Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (8 page)

Harry gave a gasp of dismay.
Convent
?
She really did sound like a well-bred chit. The cultured accents could
be imitated, of course, but if she
was
a lady of
Quality, he'd be in a fine pickle. And so would she! The deliciousness
of the situation brought a curve to his humourous mouth. Not
relinquishing his grip, he said, "Very well. I will let you go—if you
will at least leave me with a kiss."

There was silence. Then a small hand fluttered to his lips.

"No, by God! Your mouth, ma'am!"

"But…" She sounded forlorn. "No one but my relations… has ever
kissed my… lips… "

"Even so, you must admit I am being most generous," Harry
insisted. "I have every right to demand that you—"

"Yes, yes. Very well…"

He bent toward where he imagined her mouth to be. As if she
had forced herself to a sudden surrender, she swung up her head. The
kiss became a violent collision, evoking a gasp and a sobbed, "You
horrid
monster. You bit me!"

"I never did! If you want to know it, you near knocked out my
front teeth!"

She was making small distressed sounds, and he said, "We'd
best have the candles. I promise to keep covered, and—"

"Please—
no
! I have done as you asked.
Now, if you are a gentleman you will turn your face to the other side
and remain so until I am gone."

Harry grumbled and fussed, but did as she requested. When the
parlour door closed softly a moment later, he was smiling into the
darkness. His nocturnal visitor had been a choice armful, and one he'd
every intention of meeting again. Understandably, she had been
desperate to keep her identity a secret. Nonetheless, in the morning
that secret must be revealed. If she left the boardinghouse he could
easily discover her name from one of the servants. If she remained, he
had only to find a damaged mouth and he would have her!

Mrs. Burnett had said breakfast was served until nine o'clock.
Promptly at eight, bathed, shaved with the razor he'd bespoken from the
waiter, neatly dressed, and with his dark hair brushed into a careless
style he knew became him, Harry strolled downstairs. Whoever had
laundered and pressed his clothes had known what they were about; the
shine on his topboots might horrify Andy but was adequate, and he felt
himself to be fairly presentable.

The coffee room was already well occupied. Mostly, he noticed,
by young ladies. He paused atop the two steps that led down into the
room, scanning the guests eagerly. His heart missed a beat Three ladies
were seated at a table beside the far windows. It was ridiculous, of
course—the coincidence too far-fetched. Yet he had learned long since
that life has many coincidences, some so incredible as to be beyond
belief. The golden curls of one head were the colour of winter
sunshine; the slender back indicated youth. Breath held in check, he
watched her, and as though she sensed his presence, she turned slowly
to face him. Could it be—it
was
! The golden
little beauty who had hovered in his thoughts from the moment he'd seen
her in the carriage yesterday morning! The great cornflower blue eyes
held a measure of reproach, but dimples peeped about that rosebud mouth.

And at the very centre of her upper lip was placed a small
patch!

Scarcely aware that he moved, Harry stepped towards her.
Another young lady sat at the table, a dark girl wearing a plain round
gown and with her hair pulled unattractively into a tight bun atop her
head. She turned to look at him and, even as he stared, her big eyes
crossed and an expression of vacuous stupidity settled onto her face.
The poor half-wit! Stunned, he blinked at her.

And upon her upper lip was placed a small patch!

Baffled, he stood there, and one by one the other ladies
turned fully to confront him. Many an eye held a roguish light, and
many a smile was kind because he was young and good to look at, and so
totally bewildered.

But upon each and every pretty mouth was a small patch!

A slow grin spread over Harry's face. "Gammoned, by God!" he
murmured.

The third lady seated at his Beauty's table was very fat and
rather elderly, and she wore the sober black habit of a nun. She stood
and started towards him. He drew back uneasily, then gawked at her.

In the centre of her upper lip was placed a small patch!

Shrieks of feminine laughter rang out.

The nun folded her hands and shook her head in gentle reproof.

Shattered, Harry flushed to the roots of his hair and fled,
their mirth following him.

