Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

  PROLOGUE

  The April morning had been sunny, but towards afternoon a light mist crept in from the Channel to ooze stealthily along Dover's cobbled and bustling streets. An inquisitive mist this, for its damp intrusion missed no carriage, cottage, mansion, shop, nor place of business; invading each with silent but stubborn persistence as though determined to pry into every nook and cranny of the ancient town. Coming at length to that venerable inn called "The Ship," it seeped through open casements and unlatched doors, curled about the tap, and slyly insinuated itself into the coffee room. Not until it reached two adjoining chambers on the upper floor was it held at bay by windows tightly closed, curtains drawn despite the early hour, inner doors snug and bolted, and a brightly burning fire upon each hearth. In vain did the mist writhe, twist, and contort itself; it was at last obliged to acknowledge defeat and swirl sulkily upon its thwarted way. And how furious would this pervasive vapour have been (had it indeed possessed reason and curiosity), to learn that of all the many secrets harboured in old Dover town on that spring afternoon, one of the most intriguing was unfolding in the very rooms to which it had been unable to gain access.

  The first of these, a private parlour, was occupied by a tall gentleman of middle age and grim aspect. The cut of his coat and the set of his shoulders hinted at the military, and the restlessness of his manner hinted at extreme anxiety. He stood with hands clasped behind rather broad hips, his thinning brown hair rumpled by reason of having been clutched in desperation several times during the past half-hour. His pale blue eyes held a frown, and turned constantly to the closed door of the adjoining bedchamber. Increasingly exasperated, he began to pace up and down, and by one o'clock his pacing resembled that of a healthy Siberian tiger chafing against imprisonment. Drawing forth his timepiece, he consulted it, groaned aloud, and glanced once more to the closed connecting door, his lips pursing in frustration. Animadverting to the chuckling flames upon the unfailing inability of all females (however ravishingly lovely they may be) to be prompt, he voiced his suspicion that his ladies were doubtless happily engaged in idle gossip, then resumed his pacing.

  A gallant and intrepid gentleman was Major James Stroud, but in this instance, his vexation was unwarranted. In the adjoining room the ladies in question were in fact disrobing with almost feverish haste. The elder of the pair, a neat woman with soft brown hair and kindly grey eyes, was very obviously an abigail. That she enjoyed the familiarity with her charge that only long service can bestow was as obvious, for ignoring a flood of adjurations that she attend to herself, she continued to unbutton the fine lawn bodice of her young mistress's petticoat, while wailing softly that it "would never do… never… do!"

  The recipient of this dismal verdict was a vibrantly lovely brunette. She was small of stature, standing not above five feet in her stockings, but having a generously curved figure that forbade her being classed as 'petite'. In a husky little voice that betrayed a barely contained agitation, she now exploded, "Have done! Oh, have done, Lindsay! Your petticoat—off with it! Vite! One glimpse of Brussels lace beneath your round gown and I am betrayed. Ah! Thank heaven we are much of a size!" She shrugged her way into the sensible cotton (and lace-less) petticoat, emerging with curls sadly awry and the discovery that she and her abigail were less of a size than she had fancied. "Supposing," she amended, peering ruefully at her somewhat flattened bosom, "only that I do not breathe too deeply!"

  Lindsay came to slip her blue round gown over the dark head, then knelt to fit her brogues onto the girl's smaller feet. "Oh, dear Miss Nanette…" she said distractedly, "must we? What the ton will say I scarely dare to think! And—your papa . . ! Oh, ma'am! I dassn't… I just dassn't!"

  Paling, Miss Nanette checked, then reached forward to caress the woman's sallow cheek and say wistfully, "But—you would not have him take me back . . ?"

  Lindsay gulped, pressed clasped hands to her lips, and blinked tears away. "As God be my judge… I know it's against all law and reason! Your dear sweet name must be sullied! You'll ruin yourself, my dearie… But—oh, I must help you!"

  She was swooped upon, kissed, and thanked profusely; then Nanette stood and, stepping up and down experimentally in the strange-feeling shoes, said, "You will not forget, dear Lindsay? Keep the hood well forward until Major Stroud has you safely into the cabin on the packet. When you reach Calais he will at once take you to the home of his cousin. There, you will change clothes and be sent to stay with his cousin's old nurse until I call for you."

