, I gave her to you. Did I not?"

  "You are unfailingly generous, monseigneur."

  "Ah, well done! Still, do you know, I have forgot what became of the child. You did not wed her, I think?"

  He knew. Damn him, he knew! Rage so consumed Gerard that he quivered with it, but his voice was even and colourless when he spoke. "She ran away, monseigneur."

  "So she did! How clumsy of me to resurrect so unsettling a memory. Indeed, it astounded me at the time that she could be so lacking in judgment as to choose a—what was the fellow?"

  "A baker. Sir."

  "A baker. To choose such, over yourself!" Sanguinet clicked his tongue. "Inexplicable."

  A small pulse beginning to flicker beside his right eye, Gerard said, "His baking days are done, monseigneur."

  "Yes. Such a pity. But—it grieves me, Gerard, to say so gauche a thing, but—however soon she ceases to enchant me, I shall not give away—my wife." And he leaned back, regarding his steward with a faint smile, the little knife waving gently back and forth.

  "I—I do not take your meaning, monseigneur."

  "I suspect that is because there is—nothing to… take, my dear Gerard. Still, I must try to be less obscure in my remarks. Now, as to our soldier—is he lover—or spy? I was at first surprised you had allowed him to stay. But you have done well. He is a worthy opponent, I think. I wonder what is his family? Do you know this?"

  "No, sir."

  "And, would-be Nabob, Justin Strand. Have you set about discovering his whereabouts?"

  "I have, sir."

  "How delightful." Claude smiled comfortably. "I think we may have a most pleasant week-end, Gerard. Most pleasant."

  His face schooled to cool impassivity, Gerard reflected that the week-end would be so much more pleasant did he rid the world of the aristocratic savage behind the desk. On the other hand, Sanguinet paid so well. And when his plans were brought to fruition the rewards would be enormous.

  Claude glanced up. Gerard smiled, bowed, and left him.

  Chapter 13

  The great chandelier that hung above the dining table blazed with the light of its fifty candles; the crystal prisms sparkled like diamonds, and the mirrors lining both long walls reflected the luxurious room so that it seemed lit by a hundred rather than one chandelier. This being the small, or family, dining room, the table was a mere fifteen feet in length and, seated at its head, Claude smiled from Rachel at his right hand, to Tristram, at his left. "How gratifying this is," he said in his gentle way. "If you but knew, Monsieur le Capitaine, how I have yearned to meet the gentleman who rendered my lady so great a service." He bestowed an adoring smile on the quiet Rachel. "If only I might be of some equal service. For instance—to restore your lost memory. How vexing that must be. I heard that at the onset you scarce knew whether you were French or English, and indeed your French is better than that of many of my countrymen." With a whimsical arch of the brows, he asked, "Are you—quite sure upon which side you fought, sir?"

  "I can be sure of nothing, actually," said Tristram, refusing the escargots the manservant offered. "I suspect I am English, however. I trust that that does not distress monseigneur?"

  "How can you say this? No, no. I am, au contraire, most fond of your—Perfidious Albion."

  Claude rested a fond glance on his betrothed, but the glance that was slanted at him from further down the table was far from fond, seeing which Tristram tensed, and Antoine Benet, seated directly across from Devenish, simpered, "You should not use this term, my dear Claude. You have offended Monsieur Alain."

  "No—but I am shattered!" cried Claude. "Monsieur will forgive me, I trust. I intended no offence."

  Scarlet, as all eyes turned to him, Devenish stammered, "Not at all. I did not—I mean, I—"

  "Ah, then it is our naughty Antoine." Claude's pained anxiety relaxed into a smile. "He is put out, do you know, because I have placed Monsieur le Capitaine in the place of honour. Now, never look so horrified, my dear Antoine. I am not displeased with you. Perhaps we may persuade Monsieur Devenish to pose for a portrait. That would placate you—no?"

  Benet's dismay eased, and with an eager gleam brightening his weak eyes, he agreed, "It would delight me, cousin. But you mistake, do you suppose me in any way distressed by my position at table." He beamed across at Devenish. "Monsieur Alain—so French a name, is it not delicious?—will you sit for me? It is the dearest wish of my heart. To transfer such perfection of feature to canvas—ah, an artist's dream!" He cast his eyes ceiling-ward and placed one white hand upon his thin chest to express his rapture.

