Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (5 page)

"I'd no idea you meant to see Harland yesterday… in addition
to Maude." The grey eyes lifted once more to fix his brother with that
troubled stare. "How is poor old Maude? I really
should
like to have gone with you,
Sauvage
."

"Oh—you know Maude." Harry's pulse began to accelerate, but he
chuckled, "I wish you
had
been there! He wore the
most dashing nightcap and shawl I ever saw."

"Poor old fellow…" Mitchell tightened the roll of flimsies and
dropped it into his purse. "So you go to Paris with the Earl of
Harland—and I am rushed back to my studies…"

"By God, you young whelp, but you're getting uppity! One would
think
I
was the younger!"

Mitchell eyed his feigned resentment for a moment, and then
said with a shy twinkle, "Sometimes, I think you are…"

Fearing that his absent-minded scholar might wind up in
Shanghai rather than Oxford, Harry hired a post chaise to return him to
the University. He walked out to the flagway with him, reminded him
patiently whither he was bound, asked to see his purse, and then sent
Anderson into the house to search for it. The family fortune was
discovered reposing in the hearth, where Mitchell had apparently laid
it while pulling on his boots. With a few fond remarks anent the
possibility of having it chained to the end of his brother's slim nose,
Harry closed the door of the chaise, nodded to the postboy, and waved
him off.

For some moments after the vehicle had rounded the corner,
Harry still stood on the steps staring after it. If he joined up, there
was no telling how long it might be before he saw the young cub again…
Mitchell had seemed totally unaware, fortunately, of the fact that
their handshake had been more prolonged than usual, and must have been
astonished had he known how close his brother had come to sweeping him
into his arms for a proper farewell.

Dear old Mitch…

Heavy hearted, Harry went back into the house.

The next few days passed in a fever of activity. Informing his
dismayed servants that he intended to travel abroad for several years,
Harry instructed a worried Anderson to dispose of all the furniture,
and a glum Jed Cotton to sell the horses he kept in London, plus his
curricle and chaise. He himself repaired to the office of an extremely
disdainful Crosby Frye, who professed himself no longer interested in
handling Sir Harry's affairs but condescended to grant him a short
interview. There was, he imparted frostily, no slightest chance to
dispute the outcome of the card game at this late date.. Further, M.
Sanguinet was now in England and would be more than justified in taking
immediate possession of the property he had won eighteen months
previously. Did Sir Harry have bills of sale or receipts that might be
acceptable in a Court of Law, he should unearth them at once and
present them to M. Sanguinet's man of business, or his bailiff. "Devil
I will!" raged Harry, thrown into a fury. "My brother's and my own
belongings will be removed from the Grange whether the curst Frenchman
likes it or not! And if he don't like it, I'll show the fella my
Mantons by way of a bill of sale!"

When Anderson and Jed Cotton had discharged their tasks in
Town, Harry sent Major Domo and Head Groom next to Moire to convey his
horses by easy stages to Tattersall's. They also distributed the
letters that he had directed to each of the servants. Anderson returned
with word that most of the staff had packed up and departed the Grange
that same day, but the butler—who had been at Moire when Colin Redmond
was a child—would await Sir Harry's arrival, as would one or two other
long-time retainers. Of M. Sanguinet or his bailiff there had been no
sign, a state of affairs Redmond could only pray would continue until
after his final removal from the old house.

Between the sale of his belongings and hunters, Sir Harry now
found himself able to cover his few debts and bestow a generous amount
upon each member of the staff of his Town house. His farewell to Mrs.
Thomas was miserable, but vowing he'd given her enough to keep her
comfortable for a year, that steadfast lady declared she would stay
with her sister in Mitcham and wait until dear Sir Harry came to fetch
her.

Next morning, glancing around at the two valises and three
portmanteaux packed and ready in his now-empty bedchamber, Redmond
marshalled his rather tattered nerves and summoned Sergeant Anderson.
It was of no use, he knew, to employ his 'foreign travels' tale. Andy
knew better. Therefore, to an extent he told the truth. His father had
invested in a venture that had failed disastrously. All their
possessions had been swept away in the resultant chaos. He himself was
returning to the military, but had made provision for Anderson to enter
the service of the Marquis of Damon at Cancrizans Priory. "You know
Lord Damon," he smiled. "Poor fellow was living like a hermit, but now
he's about to be married and must spruce up the old place. I shall rely
upon you, Andy, to give him all the assistance you can."

