Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (44 page)

Light flooded along the dim hall as the end door was flung
wide. Robert Mount (better known to Euphemia as John Knowles-Shefford),
clad in a brown velvet lounge jacket and light beige pantaloons, the
lamplight gleaming on his golden curls, stood in the aperture, a woman
peeping over his shoulder.

Hawkhurst tore blanket and hat away and leapt forward, an
inarticulate snarl of rage escaping him.

Mount gave a shocked cry, flung the glass he held at the
on-rushing man, and sprang back, whipping the door to, but Hawkhurst's
shoulder smashed it open. He caught a glimpse of an incongruously
elegant parlour, richly draped and carpeted and graciously furnished,
and of a beautiful woman, clad in a flowing blue silk gown and running
clear of his maddened charge.

Never one for hand-to-hand combat, Mount wrenched open the
drawer of a walnut escritoire. Hawkhurst launched himself across it.
Mount jumped back, holding a small pistol, but the toppling escritoire
slammed against him, and he went down, Hawkhurst crashing onto him.
Still gripping the pistol, Mount swung it upward. Hawkhurst, his
fingers having barely locked around the throat of his enemy, was forced
to abandon his hold so as to smash the weapon away. At once Mount drove
a fist against his jaw, twisted free, snatched up a marble clock, and
swiped it at Hawkhurst's head. Dizzied, but coming to his knees,
Hawkhurst ducked. The clock caught him a glancing blow, starting the
cut above his temple to bleed copiously again. For an instant he could
see only wheeling lights, but pain was a distant thing which must not
be heeded. Mount was already on his feet, and he was after him like a
tiger. Frantic with fear, Mount caught up a chair and flailed it in a
vicious arc. Hawkhurst swung clear, and it flew on across the room to
miss the woman by inches, drawing a terrified shriek from her.

"Stand and fight, you cowardly rat!" roared Hawkhurst.

Mount, however, dodged desperately, heaving whatever he could
lay hands on at his enemy. Pursuing him grimly, Hawkhurst was aware of
a continuing uproar in the corridor and knew that a battle royal was
under way out there. Colley was acquitting himself well. Mount had
backed into a corner, and, triumphant, Hawkhurst started forward. A
heavy tread sounded behind him, and something smashed into his back,
beating the breath from his lungs. He went down hard, the shock sending
pain lancing through his leg from ankle to thigh, but to relax was
death, and so he rolled, started up doggedly— and froze.

His cheek grazed, and his curls sadly disarranged, the
shoulder of his jacket ripped out, Mount yet grinned his triumph. One
hand was tightly twisted in Kent's hair; the other again held the
pistol which he waved tauntingly, so that at the end of each wave the
muzzle ruffled the fair hair of the boy's temple. "Excellently done,
Japhet," he wheezed, and Hawkhurst saw that the large individual Colley
had recognized as a member of the High Toby stood smirking at him, a
leg of the shattered escritoire gripped in one beefy hand. So that was
what had brought him down. Panting, he fought his way to his feet, his
eyes drinking in his son. The boy's fine hands were bound before him,
and a bruise at the side of his mouth accentuated his extreme pallor.
Yet he did not weep; his eyes instead fixed upon Hawkhurst with an
expression varying between adoration and anxiety. Hawkhurst summoned a
grin and winked encouragement. The highwayman gave a mocking laugh and
rammed the improvised club into his ribs, staggering him. Enraged,
Hawkhurst crouched, fists clenched, poised for battle, and the large
man advanced willingly.

"No, no, Japhet," Mount chuckled. "Rather, go and stop all the
clamour before we have the Watch here! As for you, Hawk, I admire you.
No, but really I do! Look at him, Anne. He is as close to
indestructible as any man I've met."

"Despite your efforts to the contrary, eh, Robert?"
Hawkhurst's head tossed back, and the look of boredom Mount had never
been able to tolerate was very pronounced.

"But I had no intention of killing you, dear Garret. Not for a
long time yet. Do you refer to my little games with Mohocks and other
commodities, plus your former friend's hunting gun?" He shrugged slyly,
"One must have
some
fun, after all. And you'd
come off so damnably easy. I knew I must be sensible, of course, but
there were times when I simply could not restrain my desire to… ah,
make your life a little more, shall we say—uncomfortable? I had
intended to kill you worrying, and paying, until my son was a few years
older. Oh, yes, Eustace is my own—and it seemed poetic justice that he
should inherit Dominer." He sighed. "But this…" His merciless hand
shook Kent's head savagely, "… complicated matters. How you ever found
him, I cannot know, but I am now compelled to call a halt to the game.
Sad. For you have not paid nearly enough for the death of my love!" He
grinned and tightened his grip so that Kent's mouth twisted with pain.

