Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (14 page)

Leith took his wife's hand and hurried with her into the hall,
Devenish, Bolster, Sir Harry, and the Reverend following. At the door
Harry turned back. "Mitch," he said quietly, "have a care."

His brother smiled in that warm, transforming smile so seldom
seen of late. "You also,
mon sauvage
."

Diccon's face, however, was thunderous. "I'd not expected this
of you, Harry," he said bitterly. "You owe me."

"I do." Sir Harry looked troubled. "But Nanette was in just
such a situation two years ago, Diccon. Knowing what terrors she
endured, I simply cannot stand by and see another lady so abused. I
swear we shall ride like fury to come up with you, once we have Miss
Strand safely away. Only tell me where to go."

"Do not tempt me," said Diccon sourly. Then, "I'll go bail you
ride on a fool's errand. But when you've done, head for Castle Tyndale.
I'll leave word there."

Sir Harry nodded and turned away.

Diccon called after him, " I hope you
do
rescue the lady.'' And as Harry disappeared into the hall, he muttered,
"But I doubt it."

A sharp pain in her thigh jolted Charity back to a befuddled
awareness. She was in a strange place; dim, very warm, and stuffy. In
addition to these peculiarities, the room was rocking. Puzzled, she
wondered if they were at sea; perhaps Justin had taken them out on the
Silvering
Sails
and she had dropped off to sleep in the cabin… But
Justin did not much care for the sea, certainly not sufficiently to
have taken them across the Channel at night. It was all very odd… With
what seemed a great effort she reached for the lamp beside her bed. Her
groping fingers encountered a yielding yet scratchy surface, rather
like starched linen. And there was a sound to accompany the jolt and
sway of her room: a continuous pounding and rattling.

The stabbing pain in her thigh came again, and with it a
faint, high-pitched cry. As in the gradual recollection of a dream she
saw herself walking… Mitchell Redmond's haughty, arrogant face… Best.
She reached downwards and felt the soft irregularities of a woolen
garment. A pocket. Groping inside, her hand was at once thrust against
by an impatient, indignant, and very small furry head.

Charity drew forth a small, dimly seen shape. And she knew,
and dropping the kitten, shrank against the squabs of the carriage, so
terrified that she could not seem to catch her breath or do anything
but huddle there, shaking, gasping, frantically sobbing.

The dark partition was drawn aside. Charity was dazzled by the
afternoon's brightness, but she saw a man who peered in at her. He was
youngish, clean-shaven, and neatly dressed as would befit the occupant
of so luxurious a vehicle.

"So madame is awake," he said, with the hint of a French
accent."You should not weep, for we treat you most kindly, you must
agree. We have not bound your hands, nor a gag placed in your pretty
mouth. Although—" he added thoughtfully, raising his voice, "the lady I
find not so
extreme
pretty as we were told, eh,
my Clem?"

The screen to Charity's left was drawn aside, and another man,
a dark silhouette against the glare, said in a coarse London voice,
"They never is when they're breeding." The screen was drawn shut
again."Fair turns me stummick to see a mort all swole up like that."

"My Lord!" thought Charity, fighting back tears. "They wanted
Rachel! They think
I
am Rachel!"

The Frenchman was speaking again. "But this lady is not yet
very much—ah, swole, as you say. Nonetheless, madame, it is for the
sake of your condition that you are coddled thus. I must desire that
you be sensible and conduct yourself quietly.'' He smiled faintly. "For
your own sake, I ask it.''

"Wh-where are you taking me?" gulped Charity.

He chuckled. "But you first should ask, 'Where am I?' "

"I know p-perfectly well where I am. I have been in this
horrid vehicle before. I know it is Claude Sanguinet's wicked coach
that he uses for his—his murderous plots. And that you are keeping me
hidden in this concealed space.'' This brought hilarious laughter from
both men and, because whatever happened they must not go back and try
to take Rachel, she went on in desperation, "Oh, you may laugh. But
when my husband comes, it will be very different."

The Frenchman called, "Shall we tell her, my good Clem?"

"No, we won't, me good Jean-Paul," rasped the Englishman.
"We're comin' inter Godalming. Shut 'er up. Else I will."

