Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (38 page)

"He's likely gone down to Lanterns, my love." As if reading
her mind, Mrs. Cordova watched her from the hall.

"I hope so." Marietta came in and closed the door. "But he
would
have to be very desperate to go there. He's greatly disillusioned with
the Major because"—she broke off in the nick of time and
rephrased—"because he was not allowed to help with the rocket signal."

"Perhaps." Her aunt regarded her steadily. "But whatever else
he may
be, there's no pretence about Diccon's affection for the boy."

Stifling a sigh, Marietta asked, "How does Mr. Vaughan go on?"

"He is asleep, and Fanny is sitting in the corridor keeping
vigil. I
left the door wide. Most improper, I know. Now I think we all will be
better for a cup of tea."

Marietta offered to help in this endeavour, but was ordered to
sit
and rest while her aunt bustled about preparing the tea and exclaiming
over the audacity of Monsieur Monteil.

Listening with half an ear, Marietta's eyes turned often to
the
leaden skies beyond the rain-dappled windows, and her thoughts turned
to Diccon, who had not come when she so needed him. Was that because
he'd seen who the uninvited callers were and, despite his ardent
promises, had cared only that Eric Warrington was not among them? Or
dare she hope that Aunty Dova was in the right of it? Had Arthur indeed
gone down to Lanterns, and was Diccon at this very moment indulging
him with cake or whatever the Lord of the Larder could provide?

Vaughan was still sleeping and Fanny refused to leave him, so
Marietta carried her tea up to her. When she went downstairs again she
found that her aunt had started a fire in the drawing room, and they
took their tea before the hearth together. The big room was soon warm
and cosy, the crackling of the logs muting the sounds of the storm. The
violent episode with Monsieur Monteil and his monstrous hireling had
been more of a strain than Marietta realized, and she began to feel
drowsy…

She awoke with a start when a log fell in half on the grate.
She had
slept for an hour, and was alone. Neither her aunt nor Arthur were to
be found, and Fanny had dozed off in the chair outside Vaughan's room.
The storm had increased in strength, the wind lashing the trees and
driving the rain in grey sheets against the house. Ever more worried
about her little brother, out and alone in such dreadful weather, she
peered out of the kitchen windows. There was no sign of the carriage as
yet, but if Papa had gone on into Eastbourne he could not have returned
already. She saw then that a note penned in her aunt's large printing
was propped against the tea-cosy.
I know you promised your
father
not to go looking for Arthur, my love, but I did not. Miles Cameron has
told me something I cannot like, so I'm going to walk down to Lanterns
and see if he's there. Arthur, I mean. Don't worry, I'm taking the
umbrella.
There was a postscript:
The umbrella
blew inside out, silly thing, so
I won't
take it.
Aunty D.

Despite her anxieties Marietta had to smile at this, and was
about
to go up and show it to Fanny when gloved hands came from behind to
cover her eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat and she whirled,
snatching up the teapot and prepared to use it as a weapon.

"Hi!" cried Eric, throwing up one hand to fend off her attack.
"I
know I'm a reprehensible fugitive, but do I deserve such a welcome from
my nearest and—"

He was here! Very wet, but tall and handsome
and, whatever
else,
so dear to her heart. Not until this moment had she realized how
overwrought were her nerves. Tears choked her, and she threw herself
into his arms.

Eric hugged her, then held her away. "What's all this? My
brave
girl—weeping? I'm here, love, never fret. I've given the hounds the
slip and all's well, at least for—"

"But—it isn't well," she interrupted, dabbing angrily at her
eyes.
"We've had the most d-dreadful men here, demanding to know where that
st-stupid treasure is, and breaking poor Vaughan's head, and knocking
Papa d-down, and—"

"What? Where is he?"

"Gone to report it all to—to Constable Davis or the military
post, and to fetch—"

Eric stiffened. "Military post?"

"Yes. And we've lost Arthur again. He's been gone since before
breakfast, in all this rain and storm, and— Oh, what am I babbling at?
Eric, You didn't tell me the truth about your—your employers!"

"I know. I wrote to you. Have you not had my letter?"

