Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (15 page)

"This way, madame." Jean-Paul led her to the trees, Clem
following.

The two men stopped and turned to face her. Shrinking with
mortification, Charity pleaded, "You will allow me some privacy?"

"Privacy!" Clem spat at a passing butterfly. "Cor! Go on,
missus! Or it's up in the coach again!"

Jean-Paul said curtly, "Do you try to run from us, I shall not
be responsible for you. But we will turn our backs, madame."

"Ho, no, we won't!" argued Clem. "You got maggots in yer head,
Frenchy? When she hoists up them dainty skirts, it'll be ter run like a
rabbit!"

They glared at each other. Charity fled quickly into the
trees, released the indignant kitten, and looked about her in
desperation. Nothing. No lane, no cottage, no sound of voices. It was
hopeless. If she ran or tried to hide they would catch her and then
Clem would have his way. At the very least, they would beat her…
Despairing, she attended to the wants of nature, then glanced around
for the kitten. There was no sign of her. It was as well. The poor
little creature would be safer out here than—

Some way off, a woman laughed.

Charity's heart gave a great leap, and she began to run wildly
in the direction of the sound. A frantic mewing arose. She had looked
too far afield for Little Patches. The kitten had evidently been
playing about her skirts and now was being bounced about as she strove
to climb up. Charity retrieved her and returned her to the much used
pocket. The woods became denser as she ran, and she could hear no more
laughter, no sound except, terrifyingly, the thump of heavy feet behind
her. "Help!'' she screamed at the top of her lungs, and tried to run
faster. There was no response to her scream, no friendly call or sudden
appearance of country people to come to her rescue. Only those
remorseless boots coming ever closer. They were closing the gap, but
she must get away… she must! She could hear heavy breathing now, a
savage panting mutter of rage. She gave a panicked sob as a sudden jerk
at her cloak wrenched her backwards and she fell.

Cursing, his face distorted with fury, Clem loomed over her.

Charity knelt, drawing the cloak around her and huddling
lower, one hand upthrown to protect her face. "Please don't… don't!"
she implored.

"I have… warn you, madame," panted Jean-Paul, coming up with
them.

Clem drew back his brawny hand.

"My—my baby!" sobbed Charity in desperation.

The Frenchman's eyes drifted down her crouched figure. "
Mon…
Dieu .
. . " he breathed.

"You want a lesson, you do," snarled Clem.

Jean-Paul caught his arm. Following the Frenchman's gaze,
Clem's jaw dropped. "By grab!" he gasped. "It's— moving!"

Charity glanced down. Little Patches was settling herself
again. The cloak bulged and shifted.

"I'll be gormed!" Clem muttered, awed. He lowered his fist and
took Charity gingerly by the elbow. "You got spunk, ma'am. I'll give
yer that."

Charity fought an almost overpowering need to laugh. She
clambered to her feet and at once Jean-Paul was supporting her. She
said with a plaintive sigh, "I am… so very tired…"

"Soon, madame," said Jean-Paul soothingly, "you shall have
good food and a comfortable bed. Very soon, now."

The sky was a glory of crimson and turquoise when they emerged
from the trees, and the carriage waiting on the dusty lane, the
outriders standing chatting beside their horses, the verdant landscape,
presented an idyllic pastoral scene well worth setting upon canvas.
Usually so aware of beauty, Charity viewed it without one jot of
appreciation, until—Her eyes opened wider. The sun was going down, but
it was going down on the wrong side of the carriage! If they had turned
southwards, the right side should be presented to that descending orb,
instead of which the sun was setting beyond the
left
side! So they were still heading north! If they continued thus, they
would eventually come to Scotland. Surely Dev and Tristram were already
close behind, and Dev would follow for only a short while before he
would guess their destination!

With this first faint glimmering of hope to sustain her,
Charity climbed bravely up into the great black coach.

