Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (6 page)

"Clodpole!" said Bolster unequivocally. "Drink your damned
wine, and—tell me about it."

So he did. He changed a few of the essential details, but
basically he told the truth. When he finished, Bolster glared at him.
"If I'd be-be-be-acted like that, you'd have punched my head!"

"Yes," admitted Redmond humbly. "Likely I would."

"Roses," Bolster observed after a short silence, "don't grow
on cabbages."

Harry looked at him blankly.

"Your papa," Bolster clarified. "Very fine g-gentleman. Dashed
f-fond of him, y'know. Wouldn't have done it. It's very mingle-mangled,
Harry. We'll simply have to get to the b-b b-b—we'll have to come to
the root of it."

"The Silk Purse" was a charming old hedge tavern midway
between Guildford and Godalming. The proprietor, a proud veteran of the
95th Rifles, was an old friend of Redmond's, both having served with
the peerless Light Division, and Harry invariably broke his journey
here en route to or from Moire. On this brilliant May morning he
emerged from the inn with slow and laggard step, heedless of the
fragrance of the roses that bloomed about the door; of fluffy clouds
sailing in a deep blue sky; the cheerful cackling of the hens
scratching in the yard; or the saucy glance of a milkmaid, foaming
pails a'swing from the yoke across her dimpled shoulders. He came to a
halt and stood stubbing one splendidly shod toe at the dust, lost in
thought.

Bolster's words of yesterday kept coming to mind… "Your
Papa—very fine gentleman… Wouldn't have done it." Jerry was right, for
it made no sense. But what made even less sense was the motive. Behind
every cheating hand at a game of chance was the lure of money. Yet,
having won a rich prize, Sanguinet had made no least attempt to claim
his spoils and had allowed a year and a half to drift by, having
apparently not even bothered to view the property he now owned. Such
generosity was unheard of! The uneasy suspicion dawned on Redmond that
he might well be faced by a gentleman so kind as to have deliberately
held back from causing him more grief. It would be a trifle difficult
to blow his head off were that the—

A rapid tattoo of hooves broke through his reverie. An ostler
was attempting to hold Lace, but she had glimpsed her beloved master
and was frisking about with much flirting of ears and rolling of eyes.
"Lace!" called Harry. "Quiet, girl!" At once she was motionless.
Grinning, the ostler looped the reins over the pommel and stood with
arms folded, watching. For a minute they stood like so many statues,
then Harry whistled sharp and clear. The mare tossed her head, galloped
to him, and circled daintily to stand behind him, her velvety muzzle
whuffling at his left ear. Laughing, he swung into the saddle, then
leaned forward to stroke the glossy arched neck.

Applause surprised him. Three carriages had slowed in the lane
to watch the little byplay. Handkerchiefs waved from the windows and
several pretty faces smiled upon them. Harry bowed theatrically,
doffing his hat and urging the well-trained mare into an equine bow
that won more clapping. Straightening, he froze, his attention riveted
upon one window and the vision who leaned from the shadowed interior to
smile upon him. He viewed the face of an angel. The fur-lined hood of
her pelisse draped softly over hair as pale as morning sunlight, the
gleaming tendrils curling about delicate features and an exquisitely
fair and clear complexion. Her nose was small, shapely, and only very
slightly uptilting; her mouth a rosebud above a dimpled little chin.
The sweetly proportioned forehead was adorned by finely arched brows,
subtly darkened, and the eyes—never had there been such eyes… large and
blue as cornflowers in that bewitching face. She said something, and
although he was too stunned to distinguish the words, he knew that her
voice was sweet and pure as the notes of a nightingale. And then a soft
pink flooded those dewy cheeks, her lashes swept down shyly, she drew
back and was lost in the shadows as the coach pulled away.

For a moment Harry was too stunned to move. Recovering his
wits, he attempted to follow, only to be thwarted by the arrival of a
noisy group of young Bucks. They had been a nuisance during the night,
and now crowded around Lace, their drunken and loud-voiced admiration
hampering his efforts to escape. When at last he was able to elude
them, he turned the mare onto the lane and galloped in pursuit of the
carriages. It was a good three miles before he came up with them, but
at last they were ahead. As he drew closer, the coachman looked around
with obvious apprehension, then grinned and slowed a trifle, and Harry
waved his gratitude. He came up with the window, hat in hand and eyes
eager. Inside, he could see smiling young ladies and. closest to the
window, the object of his admiration, turned slightly away, her hood
concealing her features.

