Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  He looked very grim now. Grateful, she said, “How kind in you to ask. Actually, I was fortunate in a way. They thought I was Rachel, you see, and Claude did not want anything to harm her before the babe was born.”

  One dark eyebrow lifted. “Did he not, by God! So it was Leith’s child he was after!” He whistled softly. “A good hater is our Claude!”

  Charity nodded, and they walked on in silence. Suddenly, to his surprise, Charity gave a little ripple of laugh ter. In response to his curious glance, she said, “I just realized what you said—the Emperor of the Darrochs—such a good name for him.”

  Redmond stared at her, then said gravely, “You are a remarkable girl, Miss Strand. Between us, I pray we may contrive so that these miserable islands become the sum total of Claude’s kingdom.” Little Patches suddenly shot between them and raced ahead towards the stone stairs. “I came down here on the chance of discovering something,” Redmond went on. “But to no purpose. Have you learnt anything of Claude’s plans?”

  “Yes. I expect you already know most of it. For instance, that he means to murder the Regent.”

  “So Diccon was right! Please go on, I’ve not been a great success as a spy, I fear. Claude’s been a touch close-mouthed with me.” He grinned. “Don’t think he trusts me yet.”

  “And will trust you less if Guy tells him who you really are.”

  “Aha, Guy’s here, is he? I was afraid he was the kinsman Claude referred to.”

  “Thanks to me, he knows you’re here now.” Distressed, Charity met his startled glance. “Guy is an old and dear friend. I know he would help me if he could, and he swears he will allow no harm to come to me. He was with me when I warned the boy not to recognize you. I should have thought— But I feel so safe with Guy. Only, something he said later…” She bit her lip. “Oh, I do so wish I hadn’t identified you. I should’ve had more sense!”

  “It wouldn’t have made much difference. He’s sure to see me, sooner or later. Unhappily, I’m known to him—to many of Claude’s people, in fact.”

  “And yet you came. How mad of you! But thank God you did. Now, let me tell you as much as I know.” As quickly and concisely as possible, she put Redmond in possession of what she had learnt. At the finish, he was very quiet, his face set in stern lines. Abruptly, he swept her a low bow. “Miss Strand, I salute you. You are a spy par excellence! Now I think we must reappear before we’re missed. You go first—take your ravening beast, and if you’re questioned, explain that you were searching for her. One thing, you are perfectly sure of this Lion? He sounds suspiciously similar to a lad named Dick whom I caught lurking about your home in Sussex.”

  “I’d not be surprised. But there is much of good in him. As there is in Guy…” She broke off, then said distractedly, “How terrifying it all is! I scarce dare think of what will happen if Guy feels bound to tell Claude—”

  “Then don’t think of it,” he said bracingly. “Guy is of a different mould to Claude, thank God! Perhaps he will not betray us. Go! Off with you, now.”

  Hesitating, her anxious gaze upon him, she asked, “But, what do you mean to do?”

  A wry smile touched his mouth. “Jove, do you fancy I’m ready with a plan of campaign like our superb Wellington? I must disappoint you again, for I am a mere mortal man!”

  “But—but you must have some plan?”

  “Only to leave this island paradise. Today, if possible, since we cannot go yesterday.”

  “Oh. How?”

  “Madam, begone!”

  But as she turned and reluctantly started away, he added in a penetrating whisper, “I don’t know how. We shall just have to play the cards as they are dealt. And—pray!”

  Chapter 12

  Charity returned Little Patches to her suite withut incident, went back downstairs, and followed the sounds of conversation and laughter into a lavishly decorated salon, rich with crimson velvet, crystal chandeliers, thick rugs, and gold draperies. Quite a crowd was gathered, but the moment she entered Claude was at her elbow and she was introduced to a succession of cold-eyed men, most of whom, in some capacity or other, were his employees. Amazed by his effrontery, she looked up to find him regarding her in amused expectation. He bent to her ear. “Aren’t you going to cry out for help? It would be so diverting.”

  She clenched her hands and tossed her chin a little higher, but said nothing.

  “Admirable,” he said with a chuckle. “Such poise, such dignity. I vow, Monsieur Rivers, the women of your land may look sweetly soft, but they have the core of steel.”

