Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “What the deuce kind of remark is that?” demanded Joseph, affronted.

  “My uncle, sir,” said Delavale, his mind racing. “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Montgomery—Colonel Cunningham. Mr. Beasley. And this is—”

  “We are acquainted.” Having bowed shortly to the Montgomerys and Beasley, the Colonel turned a speculative gaze upon Otton. “Faith, but you never cease to astound me, my dear Roland. I’d fancied to have seen the end of you in Flanders, and here you are again. I wonder what you are after this time. Treasure?”

  Five startled pairs of eyes shot to Otton. He smiled faintly. “Always, sir. Always. And you?”

  “My treasure, alas, is dross.” Cunningham’s gaze returned to the dark young man who stood straight and tall beside the girl. Delavale looked proud and oddly regal, and the girl’s hair gleamed like a flame around her pale face. He thought a detached, ‘They make a fine couple. Pity.’ And he snapped his fingers.

  Delavale stood motionless as a Sergeant and a trooper marched across the room to position themselves on both sides of him. His heart sank, but as usual, at the approach of danger a tingle of excitement went through him. “Sir?” he said, managing to sound astonished. “Am I to deduce that you believe me to have deserted?”

  “I wonder why I should assume such a thing,” said Cunningham with a twisted smile. “Only because you used an assumed name whilst you were in Scotland?”

  “I think you are provoked, Colonel, but the truth is that after I was hit I was quite incapacitated for several months. The people who rescued me on the field mistook me for poor Delacourt. I was told that was my name, and I believed it.”

  “They call it amnesia, I believe.” Cunningham smiled. “How convenient.”

  It would have pleased Joseph Montgomery had his nephew been so accommodating as to die of his wounds. He would have been only mildly remorseful had Beasley’s hired assassins done their job properly here in England, or Otton’s men succeeded in Scotland. But for Geoffrey to be dragged to the Tower of London, put to the question, and, eventually, condemned to a traitor’s death did not suit him at all. It was not the prospect of his nephew being tortured and killed that appalled him. He had no use for either of his brother’s children and was quite aware that Geoffrey disliked him. He was equally aware that the boy would make adequate—probably generous—provision for him and Sybil. If Delavale should die a traitor’s death, however, his estates would be forfeit, leaving Joseph penniless. A horrid circumstance. Therefore, although he was very frightened, he now intervened, his voice louder than ever. “What the devil d’you mean, sir, by bursting in here and upsetting my dear wife? We’ve scarce had time to welcome m’nephew and his guest. And since when is it become a treasonable act to lose one’s memory? A pretty pass we’ve come to, if a peer can be summarily brought to book for such nonsense! You’d as well arrest me for believing him killed!”

  “Not at all, sir.” A gleam lighting his cold eyes, Cunningham replied, “I have no doubt at all of your motive in doing so.”

  “The … deuce…!” Purpling, Joseph stood up and stepped forward.

  Cunningham’s voice was ice. “It is only fair to warn you, Mr. Montgomery, that if any here attempt to interfere in this matter, they will be arrested as conspirators!”

  Sybil gave a whimper of terror and ran to clutch her husband’s arm. The high colour draining from his face, Joseph led her to the rear of the room, temporarily, at least, out of the line of fire.

  “As for you, Captain.” Cunningham turned back to Delavale. “The first charge against you is desertion in time of war. The second, and major charge, is of fermenting rebellion and unrest among the Scots; of assisting numerous enemies of the State to escape apprehension, and of treasonable activities against the Crown while masquerading under the name of Ligun Doone.”

  At this terrible list of crimes, Prudence felt dizzied and sick. Sybil gave a shriek and sank, half fainting, against a pallid-faced Joseph. Delavale, his expression one of tolerant amusement, decided that if worst came to worst, he would try to fight his way out. Better to die quickly.

  Genuinely surprised, Otton started and exclaimed, “By God! I thought Doone was a Scot!”

  “He is,” said Prudence, trying to speak clearly though her lips felt cold and numb. “It is a mistake, is all.”

  Delavale murmured, “Am I to understand, Colonel, that you suspect me of being a Scot? No, but I do assure you that I was born in this very house.”

