Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (28 page)

Nanette joined Harry in exchanging farewells with Yves and the
rest of the Frenchmen, but not once did Diccon respond, or look back.
Until he was out of sight his head was bowed as he gazed down at the
small enamelled box reverently clasped in one bony hand.

Long after the last sounds of the departing Free Traders had
faded into the night, Harry half-lay against the tree, staring sleepily
into the fire and struggling to stay awake until Mitchell returned. The
events of the day crowded in on him. So many happenings in so brief a
time. The most important thing, of course, was that his brother was
alive and safe. Then, with a leap of the heart, he thought of his love,
but splintering into that happy contemplation came a puzzling memory of
Diccon saying, "she's been put in my charge…" Put in his charge? Surely
he had implied he'd come upon Nanette accidentally and taken her under
his wing from pure kindness? Yet—how stupid to be in a pucker over such
rattlebrained stuff. The combined effects of brandy and loss of blood
must be catching up with him, and his blasted arm throbbed unendingly.
He shifted, preparing to stand and walk about for a bit, for Nanette
must be guarded… he dare not fall asleep… before Mitch…

"Harry . . ?"

The soft call brought his nodding head up, and with a pang of
guilt he was on his feet.

Nanette said repentantly, "Oh, I wish you will not!" She
stepped closer and reached up to touch his brow, while asking in a
worried tone, "Does your arm pain you very badly? We must…" Her
troubled eyes met his, and that warm wave of colour swept up her
perfect skin. She turned away, faltering, "Do not… look at me… so."

He had been thinking that he would only have to drop the
merest hint and Bolster would buy him a pair of colours. The loan could
be repaid, and then, was he careful, he could support a wife. It would
mean she must follow the drum; not the life he would have wished for
his bride. But—if she loved him
… if
she loved
him! And even if she did, it was possible that her papa was not in the
basket at all but merely a greedy and ambitious man. Perhaps his
brother was a wealthy Cit, or some Indian nabob. Quite apart from the
'Uncle' she loved—yet also despised—her looks and charm had apparently
won her some very eligible suitors. Even without her father's
interference she could doubtless achieve a far more elevated station in
life than would be her lot did she wed a penniless ex-captain, whose
future was as uncertain as tomorrow's weather. His heart sank. He had
so little to offer her—save his love. And in all honour he must not
even offer that until he knew more of her background. Certainly, to
address her now, while she was alone, would be reprehensible, wherefore
he stifled a sigh and forced himself to say easily, "A man must be a
fool not to look at you, for you are exquisite in that gown, my little
shrew."

The familiar nickname brought a ripple of laughter. "Thank
you, Señor Matador! And I shall always cherish this." She glanced down,
fingering her locket gently.

Her bowed head with its dusky silken curls awoke a fierce
hunger in Harry. The need to hold her in his arms was nigh unbearable.

Nanette raised her eyes and immediately turned away. "I must…
go, for I fear—"

"Fear?" he touched her elbow. "Do you still feel unsafe in my
company?"

"No." But she trembled and would not face him, though he
sought gently to turn her. "Only—we have been thrown together in… in
most unusual circumstances. I… cannot but be aware that your natural
impulses must be…"

Harry's arm hurt fiercely, and he felt achingly tired; and,
therefore, swift and uncharacteristic anger flared. "Had I allowed my
'natural impulses' full sway, ma'am, I'd have spanked you—or boxed your
ears soundly at dinner! How dared you flirt so with my poor brother?"

Her own nerves overwrought, Nanette flashed, "
Flirt
with him? I grant you he is a most handsome and charming gentleman,
but—"

"Yes. Blast him!" And he is also inexperienced, and you teased
him abominably, you minx. As well you know!"

Her eyes sparked and she frowned deliciously. "If I enjoyed
the attentions of a fine young man, I do not see the need to ask
your
permission! And before you presume to criticize
my
behaviour, look to your own! The way you fawned upon and sighed over
and worshipped Nerina, I wonder Mr. Fox did not kick you where 'twould
do the most good!"

"And further," growled Harry, stepping even closer to scowl
down at her, "you have more the vocabulary of a coachman than a young
lady from a seminary!"

