The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (20 page)

“But Georges he is right,” said the red-faced bully. “That one”—he pointed at Elspeth—“speaks like the Quality and she has with it the English way. Let us take her and go before the others they come.”

Elspeth shrank back, and although unaware of what had been said, Freda was further alarmed and ran to cling to her.

Sir Simon wheeled his chair forward. “Now you just listen to me—”

The ferrety Georges who was evidently the leader of this unlovely trio said contemptuously, “Keep your mouth closed, hag!”

Pepe jerked the Bath chair aside roughly. “Out of the way, Grandma!” he brayed. His jaw dropped then, and he stared in stupefaction as “Grandma” sprang from the chair and whirled about, skirts flying. A well-aimed fist whizzed at him, his sagging jaw was closed with efficiency if not kindness and he measured his length on the floor.

The red-faced man stared in disbelief at this militant “old lady.”

Georges, made of sterner stuff, swung up his knife.

Elspeth seized the Bath chair and with all her strength sent it hurtling at Georges, who skipped aside to avoid it.

Recovering his wits, the red-faced man snatched up Pepe's pistol and held it steadily on Sir Simon. “This one, I think, is not what she seems,” he remarked.

“But can be dealt with,” said Georges. There was no trace of amusement in his face now. He added curtly, “Give the pistol to me. Now—get that fat idiot on his feet. As for you, madame”—he stared at Sir Simon who had returned to the Bath chair—“or is it monsieur? There is a story here, and one that I feel is in my best interests to know. You will of a certainty be willing to share it with us.”

“I perceive that you are a considerable optimist,” drawled Sir Simon.

Georges said sharply, “Armand!” and tossed his knife to the red-faced man. “I think a little persuasion with this, and the so strange ‘lady' will confess his sins to—No—not him, you fool!” He jerked his head towards Freda. “The little servant is a good screamer, as we have heard.”

“My Gawd!” wailed Freda, as Armand, leering menacingly, started towards her, knife in hand.

Wrapping her arms about the terrified girl, Elspeth cried, “We have nothing you can want. Why—”

Armand seized Freda's arm.

Elspeth promptly boxed his ears.

He cursed and slapped her hard even as the front door flew open.

Entering, Valerian's eyes widened. “Be
damned!
” he gasped.

Several things happened very fast. It seemed to Elspeth that he crossed the room in a blur and a glitter of steel. Holding her stinging cheek, scarcely daring to breathe, she heard the man who had struck her howl louder than Freda had done and saw him stagger towards the kitchen, hugging his middle.

She screamed a warning as Georges swung up his pistol and fired at Valerian, who ducked swiftly.

Sir Simon sprang at Georges from the Bath chair. It was a valiant effort, but the sick man was no match for this healthy rogue and Valerian leapt to his defence.

The big Pepe snatched up a chair and whipped it at Valerian's back.

Skye, dragging himself up onto the sofa, stuck out his foot and Pepe went down with a crash that rocked the room and flattened the chair.

Snarling like the ferret he so resembled, Georges wrenched Sir Simon into a shield in front of him, one arm hooked around his throat. “If you do not wish to watch me break the neck of whatever this is, you will surrender,” he shouted.

Valerian hesitated.

Sir Simon kicked back. “Mrs. Newell's” high Spanish heel ground into Georges's shin, and as his grip slackened Sir Simon flung himself clear.

Sword levelled, Valerian sprang to the attack.

The front door burst open again, slamming against Valerian and sending the sword spinning from his hand.

Stamping inside, Herbert stared around that violent room and stammered a bewildered “What—the deuce…?”

Georges decided that enough was enough. With an incoherent shout to his accomplices, he raced for the kitchen.

Leaping to retrieve his sword, Valerian collided with Pepe, who had struggled to his feet. The big man struck out in panic, and caught off-balance, Valerian reeled.

Belatedly comprehending, Herbert ran to steady him. “Hey!” he exclaimed, stepping on the fallen sword.

“Oh, get
away!
” snarled Valerian, tugging at his sword with one hand and exasperatedly pushing his disastrous cousin aside with the other.

There came the sound of pounding hooves in the lane.

Sir Simon panted, “They're off, lad. Just as well.”