  Irked by the complete lack of panic in his prey, Cunningham rasped, “I accuse you of being Ligun Doone, not of being a Scot. I will not ask you for a refutation, however. You would doubtless suffer another ‘lapse of memory,’ and I detest to waste time. It will go easier on you, my lord, if you confess now and hand over the cypher.”

  Whether it was a bluff, or whether Cunningham had certain knowledge that he carried the cypher, Delavale could not guess. He frowned as though perplexed. “Cypher? Sir, I must disappoint you. I have no cypher.”

  “Alas, my lord. You leave me no alternative but to have you searched.”

  Trembling with terror, and sure that the deadly cypher was even now residing in the comfit dish, Joseph spluttered, “Search a peer? ’Sblood, but the fella babbles like a halfwit. What’s all this about a cypher?”

  “Nothing that need concern you, Mr. Montgomery,” said Cunningham. “Unless your nephew proves to have it concealed about his person, or in this house. In which case, it will be my unhappy duty to arrest you all. Well, my lord? Have you decided to be sensible and hand it over?”

  “I think I am a reasonable man, sir. But if you wish to search me—or my home—I shall have to ask to see your warrant.”

  Cunningham’s jaw set. The truth was that he had no warrant. His General had been sceptical that any English aristocrat who had been brutally handled by the Scots would subsequently so bestir himself in their behalf. Nor had he been easy as to the consequences of mistakenly arresting a peer of the realm. Eager for promotion and convinced his suspicions were justified, Cunningham had gone over his General’s head and had approached his Grace the Duke of Cumberland in the matter. His Grace, infuriated by Ligun Doone’s successes, had roared hearty approval. He had always applauded initiative in his officers, he said, and did Cunningham pull off his coup, he would be “suitably and gratefully rewarded.” That, of course, meant the long yearned for promotion, but Cunningham was under no illusions. If things went awry, his Grace would have no part of it, and the first to be flung to the lions would be himself.

  There was no hint of any of this in his demeanour, however, when he said with cold inflexibility that no warrants were needed for traitors. “Sergeant, I want Lord Delavale stripped and thoroughly searched. Leave no seam or lining of his clothing intact. We seek a quite small piece of parchment containing a poem. Otton—be so good as to escort the ladies from the room.”

  Delavale turned to Prudence and reached for her hand. It was cold as ice, and he squeezed it and said coolly, “My dear lady, I am indeed sorry that your arrival at Highview has been marred in this ridiculous fashion. I fear that poor Cunningham has been ill advised, but we must give him enough rope, so please do not be alarmed.”

  Taking her cue from him, she murmured, “But, my lord, it is so disgraceful. Do you mean to do nothing?”

  “No need, ma’am. My solicitors will handle matters.”

  He looked so calm, so unruffled; certainly not afraid. Commencing to experience the first twinges of nerves, Cunningham’s choler rose. “Very impressive,” he snapped. “Captain Otton?”

  Ten minutes later, grim-lipped and inwardly seething, Delavale adjusted the lace at his wrists, shrugged into the jacket the butler had brought him, and enquired, “Well, Colonel? You have torn to shreds several perfectly serviceable articles of clothing and a costly pair of boots. I have explained why I did not advise you of my true identity. I have told you how Miss MacTavish and I were abducted from Lakepoint and held for ransom, and why I have only now managed to return
here. I have yet to hear one iota of evidence against me.”

  “You will, my lord,” said the Colonel with a tight smile. “A witness is en route here who will testify as to your treachery in so damning a way you must be convicted beyond hope of reprieve. Otton, I ask you as a former officer in the service of our King, did this traitor hand anything to anyone upon arriving? Did you see him put anything away, or go to any drawer or cupboard? There is a large reward for the capture of Ligun Doone, to say nothing of the amount offered for the cypher he likely carries.”

  Very aware of the mercenary nature of his hired sword, and of his lack of loyalty to any but himself, Joseph stared at Otton in mute despair. Beasley, his heart leaping crazily, began to weave desperate schemes to exonerate himself from any suspicion of complicity in Joseph’s activities. Delavale stood very still, prepared for the words that would spell his doom. Otton had seen him empty the toffees into the comfit dish. The man’s impenetrable gaze was steady on him. He knew. A few words only, and he could collect the rewards, while the rest of them would face arrest, and his own fate— Delavale forced his mind away from that horror.

