Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (3 page)

"What in…hell…?"

Charity gave a little shriek. Mr. Mitchell's dark head was
turning to her. "Do not move!" she shrilled.

"The devil I won't!" He tried to sit up, but abruptly subsided.

With her heart fluttering, Charity grasped the sword and
completed her desecration of the jacket.

"Madam," said Mitchell, faint but determined, "whatever it is
that you… attempt, desist!"

Whatever she attempted
? What did he
think
she attempted? But she knew all too well! Horribly embarrassed, she
nonetheless investigated further. His shirt was wet with blood and
slashed from the area of his spine across to the left side, just below
his shoulder blade. Still wondering how such a wound could possibly
have been inflicted during a duel, Charity slipped the sword under the
fine cambric, made a long slit, and laid the sword aside. She spread
the shirt apart and stared, suddenly very cold. The gash was quite deep
and had bled profusely, but it was not the wound that caused her heart
to all but stop. The muscular back she gazed at was a mass of scars,
the criss-crossing ridges leaving no room for doubt that at some time
in the not too distant past this man had been flogged half to death.
Very few crimes, she knew, could cause such punishment to be inflicted
upon an aristocrat, and she shrank back in revulsion. Small wonder he
had not wanted her help!

A derisive chuckle brought her eyes flashing to meet his.
"Well," he sneered, "and what have you decided, Madam Prim? Did I
murder my mother? Or violate my baby sister, perhaps?"

The words were as contemptuous as they were disgraceful. Her
disgust of him flared, but there was a pinched look about the thin
nostrils now, and for all their mockery, his eyes were dulled. Charity
pulled herself together. Whatever his offence, he was injured and in
pain.

She said quietly, "Both, I fancy. Only lie still, sir, and I
shall do what I may to help you.''

Despite her limited experience in the actual treatment of
wounds, Charity knew that it was imperative the bleeding be stopped as
soon as possible. To this end, she appropriated Mr. Mitchell's
neckcloth, formed it into a pad, and placed it over the wound. Peering
over his shoulder to watch these procedures, her patient said, "That
won't serve. You shall have to tie it." His eyes glinted at her with
fiendish enjoyment. "You must now tear a flounce from your petticoat.
If you will hand me my sword, I'll be glad to assist."

She ignored him, unwound the sash from her gown, and said with
cool self-possession that if he could contrive to sit up, she would
manage.

He sighed in disappointment, but complied. It was inevitable
that she should come very close to him as she performed her acts of
mercy. His body reminded her of her brother. Like Justin, he carried
not an ounce of fat. The muscles rippled smoothly when he moved. The
hair on his chest was thick and very dark. She averted her eyes, her
cheeks hot.

Amused, he said, "You are blushing, ma'am. But I'll say one
thing for you, the sight of blood don't reduce you to blancmange, as it
does most females."

"You are too good," she murmured. The blood was still seeping
from under her impromptu pad, and there was only one way to stop it.
"I'm sorry, but I must tighten this." Nerving herself, she gave a sharp
tug at the sash she had wound about him. There was a hiss of indrawn
breath, but not a sound escaped him. Despite this stoicism, when she
asked him to put a finger on the knot she was tying, his hand shook and
he stared down blankly at the makeshift bandage. She wondered uneasily
if he would be able to climb into the saddle, and had seldom been more
relieved than when the thud of hooves announced Best's return.

The groom reined up and dismounted with leap. ''What on earth
happened, Miss Charity?" he asked, running to her in considerable
agitation.

"The lady was good enough to help me," said Mitchell, reaching
for the remains of his jacket.

Charity thought, "He doesn't want Best to see his back." She
reached around to assist him. "I chanced upon a duel," she exclaimed.

"A duel!" Dropping to one knee beside the injured man, Best
moaned, "Oh, I knowed as I shouldn't have gone off and left ye, miss!
Were there no seconds, sir? No surgeon?

Charity frowned, wondering why she hadn't thought of such
questions.

Mitchell answered a curt, "No. "He turned to Charity. "I am
most grateful for your… assistance, ma'am."

He did not look grateful. He looked haughty and vexed.
Therefore, she responded with deliberate double entendre, "I am only
glad that I reached you when I did."

