Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 3

  That was true of the first three, thought Harry. He knew nothing of Sanguinet, but Cobb was often in White's, and Cootesby—although something of a hermit—had a splendid military record. Barnaby Schofield had been one of his father's closest friends—a fine gentleman indeed, honest to a fault, soft-spoken, courageous, and next to his adored wife had rated Colin Redmond highest in his affections. Had anything been wrong, good old Barney would have put a stop to it at once. "Go on, if you please, sir," he said frigidly, feeling as though the ground was being cut away from beneath him.

  "Yes…" muttered the unhappy cleric. "Well, as I said, Colin became very—er—inebriated— I am sorry, Harry! But I swear it is so!"

  "The hell it is!" snarled Redmond. "My father seldom drank heavily!"

  "I know—but, dear boy—they all testified—"

  "Then they lied, damn them! They were likely bosky themselves, and—"

  "Lord Belmont was not bosky, " Langridge interposed desperately. "He is one of the finest surgeons in London, you will admit. His examination proved your papa to have been very drunk, and he swore at the Hearing, that—"

  "Hearing?" Harry fairly pounced on the word. " What Hearing?"

  Langridge moistened suddenly dry lips and croaked, "The Hearing I demanded. As—as your papa's representative."

  "My papa's representative," Harry thundered, "was me! Why in the devil, sir, was I not called?"

  Groaning, the Reverend left his chair and began to wander distractedly up and down. "If you but knew how I strove with my conscience! It—it all happened so fast, dear lad. You were barely recovered from a long and painful illness, and had already suffered one relapse. When word came of your papa's… death…" He drew a hand across his sweating brow. "I feared that alone was enough to send you into a final decline! Had you learned about— about his losses, as well!" He shook his head, his eyes fastened pleadingly upon his nephew's livid face.

  Harry uttered a clipped, "I should not have shouted at you. I collect you meant…" How could he say the man had meant 'well'… ? He felt choked with rage and grief but, unwilling to abuse his uncle's calling by resorting to the barracks-room language he was burning to indulge, instead rasped, "Be so kind as to tell me what transpired at this alleged Hearing from which my father's sons were barred."

  "Harry—do not . . !" beseeched Langridge. "Your regimental surgeon and Dr. MacBride both said you were in no condition to withstand such a double shock. Mitchell was under age and, besides would certainly have told you. Be reasonable."

  Reasonable! Were he reasonable he'd likely choke the life from this blundering, addlepated doddipoll! Harry closed his lips tightly over a boiling response, but reading his expression correctly, Langridge stepped back a pace and went on miserably, "I have no doubt that is why poor Colin had the… accident. You will recall how he would sometimes attempt to jump the stream at the wall beside the old ruins. So foolhardy… When he—went down, his hunting rifle was fully loaded on the saddle, and—but you already know that part."

  "To my sorrow. Let us have the part I do not know, if you please."

  Flinching to the brittle tone, Langridge responded, "Each of the gentlemen who took part in the game was called upon. And they each testified under oath that at the time of the play my brother-in-law was very foxed. That they sought to prevent him from continuing, but even Schofield's efforts were in vain." Harry interjected a low and scornful, "What gammon!" but the Reverend swept on, "Finally, Monsieur Sanguinet was the only other player. Your papa lost heavily. He tried to recoup, and put up first his ring… then his horses. And finally," he shrugged helplessly. "Everything. Moire… all the furnishings… the acreage and farm… the carriages… Everything!"

  His world crashing about him, Harry rasped, "Where was this game? And when?"

  "At Sanguinet Towers. It is in Kent, near Chatham. And the game was on the very night of his death. He—he was, in fact, on his way… home."

  Harry swung away, strode to the fireplace and, resting clenched fists on the mantle, for an instant bowed his head between them. He could well imagine his beloved father's state of mind. Probably, utterly distraught, he'd ridden too fast… too hard… To have taken that devilish jump when even a trifle foxed must have been fatal—even without the rifle. He wrenched his head up. "I never," he growled loyally, turning back once more, "heard such a stupid lot of damned gibberish in my entire life! You knew my father! Yet you would have me believe this?"

  "Not me, Harry. The gentleman who were there! Would you dispute the word of Barnaby Schofield?"

