Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “Not my niece,” muttered Joseph gloomily. “It is the other thorn in my flesh who has returned—odd rot the boy!”

  My lady gave a little scream, her hand flying to her throat. “Geoffrey? But—but you said he would never leave Scotland alive!”

  “No more he should have, damn his tricky soul! I paid a pretty price for his, er—”

  “Extermination?” supplied Otton helpfully.

  Joseph glared at him, but before he could respond, Sybil squeaked, “Is he here? Nearby? My God! My God! We are ruined!” She wrung her little hands pathetically. “Whatever shall we do? He will take back the title and the fortune, and turn us out! He never liked us. We shall be penniless!”

  “Beasley had the presence of mind to set some ruffians after him,” said her spouse, offering his arm and starting slowly back to the house. “Do they fail, you’ll have your chance, Otton. At all events,” he muttered dismally, “if worst comes to worst, the boy’s not a clutchfist—he’ll give us an adequate allowance, I do not doubt.”

  Behind him, Otton’s lip curled contemptuously. “Where is he now, sir?”

  “He was in Trowbridge yesterday,” said his lordship over his shoulder. “Pray God he’ll get no farther north!”

  “Perhaps you had best send me to verify your piety, my lord.”

  My lord’s pudgy face purpled and he spun around, eyes narrowed and venomous. “Have a care, soldier! That damned mouth of yours will run my temper too thin one of these days. There are things I could tell the authorities—”

  “A two-edged sword, Mr. Montgomery,” Otton interposed acidly.

  The implication checked Joseph’s wrath, for it was true that he had a tiger by the tail. If he informed on Otton, the soldier of fortune could inform no less lethally against him—and Sybil, and Beasley. It was borne in upon Joseph, and not for the first time, that this volatile tool would someday have to be quietly and permanently silenced.

  Sybil cried distractedly, “Why must you quarrel? Our way of life is at risk! We must all contrive to protect ourselves!”

  Otton bowed with his usual grace. For a while, at least, this treacherous lump of a man was the goose that laid the golden eggs, besides which, his wife, immoral tart that she was, was an ever-willing lover, and he was quite fond of her. He said with a winning smile, “You are as usual the wise one, ma’am. And I the fool. I ask your pardon, my lord.”

  Mollified, Joseph grunted and walked on, his wife flashing a smile at the Captain, and Otton unobtrusively kissing his hand to her.

  They entered the great house through the rear terrace and the book room. Beasley waited there, and he glowered to see Otton saunter into the room behind Joseph and Sybil. Beasley, unhappily conscious of his florid, heavy features and ungainly body, was jealous of Otton’s good looks and superb physique, feared his fighting capabilities, and resented the easy arrogance with which the younger man carried himself. “Gives himself all the airs of the aristocrat,” he had grumbled to Joseph, to which his friend had shrugged. “How d’ye know he ain’t one?” This was unanswerable, as Otton’s past was shrouded in mystery, but the uneasy suspicion that the soldier might be better born than he himself (the pampered product of a family of cits) did little to reduce Beasley’s dislike of the man.

  Sybil demanded, as she sank onto the sofa, “Thomas, are you sure it was my nephew? Joseph sent men to Scotland to—er, handle matters.”

  “You arranged that for me, Otton,” growled Joseph. “Another of your bungles.”

  Otton had been expecting this attack. He said coolly, “If Geoffrey escaped the rogues I hired, he either bears a charmed life or had a great deal of help.” He added with a thoughtful frown, “One must hope the help did not wear red coats.”

  “It was Geoffrey, I tell you,” said Beasley. “Or,” he amended slyly, “perhaps I should say—it was Lord Delavale.”

  Otton grinned behind his hand. His lordship raged, “If I lose the title, Tom, you’re like to lose your head, so smirk not!”

  “I have done nothing,” said Beasley. “The boy did not see me, I took good care of that. Besides, he was preoccupied. Had a damned pretty lightskirt with him. He told the host she was his betrothed.”

  “Betrothed!” gasped Sybil. “My heavens! Suppose—suppose she’s his wife!”

  “Married or not, she’ll be here in jig time, has she an eye to the fortune,” Otton murmured.

  “She’ll be too busy arranging for a funeral,” said Beasley. “I sent four good men, Joseph. Geoffrey’s dead as a doornail this very minute!”

