Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (33 page)

A wiry fellow, bald save for two small tufts above his
eyebrows, made a dash up the stairs and launched himself downward.
Harry sent the gelding sideways, and the flyer missed his target but
sailed into a grandfather clock, accompanying it to the floor amid a
clanging crash and the chink of breaking glass. The clock began to
chime, adding its mellow and incessant voice to the turmoil.

"If you're Cootesby," laughed Harry, "call your louts off
before we wreck the place!"

The gentleman spread his hands helplessly. Mordecai entered at
the same instant that Harry was attacked from either side. One end of
the lance doubled the first man neatly in half. The tapestry slid from
the other end of the rod as Harry almost dropped it. The oncoming bully
was enveloped in its voluminous folds and disappeared from view amid a
plethora of muffled curses. The redfaced individual who'd been on the
front steps now made a lunge for the swinging end of the rail, caught
it, and wrenched powerfully. Half torn from the saddle, Harry reeled
back, still clinging to his 'lance' with stubborn determination.
Fritch, his jaw swelling, staggered up and made a savage swipe at this
hated opponent. The long club missed Harry's head by a whisper but
caught his left arm fairly. He choked back an involuntary cry and was
dully cognizant of a great deal of confusion, but the only true reality
now was the white-hot pain that seared through him, reducing all else
to insignificance…

Cold marble was pressing against his cheek… He was sprawled on
the floor. Distantly, Maude's voice was upraised, a shrill and
unfamiliar quality to it that angered him. They'd better not hurt
gentle old Maude! He crawled to his hands and knees. His eyes were dim,
but he could discern his uncle, crouching between his own helplessness
and the gloating advance of four of the defenders. As Harry stumbled to
his feet, his hack galloped madly out of the front doors and down the
steps, the Pekingese in full-throated pursuit. The red-faced man jumped
for the Reverend. To Harry's amazement, his uncle struck out. In some
strange fashion he was armed with Dicon's baton, and the red-faced one
yowled and reeled away.

"Stay back!" roared Mordecai, brandishing the baton with
sinful delight. "You are not blind! You know what manner of man you
challenge!"

The eyes of Red Face fastened to that baton, and he hesitated.

"Rush him! Damn you! Rush him!" screamed Fritch, clutching his
jaw.

Harry, half immobilized by the pain that radiated from his
arm, knotted his right fist. "Come on… then…" he invited thickly.

They came on. With a squeak of excitement, Mordecai gripped
his baton tighter. Four clubs, wielded by four expert hands, swung
upward.

So did one musket.

"Out!" commanded a crisp, cold voice.

Lord Cootesby stood halfway up the staircase, the musket aimed
steadily at Sanguinet's men. His head was held proudly, his face pale
but stern with resolution. "You have terrorized my servants, insulted
my guests, and intimidated me," he itemized. "No more!"

"You wouldn't dare," Fritch taunted, sliding forward a pace.
"You know what Monseer said." He jerked a thumb at Harry. "He wants
Redmond. Bad."

"That's enough of your impudence!" Cootesby snapped. "Out!
Or—" The musket swung to point squarely at Fritch's middle. Shall you
be the first to discover I would indeed dare . . ?"

The red-faced man had evidently lost his aggressive spirit and
was backing away. Fritch turned on him furiously. "You going to let him
run you orf? He doesn't dare shoot. Monseer's got him—"

"Ar," said his cohort. "But his lordship's got a musket. And
that'n—" he indicated Langridge, "he's got a baton wot I don't like the
look on. Not a'tall! I ain't going up agin no perishing Runner!"

He beat a path to the door. His companions, alerted by his
ominous words, turned their attention to the weapon clutched in
Mordecai's chubby hand and vacillated. The butler trod into the side
hall. He held an enormous blunderbuss whose gaping muzzle was levelled
at the intruders. It was the last straw. They snarled dire threats but
backed away. The last to go was Fritch. On the threshold, he levelled a
malevolent glare at Harry. "When my monseer comes up with
you"
he snarled, "you'll wish you never bin—"

The musket roared. Glass shattered in the window beside
Fritch, and the wall became peppered with shot. With a shriek he
galloped after his fellows, urged on by the ribald comments of grooms
and gardeners, who had appeared as if by magic to support the belated
stand taken by their employer.