He was so near, and if his face was set and grim, it also held
an expression she had never seen there before, so that her betraying
heart raced and her breath hastened. "You… do not look at me," she
stammered, "as if I was… a coachman."

"Perhaps," he murmured idiotically, "because I never saw one
wearing… so dainty a white gown."

"Did you… not . . ?" she breathed, just as idiotically. And
with her face upturned, could not look away.

Harry knew only the need to hold her against his heart and
kiss those parted lips. "Oh, Nanette," he thought. "My valiant little
darling girl… my beautiful shrew. I adore you." He reached for her
shoulders, and she seemed to lean to him. Struggling for control, he
clenched his fists and drew back. "We have been thrown together in most
unusual circumstances…" He was trembling, so greatly did he long to
declare himself; but honour must be served. And, therefore, never
dreaming how his eyes betrayed him, he said a raspingly uneven, "Go and
get some sleep, little one." And turning away, began with great
concentration, to add more logs to the fire.

Harry awoke to find the clearing cold and damp, and so thick
with drifting vapours he could scarcely see across it. He lay drowsily
for a while, on the edge of sleep, his thoughts turning backward.
Mitchell had returned soon after midnight, with word that Nerina was
safely restored to her sister. He had refused to answer any further
questions, demanding instead to be told of his brother's adventures
since they had parted in Town. Harry had yawned his way through most of
his tale, having several times been obliged to quiet Mitchell's anger,
or hilarity, as the events were unfolded. For the life of him he could
not recall whether he'd finished the saga or fallen asleep in the midst
of it. He glanced to the side. Mitchell lay close by, sound asleep. The
flap to the tent was still closed, but Daniel was up and already had a
fire blazing and water heating. Harry went over to join him and was
greeted with a bright smile and a note written in the youth's fine,
copperplate hand, conveying the information that Diccon had not
returned and it would be well for them to take to the road early. Harry
agreed, gathered his toilet articles and, with Daniel conveying the
bowl of hot water, made his way to a secluded spot where he proceeded
to wash and shave. His arm was swollen and throbbed dully, the touch of
the air was clammy, and he shivered with increasing violence until he
cut himself and swore.

"Did she turn you down again,
mon Sauvage
?"
Mitchell, a jug of hot water in one hand, watched him.

"Didn't offer again," Harry smiled. "I'd no right to offer in
the first place." He resumed his shaving, thereby avoiding his
brother's too-penetrating eyes as he confessed, "But I'd not realized I
loved her then, you see. I imagined myself nobly offering her a way out
of a difficult situation."

"I see. And now—you do realize. And thus cannot offer?"

"Here? Would you? Under the circumstances we Redmonds have
come to?"

There was no answer. By way of the mirror he had propped in
the angle of a branch, Harry discovered a wistfulness in Mitchell's
lean face. "Perhaps," he said reluctantly, "you should know that I have
no claim on her."

"After near a whole week with the lady? Mitchell's smile did
not quite reach his eyes. "You must be losing your touch, old fellow."

"Beyond doubting. Now, we've much to discuss, but first—tell
me about the Ravishing Beauty. Was her doting sister vastly relieved by
her return?"

"Indeed she was. A fine taking they were in. You'd not credit
the dramatic tale I dredged up to account for her absence, though I'd
time and enough to invent it, Lord knows! How she jabbered! All the
way, or at least until we were stopped and—"

Amused, Harry inserted a curious, "Stopped?"

"Four times, actually. By men hunting for Miss Carlson. And
had it not—"

"For—
who
?" In the act of drying his face,
Harry swung his head up, peering at his brother over the towel.

"That should be whom"," Mitchell corrected, shedding his
jacket.

"When using the personal pronoun, you must—" Familiar with the
glint that lit Harry's eyes, he grinned, "Miss Carlson. By your leave,
gaffer, I'll borrow the razor." Doing so, he went on, "The missing
heiress. Remember?"

There must, thought Harry, be lots of Carlsons in England… He
slung the towel over his shoulder, retrieved his jacket from a branch,
and tossed the packet of letters to Mitchell. "I doubt it's the same
woman, but—see what you make of those. I found them at the back of a
drawer in Papa's desk at Moire." He emptied the bowl as Mitchell began
to read, and slipped cautiously into his jacket. The left sleeve had
been very neatly patched. He touched the dainty stitches tenderly…

"It is!" Mitchell exclaimed. "It
is
the
same woman! For God's sake, Harry—what does it a!l mean? Is she totally
demented?"