The man called Jean-Paul leaned nearer, a gentle smile on his
sallow but pleasant countenance. "Only keep it in your head, lady," he
urged, "that we have a long journey. Your babe will not like it if you
are tied for many leagues. And you will not like for my crude friend
to, er, shut you up. Soon, you will have the food and drink. Now—" He
put a finger to his smiling lips and closed the screen.

Trembling, Charity leaned back against the squabs, closing her
eyes. While she had been speaking, one hand had automatically caressed
the kitten who had snuggled contentedly on the seat beside her. Now, as
though sensing her terror, Little Patches scrambled up the cloak and
began to butt her head against Charity's chin. Grateful for this small
comfort, Charity held the little shape close. "Poor creature," she
whispered. "They did not see you, I think. But whatever is to become of
us?" She restored the kitten to her lap, fondling it while her mind
strove desperately with this terrible predicament.

How Sanguinet's agents could have confused her with her sister
was incomprehensible. Nonetheless, she breathed a grateful prayer that
the mistake had occurred. To have been subjected to such an ordeal as
this would have completely overset Rachel's precarious health, and if
she lost the babe she and Tristram wanted so badly… There was no point
in thinking of such awful things. She must escape these brutes. But
that they were armed, she did not doubt. And there were the outriders.
Well, there was no chance at this moment, perhaps, but it would come.
It
would
… it must… She blinked away fresh tears.
Besides, Tristram would follow. And dear Dev. She must have been missed
by now. Only… what on earth were they doing in Godalming? If she was
being taken to Chateau Sanguinet they should be heading south to the
coast. If they were bound for Sanguinet Towers, the great estate near
Chatham that Parnell had once ruled, they would be driving northeast.
Godalming lay north and west of Strand Hall, which made no sense.
Unless perhaps it was an attempt to confuse their pursuers and they
meant to eventually turn about.

She could hear other traffic now, and soon they were bumping
over cobblestones.

"Keep yer mouth in yer pocket, missus," said the Englishman
roughly. "If I was ter break yer jaw, it'd keep yer quiet, and I don't
'spect it would hurt yer babe neither."

Charity shrank, trembling.

Jean-Paul called, his voice sharp with indignation, "I see no
reason for such words. The lady she has ample grief to come."

Charity closed her eyes and prayed. "Dear God, help me.
Please, please, help me."

The carriage slowed and gave a lurch. The shouts of ostlers
rang out, and there was much jolting and the trampling of many hooves.
Jean-Paul was conversing cheerfully with a man who said in a slow
country voice that it was "a fine, fair day. Be ye goin' far, sir?" To
which the Frenchman replied, "Very far, and very fast,
mon
cher campagnard. "
The ostler, for Charity supposed he must
be such, laughed, and she wondered miserably if he had any idea how
Jean-Paul had mocked him. She sat up straighter, and at once Clem
growled, "Behave, woman! Or ye'll be sorry for't!"

Behave… If only she dared behave like the heroines in the
novels she had read. If she screamed at the top of her lungs, help
would come, surely? Or would they even hear her, with all the uproar
and prancing and snorting of the horses, the jingling of harness, the
shouts of the ostlers. Certainly, before they could reach her, Clem
would strike her down. And even as she hesitated, trying to nerve
herself, the coach lurched again. She felt the seat bounce to
Jean-Paul's weight, the door was slammed, and with a jerk and the
pounding of sixteen hooves, they were away again.

Charity's heart sank. She had failed. She was no heroine, but
a shivering, miserable coward…

Jean-Paul called, "Clem? You have opened your curtains again,
yes?"

"No, I ain't. No reason to. No one can stick their long nose
in here."

"The reason is because monseigneur does not wish a coach that
shows closed curtains and might
en effet
have
very many persons within. Monseigneur wishes a coach that carries one
gentleman. You comprehend?"

"No," jeered Clem. "I'm too stupid, Frenchy!"

But Charity heard him moving about and the faint increase of
brightness in her stuffy prison told her he had done as Jean-Paul
commanded.