His precipitous flight ended in an encounter with two friends
he'd not seen since the Battle of Ciudad Rodrigo. They were decidedly
bosky, having obviously been celebrating all night, and alerted by Mrs.
Burnett's ominously jutting chin, he hurriedly conveyed them up to
their suite, settled them comfortably, and finally overcoming their
tearful pleas that he not turn his back on 'ol' comrades 'n arms,' ran
downstairs. His fears that he'd been gone too long proved justified.
The nun and all her young ladies had departed. Mrs. Burnett allowed him
to peruse the guest register, but he learned only that Suites 3 and 4,
and Rooms 6, 7, and 10 had been assigned to Sister Maria Evangeline and
"Eight Young Ladies". He raced back to his room and, staying only to
shrug into his riding coat, clap his beaver at its customary jaunty
angle upon his head, and snatch up his gloves and whip, hurried
downstairs, paid his shot, and repaired to the stables. To have found
his Golden Goddess twice must surely be an indication that Fate had
ordained them to meet. And if he dared not presume to enter the ranks
of her suitors, he could at least discover her name and direction.
Someday, perhaps, when Fate had allowed him to improve his lot he would
seek her out, lay his heart at those dainty feet, and hopefully find
her not indifferent to him.

Unhappily, the stableboy could not quite recall whether the
nun's carriages had headed north or west. He was quite sure, however,
that they had not journeyed to the east, and in desperation Harry
turned Lace northward, banking on the likelihood that the good Sister
had been conveying her charges to the City. He rode as far as Sevenoaks
with no sign of the carriages he sought, nor did his enquiries prove
fruitful. Ostlers, innkeepers, and sundry pedestrians could, and all
too often did, provide him with a list of equipages and travellers they
had
seen pass their way, but a nun and eight young
ladies had not been among them. The afternoon was far spent when Harry
at last found a groom who recalled seeing three such carriages heading
towards Reigate not an hour since. Harry turned westward at once but
three hours later, in a gathering dusk, was forced to admit defeat. He
had found his little perfection only to lose her again. As well,
perhaps, for she'd likely make a brilliant match long before he could
approach her. He sighed, reined Lace around, and headed to the east
once more, his heart heavy.

The skies were clear that night, the moon high. He procured a
satisfactory but dull meal in a small hedge tavern and, when he was
assured that Lace was rested, resumed his journey. At ten o'clock he
followed the deserted highway to the crest of a sprawling rise. The
moon gilded a distant pond to silver and painted the winding road ahead
so that it shone like a white ribbon. The wind was busily rattling the
branches of trees and bushes, and far off he could hear the notes of a
fiddle, expertly played, rising from some snug farmhouse or cottage.
His keen eyes searched the dimpled hollows of valleys, the soft sweep
of hills, and the denser darkness that was woodland, but discovered no
sign of a great house. The tavern owner had directed him to this road
and said Sanguinet Towers was just beyond the Lowland Woods. To be
sure, a dense stand of trees bisected the road below, but there was no
mansion visible, unless… Beside a nearby hill the black and slender arm
of a chimney rose against the sky. A gatehouse, perhaps. He started
Lace down the road.

It was a lonely spot, especially at night, and Harry first
tightened his grip on the pistol then, driven by an odd unease, drew it
from his pocket. He was almost to the trees when he heard the faintest
breath of a sound he'd heard before: the closed-teeth whistling an
ostler emits while currying a horse. Too late he jerked the pistol
upward. The last thing he saw was a flash that split the night and
scattered it into countless whirling fragments…

The dark rider moved slowly from the shadows, calling to the
mare so as to calm her. Dismounting, he took up her reins, tied them to
a branch, and then bent over the crumpled form of his victim. Harry lay
face down, and the man turned him with one rough boot, his pistol at
the ready. There was no attempt at reprisal, however, the slim body
limp and unresisting. The white face was darkly blotched and stained,
the ominous streaks spreading even as he watched. Curious, the man bent
closer. "I'll be gormed!" he exclaimed "
So you're
Redmond! I'd've said 'ello, me fine flash cove, if I'd knowed we was
acquainted, like. Oh well—too late now since I've gone and blowed yer
brains out! Let's see whatcher got fer old Dice…"

He dropped to his knees, his practiced hands swift and sure.
Watch and cravat pin were soon removed. The lack of rings or fobs was
disappointing, but the cardcase sported a fine ruby in the crest, and
the purse drew a gratified "Aha!" from the big man. The many-caped
riding coat was next to go; then Dice stood and, having deposited his
loot in the saddlebags and slung the coat across the horse's withers,
he pulled Harry's lax form to his shoulder, then slung him face down
across the roan's saddle. Crossing to Lace, he stroked her, talking
gently and admiringly for a minute or two before he ventured to mount
up. He rode on for a short distance, leading the roan, keeping to the
shadow of the trees until he came to a deep cut full of bracken and
fern that fell away to his right. He leant over, shoved Harry from the
saddle, and watched him tumble down the steep bank until he vanished
from sight.

