Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (42 page)

"
Hound
!" Coleridge exploded. He spun
around. "You have it, by Jupiter!"

Euphemia watched him with a rebirth of hope. Hawkhurst raised
tormented eyes and waited.

Coleridge strode to drop to one knee and grip Hawkhurst's
clenched fist. "Sampson!" he beamed. "Your 'filthy mongrel' has the
best nose in all Christendom! If anyone can smell out our Kent—or
Avery, I should say—it is old Sampson!"

For a breathless moment, Hawkhurst stared at him. Then, taking
his hand between his trembling ones, he half whispered, "Sampson… ?
Colley, do you really think…"

"Yes, by Jove! I saw him at work once when Chil was training
him to retrieve. He hid a riding crop—
miles
from
the main house! Old Sampson went straight to it! The brute thought it
great fun, but I was never more impressed!"

Hawkhurst drew a deep shuddering breath. "It's a slim hope.
But, by God, it's better than no hope at all!" He stood, Coleridge
eagerly helping him up. "Colley," he said, his voice crisp and sure
once more, "tell the grooms I want the chestnuts and the blue curricle.
And send Bailey here, if you will."

With a whoop, Coleridge sprinted from the room.

Hawkhurst took Euphemia by the hands and looked down into her
eyes.

She thought with a pang, Oh, he looks so ill! But she was
truly a soldier's daughter and said only, "May I come?"

"No, my dear. Not this time."

Bailey, who must have been waiting close by, hovered in the
doorway and coughed discreetly. Hawkhurst looked over his shoulder. "My
coat, hat, and a brace of loaded pistols, Ralph. And Master Kent's
nightshirt. Hurry, please!"

Marvelling that he was still able to rally against so
desperate a challenge, Euphemia said, "Darling, surely Gains will not
refuse?"

"It don't signify, for I mean to have his flea-carrier. But,
more than that, I mean to find Mount." His jaw set, and into his
narrowed eyes came a gleam that appalled her. "And when I do," he said
very softly, "I shall kill him, Mia."

She was silent, fearing for his life if he should face his
enemy in this weakened state, and for his sanity if he did not.

Hawkhurst's expression changed then. He tilted her face, his
eyes becoming very tender. "I am a man of no reputation," he murmured,
"a rake and womanizer, my Unattainable one. But, I fear I have an even
worse flaw, for… I am becoming selfish."

Hurrying in with two holstered pistols in one hand and a drab
driving coat slung over his arm, Bailey heard the last few words, and
his face lit up. Coleridge followed, buckling a sword belt about his
slim waist.

Shrugging into the coat, Hawkhurst glanced at his cousin.
"This will be a fight, Colley. I can feel it in my bones. I'd not have
you hurt, boy."

"And I am not a boy." The hazel eyes were steady and aglow
with excitement, the gentle mouth set into a stern line. "I go with
you, Hawk. Or behind you. Either way."

Hawkhurst grinned. "Good man. Come then, we shall go and beg,
borrow, or steal Max Gains' flea-carrier!"

"
Who
did you say?" Lord Maximilian Gains
looked up incredulously from the Spanish doubloon he had been
inspecting, while his brother, who had been reading before the fire,
sprang to his feet, the book tumbling.

Before the footman could repeat his extraordinary
announcement, there was a scuffling in the hall, an outraged shout of,
"You cannot go in there, sir! My lord! Have a care!" and the door to
the study was flung wide, the lackey staggering as he was shoved aside.

Gains dropped his magnifying glass, whipped open a drawer in
the desk, and snatched up a fine silver-mounted pistol. "What the
devil
do you mean by this, sir?" he demanded, aiming the weapon unerringly.

"Max, I need your help," said Hawkhurst, his right hand
lifting slightly to the menace of that long barrel. "Please, if you—"

"My…
help…
? Why, damn your
impertinence! If that ain't the—"

"Sir," Coleridge interjected, "it is a matter of life and
death!"

"You're right there, by George! And if you do not get your
philandering kinsman off my property, it will be
his
death we—"

"Max, I
beg
of you!" Hawkhurst pleaded.
"I will meet you whenever and wherever you choose. But this is for my
son. If you would but listen, I—"

"You treacherous, lying dog! Avery has been dead these four
years! And you've no other son—unless it's one of the many you have
sired on the wrong side of the blanket!"

Chilton Gains, a tall thin young man with brown hair, gentle
eyes, and a face worn by extended illness, had been watching Hawkhurst
intently, and now remarked, "Perhaps we should listen to what he has to
say, Max."

