Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (44 page)

"
Mais non! Mais… non
!" The shrill wail,
unutterably desolate, keened through the uproar. Claude Sanguinet, his
face ashen, raised clenched fists and shook them in the air in an agony
of frustrated fury. Another sound escaped his writhing lips. Neither
scream nor shout, it died into a terrible, strangling sob. Before the
collective gaze of that stunned gathering, Monsieur Claude Sanguinet
sank to the floor. One hand, in a last convulsive grab, fastened onto
the tablecloth, dragging it downwards. The crown of Charlemagne fell
with it, to lie beside—but not on—the head of the man who had schemed
and murdered and plotted for so many years and at the end had contrived
only to bring about his own death.

Mitchell's first awakening was hellish. His left side was on
fire, his right shoulder made breathing an agony, he ached from head to
foot, and—worst of all—she was not at his side. Whenever he dared open
his eyes, he peered through the mists, but she was not here. He knew
that he was in a strange room of great size and richness; he knew that
kind hands tended him; he fancied to have seen Harry a time or two; and
somehow he knew that England was safe. But she was not here. Why did
she not come? Was she hurt? Or ill? Or had she decided he was beneath
contempt after all…? Had that ghastly confrontation at Tordarroch so
disgusted her that, now it was all over, her sensibilities had righted
themselves and she did not want to see him again? Hot, miserable, and
pain-racked, his head began to toss, which made the pain worse. And so
he lay there, increasingly fretful and despairing, calling for her, in
vain.

The next time he awoke, he thought for a wonderful moment that
she had come, but his vision clearing, he saw that it was an older lady
in a starched white apron, sitting in the chair beside his bed,
tatting, her thin fingers flying, the thread somehow shaping itself
into an intricate little square. Mitchell stared at it until his eyes
began to blur. He heard the door open and turned eagerly, then clutched
wildly at the coverlet, biting back a cry of pain. Things became a
trifle dim, but suddenly the disembodied face of a very fierce-looking
man loomed over him. A gentle voice said, "Easy, lad—easy. We will
bring her to you, just as soon as we can. Try to sleep now."

But they did not bring her, and the weary hours dragged past
until he slid gratefully into darkness…

Sir Harry Redmond sat at a black japanned escritoire in the
small but elaborate ante-room, writing industriously. A vivid bruise
along the right side of his forehead, extending downwards into an
equally vivid black eye, made his efforts a trifle tedious, and he was
turning his head to squint awkwardly at the paper when a large hand
clapped on his shoulder, causing him to toss the pen into the air and
give a little jump of shock.

Tristram Leith smiled down at him and murmured a conciliatory,
"Sorry, old boy. Didn't realize your nerves was in such a state."

"Well, what the deuce would you expect?" exclaimed Sir Harry
indignantly. "Only look at what you've made me do! Ink all across the
blasted thing, and it's my third attempt to write to my wife. By
George, if you didn't carry your arm in that stupid sling, I—" He
checked, his green eyes becoming narrower than usual, and asked
sharply, "What news, Tris?"

Leith threw one long leg irreverently across the end of a long
Egyptian-style sofa with griffin's feet and said laconically, "A groom
just brought word that my wife goes along nicely." His dark eyes
softened. "Thank God! She sent me a letter… What of your brother? Awake
yet?"

Sir Harry's lips tightened. "Several times. But he's drifted
off again, fortunately."

Leith nodded, having weathered such a storm himself. "It's not
a coma, I hope?"

"No. But for the most part he's out of his head, poor old
fellow. The doctor says he's completely exhausted and may sleep for
several days. Do you know, Leith, that blasted idiot has a bruise on
his side you'd not believe. Rode all the way from Hadrian's Wall with
three cracked ribs and said not a word about it!"

"Did he, by God! You must be very proud of him, Harry. Has—"
And Leith interrupted himself to shout a glad, "Dev! Jupiter, but I
thought you'd never get here!"

Leaning heavily on the arm of Lion, whose hair was now
half-brown and half-red, Devenish hobbled to grip Leith's outstretched
hand, be pounded on the back by Sir Harry, who had also sprung up to
greet him, and to remark with considerable indignation that he'd never
have come had he known what he was letting himself in for "Did you
know," he said, casting a wary eye towards the closed door,"that
Wellington himself is in the Saloon? He told me that England could be
proud of us and gave me a clap on the back that damn near knocked me
into the fireplace!"

