Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (35 page)

The sun was low in the sky as Harry galloped Diccon's hack
down the drive, Langridge beside him on a borrowed grey mare, and
Howard Cootesby's farewells and promises of all possible assistance
still ringing in his ears. His mind whirled with speculation. He had
convinced Cootesby. at least. The man would testify for them though the
chances of such testimony being credited after so long a time were not
good. He thought with a stab of guilt that he should have stressed the
need
for Cootesby to protect himself. Sanguinet would not hesitate to murder
him now, and he himself had mentioned a possible killer who . . What
was it he'd said? "… who would likely whistle while he choked the life
from a man." For some reason the remark haunted him. "Who would likely
whistle… " Why should that be so tantalizing? He knew no Shotten, nor
anyone who— But he did. by God!
Dice
. Devil Dice
had whistled constantly! He had thought at the time it sounded like an
ostler… His heart began to pound with an excitement that was increased
as he remembered what Nanette had said of the naval officer who had
persisted in courting her despite Parnell's dislike of him. "He was
shot to death one night… by a highwayman…"

"By thunder!" Harry exclaimed aloud, and urged the sorrel to
greater speed.

The wind was coming up and clouds were building, but the
sunset was exquisite, the rumbling clouds blush fully pink and edged
with gold against deep turquoise skies. Blind to such aesthetic
beauties, Harry rode ever faster, only dimly aware that Langridge was
falling behind.

He was spurred now by a strange unease, a nagging sense of
something amiss that grew until it gradually displaced rage and the
grim lust for vengeance. Plagued by this deepening fear, he leaned
forward coaxing the sorrel on, and the animal responded with a bunching
of powerful muscles, as though its reserves had been held for just such
an emergency. They thundered along the country lanes, under
wind-whipped trees. The miles flew and the sun dipped lower. Langridge
was far behind now, and Harry encountered no other travellers save for
a large black carriage that crowded him off the road, its reckless
speed the more remarkable in view of the fact that as it flashed by he
saw it was unoccupied.

The tired sorrel laboured up the last rise, and it seemed to
Harry that he traversed a scarlet world, the lurid glare like an omen
of disaster. He shouldn't have left her! Yet Anderson was there, and
Mitch would die to protect her, for he was more than half in love with
her himself…

He topped the rise. Below, all was peaceful. The small stand
of poplars tossed whisperingly in the wind. There were no tethered
horses in view, no ruffians loitering about, no signs of activity on
the wooded slope beyond the copse. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rode
downhill at a reduced pace and was starting into the trees when a sound
came to him: a soft but repetitive whimpering that turned his blood to
ice. He vaulted from the saddle and began to run.

For as long as he lived, the scene that met his eyes as he
burst into the clearing would haunt his memory. There was no sign of
Nanette, Mitchell, or Anderson. The tent was collapsed, the contents
strewn about as though there had been a desperate struggle. Mr. Fox lay
nearby, and it was from the little donkey that the whimpering emanated.
Harry started for him, shouting a scared, "Nanette . . ? Mitch . . ?"

"Captain? That you?"

Andy! Harry's heart jumped. But—where in the devil . . ? And
then he saw a hand wave a rag from the far side of the cart, and the
vivid stain on that rag sent him racing toward it to halt once again,
struck dumb with horror. Sergeant Anderson sat on the ground, blood
streaking his cheek from a deep cut above his right ear. His wooden leg
was gone, his garments rent and dusty, his face twisted with anxiety.
Of all this, Harry was aware but vaguely. Mitchell lay sprawled on his
face, both hands gripping the spokes of a wheel. He wore no jacket, and
his shirt was cut to ribbons, the torn fabric hideously stained and
clinging to the lacerated flesh of his back. Harry's stunned gaze
returned to the Sergeant. Anderson strove to speak but could not.
Mitchell's white-knuckled grip on the wheel shifted. His dark head was
raised to reveal an ashen, sweat-streaked face, and eyes frantic with
pain and humiliation. "Harry! I… failed you! He… took her. You—you
must
go… after—" The panting utterance ceased, the white lips drawing back
from teeth tight-clenched.

Recovering his wits, Harry dropped to his knees and touched
his brother's damp hair caressingly. "My poor old fellow… I am—so very
sorry!" His narrowed eyes flashed murderously to the Sergeant.
"Sanguinet?"

Anderson nodded, but before he could speak, Mitchell gasped,
"He…
whipped
me!" The fine young face was
horror-filled, and Harry was half choked by the fury that welled up in
his throat. "As if—I were… a
dog
, Harry! I
couldn't believe… he would… really do it. And—and even when Miss
Carlson… came back, he… he
wouldn't stop
!"

"Sir," Anderson put in huskily, his head bowed as though he
was ashamed to meet his Captain's eyes, "if you could please fetch me
some water."