  The door was flung open. His voice shrill with excitement, Hargrave announced, “Lord Geoffrey Delavale!”

  White as death, Sybil sprang to her feet; Joseph, who had just taken a mouthful of brandy, choked and dropped his glass; Beasley gave a yelp of shock and spun to face the door; Otton’s eyes narrowed and he crouched a little as one prepared for action.

  Geoffrey Montgomery, sixth Baron Delavale, strode into the room, pale with anger. His eyes swept the occupants and came to rest, blazing, on his uncle. “What the devil have you done to my mother’s flowerbeds?” he demanded.

  “I—I—” gulped Joseph, his face like putty.

  “She loved those gardens. By what right—”

  “Geoffrey! Oh, my dearest boy!” With a rush and a rustle, Sybil was upon her nephew and he was wrapped in two soft arms, engulfed in a cloud of heady perfume, and his head pulled down to be kissed, all in an instant. Unnerved, he shrank back. “Aunt … Sybil,” he muttered, with difficulty disentangling himself.

  “We thought you were dead, dearest boy.”

  “By Gad, Geoffrey,” exclaimed Joseph, coming forward belatedly, hand outstretched. “What a shock! I wonder I did not suffer a seizure!”

  “Then you will know how I felt when I saw my denuded lawns,” snapped Delavale, pointedly ignoring his uncle’s hand.

  Joseph glared at him. Thomas Beasley also glared at him. Roland Otton, observing the scene with sardonic enjoyment, folded his arms and waited.

  “And while you’re at it,” Delavale went on, “I should like an explanation of why my sister was obliged to flee this house.”

  “She took up with a traitorous damned rebel,” blustered Joseph.

  His head high and slightly backward tilted, his drooping eyelids conveying the scorn that had always enraged his uncle, Delavale drawled, “To the contrary, sir. Penelope attempted to befriend an old friend of my father’s, whom I had offered sanctuary. As head of this house, I—”

  “You will, I trust,” Sybil interpolated desperately, “introduce us to this charming girl.”

  Prudence watched from the doorway. Delavale groaned, “Oh, Gad! Did it again, didn’t I?” He hurried over to take her hand, and she smiled up at him in so revealing a way that Sybil and her husband exchanged a mournful glance.

  Leading her into the room, Delavale said, “This lady is Miss Prudence MacTavish. Her father was exceeding kind and hospitable whilst I was in Scotland, and entrusted her to my escort. She goes to stay with relations. Prudence, may I present my uncle, Joseph Montgomery, and my aunt, Sybil.” His gaze flickered to Beasley and Otton. “And two of their friends—Beasley, and the dark chap is Roland Otton.”

  Prudence curtseyed, startled by the ravishing beauty of the golden-haired Sybil, and by the admiration in the velvety black eyes of the pale young Adonis Geoffrey had introduced so cuttingly. Joseph deigned a jerky bow; Beasley nodded bleakly; Otton smiled a slow, appraising smile.

  “My dear!” gushed Sybil, fervently wishing Prudence had smothered in her cradle. “You cannot know how joyous an occasion is this, to have our nephew restored to us.”

  Prudence said with a demure smile, “I can guess, ma’am.”

  Delavale gave a grin. Otton turned amused eyes to Joseph and encountered a murderous look. He lifted his brows questioningly. Joseph’s head tilted surreptitiously towards his nephew. Otton pursed his lips, shrugged, and nodded. He pushed his hips away from the end of the sofa an
d sauntered to the credenza to refill his glass.

  “We—must have a—a celebration,” Sybil declared, breathless but trying.

  “Capital idea,” said Joseph with equally forced heartiness.

  “Nonsense,” said Delavale.

  Otton chuckled, but a quick flush of anger replaced Joseph’s pallor and Delavale, wishing to spare Prudence the scene that must follow, went to tug on the bellpull.

  That the news had spread was very evident, for almost before he had turned about, the door opened to admit the housekeeper, her eyes bright with curiosity. He had never liked the woman, but one was not rude to females, and therefore he said with chill politeness, “As you can see, Mrs. King, I survived in spite of”—he looked steadily at his uncle—“of everything. Miss MacTavish has had a long, tiring journey and will want to rest. Please show her to our best guest suite.”

