Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (43 page)

"Water closet," interposed Harry irreverently. "As you say,
Sir Erudition. You've all the brains in the family. I own it."

"And you—none at all!" Turning back, Mitchell's frown was
sterner than Harry had ever beheld it, the set to his mouth so
forbidding that he seemed suddenly older. "What the devil were you
about? There was no logical reason for you to panic and run. No one
could have suspected you."

Harry's eyes slid away. So Bolster hadn't told him. Good old
Jerry… reliable, as always. "Could they not?"

"You?" Mitchell perched upon the side of the bed, neither of
them having noticed that their uncle had departed, taking the amused
maid with him. "Shoot a man in the back?" He gave a derisive snort.
"But of course! Typical! Only you were raving about having been pinned
under a branch."

"Blast!" thought Harry, and staring fixedly at a blackbird
hopping on the lawn, he ventured the account he had been conjuring up
these past few days. "Yes—well, that was the whole thing. Sanguine saw
the tree coming down, and—"

"In the darkness," Mitchell nodded.

"He could see in the dark. He had those… odd eyes…" He saw the
grim tightening of Mitchell's mouth and said swiftly, "Besides, it was
struck by lightning, terribly bright, you know. So he ran, and I—"

"Did
not
see the lightning? Terribly
bright, you know."

Harry's brows drew down slightly and he said with firm
deliberation, "It was behind me. Well, I mean—the
tree
was behind me. And when it took me down with it, the pistol in my hand
went off. Accidentally."

"My God! You surely don't expect anyone to believe that
gibberish?"

"It occurs to me, my good youth," said Harry awfully, "that
the respect to which I am entitled is noticeably absent!"

Mitchell frowned, his easy good nature as 'noticeably absent'
as his brother's much-vaunted respect. "It occurs to me that I am
either too young, too fribbieish, or too little thought of—to be told
the truth!"

That acid tone had never before been directed at Harry. Some
of his consternation was reflected in his eyes and, cursing these new
moods that so bewildered him, Mitchell changed the subject. "Why in the
world are you out here?"

"Salia," said Harry succinctly.

"Won't have you inside, eh? Cannot say I blame her."

"He was a most impossible patient!" Lady Salia Moulton walked
gracefully across the terrace, a shawl clasped around her shoulders and
one white hand extended for Mitchell's kiss. "Wherefore, in a fit of
pique, dear boy, I forbade him the house." She at once detected the
hardness in the eyes that had always been so gentle. Logical enough,
but she prayed it might disappear when this nightmare was done with…
"How are you, Mitchell?"

"Overwhelmed, dear ma'am." He smiled at her, thinking her
beauty ageless despite the silver that streaked her black hair. "With
animosity! Since you have prevented my scapegrace of a brother from
going to his just reward."

"Villain!" laughed Harry. "Always knew you coveted the title!"

"But—of course." Mitchell's eyes slanted to the injured arm.
"And just how close was I to achieving me foul ambitions, ma'am?"

The words were lightly uttered, but his gaze was searching.
Meeting it, Salia answered gravely, "You would have been less close,
Mitchell, had he allowed us to amputate."

So Bolster had been right… Chilled, he said with unprecedented
harshness, "You should have had Lord John knock him over the head and
done it anyway!"

"John is not here, else I most certainly would have done so.
He visits Harland in Paris."

Mitchell directed an alarmed glance at his brother. "Yes,"
Harry said ruefully. "A fine bumble broth I've pulled her into. You
must get me away from—"

"Were it not for the sun," interrupted Salia, shutting off his
words by the simple expedient of placing her cool fingers over his
mouth, "he would have lost the arm, Mitchell." She slapped Harry's lips
gently as he kissed her fingers, and added a quiet, "Perhaps— too late."

"It was infected, then?"

"Gangrene had set in. Ah, no, my dear! Never look so
terrified. The title is quite lost to you, rest assured."

"My lady," he said unsteadily. "I do not know how to thank—"

"Pooh! The remedy is not mine but has been handed down for
generations among my people. My grandmama was a gypsy, don't forget,
and their lore is very much a part of me still. Likely you thought us
quite mad when you found Harry out here, but between the sun and my
herbs and fomentations—"

"And the fact I'm such a deucedly virile chap," contributed
the irrepressible Harry.

