Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (33 page)

Mr. Innes Williard, in full evening dress, was incensed to
realize
that his dinner had been interrupted so that he might come to the aid
of the common vagrant who was trespassing at Lanterns. He uttered a
scathing denunciation of rascally demobilized soldiers who went about
vandalizing private properties.

Ignatius, Lord Dale, was his usual haughty self. After a
narrow-eyed
scan of Diccon he said, "I thought we were coming to help put out a
fire. Are you all right, Temple and Cloud?"

Mr. Williard's jaw dropped ludicrously. A
spreading incredulous
silence became an enthusiastic welcome for the returned lord of the
manor. Diccon was one of their own; Sussex born even if he'd not had
the sense to spend much time in his home county, and the anticipated
disaster became a minor celebration. There were shouts of anger when he
told of a greedy and unprincipled gang of thieves, hunting for the
fabled treasure that, in his personal opinion, did not exist. Vaughan
took several of the more curious upstairs to inspect their improvised
alarm, and, in accordance with custom, the volunteer firefighters were
offered ale and whatever the larder could provide.

It was two hours before the last waggonload of cheerfully
singing
villagers drove out. Innes Williard took his leave, saying irritably
that it was beyond him to know why people found it necessary to conceal
their true identities, for such deceits led to nothing but "needless
embarrassments." Diccon, who was very tired, ignored his comments, but
expressed with quiet courtesy his thanks for Williard's help.

A few minutes later, he walked outside with Lord Dale to offer
another small speech of appreciation to his lordship and his retainers.
Watching from the doorway as the two men shook hands, Vaughan heard
Dale say solemnly, "Have a care, Paisley. The Swiss is not likely to
give up and may well be involved in the other matter!"

Vaughan went back into the kitchen and gathered up the bone of
a
joint, a small hunk of cheese, and an empty bottle of pickled onions.

Diccon came in and sprawled on a chair with a sigh of
exhaustion.

"They wiped out our rations," said Vaughan.

Diccon yawned. "You'll be able to take breakfast at the dower
house.
I fancy you're first oars with Miss Fanny, after your heroic rescue."
Vaughan threw a heel of bread at him, and he laughed and asked, "No,
seriously, how does the poor lady go on?"

"Very well. She's a resilient little soul. I vow she was more
inclined to shoot Coville than to swoon!" He smiled fondly. "I could
talk of her forever. But I'll restrain myself, for you
look
properly wrung out, old fellow. What an ordeal! You must fairly ache
for your bed."

"I'm too tired to climb the stairs. Besides, I have something
to say
to you, and I want to know what happened when you went after Coville."

"Nothing." Vaughan's expression hardened. "The swine has gone
to earth somewhere, but I'll come up with him, never fear."

"I wish you joy of him. Now you may ask the questions that are
burning your tongue."

"Thank you, Major, sir. I'll not trouble you with many."
Straddling
a chair Vaughan asked, "Firstly, why did you tell Bridger to be on
guard at the dower house?"

Diccon frowned. "Monteil left me with a veiled threat. He's
deduced I have a—a fondness for the Warringtons."

Aghast, Vaughan said, "Good Lord! You never think he means to
take
revenge on you by striking at them? He would! Dammitall, he's without
conscience!"

"I agree. One or other of us must always be up there." Diccon
drew a
hand across his eyes wearily. "You'd best get on with your questions
before I fall asleep."

"Yes. Well, you were at Downsdale Park when Miss Fanny was
attacked.
Why? I thought old Dale blamed you for letting Mr. Fox eat his letters?"

"He did. I got them back for him."

"How the deuce could you do that?"

"Quite simply. Young Sam South fancied some adventure, so he's
been
leading the free-trading life with our Yves. When he landed a few days
ago I sent him off to the Horse Guards for copies of Dale's letters."

"The… Horse
Guards? Dale
? Oh, you quiz
me! The man's a high-in-the-instep bird-brain!"

"So I thought till Smollet wrote that Dale's a power behind
the Whitehall scene, and an authority on international espionage."

"The devil you say! Then the papers Mr. Fox gobbled up were—"

"Were of rather vital importance." Diccon sighed. "Finished?"

"Almost. What did Dale mean just now when he spoke of 'the
other matter'?"

