Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (46 page)

Now those lean fingers held a weapon that gleamed silver in
the lamplight, just as it had gleamed in Nanette's little hand. Harry
swung his eyes away and nodded.

"Admit it, then! You killed Parnell Sanguinet with this. You
shot him in the back with this silver pistol! Do you confess?"

The black-hearted devil was after Nanette! Well he'd not drag
her into this, the slimy, damned trickster! "How many times must I say
it?" he raged. "Are you totally caper witted? Yes! Yes! Have
done
,
man!"

"Well, damn your eyes and limbs! Why in the devil didn't you
tell me that at the start?"

The lantern was raised to reveal Diccon, tall and astoundingly
elegant in a long-tailed black jacket and grey pantaloons, his cravat a
masterpiece, his features contorted by anger. "You miserable, blasted
hedgebird! If you had only trusted me, none of this would have been
necessary!"

For an instant Harry merely blinked at him. Then he leaned
against the wall and this time was not forced to stand upright.
"Trusted…
you
?" he echoed. "Why you slippery
serpent! You've deceived and manoeuvred and confounded me from the
first instant we met! I'd have to be
looby
to
trust you!"

"Well, I hope you're satisfied! Ten days of purgatory you've
put me through! Keeping you in here, wearing you down until I could
tear the truth out of you! Is
that
what she shot
him with?" He tossed up a hand as Harry crouched, ready to spring, and
the guards moved forward. "Why, you cockaleery doddipoll! It ain't
possible
!
Can you not understand?
No one
could have shot
Parnell Sanguinet with this pistol! It's brand new. It has never—
ever
—been
fired! When my men finally found it yesterday, it was not even
loaded
!"

"But, if I did not shoot him," said Harry slowly, massaging
wrists from which the loathed chains had just been struck, "and Miss
Carlson did not…"

"Who did?" Diccon's thin fingers drummed briefly on the top of
the battered old desk. His office was a cluttered little room not much
larger than Harry's cell, sparsely furnished, and with only two wooden
chairs for visitors. "I rather fancy we'll have a deuce of a time to
learn that. Many men had reason to hate him, any one of whom could have
crept into the room in the darkness and confusion, without being seen
by either you or the lady."

Tensing, Harry leaned forward. "Damn you! Have you known all
the time I did not shoot him?"

Diccon gave an amused chuckle. "You begin to know me too well.
No—" he gestured placatingly, "do not add my murder to your— unsavoury
reputation."

"Devil! Yet you dragged me through the streets like some—some
common filth, kept me in this—hell . . ! And all the time—blast your
eyes!
Why
?"

Staring inscrutably at the ravaged young face, Diccon read
rage there, and suffering and sorrow, but not hatred. Even now Redmond
was too much the military man not to understand the demands of duty,
too intelligent to be shabbed off with pure nonsense, and too innately
decent to warrant such. It was, in fact, damned difficult not to be
fond of the quixotic gudgeon… "I suspected," he admitted, "that you
were not the killer. You, however, were named by M. Claude Sanguinet."
He frowned, and again his narrow fingers did their nervous beating on
the desktop. "A very powerful man. You ran. Miss Carlson disappeared.
Your friends brought all the force they could muster to your defence,
and made life blisteringly hot for me, deuce take 'em! Miss Carlson
came forward then and attempted to clear you of kidnapping her, of
course, but that charge was obscured by the greater one."

"But—
you
knew!" gritted Harry. "And you
also are—a powerful man."

"Not that powerful, else I would award this nation's highest
honour to whomever did pull that trigger!" His eyes glinted briefly,
then he gave a wry grin. "I'm just a poor public servant,
unfortunately. And I was faced with a shrewd campaign by a man with
unlimited funds. The populace was stirred to a frenzy by allegations
that you would be acquitted because of your rank. Versailles was
furious because one of her top diplomats had been murdered. The Foreign
Office and the Horse Guards…" he shuddered. "They were berserk! Prinny
was in a ghastly squeeze, and when you ran and would say nothing to
clear yourself, they all hove a sigh of relief and said,
en
effet
, 'So be it!" I had no choice but to—"

"To haul me half across England in manacles?" blazed Harry.

Diccon said lazily, "My masterstroke. It worked rather well, I
thought."

