Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (2 page)

And so it was that, uttering a final stern admonishment that
Miss Charity not talk to no strangers, Best took up Nosey's reins and
started down the hill. "I'll be back in an hour," he called over his
shoulder. "Or less, like as not."

Charity waved and rode on. If she knew Best, he would be back
just as quickly as he could, and fond as she was of the groom, the
opportunity to sketch without benefit of his critical and vocal
appraisal of her efforts was enticing. She slipped from the saddle when
she came to the brow of the hill, and tied the reins to a low-hanging
branch in a copse of birch trees so that the mare might graze
comfortably. The light was as good as she had hoped, and it was the
work of a moment to spread the blanket on the damp turf and settle down
with her sketchbook and colouring case.

With deft, rapid strokes, she sketched in the outlines of
Strand Hall, the soar of its neoclassical columns, the deep welcoming
terrace where Brutus was probably outstretched and snoozing at this
very minute. She smiled, pleased with these first efforts. A long way
off small bells were jingling erratically, a puzzling sound that was
relegated to the back of her mind as she roughed in the pleasure
gardens.

It was easier to draw the Hall than to get Silverings onto
paper. During the three months she had just spent there with Justin and
Lisette, she had tried several times, without success, to capture the
house bathed in the dancing light from the river that had given the
estate its name. Her thoughts dwelt fondly on her brother. Dear Justin,
so happily settled at last, so adoring his beautiful bride. Sometimes,
when he did not guess he was being watched, she had caught him looking
at Lisette with an awed wonderment in his eyes, as though even now he
could not quite believe the depth of happiness that had been granted
him.

"Perhaps," thought Charity, "I
do
have a
chance to find love. Perhaps the day will dawn when a gentleman looks
so at me…" And at once she felt guilty even to wish for such a blessing
when she had been given so very much. Two short years ago, her one
prayer had been that the pain would stop. Now she was not only free
from suffering, but she could walk and ride and lead a normal life
(even though her dancing left much to be desired!). To ask the good
Lord for more was pure greed.

The little bells rang louder and, intruding thus into her
awareness, caused her brow to pucker. Bells? On a Thursday morning? And
they had been chiming with that odd lack of rhythm since just a little
while after she'd sat down. Curious, she set aside pad and pencils and
stood.

Her scan of the surrounding countryside revealed no logical
source of the sound, but it could be coming from the northern side of
the hill. She walked up through the stand of trees and, coming out into
the sunshine, halted, appalled by the scene before her.

A man, his shirt most gruesomely stained and his attitude one
of mortal fear, lay on the ground at the foot of the hill, one arm
thrown up in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the blade that
menaced him. The individual who held that glittering sword, far from
showing any pity, stepped even closer, until the point of the blade cut
into his victim's throat.

Paralyzed with shock, Charity heard a soft, gloating laugh. A
cultured voice observed with cold inflexibility, "Very well, then. This
world is overburdened with your kind!"

The sword was drawn back, the hand holding it now aiming in
such a way as to make his murderous intent very clear. The wounded man
gave a shriek and began to babble frantically, but his words were
drowned by the scream that burst from Charity's throat. Running
pell-mell, she called, "Do not! Oh, you
must
not
murder the poor soul!"

"Damn and blast!" The swordsman spun to face her.

Still running, Charity beheld a slim gentleman whose
expression fairly hurled wrath. He was much younger than she had at
first supposed. Even in that taut moment, a portion of her brain
registered the fact that he was excessively handsome, his hair thick
and dark, his nose high-bridged and Roman, his features of an aquiline
cast, and his chin firm. The mouth, however, she judged cruel, with
thin lips compressed into a tight, angry line, while the eyes—Oh,
heavens! Had she ever before seen eyes of such an icy grey?

His voice a snarl of rage, he demanded, ''What in the devil
are you doing here, madam?"

The question was as arrogant as it was stupid. Ignoring it,
she stood before him and panted, "You
must not
!
It would be cold-blooded murder!''

A twisted smile curved his mouth unpleasantly. He sneered,
"Much you know of it. My gift to England, rather.''

