Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles

by Patricia Veryan

  "No, I assure you. Matter of fact, our Claude did me the favour of restoring my memory. Now—tell me quickly, how many are outside?"

  "Two, I think. Claude told Gerard the fewer who know of this night's work, the better. But—love, we must go to Charity. She and Agatha are locked in our room, threatened that I will be hurt if they dare make a sound!"

  "By Gad! Fella's downright indecent!" snorted Devenish, using Claude's pristine sheet to wipe some of the black from his face.

  Shotten was mumbling incoherently and sitting up. Tristram jerked him to his feet. Devenish uttered a triumphant exclamation and snatched a mace from the wall, only to stagger at the weight of it.

  "Behind the door, Dev!" said Tristram. "Now, Mr. Shotten—you will call in your comrades." He pressed the razor sharp dagger against the flabby jowls. "The slightest misstep…" he said softly.

  Tremblingly eager to be of service, Shotten yelled in execrable French, "Paul! Andrei Come quick!"

  "Dreadul!" said Tristram critically, and the hilt of the knife thudded against Shotten's bullet head, restoring him to slumber.

  Paul and Andre plunged into the room to be faced by a tall, grim, bloody man with lethal fists. Paul met the challenge unhesitatingly. Andre whirled to the door and was confronted by a black apparition wielding a mace and screeching a demented "Aaieee!" Stupefied, Andre's hesitation was just sufficient for the mace to swing, and Andre was granted a respite from worry.

  "Rachel," said Tristram breathlessly, passing one of the daggers to her. "Cut the sheet into strips, love. We must tie these carrion, Dev."

  They set to work at once, Claude being the first to be trussed up and gagged.

  "You were splendid," said Tristram, blinking a little because of the pounding in his head as he bent to secure a knot. "Whatever made you think of coming down the chimney?"

  "Didn't. They put me outside after I suffered my delicious seizure, so I shinned up the tree and tried to swing in through the window as you'd originally planned, you'll mind. Good thing you didn't attempt it, Tris. The blasted rope broke! Dashed shoddy workmanship. Hold this knot a minute, will you? Luckily, I fell right on top of one of the guards who was toddling about in search of someone to impale. He was, as you might say, thunderstruck!"

  Rachel gave a gurgle of laughter. "But"—she handed Tristram another strip of sheeting—"how ever did you get into the chimney?"

  "Wasn't easy, ma'am. Shall I start on Gerard, Tris? I went up the tree again—all the way to the top, but it began to sway about like the deuce. Then I thought of encouraging it, and when I was close to the roof, I jumped. The only way in that I could find was through the chimneys. I'd never have managed had I been built on the gargantuan lines of some people I'll not name." He flashed a murky grin at Tristram. "It's a regular maze in there! I crawled about for hours, it seemed, but luckily, I'd a tinder box with me. Almost set fire to some of the soot, once. Gave me a nasty turn, I don't mind telling you! Then, I chanced to hear our garrulous host gloating, so I decided to—ah, drop in."

  "Remind me to thank you properly, when we're out of this." Tristram turned his attention to Shotten. "Oh, by the bye, my name's Leith."

  "Good God! Not Lord Leith's son and heir?"

  Rachel darted a swift and startled glance at Tristram, stared at him for a moment as he nodded, then asked tremblingly, "Do you need any more strips, dearest?"

  "This little lot will do nicely, thank you. Dev—did you have a look at Benet's paintings?"

  "I should jolly well hope not! Haven't the slightest desire to, what's more!"

  "Well, you must, for I can make neither head nor tail of 'em!"

  They worked swiftly, then Tristram stood. "Rachel— come love. Just a quick look, and we'll go to Charity."

  They left their securely tied victims and hurried along the silent corridor to Benet's workroom. Inside, Tristram found that the painting he'd used as a projectile had been carefully restored to its easel and was seemingly little the worse for wear.

  Devenish sniffed and remarked that something was burning.

  "There was a small fire," Tristram explained. "Well now, Dev," he held up a branch of candles. "What the devil are they?"

  "Blasted rum, is what," Devenish decreed, peering curiously. "Who'd want to hang rubbishing stuff like that?"

  "Hang it!" Rachel said scornfully. "I'd not hang it in a stable!"