The wind taken out of his sails, Harry stared at him blankly.

"Suppose," murmured Diccon, "we had allowed you to stay in the
Surrey Gaol as Leigh-Hunt was permitted to do? Suppose you'd been
decently fed and housed? You'd have appeared at your trial with your
proud head high, as elegant and defiant as you could stare, would you
not?"

"Be assured of it!"

"Birdwit! And you'd have been hanged!"

Harry's eyes widened and, silenced, he leaned back in his
chair.

"I'll tell you this," Diccon imparted, scowling, "much of your
misery was self-induced! Had you allowed yourself to be taken by my
bubble-fingered men, and God knows I'd enough of 'em seeking you!—you'd
have fared better and not come so nigh to having your neck stretched."

"By God . . !" gasped Harry. "You mount a subtle campaign,
sir. But—I could wish I'd been allowed to know of it!"

"Had you been of a different stamp, you would have. But—you're
a hell of a poor actor, Redmond. I thought—when we put you in that
little box…" He saw Harry's eyes narrow again and waved his hand
apologetically. "Yes. Your brother told me that you feared small
places. My regrets. But—I'd to choose between letting you hang—or
trying to break you."

Harry fought back an all-but-overmastering urge to smash his
fists into that suave countenance. "And—did your scheme work well
enough that my innocence will be believed?"

"Don't be a fool. There are those who will always cherish the
notion that the aristocracy won again!" He smiled, but there was no
answering smile in the eyes that watched him. Redmond, he thought, had
detected a break in the rope…

"You said," Harry observed slowly, "Sanguinet has unlimited
funds'. If that is so, then—why was Carlson murdered? Had Sanguinet
already appropriated his stepdaughter's fortune?"

"Not to my knowledge. He's vastly well breeched. But nobody
needs money like a rich man, you know."

The light tone failed to banish Harry's frown. "My father's
murder," he muttered, "was in some way connected with that damnable
coach!"

Diccon's expression changed not in the slightest. Only a faint
flaring of the thin nostrils accompanied his puzzled, "Coach . . ?"

Harry stood and, leaning forward, placed both hands on the
desk. "Frederick Carlson was not murdered so that Parnell could
appropriate his daughter's fortune—you said so yourself. Yet he
was
murdered. Dreading scandal, or any investigation, Sanguinet had my
father brutally killed. Why? Because he saw the first murder—or was it
because of something else he saw? Something Sanguinet dared not have
revealed…" He saw a flicker in Diccon's eyes and swept on triumphantly,
"It
was
that coach—wasn't it? If Parnell was
troubled by daylight, he could simply have installed dark curtains.
Instead, he went to elaborate lengths to make his coach appear to be
unoccupied! Why?"

"What matter?" Diccon opened his drawer in bored fashion and
began to pare his nails with a knife he found there. "He was a madman…"

Harry slammed clenched fists on the desk. "You
lie
!
Tell me, or I'll—"

"That will do!" Diccon's eyes were a blue flame, his mouth a
hard, thin line. He put away the knife and snapped, "Sit down,
Captain!"'

Harry's jaw set, and his own eyes blazed, but he felt suddenly
as though he stood before his Colonel's desk, and he sat down.

"I have used you,'" Diccon said curtly. "And will make no
apologies for having done so. Nor should you feel abused, since your
father's death has been avenged. To all intents and purposes, Colin
Redmond was killed because he saw murder done. Because I have—
er—deceived you, I put myself to the bother of attempting to bring you
off from this. But be aware, friend, that I could just as easily have
thrown you to the wolves and let your heroics reap the full penalty!
Be
still
!" The silence that followed those thundered-out words
was absolute. Then Diccon leaned forward, a smile leaping into his
eyes, a warmth softening his voice. "Harry—confound you, you're a pest,
if ever I was saddled with one! But you are also an honourable
gentleman and entitled, I suppose, to an explanation. I will have your
word though, that you will speak of this to no one . . ?"

"You have it."