  And there it was. The immovable object. Barney Schofield—his unimpeachable honour the force majeur against which none could argue nor hope to prevail. "I'll sure as hell hear it from him! And even, sir, do I accept this poppycock—which I do not!—How is it that for eighteen months I have heard not one whisper of it? A conspiracy of silence?" He saw at once from his uncle's downcast eyes and drooping shoulders that this was the case and, striding to confront him, raged, "You must have been totally shatter-brained, by God! Oh, I can understand your original motivation. But to continue keeping it from us was little short of criminal!"

  "Criminal!" Flushing hotly, the Reverend looked up and blustered, "I did the best I knew how! I sought Divine Guidance! And," he added, in an effort to strengthen his backers, "I discussed it with your aunt!" He saw Harry's lip curl and, knowing what he was thinking, went on frantically, "My dear boy! Do not think badly of me. Truly, I longed to be able to bring you about. Oh, if you but knew how I struggled to keep things afloat somehow—through all your extravagances!"

  Harry riposted savagely, "Had we known where we stood, our 'extravagances' would have been curbed!"

  Langridge gave a helpless gesture and bowed his head into his hands. Watching him in wrathful silence, Harry knew that he himself was also much to blame. Colin Redmond had established the Trust with Langridge as Executor, when Harry was believed killed after Ciudad Rodrigo, Mitchell then having been under age. Once the first shock of his father's death was past, Harry had several times discussed the dissolution of the Trust with Crosby Frye, but the solicitor had always some plausible excuse for delay. The 'end of the quarter,' or the 'close of the fiscal year' or such impressive nonsense. All faradiddles, he now apprehended, to keep him from learning the truth. He should have pushed harder, but in his heart he had suspected his uncle derived some sense of importance from administering the Trust. On the one occasion he had mentioned having it set aside, Aunt Wilhelmina had observed caustically that he should do so at once, adding, "else you and your brother may find yourselves badly dipped by reason of your uncles 'expertise"." Poor old Maude had looked so crushed he'd not had the heart to persist with the matter, and like a total fool had let it ride. A fine mess his compassion had landed them in! A disaster not only for himself but for Mitch! Squirming under that knowledge, he demanded, "If my father lost all our funds, how were you able to keep us going? Are we in your debt, also?"

  "I—I used your grandmama's legacy, which was not affected."

  "Good God! So that is gone… too . . !"

  "M. Sanguinet has, I must say, been all consideration," Langridge offered placatingly. "He was in no hurry to take what was — rightfully his. He had constantly to be out of England on diplomatic affairs, and—"

  "And so you stood by and allowed Mitchell and me to go our merry way while our inheritance, our home, all we had in the world was snatched away! And we doing nothing to preserve what we might from the wreckage! Did it not occur to you that as his sons we had the right to conduct our own investigation into the reasons behind our father's death? How in the devil can we discover the facts behind that damned game at this late date? Can you not see that your well-meant idiocy has effectively prevented us from finding out anything?"

  The Reverend edged back fearfully from this wild-eyed rage. "Do but th-think,dear boy! The—the awful scandal! We must think of—the Family!"

  "Scandal?" Harry exploded, his eyes slits of passion. "Scandal—is
it? Now if I do not take you by the throat and—"

  The Reverend gave a gasp. Sure he was about to be murdered, he folded his hands and stood his ground. He was shaking violently, but somewhere within him was a measure of courage whereby, although his head was bowed, he was enabled to utter a fairly steady, "I so prayed that this moment would not come until Mitchell was finished at Oxford. I sought only to spare you more pain—when you had endured so much. I know you think me a… a weak and stupid… man. And it is true that I shrank from—from telling you all this,but…" His voice broke. He looked up, his face working, the gleam of tears on his cheeks, and, throwing both arms wide, pleaded, "Harry… as God is my judge… I only meant for the best. I do—truly… love you both. Forgive me, I beg you. Forgive me . . !"

  "Damn you!" groaned Harry. "Damn you! How could you be so… stupid?" But he threw his arms around the Reverend Mordecai, shawl, nightcap, and all.

  And never dreamed that the last truth had still been kept from him.