His lips tightened, and he turned to Best and requested the
aid of his arm.

The groom, who had watched this small exchange in some
bewilderment, at once helped the injured man to his feet. Mitchell
seemed dazed, and with no little reluctance, Charity suggested that
they proceed to her brother's house so that he could rest.

"Thank you, ma'am. But I am already late. "He whistled, and
the mare that had been grazing nearby trotted over. Best guided
Mitchell's left foot into the stirrup, then provided cupped hands to
receive the right foot and boost him into a clumsy but successful
mount. "My," Best murmured, stroking the mare's glossy neck admiringly,
"she do be a prime bit o' blood, sir. Arab?"

"Obviously," said Mitchell, taking up the reins. "Now, could
you direct me to a house called Strand Hall?"

Charity's heart dropped into her shoes, and Best looked at her
in surprise.

Turning from one to the other, Mitchell drawled a sardonic,
"It
does
still stand, I presume?"

"It did two hours since," Charity replied. "Strand Hall is my
brother's principal seat, Mr. Mitchell. Please collect my belongings,
Best, and then we can take—"

"If you will rather be so good as to direct me," Mitchell
interpolated. "As I have said, I'm in something of a hurry."

How insufferable he was! Charity was very tempted to inform
him that no one at Strand Hall waited in breathless impatience for his
arrival, but it dawned on her that Tristram might be expecting him.
''In that case,'' she said in her calm way, "I shall ride with Mr.
Mitchell, Best. You will not object, sir, if my groom takes the time to
aid me to mount?"

Mitchell scowled and did not respond to this deliberate
provocation. His irritation communicated itself to the mare, and she
danced about nervously so that for a few minutes he had to place all
his concentration upon staying in the saddle. When he glanced up, the
girl was mounted and waiting, a look of saintly resignation on her
face. He didn't want her. Thanks to her confounded interference, his
chance to identify the man who'd sent the murderous trio after him had
been foiled. Besides, he felt like hell, and the dread of toppling from
the saddle and again being forced to submit to her martyred airs,
scourged him. If Whisper would just behave herself for once! He yanked
on the reins with unnecessary violence. It was not a touch Whisper
knew, and she snorted and stood trembling. "You damned gudgeon!"
thought Mitchell remorsefully, "now see what you've done!" But before
he could comfort his beloved mare, Miss Prim was saying in her soft and
confoundedly sanctimonious voice, "You will spoil her mouth if you
treat her so, Mr. Mitchell."

"Mr. Mitchell!" The foolish chit didn't even know his name!
And choosing to forget that his own halting words had given her the
wrong impression, he snapped, "Might we perhaps start today?"

Without another word, Charity guided her horse down the hill
and across the meadows towards the belt of woodland that marked the
start of the Strand preserves. She set a steady but not fast pace and,
ignoring Mitchell's smothered mutterings of impatience, waited for him
to fall from the saddle.

She was still waiting half an hour later when they followed
the winding drivepath up the slope and stopped in front of the Hall. A
stableboy sprinted to take the horses, his eyes becoming round as
saucers when he noted Mitchell's bloodstained rags. Not waiting for
assistance, Charity kicked her little boot free of the stirrup and
jumped down. Mitchell had kept his back ramrod straight during the
ride; she watched to see how his arrogance would dictate that he manage
the dismount. Instead of swinging down in the customary manner, he
tossed his leg up over the mare's mane and slid down gracefully. She
saw the sheen of sweat on his brow and around his mouth, but he gave
not the faintest indication of discomfort, staring instead at the great
house for a moment before remarking in an awed and quite unaffected
way, "What a jolly fine place!"

The front door opened and the butler came out onto the
terrace, his slim figure as immaculate as ever, his hair a silver gleam
in the early afternoon sunlight. His pale blue eyes shot to the
unexpected visitor and widened, and immediately his attention flashed
to Charity. She looked strained, and there was blood on her gown. He
asked in sharp anxiety, "Are you all right, miss?"

"Yes." Grateful for the solicitude, she smiled at him. "I am
perfectly well, thank you, Fisher. But this gentleman has had some—er,
trouble. This is Mr. Mitchell—"

"Redmond," Mitchell finished. "Has my man arrived?"