  Tristram stared at her. "In a stable… !" he breathed. "That's it! And now I recollect that Claude said they were screens! They are, by God!" His elation faded into puzzlement. "But—why? Well, London must answer that question."

  Devenish asked, "What in the name of the Bishop's goat are you babbling about?"

  "Not now, Dev. No time. See if you can get Rachel back to—" He checked, surveying his friend judicially. "Jove! You look like some demented dervish. I'd best go. You stay here and fashion a rope of the curtains, or something, so as to lower these two delightful works of art out of the window. Take them off the boards and roll them in a sheet and—"

  Devenish and Rachel exchanged alarmed glances. "It's his head, poor fella," quoth Devenish.

  "Dearest," said Rachel, "you never mean to take them with us? We shall be lucky to escape, ourselves, especially with my loved sister to get clear. I do not see why—"

  "Trust me, love," he smiled, bending to drop a kiss upon her brow.

  "It'll take more than a buss to make me trust you," Devenish grunted.

  Tristram laughed, then stepped to swing open the door and peer into the hall. All was quiet. He turned back into the room. "Sweetheart, on second thought, I'd best give a hand here. Dare you creep to the top of the stairs and warn us if anyone comes? We'll not be a moment."

  Glad to be of help, Rachel nodded and ran quickly into the corridor. Tristram assisted Devenish to remove a painting from the easel. "I did not want Rachel to hear this, in case I'm mistaken about these screens. If I'm right, we may get the girls safely away, but you and I will have to find our own route. Everything will depend upon your doing exactly as I say, Dev."

  Charity uttered a sob of relief when the petit salon door opened to admit her sister and Tristram. Rachel ran to her outstretched arms and tried to comfort her. Agatha, bending above a faintly wailing Dr. Ulrich, exclaimed, "Thank the good Lord! We've been proper beside of ourselves! Oh, sir! Your head!"

  "Never mind that. Agatha, you must go at once to Raoul.Tell him to bring the new black carriage as close to the side door as possible. If he's questioned, he can say that Miss Charity became very ill and Ulrich wants her taken to his hospital—or some such. Hurry now, there's a good girl."

  Smiling at him admiringly, she nodded and fled.

  Tristram crossed to the mirror above the mantel and scanned his reflection. His face was bloodstained, but the large lump he cautiously investigated was hidden by his tumbled locks, and the cut had not bled so profusely as to result in splashes on his shirt or jacket.

  Rachel hurried to him with a bowl of water and a cloth and said urgently, "Come and sit here, dearest," and when he had obeyed, began to bathe his face.

  "What's the matter with Ulrich?" he asked.

  "I gave him the 'medicine' he intended for Charity. You see how it has restored him!" And slanting a contemptuous glance at the doctor, she said grimly. "Wretched man! You deserve a deal more than you now suffer!"

  "Yes. The plague, at least." Tristram added thoughtfully, "Does Claude know you drugged him?"

  "No. He obviously thought him in his cups."

  He chuckled and looked up at her, his eyes dancing despite the fierce throbbing in his head. "It will serve. Rachel! By God. but it will serve us well!" He stayed her gentle hand for an instant, to kiss it. "With your help. love, by dawn we shall be en route home to our grey and rainy little island!"

  Chapter 16

  "Oh, there you are, Captain!" cried Madame Fleur, in exaggerated relief. "It is quite unlike Claude to leave his guests, and I've not seen him this half-hour and more! Oh, my goodness! I'd not
stopped to think! Is it the poor little Strand girl? I declare I have been quite overset with anxiety for the dear child! Is she—er—very ill?"

  "Hush, ma'am," Tristram said in a dramatically low tone, leading her to one side of the ballroom. "Claude wishes it to go no further than the few of us who know." He glanced around again as though every ear in that hot and crowded room was stretched to them, then gestured to the hall. When they stood in the middle of that large chamber, he went on, "Your nephew asks that you be so good as to help us get the poor girl to the doctor."

  "Wh-what… ?" she stammered, her eyes widening with fright. "Oh—lud! Rachel said something about its being c-contagious, but—"

  "Ssshh!" Tristram glanced to the two interested footmen beside the doors. "There is no cause for panic."

  "P-Panic? Oh—no, no. B-But I thought Doctor Ulrich had arrived."