Diccon set a pace that was as brisk as his tongue was still.
Hour after hour they rode steadily northwards, crossing beautiful
Sussex and entering Surrey above Horsham, but avoiding that old town,
as Diccon had avoided all main thoroughfares and populated areas. Three
times they stopped to rest the horses and refresh themselves, always at
secluded taverns or farmhouses, and always for the briefest possible
period. On each of these occasions, Mitchell attempted to learn more of
Diccon's plans, but his questions were turned aside. The intelligence
officer was morose and uncommunicative and would only repeat that since
the last authenticated encounter with Claude Sanguinet had been in
Ayrshire, it was the most likely place to start. He had earlier said
that the castle had been under observation for a year with no sign of
further activity. It therefore seemed obvious to Mitchell that more
recent information must have been received, but that Diccon chose not
to share it with him.

The miles slipped past, the afternoon deepened, and Diccon's
taciturnity began to gall. Instead of being welcomed as an ally,
Mitchell was evidently mistrusted. He refused to acknowledge that his
caustic references to the Regent might have inspired such an attitude,
and began to think resentfully that he might better have stayed with
Leith's intrepid little band. At least, when they came up with
Sanguinet's coach— and he had no doubt but that they
would
do so—they would not only be able to rescue poor Miss Strand, but might
even be able to pry some information from the men who held her.

Charity's image haunted him. A most contrary girl, but she was
gently born and had known more than her share of grief. Besides, the
thought of any female being a helpless pawn in the hands of so soulless
a villain as Claude Sanguinet sent a tide of rage seething through him.
He consoled himself with the conviction that her captivity would be
temporary. Soon, perhaps even at this moment, Tristram and Harry and
the rest would gallop to her rescue. He could picture the depth of her
relief and gratitude. And as soon as she was safely restored to her
home, Leith would be coming after them hell for leather. They might
even join forces before they reached Ayrshire.

The sun was low in the sky when they neared Woking, the tired
horses clattering wearily over a bridge across the River Wey. Diccon
turned off the road and led the way into an isolated stretch of woods.
Quite suddenly, gypsies were all around them. For an instant, Mitchell
suspected an ambush and his hand streaked down for his pistol, but
Diccon was welcomed respectfully, and the travellers were guided to a
wide clearing close to the bank of the river, where stood a ring of
about ten caravans,

Mitchell was given into the care of an aged little man wearing
a brilliant red scarf about his head and having very bright black eyes
and a great, upcurving chin. His caravan was neat; Mitchell was invited
to take off his coat; a bowl of hot water was provided, and while he
washed, the old man brushed the dust from his coat. Thanking him,
Mitchell went back outside. He found Diccon already seated by the camp
fire, eating stew and conversing in the Romany tongue with three
grim-looking men. A bowl of stew was brought to Mitchell, together with
a thick slice of crusty bread. Simple fare, but he found it beyond
words delicious, partly because it was eaten in the crisp fresh air,
and partly because he'd been working up a hearty appetite since leaving
Sussex.

He no sooner finished the stew than fresh horses were brought
up. Indignant, he declared that he had no intention of leaving Whisper
here. At once a dozen heads turned his way, and a dozen pairs of hard
black eyes bored at him.

Diccon said, "She'll be safer here than going on at the pace
we must travel. I'll grant he's no Arabian, but this hack is used to
long hauls and hard knocks." Lowering his voice, he murmured, "And were
I you, friend, I'd not be questioning the integrity of these folks.
Unless you want another knife 'twixt your ribs."

Mitchell mounted up and reached into his pocket for his purse.

Diccon caught his eye, and Mitchell checked, then bent to
shake the hand of the man who held the hack. "Thank you for your
hospitality, friend," he said. "Shall you be camped here when we
return?"

"Who can say, Gorgio Rye? Your beautiful mare will be at Moire
Grange when you reach there."

Astonished, Mitchell said, "How the devil do you—"

"If you are quite ready, Mr. Redmond," Diccon interrupted,
"I've to be in Abingdon tonight."

Jerking his head around, Mitchell gasped, "
Abingdon
?"

"Too far for you?" Diccon shrugged. "I fancy your brother
could teach you a thing or two about forced marches!"

Through a rather set smile, Mitchell said, "I am very sure he
could," and rode on.

For three long hours scarcely a word was spoken. They were
slowed when the dusk deepened into evening, for there was no moon and
it was difficult to see their way. It was quite dark when Diccon at
last rode into the yard of an isolated and inexpensive little hedge
tavern.

