Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (32 page)

"Have you reported him? I suppose you are obliged to— to—"

"Try and lay him by the heels? Actually, it is the duty of any
citizen to arrest a criminal, Miss Marietta. I'll own I'm surprised
he'd dare return to England. I had no idea he was spinning his webs
again."

"You make it sound as if he is interested in more than your
treasure."

"He's an evil man with a finger in many pies. If
The
Sigh of Saladin
exists it certainly would draw him like a magnet. It's ironic really
that the legends of my family should cause our paths to cross again. Oh
well, I must hope that others will deal with him." He said repentantly,
"And only look at me keeping you standing here, as though you hadn't
enough to worry about tonight! Your pardon, ma'am. I'll take myself off
and let you get back to your family. Good night."

He bowed, offered a slight military salute, and walked briskly
to the gate where Orpheus was tethered.

The sun was lower now, the skies a deep crimson. Watching his
tall,
erect figure silhouetted against that glow, it seemed to Marietta as
though he walked into fire. And despite her efforts, once again, her
eyes were dimmed with tears.

Could any lady look lovelier than Marietta had looked just
now, her
pretty silken gown bathed in the sunset glow, and with a glow of
affection in her sweet eyes? How very dear she was. And how unworthy he
was. What would she think if she knew the contents of General Smollet's
latest letter? How would she feel if she knew of his conversation with
Lord Ignatius Dale?

Diccon sighed heavily and reined Orpheus to a walk. Gazing
blindly
at the rippling scarlet ribbon the sun painted across the waves, he
reflected that neither Dale nor Smollet had named names. Nor had he.
His suspicions were no more than that, and he clung desperately to the
hope that he was levelling his lance at a dragon which existed only in
his imagination.

Eric Warrington was weak, perhaps; selfish and a braggart,
certainly. But lots of fine men had overcome youthful follies and gone
on to carve distinguished careers for themselves. He flinched to the
recollection of that slurred voice—"I've set more than my toe outside
the law… I am an exceeding high paid courier… If the Riding Officers
knew…" Lord above! How much more incriminating could it be?

And, of all men, why must it be
her
brother? His perfect
lady. His pure and brave and beautiful love. The thought of the misery
that might lie ahead for her was wrenching. His chances of winning her
had always been slight, but that made her no less precious, no less to
be protected from hurt. If only he could spare her. If only it didn't
all tie together so damnably!

Reaching Lanterns he dismounted, unsaddled Orpheus and turned
him
out in the paddock. The skies were darkening as he walked across the
courtyard, but Mac had not yet lit the candles and the house was silent.

He stepped inside. Instead of the smells of dinner, he
breathed the
faint cloying scent that was used by only one man of his acquaintance.
Quicksilver in his reaction he sprang away from the dark figure that
lunged at him. The pistol he always carried whipped into one hand, his
dagger into the other.

A club flailed at him, but he was well-versed in the art of
close combat and the weapon whispered through his hair.

"I want him
alive,
remember!" The howled
warning carried a
slight accent, and Diccon's identification of Imre Monteil was verified
even as he vaulted the kitchen table to avoid a slashing knife blade.

A big man, a chair swung high, sent it hurtling at his face.
He
dodged, but one of the legs raked across his cheekbone, narrowly
missing his eye. He leapt and kicked out savagely in the French style
and a wailing cry sounded as he ducked under a flying club and his
dagger struck down the man who aimed it.

"Are you all slugs?" shouted Monteil furiously. "
Sapristi
!
You're four to one! Finish it!"

One of his henchmen snatched up an iron skillet and flailed it
at
Diccon. It was solidly heavy, and would have broken his skull had it
landed squarely. He dropped to his knees, the skillet whiz:ed over his
head, and he fired. His opposition was reduced to two, plus Monteil.

The confidence of the Swiss waned. Cursing, he pulled a
duelling
pistol from his pocket and stepped from the corner where he'd watched
what should have been an easy victory. Diccon was up and launched
himself before Monteil had the chance to steady his aim. The duelling
pistol barked shatteringly. The shot grazed Diccon's forearm. He hurled
his own pistol at an advancing ruffian and in a continuing blur of
movement his dagger was at Monteil's throat, his free hand twisting the
man's arm up behind him.

