Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (23 page)

''It would be my pleasure. Now, if you dare enter my wicked
castle, Warrington. I've a fearsome reputation, you know."

Eric grinned, but Arthur, who had been gainfully employed in
tying a
knot in Orpheus' mane, said confidently, "I'm coming, too!" Diccon gave
him a stern look and he added, "If y'please, sir."

''That's much better," said Marietta. "But it's time for your
lessons, young man."

The boy's lower lip thrust out rebelliously.

Eric said, "Beastly luck, child, but I only take educated
pirates out rowing."

Arthur's eyes became very round. " 'S afternoon?"

''This afternoon."

''You promise?"

Eric put a hand over his heart. "A sacred vow."

''And you can ride home with me," bribed Marietta. "Can we
manage that, Eric?"

Warrington dismounted, handed his reins to Diccon and lifted
Arthur
to Marietta's saddle. Settling his brother into place, he murmured
sotto
voce,
"He don't sound demented to me."

''Who's 'mented?" asked Arthur, loud and clear.

Marietta closed her eyes and moaned softly.

''It could be jolly fine if you restored it," said Eric,
walking back
through the new wing beside Diccon. "Assuming you enjoy country life,
of course. Thank you for showing me around."

''I'm glad you like the old place. I take it you don't enjoy
country life? Perhaps you're eager to get back to University?"

''Devil I am! The country's all right. For a day or two. But
school—ugh! It's damnable. Didn't you find it so, sir?"

Beginning to feel like Methuseleh, Diccon said, "Sometimes.
But to
have a degree in your pocket can be most helpful to your career.
Depending upon what you mean to do with your life, of course."

''So everyone says. Did you win a fellowship, sir?"

''Oh, don't look to me for your example. Not if you expect to
wind up with plenty of lettuce in your bowl!"

''Well, that's just it, you see. Even if I were to cram night
and day
it would take another two years to finish. I'm a fair scholar, but to
say truth, I've no interest in the business. And my family needs help
now!"

Diccon thought of a spanking new coach and thoroughbred team,
and
the coat that was as if moulded to Warrington's shoulders and
proclaimed the costly genius of Weston. He kept his scepticism to
himself and opened the kitchen door to wave his guest inside. "I
haven't started any repairs yet, and there's not much in the way of
usable furniture. I'm afraid this is the most presentable room in which
to entertain you, but if you can stay for a glass of cognac I'd be glad
of some intelligent company."

Flattered by such an invitation from a man whom he had
recognized at
once as a regular "top o' the trees" Eric accepted eagerly. When he was
settled at the table with a glass of most excellent brandy, Diccon sat
opposite and granted his request to be told about
The Sigh
of Saladin
and the ghosts said to haunt the manor. Then, with skilled expertise he
guided the conversation to Sir Lionel and his family. The brandy was
velvety smooth, the kitchen warm, and the Major's interest gratifying.
Drowsily content, Eric relaxed, and quite soon the floodgates opened.

Diccon listened to a wistful account of their grand house in
London
and of the life that had been "so very different" to their present
circumstances, which were obviously regarded as deplorable. "Fanny was
too young to have gone out into Society very much," said Eric. "And she
don't miss Town. But it has been devilish hard on Etta, though she's a
good girl and don't cry over spilt milk. My father hoped she would make
a splendid match and rescue us all, but—buried out here…" He shrugged
resignedly.

''You cannot hide a diamond of the first water for very long,
and
Sussex is scarcely in the middle of the Gobi Desert. Miss Marietta will
assuredly make a splendid match. I only hope it may be a happy one."
Diccon became aware that he had spoken sharply and that Warrington was
staring at him. "I think it admirable that you mean to help your
family," he went on in a milder tone. "But it's rather a tall order for
a young fellow, isn't it? At your age I had all I could do to provide
for myself."

''Not much lettuce to be made in the Army, I fancy?"

''Even when they remember to pay me—which they seldom do!
Luckily,"
Diccon met Eric's gaze and said with a grin, "I have other—ah, irons in
the fire."

''So I've heard. And if this brandy's a sample I imagine you
make more at your illicit career than at your public one!"

