Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (12 page)

"How dare you frown at me in that haughty fashion?" she
demanded, and before he could answer said, "And I am
not
a fast lady!"

"I never said you was!" Flushing guiltily, Harry turned to
Diccon who stood before the fire stretching, and appealed, "Now did I
say anything of—"

"Well, you were thinking it," grumbled Miss Brown. She gave
the fresh bandage a little pat and scowled at him. "Merely because I
accepted the ride the poor old carter gentleman offered, you think—"

"Poor
old
—
carter
…
?" Harry interposed. "Yesterday you said you were brought here by a shy
young clergyman
who had 'calf eyes'! If you want
to know what
I
think—it's a lot of slumgullion
that you make up as you go along! Chances are you wasn't offered a ride
at all but stole one! Dashed if I—"

Miss Brown set her hands upon her hips and, leaning over him,
said furiously, "If I did not think you would bleed all over me again,
I should tear my fine bandages from your evil brain! And scratch you,
besides! You are a horrid man, Mr. Harry Allison! I shall go away and
wash my hair, and you shall not have to thank me for all I have do, so
bother yourself not!" And snapping her fingers under his dismayed nose,
she turned and flounced off.

"Wait!" cried Harry, scrambling to his feet. "I
do
thank you. And I am sorry if I… was…" But she put her small nose into
the air, snatched a towel and soap from the tent, and moved with her
supple swinging step into the trees.

"Now you done it!" Diccon's voice shook suspiciously. He had
collapsed into his customary sprawl, the hat shielding his eyes, and
his shoulders propped against a tree trunk. Harry crossed to lift the
brim of the old straw and discover a grin. "I c'n see why you're always
getting y'self bashed about," the Trader went on. "You'd oughta learn a
little taking ways."

"It would seem you've enough for both of us. Whatever are you
about, man? She's a lady of Quality. You've a head full of maggots if
you think—"

"But that's just it, y'see." Diccon raised the hat to scan
Harry earnestly. "How could I leave her alone by the road? She'd only
got tuppence in her purse when I come on her. And she'd been crying her
eyes out, poor little thing, though she never would admit it. Running
away from home, and—"

"Allow me!" groaned Harry. "Her papa is an evil monster who
squandered his fortune and now seeks to bring himself about by forcing
her into wedlock with some rich, lecherous old man, the very sight of
whom sends her into a decline!"

Diccon regarded him with awe. "That there Oxford really puts a
head on a fella's shoulders!"

"Cambridge! And I would hope I've enough in my head to spot a
hoary old whisker like
that
! More likely it's
that poor nun who ran away! You should properly have put Miss Brown on
the first stagecoach, and—"

"Didn't have enough money. I spent near all the dibs on food.
Likely it'll come in handy now but— Have
you
got
any, Harry?"

"Only the two shillings you gave me. But, even so— Good God,
man! She
cannot
stay with us! You surely must
realize!"

Diccon eased the straw to its habitual slant. "Why? I wouldn't
harm the lass. No more would you."

"
Harm
her? Of course I wouldn't harm her!
But—dash it all… Harry peered around the clearing cautiously and
murmured, "A single lady? Unchaperoned? Not so much as her abigail, and
roaming about the countryside with two strange men? Blest if I
ever
heard of such a shocking thing!"

"I 'spect you're right," Diccon acknowledged slowly.
"Well—what shall we do? She says as she wants to go to her aunty's
house in Devonshire, which is along my way, so I thought—"

"
Devonshire
? You're going in the wrong
direction."

"Had to make a turnabout on account of a good trade in
Hawkhurst what I heard of. Just as well or I'd not have come up with
you, so you could help me."

"The best way I can help
you
is to send
her back to her papa!"

"I dunno." Diccon pursed his lips doubtfully. "I've heard
o'poor young females being as good as sold to old men afore this. And—
the lass is under age. If her papa's as bad as she says, he could easy
force her to—"

"Under… age…" Harry echoed in failing accents. "Oh, my God!
We'll land in Newgate, is what! You must face the fact that the girl
has taken advantage… I mean—well, I doubt she was telling the truth.
She does seem a bit—er…" He stumbled into silence as the hat was lifted
and Diccon stared at him trustingly. Feeling a total villain, Harry
stammered, "Don't you think she's — sort of… ?" He tapped his temple.