"Oh! How can you be so wickedly unfeeling?" And noting from
the corner of her eye that the wounded man had managed to stand and was
tottering away, she said, "Have you never heard of good sportsmanship,
sir?"

"My God! A missionary!" The grey eyes, glinting scorn,
flickered in the direction of the hilltop. "Where's your keeper, ma'am?
You are surely not allowed to run loose?"

He was as brutal and ill-mannered, Charity decided, as he was
good to look upon. She said haughtily, "One might expect a gentleman to
apologize for swearing at a lady, rather than to rail at her.''

"And one might expect a
lady
to be
accompanied by a maid or a footman, rather than prancing like any
hoyden into affairs that don't con—" He had turned about as he spoke
and, discovering that his intended victim was making good his escape,
uttered a cry of rage and started off in pursuit.

With a cry of her own, Charity sprang to throw her arms about
him. "No! You shall not!" she cried, heroically clinging to him.

She discovered her mistake at once, even if she did not repent
it, for despite his slender build, he was all steel. Her determined
clasp was broken in an instant and so violently that she fell headlong.
The Villain was stamping off after his prey; he wasn't running, as she
would have expected, but that he fairly slavered for the kill she did
not doubt. Starting to get to her feet, Charity saw that the wounded
man had reached a cluster of trees, but even if his horse was tethered
there, he could not hope to get very far, and when his merciless
opponent came up with him, would have no chance to defend himself. Nor
could she hope to prevail upon such ferocity, unless… She lay back and
uttered a sobbing wail. Somewhat to her surprise, the Villain slowed
and turned to scowl irresolutely at her. She moaned loudly. He
hesitated, glaring after his departing victim, for all the world, or so
thought Charity, like a wild beast deprived of its prey. The simile
pleased her highly developed sense of the dramatic, but a moment later
as he strode reluctantly towards her, she experienced a pang of fear.
For only then did it occur to her that she was alone, far from help,
with a man who would not balk at murder.

Coming up with her, he said grittily, "I suspect you mean to
enact me a proper Cheltenham tragedy, no? What is broke ma'am? Your
neck… at the very least?"

Oddly enough, those scathing words eased her anxieties. She
lifted one drooping hand. "I will trouble you only to help me rise, if
you please." And with a saintliness that would have astounded those who
knew her, she murmured, ''I have been rather ill, you see."

He snorted derisively, but his hand went out and gripped hers.
She was surprised to find it cold as ice, and shot a searching glance
at him. He was very pale, which was fashionable, of course, and
probably merely indicated a life of debauchery.

His strong tug having restored her to her feet, he sneered,
''I collect it must be a forlorn hope to enquire if you've someone to
escort you home, ma'am?"

Home? She had no intention of going home. She'd scarcely begun
her painting. He wanted to be rid of her purely so as to hunt down and
slaughter his wounded adversary. Bloodthirsty wretch! Charity had
always felt a deep contempt for dueling, but she was well aware that in
spite of the efforts of the Bow Street Runners and other minions of the
law, the practice continued. She knew also that it was governed by a
rigid Code of Honour. It was scarcely to be credited that a man so
obviously well bred as this one should ignore every precept of that
Code, but credit it she must. To divert him from his savagery would,
she decided, be well worth the sacrifice of a morning's sketching.
Therefore, she abandoned the pithy indictment of his manners and morals
that she had been about to dispense and instead said in a die-away
voice that her groom's horse had gone lame and he was walking the
animal home.

"The fellow should have his wits refurbished for leaving a
lady alone out here," growled the duellist. "Have you a horse nearby,
ma'am?"

She acknowledged, quaveringly, that she had, and that it was
tethered at the top of the hill.

He grunted and, putting fingers to mouth, whistled shrilly. A
horse neighed. Charity heard fast approaching hoofbeats and from around
the curve of the hill came a magnificent black mare, galloping with a
smooth, effortless stride that was a delight to behold. For a moment it
seemed that she would trample them, but at the last instant she plunged
to a halt and stood sidling and snorting beside her master. She nuzzled
at him fondly, but then flung up her pretty head and danced away, eyes
rolling.