“Like
hell!
” Valerian spun to face Elspeth, his eyes frantic. “Are you all right? That bastard—my apologies, but he is!—struck you!”

“I'm all right,” she assured him, managing a shaken smile. “And you were splendid—as usual.”

“Splendid,” agreed Sir Simon. “But not quite ‘as usual,' eh, lad?”

His gaze still fixed on Elspeth, Valerian shrugged. “Nought to matter, sir.”

Herbert said contritely, “I'm dashed sorry. I didn't mean to rush in and spoil everything.”

“We know that,” said Sir Simon. “You'd best go and see to our proprietor, and her servants, they're likely overset by this uproar. And perhaps Mistress Freda can find water and some linen, since my son persists in bleeding all over her rug!”

Freda moaned but went with Herbert to the kitchen regions at once.

Whitening, Elspeth cried, “Heavens! You're hurt! Where?” Scanning Valerian anxiously, she saw the tear in his sleeve and commanded, “Take off your coat!”

Joel Skye helped him remove the coat and Elspeth gasped to see that the ruffle of his left shirt-sleeve was wet and crimson. “Oh my! We must get you to bed!”

“Stuff. It's a scrape, merely.” He sat on the arm of the sofa and glanced at his father. “I didn't jump far enough, I'm afraid. Or perhaps that wart with the pistol had such poor aim I'd have been wiser not to have dodged at all!”

Skye said, “Let me do that, Elspeth.” He ripped the torn ruffle and, examining the wound, said, “A deep graze, no worse, fortunately.”

Sir Simon had left his chair so as to inspect the injury. He said calmly, “I think you're right, Lieutenant. But I am unfortunately acquainted with bullet wounds. It must be properly dealt with.”

Freda came back carrying a tray with a bowl of water and medical supplies, and Herbert escorted the pension's hostess to join them. A tall woman of late middle age, Madame Bossuet had kept her figure; she was neatly gowned and wore a fashionable wig which just now was rather lopsided on her head. Catching sight of Valerian's bloodied sleeve, she threw up her arms, wailing tearfully that never had such violence been perpetrated in her pension; that her cook had nigh suffered a spasm, and her maid would probably desert her! Her voice rose to near hysteria.

Herbert drew back in alarm.

Valerian said soothingly, “They were thieves, madame, but they have fled and I promise you they won't come back now they know we are armed and ready for them. I am only sorry you have suffered such a distressing experience. As for me, have no fear, this trifling hurt will not even require the attention of an apothecary.”

She dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes and smiled at him uncertainly. “Mrs. Newell” leaned forward to take her hand and pat it while talking to her with warm sympathy.

Valerian turned to his cousin and said in English, “Don't stand there taking root, Herbert! Help the poor lady back to the kitchen and give her some wine.”

“Your sire is taking better care of her than I could,” Herbert protested. “I tried to calm her down, but you know very well my French ain't fluent.”

“I also know that my father is tired. She won't mind your incoherencies. Just hold her hand and smile kindly and the poor creature will accept you as a native son.”

His cousin looked dubious but was glad enough to do something to redeem himself and led their hostess back into the kitchen. Pixie emerged from behind the sofa and with tail held high darted after them in pursuit of the enticing smells of cooking.

Skye had cut away Valerian's torn shirt-sleeve and Elspeth began to bathe the gash.

Valerian flinched a little. She lifted anxious eyes to his face and he said lightly, “You're doing very nicely, ma'am. Had some experience with that hare-brained brother of yours, eh?”

She smiled, but she was still very pale and the sight of the darkening bruise on her cheekbone infuriated him.

Frowning, he said, “You must think me a poor champion. I should have cut that filthy swine's heart out! I'd meant to, you know.”

“From the way you looked,” said Skye with a grin, “I believe you!”

With his gaze steady on Elspeth, Valerian growled, “When I think that he dared—he
dared
to strike you! By God! I hope he comes my way again!”

Suddenly shy, she met his eyes squarely and saw the fury in their grey depths soften into an expression that took her breath away. It was a brief awareness, then she bent to her task again.

The room was hushed. Neither of the two men who witnessed that revealing exchange spoke, and their reactions were very different. Sir Simon was faintly smiling, but it seemed to Joel Skye that time was frozen and he watched the little tableau as from a great distance, a smile very far from his eyes and his lips set into a thin, tight line.

