Feather Castles (37 page)

Leith shook his dizzied head. He must get to Woodford with his orders, or—

A hand tugged at his shoulder. “Colonel?” said an insistent voice. “Are you—? Oh, my God! Not—not poor little Quincy? Then—they're all gone! Winters, and Bailey, and— Sir! You're hurt!”

“Nothing vital.”

“But—you're all blood!”

“No—am I?” Tristram peered downward and found his blue jacket hideously blotched and stained. “By Jove, so I am. Well, it's not mine. At least, not much of it. Here,” he thrust Quincy's papers at Lieutenant Jonathan Rayburne, and managed to stand, only to reel uncertainly. He drew a hand across his eyes. “I'm a trifle winded, I'm afraid. Get this to Colborne, like a good chap, will you? But—first, help me find another trooper. I've orders for Woodford, or I'd—”

The lieutenant recoiled, his youthful face strained and terrified. “I'm for Brussels, whilst I can! We all shall die here, Leith. There's no hope now, and I'll not—”

“Don't be a fool! You're tired, is all. Old Nosey will not let us down! Now—off with you, man.”

Rayburne edged back, his dilating eyes riveted to the tattered figure of the tall staff officer.

“Not that way, you fool!” Tristram staggered forward and caught his arm. “You'll
not
desert, damn you! How do you think your father would feel, to know you'd turned yellow? Buck up, Jon! Now, go—”

Rayburne began to fight him frenziedly, raining blows at his head, and shrieking, “You mean to murder me is what it is! Leith! Let me go! For Lord's sake—do not murder me! Please—do not murder me!” He ran off, wildly.

A shell screamed through that carnage, and Tristram knew it would be very close. His last awareness was of the sudden and complete absence of all sound …

He opened his eyes. His head felt as though the shell had split his skull open, the pain so intense he was half blinded by it. Gradually, he realized that he was not as cold as he'd expected to be; nor could he smell the smoke and powder, or hear the cries and groans of the wounded. Was he deafened, perhaps? But that could not be, for he could hear talk close by. A soft, persuasive male voice, and a girl, her words angry but holding a note of fear. He tried vainly to distinguish her, then drew a sleeve across his eyes and comprehended that his own blood had blinded him. Now, he could see more clearly, and was puzzled to find that he lay on a sofa in a room, vaguely familiar, and decorated with ancient weapons and tapestries.

“… have held true to my part of our bargain,” the man was asserting in an injured tone. “No one can say I've not. You have had all that money could buy, Rachel.”

The name snatched Tristram's breath away. He struggled onto one elbow and saw Claude Sanguinet gripping the arms of a girl with a pale, beautiful face and terrified blue eyes, but her chin proudly uptilted, withal.

Memory returned in a rush. He was Tristram Leith! He had a fond and noble father, a lovely sister, many friends and relations, and was heir to a great fortune and several estates, most beloved of which was Cloudhills in Berkshire. And he was not guilty of murdering anyone—thank God! But outweighing all these things in importance was the girl who said scornfully, “I have been hoodwinked from the start! Your rascally surgeon helped Charity once, I grant you. But has since ensured that she remain an invalid—has deliberately drugged her into illness so that I was made to think her only hope was for constant medical care. So I would be coerced into wedding you!” Her eyes flashed and she uttered a contemptuous, “Despicable!”

“Naughty puss!” Sanguinet released her so roughly that she staggered against Gerard, who immediately seized and held her. “How did you learn this? From that drunken sot, Ulrich? Oh, you had much better tell me now, my love. Also, I shall require to know why this British officer is here, how he came by the key to the second floor, and where he learned of my screens.” He moved a step closer to the slender girl. “I do dislike the thought of hurting you, my betrothed, but—”

Tristram swung his feet down from the sofa and sat up. “Sanguinet!”

From behind, someone grabbed him by the hair and his head was jerked back agonizingly. Dimly, he knew that Sanguinet had crossed to stand before him.