  Charity darted a glance at Redmond as he sauntered up, impressive in shades of grey. He sneered at Claude’s remark, but she did not hear his answer. That he should be present in such a gathering horrified her, and the ensuing two hours became an interminable nightmare. The food was served buffet-style, and people seemed to drift in and out unannounced, so that she was in constant dread lest someone arrive who knew him. If Redmond shared her apprehensions, he gave no sign of it, apparently thoroughly enjoying himself, and so relaxed and at ease that she began to seethe with irritation because he did not have the sense to take himself out of so perilous a situation and retreat to a quiet corner where he could be unobserved.

  Meanwhile, Charity did not lack for company. Many of these mercenaries sought her out since she was one of very few ladies present. When they discovered that she ignored them, however, they soon gave up, and moved on to more congenial company. As she had expected, the food was superb, but she had no appetite, contenting herself with a small puff pasty and a glass of lemonade. She had to fight to conceal her anxieties and to avoid seeking out Redmond’s dark head, easily discernible above the crowd. She thought she was succeeding until a suave voice murmured, “Your countryman fascinates you notwithstanding, mademoiselle?”

  She stiffened. “If one could be said to be fascinated by evil, monsieur.”

  Sanguinet offered a glass of ratafia and handed her plate to a hovering lackey. “You eat like the little bird,” he scolded. “I shall instruct my chef to prepare a very British dinner expecially to tempt your appetite.”

  She reminded him that she was a notoriously small eater, and then came near to fainting.

  Guy Sanguinet strolled into the room. His eyes flickered over the gathering and stopped abruptly when they came to Redmond. As though he sensed that he was being watched, Redmond glanced around. Charity’s blood seemed to congeal; she found it difficult to breathe as the seconds stretched into an eternity. Still the two men looked at each other in a silence that became excruciating. Surely, she thought, everyone else in the room must be aware of this tense confrontation. Guy would denounce Redmond. He must, or betray his brother by remaining silent, which he had said he would not do. And then Redmond turned away, Guy wandered over to a group of sea captains at the buffet table, and Charity could breathe again. Astonishingly, no one seemed to have noticed anything out of the way. Claude was chatting with a distinguished older gentleman at a side table. Charity breathed a silent prayer of thanks and took a healthy gulp at her wine.

  Trying to recover her equanimity and watching the occupants of this luxurious room, she thought how extraordinary was this gathering. Most of these men must be aware of the terrible events that were even now being set in motion; certainly, they knew she was a prisoner here. Perhaps that was why so many avoided her eyes. Perhaps, as ruthless as they might be, to see a lady so blatantly held captive was too much for them to face without shame. Some of those whom Claude had presented had murmured acknowledgements in French, and for them she did not feel such scorn. They might truly believe Claude could prevail and bring their ancient enemy crashing down into defeat at last. However base their actions, they were not treasonable. But the Britons she could not excuse. Even if they despised the Hanoverian succession, they must know Claude for the murdering madman that he was; they must suspect his ultimate ambitions, yet they followed him, lured, she supposed, by his gold rather than by his cause.

  Claude w
as talking to Redmond again. Poor Redmond, she thought. He must be seething with frustration. He had made his way here against tremendous odds, learnt everything he had come to learn, only to be trapped and powerless to get away.

  They came over to her, Guy, looking sombre, bringing up the rear. She had hoped that Claude would be unable to conduct his promised tour of the castle. He had once taken Rachel through his superb chateau in Dinan; Charity had been spared the experience because she’d been confined to an invalid chair at that time, but Rachel’s description of Claude’s pride in his possessions had been sufficient to convince her she never desired such a doubtful pleasure. It had, it developed, been a pleasure deferred. Claude offered his arm as he commenced the tour. Reluctantly, Charity stood, but she did not take his arm. He apologized with a crafty smile for “Mr. Rivers’” presence, explaining that the Englishman had expressed a desire to be allowed to accompany them. They set out.