Baffled, Harry sat down and, while Mitchell shaved, told him
all that he knew of it. Despite his deep affection for both his sons,
it had not been Colin Redmond's habit to confide in Mitchell, whom he
had considered not only an impractical dreamer but also a schoolboy.
Since Harry had been too ill at the time of the Carlson tragedy to be
troubled with such worrisome matters, the brothers were thus equally in
the dark. Mitchell, however, attached far more importance to the
accident than did Harry. He shared Harry's persistent belief that Colin
Redmond had been gulled, but having seen the chateau in Dinan and heard
his brother's description of Sanguinet Towers, shook his head over the
likelihood of Parnell's having been behind some devious plot to acquire
the Redmond estates and fortune. "There is absolutely no motive,
Sauvage
,"
he said earnestly. "Sanguinet would no more take such desperate risks
for Moire than you would be willing to besmirch your honourable name
for— for Diccon's tent! If there
was
anything
underhanded about that card game, I suspect it's a case of
cherchez
la femme
."

"What—the Carlson woman?"

"Yes. She held a grudge against my father, and is very
obviously all about in her head—poor creature."

"That may be, yet she is scarcely capable of disguising
herself as a man and bluffing her way through an evening of cards."

"Of course not, but there are a dozen ways she might have
arranged it." Mitchell washed his face and, reaching for the towel,
asked, "How well were Cobb and Cootesby acquainted with my father?"

"So far as I'm aware, not at all."

"Aha!" Now suppose the Carlson woman had some little dalliance
afoot with one of 'em? She persuaded him to arrange the card game, drug
Papa's wine, and afterwards they may even have had his mare tripped,
or—"

"Her lover must have been infatuated, indeed, to countenance
an involvement in murder," Harry pointed out quietly.

"Well, perhaps he also needed money—or hoped to win Moire for
himself."

"I cannot think it likely. Maude said they all sought to
persuade my father to
stop
playing, and when he
would not they withdrew from the game until only Sanguinet and Papa
continued. Besides, Mitch, had such a plot been hatched, surely M.
Diabolique would be the last man they'd invite—knowing he is a skillful
player and would be hard to handle in such a situation. And if
Sanguinet himself was the 'lover,' he'd be far more likely to have
simply picked a quarrel with Papa and called him out. No, the plot
becomes too thick, I believe. Unless…" He paused, his eyes gleaming
suddenly.

"What? What?" Mitchell demanded, turning from emptying the
bowl.

"Well, the Carlson woman seems to have stirred up quite a
bobbery in claiming that Papa withheld evidence at the investigation
into her brother's death. Now, suppose one of the players was the man
she suspected of that murder? Suppose he also believed that Papa knew
more than he'd admitted—or…" He frowned thoughtfully, "—or that he
might
recall
something. To kill him outright must
reawaken suspicions in the Carlson matter and point to himself. On the
other hand, to ruin Papa, send him off so heartsick he could logically
be supposed capable of misjudging a jump, and
then
stage an 'accident'…"

"By God!" raged Mitchell, very white. "The dirty hound!"

They stared at one another grimly, but then Harry gave an
exclamation of impatience. "And what fustian!" For it makes no sense at
all!"

"But it does!" Mitchell wrestled with his cravat and argued
hotly, "More sense than for Papa to have suddenly changed the habits of
a lifetime! Or for M. Diabolique to destroy a man and reduce his sons
to penury for no logical reason."

"Because we cannot come at a reason does not mean there is
none. But had my neat little theory been correct, Papa must have been a
fool to drink and gamble with a man he knew harboured a desperate need
to see him dead, or might
possibly
do so. For I'm
sure Miss Carlson had told my father whom she suspected."

Mitchell's exuberance faded. "And Papa was no fool," he sighed.

"True. Good God! What a horrid mess you've made of that. Come
here, do!" Mitchell meekly submitting, Harry wrought a passable cravat
upon him, while cogitating, "Yet consider, bantling. Papa and Schofield
are both dead. Cobb appears to have vanished. And now our female
suspect has left the scene in macabre fashion."