Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (4 page)

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 Moulton 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."