''Well, there's always money to be made. Provided one's
willing to
take the risk. But I don't recommend such unlawful activities to a
young sprig like you, and I'll be grateful do you keep mine to
yourself."

It seemed to Eric that there was just a touch of condescension
in
the other man's attitude. Irked, he reacted with the boastfulness of
youth. "Never fear, sir. I'm told you refuse your title, whereby one
gathers you also have no love for our present ridiculous form of
government." Lowering his voice, he leaned forward. "I'll admit to you
that I've set more than my toe outside the law. And more than once!"

Diccon chuckled. "So your generous gifts to your family
weren't paid
for by a lucky wager. What a slyboots to have fobbed your sister off
with some tale of grandiose investments! I knew it was unlikely, at
your age. Rum running, eh?"

''Not so!" exclaimed Eric, indignantly. "Bigger game, sir!
I"—a swift
glance at the door—"I am a—a sort of courier. An exceeding high paid
courier, I might add. For a group of influential gentlemen."

Diccon's eyes were veiled, but his lips twitched and one of
his brows arched upward ironically.

Touched on the raw, Eric flared, "You think I brag, and that
gentlemen would not trust weighty matters to the care of a man of two
and twenty! Well, that is
exactly
why I am hired!
Because I
look younger than I am." He laughed suddenly. "You should only see the
rig I wear when I'm sailing! I look like nothing so much as an
underpaid apprentice clerk. How I laugh to myself when the Riding
Officers don't so much as glance my way! If they did but know what—" He
broke off. He'd said more than he intended, and finished rather lamely,
"You'd not credit the amount of secrecy and spying that goes on in the
world of industry."

''Is that so? Well, I expect you're old enough to know what
you're
about, and whether the risks you run are justified. For my part, I'm of
a mind to marry and settle down." Diccon sighed, and said ruefully,
"I'll have to give up smuggling then, of course. A gentleman cannot
take the chance of bringing shame to his loved ones."

Eric frowned into his wineglass and said nothing.

''I can't tell you how much I have enjoyed meeting your
family,"
Diccon went on, his eyes very keen under the thick brows. "They've been
most kind to me. I really envy you your young brother. He's an engaging
little scamp. You're his idol, and it's plain to see that he'll take
you for his model in life."

Lifting his head, Warrington searched the lean features and
found
only a friendly smile. "Yes," he said, setting down his glass. "Well, I
must be getting home. Good day, sir, and thank you for your
hospitality."

Outside, the skies had darkened, the air was very still and
the
clouds had the yellowish tinge that warned of a thunderstorm. Eric
Warrington rode up the hill slowly, in a marked departure from his
customary neck or nothing pace. The smuggled brandy was potent stuff
and his head felt just a touch fuzzy. But it was not the effect of the
wine that brought the uneasiness to his spirits. He wondered if he'd
said too much to a man he really scarcely knew. He heard again a deep
voice that said, "… he'll take you for his model in life." It did
little to lighten his mood.

Diccon stood on the drawbridge and watched him out of sight.
Deep in
thought, he wandered around to the barn, kicking a pebble before him.
Mac had gone back into the house and the barn was dim and quiet, the
air heavy with the scents of hay and animals. He came to a halt and
gazed blankly at an empty stall. Then he drove a clenched fist at a
post and said an explosive "Damn!"

The storm, which had been threatening all day, broke in full
fury
shortly after four o'clock. Jocelyn Vaughan pulled the top cape of his
riding coat higher about his throat, ducked his head against the
teeming rain and urged his horse to a gallop. He'd glimpsed the
chimneys from the top of the hill and thought it would be a short ride
to the manor, but the distance was deceiving and by the time he
approached the closed lodge gates he was soaked. The little lodge was
unoccupied and he had no intention of dismounting to open the gates.
The tall grey gelding cleared the hedge neatly and cantered along the
short drive-path to the terrace steps.

Even through the downpour Vaughan could see that it was a much
smaller house than he'd envisioned, and in better repair. Urged on by a
deafening peal of thunder, he dismounted, secured the reins to a post,
and ran up the steps and across the terrace.

There was no sound from within, and not a single candle
brightened
the windows. "Hello!" he shouted, pounding on the door. "Are you asleep
again, you lazy varmint? Wakey, wakey!"