Mitchell dismounted wearily, followed the eager host into a
low-ceilinged foyer, and up a winding stair. His room was tiny but
clean, and he sprawled with a sigh of relief onto the soft feather bed.
He forced himself to stand after only a moment, however, knowing he
would be asleep in no time and having not the slightest intention of
granting Diccon the opportunity to remark that Harry would not have
been so easily tired. He took his toilet articles from his saddlebags
and spent a short time in restoring himself to some semblance of
tidiness before going downstairs.

The coffee room the host showed him into was long and low,
with whitewashed walls and dark settles and benches.

A fire burned on the wide hearth, but the room was deserted.
The host brought a bottle of wine, and Mitchell ordered a light supper,
and still Diccon had not appeared. He was grinning to himself, thinking
that
he
might be the one to scoff in the morning,
when another gentleman entered.

The newcomer was clad in a peerless riding coat and breeches,
his neckcloth unostentatiously but impeccably tied, his topboots
gleaming. A slender gentleman, with short curling hair arranged in a
simple but attractive style, the aristocrat written in every proud inch
of his tall figure.

"Your thoughts must be exceedingly pleasant to bring such a
smile to your face, sir," he said.

Mitchell gasped, "Diccon! By Jove—I didn't know you!"

Crossing to occupy the opposite chair, Diccon said coolly,
"Good. Let us hope Sanguinet's spies don't."

"I cannot believe it! Who cut your hair?"

"I did. Have you ordered? Ah, I see you have."

The host and his plump lady carried in a juicy ham and a plate
of cold beef. Pickled beets, sliced cheeses, hot bread, and a steaming
gooseberry pie completed the repast, and the two men applied themselves
to it with enthusiasm.

Not until the host had removed the covers and left them to
their wine did Diccon say, "Too tired to talk for a minute?"

"It will be a novel experience," said Mitchell dryly.

Diccon stared at him in puzzled questioning.

'' No one,'' said Mitchell,"could accuse you of being
garrulous, Major."

"Oh." The suspicion of a smile twitched at the thin lips. "Nor
you of being a lover of the quiet life. You've built quite a reputation
since last we met, Mr. Redmond. I was surprised to learn that you are
now reckoned a fine shot and a master swordsman."

Mitchell took a walnut from the bowl. "They seemed desirable
skills to cultivate—under the circumstances."

"Did they?" Watching the younger man's inscrutable face and
cold eyes, Diccon thought with a faint regret that the Sanguinets had
much to answer for. "And what of the skills you once hungered after?
What of your passion for musty old books and ancient history? Your
dream of a fellowship at Oxford?"

"Dreams change."

"To become vendettas?"

Mitchell cracked the nut between his strong fingers and said
nothing.

"I had thought your quarrel was with Parnell Sanguinet,"
Diccon went on blandly, "and he is dead."

"Claude manipulated Parnell, as he manipulates everyone. And
Claude is very much alive. And as for vendettas— Claude's rogues
attacked
me
, if you remember."

"Ah, yes. Your, er, duel. They likely mistook you for a
patriot."

In the act of selecting another nut, Mitchell paused and
looked up. "Mistook…?" he echoed softly.

"You said yourself you care not what happens to the Regent,
which being the case I can only suppose that you accompany me in
pursuit of personal vengeance."

Mitchell frowned, then said deliberately, "It would give me
the greatest satisfaction to assist the Sanguinets towards the hell
they richly deserve."

Up went Diccon's bushy brows. "Plural, is it? I'd have thought
you would feel an obligation to Guy. After all, you shot him, and yet
he was decent enough to stop—"

"If he is in this with Claude, then of a surety Guy too!" The
sly amusement in Diccon's eyes caused Mitchell's to become bleak.
"Furthermore, Major, I do not recall remarking that I did not care what
became of Prinny. If I happen to consider him to be a liability rather
than an asset to England, it does not imply a lack of patriotism."

"I doubt the royal gentleman would agree. In point of fact,
you could be clapped up for such a remark. And, speaking of
liabilities, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that is exactly what
you
are to me.''