"See them off the premises, lads!" shouted the butler,
hastening to the door.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Cootesby, walking swiftly down the
stairs. "I feel halfway clean again!"

"Thank you, sir," said Harry feebly. "Jolly…jolly good've…" As
from a great distance he heard his uncle ask anxiously if he was all
right. He attempted to reply, realized with horror that he had used the
hated nickname, but could not seem to complete his apology. The room
was becoming quite dark, which was odd because the sun had not yet gone
down. An arm was firmly about him, and Maude's voice echoed, "… game…
to the last…"

"There, I think he's coming round now, sir."

Harry sighed and looked up into the kindly eyes of a
white-haired, motherly lady wearing a lace-edged cap, who was bathing
his brow with a damp rag. He was sprawled in an armchair in a large,
pleasant library. Nearby, Cootesby stood watching him anxiously, and
the Reverend Langridge, hands clasped behind him, was surveying the
proceedings, an aghast expression on his face.

"Deuce take it!" said Harry, sitting up in dismay. "Did I make
a confounded fool of myself, then?"

Cootesby smiled, crossed to a table, and poured a glass of
wine. "You did exceeding well, Redmond," he contradicted, returning to
give Harry the glass.

"Indeed, I cannot see how you could fight at all, sir," the
lady put in gently, "with such a dreadful gash in your poor arm."

Harry glanced down then and discovered that his jacket had
been removed and fresh bandages applied to his injury. "Good Lord!" he
gasped. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Only about a quarter of an hour," Langridge said
reassuringly. "We made no attempt to revive you, dear boy, until Mrs.
Hart was finished."

Harry stood rather unsteadily to thank the woman, obviously
Lord Cootesby's housekeeper, for her efforts. She warned him gravely
that he must consult a physician at the earliest possible opportunity,
and upon his promising to do so, she called to her maid to remove the
tray of medical paraphernalia, and left them.

Lord Cootesby opened the door for his two servants and
returned to take a chair beside the fireplace, his calm features
reflecting no trace of his inner curiosity.

"I'm sure you must be wondering why I look such a fright,
sir," said Harry, sitting down again since his head still spun in an
unsettling fashion.

"Not at all," his lordship lied politely. "I am instead most
grateful that you—" he gave a whimsical smile, "dropped in."

Harry laughed. "An unorthodox arrival, wasn't it? I'm afraid
my hack may have damaged your floors, and I'm dashed sorry for the
destruction of that fine old clock." The brandy was commencing to make
him feel steadier, and he took another swallow from the glass.

"There!" cried Langridge triumphantly. "Don't sound like a
bloody vendetta, does it, Cootesby? You should never have listened to
Sanguinet's lies."

His lordship agreed. "The man was so deuced convincing. And
when I heard your brother had shot Guy, I thought… perhaps…" He
shrugged ruefully.

"If you thought we seek vengeance upon the man responsible for
our father's death, you are perfectly correct, sir," said Harry. "But
I've gained the impression you were not to blame."

Cootesby's gaze lowered. Staring at the finely embroidered
fireplace screen, he sighed, "I was, though." He looked up and said
remorsefully, "I should have stopped it, Redmond. We all of us should
have stopped it! Poor Cobb took it almost as hard as did Schofield. I
told him we were not responsible—but we were. I own it. Your father was
in no state to play."

Harry's hopes plummeted. "Then—he really
did
play?"

Cootesby stared at him, then flashed a troubled glance to
Langridge.

"But—my dear boy," said the Reverend uneasily, "I told you
that he—'

"Yes, I know you did. But I was sure there must be some
mistake. I've lately discovered that my father had reason to mistrust
Sanguinet, so why—"

"Mistrust?" Cootesby intervened. "No, no—I assure you he did
not. I would say, in fact, that they were fast friends. Extremely
attached."

Harry was shocked into a brief silence. Then he asked, "How
well did you know my father, sir? Had you often played cards with him?"

"I'd not met him prior to that evening. I am seldom in Town,
you see, and not well-acquainted at the clubs. Schofield was a good
friend of mine." He shook his head regretfully. "He never got over it.
He was the one who—who reached the room first… After… we heard the
shot."