Again, the door burst open. The butler and two footmen, armed
to the teeth, stood with weapons levelled at the intruders, their grim
expressions bespeaking their willingness to fire if need be.

"Remove Mr. Hawkhurst from the premises," grated his lordship
unrelentingly.

His men moved forward.

"I will go," said Hawkhurst. "But not without Sampson. I'll
fight you now, Max, to the death, if I must. But I want that mongrel!"

"You… want… what?" Gains flung up a detaining hand, and his
men halted, looking equally astonished. "But you loathe my—Aha! You
plan to shoot him, eh? What's he done this time? Bitten you, I trust!"

"Sir," said Coleridge earnestly. "Robert Mount has stolen
Hawk's son. We had only just found the boy!"

Gains had never known Coleridge to be anything but the soul of
honour. Taken aback, he stared his bewilderment. His pale face
intrigued, Chilton said, "Mr. Hawkhurst, will you not sit down and tell
us how we may be of service?"

"
Service
!" howled Gains, making a
recovery. "Are you short of a sheet? Haven't you seen how he served me?"

"Yes," nodded his brother, quite unintimidated. "And wondered
often why you never called him out for it. Now we shall perhaps hear
the truth of the matter. A bargain, Mr. Hawkhurst?"

Chafing at the delay, Hawkhurst frowned, but agreed, "A
bargain."

"Very well." Lord Gains dismissed his men, waved his visitors
to chairs, and sat behind his desk, a glint of excitement lighting his
brown eyes. "I hope I am a fair-minded man. Let us hear your lies."

Hawkhurst remained standing, leaning on his cane and fixing
him with a steady gaze. "
Did
you arrange that
landslide, or fire at me from ambush?"

"
What
?" His lordship flushed darkly and
grabbed for the pistol he had just laid down on the desk. In a wild
spring, Chilton was first, however, and snatched the weapon away.
"Villain!" Gains raged, jumping to his feet and shaking his fist at
Hawkhurst. "I've no need to plot and lurk about! Had I wished you dead,
I'd have called you out four miserable years since!"

"But did not. Why? Because you loved my wife? Because you and
she had a more than passing fancy?"

Gains was stunned into silence. The choleric hue faded from
his face. He drew back and turned away and, after a tense pause,
ejaculated in a stifled voice, "Damn you! So, you knew."

"Of course. Blanche told me."

Gains flung around, staring his incredulity, and Hawkhurst
added dryly, "My apologies, Max. But, it was all part of the scheme,
you see. Mount hoped I would call you out."

"You… lie! He worshipped her! And I—"

"Loved her?" Hawkhurst's cynical gaze held very steady, and
before it Gains' shocked eyes fell. "I rather thought you did,"
Hawkhurst said in a kinder voice. "I knew it must have been a consuming
passion for you to, as you thought, betray me."

Gains winced, walked over to the fire and, staring down at the
blazing logs, muttered, "I thought she was… a saint. She seemed to love
me. I swear I… I never meant to—" He turned suddenly and faced
Hawkhurst fully. "I have never felt so utterly worthless. You were my
closest friend. Later, I could not entirely blame you… for what you
did. I fancied I had deserved it."

"Probably you did," nodded Hawkhurst. "But did you also fancy
it my habit to fritter away my spare time by standing about clutching a
glass of vitriol?"

"Why, I supposed you had been intending to clean something,
or—"

"I had, to the contrary, been intending to drink it!"

Bryce's gasp joined two others. Hawkhurst went on, "I believed
it to be water, you see." He sat down and added wryly, "Blanche
arranged it for me."

Gains paled. Chilton swore under his breath. Coleridge's jaw
dropped, and he stared in total horror.

"You had best," sighed Hawkhurst, "hear the rest of it…"

Five minutes later, he finished and stared fixedly at his
outstretched legs. Gains, perched on the edge of the desk, watched him,
aghast, and the two younger men exchanged shocked glances.

"I suppose I always knew it was something like that," Gains
muttered at last. "But I couldn't bear to admit I'd just been a tool.
Nor did I dream Avery was alive. Of all the foul, murderous ploys!" He
sprang up. "Chilton, the bell! Hawk, can you forgive me?"

Hawkhurst struggled to his feet, hand outthrust and eyes
eager. Gains moved forward but did not take his hand, saying instead,
"I'll not let you borrow my hound, though." Hawkhurst's arm dropped,
and Gains went on, "Unless you allow me to come with you."