"Stay back," he shouted. "In the name of the King, I arrest
this man!"

His battered assailants eyed each other uneasily, then moved
closer,
like a pack of wolves circling a solitary but dangerous prey.

"Do as he says," ordered Monteil with surprising calm.

Dragging his captive with him, Diccon began to edge towards
the
stove and the heavy iron cauldron. Mac had not appeared, nor had he set
off the signal, which meant that Monteil's juggernaut, Ti Chiu, might
be lurking about. The varmint he'd shot was crawling to his feet.
Reinforcements were badly needed.

Monteil said, "My dear friend Claude Sanguinet is dead thanks
to the
connivings of you and your friends. You have interfered with my plans
too many times to be pardoned. Yet I cannot but admire you, Major. You
are a fighting machine
par
excellence
.
England treats you shabbily. Work for me, and you will be treated very
well indeed."

"Don't be absurd."

"I was afraid you would answer so," said Monteil with a sigh.

The man with the cut arm stood between Diccon and the cauldron
that
anchored the cord to their distress signal. "Move!" snapped Diccon,
and, scowling, the bully backed away.

Diccon snatched blindly for the cauldron, but his hand grazed
the
hot stove and for a fraction of a second his attention shifted.

From behind came something that blurred past his eyes. He was
jerked back and a crushing weight was across his throat.

He heard howls of triumph and a soft snuffling chuckle. Ti
Chiu! He
struck out with his dagger and that animal-like chuckle became a
blood-freezing growl. His hand was seized and twisted so that the
dagger fell from his numbed fingers.

Unable to draw breath, he clawed desperately at the mighty arm
that
was strangling him. His lungs were bursting… his ears rang… he could no
longer see… Abruptly, the stranglehold was gone. He sagged helplessly,
gulping in air, groping blindly at the table for support. Barely
conscious, he heard echoing voices, but his dazed eyes were focusing
again and they focused on a heavy iron cauldron. If he could but reach
it without attracting their attention… He allowed himself to sway and
sink to his knees, his left hand swinging out apparently helplessly to
send the cauldron crashing down. He thought a pained but exultant,
'Excelsior!'

Monteil was saying something. "… not propose, my dear Diccon,
to
search the vastness of your Lanterns… cooperation by far the most
advisable."

They were hauling him to his feet and supporting him roughly.
Something wet and cold slapped at his face. He blinked, and Monteil's
soulless eyes were peering at him. The razor-sharp tip of his own
dagger was tapped on his chin. "I believe you heard me," purred
Monteil.
"Certainement
you know what it is that I
desire. And
you know that I get what I want. One way—or another. Why not tell me
now? I know you are a brave man. I respect this. There is not the need
to prove it further."

Diccon looked around blearily. Five of the hounds. And Ti Chiu
counted for another five. The odds would have been dim with the mighty
Chinese alone. He said hoarsely, "What have you… done with my… man?"

Monteil gave a deprecating gesture. "This, it is of
peu
d'importance
. Where is
The Sigh of Saladin
?"

"If I knew," croaked Diccon, "d'you think I'd still be in this
mouldering ruin? I don't even know if—if it's fact or… fiction."

A shadow hove up before him, and he realized they'd lit a
branch of candles.

Ti Chiu's deep rumble sounded. "The Runner lies."

One of the ruffians gave a gasp. "He's a
Runner
?
Gawd!"

Monteil said conversationally, "You possess, I have before
remarked
it, beautiful hands, Major. Ti Chiu will start there, I think. One
finger at a time."

The great paw of the Chinese giant stretched out.

Diccon said, "Dammit, I
told
you! I
don't
know
where it is!"

Ti Chiu chuckled and seized his wrist, forcing him to his
knees again.

Even as he went down there was a loud explosion, then a series
of
sharp retorts. Vivid flashes lit the room. Ti Chiu released Diccon and
quailed against the wall with a yowl of guilt and fear.

"
Nom de Dieu
!" gasped Monteil.

The back door was wrenched open and a liveried groom ran in.
"Someone's sent up a buncha rockets upstairs, Monsewer! Some sorta
signal. Be seen fer miles, I reckon! There'll be troopers here, on the
double!"