Harry sprang up, sprinted to the cart and, grabbing the water
jug, glanced to Mr. Fox. The donkey was bleeding at the shoulder, but
the wound did not look too serious. He called a few words of comfort as
he seized a bowl and tore back to Anderson. He poured some water into
the bowl, handed it to the Sergeant and, returning to the cart,
unearthed a flask of brandy, then ran to kneel once more beside his
brother. "Try and take a mouthful or two," he urged gently, "It—"

Mitchell turned his head away. "I
tried
,
Harry! You
must
believe me!"

"Of course I believe you." Harry set the flask down and took
the hand that came out to him. Holding that hand strongly, he said, "I
am sure you did splendidly. We'll get her back, never—"

"She… she
saw
him whip me!" Mitchell
groaned. His grip tightened convulsively, his voice rising to a shrill
cry of despair. "As if… I were… a
dog
!"

"Easy… easy!" Harry soothed. He was shaking with rage,
possessed by such a longing to do bloody murder as he'd never known.
Andy's big hands were peeling away a sodden remnant of shirt as
tenderly as any woman could have done. The sight of that ravaged back
sent terror lancing through Harry, but with a tremendous effort he
managed to speak calmly. "Do not try to talk now, Mitch. We'll have you
feeling better in—" He gave a gasp and cried a terrified, "Mitchell!"
as his brothers taut body sagged and the hand he held relaxed its
crushing grip to rest limply in his own. Scarcely daring to breathe, he
sought a pulse and gave a long-drawn sigh of relief as he found it at
last, rapid and uneven, but lacking the terrible threadiness he'd met
from time to time on the battlefield. He whispered a grateful, "Thank…
God . . !"

"Better give him some brandy, sir," gulped Anderson.

"Heaven forbid! He cannot feel anything now. Good God, Andy!
Whatever happened? No—never mind, you shall tell me later. I'll take
over here. You go and look after Mr. Fox."

"Can't do it, sir." His rugged features flushed with shame,
Anderson gestured toward the trees. "I think… they throwed it… that
way."

Harry clambered to his feet, ran to the trees, and sought
frantically about, his mind a whirling chaos. Mitchell was badly hurt,
to say nothing of the terrible blow to his pride. As for Nanette… "I'll
come, my darling girl! just as soon as I have Mitch in the hands of a
surgeon, I'll come for you!" He found the wooden leg at last and,
placing it beside the sergeant, took the rag and began to minister to
his brother. Anderson, meanwhile, restored his mobility and without a
word stood and clumped over to Mr. Fox. "
Hurry
!
Oh… my dear… God!" The Reverend rode up, leading the sorrel. His flabby
face pale with dread he started to dismount, only to be restrained by
Harry's upflung hand and crisp command that he ride into Chichester and
find a doctor. "Mitchell has been most savagely whipped. Please be as
quick as you can!"

For once the garrulous Mordecai was shocked into silence. He
stared from Mitchell's still form to Harry, to Anderson, to Mr. Fox.
And shaking his head as if all of it was totally beyond his
comprehension, dropped the sorrel's reins and rode away.

In the stark waiting room of Dr. Jonas Twickenby's surgery,
Sergeant Anderson, his head neatly bandaged, started up from the wicker
chair as Harry opened the inner door and entered. "Sir! Is he— Will he
be—"'

Harry said tersely, "They kicked me out. but Twickenby's
working hard."

The Sergeant drew a deep, quivering breath. "Did Mr. Mitchell
say anything. Captain?"

"Only—about Miss Carlson." A muscle in Harry's cheek twitched
nervously, and in a voice suddenly hoarse, he said, "He begged me to
leave and go after her."

"Just like him… Pluck to the backbone.' Not one single sound
outta him—all the way in that perishing old chaise with not a decent
spring to it! You should've been the one to hold him, sir! Not me!"

Harry crossed to slip one hand onto the broad shoulder,
pushing him back into the chair again. "You great chawbacon! You were
in no case to ride. How do you feel now?"

"God love the man!" thought Anderson, and said gruffly, "It'll
take more'n a whack over the brainbox to put a period to this old Army
mule! Sir—what about this here Twickenby? He looks an awful sour prune!
The woman who tied up my head says he's a good enough doctor, but d'you
think he's—"

"I think we're damned fortunate that my uncle found him. He
seems to know his business, and his wife is a slendid nurse."

"What—was that fat lady his old woman, then?"