"It's all right, Whisp," he said in a voice that surprised
Charity. ''Come now, quiet down.'' His tone becoming acid again, he
asked, "Are you able to mount, ma'am? She's a trifle frisky, but—"

"Thank you. That will not be necessary. I am quite able to
walk to my horse."

He shrugged, and instead of walking beside her as any
gentleman would have done, thrust one foot into the stirrup. His
decidedly stiff swing into the saddle was so at odds with the splendid
mare that Charity again appraised him narrowly. He was white as death
and when he lifted the reins she saw blood on his wrist. "Good
heavens," she exclaimed, "you're hurt, Mr., er…"

"Pray do not weep, Miss, er…" he said harshly. "And my name is
Mitchell—" He broke off, his jaw setting and his right hand gripping
hard at the pommel.

Incensed, she cried, "Of all the nonsensical starts! Get down
at once, Mr. Mitchell, so that I may—"

'' I shall do no such thing. And if you do not hasten, ma'am,
I shall leave you to your probably gruesome fate. I've… I've much to…
do."

The words were as obnoxious as ever, but his voice had wavered
and was less distinct. Running to keep up with the mare, Charity
declared indignantly, "Never in all my life have I encountered so
idiotic a creature! For heaven's sake, sir, would you prefer to bleed
to death rather than suffer me to—"

"Oh, infinitely, ma'am."

Dumbfounded, she halted to stare up at him. The mare cavorted
and danced. Her rider swayed easily and instinctively, winced, and
again grabbed hard at the pommel.

"Mr. Mitchell," said Charity, torn between anxiety and
exasperation, "if you will not allow me to help you, pray leave me and
ride to the nearest inn. There is a delightful one a mile or so to the
west, and—"

"And I shall repair to it, just as soon as I've seen you
safely home."

She tightened her lips and threw an irked glance at the
heavens. The man was all about in his head. But despite his stubborn
stupidity he really did look very ill, wherefore she picked up her
skirts and ran the rest of the way. She did not attempt to gather her
belongings, hurrying instead to her horse. As she reached for the reins
she glanced around and was just in time to see Mr. Mitchell topple from
the saddle and lie in a motionless heap beside his Arabian.

With a groan, Charity ran to snatch up the small bottle of
water she carried for her paints, then fairly flew back to the fallen
man.

He lay on his right side and she sank to her knees beside him,
opened his coat, and searched for the telltale signs of a wound. There
were none. She took up his left wrist. The crimson streaks had crept
down to his fingertips but the coat sleeve revealed no tear. Baffled,
she pushed him over onto his stomach, finding it to be more of a task
than she'd anticipated.

"Good God!" she gasped.

The back of his coat was slashed and wet with blood. She
stared numbly for an instant, thinking, "In the back…? Was he running
away then?"

Recovering, she attempted to tear the jacket, but the cloth
might have been made of iron, and she carried no scissors with her
artistic supplies. The garment was very well tailored and fit snugly
across his shoulders; to remove it by conventional methods would
require quite some time and possibly more strength than she possessed.
At this point, she remembered the duel. His sword had been restored to
its scabbard and was a trifle difficult to come at, but eventually she
succeeded in retrieving it. She held it gingerly. It had not looked
nearly so enormous when Mr. Mitchell had held it. Now, it seemed
prodigiously heavy, and the horrid thing was razor sharp. It was
necessary that she proceed with great care lest she add to his woes by
impaling him, but somehow, in struggling to rend the back of that once
excellent jacket, she dropped the weapon and, grabbing for it,
inflicted another long slash in the back of the unconcious man's
pantaloons.

Two years ago, when poor Alain Devenish had been so brutally
hurt in Dinan, she had done what little she could to help her sister
nurse him and had frequently held the bowl while Rachel applied hot
compresses to the wound in his thigh. That had seemed quite convenable.
For some odd reason, the slash in Mr. Mitchell's britches and the
glimpse of the smooth flesh beneath did not seem at all convenable. Her
cheeks burned and, laying the sword aside, she tried with the
foolishness of panic to pull the severed edges of the fabric back
together.