"Ma'am…" called Harry brazenly, "may a gentleman offer a gift
to a lady whose name he does not know… ?"

The concealing hood was turned shyly towards him, but still he
could not see her face. The other girls, far from appearing shocked by
this outrageous impudence, seemed vastly amused and, encouraged, he
beseeched, "Have pity, fair one… your name—I beg… See—I bring you
something lovely…" He tossed the large pink rose he had gathered (at
the expense of a thorn in his thumb), through the window, "… though it
hasn't an iota of your loveliness." She took up the rose—he saw her
little hand reach for it, and urged Lace closer in an attempt to see
her countenance. "My Fair—forgive me, but… I…" He faltered into
silence. She looked up at last and thus revealed far different features
than those he so longed to see. A small face, with wisps of dark hair
straggling untidily about it; eyes hopelessy crossed; and a mouth that
hung open in a lunatic lack of comprehension as she gazed dully at him.
The shock was a near physical thing, like a blow to the midriff. He
knew his jaw had dropped; he knew those wretched girls were all but
hysterical, With a tremendous effort he recovered himself. He must not
allow his revulsion to become apparent. By her plain round gown of
coarse dark blue stuff, he guessed her to be an abigail. Poor
creature—how cruel of them to serve her so! He waved his hat and said
merrily, "Alas—that you show no mercy to a poor swain! Ride safely, my
Fair!" and slowing Lace's smooth canter, tried not to hear the squeals
of mirth that came from the rapidly departing carriage.

Staring after them, his smile vanished, leaving his pleasant
face rather grim. Those girls should be spanked! But—perhaps it was as
well, for what was the use of pursuing that golden vision? He was
possessed of neither fortune nor expectations. He was, in fact, the
kind of man hopeful mamas would dub a fortune hunter and instruct their
daughters to avoid like the plague! That peerless little beauty was
undoubtedly en route to Town—perhaps to be presented at the next
Drawing Room. The lateness of the Season would be no deterrent to such
as she, and many a lucky Corinthian and Buck would worship at her
shrine before she'd been in London a week. He turned Lace back towards
the "Silk Purse," smiling wistfully at the thought of the consternation
the lady's arrival must cause among Almack's debutantes. How he'd love
to see it…

The wind came up while they were still in the coffee room, and
by the time they were journeying up the last hill, Bolster was very
depressed. He was fond of Moire Grange, his memories of the old place
going back as far as memory served him. Harry seemed to be taking it
well enough, but aware that his feelings must be harrowing at this
moment, Bolster glanced at his friend uneasily.

Harry drew rein at the top of the hill and sat perfectly
still. Why did one never really appreciate anything until it was lost?
He let his eyes travel slowly along the winding path of the river, past
the lodge gates, through the pleasant park, and around the foot of the
low rise whereon stood the house itself. Even on this grey morning the
spreading half-timbered old building looked warm and welcoming, with
smoke drifting from several chimneys. The wind stirred the trees and
riffled the surface of the river, and the ducks and mudhens darted
busily about. The flower beds were bright with daffodil and hyacinth;
the shrubs ablaze with yellow, pink, and white. His gaze lingered on
the enormous and venerable oak shading the library and Mitchell's room,
from whose branches so many impromptu swings had swung. How many tree
houses it had supported… how many Redmonds had it seen come and go…

Bolster asked mildly, "Ain't that old Joseph?"

Harry blinked, and his jaw hardened. The butler's head was
white now, but he was not too frail to put up a good struggle against
the stocky man who sought to thrust him down the hill. Even as they
watched, Joseph staggered and fell, and the other man tossed a valise
after him, made a show of dusting off his hands, and started back
toward the house.

"Jeremy," said Redmond. "D'you recall that fat damn Spaniard
in Cadiz?"

"Yoicks!" cried Bolster joyfully.

Side by side, they thundered down the hill. In a blaze of
speed the bay mare and the grey gelding raced up the rise and were upon
the stocky man even as he turned a startled face to them. Two splendid
horsemen leaned down. Two strong hands grasped.

'"Ey!" howled the stocky one, legs thrashing at the air.