  "Good… God!" muttered Devenish, squirming, and with his own eyes miserably fixed upon his plate.

  "Regard me this, I implore you, mes amis," urged Benet, now fluttering his hand aloft to summon all attention. "Note the line of the nose—your head lift up, I entreat, Monsieur Alain. The chin—so firm and yet so shapely. The tender mouth, the—"

  "Enough! Enough!" laughed Claude. "Our poor Devenish will quite murder you, Antoine. Oh! Your pardon, Captain Tristram! Again, I commit the faux pas!"

  By not so much as the flicker of an eyelash did Tristram betray himself, but Devenish directed a startled look at him, seeing which, Claude's lazy smile widened.

  "Faux pas?" Tristram repeated blankly. "But—how so, monsieur?"

  "You must call me 'Claude.' And you must also please disregard my—bow drawn at random as it were. A clumsy attempt to prod your reluctant memory, my dear sir. And all, apparently, to no avail. That such as yourself should be so afflicted is quite insupportable. I cannot and will not allow it to continue! No—do not seek to dissuade me! My physician, Dr. Ulrich, arrives tomorrow, and I mean to insist that he examine you. He may have some—er, technique to jog your power of recall."

  Rachel smothered a gasp. Devenish was openly frowning at his host. Tristram thought, 'Why, you devious little weasel!' and said aloud, "There are no words to express my feelings, monseigneur."

  An appreciative gleam lit Claude's eyes, and he raised one hand in a slight gesture reminiscent of a fencer acknowledging a hit.

  "Nor to express my impatience," struck in Antoine's affected falsetto. "I am beside myself, fairly beside myself! Claude—I demand your aid! Intercede with this so splendid but atrociously shy Devenish! Upon canvas I must put—"

  "But I am crushed," Rachel intervened, alarmed by the savage irritation in Devenish's taut features. "You have not yet finished my portrait, Antoine!"

  In the act of raising his wineglass, Claude checked for an instant. He set the glass down and, before Antoine could respo
nd, asked, "And do you like what you have seen of your portrait, my dear?"

  "She has not seen it!" Benet struck in, his eyes frightened. "I did not let her go up there, Claude! You know I—"

  "But—why ever not?" Claude's tone was bland as ever, but watching him, Tristram saw a brief but quelling glare. "Really, Antoine, you speak as though— Guy!" He sprang to his feet, smiling warmly to the man who had wandered into the room only to halt, staring in astonishment at Tristram. "Welcome, my dear brother!"

  "What—in God's name . . . ?" gasped Guy Sanguinet.

  "Ah, yes. You are acquainted with Monsieur le Capitaine, so I am informed," Claude nodded.

  "Yes. But—"

  "I came with a message for Miss Strand," Tristram offered, coming to his feet.

  "From her brother," Claude nodded. "Do, pray be seated, Guy—I cannot have my poor guests inconvenienced. Ah, that is better. You doubtless saw Justin Strand, since you are newly arrived from England, eh?"

  Those dread words seemed to Rachel to hang suspended upon the fragrant air. It appeared to her that even the flames of the candles ceased their flickering as she waited, like one frozen, for the inevitable denouement.

  "Oui," said Guy, frowningly. "But I'd no notion he had seen you, soldier."

  Rachel had to sink her nails into her palms to conceal her overwhelming relief. Devenish's jaw dropped ludicrously. Claude smiled his suave smile and was silent.

  Inwardly astonished, Tristram said, "Just before I sailed. He is most anxious that his sisters go home at once." Despite his calm assurance, his brain was racing. Justin Strand had apparently been so accommodating as to return to England. Guy's narrow scrutiny, however, might well presage an accusation. It was all too likely that the man knew he'd not so much as laid eyes on Strand, in which case it might become necessary to fight his way out. His gaze flickered about the table. Benet would present no problem, and Claude was not the athletic type, though he probably had a derringer concealed somewhere about his person. Guy, while an innocent by comparison to his brother, presented the greater physical threat, and those two large footmen at the doors had the same hardness of eye that marked the guards. It would be a close-run thing, he acknowledged grimly, even with Dev siding him.