Hawkhurst grinned. They gripped hands in a firm, lingering
clasp that wiped away four years of bitterness, then, together, moved
to the door. Chilton winked at Bryce, and they followed.

"Brownlee!" shouted his lordship in the hall. "Where's that
confounded dog of mine?"

"The last time I saw him, m'lud," returned the butler, aware
to the last syllable of what had transpired in the study, "he was
asleep on your lordship's bed."

Chilton Gains rode back to the curricle through the thickening
murk of the fog, and Hawkhurst leaned forward to ask, "Where in the
devil are we?"

"Approaching the southwest side of Bristol, I believe, sir. My
brother's having the deuce of a time to hold Sampson now. Can you
credit the good old hound dragging us all this way?"

Gripping his knee painfully, Hawkhurst admitted, "I bless his
every flea if he has brought us to my son. But how do you go on,
Chilton? I hear you've brought a musket ball home with you."

The young man gave a deprecating shrug. "A confounded nuisance
that ties me here when I should be with my Regiment. Not that it causes
me much bother, you know."

Scanning the pale face and strained blue eyes, Hawkhurst
nodded gravely. "I'm glad to hear it. You might tell your brother to
have a care. I'd not wish his ravening brute to warn Mount of our
arrival."

Chilton nodded and rode ahead again, his upright figure
blurring as the mists closed about him. Hawkhurst turned to Colley. "He
should not have come. That side is troublesome." His cousin merely
surveying him with a judicially elevated eyebrow, he smiled faintly. "I
don't like this. Bristol—ships, Colley. If Sampson has led us truly, I
fear Avery may be destined for a cabin boy this time."

They had been driving for hours, Sampson's eager progress
delayed by side excursions into various thickets and riverbanks which
seemingly held Avery behind every bush and tree, each one of which
required the dog's personal attention. Twice, they had been diverted
into chases after rabbits, and the third detour, which proved to have
been inspired by the prowls of an indignant black cat, had provoked
Hawkhurst to growl that he could not conceive how Sampson had "gone
straight to" a concealed riding crop, over more than a mile of land
presumably similarly infested with delicious distractions.

The light was almost gone now, and as they entered the
suburbs, flambeaux began to glow through the misty gloom. Chilton once
again waved Avery's nightshirt under Sampson's nose, and the dog
pranced off untiringly, threading his way through ever-deteriorating
neighbourhoods until they were among noisome slums clustered about
great warehouses. It was bitterly cold, and there were few people
about, but occasionally they passed some hurrying individual, head
tucked down into collar or scarf, hands deep thrust into pockets in an
effort to keep warm. Once they were all but halted by a raucous group
of seafaring men with flashily dressed, bold-eyed women hanging on
their arms. The luxurious curricle and the two mounted men, one holding
a leash at the end of which strained the great dog, attracted immediate
attention. The women screeched mockingly, and the men shouted crude
comments at the "nobs wot's come among us." Surreptitiously, Hawkhurst
checked his pistols and saw his cousin's slim hand drop to his sword
hilt when an arrogant lout lurched towards Sampson, only to leap back
as the dog sprang eagerly to meet him. Gains spurred to a canter,
Coleridge whipped up the team, and the unlovely crew jumped for safety,
their profane resentment soon swallowed up by the fog.

Sampson's excitement was growing, his nose busier than ever as
they turned down a narrow, furtive alley. A place of slimy cobblestones
this, with refuse odorous in the kennels, and rundown, old
half-timbered buildings leaning over the narrow thoroughfare, their
dirty windows draped with sacking or stained and ragged curtains, close
drawn as though to shield whatever went on in those rank interiors.
Soon the lane curved, the buildings to the left ceased, and in their
stead a railing guarded the edge of a steep bank. Below the bank,
another road surface paralleled the street they travelled and, beyond
it, loomed the dim outline of the docks.

Sniffing about frantically, Sampson raced ahead, paused,
retraced his steps, turned back yet again, and stopped, baying madly at
a tavern, the most decrepit, villainous old place Hawkhurst had ever
laid eyes on. The multiple peaks of the roof sagged crookedly; chimneys
leaned at precarious angles; the weathered siding was warped and
stained with age; the windows were boarded; and a heavy chain secured
the scarred front door. The sinister structure was a perfect setting
for an individual having so unsavoury a reputation as Mr. Robert Mount,
and Hawkhurst breathed an impassioned but silent prayer that Sampson
had not failed them, that somewhere inside, little Avery was
captive—but alive.