  Lindsay said nothing, and discerning a glittering droplet on the averted cheek, Nanette gathered her close and murmured emotionally, "Never weep, my faithful one. We shall be together again— very soon."

  "Oh, miss," sobbed Lindsay, clinging to her. "But—suppose… just suppose he catches us! Major Stroud is such a… fine gentleman! He would be as good as dead! And—what your papa would do to me . . ! While, as for you— Oh, my poor little lamb!"

  Nanette's hazel eyes lost their fond glow and acquired a defiant flash. "He shall not catch you!" she asserted fiercely, "for you will have quite disappeared. Major Stroud will rejoin his regiment. And—me…" She did not finish but, turning to the mirror, began to take down her hair. The distraught Lindsay was urged to hasten "for time it is of the essence. I must board the Accommodation Coach at two o'clock if I am to reach the convent and my dear Sister Maria Evangeline before dark."

  Moaning her dismay that her adored and highly born charge must submit to the horrors of such crude transportation, Lindsay stepped gingerly into a rich travelling gown of beige linen, fastened high to the throat with brown velvet frogged buttons. A matching silk-lined brown velvet pelisse was placed around her shoulders and the hood drawn closely about her face. For a few seconds, awed by such finery, she scanned the stranger in the mirror. Then, catching sight of her companion, she gave a yelp of shock. Miss Nanette had vanished: in her place stood a girl who bore every appearance of a halfwit. The luxuriant tresses had been twisted into a tight and untidy knot atop a head that had exchanged its proud uptilt for a forlorn droop. The erectly carried shoulders sagged, and as she watched in astonishment, the hazel eyes, usually so full of fire or laughter, slowly crossed, the firm little chin lolled stupidly, and a lacklustre voice with a decided country accent asked, "Does ye think as how me friends would know me now, ma'am?"

  "Good… gracious . . !" gasped Lindsay. "I wouldn't have known you myself—me that's cared for you since you was in the schoolroom! Oh, miss! We just might do it! We really might escape him! All of us!"

  But wrapping Miss Nanette in her own neat cloak, she thought prayerfully, "May God help us if we don't!"

  Chapter I

  Sir Harry Redmond's London residence was not so much situated on Hill Street as hidden there. It was a tall, thin house, and the landlord having indignantly denied his tenant's blithe request that the trim be painted red ("'to perk up the old shed a trifle"), its black-and-white facade remained, and was so discreet as to render it even less noticeable. Despite this anonymity, however, and the puny dimensions that were dwarfed by such great edifices as Hilby House, several doors distant, it was comfortable and adequate for the present needs of its occupant.

  Having survived to the age of seven and twenty without becoming leg shackled, Sir Harry was also blessed by the accolade of 'Corinthian'. He was a notable whip, a bruising rider to hounds, was said to have once knocked Gentleman Jackson off his pins— although he never bragged of that achievement if it was truth—and was generally acknowledged to be a jolly fine sportsman. He did not demand a surfeit of elegance in his surroundings, a fact that proved no deterrent to his many friends. Nor was And
erson, his major domo and former batman, dismayed by the litter of riding crops and thongs, spurs, newspapers, periodicals, and old copies of the Racing Calendar that were wont to clutter the lounge. Only when Joseph, the butler at Sir Harry's country seat, came into Town did Sergeant Anderson become implacable. On these rare occasions his master was obliged to refrain from allowing his friends to mar the tables with their spurs or contribute their debris to his own, and the house took on an awesomely tidy lustre that prevailed until Mr. Joseph took himself and his supercilious nose back to Hampshire.

  The kitchen was located in the basement of the house and was another kettle of fish entirely, and it was to this spotless domain that Sergeant Anderson made his way shortly after eight o'clock one rainy May evening. The Sergeant was a husky man in his early forties. He enjoyed robust good health, but had been so unfortunate as to lose his right leg below the knee at the Battle of Talavera, and it was not easy for him to negotiate the winding iron staircase. He appeared neither disgruntled nor downcast by this circumstance, however. His eyes were bright and he whistled cheerily as he thumped down the steps anticipating his evening cup of tea with the housekeeper—an event which had, over the past year, become the highlight of his day.