"Yes, but a general called on Papa, and he said you'd been
engaged in selling
military secrets
, not—not
industrial sabotage, as—"

He had paled noticeably and now again interrupted, "A
general
?
Who? Not Smollet?"

"Yes. And he warned Papa to be on the look out for—"

"The devil!" He put her aside and striding quickly into the
dining
room took down the ginger jar. "I have to borrow this, Etta. I'm sorry,
but I'll repay. I must get out of England as quick as may be, and—"

Heartsick, she gulped, "It is truth then? You really are… a
traitor! Oh, Eric!"

"Don't put on such a tragedy face, for Lord's sake!" He thrust
the
money into his purse and said roughly, "Traitor to whom? A stupid fat
Prince who is glutting himself into the grave? Much allegiance I owe
Prinny and his crew of sots and spendthrifts!"

"You owe allegiance to England! Would you see us ruled from
Versailles? Or Madrid, perhaps? How could—"

"Have done! I've no time for nonsense!" He pushed past her and
stalked across the corridor and into the kitchen saying in that harsh
voice that was so strange to her, "My father whistled my future down
the wind with his careless gaming. What prospects have I now, save by
taking a risk or two? No, don't preach at me, Etta! With luck, I could
have restored our fortunes! You were glad enough to take my ill-gotten
gains last time I came, but now I'm in the suds a fine thanks I get for
my efforts!"

Running after him, she tugged at his sleeve. "Wait! Eric, you
know we all love you. Please listen to me! You must not—"

He was already on the back steps, and glancing up the hill
exclaimed, "A coach! And coming at the gallop! Damme, but they're hot
on my heels!" He gave her a quick kiss. "I'm sorry, Etta. You always
were a good girl—"

"Wait! You
must
listen! Don't go to—"

He ran into the rain shouting down her attempts to warn him,
and
swung into the saddle of the weary horse that was tethered in the lee
of the barn. "Don't worry about the brat, he'll come home. My love to
all."

Desperate, she ran after him, shrieking, "Don't go to
Lanterns! Diccon is an…"

But he was gone, thundering down the hill, the skirts of his
coat
flying, horse and rider silhouetted against the massed black clouds
that were lit by occasional flashes of lightning. Standing in the rain,
watching that headlong flight, Marietta thought that Aunty Dova would
have said this frightful storm was an omen. The contents of the note
came into her mind. Aunty was at Lanterns now. If she saw Eric before
Diccon did, she might be able to warn him. 'Please God!' she thought
fervently, and dashing rain from her eyes, turned back to the house.

The sounds of the team had been muffled by the storm but the
carriage was coming at a neck-or-nothing pace and was almost upon her.
Mud flew and she retreated to the steps. Bridger, grim-faced and soaked
to the skin by the look of him, stared at her from the box. The
carriage door was flung open and her father jumped out and hurried to
join her.

"Has Eric come?" he asked, following her into the kitchen. His
voice
was strained, his face drawn, and a look of pained bewilderment was in
his eyes.

'He knows,' thought Marietta. "He just left, Papa. He thought
you were—"

"Bow Street coming after him?" He threw his hat onto the table
and
sat down drawing a hand across his eyes wearily. "He's a traitor. My
son—a traitor! I couldn't believe at first, but… It's as well your dear
mama is gone. This would have broke her heart!"

"Yes, Papa. But—"

"You knew, I see. Am I the last to know? Where did we fail
him,
Etta? I brought us to this nice house. I managed to keep us together,
didn't I? He had a better life than thousands of other lads. How could
he foul our honour and turn traitor to his own land? Surely— But,
enough for that. Did he leave any message for me?"

"His love, Papa. He was only here for a minute or two."

"Would that I'd been here! I'd likely have taken my horsewhip
to his
sides! The crazy young fool! Dragging our name through the mud! Well,
they're hard after him, just as he—as he deserves." Sir Lionel's voice
shredded. He said hoarsely, "I collect the best we can hope for is that
he gets to France so that we're not subjected to the—the humiliation of
a—a public hanging!"

"Yes, sir. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen, and—"

"Warn him of what? That your friend Diccon is a crack
Intelligence Officer?"