  "So he has. Unhappily, it appears he also had thrown out a rash and is now in near as bad case as the girl."

  "R-r-rash… ? S-scarlet fever… ?" she gulped. "Oh, God! Not— The Pox?"

  "Monsieur Gerard has ridden for another physician, but you can appreciate it will take time, ma'am. And now that Rachel is feeling in queer stirrups, Claude wants both ladies sent at once into Dinan. The abigail cannot manage by herself, and Claude does not wish word to spread to the servants. You understand."

  "Oh, I do. I do. But—but, do you know, Captain, I am— feeling rather unwell, myself. I think I had best go and lie down upon my bed."

  "But, you cannot, ma'am! Monseigneur had hoped you could ride in the carriage with—"

  "Quite impossible! Claude shall have to do that! I must to my chamber!"

  "Claude has been put into isolation by Dr. Ulrich. He fears he may also have contracted the disease. It is so curst swift, you see. Madame—" He caught her arm as she backed away. "You must not abandon me! I've no authority here!"

  She wrung her hands distractedly. "If only Guy were here, but— Tiens! He was taken ill shortly after dinner and has not stirred from his room since! Is—is he… too… ?"

  Surprised by this intelligence, Tristram dropped his eyes, shrugged, and said nothing. His very silence fanned the flames.

  "Oh, what a wretched business this is!" wailed Madame. "I knew no good would come of it. One cannot trust the English! Your pardon, sir, but fact is fact! How any girl of breeding could invite hundreds of guests to her engagement ball, and then expose them to the plague!" She threw up her hands. "It is beyond my understanding. Antoine! Antoine! Over here, foolish creature!"

  Tristram's feeble and insincere plea for caution was ignored. No sooner had the exquisite Antoine joined them than his aunt proceeded to regale him with details that grew ever more lurid. When she ceased speaking, he was as pale as she and recalled an engagement in Paris that would necessitate his leaving this very hour.

  Tristram scolded severely, "This is ridiculous! You are monseigneur's kindred. One, or both of you, must help. Miss Rachel is able to walk, but her sister must be carried down, and monseigneur wishes us to use the back stairs so as not to alarm the guests."

  Antoine fussed and Madame whined, but the end result was that the two sturdy footmen were summoned and, with faint, knowing grins, followed Madame, Tristram, and Benet up the stairs.

  Agatha answered Benet's cautious knock at the door of the petit salon. Her face was very white, and the shadows Rachel had carefully painted under her eyes made her look as if she'd not slept for a week. "Thank heaven you are come!" she exclaimed tremulously. "Miss Charity's very bad, Mr. Benet, and Miss Rachel so ill, sweet lamb! Are these men to carry them to the carriage?"

  "That," one of the footmen spoke up, his sneering grin fixed on Tristram, "must wait for what Doctor Ulrich says— eh, Leon?"

  His broad-shouldered colleague nodded grimly.

  "Excellent," said Tristram. "I'm glad to see you're not afraid."

  Some of the mockery faded from the man's hard eyes, replaced by an uneasy look, but his friend smirked, "You intend to accompany the ladies, I have no doubt?"

  "I?" Tristram fell back a step. "Er—well, I would be overjoyed. But monseigneur required only that their abigail accompany them."

  It was a telling stroke. Obviously unnerved, Claude's minions yet clung to their intention to receive Dr. Ulrich's orders. Agatha waved them impatiently into the room and closed the door. "The doctor is laid down upon Miss Rachel's bed, poor man," she offered. "This way, you two!"

  She opened the door into the bedchamber. The one called Leon took one look at the doctor's limp form and fairly leapt back. "Mon Dieu! Do but look at his face! It is the pox!"

  His comrade viewed that livid, spotted countenance, crossed himself and retreated precipitately. "D-do you wish us to carry the English mademoiselle downstairs, doctor?" he croaked.

  Ulrich opened one bleary eye and mumbled incoherently.

  "Enough!" said Tristram. "The ladies are ill, and you stand here shivering. Agatha—do the Misses Strand have their cloaks? Miss Charity must be wrapped in a blanket as well and carried to the carriage. Do you not agree, Monsieur Benet?" But when he turned around, by some strange change both the artist and his aunt seemed to have been summoned elsewhere. Emulating their example, Leon volunteered nobly to hurry downstairs and open the rear door.