  An hour later, Claude had ushered them through a wearying succession of elaborately restored salons, lounges, bedchambers, and suites; the kitchens and stillroom; the various dining rooms, galleries, ante-rooms, game room, and an enormous music room. Charity’s fascination with antiquity was dulled by her other preoccupations, but she could not fail to be amazed by the amount of time and money that had been expended on a structure that Claude admitted he had no wish to see again once his coup was accomplished. To brag of his possessions and his achievements delighted him, and he discoursed at length upon the history of the castle which had, he said, been constructed in the twelfth century by a deposed Scots clan chieftain.

  They went downstairs again at last, and he rested one well-manicured hand upon the ten-foot-thick outer wall. “They built well,” he observed, “else this great fortress she would not have so long survive the atrocious climate. But you, dear mademoiselle”—he turned suddenly to Charity—“do not view my castle with pleasure, I think.”

  She had been pondering on how unfortunate it was that two burly footmen were bringing up the rear, but she responded without hesitation that she preferred gentler structures, gentler climes, gentler people.

  With an amused smile he said, “And how unfortunate that I am about to show you my war room, which is not so gentle as the chambers we have seen thus far. Still, Mr. Rivers will find it interesting, perhaps.”

  He led them to the basement, the corridor now brightly lit, and along the length of it to the room at the end with the double doors Charity had seen earlier. It was a vast and chilly apartment, hung with every imaginable type of weapon, from a slingshot to a very modern rifle that brought a brief consternation to Redmond.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed, walking over to inspect it. “I’d heard about these. Didn’t know they’d been perfected.”

  “Not perfected, exactly,” purred Claude, “but—”

  “Monsewer.” A beefy man with a coarse English accent slouched into the room, and Charity’s heart gave a frenzied jump. “Cap’n Elkins wants as—” He halted, his craggy features reflecting shocked recognition. Crouching, he snarled, “Redmond!”

  Mitchell was already leaping forward. A derringer flashed into his hand, and gripping Claude by the hair, he jammed the little pistol under his ear.

  Eyes round with shock, Claude shrieked, “Kill him! Dolts! Mindless clods! Kill him!”

  The newcomer started forward. “’E can only shoot once with that there toy!”

  “Stay where you are, Shotten!” Guy waved him to a halt. “That ‘once’ will kill my brother.”

  “Tell ’em to drop their pistols,” ordered Redmond curtly. He twisted his hand in the black hair when Claude was silent, and added in a voice of steel, “They may kill me, friend, but if I go, you go with me, sans doute.”

  His face twisting with pain and rage, Claude gasped, “Do as he says.”

  Reluctantly, three pistols were dropped.

  “You cannot get away!” Claude shrilled. “Fool! Imbecile! Do you not know you are a dead man?”

  Redmond jerked his head at the pistols. “Pick them up, please, ma’am, and keep them for me. We may have need of ’em.”

  She ran to obey, but with one of those unlikely and inexplicable mischances that so often occur to disrupt man’s schemes, fate intervened. One of the pistols that had been flung down was old and not as well cared for as it should have been. The hammer, which had been thumbed back, had remained so, and chose this of all moments to snap down. The shot rang out deafeningly, just as Charity reached for the weapon. Her nerves, already ragged, betrayed her into a squeal of fright. Redmond thought she had been hit, and his horrified gaze darted to her, the derringer wavering for just a split second.

  It was the opening Sanguinet needed. With all his strength, he drove his elbow under Redmond’s ribs and wrenched free. Redmond staggered, fighting nausea as he tried to restore his aim. Shotten leapt forward, uttering a howl of triumph. His fist struck down hard, and the derringer was smashed from Redmond’s hand. Shotten’s hamlike left whipped savagely for Redmond’s jaw, but the slighter man dodged nimbly aside. His right hand was useless, but his left came up in an immediate reprisal.

  The two footmen, however, were upon him. They seized him from behind, wrenching his arms back, one of them swinging his fist high.

  Claude shouted a frantic, “Don’t hurt him!” Then, seeing Redmond helpless, he added softly, “Yet.”

  Guy, who had rushed to Charity, slipped an arm about her. “You are all right, little one?” he asked anxiously.

  She felt sick with shock and fear, and, clinging to him, whispered, “My … fault. My fault. Oh, Guy, they’ll kill him!”

  “Not until they discover how much he knows. How much Diccon knows. Who is in this with him.” A small moan escaped Charity. Tightening his arm, Guy muttered, “He had to come. What folly!”