Elspeth finished her bandage as Herbert came to announce that Madame Bossuet urged them to prepare for dinner. They were all tired; Elspeth longed for her bed and had to force herself not to snap at Freda, who gabbled on incessantly about their “drefful ordeals,” and that she “dursn't think” what dear Mrs. Clayton would say if any of it reached her ears.

Elspeth's thoughts had taken a different turn. She judged Valerian to be near exhaustion, but her recommendation that he lie down upon his bed, where a tray could be carried to him, was flatly rejected. She protested indignantly that she'd done her best for him but he must face the fact that he had taken a nasty cut and she could only do so much to help. Her efforts, he acknowledged gratefully, were very much appreciated but there were still plans to be made, and speedily. Persisting, she turned to Joel and pleaded that he add his “always sensible” opinion to her own, only to be shocked when he replied with unusual acerbity that Valerian was a grown man who must be aware of his limitations. Sir Simon promised he would see to it that his son retire directly after they dined, with which she had to be content, and Valerian bowed and thanked “Nurse,” then went off to find another shirt.

It was a weary and subdued group who gathered in the dining room shortly afterwards. Valerian came downstairs, his elegance restored, bringing with him a cheerful attitude, reminding them of their successes to this point and urging that they not put on the airs of a funeral party.

The stout and rosy-cheeked maid who carried in a large tureen of leek soup looked pleasurably excited rather than distraught. Madame Bossuet seemed less nervous as she filled serving bowls and explained to “Madame Newell” that Cook had done her best to ensure that the guests would enjoy a splendid dinner. Cook fulfilled this promise, following the excellent soup with a steamed fish stuffed with crabmeat, creamed mushrooms, tiny potatoes tossed with butter, and fragrant freshly baked rolls; the second remove consisted of chicken wrapped in flaky pastry, green beans with pearl onions, and thinly sliced beef stewed in red wine, which latter dish was provided, declared Madame Bossuet proudly, especially for the English palates around her table.

Sir Simon and Herbert did justice to this excellent repast, but Elspeth noted that Valerian ate sparingly and took no wine, which his father murmured was “very wise.” She was rather ashamed to discover that in spite of the ordeals of this hectic day she was ravenous, and she even indulged herself with a small portion of the caramel creme that was served with sugar wafers and tarts as dessert.

Conversation was guarded while Madame Bossuet or the maid were in the room. When the meal ended and the ladies adjourned to the front parlour, Valerian, Skye and Herbert lost no time in joining them.

“Now we must decide our route,” Valerian began, then stopped as his father lifted a delaying hand.

“A moment, Gervaise,” said Sir Simon, stroking the little cat which had again taken possession of his lap. “Do you know what our unwelcome visitors wanted with you, Miss Elspeth?”

Valerian had leaned back wearily in his chair but at this he jerked upright, flinched involuntarily but demanded, “What's this?”

The fierce struggle and her impromptu attempt at nursing had driven the memory from Elspeth's mind, but she now felt a pang of apprehension and exclaimed, “Good gracious, that's right! I'd quite forgot! And indeed, I've no least notion, sir.”

“About what? Tell me!” demanded Valerian.

Skye said, “As far as I recall, one of them, the ringleader, I think, said that Miss Clayton is of the Quality, and English, and that they should take her away at once!”

“My dear God!” gasped Valerian. “Did they think to hold an English lady for ransom? Is that why they followed us?”

Sir Simon pursed his lips, then said slowly, “I rather doubt it. They were definitely looking for someone. In fact—this was while you were down, Lieutenant—one of them said that Miss Elspeth was dressed like a servant, and he thought they had been … ah, ‘misled' was the word, as I recall. I was surprised, as I'd assumed they'd come for me!”

Valerian lifted a hand to his temple and muttered dazedly, “As had I. Jupiter! I'm properly bowled out!”

“But since they apparently didn't want you, sir,” said Herbert, “why would they have tried to abduct Miss Clayton, unless it was for the white-slave traffic?”

Valerian said, “Or perhaps they planned to use her to force her brother to tell what was in the letter he carried and what has become of it.”