Monteil unleashed a burst of French and Italian profanity. His
men
began to edge for the doors with muttered comments about Runners and
The Law.

Recovering himself, the Chinese towered over Diccon. "Ti Chiu
he will break this for honourable master. Then we go. Very quick."

"No. I'm not ready to leave England yet, fool. He's a peer
now. If
they don't find him the whole countryside will be up. We'll deal with
him, but this is not the time, and I've other plans."

Looking down at Diccon, Monteil's thin mouth curved into a
smile
although his eyes were as cold and dead as ever. "When you did battle
with my dear friend Parnell Sanguinet," he said softly, "your comrade
Harry Redmond stole Parnell's lady for himself. Your fight with Claude
Sanguinet resulted in Mitchell Redmond finding his bride. This past
spring I admired a pretty widow on the Longhills estate in—"

"Didn't get your wish that time, did you?" said Diccon
recklessly.

Monteil's smile faded into a deadly glare. Ti Chiu grunted and
stepped forward. A pulse throbbed beside Monteil's left eye, but he
raised a delaying hand and said softly, "Another overdue debt. But my
point is that you, my fine soldier"—he bent suddenly, and wrenched
Diccon's head back—"never seem to—how is it you say?—end up with the
girl. You are not, perhaps, a strikingly handsome man. Nor, however,
are you plain. Indeed, the fair sex would find you attractive, I
think." The knife in his hand glittered, and Diccon prepared to try and
defend himself against the sudden slash that would disfigure or blind
him. "You are still a young man," went on Monteil gently. "You should
be, to use one of your crude English expressions, setting up your
nursery. I wonder if you may have, at last, found a lady whom
you…
desire for your wife?"

Diccon was suddenly icy cold.

The groom announced urgently, "Riders
coming, monsewer!'

"Go, then," snapped Monteil without turning. "And you may take
these
bumbling clods with you! Except for Ti Chiu. It would be so easy for me
to destroy you, my dear Diccon," he went on. "But I am granting you a
little time to think about
The Sigh of Saladin.
And to put a price on your—future.
Adieu.
We will
talk again."

A moment later the kitchen was empty save for the man who
sagged
against the wall, massaging his bruised wrist and staring blankly at
the overturned table.

"It worked!" exclaimed Jocelyn Vaughan, jubilant as he hurried
back
into the kitchen, a branch of candles in one hand. "Poor old Whinyates
would have rejoiced! The whole blasted sky lit up! I'll not be
surprised if half the county comes in at the gallop." He inspected the
graze across Diccon's cheekbone that Lem Bridger was tending. "You had
a close call, old fellow. Dash it all, I told you it was a risky
business to stay down here with murderous treasure hunters lurking
about! You must hire some guards!"

Diccon asked, "How's Mac?"

"Tucked into bed. He lost a tooth, which he says he can ill
afford,
and there's a lump the size of a duck egg on his head. But he'll do.
His whole concern is for you. I wonder those bastards didn't put a
period to you before they turned tail and ran."

"I suspect the notion that I was from Bow Street threw them
into a flutter."

Vaughan laughed. "If I know you, they took some damage along."

Diccon flinched away from Bridger's hands and the groom
exclaimed, "That's an ugly bruise on your throat, sir."

Vaughan sobered and asked, "Ti Chiu again?"

Diccon nodded.

"I'll stay here tonight, sir, if it's your wish," volunteered
Bridger. "I've brought my blunderbuss. It's old, but worth twenty
pistols in a scrap. I know Sir Lionel would be willing. He'd've come
himself but he was afraid to leave the ladies all alone."

Diccon thanked him but refused the offer and sent the groom
back to
the dower house with instructions to be on guard. Bridger's eyes grew
round, and he left.

There came a clatter of hooves outside.

Vaughan strode to the window. "By George! It's Williard and
half the village! And here comes— Be dashed if it ain't
Dale
with most of his people by the look of it!"

Diccon said, "We discovered we've some mutual acquaintances."

Vaughan stared, then hurried to the back door.

In this time of open flame for heat and lighting, all men
rallied to
aid their neighbours against the terrible threat of fire, and soon the
courtyard was crowded, waggonloads of villagers augmenting the stream
of carriages, curricles, and riders.