Diccon stared at the fire. "You've quick ears, friend."

"And you don't mean to tell me, I see. Or is it that you
cannot tell me?"

"Both," lied Diccon. He stood and stretched. "I'm for bed."

"One more thing, please. Of a different nature. I've spoken to
Sir
Lionel, and I'm now an approved suitor. But I want Fanny to have a
London Season. She's—" His colour rose as Diccon slanted a
raised-eyebrows glance his way and he said defensively, "Well, she's
seen nothing of the world, you know."

"And you want to give her a chance to look over the
competition?
Noble. She's a beauty, Joss. You're a good man, but she'll be besieged.
You're taking quite a risk."

"I dare to hope the risk is small. My last question is—if I
win her—dare I also hope I'll have you for a brother-in-law?"

Diccon was on the edge of exhaustion, his bruises throbbed,
and Imre
Monteil's threat hung always at the edges of his mind. "How many times
must I tell you?" he said with a flare of irritation. "No! I
cannot!"

Vaughan stood, and faced him. "Is the reason that you 'cannot'
connected to the disappearance of your mama?"

"Yes. Now—let me be!"

He started to the door.

Vaughan said, "Then what has Smollet to do with it?"

Diccon paused, swore, and walked on.

Vaughan took three quick strides and stood with his back
against the door. "Your pardon, but I must know."

His fists clenching, Diccon stared at him, then laughed
stridently.
"What's this? The gallant cavalry officer galloping to the rescue
again? History repeats itself, doesn't it, Lieutenant? Always the same!
You glorious fellows in your scarlet and gold!

Sabres drawn, dashing in where only the brave dare go! While
men
like me creep and crawl about, peeping and spying and sniffing out
traps and potential disasters! A sorry crew, and earning only sneers,
or—"

Vaughan's hand cracked across his mouth like a pistol shot,
cutting off the bitter words.

Diccon gasped and stood rocking on his heels, staring in
bewilderment at the handsome, honest face.

Vaughan said gently, "Sorry, old lad. You were becoming a
trifle shrill."

A trifle shrill.

Suddenly, Diccon was just too tired to struggle anymore. He
sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.

After a minute Vaughan bent over him and offered a glass of
cognac.
"Here. You need it. You're worn to the bone, and I shouldn't have—"

"No. You shouldn't." Diccon lifted the glass with a hand that
shook.
"But you have." He took a generous sample of the wine. "And perhaps
you've the right, at that. It's in the Bible."

Puzzled, Vaughan went to the shelf that housed the few books
Diccon
had brought here. The Bible was very old and most beautifully
illustrated. He took it down, and opened it and a letter fell out.

Diccon said sardonically, "I thought that a fairly safe hiding
place."

Vaughan flushed. "If you suspect I've been searching Lanterns
for your personal correspondence, you may go to the devil!"

"No. But I knew you'd recognize the writing if you saw the
direction. Like a sentimental idiot I wanted to spare you, when it's
likely better that you should be forewarned."

Vaughan turned the letter over. He did recognize the writing,
and said apprehensively, "Smollet!"

Diccon nodded. "General Sir Nevin's latest communique. Read
it. As you said, you must know."

Vaughan unfolded the page, read swiftly, turned paper white,
and closed his eyes. "Dear God! Diccon—you
cannot
connect Eric Warrington with this?"

"You appear to have done so—without the slightest delay."

"Smollet says, 'Any young fellow from the Sussex area who is
suddenly and unaccountably plump in the pockets.' There might be many
such."

"Who are believed to affect disguises on frequent journeys to
Europe? It fits, Joss."

"But—but this is
treason
, man! D'you
realize? No, it
must
be coincidental. Some other
fellow."

Diccon lit a candle. "You'll never know how I pray that is so.
Good night, Joss."

Vaughan read the letter again, then ran into the corridor.
"Wait! What are you going to do?"

With ineffable weariness Diccon started up the stairs. "Have a
look at poor Mac."

"Yes, of course. But—you know what I mean."

"What can I do? Wait. Hope old Nevin's following the wrong
scent, as you said."

"And—heaven forbid!—if he's right?"

"Pray that I'm not the fellow who has to… deal with it."

