Feather Castles (40 page)

Bloody but unbowed, Devenish said, “I think you're … dicked in the nob! They should clap you up, Sanguinet. And likely will!”

They had come to the Pagoda pool now and, even as he spoke, Devenish eyed the smooth black water uneasily. Claude chuckled. “You admire my pool, no? Is it not restful?” He turned in the saddle as a rider galloped to him, and demanded, “Well?”

“There has been an outbreak of pox at the chateau, monseigneur!” the man announced awfully. “The little English lady, and—” He stared at Devenish, his eyes dilating. “
Mon Dieu!
Only yesterday, he carry her!”

The two men supporting Devenish let go as though he had become a red hot coal, and backed away, wiping frantically at their sullied garments. Devenish crumpled, a muffled cry escaped him, and Tristram at once knelt, trying to ease his position.

“Idiots!” Claude's benevolent expression became malevolent. “There is no such outbreak! You are no better than my fine guests, who run like rabbits and shall bitterly repent their stupidity, I assure you! Is there any word of the women, or my paintings?”

“
Oui,
monseigneur. Monsieur
le doctor
sent the English ladies away in monseigneur's new black coach.”

Sanguinet's eyes widened. Shock and disbelief were replaced by a dawning comprehension, and with it a boiling fury. “Ulrich—
himself
—told my grooms to do this?”

“Why—no, monseigneur.” The guard's eyes shifted to Tristram, uneasily. “Miss Strand's woman—she tell Raoul, and he—” Seeing Claude's expression, he added hurriedly, “B-but—they did not go far, monseigneur! I rode to the gates, and the men there said the coach went through quite empty!”

“Peasant!” Claude screamed, beating at him with his riding whip. “Useless … brainless … animal!”

The guard threw up one arm and cringed. Claude's whip landed hard across the withers of the horse, and the animal reared, with a neigh of pain, then bolted. The rider made no attempt to restrain it, and they shot away, passing Gerard, who rode up, took in the scene, and imparted expressionlessly, “Ulrich has been drugged. He's half dead. I do not know what the result will be.”

“And I do not care!” raged Claude. “Is it truth?
Did
they use my carriage as that stupid bastard claimed?”

“Leith sent the women off in it. The guards are coming as fast as possible, but the stables are like a madhouse, and—”

Sanguinet swore blisteringly, and swung to Tristram, his face maniacal. “You knew—damn your soul! You
knew
—and made mock of me!”

Tristram came to his feet, then bowed in a deep and stately obeisance.

Clutching his hurt, Devenish laughed feebly, “Hoist by … your own petard, eh, Claude?”

“You find it amusing, do you?” hissed the maddened Sanguinet. “I have another funny little thing for you! Only watch!”

He spurred his horse away. Devenish began to struggle frantically, shouting an imploring, “No! Do not! Please—I
beg
you!” He managed to get to his knees, but crumpled helplessly.

Watching Sanguinet, Tristram stiffened, and swore.

Ever faithful, Mrs. O'Crumbs wove her erratic way in search of her beloved master. And laughing uproariously, Sanguinet rode straight at her. The little duck squawked and flapped her scrawny wings as she darted about in a frantic attempt to escape those flying hooves, but Claude dug home his spurs and his high-strung mount plunged and reared, neighing in fright. Quite suddenly, the uneven contest was won: the tattered wings ceased their frenzied beating; the squawks were silenced.

Devenish groaned and turned his face from that pathetic heap of smashed feathers.

Tristram rested one hand consolingly on his shoulder, then straightened. Head slightly lowered, shoulders a little forward, eyes narrowed, he waited, poised on the balls of his feet, as Sanguinet rode back, jeering, “Was that not the funny joke?”

“Most amusing,” said Gerard, unsmilingly.

“Why do you not laugh, English fool?” demanded Sanguinet. His glistening eyes swung to Leith—and widened in alarm. His recognition of peril was belated. With an inarticulate growl of rage, Tristram sprang.