  The rain was sheeting down now, drumming on the roof to fill the voids between drowsy bursts of conversation in the old tavern, and driving impatient fingers against the casement windows as the gusting wind shifted. Making her way past the locals, the barmaid carried a glass of brandy to the settle close beside the great hearth and eyed the sprawled and solitary occupant curiously. The handsome young Corinthian had caught her eye when he'd first come in. He had paused an instant on the threshold, creating a dramatic picture, his dark hair wet and windblown, the many capes of his long driving coat whipping about him, his white, drawn face illumined by such vivid green eyes. He'd stalked to the fireplace without a word, ignoring the cheery greeting of the proprietor and the respectful nods of the men gathered about the bar, and had scarcely moved since, his shoulders motionless against the settle, one hand loosely clasping his glass, long and exquisitely booted legs thrust out before him, chin sunk on his chest, and brooding gaze fixed on the flames. Occasionally, as she'd approached he had held up his glass, but although she had replaced it several times, he gave no sign of becoming 'up in the world'.

  She had stopped before him and now blushed as he lifted his head at last to look up at her. The despair in those narrow eyes was replaced by bewilderment. "Where the—?" Harry broke off and in response to the instinctive sympathy that had crept into the girl's comely face leaned to take the glass and smile, "Where is this place, m'dear?"

  "Why, it be "The Dirty Drummer," in Kensington, sir." And his smile winning her, she asked, "Be ye lost, my lord?"

  "Neither lost nor yet a lord." Harry took out his watch and discovered it to be half past nine o'clock. He declined the girl's suggestion of a cozy room for the night, and when she disappointedly warned him that there were many on the bridle lay 'twixt here and Lun'on, assured her that any member of the High Toby would regret having stopped him. He then called up a plate of cold beef and fresh-baked bread and, while he ate, considered the results of his long battle with despair. Mostly his thoughts turned on his father. He could recall so well his own return from Spain. Through the long weeks that he'd been confined to bed, not one day had passed but that the vibrant man had dropped in for a little while— often a great while—always brightening the sickroom with his presence. He had been full of plans. Mitchell, of course, must finish his studies. Harry and his father would care for the estate. Moire Grange was a fine old seat surrounded by two square miles of parkland and woods, and Sir Colin had intended to turn much of this acreage to more profitable account. Smiling nostalgically into his mug of coffee, Harry could all but see that intense face, the eagerness in the fine eyes, the love that reached out to say, "I need you, my son. You and I shall accomplish this—together." Scarcely the man to fritter away the home they loved—all their hopes for the future, and merely on the turn of a card! Colin Redmond had loathed cards, such a pursuit constituting a total waste of time in the opinion of so energetic a man. It was wrong! the whole damnable thing was—

  "We do be closing now, if it please y'r honour…"

  The innkeeper was bowing beside him. Shocked at how time had slipped away, Harry paid his shot, was assisted into his still-damp coat, and soon rode through the stormy night once more.

  Oblivious to cold, wind, and rain, his mind returned to his problems. He was ruined, no doubt of that. From what old Maude had said, he'd be lucky to be able to raise sufficient lettuce for Mitch to remain at Oxford until he took his degree. Somehow it must be done. And the Italian trip was a necessity also, for Mitch was definitely down pin, though he'd never admit it. Harry's lips tightened in the darkness. The knowledge of their disaster must be kept from him or he'd be out of the University within a week. Old Mitch felt things so very intensely—never had forgiven himself for that stupid accident at Moire. And it had been no more his fault than—

  The blasting roar of a gunshot deafened him. Lace reared with a scream of fright. A less notable horseman must have been thrown. As it was, his lithe, loose-limbed body swaying to counter the mare's frenzy, Harry pulled her down and stared in astonishment at the dark figure blocking the road ahead. Dim, but unmistakable, a large pistol was aimed squarely at his heart.

  A coarse voice barked, "Stand and deliver!" the time-honoured words followed by a faint but continuing sound, reminiscent of the whistling of an ostler while currying a horse.

  "Deliver what?" Harry demanded indignantly, his hand caressing the neck of the nervously dancing Lace.

  It was an unfamiliar response and the highwayman, obviously taken aback, echoed, "… what… ? Why, you blasted well knows, damn yer ears! Now fork over the dibs! Smart like! Or I'll 'ave yer 'eart out!"

  "Devil I will! I cannot afford it!"