“Well, well. Our soldier has awoken. Gently, Shotten! Your hand is too heavy. Only look at how you've delayed me.” The kindly face smiled gently on the man whose dark eyes met his own with fierce defiance despite the blood that streaked the scarred features. Sanguinet went on expansively, “Now that you are awake,
mon Capitaine…
”

“Fully. My name is Leith. Tristram Leith. And if you want my advice, Sanguinet—”

“Do I? I think not. However, I will own you have surprised me. So you're Kingston Leith's heir, are you? But how very obliging. Everyone imagines you dead, which simplifies matters. Now, what I
do
want from you, my dear fellow, is information.” Claude's gaze slanted to Shotten, who again tugged Leith's thick hair savagely, causing Rachel to gasp, and the captive's eyes to close for an anguished instant. “Gently, Shotten!” Claude repeated. “You lack finesse. There is absolutely no need to hurt our intrepid Englishman. He will tell us, readily enough.” He smiled. “Do not look so derisive, Leith. This is perfectly true. You see—we have a trump card.” He nodded towards Rachel.

Tristram's heart constricted. Surely even so ruthless a despot as Claude Sanguinet would not harm a lady?

There came a sudden muffled thumping. Gerard's head tilted, and he glanced about uncertainly. Tristram's keen ear, however, had already detected the direction from which the sounds had come. His fist swung around with all his power behind it, and Shotten staggered back, clutching his middle and gasping for breath. Tristram sprang to his feet. A guard, about to leap for him, checked aghast, as a scrambling thump preceded a great black cloud that billowed from the fireplace.

Claude staggered back, choking. Rachel clawed at Gerard's hand upon her arm, her nails digging deep. His yowl was cut off abruptly as Tristram rammed home a right to the jaw that collapsed him. A blackened apparition coughed its way from the hearth and tossed a generous handful of soot into Sanguinet's eyes. The guard yelled and ran for the door. Tristram leapt after him. Claude dragged his sleeve across his streaming eyes and made a dive for the knife Gerard had dropped. With a scratchy whoop, Devenish jumped to stamp hard on those outstretched fingers, then kick out savagely, silencing Claude's yowl and sending him to join Gerard on the sullied rugs. Tristram had already reduced the guard to a crumpled heap, and, her face smudged with soot, Rachel flew to his ready arm. “My darling! My darling! Are you much hurt?” she asked frantically, caressing his bloodied cheek.

“No, I assure you. Matter of fact, our Claude did me the favour of restoring my memory. Now—tell me quickly, how many are outside?”

“Two, I think. Claude told Gerard the fewer who know of this night's work, the better. But—love, we must go to Charity. She and Agatha are locked in our room, threatened that I will be hurt if they dare make a sound!”

“By Gad! Fella's downright indecent!” snorted Devenish, using Claude's pristine sheet to wipe some of the black from his face.

Shotten was mumbling incoherently and sitting up. Tristram jerked him to his feet. Devenish uttered a triumphant exclamation and snatched a mace from the wall, only to stagger at the weight of it.

“Behind the door, Dev!” said Tristram. “Now, Mr. Shotten—you will call in your comrades.” He pressed the razor sharp dagger against the flabby jowls. “The slightest misstep…” he said softly.

Tremblingly eager to be of service, Shotten yelled in execrable French, “Paul! André! Come quick!”

“Dreadful!” said Tristram critically, and the hilt of the knife thudded against Shotten's bullet head, restoring him to slumber.

Paul and André plunged into the room to be faced by a tall, grim, bloody man with lethal fists. Paul met the challenge unhesitatingly. André whirled to the door and was confronted by a black apparition wielding a mace and screeching a demented
“Aaieee!”
Stupefied, André's hesitation was just sufficient for the mace to swing, and André was granted a respite from worry.

“Rachel,” said Tristram breathlessly, passing one of the daggers to her. “Cut the sheet into strips, love. We must tie these carrion, Dev.”

They set to work at once, Claude being the first to be trussed up and gagged.

“You were splendid,” said Tristram, blinking a little because of the pounding in his head as he bent to secure a knot. “Whatever made you think of coming down the chimney?”

“Didn't. They put me outside after I suffered my delicious seizure, so I shinned up the tree and tried to swing in through the window as you'd originally planned, you'll mind. Good thing you didn't attempt it, Tris. The blasted rope broke! Dashed shoddy workmanship. Hold this knot a minute, will you? Luckily, I fell right on top of one of the guards who was toddling about in search of someone to impale. He was, as you might say, thunderstruck!”

Rachel gave a gurgle of laughter. “But”—she handed Tristram another strip of sheeting—“how ever did you get into the chimney?”