"Cling to that thought," advised my lady, twinkling at him,
"for it is time for another poultice!" She chuckled at his wailing
protest, then left them, having first warned that her patient must not
be tired.

When she was gone, Mitchell resumed his seat on the bed,
conscious that his brother had been covertly scrutinizing him and
dreading lest he refer to the abasement he shrank from discussing.

Harry, however, had no intention of commiting such a
faux
pas
and instead asked, "How is Mr. Fox?"

"Up and about again. Camille sent a cart for him, and some of
his grooms conveyed your four-footed friend to the Priory. He's still
there, for I didn't know what to do with him and have heard nothing
from Diccon."

They talked for some time—largely of their chances of proving
that Sanguine had been responsible for their father's death, and then
Mitchell said that Camille Damon had insisted he should be taken to the
Priory as soon as he was sufficiently recovered, and that a very
capable midwife from Pudding Park had aided immeasureably in his
recovery.

Wondering how complete was that recovery, Harry murmured that
he'd heard Damon speak of her, and then, with forced nonchalance
enquired, "Who… else was at the Priory?"

"Gad, who was not! Camille, of course, though he was gone most
of the time—seeking you, I later discovered. And Bolster, stammering so
badly we could scarce understand him, wherefore I
knew
he was up in the boughs! And both of 'em telling me the biggest
whiskers imaginable so I'd not suspect what my maniac of a brother was
about! Andy—grumping about and telling me of Mrs. Radcliffe until I
wished I'd never let him so much as lay eyes on a book!" With superb
innocence, he went on, "Oh, and Miss Carlson, who— Hey! Lie down!"

Harry had started up, his face flushed with eagerness. "How
does she go on? Have the Sanguinets been hounding her? Is she safe?
Does she talk? Is—"

Mitchell thought a relieved, "At last!" and put in dryly, "She
is frantic, naturally, but quite recovered. She stays with her aunt,
and I collect the Sanguinets have made no attempt to take her back—dare
not, probably, for fear of what she might say. She's in the deuce of a
taking to discover where you are and makes no bones about accusing us
of keeping the truth from her. She forces her servants to haunt the
offices of the constables and the Watch, and accompanied us into Town
several times to tell the Runners you had been trying to protect her
and that Parnell Sanguine had attempted to murder you."

"And—they believed her?"

Mitchell looked down, not answering, and Harry knew that
Parnell had done his work well. "They believed her short of a sheet,
more like," he muttered.

"She told them you were pinned under the tree when you shot
him…" Mitchell glanced at him obliquely. "We live in a modern age,
Sauvage
.
. . The surgeons say the ball hit Sanguinet's back— level.
No angle. So you see, it makes no sense."

Harry was silent. Then he reached out to clasp the slim,
nervous fingers that twisted so endlessly at the fringe of the
coverlet. "Mitch… dear old lad, you know that of all men I'd keep no
secrets from you. Were they my own."

Mitchell nodded. Then, standing, asked, "Does Bolster know?"

"He guessed. He'll say nothing. But I shall involve you by
asking that you
get
me out of England as soon as
possible. And—alone."

Mitchell stared blankly at the pleasant sprawl of the old
house. "It will break her heart, Harry. Surely you could at least write
to her?"

"Of course. As soon as I'm able."

After a long, troubled silence, Mitchell said, "Aside from the
fact that she is overset with worry for you, she is her own sweet self.
Do you suppose—can she have… forgotten—what really happened?"

"I pray so. And, God willing, will never remember."

Through the days that followed, Harry mended steadily. His
athletic pursuits had kept him in top condition, and his basic good
health enabled him to gradually throw off the effects of the infection
that had so nearly claimed his life. He maintained throughout his
customary air of lazy good humour, but inwardly he chafed at the
delays. That he had reached Greenwings at all was miraculous, and Salia
had undoubtedly saved his life; but she and John Moulton had known
their present happiness for a comparatively brief time, and Harry
fretted bitterly against being the possible means of casting a shadow
over that joy. He paced his room endlessly, fighting the weakness that
clung with such infuriating persistence, and had so far progressed as
to be allowed downstairs to prowl the library one morning when a
familiar voice called his name. He swung around to find Bolster
hastening towards him.