  Mrs. Thomas heard both thump and whistle approaching. She smiled a knowing smile at the gleaming tea kettle, adjusted the lace cap upon dark hair that showed only a few streaks of silver, and cast a swift and critical glance around the room. Surely, had they been aware, the objects she scanned must have trembled before that keen scrutiny, but with little cause. For the pots and pans hanging in a neat row above the stove winked and sparkled in the glow of the candles; the tiles had a mellow gloss; plates, cups, and saucers shone upon their shelves; and everywhere was order and neatness. Mrs. Thomas gave a nod of satisfaction, and added boiling water to teapot. The Sergeant was early tonight, just as she'd hoped he would be. It was her custom to have both cook and housemaid ousted by nine o'clock; but tonight, knowing Sir Harry would not dine at home, she had made her plans accordingly, and the balance of the evening would not be disturbed by Mrs. Ford's gloomy prognostications of the Doomsday she felt imminent, or the housemaid's tittering laugh that never failed to bring an harassed look to Anderson's strong countenance.

  "Come in, Sergeant," she called, turning to smile at him as he beamed his way through the door.

  He thanked her, pulled out her chair, then sat down himself, saying politely that he hoped he did not inconvience her by arriving at so early an hour, and delightedly aware that the tea tray was ready and the pretty woman prepared for just so early a visit. Mrs. Thomas's colour was heightened a little as she poured him a cup of tea and handed it across the table. She assured him that it was no slightest inconvenience and, setting sugar and milk where he might help himself, observed that it was a terrible night for a wedding. "Not that anything could mar the joy of Lord St. Clair and his lovely bride, I've no doubt," she went on, preparing a cup for herself. "And didn't Sir Harry look dashing? You must be so proud of him, Sergeant, for he does you credit. Such a handsome young man. I find it hard to believe when people tell me his brother is the best looking of the pair, and more closely resembles his late papa."

  The smile died from the Sergeant's loyal brown eyes. Had anyone else addressed so unfortunate a remark to him, he'd have set them down proper. His plans for Mrs. Thomas, however, did he ever muster sufficient courage to mention them, did not include a set-down. Therefore, he merely muttered that Sir Colin Redmond had been an exceptionally well-favoured gentleman, God rest his soul, and prepared to direct the conversation toward music, and thence, hopefully, to the concert in Hyde Park on Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately, Robert Burns once again proved all wise and, together with countless other mice and men, Sergeant Anderson's best-laid plans 'ganged aglie'. His brow darkened as the front door bell began to ring stridently, and excusing himself, he left the cozy kitchen and began to toil reluctantly upstairs again.

  Swinging the front door open to the accompaniment of a barrage of pounding, his resentment was increased as he beheld the tall, drenched young man who stood on the doorstep, a valise at his feet, and the overcoat he should have worn instead wrapped around an armload of heavy volumes. "Mr. Mitchell…" said the Sergeant hollowly. "We thought you wasn't coming."

  "Oh, no. Did you?" smiled Mitchell Redmond. "Wouldn't miss St. Clair's wedding for the world. Is my brother from home?"

  Anderson nodded. "Gone to the wedding, sir."

  "What—another? Egad! Regular epidemic."

  "Same one," Anderson said woodenly, making no move to admit the dripping figure before him. "St. George's s'arternoon. Reception at the Earl's house on Bond Street s'evening."

  Redmond blinked through the streams that trickled from his bare head. "But—St. Clair's to be shackled on the fifteenth."

  "Today," Anderson imparted, the barest trace of scorn touching his voice, "is the fifteenth." He peered towards the flagway as a distant and impatient bellow apprised him of the fact the jarvey had not been reimbursed.

  "Oh, blast!" Redmond slipped past the guardian of the door. "Be a good fellow and pay him, would you?" This request encountering only a bleak stare, he shrugged and added an apologetic, "Cannot seem to find my purse."

  Anderson's lips tightened and he turned up his collar.

  "Here!" Redmond tossed his coat and said solicitously, "Mustn't get wet."

  To his sorrow, the Sergeant instinctively grabbed the garment. He now held it at arms length and looked with disgust to his sodden waistcoat, to the puddle the coat was rapidly depositing on the floor, to Redmond. "Oh, dear," sighed that promising young scholar. "Well, it kept my books dry. That's the important thing, isn't it?" His smile was dazzling; his long grey eyes alight with mischief.