  Mrs. King’s eyes darted to Joseph. “Mr. Beasley’s things have been put in the blue room, my lord. I—”

  “Remove them. Mr. Beasley is leaving.” Delavale directed a chill stare at the sputtering Beasley. “Momentarily.” He took Prudence’s hand and said in a very different tone, “Mrs. King will assign a maid to you on a temporary basis, ma’am. You will please to ring for any least thing you desire.”

  Prudence saw malevolence in Joseph’s eyes and, frightened, murmured, “I would prefer to stay here with you, sir.”

  He smiled down at her. “Then come back so soon as you are rested and have put off your travelling clothes.” And to Mrs. King he added, “Miss MacTavish’s abigail is following with the rest of her luggage. Cole returned with me. The other man is called Stuart MacLeod. He is to be found a nice room in the main house. Thank you, that will be all.”

  Mrs. King quailed before the hauteur in his dark gaze. She felt impelled to drop a curtsey, and went out, considerably shaken, ushering Prudence before her.

  Having opened the door for them, Delavale closed it and turned to face four stares: two wrathful, one anxious, and one black and sardonically impenetrable. “I would suggest you leave us, ma’am,” he said.

  Sybil fluttered, “I do not know why you seem so—almost cold, dearest Geoffrey. But—I shall stay, if you please.”

  “So be it.” He turned frigid eyes on his uncle. “I’ll have an accounting now, sir.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” Joseph struck an offended pose. “You were reported killed in action. I took over my duties as head of the family, and—”

  “And proceeded to ruin the grounds, discharge the servants who have served my family for many years, and drive my sister from her home! You’ve an odd interpretation of your ‘duties,’ sir!”

  His angry flush deepening, Joseph took the weak man’s refuge and lost his temper. “Do not take that tone with me, you traitorous young whelp. D’ye think I don’t know what you’ve been about in Scotland?”

  “If you knew what I was doing in Scotland, you also knew I was alive, and thus had no right whatsoever to claim either the title or the fortune.”

  Joseph huffed and puffed and finally blustered, “We believed the report of your death for some time. Later, it—it seemed unlikely you would survive your wounds. When we learned you were involved in treasonable activities—”

  “Which you could only have learned by intercepting my letters to my sister! I sent Tim Buchanan here, and now there is some doubt but that he was betrayed to his death!” Eyes narrowing with wrath, Delavale stalked forward. “Your doing, my noble kinsman?”

  His face twitching with nervousness, Joseph drew himself up. “Have a care, sir!”

  “I sent Quentin Chandler here, and I now learn that he only escaped thanks to the intervention of my dear sister.”

  “Chandler is a rogue and a traitor. He was involved in a plot to smuggle a cargo of Jacobite gold across England! And when poor Otton here strove to protect your sister from his lecherous advances, he was nigh killed for his pains and is but now recovered.”

  “What a pity,” said Delavale, darting a contemptuous glance at the soldier of fortune.

  “Do you doubt the veracity of your uncle’s tale?” Otton waved a graceful hand. “It was a fair duel, I’ll admit. But—I can show you the scar.”

  “If you took a wound, Captain Otton, it was more likely that you were attempting to run off with my sister. I recollect you had a tendre for her, and I’d put no villainy past you!”

  Otton’s dark eyes flashed and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  Dabbing at tears that had nothing to do with remorse, Sybil wailed, “Of what avail is all this? You come home and are gladly welcomed, but—but say all these dreadful things and threaten to put us out … and whatever is to—”

  Beasley, who had been watching in glowering silence, interrupted rudely, “And why has he come home after all this time? I’ll warrant I know! He was the one sending out the couriers. Likely he’s one himself, and has a cypher concealed about his person!”

  An electric silence fell. Glancing from one suddenly hungry face to the next, Delavale knew that he was in peril in his own home and from his own family. His hand dropped to his sword hilt. He said coldly, “I do not recall asking for your drivel, Beasley. As for your abode, ma’am, you—”

  Joseph’s hot little eyes were glowing at the thought that his nephew who brought so deadly a threat might also be the source of untold riches. “It’s true, by Jupiter,” he said in a half-whisper. “He is a courier! Only look at how he reaches for his sword. By God, but you’ll hand the cypher over, Geoffrey, or—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Delavale, his hand tightening about the grip of his sword. “Two of my men wait in the hall, and Miss MacTavish is above stairs. Do you dare threaten me in my own house?”

