Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (43 page)

Taking out his timepiece again, Redmond peered at it. It was
fifteen minutes to ten o'clock…

Redmond opened the cupboard door a crack. The luxurious
bedchamber was deserted, the magnificent canopied bed that occupied the
deep recess already turned down, and the royal nightshirt laid upon it.
The chandelier hanging from the gilt-edged oval of the ceiling was a
blaze of light, but several of the candelabra had been extinguished. As
usual, the heat was almost overpowering. Redmond tiptoed across the
room. He had instructed Gilford that when Charity and the footman came
up they were to be told that he was reconnoitering and would return
when he was sure the coast was clear.

He peered into the royal library, adjoining. He had once been
invited to a musicale at the Pavilion but had never been in this part
of the palace, and despite the desperate circumstances, could not fail
to be impressed by the magnificence of the furnishings, the splendid
torcheres
and carven wall lights, the recessed bookcases and everywhere the
Oriental influence with dragons abounding.

He started into the library, astounded that he was thus far
undetected, but heard voices close by and retreated to the bedroom
again. On the far side, the dressing room was silent, but as he stepped
inside he came face to face with a manservant carrying a gargantuan
purple-and-gold dressing gown. The man's eyes popped, and his jaw fell.
It was no time for explanations. Redmond struck hard and true, caught
the servant as he sagged, and eased him to the floor.

Beyond the dressing room was an ante-room. Redmond strode to
the far door and opened it cautiously. All was quiet, but distantly he
could hear music and the muted hum of conversation. Had the Prince
already donned the lethal crown, the sounds would be very different,
but every second counted now. Somehow he must pass along the major part
of the Great Corridor, but lackeys were everywhere, to say nothing of
an occasional military uniform; his own quiet garb would be noticeable
by its very simplicity. He hesitated, then muttered, "As well be hung
for a sheep as a lamb," turned about, and hurried back to snatch up the
lurid dressing gown that he had draped over the manservant. It was so
large that he and Harry and Uncle Mordecai could all have fitted into
it, but he wrapped it around him and tied the sash about his middle.
With the addition of the garment, the heat in the rooms was almost
beyond bearing and he began to perspire freely, but there was no help
for it. The lackey wore a powdered wig; Mitchell borrowed it and jammed
it onto his head. Glancing at himself in one of the large mirrors, he
gave a gasp. The effect was astounding. So astounding that in this
outrageous palace-cum-mosque-cum-pagoda he might go unnoticed. En route
through the ante-room again, he noticed a very large Chinese urn
tastefully painted with scenes of Waterloo and heavy with filigree and
gold leaf. A card lay beside it. It was a gift to the Duke of
Wellington from some potentate. Mitchell eyed the urn thoughtfully,
then, the effort making him swear, he picked it up and holding it on
his right shoulder, stepped into the Great Corridor and strode along
deliberately.

Itself a fantasy of art and light and beauty, it was a busy
place. Magnificently liveried lackeys and footmen were everywhere;
splendid officers stood about in small groups, and far in the distance,
a constant stream of servants was carrying trays from the Banqueting
Hall, trays piled high with plates, glasses and silverware, covered
tureens and platters and great dishes still containing enough food to
feed many average households for a week. The meal was apparently almost
over. Claude's gift would likely be presented at any moment!

His nerves taut, Mitchell marched along, the urn perched high,
his head up, his stride exaggeratedly pompous. A couple of officers
glanced his way and exchanged faintly disgusted grins. A splendid
lackey was convulsing a cohort with what appeared to be a ribald joke.
Neither paid the least attention to the vision of glory that stalked
past them. At last the door to the Banqueting Room was coming closer
and closer… Another lackey, standing alone and decidedly bored, looked
at the oncoming apparition with lack-lustre eyes. "Typical flummery
nonsense…" he thought. His eyes drifted down that tall figure. He
frowned. Now there was an odd thing. This conjuror, or juggler, or
whatever he was, wore riding boots… very muddy riding boots… "Hey!" he
said, starting forward. "Just one minute!"