  Tristram nodded, stifling a grin as Leon made a dive for the corridor.

  In Charity's room, Rachel sat on the bed supporting her sister, whose countenance was so alarming that Tristram could scarcely contain his mirth. The remaining footman gulped something about "summoning aid" and shot from sight.

  "By heaven, I believe we've cleared a path to the back door, at least," Tristram said jubilantly. "Will Raoul have the carriage for us, Agatha?"

  "Yes, sir. He says as he will. It created such a bobbery when I told him, for word had got out that Miss Charity has 'something catching,' and all the other grooms and stableboys wanted to know what ails her. I said I'd been told not to say nothing."

  "Excellent." Tristram swung the "expiring" Charity into his arms and smiled down at her. "Courage, ma'am. We shall do nicely so long as you look sufficiently stricken. Agatha, do you support 'poor' Miss Rachel. Come now."

  The wide corridor was deserted. Music could be heard from the ballroom, but it sounded as though many people were gathered in the lower hall, their voices considerably agitated. Tristram led the way, walking swiftly to the rear stairs. If they could just get the girls into the coach, he thought prayerfully, the worst part of the battle would be won. A maid, carrying a jewel box upstairs, took one look at Charity's face, uttered a screech of terror, and ran for her life. At the foot of the stairs a small knot of servants peered at them in horrified awe, several of the women whipping their aprons over noses and mouths. A grim-faced footman began to push his way through. The housekeeper, wearing bombazine and a lace cap, suddenly screamed, "The pox! It is! The pox!" and before that dread cry the scramble to get clear became a riot. The footman, however, was made of sterner stuff. He stayed a distance behind them, but one hand was inside his jacket, and his eyes were alert.

  At the end of the hall, Tristram called over his shoulder, "Well, for Lord's sake, man! Come and open the door!"

  The man hesitated, then sprang forward to swing the door wide.

  Raoul had not failed them. The large black coach, with four matched black horses between the traces, waited. Of Devenish there was no sign.

  Seized by a sudden sickening doubt, Rachel murmured, "Tristram—you will—"

  "Get in, quickly!" he urged, sotto voce.

  She glanced frantically at the powerful form of the footman, bit her lip and climbed into the coach, Agatha following. Well aware that the footman was only inches behind him, Tristram said, "Here we go, ma'am—mind your head now," and ducking his own head, carried Charity up the steps to deposit her on the seat beside Rachel.

  Very white, Rachel put a hand on his sleeve. "You do not mean to come! I knew it!" She started up. "I'll not leave without—"

  Th
rough the far window, Tristram saw more guards watching, faces suspicious, weapons held ready. He pushed Rachel back down, hard. "You will do as I say!" he commanded sternly. "Do not spoil this, love. I cannot accomplish it any other way. We will join you—never fear."

  "No—but—"

  He sprang down the steps, and slammed the door, shouting, "Off with you! To the doctor's house—as fast as you can go!"

  He had a brief impression of Rachel's horrified and blotchy face at the window, then the horses had leaned into their collars, and the carriage was gaining speed and rolling swiftly down the drivepath.

  The footman was very close now, and the little knot of watchers across the yard started forward.

  The door suddenly burst open again, and Monsieur Benet rushed out, his man following with valise and dressing case. "Poor girl!" Benet said, twitching with nervousness. "I sympathize. I really do. Do not stand there gibbering, Ransom! My chaise! At once!"

  His arrival was but the start of the avalanche. A valet shot past calling for the carriage of the Comte Dolbe; a maid, pale and frightened, summoned the barouche of Monsieur and Madame de Young, and in a flash the yard was crowded with shouting servants, bewildered grooms, and frustrated guards.

  Devenish appeared, wearing a fine jacket of maroon velvet, and with his face much cleaner if somewhat grimed here and there. "Claude's," he twinkled in response to Tristram's curious glance. "Didn't think he'd mind. We'd best—"

  Above them, a window was suddenly flung up. Claude leaned out, scanning the chaotic scene. The lamplight was not brilliant, but Tristram's height betrayed him, and Claude howled, "Do not let them escape! Imbeciles—stop them! At all costs—stop them!"