Her "friend Diccon." Her
beloved,
rather. She flinched a
little, but managed to keep her voice steady. "Yes. And that Major
Diccon is ordered to take a suspected traitor if he comes this way. I
did not dream it was my—my dear brother. Papa, my fear is that Eric
will go to Lanterns believing that for my sake Diccon will help him
leave the country."

Horror-stricken, Sir Lionel sprang up. "He'll walk into a
trap! You
must go, Etta! Get your cloak! Quickly! Quickly! I would go with you
save that I must be here if the troopers come. How could you not have
told me what Diccon was? When I think of how the lying, deceitful snake
wormed his way in here to spy on us, and all the while pretending— But
never mind that. He loves you, no doubt of it. He'll do anything you
ask! Go to him, Etta. Plead. Beg if you must. For your brother's life!
You can't take the coach, else they'll wonder where it is. You'll have
to run. Here's my pistol. Take it, and, if you have to, blow the
miserable varmint's head off!"

There was no sign of life when Marietta picked her way across
what
had once been Lanterns' wide-spreading park. There were fallen branches
everywhere and she was shocked to see that the great tree at the south
end of the house was down, the roots sticking up starkly against a
background of mountainous in-rushing whitecaps. The wind was so strong
that it was hard to stand straight, and the booming of surf meeting
cliffs shook the ground under her.

The hollow that once had been the moat was a sea of mud and
she trod
across the stepping stones fighting to hold her balance against the
wind that seemed determined to make her fall. The back door wasn't
locked, and she entered the scullery with a rush, then leaned back
against the door, short of breath. She'd expected that MacDougall would
be here, but there was no sign of anyone. Thunder growled as she
hurried across the kitchen and along the corridor and lightning painted
brief brilliant squares on the flags. Dreading to find the elder of her
brothers here, she prayed the younger might be in the old house. She
was sure that Aunty Dova was somewhere about, but although she peeped
into each of the empty rooms she passed she did not see the lady. The
sounds of the storm were much louder in the central single-storey hall,
the rain drumming a tattoo on the roof. The heavy door of the south
wing stood slightly ajar. She went down the steps slowly and with a
heavy heart. This was where she'd waited to ambush Diccon with the
music stand. It seemed so long ago. Who would have dreamed then that
the tall quiet man would steal her heart and prove to be so
treacherous? Or that she would have come here to beg for her brother's
life.

The gale drove like a great fist against the house. The floor
shook
and Marietta gave a gasp as something flew into her eye. Wiping away
involuntary tears, she saw that dust was filtering down from the
ceiling. The moat and the south end of the drive-path had long since
joined the piles of rubble on the beach far below. It was all too
possible that the pounding breakers of this fierce storm would
undermine the cliffs and bring the whole place tumbling down.

As usual, it was dim and gloomy in this windowless wing and
she
hurried past the rows of rooms neither seeing nor hearing a sign of
life, until she reached the original great hall. She saw a distant glow
then, and heard a familiar voice, and her heart sank.

Eric was saying furiously, "… inform your military masters
about your free-trading! Then where will you be?"

"No worse off than I am now." Diccon's quiet drawl. "I should
tell
you, Warrington, that free-trading was an integral part of my military
activities and helped me deal with several tricky customers."

"Is that what I am to you? A tricky customer? You didn't think
that
when you were lounging about as my father's guest and pretending to
court my trusting sister!"

There was no answer.

Under cover of a great crack of thunder Marietta crept across
the
long dark room towards the glow of a single candle. She could see Eric
now, looking pale and desperate, sitting handcuffed to a rail of the
stairs that led to the minstrel's gallery and the upper floor. Diccon
stood by a massive old table, lighting a lantern, the glow revealing
his cold and stern expression.

"If you ever hope to win her," persisted Eric, "you had best
give me a chance." 

"But you see, I do not hope to win her under any
circumstances. And even if I did—"

Eric had seen his sister, and his eyes widened. Ever alert,
Diccon
jerked around. Marietta heard his faint gasp. Her fingers touched the
horrible coldness of the steel in her pocket that seemed to match the
icy fear in her heart, but she said gently, "Under
any
circumstances… my friend?"