“Wasn't easy, ma'am. Shall I start on Gerard, Tris? I went up the tree again—all the way to the top, but it began to sway about like the deuce. Then I thought of encouraging it, and when I was close to the roof, I jumped. The only way in that I could find was through the chimneys. I'd never have managed had I been built on the gargantuan lines of some people I'll not name.” He flashed a murky grin at Tristram. “It's a regular maze in there! I crawled about for hours, it seemed, but luckily, I'd a tinder box with me. Almost set fire to some of the soot, once. Gave me a nasty turn, I don't mind telling you! Then, I chanced to hear our garrulous host gloating, so I decided to—ah, drop in.”

“Remind me to thank you properly, when we're out of this.” Tristram turned his attention to Shotten. “Oh, by the bye, my name's Leith.”

“Good God! Not Lord Leith's son and heir?”

Rachel darted a swift and startled glance at Tristram, stared at him for a moment as he nodded, then asked tremblingly, “Do you need any more strips, dearest?”

“This little lot will do nicely, thank you. Dev—did you have a look at Benét's paintings?”

“I should jolly well hope not! Haven't the slightest desire to, what's more!”

“Well, you must, for I can make neither head nor tail of 'em!”

They worked swiftly, then Tristram stood. “Rachel—come love. Just a quick look, and we'll go to Charity.”

They left their securely tied victims and hurried along the silent corridor to Benét's workroom. Inside, Tristram found that the painting he'd used as a projectile had been carefully restored to its easel and was seemingly little the worse for wear.

Devenish sniffed and remarked that something was burning.

“There was a small fire,” Tristram explained. “Well now, Dev,” he held up a branch of candles. “What the devil are they?”

“Blasted rum, is what,” Devenish decreed, peering curiously. “Who'd want to hang rubbishing stuff like that?”

“Hang it!” Rachel said scornfully. “I'd not hang it in a stable!”

Tristram stared at her. “In a stable…!” he breathed. “That's it! And now I recollect that Claude
said
they were screens! They are, by God!” His elation faded into puzzlement. “But—why? Well, London must answer that question.”

Devenish asked, “What in the name of the Bishop's goat are you babbling about?”

“Not now, Dev. No time. See if you can get Rachel back to—” He checked, surveying his friend judicially. “Jove! You look like some demented dervish. I'd best go. You stay here and fashion a rope of the curtains, or something, so as to lower these two delightful works of art out of the window. Take them off the boards and roll them in a sheet and—”

Devenish and Rachel exchanged alarmed glances. “It's his head, poor fella,” quoth Devenish.

“Dearest,” said Rachel, “you never mean to take them with us? We shall be lucky to escape, ourselves, especially with my loved sister to get clear. I do not see why—”

“Trust me, love,” he smiled, bending to drop a kiss upon her brow.

“It'll take more than a buss to make
me
trust you,” Devenish grunted.

Tristram laughed, then stepped to swing open the door and peer into the hall. All was quiet. He turned back into the room. “Sweetheart, on second thought, I'd best give a hand here. Dare you creep to the top of the stairs and warn us if anyone comes? We'll not be a moment.”

Glad to be of help, Rachel nodded and ran quickly into the corridor. Tristram assisted Devenish to remove a painting from the easel. “I did not want Rachel to hear this, in case I'm mistaken about these screens. If I'm right, we may get the girls safely away, but you and I will have to find our own route. Everything will depend upon your doing
exactly
as I say, Dev.”

*   *   *

Charity uttered a sob of relief when the
petit salon
door opened to admit her sister and Tristram. Rachel ran to her outstretched arms and tried to comfort her. Agatha, bending above a faintly wailing Dr. Ulrich, exclaimed, “Thank the good Lord! We've been proper beside of ourselves! Oh, sir! Your head!”

“Never mind that. Agatha, you must go at once to Raoul. Tell him to bring the new black carriage as close to the side door as possible. If he's questioned, he can say that Miss Charity became very ill and Ulrich wants her taken to his hospital—or some such. Hurry now, there's a good girl.”

Smiling at him admiringly, she nodded and fled.

Tristram crossed to the mirror above the mantel and scanned his reflection. His face was bloodstained, but the large lump he cautiously investigated was hidden by his tumbled locks, and the cut had not bled so profusely as to result in splashes on his shirt or jacket.