Of all the State Apartments in the glorious Pavilion, the
Banqueting Room was surely the most awesome. It was an enormous
chamber, rich with gold and crystal, the walls bright with colourful
Oriental paintings, the long table set beneath a great domed ceiling
more than forty feet in height. The dome, the blue of an Eastern sky,
had in the centre the likenesses of long, luxuriant tree fronds,
several of which were three-dimensional, being carven of copper. And
from the middle of those lush plantain leaves, hanging directly above
the centre of the dining table, was an enormous silver dragon, the
chandelier suspended from its claws so vast and so bright that the
jewelled lotus flowers and chains that festooned it dazzled the eye
with their radiance. Four lesser chandeliers and eight standards
created their own light so that the entire chamber was a blaze of
colour and brilliance—and heat.

Since the Regent had no lady at that time to act as hostess,
only gentlemen were seated at the long table, but they were an
illustrious gathering. The guest of honour, of course, was the Duke of
Wellington, seated at the Regent's right hand and in an expansive mood,
his bray of a laugh ringing out often, his strong face relaxed into the
smile that could make him seem quite handsome. Many officers who had
survived the great battle were present, among them the tall and gallant
Colonel Sir John Colborne of the Fighting Fifty-second, and the
debonair cavalry commander, Lord Uxbridge, who had lost his leg to one
of the last cannon shots fired into the fields near La Haye Sainte.
Regimental reds and blues blazed around the table, but there were
others not in uniform, gentlemen wearing the black and white of formal
attire. And among the most elegant, a slender figure whose soft French
accent contrasted with the booming voice of the Brigadier beside him.

Claude Sanguinet had not wished to be present at this banquet.
It was, in fact, infuriating that it had become necessary to ensure he
was invited, but after the fiasco that had resulted from Mitchell
Redmond's escape, after the unforgivable ineptitude that had failed to
bring about the death of that British thorn in his flesh, Claude had
felt that he must be present-just in case anything went awry. His dash
down the length of England had been less exhausting than that of his
enemies, for he had travelled in luxuriously sprung coaches, with teams
of blood horses to bear him in speed and comfort day and night, but
even so, he was tired, irritated, and nervous as the moments dragged
slowly pas..

Because a ball was to follow, the dinner had been less than
heroic in scope, but Sanguinet, not a man of large appetite, viewed the
twelve
entrees
with inward disgust and was
heartily glad when the covers were removed in preparation for the wine
and nuts.

At last! It was time!

He smiled at a remark of the Brigadier to the effect that
Prinny was in rare form tonight, and his brown eyes slanted obliquely
towards the Regent, a vast figure, his orders glittering on his great
chest, his fat face red and perspiring, but his manner polite and
amiable, betraying not the faintest sign of hauteur. "Fool," thought
Claude with contempt and glanced to the doors.

He was not disappointed. Very soon a splendidly uniformed
officer of the Household Cavalry ushered in a tall, black-clad
gentleman who bore a small brass-bound wooden chest, carried high
between both hands. A ripple of interest ran around the long table, and
the noisy guests quieted.

"Well, now," said the Regent, his round features wreathed in a
benign smile, "what's all this, eh?"

The officer snapped to attention. "With your permission, sir,
Monsieur Claude Sanguinet begs to be allowed to present a token of his
respectful esteem on this historic occasion."

Several glances were directed at Sanguinet. The Duke of
Wellington's dark eyes were expressionless; Lord Liverpool's austere
countenance wore a slight frown, and Lord Castlereagh tilted his
handsome head thoughtfully. The Regent, almost childishly delighted,
leaned forward insofar as his bulk allowed and called down the table in
French, "This then is your grand surprise, eh, Claude? The honours go
to Wellington tonight, not to me. My thanks, however."

Gerard was allowed to step forward and place the little chest
on the table. The Regent unfastened the clasp and swung open the lid.
For a moment, he peeped inside, saying nothing. Beside him, Wellington
leaned forward, and his dark brows lifted.

Almost inaudibly the Regent said, "Now… by Jove!" His pudgy
hands lifted the crown from its purple velvet and it came into the
light like a thing of glory, rich gleams darting from rubies, emeralds,
and sapphires, together with the myriad sparkling hues of diamonds.
Cries of admiration rang out. Prince George's pale eyes shot to
Sanguinet. Obviously awed, he asked, "Is it… the Charlemagne?"

Sanguinet smiled and made a slightly deprecating gesture.