It seemed to Harry as though that fateful last word stopped
time, as though all movement was suspended. He no longer heard the tick
of the clock, the rustling of leaves outside the open windows, the
calls of homeward-bound birds. His very breath felt frozen in his
throat.

"Poor lad!" Langridge came to slip a compassionate hand onto
his shoulder. "All so unprepared, alas! And who must bear that cross
but myself? Oh, may God forgive me, but I have made wretched work of
it!"

Scarcely hearing the words, Harry thrust him away, sprang to
his feet, and confronted the startled Cootesby. "You… lie!" he accused
in a murderous half-whisper.

"No!" cried Langridge frantically. "He don't mean it,
Cootesby!"'

His lordship stood at once but, instead of hurling the
challenge the Reverend so dreaded, said a distressed, "Indeed, I wish I
did, my dear fellow."

"It is truth!" Langridge moaned. "I lacked the courage to tell
you, Harry. But—your… your poor papa, having lost all… Oh, merciful
heavens! He—he shot himself!"

With a sob of rage Harry leapt forward, his hands darting for
his uncle's throat. Langridge staggered back, choking, spluttering,
striving vainly to tear away that merciless hold. Maddened, lost to all
thought or reason, Harry tightened his grip, conscious only of the need
to kill anyone who dared voice such an accusation against his beloved
father. Cootesby fought desperately to loosen his hands, peering into
the contorted young face and shouting, "Redmond! Let be! Are you run
mad? Your uncle was not even here! I was—I
saw
it!"

Gradually, the words penetrated his anguish. The red mists
that clouded mind and vision began to fade, and he saw Langridge's
face, the eyes starting out in terror, the pudgy cheeks purpling. With
a muffled groan he relaxed his hold, and his uncle reeled to the
nearest chair and collapsed into it, wheezing and clutching at his
throat. For an instant, Harry glared ragefully down at him. Then he
strode to the window and stood holding his throbbing arm and staring at
a tabby cat cleaning itself on the terrace. The gallant gentleman who
had sired him would never have used a pistol to escape the consequences
of his folly. Even at what must surely have been the darkest hour of
his life, when his adored wife had died in his arms following a riding
accident, Colin Redmond had somehow come through it without
surrendering to despair. Surely, the loss of home and fortune—terrible
though it would have been—could not compare to the loss of his lady?
Surely his father had not so changed as to—

He whirled to a touch on his elbow. Lord Cootesby blinked but
did not retreat before that savage crouch, and held out a wineglass in
silent sympathy. Harry accepted the brandy with a hoarse murmur of
thanks, but set it aside and crossed to where Langridge huddled,
regarding him with stricken eyes.

"My apologies if I hurt you, sir," he offered curtly.

"A small… and well-deserved punishment, dear boy…"

Still very white, Harry frowned down at him, then turned to
make his apologies to Cootesby. His lordship giving a slight, grave
inclination of the head, Harry took up his glass and, returning, asked,
"Would you be so kind as to tell me how it all came about? As much as
you know, that is."

Cootesby marked the narrowed, deadly eyes and the jut of the
firm chin, and knew with deep regret that he could only hurt the
intrepid young man before him. Still, perhaps when he knew all the
facts, he would be better able to adjust to the tragedy… And so he
began slowly, "I've known Sanguinet for some years. Must admit I never
cared much for him, but his brother Guy and my son Roger fought
together in Spain and were inseparable. When Roger was killed at
Vittoria, Guy—brought him home. He was wounded himself, but was… very
kind." His eyes became sad and remote, but recovering himself, he
apologized and went on. "At all events, Sprague Cobb and I were at
White's one evening when Parnell Sanguinet came in. He and Cobb were
soon plunged into a discussion on art—a subject in which I have an
intense interest. Schofield joined us, and before I knew it, we were
all invited to spend the next weekend with Sanguinet. Would to God I
had refused! I'd heard little good of the man, but—" He gave a small,
shamefaced shrug. "I was curious to see his collection of ancient
crowns. You have heard of it, I daresay? For that foolish reason, I
allowed my better judgement to be swayed."

"Was my father at White's that evening?" Harry asked tensely.

"Not while I was there. In fact, I was somewhat surprised to
discover him at The Towers when we arrived. I deduced that the three of
them were the very best of friends, although Cobb told me later he'd
only met Sir Colin a time or two, at Sanguinet's."