"Very well." Diccon settled back in his chair, frowned through
a thoughtful moment, then said slowly, "It is believed—it is
known
— that there is a conspiracy afoot that threatens both the life of the
Prince Regent and the future of England." He raised one hand to quiet
Harry's startled utterance. "We fight a group of fanatics. Power-mad,
ruthless financial giants. The Sanguinets are up to their necks in it;
not for France, but for themselves. The coach was a crucial factor in a
coup that we managed to circumvent. Parnell later used that same coach
for his own schemes, much to his brother's wrath." He shrugged, and
went on in a milder tone, "More I cannot reveal, save that we lack the
evidence to charge them… Take my advice, friend. You've run your race.
You're free. Live. And do not concern yourself with matters best left
to those of us whose business it is to handle them. You are exceedingly
fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Mrs. Penderly."

Taken off-stride by the abrupt remark, Harry knit his brow.
Mrs. Penderly… the name sounded so familiar…

"I understand," Diccon murmured, "that she met your brother
during his assault on the Chateau Sanguinet, and later, encountered you
near Horsham on the night Parnell met his just desserts."

"Jove! Was it the same lady, then? Now I come to think on it,
she
did
mistake me for someone else."

"Your father," nodded Diccon, and in response to the surprised
pucker of Harry's forehead, added, "Yes. Interesting coincidence, eh?
She was with your father on the night of
his
death. I gather that in Dinan she took a great liking to Mitch—"

"
With
—my father?" Harry interposed,
totally mystified. "But Sir Colin was at Sanguinet Towers that night.
How could he have had a—er…"

"Romantic assignation? Oh, no. It wasn't that. They met purely
by chance. A wheel had come off the lady's coach, and your papa was so
gallant as to prevail upon his companion to stop and assist her."

Harry stared at those impassive features. "I don't understand.
If my father was at Sanguinet Towers, and—Besides he couldn't—
What
companion ?"

"Good gracious, Redmond, you do muddle your phraseology. Why,
the gentleman who accompanied your father, of course. Mrs. Penderly
said he was most reticent, and wouldn't lift a hand—or even come near
her. It was your papa who conveyed the ladies to the village inn, and
your papa who rousted out the blacksmith and had the wheel repaired. He
even paid the reckoning, since the lady had lost all her pin money
playing silver loo at her party."

His heart pounding madly, Harry came to his feet. "For God's
sake man—what are you saying? Have you found a witness who says she was
with my father on the evening of his death?
How
did you find her? Can you be
sure
she knows it
was my father who—"

Diccon thrust a miniature at him. Taking it, Harry stared down
at his sire's beloved features. The last time he'd seen it, the
miniature had been on Mitchell's bedside table at Moire… His eyes
lifted wonderingly to Diccon's bland smile.

"I showed it to Mrs. Penderly," the Runner nodded. "She's
positive about the date because it was her sister's birthday party
she'd been attending. And she's positive your father is the man who
helped her. And—no, I do not propose to go into the details of how we
were able to find the little lady."

Harry slipped the miniature into his pocket, his tired mind
groping… "Then… he must have been with her for some time that night…

"From at least half-past nine o'clock until after midnight,
she claims."

"My… God . . !" Leaning forward, both hands on the desk top
once more, his face flushed with excitement, Harry gasped, "Do you
realize what that means? Diccon—if my father was with Mrs. Penderly, he
could not
possibly
have spent the evening with
Parnell Sanguinet! He
could not
have gambled away
Moire, and his fortune!"

A twinkle gleamed in those deep eyes. "Well now," drawled
Diccon. "Ain't that a—as y'might say—interesting… development?"

Daniel's blast on the yard of tin would have woken the dead.
And Moire Grange was, it would seem, very much alive. Even as Harry
marvelled at the excellence with which the fire damage had been
repaired, the front doors were swung wide and before the carriage had
halted a lackey ran to open the door and let down the steps. Joseph,
openly weeping, followed. Not trusting himself to speak, Harry slipped
a hand onto the old man's shoulder. "You're home… sir," the butler
choked. "
We're
home!" Harry corrected gruffly,
walking with him into the house.

In the hall many of his former servants were drawn up, but the
ranks broke and they greeted him emotionally, each one eager to seize
his hand. Mrs. Norah Bacon curtsied, then threw her arms about him,
sobbing, "I
knew
you would be cleared, Master
Harry! I
knew
it!" Mrs. Thomas rushed to embrace
him, lifting a wet cheek for his kiss. The loved and familiar scents of
the old place filled his nostrils… Flowers and furniture polish… and a
cake baking…