Across the table from the Regent, a somewhat inebriated
General called, "Put it on, sir! Let us see you in't!"

"Well, I, ah, don't know… about that…" The Regent looked
rather shyly at Wellington.

Already thoroughly bored, the Duke said with a tight smile,
"Why not, sir? It certainly is a splendid gift."

George grinned happily. "Well, damme, but I shall!" He lifted
the crown.

Sanguinet held his breath. Gerard, his dark face unreadable,
stepped back and began to drift towards the serving tables.

The Prince lowered the crown again."A mirror! Some one of you
fellows fetch me a mirror!''

A lackey slipped into the corridor, removed a large oval
mirror from the wall, and carried it into the Banqueting Room.

The Regent, who had been holding up the crown of Charlemagne
so that all present might exclaim over it, turned in his chair and with
both hands began to lower the crown onto his head. He was frowning a
little, because of a noisy commotion that had suddenly arisen in the
corridor.

A loud crash and the doors burst open. There were shouts of
"Stop him!" and "Warn His Highness!"

The Prince paused, his full mouth pouting, his face both
dismayed and disappointed. Wellington was on his feet, his hawk gaze
turned to the astonishing figure fighting his way into the room.

Mitchell's wig was gone; the urn had paid the supreme penalty
when he'd aimed it at a zealous hussar in the corridor, and now he
eluded those who grappled with him by the simple expedient of slipping
out of the voluminous dressing gown they grasped.

Several of the waiters ran for him. Colonel Colborne sprang up
to block his path, his chair going over with a crash. Many of the
guests, shouting alarm, were also standing.

Desperate, Mitchell called, "Sir! The crown is—"

Sanguinet, his pale face a mask of rage, jumped up and fired a
small derringer at close range, the retort shattering in that chaotic
room.

Mitchell was slammed back as if by a giant hammer. He caromed
into the men who pursued him and was thrown to the floor.

"Crown…"he gasped faintly. "Musn't put on—"

The burly guardsman straddling him, drew back one fist with a
snarl of rage.

Wellington's resonant voice pierced the uproar. "
Stop
!
That's young Redmond! Let him up, I say!"

Colborne, who had also recognized this brother of his
erstwhile comrade in arms, ran to pull the guardsman back.

Someone else charged through the doors—a stocky little man in
the full dress uniform of a general officer, with beside him a tall
ragged young giant, his dark hair tousled and the right side of his
tired face badly scarred.

"Leith!" cried Wellington.

Sanguinet's face twisted with hatred. He gestured imperatively.

The bosky General who had urged the Regent to put on the crown
was suddenly cold sober, another derringer appearing in his hand as he
aimed at Leith and fired. Leith staggered, recovered, sprang onto a
vacated chair and launched himself across that noble table. The Regent
moved faster than he had been known to do for some time and was clear
as Leith's long shape blurred past him. Claude snatched up the crown
even as Leith's strong hands clamped about his throat. They both
crashed to the floor to the accompaniment of shouts of alarm and
excitement. With all his strength, Claude swung the crown and brought
it smashing against the side of Leith's head. The young Colonel's hold
relaxed, and he lay still.

Colborne, on one knee, his arm supporting Redmond's shoulders,
asked urgently, "What is it, Mitch? Try and tell us, old fellow."

Mitchell could see only a dazzling blur. A great noise was
ringing in his ears, and Colborne's words came as from a great
distance. With a tremendous effort he pulled the notebook from his
pocket. "Crown…"he whispered. "Poisoned… San-Sanguinet…" The words
faded into a sigh and he was suddenly a dead weight in the Colonel's
arms.

"That murdering damned weasel," snarled Wellington, snatching
Diccon's notebook. He whirled about. "Sir! Do not touch the crown!"

Two shrieks rang out almost simultaneously. The first was
uttered by Sanguinet, who, having struggled to his feet and grinned
down triumphantly at Leith, was now frenziedly examining a small
scratch on the middle finger of his right hand. The second scream
issued from Charity's lips as she ran into the room and saw Mitchell
lying unconscious in John Colborne's arms. Falling to her knees beside
him, she sobbed out his name and, clutching his unresponsive hand,
looked imploringly into Sir John's startled face.