  The whistling hiss came to an abrupt stop. Recovering his shaken sensibilities, the highwayman leaned forward, brandishing his pistol threateningly. "Look 'ere! I got this 'ere pop! You blind or something?"

  "No, but you fired it," Harry pointed out. "Rather spoils your threat, you know. Wherefore…" He bowed and started Lace on her way.

  "And—I got this'n!" cried the highwayman, revealing a second pistol.

  Harry had suspected as much, which was why he'd not grabbed for his own weapon. For an instant he was silent, the highwayman watching him smugly and whistling faintly through his teeth. "In that case," Harry decided, "I can waste no more time with your nonsense!" Saying which, he applied the spurs hard to Lace's wet sides. It was a measure to which he seldom resorted. Already nervous, she shot forward and the astounded highwayman, instinctively swinging his mount clear of the charging mare, was thus put off his mark.

  Bowed low in the saddle, Harry heard a deafening roar. The ball whipped through the hair beside his right ear and a scream of profanity arose from the frustrated member of the High Toby. "You're crazy is what! Don'tcha know better'n to ride at a cocked barker? You just wait me fine bucko! I'll teacher 'ow to behave with Devil Dice! I'll getcher yet!"

  Devil Dice! Harry's brows shot up. A narrow escape, indeed! That villain was fond of shooting his victims once he had robbed them, having explained to several onlookers that he never shot first if he could help it because he didn't like to mess up his valuables! Patting Lace's neck, Harry conveyed his apologies for his harsh treatment, then sent her galloping towards the lights of the distant city.

  Recalling Dice's threat, he smiled grimly. If the affronted highwayman ever did come up with him in the future, he'd probably garner very little for his trouble…

  "But—you must have been up at the crack of dawn!" exclaimed Mitchell, considerably astonished as he eyed the fat roll of flimsies in his hand. He lifted his curious gaze to his brother, seated across the table from him in the small, sunlit breakfast parlour.

  Harry shrugged, allowed Anderson to pour him another cup of coffee, then noded to the grim-faced man to leave them. "Had to get some cash for my own journey," he said easily. "Jolly good of Harland to invite me to Paris; although I suppose the old boy's lonely, now that Lucian's gone."

  "I'd thought Moult
on was going with him." Mitchell frowned down at the roll of bills. "Wouldn't a bank draft have been more—"

  "Gad, no!" Harry stirred his coffee briskly, then dropped his hand into his lap, hoping Mitch hadn't noticed he was not wearing his signet ring which, together with several other articles of value, had been purchased by a shrewd jeweller. "After that last mix-up with my draft, I thought it simpler for you to take the cash with you. Please do not leave it in the chaise! There is sufficient for the balance of the term, and for your trip to Italy."

  "I'd no idea you meant to see Harland yesterday… in addition to Maude." The grey eyes lifted once more to fix his brother with that troubled stare. "How is poor old Maude? I really should like to have gone with you, Sauvage."

  "Oh—you know Maude." Harry's pulse began to accelerate, but he chuckled, "I wish you had been there! He wore the most dashing nightcap and shawl I ever saw."

  "Poor old fellow…" Mitchell tightened the roll of flimsies and dropped it into his purse. "So you go to Paris with the Earl of Harland—and I am rushed back to my studies…"

  "By God, you young whelp, but you're getting uppity! One would think I was the younger!"

  Mitchell eyed his feigned resentment for a moment, and then said with a shy twinkle, "Sometimes, I think you are…"

  Fearing that his absent-minded scholar might wind up in Shanghai rather than Oxford, Harry hired a post chaise to return him to the University. He walked out to the flagway with him, reminded him patiently whither he was bound, asked to see his purse, and then sent Anderson into the house to search for it. The family fortune was discovered reposing in the hearth, where Mitchell had apparently laid it while pulling on his boots. With a few fond remarks anent the possibility of having it chained to the end of his brother's slim nose, Harry closed the door of the chaise, nodded to the postboy, and waved him off.

  For some moments after the vehicle had rounded the corner, Harry still stood on the steps staring after it. If he joined up, there was no telling how long it might be before he saw the young cub again… Mitchell had seemed totally unaware, fortunately, of the fact that their handshake had been more prolonged than usual, and must have been astonished had he known how close his brother had come to sweeping him into his arms for a proper farewell.