  An answering smile was not forthcoming. Sergeant Anderson's response, fortunately, being lost as he thumped out into the rain.

  Whatever his personal opinion of the younger Redmond, Sergeant Anderson was devoted to the elder. He knew all too well what would be his Captain's reaction was his brother neglected, and knowing also that Mr. Mitchell was subject to inflamations of the lungs, lost no time in seeing to it that a roaring fire was lighted in his room, a hot bath provided, and the wet clothing removed. Nor was Mrs. Thomas idle, and Mitchell, shivering no longer, was seated before the fire, warmly clad in Harry's new quilted green satin dressing gown, and finishing a bowl of Flemish soup and a mushroom omelette, when a familiar whoop sent up his dark brows and caused him to lay his fork aside and come to his feet in surprise.

  The door burst open and Sir Harry Redmond, natless but still wearing his wet greatcoat, ran in. "Mitch! You slippery cub! Where in the deuce have you been?"

  They shook hands heartily and scanned one another with undisguised affection. They were much alike, and each a splendid example of British manhood. Mitchell, some five years the younger, was rather startlingly handsome, but to a lesser degree Harry also enjoyed the lean good looks that had characterized their late father, having slightly curling dark locks, a firm chin, somewhat hawk nose, and a generous, sensitive mouth. They both stood a shade under six feet, but Mitchell's was the lighter build, his posture already inclining to a scholarly stoop, while Harry's broad shoulders and well-shaped legs proclaimed the athlete. The main difference between them was most clearly expressed in the eyes; Mitchell's being grey, well opened, and full of dreams, and Harry's slightly narrowed, perhaps from long exposure to the Spanish sun, but of an intensely vivid green, and full of the laughter that concealed his underlying strength. "You missed the wedding, you clodpole!" he grinned, pounding at his brother's shoulder. And all too aware of Mitchell's exasperating absent-mindedness, asked, "Did you forget it was to be today?"

  "Forgot today was the fifteenth," Mitchell admitted wryly. "And then I got on the wrong stupid coach when we stopped to change horses at High Wycombe, and was halfway to Bath before I discovered I was on the stage—not the Royal Mail!" He assisted his brother out of his great coat, flung the garm
ent carelessly over an armchair, and said, "You may be done laughing now, mon Sauvage, and tell me how the wedding went off."

  "Jolly well." Harry removed the coat from the chair, hung it on the floor, and occupied the chair himself. "Lucian is hopelessly besotted, you know, but acquitted himself quite well. Deirdre, of course…" he kissed his fingertips, "looked angelic. Ain't at all sure he deserves her. Neither is he."

  Turning his chair from the table, Mitchell sprawled in it and said, "What, after that incredible fracas he stirred up last autumn? I'd say he'd well earned his reward! D'you know the Dean himself asked me to tell him of it, and remarked Lucian had brought the war home with him—though I doubt even Wellington could have conjured up such a witch's brew."

  Harry smiled reminiscently. "Ironic, isn't it? From Talavera to Waterloo with hardly a scratch, and after he returned to England he was ambushed, damn near blinded, shot, and forced into a duel with the Devil himself."

  "From which you rescued him," said Mitchell, and as his brother burst into a shout of laughter, added, "at least, that's what I told the Dean."

  "Single-handed," Harry nodded. "Only for lord's sake don't ever let Vaughan, or Rich Saxon, or Bolster hear you say that! I'd never live it down! And—why the Mail, cub? You should have hired a post chaise." Mitchell, who had risen as he spoke, was searching anxiously through his valise, and Harry added with a grin, "What've you lost this time?"

  "Don't say that! It's something I bought for Deirdre. I found it in a little shop in The High. The most fantastically wrought piece of jade I ever…" He paused, frowned, and murmured, "No… come to think on it, I put it in my coat pocket… Only—Anderson turned my pockets inside out when he took my clothes away… " His dismayed gaze lifted. "Jove! Not again . . ! "

  "It's likely in Bath by this time," chuckled his brother. "I vow it astonishes me you've not walked onto a ship bound for Tasmania or some such place long since! 'Ware Mitch! You'll wind up in some chieftain's cooking pot yet!"