  “One does not threaten a traitor,” declared Joseph, moving closer.

  Delavale whipped sword from scabbard. “Stay back, or by God, I shall—”

  “Do—precisely—nothing,” purred Otton. A sleek pistol was held steadily in his hand, aimed straight at Delavale’s heart.

  “One shot,” said Delavale, “and you will have everyone in the house down here.”

  “And almost everyone in the house is loyal to Joseph,” said Beasley. “Not to you. I’ll tell Hargrave to call the men.”

  “Do you move a step closer to that bellrope, my fat friend,” said Delavale, “I shall cut you down. Never look at my uncle’s paid killer. He’ll not dare shoot, which he knows as well as I.”

  The door burst open. Delavale’s back was to it, and he dared not glance from the threat that faced him.

  Otton smiled. “How obliging. Do come in, Miss MacTavish.”

  With a dismayed gasp, Delavale spun around. He had been fooled by an old trick. Instead of Prudence, Mrs. King stood on the threshold, her goggling eyes taking in the scene.

  Delavale jerked back immediately, but with a pantherish leap, Otton sent the pistol flailing at his head. Delavale swayed aside and whipped up his sword, but with courage born of desperation, Sybil snatched up a heavy candelabra and threw it with such accuracy that the sword was smashed from Delavale’s hand. Otton grabbed his wrist, twisting it back; Beasley clamped a brutal grasp on his other arm. Joseph drew back his hamlike fist, his eyes glittering with triumph.

  Recovering her wits, Mrs. King squealed, “Soldiers! There be soldiers in the house!”

  XXI

  Prudence thanked the timid housemaid and, clad in the hastily pressed pink silken gown, stepped into the hall. The staircase wound in a central spiral through the three storeys of the great house and, walking to the well, she looked down to the ground floor. She could see many servants milling about in the main hall, and there was a deal of flurried, low-voiced chatter, especially between the tall butler and the housekeeper. Prudence smiled faintly. They would do well to be disturbed, for from what Geoffrey had told her, they had made his poor sister miserably unhappy. She could not be easy to think of him, alone in the drawing room with Joseph and his cronies, and she trod
swiftly down the stairs.

  She was descending the final flight when she became aware that the servants had dispersed and that there was some kind of commotion outside. Uneasy, she slowed her steps. Mrs. King fairly shot across the hall and galloped to the drawing room. Her heart beginning to flutter, Prudence followed. She approached the door in time to hear Mrs. King’s dramatic pronouncement. Once again, the cold and familiar hand of fear had her in its grip. There were no uniforms to be seen, but the housekeeper was plainly terrified. “My Gawd!” she gasped. “I don’t want none of this, I don’t!” and she fled back the way she had come, brushing past Prudence without a check.

  Hurrying to the drawing room, Prudence closed the open door and leaned back against it, stunned. The occupants were gathered in a close unmoving group, like the figures in a charade. Geoffrey’s sword was on the floor; Otton and Beasley held his arms, and Joseph Montgomery’s upraised fist was menacingly clenched.

  From beyond the door a loathed voice rang out. “Where is the master? No, not Montgomery. Captain Lord Delavale. I know he’s here!”

  Prudence shrank, the name ‘Cunningham!’ emblazoned on her mind.

  The frozen tableau sprang to life. Otton released Delavale, picked up the fallen sword, and handed it to him. Beasley ran to sit in an armchair and snatch up a glass of wine. Sybil and Joseph hastened to occupy the sofa. Geoffrey raced to the credenza and emptied the contents of a small rumpled bag into a comfit dish. His hair was dishevelled, and he thrust a quick hand through it, which was of little help. Prudence ran to his side, and he scowled as though vexed to see her there.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Delacourt.”

  Delavale wrenched his eyes from Prudence’s bewildered little face and turned about, brows lifting in apparent surprise. “Colonel Cunningham! Jove, but you travel swiftly.”

  “And sadly,” declared Cunningham with doubtful veracity since his hard eyes fairly blazed with triumph. “You cannot know how it grieves me to have to arrest one of my officers for desertion … at the very least.” Since Delavale betrayed nothing more than polite interest, he thought that this was going to be more difficult than he had hoped, and said with an air of regret, “How do you do, Miss MacTavish? I am glad to find you safe, but sorry to find you in such company.”