Leith and Sir Harry exchanged uneasy glances. Leith muttered,
"The old fire-eater didn't say as much to John Colborne after he'd
right-shouldered his Fifty-second out of that blasted cornfield at
Waterloo and pretty well saved the day!''

Devenish shook his head glumly, then said, "Lord, what a
cawker I am! How does your brother go on, Harry? I hear he was a trifle
knocked up."

"Sleeping now. Claude's shot broke his collarbone, and the
doctor had a devilish time digging the ball out, but we think he'll
make a good recovery."

"Glad to hear it," said Devenish. "When the Duke said they'd
called in Lord Belmont, I was afraid—"

Whitening, Harry sprang to his feet. "Called in—who?"

"Belmont. Didn't you know?"

"Be damned if I did. Why? Do you know about this, Leith?"

"No," said Tristram, adding in his calm fashion, "but I
shouldn't fly into a pucker. Prinny's so blasted grateful to all of us
that he likely feels obliged to provide the finest. I'm getting dashed
tired of having him wring my hand ten times a day, I don't mind telling
you."

"Good God!" said Devenish. "Knew I shouldn't have come! How's
our battling invalid?"

Leith chuckled. "She sat by Mitchell's bed not saying a single
word after they'd hauled him into that Sultan's tent of a bedchamber
day before yesterday. I didn't realize until they were finished with
Mitch that Charity was fast asleep. She hasn't stirred since."

Harry shook his head."Who'd have guessed that tiny, frail
little creature could ride all this way…"

"If you d-describe me, Harry, you c-can—" The rest of that
rather shaken utterance was drowned as the three friends turned,
whooping, to greet the pale man, a bandage wrapped around his fair
head, who tottered to join them.

"Jerry! You confounded idiot—you're alive!" cried Harry,
overjoyed.

"If you say so," said his lordship, sinking gratefully into
the chair Leith whipped around for him.

'"Course he's alive, you dolt," said Devenish, beaming. "Don't
you see that the ball took him in the head? Only place it could do no
damage.''

When the badinage and laughter that covered their relief had
died down, Harry asked, "How the devil did you get here? I wonder they
let you leave your sickbed."

'' Pr-Prinny sent a d-damned great state coach for me. With
two outriders, six horses, liveried coachman, a guard, and two footmen!
Blessed if ever I saw such a commotion! They've got grooms r-riding
hell for leather in all directions to noti-noti-noti- tell our families
and find those of us who dropped along the w-way—did you know it?"

Amused, Leith said, "Justin will shrivel up, poor fellow. Or
perhaps he'll be so fortunate as to remain hidden."

"Oh no, he won't," said Bolster. "They're to fetch him
tomorrow, I was t-told. Serve him right, silly clunch! And y-your
uncle's on his way, Harry."

"I don't suppose," Devenish put in gravely, "anyone knows
yet—about Guy?"

There was a brief silence. His eyes sad, Leith murmured, "How
could two brothers be so unlike, I wonder? Guy so thoroughly decent.
And Claude—"

"The late unlamented," interposed Devenish dryly.

"So thoroughly—" Leith went on.

"B-b-b-b, rotten," finished Bolster. "Well, let me tell you,
Dev—" But he did not do so, because the door opened and Charity ran in.

"Oh, my poor… poor dears!" she said, half laughing, half
crying, as the battered group stood to welcome her. "But you are
alive
,
Jeremy! Oh, how
grateful
I am!" She flew to kiss
him very gently, and he blushed and stammered and shyly kissed her
back, while Devenish grinned and grumbled that the rest of them might
as well have expired for all the attention
they
received and only because his lordship had all the rank. Whereupon, of
course, Charity turned to embrace him and then fluttered about like a
bright butterfly in her pretty peach muslin gown, sympathizing with
their hurts, praising them, her great eyes reflecting her deep
affection for them all, but holding also an underlying anxiety that
wrung Harry's heart and made him dread the moment when she should come
to him.

"A fine sister-in-law you will think me," she said, as she
gave him her hands, "to leave you to the last. It is only that you seem
the least damaged, you see."

"What—with this dreadful wound?" he protested, bending his
dark head so that she might exclaim over his bruises.

She smiled, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his forehead lightly,
asking how he came to suffer such afflictions.