Harry nodded, his expression hardening. He had stayed beside
his brother when the doctor began his task, but the white-faced agony
of the gentle, scholarly boy had brought his rage to the boiling point,
and he'd vowed softly, "I'll find her, Mitch. And before I kill
Sanguinet, he'll rue the day he laid that whip across your back! I
swear it!" The doctor's large wife, who had seemed undismayed by the
sight of Mitchell's injuries, had uttered a cry of horror at those grim
words, and her dour husband had folded his arms and refused to proceed
until the barbarian was ejected…

Andy was watching him anxiously. Harry glanced around the
dusty little chamber and asked, "Where is my uncle gone?"

"He's trying to find a farrier to go and help Mr. Fox. Kind in
him, I thought, sir, for he was wanting powerful to stay here. But—
it's coming on to storm, and he says if it gets much darker he'll never
find the way. We knowed you wouldn't want us to just leave the poor
little devil lying there."

"No, of course not." Harry's eyes flickered anxiously towards
the closed door beyond which his brother lay.

"Captain… I feel so… I mean—if only I could've
done
something!"

"Stupid hedgebird! D'you think I do not know you did all you
could?"

Anderson blinked speechlessly, then managed, "You must be fair
aside o' yerself, sir—wanting to get after that madman!"

It was true. The need to go to Nanette was a frenzy within
Harry, but he could not leave yet. He pulled up a wooden chair,
straddled it and, sitting with arms folded across the back, said. "I
shall go as soon as I can. Now—for God's sake tell me what happened."

"It was about twenty minutes afore you come back, sir. Miss
Carlson was poking about in the cart, getting dinner ready, as I
thought, and me and Mr. Mitchell was sitting by the fire. He was
telling me about that there Urey-Pidies of his, and—well, I suppose we
lost track o' the time. I looked round and she'd up and gone! I went to
the cart and all her things was gone, too! "Mr.Mitchell!"' I shouts.
"Miss Carlson's run orf agin!" He come over smart-like, and we decided
we'd best get arter her. We turned round, and…" He spread his hands
helplessly. "There they was. Big, mean-faced coves; five or six on 'em,
along o' that there Monsewer Diabolick, and another bruiser riding a
mare might've been twins with our Lace, sir."

"Dice . . !" breathed Harry through his teeth. "Gawd!
Devil
Dice? Then it
was
our Lace? But—she'd got no
white stockings."

"Dye. But never mind that now. Go on, Andy."

"Well, that there Dice had a pistol aimed steady at Mr.
Mitchell's bread basket, so we just stood there. The Frenchy (all in
black he was sir, like the rest of 'em), he come drifting over, very
lazy-like, and asks Mr. Mitchell where was Miss Carlson. Cool as a
cucumber, Mr. Mitchell says as how since they hadn't been proper
interduced he didn't think he could rightly give a answer. Then along
comes another swell riding on a beautiful Arabian mare the like of
which I never did see. Looked like she was made out of gold. But the
gent's got one arm in a sling and don't look quite up to the rig. Mr.
Sanguinet said he had no business following them, and called him Guy,
so I knew it was his brother. Well, he gets orf his horse and says he'd
got
every
reason to follow, and he'll be glad to
do the honours, and he interduces Mr. Mitchell. Diabolick puts up his
eyeglass and looks Mr. Mitchell up and down and laughs. "You allowed
that
baby
to best you?" he says. "
Really
,
Guy!" Then he asks Mr. Mitchell again where Miss Carlson went, and Mr.
Mitchell says as he wishes as how he knowed." The Sergeant hove himself
out of the chair at this point and began to thump restlessly up and
down, while Harry, eyes very grim, waited.

"I didn't like the way he looked at Mr. Mitchell," Anderson
went on somberly. "He was halfway laughing, but with a—a sort've hungry
look. He says in that soft voice o'his as how she couldn't have got far
because he'd had a report as she was with us when you rid out. "I'll
lay you odds, Guy," he says, "as she's up there somewhere on that slope
over yonder. Watching. If we go after her, it might take some time. So
I think we'll just ask Mr. Redmond to bring her down here to us." I
begun to edge a bit closer to Lace 'cause I thought we was fair in fer
it. Mr. Mitchell didn't say nothing, but he give a little grin, and
Diabolick says as he can see Mr. Redmond thinks it's all some kind of
game, but it ain't, and he don't like it if one of his family gets set
upon. His brother says the duel was fair and to let the boy alone.
Sanguinet acts like he hasn't even heard him and tells his coachman to
go and fetch his whip. I'll tell you, S'Harry, me blood run cold when
he said that, but I never thought he'd do it. His brother knowed him
better, I expect, because right orf he goes up to him and says as how
Mr. Mitchell's a gentleman. "You must
not
!' he
says. Diabolick, he just tells his men to tie Mr. Mitchell to the wheel
o' the cart. Well, S'Harry, I could see as he means it all right. And
poor Mr. Mitchell, he's staring at him as if he can't believe his own
ears. Very pale he is, but—what a plucked'un, sir!"