Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (45 page)

His life's companion was only momentarily disconcerted. "Harry
is a grown man and must take the consequences of his actions. I warned
him. Besides, if he is innocent he will be spared, for does not St.
Matthew tell us, 'if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed…'

"The Colosseum." pointed out the ever-practical Bolster, "was
likely f-filled with folks who had faith, ma'am. Lions ate 'em up.
Sorry, but—there 'tis."

"Enough!" she roared, lifting her hand dramatically. With a
sort of leap Bolster retreated a pace behind Lady Salia. Turning to her
shivering husband, Wilhelmina reminded, "Langridge. you are in Orders!
Put that weapon down this—"

"Oh… be quiet . " gulped the Reverend.

Four stunned pairs of eyes turned to him.

"
What… did… you… say…
?" demanded his
lady, terribly.

His bridges burned behind him, Mordecai went the distance and,
keeping his gaze on the Runner, said, "Pray be still, madam."
Wilhelmina's jaw dropped, and taking advantage of the awed silence, he
went on, "I shall hold him here. You get to the stables, dear boy. The
grooms will strike those fetters from your wrists in a trice!"

"By… George . . !" said Bolster, enormously impressed.
"Courage above and b-beyond, sir! Come on, Harry!"

The twinkle faded from Diccon's pale eyes. "I really
am
from Bow Street, Reverend, and it is only fair to warn you that this is
a very special case with international ramifications. Your calling will
not help you—no more than Lord Bolster's rank will protect him. If I am
in any way interfered with, you and your lady, together with Lady
Moulton, must be judged accomplices."

Wilhelmina recovered sufficiently to turn a stern frown on the
Runner. "How
dare
you threaten my husband, sir?"
she said with somewhat dubious logic.

Harry, his eyes locked with Diccon's, swallowed pride and
pleaded, "Five minutes start? For friendship's sake . . ?"

"By force only," answered the Runner inexorably. "In which
event these people will have no choice but to flee the country."

"Much would we care for that!" Lady Salia came to slip her
hand in Harry's arm and smile fondly at him. "You surely cannot
believe, my dear, that we could be happy, knowing your life was the
price of a short sojourn abroad? Besides, John has grumbled incessantly
that we have not yet had a proper honeymoon. We shall travel, and have
a lovely time. And at all events, you will be acquitted very soon, so
that we can come home again."

"Very soon…"
Never
was more probable.
Watching her sweet face, Harry thought of how long she and John Moulton
had been kept apart by a capricious Fate. And now at last they were
joyously together in the home they both loved. He glanced at Bolster.
His friend's grin was as bright, his loyalty as true as ever. And Jerry
was to be married to Amanda as soon as she returned from Belgium. How
would little Mandy like living in exile? His aunt was watching her
husband, an expression in her eyes he'd never seen before and that he
now realized was admiration. As if sensing his regard, she turned to
him and smiled, and he knew that she too would stick by him, whatever
the cost.

Bolster saw hope die from his eyes and cried furiously, "You
cannot prove your innocence, you great g-gudgeon! They will surely hang
you!"

"Oh, no they will not!" Langridge repudiated hotly, but as
Diccon gave a grim smile and stepped forward a pace, he blenched.

Bolster whipped the gun from his shaking hands. "Your pardon,
sir, but—not quite in your line, y'know. Toddle off, Harry. And good
luck, d-dear old boy! I'll hold this Trap 'til you're away safe."

Diccon said a quiet, "I trust you are prepared to fire, my
lord," and again paced forward.

A deadly glint lit Bolster's usually mild hazel eyes. "One
more step," he gritted softly, "and I will blow your miserable head
off!"

"No, you won't," Harry intervened. "It is of no use. He's only
following orders, and—"

Bolster's jaw set, and the angle of the gun shifted.
Recognizing that this intrepid young man had every intention of
crippling him, at the very least, Diccon threw up one imperative hand.

Three stern-faced men armed with pistols stepped from the
shrubs beside the drive, and although the weapons were not aimed, their
eyes were fastened steadily on Lord Bolster.

"Oh… damme!" groaned Jeremy, and lowered his weapon.

Her calm breaking, Lady Salia gave a sob and, running to throw
herself into Harry's arms, was balked as the handcuffs came between
them. "
Must
you put those horrid things on him?"
she wept.