The anguish on that small face roused Hawkhurst to a rage he
could scarcely contain. Watching him, Mount chuckled, but his mirth was
short-lived. Kent brought his heel crunching down onto his tormentor's
slippered toe. Mount let out a yowl and sent the boy hurtling across
the room. It was all Hawkhurst needed. He rocketed forward and seized
the pistol. Mount swore and hung on like grim death. From the corner of
his eye Hawkhurst saw the woman run forward, an upraised dagger
glittering. Dismay seized him. Perhaps, he thought desperately, even if
she stabbed him he might be able to put an end to Mount. The knife
whipped down, and his back muscles tightened in anticipation of the
thrust. A shout died in a shocking cry; he caught a glimpse of Colley
staggering back and falling to his knees as the woman fled from the
room. Abandoning his hold on the pistol, Hawkhurst chopped savagely for
the throat. Mount squawked, and his grip loosened; the pistol clattered
down, and he crumpled, dragging Hawkhurst with him as he caromed into a
chair. They went down in a tangle, the wrenching fall leaving Hawkhurst
sickened with pain. Mount's hands fastened in a choking hold around his
throat. Instinctively, he swung up his arms, somehow succeeded in
breaking that grip, and with all his failing strength drove a short jab
at the classic jaw. Mount grunted, sagged, and lay un-moving.

Sobbing for breath, Hawkhurst rolled over and dragged himself
to his feet. "Get… up, you poor… lunatic."

Mount was perfectly still. Hawkhurst limped towards the fallen
pistol. He flashed an anxious look at Colley, who was crouched on his
knees, head down, with blood trickling from the hand that clutched his
arm.

Watching from under his lashes, Mount timed it nicely, and
kicked out hard.

White hot agony seared through Hawkhurst's leg, and a
strangled cry was torn from him. He had no recollection of falling, but
found himself sprawled on the carpet, waves of nausea blinding him and
reducing Mount's cackling glee to unintelligible echoes. As from a
great distance, he saw the pistol and groped towards it, but another
hand snatched it up.

"Watch, dear friend," Mount jeered, all his hatred in that
sibilant gloating. "Watch, while I pay you in full!" And the pistol
swung slowly until it pointed not at the man, but at the terrified
child huddled in the far corner.

"No… !" groaned Hawkhurst. "Not the boy!
Mount
,
for the love of God…" He fought frenziedly to stand, but could only
crawl, his agonized gaze on that deadly pistol.

"Look, Hawk," Mount giggled and aimed carefully.

Hawkhurst managed to get his left foot under him, but his
attempt to stand reduced the room to a shimmering grey blur, and he was
down again, Mount's cackling laughter echoing in his ears. He raised
his head and saw Avery pressed against the wall, his terrified little
face so very white. Tearing at the rug, fighting madly to drag his
failing body up, his fingers encountered something solidly heavy. The
clock Mount had smashed at him. He grabbed it.

"Mount!"

In immediate response to that changed tone, Mount spun.
Hawkhurst threw the clock with all his might. It struck the pistol
barrel in the same instant Mount pulled the trigger. The weapon was
slammed upward, and the explosion, sharp and shattering, was followed
by the bloom of smoke. Through that screen, Hawkhurst saw Mount topple.
It was very apparent that he would never get up.

Panting, Hawkhurst sagged forward, bracing himself on his
hands, eyes closed and head hanging in exhaustion.

"Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! Do stop playing about,
Hawk!"

Dazedly, he peered upward. Lord Gains, one eye blackened, a
swelling contusion across his cheek, scanned him indignantly. "Food's
terrible here," he imparted, hauling him to his feet. "Be damned if
I'll stay!"

Sobbing silently, Avery flew across the room, and Hawkhurst
snatched him close and hugged him, eyes blurring with tears of
thankfulness. But, trying to walk, he would have fallen save for Gains'
ready arm, and his lordship said very gently, "It would help Mr.
Hawkhurst if you would walk, young fella." Avery clambered down
instantly and grabbed Hawkhurst's right arm supportively with his bound
hands.