Anderson took up Redmond's best beaver and, brushing it
carefully murmured, "We going back to the old 43rd, sir? I could easy
get—"

"Dammit, man! You do
not
go with me! I
may not be
able
to get in! They're cutting back
the Army, you know, now that the war's over. You must fend for
yourself." A gaze of such injured reproach was then turned upon him
that he cried, "Oh, gad! Do not look at me as though I had sprouted
serpents' teeth! I cannot
pay
you—you clunching
looby!"

"Sorta like a bank account, it'll be," grinned the Sergeant,
undaunted. "You hang onter me wages 'til you
can
pay me. then—"

"Blast you!
Will
you get it through your
thick skull that I am discharging you? I do not need a major domo!
Andy—" he put out his hand, his face suddenly haggard. "My good friend,
I—"

"Cor!" ejaculated the Sergeant. "Lookit that! Don't need a
man, indeed! Helpless as a newborn babe you'd be without me!" Evading
Redmond's hand, he straightened the immaculate sleeve and tidied the
lace cuff beneath it.

Furious because his eyes were growing dim, Harry swung roughly
away. Anderson's face fell and he watched the broad shoulders with an
expresson it was as well his much-tried employer did not see.

"I am deeply appreciative," Harry said gruffly, "of your
loyalty. In the event my finances improve I shall certainly take you
back into my service. But meanwhile—" he turned short about, "I have
told the Marquis you will go down to Dorset, and a post chaise has been
ordered for eleven o'clock. You had best pack whatever you will need."

Anderson, stretching out one hand appealingly, begged, "But—
sir… "

"That is an
order
. Sergeant!"

Anderson snapped to attention. "Orl right. Captain! I'll go.
And I'll ride the post chaise what you had
no business
a'calling up seein's we're going to have to practice strict economies
from here on out! When I'm done with his lordship, I'll come back.
Tomorrer. On the Accommodation Coach!" Saying which, he tossed a sharp
salute and thumped his way out.

Looking after him, torn between tears and laughter, Harry
groaned, "Oh… hell . . !"

He ate lunch alone in the kitchen, that being the only room
having a table, then wandered back into the quiet salon. Staring down
at the rich carpet, he decided to start for Moire immediately and put
up at "The Silk Purse" overnight. As soon as Norrie, their old nurse,
was snug somewhere, he'd remove his belongings and Mitchell's and dump
them at the Priory, or at his cousin Whitthurst's house in Kent. Then
he'd be free to track down the gentlemen who'd participated in that
fateful card game. He'd seek out Schofield first, of course. He
frowned. What in the deuce was he to do with Norrie? Papa had given her
a cottage on the grounds of Moire, for the balance of her life. But now—

"
Bonjour, amicus, humani generis
…"
Camille Damon limped in from the kitchen, and with only the lift of one
black brow to express his surprise at the bare room, disposed his
elegant self in a window seat.

"Blast you. Cam," said Redmond with a show of indignation. He
crossed to pour his friend a glass of the excellent brandy he'd placed
on a tray in the empty bookcase. "I've troubles enough deciphering your
French! To pair it with Latin just ain't fair!" Camille. widely held to
be the most handsome man in London, merely flashed his brilliant grin
and held up his glass in a silent toast. Joining him, Harry asked, "Why
am I the friend of the human race'?"

"Because, dear my
Capitaine
, I am in
a—er—spot of difficulty. You can assist, will you be so kind, by
selling back to me your shares in the Spa of the Swallows."

Lord Damon was the major stockholder in the spa, now a
thriving success. But it was unlikely he was being pressured into
acquiring more shares. Knowing which, Harry exploded, "The whiskers you
tell! You're as bad as ever, Cam! I wonder my cousin Sophia dare
contemplate a lifetime with you!"

The Marquis's rich laugh greeted this sally, but during the
ensuing conversation he sensed that Harry's trouble was not to be
shared, and understanding that some things may only be handled
personally, did not press the point. He agreed to provide a place for
Anderson, and enquired blandly whether Harry might be aware of a
motherly type of woman who would consent to remove to the spa. "We
need," he said, apparently unaware of Redmond's searching gaze, "such a
lady to assist guests with small indispositions."