  Otton said smoothly, “It is very fortunate that I am here to be your eyes and ears, Colonel. I saw Delavale enter the house. I’ve not left his side since. To my knowledge, he has hid nothing since he came.”

  A tremor shook Delavale. His hands were suddenly wet, but he dared not show relief, and said with a frown, “One can but hope you are satisfied, sir.”

  Cunningham’s jaw was a grim jut. He scowled at the shredded garments the trooper still pawed through. Then, watching Delavale keenly, said, “Bring in the ladies, if you please, Sergeant.”

  Delavale tensed.

  Otton murmured, “I wish I might have had better news for you, sir. Perchance you should search his saddle.”

  “My men have attended to that. No, I think it more likely he has passed the cypher to his lady—er, friend.”

  “You go too far, Cunningham,” grated Delavale. “I escorted Miss MacTavish here. If I had this cypher you speak of, do you seriously think I would imperil her with it?”

  Archibald Cunningham was a ruthless and ambitious individual, but he was a good officer, and he knew men. He was very sure that nothing would have induced Delavale to place a lady in jeopardy. But he was equally sure now that the girl was Delavale’s Achilles’ heel, and he meant to make good use of that fact. “Come in, Miss MacTavish,” he called genially. “Poor lady, you have had a very sad time of it, his lordship tells me. Captured by thieves and murderers; held prisoner in a great cave! Egad, ’tis no wonder he felt safer with the poem in your possession. I will relieve you of it, ma’am.”

  Prudence had dreaded what she might find when allowed to return to the drawing room. She was relieved to see Geoffrey looking white and furious but unharmed, and noting also his grim look of warning, she said calmly, “That should be simple to do, Colonel, save that I do not recall his lordship ever giving me any poetry.”

  Otton, his eyes dancing, murmured, “I hereby volunteer to search the lady.”

  Prudence drew back instinctively.

  Cursing, Delavale sprang at him, and the Sergeant and trooper ran to seize his arms and jerk him away. “Do you lay a hand on her,” he raged, “and as God is my judge, I swear I shall—”

  “You shall be imprisoned in the Tower, Captain,” snapped Cunningham. “And it looks as if you mean to drag this poor lady to her death beside you.” He strode closer to Delavale and, his voice rising, thundered, “Hand over the cypher now, and spare her!”

  “I have not got your cypher—damn you!”

  “Rank insubordination,” said Otton, chidingly. “Sir, I wonder you—”

  The hall door burst open. The butler said, “Colonel Cunningham. There is a man come asking for you.”

  “Bring him in!” His eyes bright, Cunningham said, “Now you will see how stupid you are to lie to me, Delavale!”

  Hurrying footsteps in the hall, and every eye was fixed on the doorway. A man came up, paused on the threshold an instant, then came inside.

  Prudence’s dread was justified, and despair overwhelmed her.

  His heart plummeting, Delavale thought an anguished, ‘We have come so far. Almost, we escaped…’ Prudence looked at him, tears trembling on her lashes. Somehow, he made his lips smile at her.

  “Mr. Sidley,” said Cunningham, advancing to greet the newcomer. “My dear fellow, how very good in you to come all this distance. I was never more pleased than to hear of your miraculous escape.”

  “Miraculous indeed,” replied Sidley, his stern gaze fixed on Delavale. “I doubt you can credit, sir, how glad I was to answer your summons and come down here. Such despicable treachery must not be allowed to go unpunished.”

  “No more it shall, I promise you. We lack only the verification of it by a witness such as yourself. Had you any suspicion, poor fellow, of the fate that awaited you when you agreed to the scheme Captain Delavale proposed?”

  “No, sir. I have a deep loathing for the Jacobites and I was willing, nay, eager, to do what I might to apprehend the traitor. But I’ll own I had hoped to come safely back to Lakepoint, as the Captain—I had thought his name was Delacourt, sir—as he had said would certainly transpire.”

  “Aye. Instead of which, you were seized and held captive and damn near killed! I can well imagine how you must have felt when you saw the Captain arrive.”