Rushing into the kitchen with her arms full of damp washing,
Fanny
heard the shouting and the repeated blows on the front door. "Oh,
rats!" she panted. "Go away, whoever you are!"

The pounding was redoubled and an irate roar advised that if
the door wasn't opened instantly there would be bloody murder done.

Mrs. Gillespie had gone home early with one of her
'headaches," and Marietta was striving frantically to rescue the
rest of the laundry. Papa and Eric had driven off somewhere in the new
coach, which left to Fanny the task of dealing with this violent
caller. She deposited her load on the kitchen table and hurried across
the withdrawing room, prepared for battle. Lightning flashed as she
entered the hall. The front door was being pushed open. A gauntletted
hand came into view and that irate male voice shouted, "Where the devil
are you, traitor? Guard yourself! I'm coming in!"

Fanny's impassioned retort froze on her tongue. Into her mind
came
Marietta's story of the intruder who had broken into Lanterns and so
brutally attacked Diccon. This was very likely the same creature.
Having failed at the manor he'd decided to search the dower house! She
started to back away. Terrified by the slow opening of the door, she
fled into the drawing room. There was no time for a further retreat.
Fortunately, they'd not yet lit candles and the room was quite dim. She
sank onto the sofa next to "Mrs. Hughes-Dering" and did her best to
resemble a dummy.

Jocelyn Vaughan stepped into a spacious but gloomy entrance
hall. He
peered about curiously, his eyes still dazzled from that brilliant
lightning flash. Directly opposite, heavy draperies were tied back on
each side of an archway giving onto a corridor. He went over to the
archway and saw a flight of stairs at some distance to his left,
several rooms to his right, and, facing him, a partly open door. It was
chill and deathly quiet. He took off his hat and shook it, sending
water spraying from the brim. 'Grim sort of place,' he thought, and
howled, "Hello? Did everybody die?"

Aside from another peal of thunder there was no response. He
crossed
the corridor, pushed the door wider, and looked into a large drawing
room. He was considerably put out to find upon entering this shadowed
chamber that several people were present, all of whom saw fit to ignore
him. "Good day," he said stiffly. "Your butler must not have heard me
at the door."

Silence. Not a word, not a movement.

''All dead, are you?" he enquired with heavy sarcasm.

The complete lack of any reaction was peculiar, to say the
least.
They were so unnaturally still. Uneasy now, he moved forward and
addressed the military man seated by the empty hearth. "Are you asleep,
sir? Have I broke into the wrong house? I'm here to… see…" The eyes
were open, however, their fixed, glassy-eyed stare was unnerving.
Vaughan, who was no stranger to death and had himself almost succumbed
to wounds sustained at the Battle of Quatre Bras, recoiled, the hair on
the back of his neck lifting. He held his breath, put out a hand and
gave the man's shoulder a tentative shake. There was no angry protest,
no resistance at all. Slowly, the soldier slumped to the side.

''Jupiter!" yelped Vaughan, horrified.

He touched the arm of one of three ladies seated on a sofa,
and the
large dowager sagged slightly. The lady to her left sagged more than
slightly, her head lolling in a most horrid fashion.

''What a… ghastly… thing!" he whispered, breaking into a
sweat. His
hand shook as he reached for the slender girl on the far end. A
piercing shriek rang out and his hand was knocked aside. His heart
jumped into his throat. With a terrified shout he fairly leapt back.
The young woman sprang to her feet. The poor creature's mind must have
cracked, he thought dazedly, for in such a place of horror she was
laughing hysterically.

Desperate, he looked about. Three roses in a crystal vase were
displayed on a round occasional table. He snatched up the vase, removed
the roses and flung the water in the face of the convulsed girl. Her
laughter was cut off. She stood rigid and gasping, her eyes (which,
sadly, were very pretty) wide with shock, and water dripping down her
nose.

''Ooo-oh!" she gulped.

''My poor little soul," said Vaughan kindly, setting the vase
aside and putting a consoling arm about her tiny waist.

"
Monster
!" she shrieked, swinging one
damp but efficient hand into cracking contact with his cheek. "How—
dare
—you!"