"But—but you're on sick leave! They can't ask you—"

Clinging to the banister rail Diccon turned and looked down at
him.
"Whitehall wouldn't let me off that easily. Nor would my conscience."

"But—"

"Whether I'm on sick leave or not, I'm a military officer.
I've
taken a solemn oath to serve my country." Diccon shrugged, and went on
up the stairs. "Besides," he added bitterly, "I cannot stomach
traitors."

The news of the attack at Lanterns had frightened all three
ladies
at the dower house, and Marietta was scarcely able to conceal her
panic. All her bitter resentment of Diccon's duplicity was swept away
by the fear that he had been hurt, and she was beside herself with
anxiety until Bridger returned and assured them that "his lordship" was
safe. Later, Vaughan came back, to give them a detailed report. He
seemed more elated over the splendid fight Diccon had put up than
dismayed by the event itself. Worn out, Marietta went up to bed soon
after he left again. She passed a miserable night, despising her
weakness because, knowing the threat Diccon posed, fearing him and
wanting to hate him, she could not stop loving him.

In the morning she awoke feeling wrung out from lack of sleep,
and
her nerves were on edge when at eleven o'clock she ushered a
distinguished caller into the book room. Her heart had convulsed with
fright when she saw the military uniform, but there was only one
sergeant riding escort and the General seemed a pleasant, fatherly sort
of man. He had made Sir Lionel's acquaintance at the home of Lord
Kingston Leith, he said, and since he was in the neighbourhood had
thought he'd pay a courtesy call. She knew her father would have wished
to be denied, but she did not dare deny this particular caller.

Fanny was in the workroom watching Sir Lionel struggle with
his new
invention, a long track from which hung several strands of thin wire,
and was enquiring as to the name and purpose of this device.

"It's called a Riser," he said. "And its purpose is— Ah,
hello,
Etta. Has someone come? I thought I heard the doorbell. Not Eric, I
suppose?"

"It is a military gentleman, sir." She gave him the calling
card.

"General Sir Nevin Smollet." He said frowningly, "Never heard
of the fella."

"He says he met you at Lord Leith's house. He's short and
square-ish, rather gruff and formidable-looking, but very courteous."

"Hmm. I fancy he's come to find out what we know about last
night's
disgraceful fiasco down at the manor. He'd do better to call on Temple
and Cloud—or Major Paisley, as he calls himself. Sure he ain't mistaken
this for Lanterns?"

She assured him that this was not the case, and he stamped his
way
up the stairs grumbling that what with lecherous London beaux,
murderous thieves, exploding rockets, and the County turned
topsy-turvy, a man's privacy was doomed.

Watching her sister, Fanny asked, "What is it, dear? Are you
grieving because Blake Coville showed his true colours?"

"Good gracious, no! I am only thankful your gallant Jocelyn
was at hand. Do you expect he will call today?"

"But, of course," said Fanny pertly. "He is anxious to talk to
Eric, you know."

Marietta dropped the pliers she'd taken up absently. "Why?"

Startled, Fanny said, "Why, to tell him he wishes to fix his
interest with me, I expect." She took Marietta's hand, searching her
face anxiously. "Etta—there
is
something! Do you
think I can't tell when you are worrying? Is it that you do not approve
of Jocelyn?"

"Of course I approve, you goose! He is exactly the type of man
I prayed you would find." Fanny looked unconvinced, so Marietta said,
"I'll admit I was most shocked by Mr. Coville's
disgraceful behaviour."

"I know you favoured him, dearest. I'm so sorry you were
disillusioned. It seems wrong that I should be so very happy while you
are sad. But—oh, Etta, it is perfectly glorious to be in love!"

Marietta hugged her. "And it is glorious to see you so happy.
Besides, I am not sad. Though I'll own I am somewhat surprised, because
Mr. Vaughan does not appear to be a poor professor or an artist, and
though he most certainly has a brain in his head, he does not go about
quoting from the Greek or Latin, so—"

"Wretch!" cried Fanny, won to a laugh. "I never said such
things!"

"Oh, yes you did!"

"Then I must have done so when I was very young and foolish!
Jocelyn
Vaughan is all I could ever wish for in a husband, so do not be
reminding me of my nonsense. No, really, Etta," with sudden shyness,
Fanny said, "I just marvel that I could be so lucky."