"Looby?" said Diccon, baldly. "Oh—is
that
it, y'reckon?"

"I don't really know, of course. But—sometimes she does look
rather… ah—afflicted, wouldn't you say?"

"Poor little thing," Diccon sighed. "Well, you're the gent,
a'course, and knows about things like chivalry. Sight more'n me. You
saying we should kick her out, 'cause she's all about in her attic?"

His face hot, Harry said, "What? No! Of course not! Dreadful
thing to do. But—oh, Lord! It just ain't
proper
!
She's a girl, and—"

"And a fine one
you
are to talk of
propriety, Mr.—er—Allison!" The scowling little face was at his ear,
and when he turned to her, those big eyes were crossed again, her face
so contorted that he barely repressed a shudder. "Or—
whatever
your name is," she added caustically as he all but jumped back.

"At least I gave Diccon my own name," he countered. "It would
seem to me that if you are to trust us—"

"Do pray disabuse yourself of
that
notion! I trust
no
man! For all I know you may be
acquainted with my papa and would at once deliver me up to him!" Her
eyes were normal again, her demeanour regal.

Harry hardened his heart. "Be assured of it, ma'am! As any
gentleman of honour would, if only to protect your good name."

"Gentleman of honour!" she mocked. "
Is
there such an animal, I wonder? Mr. Fox there possesses more honour
than most 'gentlemen' I've met. Except—" Her eyes clouded suddenly, and
her scornful mouth trembled. Harry, who had been on the verge of an
angry rejoinder, checked, seized by the terror that she was about to
cry once more. "Come now. Miss Brown," he began bracingly, then shook
his head. "The devil! That just don't suit you!"

"I cannot think why it should not." She blinked rapidly and
wiped at her eyes in her unaffected little-girl fashion. "But," she
sniffed, "if that is all that disturbs you… How does 'Nanette' suit?"

"Much better," Diccon nodded.

"It is
not
all that disturbs me," Harry
pointed out. "I am far more—"

"Though, I'll admit" went on Diccon, still considering the
matter, "as I'm very partial to Diana'… "

Harry chuckled. "You and your Greeks! The goddess who hated
men. Most apt!"

"But I am not a goddess," sighed the ex-Miss Brown, watching
him from under her lashes. "Not like your golden Nerina."

"No," he agreed, with a wistful smile. "Still—"

"Oooh!" she gasped, at once livid with rage. "You are even
horrider
than I had thought! Had I a title, as she has, or was I an heiress, I
collect—"

"Well, you ain't! I've no designs on your fortune which, from
what Diccon tells me, consists of tuppence." Harry gave her his most
engaging grin, uncomfortably aware he'd been clumsy and hurt the poor
chit's feelings. "Now there's what I should call you — Tuppence!"

For a moment she continued to frown at him. Then she gave a
sudden little gurgle of laughter, and when Diccon demurred that
Tuppence' didn't sound very lady-like, she said pertly, "Then you may
improve it to 'Lady Tuppence'."

"I think not." Harry fixed her with a suddenly stern gaze.
"For a lady would not risk her reputation by jauntering about the
country-side. Nor cause her loved ones to grieve and worry for her
safety!"

At once her fists clenched and her eyes grew stormy as she
thrust her chin at him. "Much
you
know if it! And
at all events,
you
—Mr. Allison—have naught to say
in the matter! The tent, the cart,
and
the
donkey—all are Diccon's!"

He bit his lip, silent in the face of these home truths.

"Aye, lass," Diccon put in gently. "But Mr. Allison's got a
say, 'cause he bought all our food." His eyes twinkled as he met
Harry's grateful glance. " 'Sides, Mr. Fox likes him."

"Oh…" She looked deflated, and to cement his position, Harry
said firmly, "Yes, and that's my hat he's wearing."

Her scorching gaze passed from ex- to present owner. "Indeed?
I had thought it created especially for—a donkey."

Harry threw up one hand and laughed a rueful, "
Touché
!"

A mischievous answering smile danced into her eyes but was
swiftly banished. "I came back," she informed him sternly, "to take
pity on you both and cook your breakfast. But since you are feeling so
full of spirit this morning, Miss Nanette will defer to you the
privilege of cooking." She curtseyed quite gracefully, and left them.