Considerably richer, Devil Dice rode away whistling merrily,
well pleased with his night's work.

Harry's first impression was that he lay in the mouldering
Spanish farmhouse. It seemed to him, lost in the swirling mists of
half-consciousness, that he heard the man and woman wrangling over him,
trying to decide how much he would be worth to the British and whether
it would justify the exertion of riding to Ciudad Rodrigo and notifying
his regiment that he still lived. And for what must be the thousandth
weary time he pleaded, "
Digale a ellos que estoy aqui… Le
suplico! Digale a ellos… que estoy aqui
…"

"It's all right, matey," mumbled a deep and very English
voice. "We
knows
you're here."

Peering up eagerly, Harry made two discoveries: firstly, that
the sharp edge of pain was this time in his head; and secondly, that a
blurred round glow hung over him. He blinked, and the glow began to
resolve into the thin face of a man with drowsy, heavy-lidded eyes
deepset under extremely bushy brows. Untidy brown hair curled thickly
under a battered old straw hat. The chin was an unyielding jut, belied
by the kindly gaze that was fixed upon him.

Glancing to the side, the man said in that lazy drawl, "Here
we go again, Mr. Fox. That's what y'get, y'see? Fish a cove outta the
River Styx, as y'might say, and what's he do? Jaws your ear off all
night—and foreign jaw into the bargain! Now, does I look like a
Spanisher, old friend? I asks yer! It's enough t'try the patience of a
honest man what likes his privacy and as little jaw as maybe!"

Harry had been looking about him while he listened to this
monologue. It was night still, and he lay in a clearing in the woods. A
fire leapt and crackled merrily nearby and above it a large iron pot
hung from a trivet, giving off a fragrant aroma. To one side was a
tent, crammed with all manner of articles, among which he discerned
books, shovels, coils of rope, a ship's wheel, a violin case, numerous
cooking implements, several large bottles, blankets, a ladder, and what
looked to be one end of a rowing oar. A small donkey grazed beside the
tent and a cart, poles up, was close at hand.

His companion was talking again. "What y'reckon he's going to
dream up this time? Are we going to get Spanish again, or will he be
calling me his Golden Goddess? Cor, luvvus! Wouldn't I look fetching
wrapped up in yards o' stuff like them Greek ladies! Diccon the dryad!
Cor!"

His search for another man having failed, Harry's gaze shot
back to this 'Diccon'. He was probably about five-and-thirty, and his
clothes, although much worn, were neat and clean. But he was one of the
most cadaverous individuals Harry had ever beheld, and the prospect of
that tall figure clad in a Grecian gown so amused him that, being quite
light-headed, he broke into an involuntary laugh, choked on a groan,
and clapped one hand to his brow.

"Rejoice, Fox," quoth the long man. "He is restored!"

"Not… appreciably," gasped Harry. "What the devil… happened?
Did Lace throw me?"

No answer being vouchsafed he looked up to find that gaunt
face only inches away, a calculating light in the pale blue eyes. There
was no doubt but that they were quite alone, and the unhappy suspicion
dawned upon Harry that not only was he completely knocked out of time,
but that his rescuer was a raving lunatic. It might well, he thought,
become necessary for him to defend himself, which at the moment would
be difficult. His knees felt weak; his head, in addition to throbbing
brutally, was full of cobwebs; and he could not seem to remember
anything with much clarity. He was in great trouble, but—what it was…

The voice was rumbling on. "I am called Diccon, sir. And you'd
likely feel better if you was to take a bite o'my stew. Can you sit up
and tell me your name? I couldn't find no cardcase, nor nothing."