On they went, bounce and rattle and sway and jolt, while the
air in the central enclosure became ever hotter and stuffier and
Charity's head began to ache. Little Patches had gone back to sleep,
which was as well, for Charity was very sure they would not treat the
little animal kindly once she was discovered. If she was permitted to
alight at the next stage, she would try to smuggle the kitten out and
let her run off. "You are so pretty, tiny one," she whispered. "Someone
will take pity on you and give you a home." She pulled her cloak gently
over the kitten, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.

She awoke with a start. The faint glow at the edges of the
screens was tinged with red. It must be sunset, and still the carriage
steadily ate up the miles. If they had turned back to the south coast
while she slept, they would come to the end of this part of their
journey very soon.

Clem was grumbling about the advanced hour and his need for
sustenance. "Ain't had a perishin' crumb since morning," he declared.
"Abaht time we stopped fer a bite o' supper."

"You know where we are told to stop,'' Jean-Paul pointed out.
"You would not wish to vex monseigneur."

Clem's response was a growl of profanity that left little
doubt as to his opinion of monseigneur.

Wondering wretchedly whether poor Best had survived; whether
Rachel was making herself ill with grief and worry; whether Tristram
and Dev had already set out in search of her, Charity's eyes fell. She
gave a gasp. Little Patches was very obviously feeling the effects of
this long confinement. She had jumped to the floor and was scratching
with one minute paw at the screen, trying to thrust her nose around the
edge. Charity bent cautiously and took her up. The pink mouth opened
protestingly, but they were crossing a bridge at that moment and the
sounds of the wheels on old cobblestones drowned out the kitten's cry.
Trying to soothe her, Charity murmured, "I have the same need as you,
little one, but whether we will be permitted to attend to it is another
matter.''

"Monsieur Jean-Paul," she said, timidly.

"The lady's awake," jeered Clem. "What a pity!"

Ignoring him, Charity said, "I, er, have a problem, I fear.
Of—of a personal nature.''

"Cor blimey!" said Clem in an affected voice. " 'Ere we is,
miles from the nearest water closet!"

Charity's cheeks burned and she longed to toss her slipper
into his nasty face, even as she had done to Mr. Redmond. Redmond… a
clear picture of his haughty elegance rose in her mind's eye, bringing
with it a pang of longing for family and friends, and all the dear and
gentle security of Strand Hall.

Jean-Paul said reasonably, "The lady has been quite good,
Clem. She is, after all, only human, and carries the babe besides."

"A sight better orf she'd be if she didn't," grunted Clem.

"Not insofar as our kindly employer is concerned. He wants
this babe very much, and I for myself should not wish to bring our
guest to him in a poor state. No, no. We must stop for the new mama, I
think."

Charity felt chilled. Claude wanted Rachel, but more, he
wanted her child! So this was the vengeance he planned for Tristram.
That gallant man's heart would break were his wife to fall again into
Sanguinet's hands, but to know his helpless child was in those same
hands, to guess at the horrors the Frenchman meant to inflict…
Shivering, she thought, "But Claude does not have his intended victim!"
And if the worst should happen, if she herself were murdered, Tristram
and Devenish would know—surely they would know, and they would be
prepared. Rachel would be guarded night and day.

Her nobility faded away. She was shaking like a leaf, for
however hard she tried to be brave, she could not stop thinking of the
moment when she would face Claude. Of the look that would come into
those hot brown eyes when he saw her… Of the violence he might visit
upon her in his rage and frustration. Her blood ran cold, and her knees
turned to blancmange.

The carriage began to slow, and she recovered her wits,
snatched up the kitten, and thrust her back into her pocket.

Jean-Paul pulled the screen aside. The scarlet glow of a
magnificent sunset flooded in, and Charity blinked, dazzled by that
warm light after the gloom of her little prison.

"Come, madame." Jean-Paul opened the door and let down the
steps, then sprang down and reached out to her. Charity took his hand
and moved stiffly to stand beside him.

They had stopped on a lonely country lane. There was no sign
of habitations, woods stretched out to either side, and distantly hills
rose, dark against the crimson sky. The outriders walked their horses
up and watched, grinning.

Clem had left the carriage also, and came around to grumble at
Jean-Paul because of the delay. "Take her in them trees. It ain't
Carlton House, yer royalty, but you gotta take what's here, as they
say." His beady eyes flickered down Charity, and she drew her cloak
around her, trying to create the illusion of breadth around her flat
middle.