"I wish I could remove 'em, ma'am, I do assure you. But, I've
reason to know how handy he is with his fists." Diccon gestured to his
men, one of whom whistled, and a black coach rumbled around from the
front of the house.

Lady Salia pressed a hand to her lips, and Harry jerked his
head to Bolster who at once came over and drew her gently away. "You're
never going to haul him off in
that
monstrous
thing?" he raged, patting Salia's shoulder. "Deuce take you! He's a
baronet!"

"A baronet who has murdered a foreign diplomat of noble
birth," Diccon pointed out. "However, I will not take Sir Harry to gaol
in the coach. He can ride with me."

Two saddle horses were brought forward, at the sight of which
Langridge cried an aghast, "
Ride
? Through the
streets? With those—damnable shackles for all to see?"

Diccon smiled faintly. "Are you ready, Sir Harry?"

Harry was assisted into the saddle. Langridge and Bolster came
to clutch his hands, to stammer out promises of aid and support, and to
watch, grieving, as Diccon mounted and took up the bridle of the other
horse.

One of the Runners climbed into the cart. The other two
entered the coach.

Harry bent to kiss Wilhelmina and Salia, and with his head
well up and his face paper white, began the journey to gaol.

Convinced the Surrey Gaol would be a likely destination,
Harry's heart sank when they passed through that pleasant county and
came to the outskirts of the great city. But long after the countryside
had given way to cobbled streets and ever denser buildings, long after
the clear air was sullied by the smoke from countless chimney pots, and
the sweet songs of birds replaced by shouts and turmoil, by jostling
crowds and the unceasing rumble of wheels, he would not believe
Newgate. They passed through slums and the black coach pulled up very
close to protect him from the hail of bottles, stones, and refuse that
greeted the appearance of a flash cove—a nob—and in bracelets! But not
until he saw the great glooming pile rising above the shacks and
nightmare dwellings of the poor could he credit it. Not until they rode
into the yard and he was ordered by a stern Diccon to dismount, and
then was gripped by each arm and hauled unceremoniously into the
terrible old building did it finally burst upon him in all its horror.
Captain Sir Harry Allison Redmond was no more. In his place was the
villain in the poster—an accused murderer and kidnapper, who would be
despised by the upper strata of those who inhabited this hell on earth,
and hated by the lower.

Once inside the building he was subjected to a brief
interrogation. Stunned and exhausted, he no longer saw faces and knew
only that he passed under a succession of eyes, variously stern,
sneering, or hate-filled. He was dully aware of tramping along noisome,
narrow, and odorous corridors; of a dim door flung open to reveal a
dark, tiny cell, the murky slot that served for a window, a sagging
cot. A sardonic voice informed him he was "too hoity-toity t'be in with
the rest of 'em!"; a hand shoved violently at the small of his back. He
staggered forward, heard the door clang shut, and crouched, head bowed,
trembling, in the near darkness.

"Sit down in it, sir! Do not step over it!
Sit down
in it .
. !"

The voice was so real it might have been in the room with him.
His head jerked up and he peered around dazedly. General Craufurd had
been used to scream that adjuration at his men did they dare step over
a puddle in the line of march… Harry sank against the dank wall. He was
not in Spain surrounded by his indomitable troops. He did not hear the
tramp of countless feet, the hoofbeats of horses and mules, the shouted
ribaldry of the men. He heard instead a drunken yowling, the rattle of
a tin cup across bars; a song without melody or decipherable words that
told of despair, and the sobbing of some poor woman, God help her!

He closed his eyes and bowed his forehead against the stone.
"My father was Sir Colin Redmond," he whispered, "and my grandfather,
General Lord Harry Allison…" He repeated it time and again, until at
length the crushing sense of being buried alive faded a little, until
his pride reasserted itself, and he pushed panic back whence it had
sprung. He looked up at the window' again and squared his shoulders. A
grim smile curving his mouth he muttered, "Thank you, sir. I may have
to sit down in it—but, by God! I'll not step over it!"

"So you shot him," said the dispassionate voice, because you
were struck by the falling tree. And you did not see the lightning."