  “There are no words to express it. I thought that great heathen had killed him, sir. And the next instant, he had turned his brutality on me. My head ached for days afterwards, and I was not hurt near so bad as the Captain.”

  Cunningham frowned a little. “How’s that? You mean—some one of the rebels made a mistake?”

  “Oh, I don’t think I would call it that, Colonel. They hate us, you know. And in a way I cannot blame them, for had my boy lived, I know he’d not have liked to see what the Duke of Cumber—”

  “Yes, well, never mind that. What I mean is, when they realized their leader was come among them, they must have been wild with joy. And you, my dear chap, must have fancied you’d succeeded beyond your wildest hopes.”

  Sidley shook his head rather despondently. “Oh. Well, I never saw him, you know.”

  Delavale, who had been watching the erstwhile butler narrowly, was already experiencing the first stirrings of hope. Not daring to look at Prudence, he waited tensely.

  “Never saw him?” echoed Cunningham, glaring at Sidley. “You just said that you saw Delavale ride in.”

  “Oh, yes. I saw the Captain and Miss MacTavish, poor lady. But I did not see the man they call Ligun Doone. They took good care of that.”

  Through the following deathly hush, Cunningham became very white and then as red. “Do you say,” he snarled, “do you say that the man standing before you—” He flung an arm ferociously in the general direction of Delavale. “Do you say he is not Ligun Doone?”

  Sidley’s eyes opened very wide, and his jaw dropped with what Delavale thought admirable ‘astonishment.’ “Captain … Delacourt…?” he gasped.

  “No!” roared Cunningham, savage with frustration. “Captain Lord Geoffrey Delavale!”

  “Lord?” said Sidley, impressed. “I never knew you was a lord, sir.”

  His eyes beginning to dance, Delavale said, “Well, you see I—”

  “I do not give one thin damn whether you knew he was a lord,” Cunningham howled. “Is he, or is he not, Ligun Doone?”

  “Well, of course he’s not, sir,” Sidley answered. “They’d scarce have tried to kill him, had he been. Very near succeeded, too. Indeed, I am most glad to see you well, my lord,” he added, turning to beam at Delavale.

  “It is a conspiracy!” Cunningham raged, his face purpling. “Damn your eyes, I will—”

  Delavale interposed in a voice of steel. “You will be well advised to abandon this unfortunate obsession. I have the greatest respect for your rank and your abilities, Colonel, but I must warn you that if you
do not cease this persecution, I shall have no choice but to lay the matter in the hands of my solicitors and lodge a formal complaint at the Horse Guards. You have invaded my home, intimidated my servants, frightened my family, destroyed my property, threatened me, and all without a vestige of proof.” And for once in his life using his rank, he added sternly, “As a British peer, I am not obliged to stand still for such nonsense. My godparent, the Duke of Marbury, is expected here momentarily, and I should grieve to have his Grace disturbed by this fiasco.”

  It was a telling stroke. Marbury was a confidant of His Majesty, a man of tremendous wealth and power, and known to be a placid, rather bored individual who could become a terror when aroused. Torn between rage and self-preservation, the Colonel chewed his lower lip, clenched his fists, glared at Delavale, and, grasping at his last straw, said hoarsely, “You are, nonetheless, most assuredly guilty of desertion, and—”

  “Ah—I had quite forgot to tell you. During my illness in the cavern I regained my memory. Therefore, as soon as we reached England, I reported to the army post at Bath, explained my absence, and advised the commanding officer that I will be selling out. Major Price-Danby was most understanding. He has forwarded my papers to Whitehall, and advised me to consider myself on medical leave until the separation can be effected.”

  Quivering with mortification, Cunningham gritted, “Very clever. You think to have won, but we shall see who has the last laugh, Delavale!” He turned and began to stamp out, pausing only to bow jerkily to Sybil, whose charms had done little to calm his emotions.

  Always aware when a gentleman found her desirable, she cried, “Oh, poor Colonel! Such a disappointment. We must not send you off angry. Here…” She had been scrambling to the sofa when Cunningham arrived and thus had not seen Delavale fill the comfit dish, but noting it contained sweets, she took it up and swung with a flutter of skirts to offer it to the glowering officer.