"Jeremy!" he cried, seizing his friend's outstretched hand.
"Deuce take it, but I'm glad to see you! Sit down! Sit down! And tell
me what's afoot. I'm so pampered and coddled I have no idea what's
happening. How does Mitch go on? I see you've managed to keep him away.
And—"

"He's not the only one we've m-m-m- kept away. Your lady
imagines you safely in France, else—"

"Where I
should
be by now!" Harry
flashed, his heart having given a painful jolt at the mention of
Nanette. "Jerry—I
must
get away from here! I
cannot guess why I've not been discovered these past three weeks, but
heaven forbid the Moultons should be involved! Is there any chance it
can be arranged?"

"All done, d-dear boy. That's why I come down. Damon has
re-re-re cousins all over the Continent. Place must positively ooze em!
His yacht will carry you to Cherbourg on Friday, and he's m-made
arrangements for you to be met."

Greatly relieved, Harry next and rather diffidently enquired
if it was possible Lace might be taken along. This, it seemed, was also
arranged. Marvelling at their thoughtfulness, he lapsed into a long
silence.

Glancing up, he found Bolster watching him with a sympathy
that brought the colour burning into his cheeks. "I've written Nanette
a letter," he said awkwardly. "If you—would be so kind as to deliver
it."

"Of course—be delighted. Jilted her nicely, I t-trust?" His
lordship strolled nonchalantly to sprawl on the deep window seat and,
meeting Harry's steady stare, assumed an expression of saintly
innocence. "Lay you odds you made a mull of it. What did you say? Were
you c-cold or n-n-noble?" He raised one languid hand. "Do not dare
strike me! I can afford to lose no more teeth. Besides, I've known you
since we was in sh-short coats. I have every right to be told what—"

"Devil you have!" Harry strode closer.

Bolster sighed, closed his eyes, and raised his chin
resignedly.

Forced to a reluctant grin, Harry demanded, "How did you know,
damn you?"

"Obvious. You're a hunted man and must leave the country."

"I could have asked her to accompany me."

"Could." Bolster's voice dropped a little and he finished with
the oddly judicial solemnity that occasionally marked him. "Except—it
was in the
back
, my bold knight."

Harry turned away and walked over to the window. Watching him,
Bolster sighed heavily. That poor little Miss Carlson was head over
ears in love with his friend was very obvious. That she was too blinded
by the tender emotion to realize how hopeless was that love was equally
obvious. But Harry knew. The dear old boy was smitten at last; and
Cupid, having waited so long, had loosed his arrow with cruel
perversity. For despite his laughing eyes and apparently light-hearted
view of life and its foibles, Harry was a product of his upbringing. He
would live and if need be die by the Code of Honour, without question.
And none knew better than he that however villainous, however depraved
Parnell Sanguinet had been, it was unthinkable that his daughter should
wed the man believed to have murdered him. As if that weren't bad
enough, he was so dashed proud… the little gal was a great heiress,
whereas old Harry… God! What a horrid mess! Bolster glanced up from
under his lashes. Harry was staring into the garden. What did he
see—his empty future? The man loved England devotedly and would be
fortunate did he ever set foot in it again… always granting they could
smuggle him safely to France! After that, what hope for him? No
fortune, no properties—and he'd certainly be too damned high in the
instep to accept any help!—torn from the woman he loved; universally
despised for a treacherous shooting…

"If you're going to cry, old sportsman, I'll be dashed if I'll
dry your tears for you"

His lordship jerked his yellow head up and was slightly
stunned to find a twinkle in the eyes that met his own.

"It ain't
that
bad, you know," consoled
Harry, smiling despite his own heavy heart.

"C-Course it ain't!" Bolster confirmed, adopting a manner so
joyous one might think he'd just come into a fortune. "And—after all,
you
have
often said you'd never marry."

"I have, indeed."

"And—you
always
had more than your share
of opera dancers. To say nothing of your Spanish barques of frailty.
And then there was your l-little ladybird in—"