"Sounds t'me," murmured Diccon as he lay watching Harry
wrestle with the frying pan, "like what your poor papa was drugged."
The chef, looking very much the worse for wear with his bruised cheek,
swollen jaw, and the bandage about his brow, shot a grim glance at his
exhausted host. Diccon shrugged, "Only way. If all them fine gents said
he played—he must've. Couldn't've
all
been
Captain Sharps. And you said one of 'em was his best friend. Name of…
who was it?"

"Sir Barnaby Schofield."

"Hmmmnnn…" Diccon sat up, accepted his plate, prodded at his
eggs, and threw Harry a reproachful look. "I don't like me eggs cooked
too much, and our coffee's boiling over!"

With a soldier's fluency Harry consigned his eggs to perdition
and his coffee along with 'em. Diccon was unmoved. He waited for a
break in the tirade then allowed as how the Captain had a rare gift
o'language but that he never could abide grounds in his mug.

Harry covered Miss Nanette's breakfast with a saucepan lid,
tended to the offending pot, and settled himself upon a convenient root
with his own plate. For a while, he devoted himself to business, then
enquired, "How did you know I was a Captain? And don't tell me I talked
about it in my sleep."

"Got a funny sorta memory," Diccon nodded, cleaning his plate
efficiently with a piece of bread. "Prob'ly heard it—or read it
somewhere. Mentioned in dispatches, wasn't you?" He smiled at Harry's
astonished expression. "I'm allus reading. Finds old newspapers along
me road, and some of me friends saves 'em for me. Things tend t'stick
in my head. Like that there Schofield. I read as his poor son come home
blind after Waterloo. Terrible thing fer a young fella like that.
Still—he done his duty for his country. It wasn't a waste. Not like
that poor Lieutenant Carlson. Now
that
was a odd
thing, and t'think your papa was caught right in the middle of— Hey!
That ruddy bacon cost me ninepence-halfpenny!"

Harry managed to scoop the bacon back onto his plate. "You
know
about that Enquiry? Good God, man! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't ask." Diccon set his plate aside and resuming his
customary attitude, pulled his hat over his eyes, only to have it
snatched away and a grim young face thrust within inches of his own. "I
will take it kindly," breathed Harry, "do you tell me whatever you may
recall of it."

In that moment he was all aristocrat, the humourous sparkle
gone from the narrow eyes and a set to his jaw that brooked no
evasions. A tentative bray arose from the direction of the tent.
"That's my hat you're a'crushing off…" Diccon hauled himself to a
sitting position. "And you're upsetting Mr. Fox."

Harry returned the wrecked straw and cast a glance at the
donkey. Sure enough, Mr. Fox peered at them with an oddly apprehensive
attitude. He sat back, therefore, seething with impatience but
schooling himself to calmness.

"I dunno," Diccon began thoughtfully, "as I can remember it
very clear. As I recollect, you papa had been visiting friends and
started home later'n what he'd meant to. Suddenlike, his coachman
turned a corner and they was a big carriage in front, coming up fast
behind one o'them there fancy coaches the young Bucks drive nowadays —
you know the kind; very fast, with the body slung right atop the front
axle… ?"

"A high perch phaeton?"

"That's it. Anyway, the carriage and that there phaeton goes
a'shooting off on a side road. Your papa was a sportsman, so natural
enough, he looks back, thinking it's a race and hoping to see who'd
win. But they're driving like they was on a pike road 'stead of a bumpy
country lane, and they goes up into the hills—too wild and lonely for
your papa. He thinks to hisself they're a couple of booberkins and goes
on his way. Well, it's a bright moonlit night, and after a bit he looks
back again and sees that there phaeton sail right off the top o'
Satan's Perch!"

"Good… God!" gasped Harry. "I knew nothing of this! When did
it happen?"

"Let's see… Musta been somewhere in early '13, I'd say… No!
Come to think about it, it was in the summer time."

"While I was ill… " Harry breathed, half to himself. "So
that's
why he didn't tell me."

"Thought they brung you home in the summer of '12."

"Yes. I'd an accident later, but never mind about that. Please
go on."

"Well, there was a flash young cove in that there phaeton,
name of Frederick Carlson. Dead as a doornail when they found him. His
sister would have it was murder. Proper heartbroke she were, and kept
insisting as your papa knowed more'n he was telling—that he'd seen who
was in the carriage."