This time, the questioning seemed to have lasted for several
days, with each question more asinine than the last. Harry was very
tired and longed to lean against the wall of his cell. He sighed,
knowing that would not be permitted, and raising one hand against the
glare of the lantern, said wearily, "I
did
see
the lightning. I did
not
see it strike the tree.
Bonjour
,
Diccon."

"You were pinned by the tree," Diccon went on relentlessly,
"yet you managed to free your arm, and fire—"

"You, sir," Harry observed regretfully, "are baconbrained,
that's what it is. The gun went off
as I fell
. I
wish to see my solicitor. I have had no visitors since I came to this
spa. It has been—" he thought a minute. "Two weeks . . ?"

"Ten days, Redmond. And you have had visitors. The newspaper
people…"

"Egad! They have seen me, and sketched me, and talked their
stupid damned heads off. And they do not listen any more than do you!"
He peered vainly into the light. "Mr. Fox would be better company!"

"When you were lying there upon your right side, was it—"

"My left side, dear Diccon. My
left
side."

"Ah, yes—you were trapped upon your injured arm—yet managed to
free yourself—unaided. What an astounding stoic."

"Man of iron, sir. Had you not realized?" His laugh sounded a
trifle shrill, and he bit it back abruptly, repeating, "I wish to see—"

"These . . ?" Diccon tossed some newspapers at him. Catching
them, Harry swore. He was on the front page of the
Gazette;
the
Morning Post
featured a large sketch of him
on Page Two; and he rated the third page of
The Times
.
The captions seemed gigantic:

'Aristocrat to Hang for Brutal Murder!' Titled War Hero in
Newgate!' 'No coddling for Baronet Fiend!' The sketches showed him
unshaven and gaunt, yet with a hint of jauntiness about him, as though
even in this ghastly place he retained some remnant of pride. And that
same pride flailed him. What must Mitch be suffering before such public
disgrace? And Nanette . . ?

Diccon was jabbering again—pounding at him, as he had done day
and night seemingly, since his arrival. Allowing his tired eyes to skim
a grossly dramatized article, Harry learned that although he was weak
from injuries incurred while rescuing his victim from a maddened bull,
he had been denied any special treatment. It seemed an odd report, and
reading on, he learned that the Authorities were merciless by reason of
the international aspects of the case and their fear of offending the
French. Puzzled, he could only assume this to be blatant
sensationalism. In actual fact, a doctor had visited him several times
and pronounced himself well satisfied with the state of the arm. The
next article had him chained to the wall in a mouldering dungeon
reminiscent of the Middle Ages, yet in good spirits, though he
stubbornly refused to answer any questions concerning the Brutal Crime,
and denied adamantly that he was, in fact, Protecting Another! "Oh, my
lord!" thought Harry. And imagining Nanette in this hellhole, felt sick.

A truncheon prodded him gently. "Horrified," he mumbled,
scarce knowing what he was answering.

"You are quite sure of that?" purred Diccon. "When Sanguinet
was hit he looked—horrified . . ?"

"What?" Still absorbed by the article, Harry muttered, "Oh,
yes— yes. What would you expect, you jackass?"

"I would expect it to be rather difficult for you to know
that, Redmond. Since he was hit—in the back! My, what a long neck you
must have!"

Comprehending too late, Harry stumbled, "No! I—I was paying no
attention, that's all. I—"

"You spoke the truth for the first time since we brought you
here!" Diccon's voice was a snap of steel. "Sanguinet was shot
after
you were downed! By someone striving to prevent your own mur—"

"No!" cried Harry, dropping the newspaper. "He—it was—"

"It was a pack of lies!" thundered Diccon, standing, his face
eerily highlighted by the glow of the lantern. "You
watched
him killed by somebody else!"

"No! Damn you! No!
I
killed him! I was
holding the pistol when the tree feel, and—"

"
This
—pistol . . ?"

Into the brighter beam from the lantern came Diccon's hand,
holding a black pistol. It was the first time Harry had seen it since
he'd lain there helpless during that ravening storm; shocked into
silence, he stared down at it. Almost, he could hear Sanguinet's
gloating laughter, the voice of the thunder, the howling of the wind…
He fought to think clearly… Diccon was trying to trap him, no doubt.
They probably knew which was the correct weapon. "No," he muttered,
drawing back instinctively, "not that one."