Whatever he might suspect, Harry could only gratefully suggest
his former nurse—on a temporary basis. Damon gave every appearance of
delight and begged she be urged to consider the position. Having
refilled his lordship's glass, Harry rested his hand for a brief
instant on the peerlessly clad shoulder of this man who had himself
known too well the depths of despair and loneliness. Camille looked up
at him. It was a look that spoke volumes and, turning away, Harry felt
humbled and asked huskily, "During your wanderings about the Continent,
did you ever hear of a chap named Sanguinet?"

The glass that was idly turned between the Marquis's strong
fingers became suddenly motionless, the clear eyes very still. "To my
sorrow," he drawled. "Matter of fact, he's one of the fellows I called
out. Do you speak of Guy?"

"No. How many are there?"

"
Trois
. Claude, Parnell, and Guy. I
called out the youngest."

Damon's marksmanship was legendary, wherefore Harry enquired
if the remaining Sanguinets sought vengeance. With a faint smile Damon
said that Guy had refused to meet him. "Did he, by Jove!" Harry gasped.
"Yellow?"

"
Mon dieu—no
! He said that he had no
intention of committing suicide so as to oblige me. We therefore
settled the matter with a target shooting match. I would be happy to
report he was at once dropped by the
ton
, as you
obviously suppose. I gather you know little of the breed. Attend me,
mon
cher
. Few men would dare give a Sanguinet the cut direct.
Are you, by some unhappy chance, involved with one?"

"Parnell." And Harry added eagerly, "Nasty?"

Without a trace of amusement, Damon answered, "They call him
M. Diabolique. And with excellent reason."

"Drunk as a duck!" The familiar tones brought Harry swinging
around to run back down the stairs. "I resent that, Jerry," he grinned,
proceeding to shake hands with his lifelong comrade. "What the devil
are you doing here?"

"Come t'tell you I'll take Cotton into my service, as you
asked." Lord Jeremy Bolster tossed the hat, cane, and gloves onto the
window seat Damon had vacated some twenty minutes earlier and, sitting
beside his belongings, ran a hand through his straight yellow hair.
"Hear you're off to Paris. D-dashed good idea. London's positively bare
of company! Mandy's in Brussels with Lucinda Carden…" Mention of his
beloved brought worry to cloud his eyes briefly, but he went on as
blithely as ever, "Cameron's been posted to Dundee; St. Clair's off
honeymooning; Vaughan and Saxon are in Vienna. Blasted desert. I'll go
with you, Harry, dear old boy."

Redmond thought a horrified, "Lord!" They knew each other like
brothers and had few secrets, this making it the more difficult to lie,
"Wish you could, but it's an invite, y'see. And they wouldn't— it's no
one you—ah—know."

"Oh." Bolster took up one of his gloves, inspected it, and,
his pleasant features guileless, murmured, "Ain't nothing wrong, is
there? I m-mean…" He poked all the fingers of the glove inside out
while stammering, "If you ever n-n-needed help, you w-w-w you'd come to
me… I trust?"

"Naturally—you cawker!" Harry turned to the window and,
looking rather blindly into the grey afternoon, asked, "Shall you go to
Newmarket?"

There was no reply. He glanced around. Bolster was standing
and removing his jacket. His face was angry, a determined light in the
hazel eyes. "Been f-f-friends a long time, Harry," he said quietly.
"Don't expect whiskers. Sorry—but…" He started to roll up his sleeves.

It was an odd demonstration of loyalty, but it was Jeremy. And
perhaps for the first time the enormity of his personal disaster broke
upon Redmond. For the first time he faced the fact that there would be
no more pleasant gatherings with friends at White's or Watier's; no
evenings at Drury Lane, or Ranalegh, or Vauxhall; no more riding to
hounds, or summer boat parties and picnics. No improvements at Moire
Grange—in fact, no Moire Grange! His entire way of life was vanishing
forever. Henceforth, he would be a man alone, and near destitute. He
sat on the window seat and bowed his head.

"Here…" The kindly voice seemed very far away but recalled him
to his surroundings. Bolster, his expression grave, proffered a glass
of cognac. Very red in the face, Harry gasped, "Good God, Jerry! Your
pardon! I just—er—"