Draper came in, surprisingly holding up a battered and sagging
Chilton, and Coleridge was struggling to his knees.

Gains scanned his brother tautly. "Damned fool! Can you
navigate?"

"I've got him, sir," said Draper, eyes widening as he saw
Mount's sprawled body. "You help Mr. Hawkhurst. No, over here! Hell's
loose down below. We'll never get out that way! Quick! Quick now!
There's a side stair somewhere about— likely that flash cove's private
entrance." He led them to the rear door, opened it hopefully, and sure
enough it gave onto a rickety balcony.

The sudden transition into the freezing cold cleared
Hawkhurst's muddled brain. He was being guided to stairs and, as he
stumbled wrackingly downward, called, "Colley? Are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine… Hawk," gasped his cousin staunchly. "But… but
Chil ain't very good."

"Best… damned fight I was… ever in," Chilton groaned, barely
able to set one foot before the other.

Somehow, they were down and clear of the insanity that was The
White Rose. Even as the little party reeled and staggered away, a
window exploded outward and a man's body hurtled through. Dark figures
were thumping down the stairs. A hoarse voice shouted, "Murder! Stop
'em!" And two ruffians raced after them. Sampson, inexplicably delayed,
gladly joined the game now, pranced down the steps and between the legs
of the man in the lead. With a surprised yell, he went down; his cohort
tumbled over him, and the chase ended abruptly.

Draper ran ahead and brought up the curricle, the horses tied
on behind. The casualties were boosted inside; Gains climbed into the
saddle of one horse, and Draper mounted the other.

"Hawk," said his lordship, putting the reins into his hand,
"your leg's leaking, I know, but it will have to wait until we're away.
Then we shall stop and tend to the three of you poor cripples. Can you
drive, old fellow?"

The words came as from a great distance to Hawkhurst. His back
ached viciously, his head pounded, and his leg was pure torment. And he
could have sung for joy because, huddled on his lap, the small body
pressing against him was his son! " 'Course can… drive!" he said, faint
but indignant. "Lead on!"

The fog swirled around them as they started off. The cold was
bitter and the night very dark. For quite some time, as they went, they
could hear from the old tavern, the crashes, shouts, and screams of
battle.

Ears up and tail wagging, Sampson led the victors towards home.

Dominer was ablaze all through that foggy evening and far into
the night. Flares were set at intervals of ten feet all along the
drivepath for some distance up the estate road, and grooms patrolled
with lanterns as far as the London-Bath Road, hoping to encounter the
curricle. Inside, the drawing room was bright with candles, the glow as
cheery as the faces of those gathered there were glum.

Euphemia, hands folded in her lap, was very pale, but she
waited quietly, fears held in check. None of them had enjoyed very much
sleep, and, although they had rested in the afternoon, they were all
tired, but no one thought of bed. Surprisingly, Lady Bryce had shed her
die-away airs and was a pillar of strength, comforting Dora, keeping
the Admiral well-plied with the cigarillos she loathed, and doing
whatever she might to ease the tensions of this interminable vigil.

At two o'clock, Ponsonby carried the tea tray in for a second
time, followed by Mrs. Henderson, bearing platters piled with little
cakes, hot scones, and biscuits. Her eyes on the slow creep of the
clock's hands, Euphemia scarcely noted their arrival. Hawk had been
gone more than twelve hours…

The Admiral stirred the tea Carlotta handed him and, leaning
back without tasting it, said suddenly, "Do you know what I was
thinking? How the little fellow used to like me to tell him of
Trafalgar." His voice cracked, and he puffed on his cigarillo, so that
he all but disappeared in the resultant cloud of smoke.

"I have been thinking the same, sir," said Euphemia. "And of
how many people would be enchanted by your reminiscences. You should
set it all down, you know. Not only from the historical sense, for I am
sure that will be done for years to come, but for the little human
incidents you have told me of. I feel sure it must be a great success."

"Do you now?" He stubbed out the cigarillo and took up his cup
again. "By George, it's an idea! Would give me something to do."

"Do you know what
I
have been thinking?"
Dora murmured. "I have been thinking of how dreadful it would be—at
such a time as this—to be alone. Not to have loved ones near. Thank
heaven we have each other, for fear is such a terrible thing." She
sighed mistily. " 'Fear has many eyes and can see things underground.'"