"Why, it was when we'd come at last to the Pavilion after the
most hair-raising series of brushes with our Claude's rogues," he said.
"Properly set upon we were and had to run for our lives."

"Ah," she said intently, "so that was the shot we heard? It
was because Gerard and Shotten and the soldiers all went rushing around
to discover the cause that Mitchell and I were able to get past the
gate.''

"Is that so? Then it was worth it, though the ball came
devilish close to making a widow of Nanette." Sir Harry pulled down his
collar, disclosing a deep graze across his neck.

"Good heavens! But—you did escape?"

Leith said, "No. We were caught. Luckily, one of the officers
chanced to be an old friend of mine, Miles Cameron. It was through
Miles' intervention that I was able to get my hands on Sanguinet." He
sighed. "However briefly. Well—it's all over now. And how are you
feeling, my dear?"

"Well rested, thank you," she said, her voice a trifle too
nonchalant. "They tell me I have slept for two days. They also tell me
that my—that Mitchell is—here. Is he conscious yet?"

Her eyes searched Harry's face. He longed to say the words she
so obviously prayed to hear and instead answered very gently, "Not at
the moment, Charity. Sound asleep."

"He has not spoken… at all?"

Sir Harry bit his lip and yearned to be elsewhere. "Not, ah,
well, he has been a trifle feverish, you know. Not, er, lucid, exactly."

Her heart twisted. So he had not asked for her. It was
logical, of course. They had survived a nightmare of danger and because
they had fought their way through together, she had dared to hope… But
that gallant, handsome, altogether adorable gentleman would not want a
plain little dab of a girl. Not once their terrible… wonderful idyll
was done.

They all saw the light go out of her eyes, and they rallied
around at once, exclaiming at her long sleep, marvelling at her
endurance and bravery, teasing her, loving her. She responded somehow,
longing to see
him
, to be assured that he would
live, that he was not suffering too dreadfully. And instead she laughed
with these dear friends who tried so hard to ease her sorrow.

Another gentleman stamped to join them. A tall, grey-haired,
irascible-appearing individual with a rasp of a voice, a lantern jaw,
black eyes deep-sunken under great bushy eyebrows. "How the deuce," he
said, ignoring protocol completely, "do you expect me to get this
damnable fever down when no one will
cherchez la femme
?"

Charity gave a hurt little gasp.

"Your pardon, madam," he snarled, scowling at her. "My manners
are deplorable, I'm told. I am Belmont." Without waiting to hear who
she was, he demanded, "Is the boy's brother here? Oh, it's you, is it?
Well, why ain't you out searching for the woman instead of standing
here, fooling about? Do you
want
him to die?"

Terror-stricken, Harry mumbled, "I did not think—I mean,
surely there's no thought of
that
, my lord?"

''Good God, man! Are you daft? That young fool rode and fought
his way for—what is it? three hundred miles?—in a state when anyone
with half a brain would have taken to his bed! How it is his lung ain't
pierced, I don't know, but he is beyond exhaustion, that I
do
know, and he cannot rest. He has a smashed shoulder, is battling a high
fever besides, and is half out of his mind for the woman he loves. And
you ask if he might die! 'Fore God, I've lost patients for half as
much! Fretting and worrying will kill men quicker than any bullet.
Find
the woman! And fast! Else we very well may lose the lamebrain!"

Frantic, Harry stammered, "But, but I don't know who she
is!''

"He's your
brother
and you don't know
his
chères amies
?" Throwing an anguished look at
Charity's pale, stricken face, Harry blurted, "Well, Mitchell's been
abroad for—for nigh a year. The, er, lady is French, I know, but—"

"Any fool knows that! What is
your
name,
if I may ask, ma'am?"

In a frozen croak of a voice, Charity managed, ''I am… Mr.
Redmond's wife, sir," and she wondered if this was how it felt to die
of grief.

For all his harsh manners, Lord Belmont was not an unkind man.
He heard the note of pathos in that cracked little voice, and his heart
plummeted. "Oh, ecod! I am indeed sorry, Mrs. Redmond." He turned a
dismayed face to Harry. "I shall take my clumsy mouth away at once. My
humblest apologies." He fled, but turning at the door added, "I assure
you, the case is really becoming quite desperate. Try and find this
Madame Mulot, or—"