Gerard jerked up his pistol, but, quick as he was, Tristram had already seized Sanguinet's arm, and Claude, his riding whip flailing, was in the line of fire. Ignoring the blows of the whip, scarcely feeling them, Tristram heaved mightily. Sanguinet clung to the pommel with one hand, but his efforts were useless against the Englishman's flaming fury, and he was torn from the saddle. The guards did not stay to assist their lord and master; their fear of The Pox outstripped greed or loyalty, and they melted into the night. Strengthened by passion, Tristram swung Claude as though he had been a child. Gerard, who had leapt from the saddle, pistol ready, received his employer's heel just behind the ear, dove gracefully into a peony bed, and did not rise. At the culmination of his swing, Tristram released his hold. With a terrified screech, Claude soared high over the pool and landed with a mighty splash in the centre.

Probably as yet unaware of the threat of smallpox, two more guards burst from the trees, and others were sprinting down the hill. Sanguinet was floundering about, his spluttering shrieks spurring the oncoming men to more frantic haste.

“Up, Dev!” Tristram panted. He slipped a hand under the injured man's arm, and lifted.

Devenish struggled gamely, but his face contorted with pain and he swayed and sank again, his eyes closing.

Tristram swung that sagging form across his shoulder and began to run. A shot rang out, the ball whistling past his ear.

“Never mind
them!
” howled Sanguinet. “
A moi! A moi!
I am drowning!”

Hysteria was strong in that watery command, and the guards raced to the pool, but those following turned aside to pursue the fugitives.

Devenish was a dead weight, and the rage that had bolstered Tristram was diminishing. His head, which had been pounding ever since he was struck down in the chateau, seemed to become more painful with every stride; his vision began to blur with the ceaseless effort; and each breath seared his lungs. He could hear the steady pound of feet behind him. They were not shooting—Claude could not risk his death until those screens were safely recovered. His stride faltered. He must keep on! He
must!
Soon, he was weaving drunkenly; there was a roaring in his ears; to breathe was agony. He couldn't last much longer …

“
Colonel! Mon Colonel!
This way! Me—I am come!”

Tristram blinked stupidly at a familiar face, hanging disembodied in the air. Raoul.
Raoul!

Clambering down from the box of the carriage, the little groom swung the door open. With a sob of thankfulness, Tristram stumbled to him. “I knew … you would come … for us!” he wheezed.

“
Oui!
But of course. Raoul have come. And in the notch of time!” After which dramatic, if slightly inaccurate announcement, he urged, “Inside!
Vite!
Poor Monsieur Devenish—Raoul will help.”

They hauled Devenish inside while the howling guards drew ever closer. It was all Tristram could do to clamber in. Sobbingly exhausted, he sprawled on the squabs. A musket roared, and the ball smashed into the door.

“The screens!” shouted Raoul, scrambling back onto the box.

Tristram dragged himself to his feet, then almost fell as Raoul swung the team and the carriage rocked to the sudden surge of power. Incredible as it seemed, little more than an hour had passed since Devenish had so nobly sunk his teeth into Claude Sanguinet's perfumed soap; however, that hectic space had allowed little chance for conversation and he had neglected to ascertain just how the screens were attached. It had been his thought that the wooden strips along the tops fitted into some kind of track across the carriage roof, but his seeking fingers could discover no such track, and now that they had left the illuminated area of the grounds, only the occasional beam of the lanterns lighting the drivepath lit the interior. Raoul was whipping the team to a thundering gallop; soon they would reach the lodge gates, and still Tristram could not locate the screens. His heart was hammering tensely when at length his fingernails detected grooves. He pushed to no avail, but the thin panel yielded when he slid it to the side, and at once the screen unrolled, the shorter sides flopping down onto the seat cushions, and the long centre section stretching neatly to the floor. There was a small separation between the cushions on each seat, and the screen tucked down inside, while a hook under the rug slipped into a matching hole in the wood trim of the screen, holding it taut. “Halfway home!” he thought, but now the coach was slowing. Gritting his teeth, he sprang to the other side and repeated the process, his fingers seeming clumsy and fumbling. They came to a halt as the screen dropped across Devenish's slumped form. Tristram dragged him inside the dark and tiny concealment, propped him against the squabs, and worked feverishly. He was slipping the hook into place when a gruff voice jeered, “You fairly flew. Monseigneur took your nose off for not collecting his guests, eh?”