  Claude had been carefully tidying his hair. He now stepped closer to Redmond, peering up into the high-held proud countenance. “So you are brother to dear Sir Harry,” he murmured. “If you knew … if you but knew how I have yearned for this moment.”

  Redmond said a cool, “I also, monsieur.”

  “The word is monseigneur.” Claude spoke the correction in a low voice that rang oddly. “Say it.”

  Redmond sighed. “Alas, my French is as poor as your English. I had thought monseigneur applied to a prince or a cardinal. Not to a lunatic.”

  Claude’s eyes began to glow with the red light that Charity dreaded to see. He nodded, his smile striking terror into her heart. “Oh, but I shall teach you,” he promised softly.

  “Claude,” said Guy, “I am going to take Miss Strand out.”

  “Au contraire, dear brother. You are going to remain. Miss Strand is going to remain. She knew who this vermin was, did you not, my sly little English actress?”

  With an odd detachment, Charity thought, “It doesn’t matter now. Whatever we do or say, he will kill us both. That’s why Mr. Redmond was defiant just now. He knows it makes no difference. And if he can be so brave, I must try.” She heard her own voice reply, “Yes, I knew.”

  “This was quite logical,” Claude said, surprisingly. “I forgive you it. My brother knew also, however. Did you not, Guy? Of course you did. You were there—a witness—when Parnell left his task half finished. This I shall not forgive, but we will deal with it later.” His sparkling eyes turned back to Redmond. “Why, how pale you are become, my dear friend. Is it because I mentioned my late brother?” He stepped a pace closer, the footmen gripping Redmond’s arms brutally. “Parnell,” said Claude, “was the only creature in this world for whom I had a fondness. And your brother, your miserable worm of a brother, killed him! I swore I would be revenged. Did you know that when you crept in here, you sneaking spy?”

  “Parnell was an unmitigated, murdering rogue,” said Redmond. “Harry was trying to protect the girl Parnell was terrorizing, but he did not—”

  Claude drew back his hand and smashed it hard into Redmond’s face. Charity smothered a sob as Redmond sagged
against the men who held him.

  Claude smiled. “I waste no more time. You brought me a book. You said it was Diccon’s book. Was it?”

  Redmond heard the words dimly. His head rang, and he could taste blood. He said thickly, “Yes.”

  “Do you know,” purred Claude, “I think I do not quite believe this. Why would you give me a notebook you knew to be of such great value?”

  Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, Redmond answered, “It got me in here.”

  “And you gave it me in exactly the same condition as when you received it?”

  Redmond lifted his head and looked this maniac squarely in the eye. He said with a faint grin, “Why, Claude, are you accusing me of forgery?”

  Guy swore under his breath. Charity bit her lip and shrank, waiting for Claude to strike again. Instead, the hot glare in the brown eyes faded. He murmured, “Such admirable courage. Such staunch devotion I find difficult to comprehend. Why, Redmond? Why should an intelligent, educated man such as yourself be willing to risk all for that—that fat little German fool? Do you so revere him?”

  “Yes. Because he is not an individual. To all intents and purposes, he is England.”

  It was said quietly and without bravado, but Charity’s heart swelled with pride. She said clearly, “Bravo!”

  Claude smiled at her. “Guy,” he called, “be so kind as to bring Miss Strand over here.”

  Charity’s knees turned to water. She saw Redmond’s tense face turn to her. The side of his mouth was bleeding a little. She thought, “I must not make him ashamed for me.”

  Frowning, Guy said, “I shall not see her harmed, Claude.”

  “But, my dear, how can you think such wickedness of me? Of course I shall not hurt her. It is quite unnecessary that I do so. Mr. Redmond is going to tell me every detail I want to know—I promise you.”

  Guy murmured, “Be brave, little one,” and led her forward.

  “There,” said Claude, rubbing his hands together and beaming from one to the other of them. “Now we can all be comfortable and not have to lift up the voices. Dear little Miss Strand, you have the fortitude most admirable. But you have also too much trust, you know. Let me explain this. We have here”—he waved a graceful white hand toward Redmond—“a fine example of British manhood. He has looks, birth, breeding, and you see him as a manly, brave fellow, oui?”