Charity blinked. At breakfast neither Tristram nor Rachel had
mentioned the imminent arrival of a guest. Fisher, however, seemed not
in the least surprised, and advised that Mr. Redmond's chaise had
indeed arrived and his valet awaited him above stairs.

"Redmond…?" thought Charity, her brow wrinkling. "Now where
have I heard that name before?" And then she gave a gasp as Redmond had
the effrontery to ask, ''Who else is here?"

Fisher hid his own surprise admirably. ''We have no other
guests at present, sir."

Redmond scowled as he strode confidently across the terrace
and came near to colliding with the doorjamb. Charity was mildly
disappointed when Fisher caught him at the last instant and guided him
through. "Easy, sir," he said gently. "May we hope Sir Harry and his
lady plan to join us?"

Charity smothered another gasp. Sir Harry Redmond had been
believed killed at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo, but had been found
alive days later and had surprised everyone by surviving his wounds
after a long convalescence. Dimly, she recalled that there had been
some scandal involving Sir Harry, but just what it was eluded her, and
she wondered uneasily what could possibly bring such a celebrity to
this quiet corner of Sussex.

Mitchell Redmond, meanwhile, having firmly denied the
possibility of his brother's arrival, had drawn away from the butler's
supporting arm. "Have my man down here, if you please. He will assist
me."

Fisher beckoned to a hovering parlourmaid and sent her
scuttling up the stairs in search of Mr. Redmond's valet.

Charity murmured, "Is my sister from home, Fisher?"

Having vainly attempted to persuade Mr. Redmond to sit down,
the butler said, "They went out for a drive, miss."

Redmond said autocratically, "I must see your master directly
he returns."

With difficulty, Charity restrained herself from sweeping him
a low and royal curtsey. The arrogance of the creature!

There came a flurry of volubility from the stairs, and a plump
gentleman's gentleman, very black of hair and eye, and very white of
skin, ran down to them. Charity had been expecting someone as
supercilious as his employer and was amused by this excitable
individual who fluttered about Redmond, wringing his hands, uttering a
spate of Italian lightly interspersed with English, and having many
references to someone called "Mama Mia."

Redmond looked suddenly exhausted, as though his strength had
stretched only until this moment. Wearily, he muttered something in
fluent Italian. The valet glanced at his master's back, groaned, and
clapped a hand over his eyes, then slipped out of his own discreet coat
to throw it around Redmond's shoulders.

"A thous' pardons, signorina," he apologized, casting an
anguished look from Charity to his shirt sleeves. "I am indecent. But
Signor Mish-hell"—he shrugged, a gesture that involved every inch of
him—"have mos' the need-a. You forgive,
si
?"

Leaning heavily on his arm, Redmond said, "Miss Strand, this
is Antonio diLoretto, my man. Miss Strand, er, cut off my garments,
Tonio. And, ah, tied me up."

There was a whimsical gleam in his eyes, and the tug at the
beautifully shaped lips enhanced his good looks to a degree that
Charity found deceptively unfair even as she wondered that she'd
thought his mouth thin and cruel. DiLoretto left her little time to
recover. Abandoning his hold on Redmond, he bowed so low that his
pomaded curls all but brushed the carpet. With impassioned voice and
dramatic gestures he came near to sobbing as he exploded into a flood
of mingled English and Italian, his speech so rapid that Charity caught
only the words "art." "life," and "feet." The monologue ended as
abruptly as it had begun. In the midst, or so it seemed, of a death
scene that would have made Edmund Kean envious, this droll little man
spun around, seized his employer once again and said with brisk
authority, "We now uppa go stairs."

Charity closed her parted lips. "What on earth do you suppose
he said?" she asked Fisher, as the oddly assorted pair disappeared
along the first floor landing.

"Something to the effect that he is your slave forever. That
his heart will break if you do not allow him to sacrifice his life for
you, and that, meanwhile, his soul is at your feet. I think,'' replied
the butler.

"Good gracious!" With one hand on the banister, she asked,
"Did you know that Mr. Redmond was coming today?"

''I had no idea, miss. But''—he hesitated—"when his man said
they were expected, I assumed Mr. Redmond must be acquainted with Mr.
Justin or the Colonel. I hope it was in order for me to—''