“
Mais oui!
Did he not!” Raoul mourned. “This poor fool did just as Monsieur Gerard ordered, only it was quite incorrect. Let me pass with all speed, I beg. Already, I may never be forgiven.”

“They came here, asking if you had gone through. What is going on up at—”

Devenish moaned, and stirred weakly. Tristram gasped, clamped a hand over his mouth and held him still, scarcely daring to breathe.

“Who have you got in there?” Another voice, sharp with suspicion.

Nerves tight, Tristram waited.

“Who else but Bonaparte and Ney, and four brigades of Cavalry?” scoffed Raoul bravely. “Can you not see, maggot-wit, that I carry no one? Do you delay me, I shall inform monseigneur why Raoul he is late!”

“Listen to the bantam!” The voice was very close now. “I shall look under the seats nonetheless, for something it is not well tonight. Otherwise why should all the guests run off?”

Readying himself for action, Tristram stood. The screens would assuredly be detected under a close examination.

“Why, the news have leak out. About the younger Miss Strand. What? You did not know of this?” Raoul imparted in a solemn tone, “She and Doctor Ulrich and perhaps her sister also, have been stricken with the Pox!” And, inspired, he added, “Raoul is much afraid, for he was speaking with the lady but yesterday!”

“Sacre bleu!”
The guard retreated rapidly while admonishing Raoul to take the carriage through and not loiter about.

The carriage began to roll once more, Raoul whipping the team to a gallop.

Tristram sank down, drawing a deep breath of relief.

They were away!

Chapter 17

Three crowded days later, Tristram guided Charity's uncertain steps to a bench in Strand Hall's once luxuriant pleasure garden. “There,” he smiled, as she sat down, her wide eyes fixed in triumph on his face. “Did I not tell you that you would be riding before the month is out?”

“Oh—can I believe it?” she said breathlessly. “
Dare
I believe this is really me? And that I walked—I really
walked!
”

“You most assuredly did! And practically unaided! Your brother will—”

Aghast, he stopped speaking, for she had seized his hand and nursed it to her cheek. He felt dampness and when she looked up in response to his stammered protests, saw her eyes abrim with tears. “I just do not know how to thank you,” she said chokingly. “You have been so—so splendid. And we, alas, have brought you only sorrow.”

Tristram sat beside her, the trouble that lurked at the back of his own eyes becoming more pronounced. “You think she will refuse me?” he asked, offering his handkerchief.

Charity dried her tears and blew her small nose. “In her shoes, I would.”

He glanced at her sharply but read only sympathy in her gentle face, and there was no chance to pursue the subject further, for Agatha came to them with word that Justin Strand was now able to receive the Colonel.

Tristram had hoped to catch a glimpse of Rachel, but when he entered the dim coolness of the house there was no sign of her. The butler ushered him to the master bedchamber at the front of the first floor, and closed the door softly behind him.

Walking across the large room, Tristram was engulfed in a tide of thanks for his efforts in behalf of Rachel and Charity. He shook the thin brown hand Strand offered, obeyed a request that he pull a chair closer to the chaise longue on which the sick man rested, and sat down, scanning the features speculatively. Thick light hair framed a sun-bronzed face that was strong despite its present almost skeletal thinness. Eyes as blue as Rachel's met his gaze unwaveringly; the nose was inclined to be Roman; the jaw firm, and the mouth well chiselled. Not a handsome face, but reflecting a character to which Tristram warmed at once. He threw up one hand to stem the tide and grinned easily, “You had best be done with your thanks, else you may put yourself in a vulnerable position. I am come to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your sister.”

Strand smiled, but some of the warmth faded from those intensely blue eyes. “I'm dashed sorry I must lie here like some languishing girl on such an occasion. How does Devenish go on? My sisters tell me he'd a rough time of it.”

The evasion, Tristram did not doubt, was deliberate. Accepting it, he said, “I believe he will make a good recovery now he is safely in his cousin's care. You know, I expect, that we were so fortunate as to reach Dinard ahead of Sanguinet's hounds, and that the people at
Le Canard Borgne
hid us in the cellars?”

“Yes. Rachel tells me you persuaded an apothecary to go there and remove the bolt. Poor fellow—was it very bad?”