"Put that man down!" bellowed an infuriated voice from the
front door.

They obliged at once, and their burden soared, screeching,
from their mutually relinquished hold, to splash into the river. Two
laughing young faces turned to one another; two hats were doffed; two
heads, one golden, one dark, bowed low.

"Wot the 'ell d'ye think you're blasted well a'doing of?"
roared the individual in the doorway.

Harry dismounted and led Lace toward his butler, who had
scrambled to his feet.

"Sir Harry…" gasped Joseph, eyes glistening suspiciously. "I
am so very glad… to…" He broke off as Redmond's hand went out and,
gripping it firmly, could not continue.

"I know, old friend," said Harry gently. "It don't look too
bright just now. But you must not—"

"I said," yowled that irate voice, now almost upon them. "Wot
the 'ell—"

"Be quiet!" frowned Lord Bolster. "Sir Harry is talking to his
butler. Are you blind, fellow?"

"
Fellow
? 'Ere! 'Oo you callin' of a
fellow?"

Harry turned, smiling faintly. A large individual wearing a
much-too-tight jacket and a waistcoat that could not begin to cover his
ample paunch regarded him balefully. "Bolster," he said curiously,
"What d'ye suppose it is?"

The heavy features darkened, but into that small mind had
crept a familiar name, and from crouching slightly as he made toward
Harry he checked, straightened, and said a cautious, "Bolster… ?"

"It knows me!" cried Bolster, ecstatic. "I am f-famous, Harry!"

"I s'pose as you're Lord Bolster. In which case,
you
must be Sir 'Arry Redmond, wot useter own this old ruinated—"

"I have neither the desire nor the time to further our
acquaintance." Harry's voice dripped ice. "Remove yourself and that
person." He gestured toward the river bank up which the stocky man
crawled with much spluttering.

"Can't do that, sir. Josiah Plum—Mr. Sanguinet's bailiff, I
is. Come ter clean out the old broken down—"

A distant scream rose on the chill air. Harry returned to the
saddle with a running leap that brought admiration to Mr. Plum and
alarm to Bolster, who had just dismounted. Lace was whirled about and
Harry was off at the gallop, Bolster rather tardily following.

A wagon was pulled up on the lane before Mrs. Norah Bacon's
cottage, and two men were filling it with trunks, boxes, and articles
of furniture while exhibiting a marked lack of either interest or care.
They paused, looking up as the pretty bay mare flashed towards them
across the velvet turf. "Cor…" breathed one. "Lookit him go!"

Harry continued to go, setting Lace at the picket fence
without an instant's hesitation, effecting a sliding dismount while the
mare yet ran, and leaping with hardly a check into the front hall of
the pleasant old cottage.

A tiny woman, clad in a gown of black bombazine with a torn
but snowy collar, her white lace cap sadly askew, her silver hair
tumbling, clung defiantly to one sturdy beam from which a tall man
attempted to dislodge her. Another shriek rent the air, cut off
abruptly as Harry, the capes of his coat flying, exploded into the
room, launched a right that sent her attacker soaring backwards, and
had her in his arms in a whisper of time. "Norrie, dear," he began
tenderly.

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder. He was wrenched around and
staggered by a left to the jaw. Shaking his head, savage with delight
at this opportunity to vent some of his frustrations, he plunged at the
two who awaited him confidently. A few moments later, confidence gone,
the second man, sprawled and groaning, was so unwise as to raise his
head. Mrs. Bacon applied her frying pan to it with gusto, then,
surveying the bent handle, murmured, "I never dreamed that wretched pan
would be useful. The bottom was warped y'see, my dear Mister—er—Sir
Harry. And…" Her lip began to tremble. She put down the pan, walked
into his arms, and wept.

Lord Bolster rushed into the hall, surveyed the mayhem,
scanned his somewhat battered friend, then went outside, closed the
door and, leaning against the wall, folded his arms and waited.

Moments later a howl interrupted Harry's explanations to his
nurse. He opened the front door hurriedly. His own travelling chaise
stood behind the wagon. A new arrival was staggering about, bent double
and clutching his middle. Bolster, pale with fury, strove mightily
against two men who held his arms. Mr. Plum, reaching for the door
handle, jumped back, threw up his hands, and leered, "No trouble, Sir
Redmond. We don't want no trouble!"