Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  To leave had been the most painful experience of her life. Quentin also had seemed saddened and vowed he would be at Highview before the month was out, to visit the Montgomerys. Papa had despatched several letters urging that Sir Brian and his sons visit Oxfordshire, but they had not come. The following year Geoffrey had heard through friends that Quentin was in Rome, taking the Grand Tour in the company of his father’s chaplain. Then, early in the autumn of 1744, Lord Delavale had walked out at dawn to watch his beloved birds, despite the annoyance of a bad cold. He had come home with a slight fever, and a week later was dead. Penelope had not yet put off her blacks when her brother had ridden off to war, so soon to fall. There could be no thought of marriage whilst she was in mourning—nor did she mean to accept any of the gentlemen who had previously courted her. How could she, when her heart belonged forever to Quentin Chandler? If, on some glorious golden morning he should come riding up the drive-path to claim her … She sighed wistfully. An unlikely prospect. But even though he would probably never come and thus doom her to spinsterhood, there were worse fates. The lot of a spinster must be infinitely preferable to being the wife of a man for whom one could feel neither liking nor respect.

  She took up the Holland cover absently, knowing why she had been so frightened when she’d fancied someone stood behind her. She’d thought it might be Roland Otton. The repellent creature admired her, there could be no doubt of it. The gall of the man! She was the daughter of a baron. Her father’s family could trace their lineage to the twelfth century, and Mama’s people had been numbered among those brave Saxons who had striven against the invading Normans in 1066. All anyone knew of Otton was that he claimed the rank of Captain (which Geoffrey had said was probably self-bestowed) and that he had a splendid physique and a countenance so darkly handsome that it was a distinct shock when one first beheld him. Scarcely sufficient grounds for a gentleman to look at a lady as Otton had taken to looking at her. But then—Penelope’s lip curled scornfully—Captain Roland Otton could not be taken for a gentleman. He had come to Highview two years earlier, in Joseph Montgomery’s train. The first time she had met the man she’d been in deep mourning for her father, yet Otton’s bold eyes, near as dark as the stuff of her gown, had roved her from head to toe, a gleam coming into them as they drifted back to meet her haughty frown. Unabashed, he had grinned and bowed sweepingly, then reached out to shake hands with her brother. The Captain’s impertinence had not escaped Geoffrey, however. He had quite “failed to see” the extended hand, and Otton had been relegated to his list of ‘Contemptibles’; a judgement he had not amended to the day of his death.

  A growl of distant thunder recalled Penelope to the present and, impatient with her ponderings, she turned to the side door. Her movement was very sudden, and she saw the shadow that whipped across the hall. There was someone here! Her blood seemed to congeal, and she felt stifled with dread. Had Otton followed her? Was he lying in wait, ready to force his attentions on her the instant she stepped into the hall? A sob of helplessness rose in her throat. She was totally alone. Even if she should scream there was not a soul within hearing distance. ‘God help me!’ she thought numbly. ‘What can I do?’ Do something, she must! She could not simply cower in fear and trembling until the wretched man came and ravaged her. The prospect of such an outrage made her blaze with anger, and fear was routed. If Otton attempted to assault her, he would pay dearly for his villainy! Thank heaven that when dear Nurse had been denied the pension Papa had promised, and gone to Exeter to live with her sister, she had left the estate cutlery in the cottage. Penelope slid the top right-hand drawer open. The long-bladed carving knife was still there. Her fingers slipped around the handle, and she took up the Holland cover, concealing the knife beneath it.

  Her nerves tight but her resolution unwavering, she marched to the door. All was quiet, save for the pattering of the rain, but as she stepped into the hall she heard a faint sound to her right. From the corner of her eye she could see nothing untoward. Her heart was leaping about wildly, but she continued to the front door. At any second she expected to hear hasty footsteps. The skin of her back began to creep and the knife handle slipped in her wet hand. She was almost to the door. She opened it somehow, praying Otton would not be lounging outside, watching her with his lazy, suggestive grin.…

  But only a drifting veil of misty air awaited her. Vaguely noting that the rain had stopped, she pulled the door to and made her way to the side of the house. Missy whickered an amiable greeting. Furtively, Penelope slipped her knife into the leather sheath that ran down the stirrup before she went through the motions of rubbing down the mare. Finishing, she draped the sodden cotton over an empty barrel and led Missy around to the front. She was taut with fear, but still there was no sign of the intruder. The front step aided her scramble into the side-saddle, her wet garments hampering her and forbidding any attempt at speed. Not daring to betray fear, even now, she tapped her heels and Missy trotted down the path. Only then did Penelope allow a choked sob to escape her. Her bones felt like jelly, but as soon as they were beyond the garden she urged Missy to a canter.

  At first, she was so overwrought that all she could think of was her amazing good fortune. But gradually, as terror faded and the thunder of her heart eased, it came to her that whoever had been in the cottage could very easily have prevented her leaving. Perhaps some poor starving vagrant had taken shelter from the rain, even as she had done, and been just as afraid of her as she had been of him. Or—and more logically—perhaps some wretched Jacobite fugitive, flying desperately for his life and hounded by soldiers and bounty hunters, had used the cottage as a temporary haven of refuge. She drew a deep breath. Either way she had been spared, and she whispered a small prayer of gratitude.

  The sky was lightening as she crossed the meadow and, by the time she topped the last gentle rise and looked down upon the misted outline of the great house that was Highview Manor, the sun was slanting a few crimson spears through the clouds. Missy smelled home now and began to canter, and then, as they entered the small stand of birches that ran along beside the stream, a man rode out before them and Penelope had no choice but to rein to a halt.

  Roland Otton, clad in a magnificently tailored olive-green riding coat, a small-sword strapped above his lean middle and a tricorne set at a rakish angle upon his thick, elegantly powdered hair, bowed in the saddle. “Thank God you are safe, dear Miss Montgomery! Your uncle is fairly beside himself, and your aunt is nigh prostrated with anxiety. Is aught amiss?”

  “The only thing amiss, sir,” she replied tartly, “is that you block my way. Be so good as to move aside.”

  He guided his tall chestnut to the edge of the narrow drive, but reached out to seize Penelope’s rein. “Sweet lady,” he began.

  Through clenched teeth, she gritted, “Captain Otton … let me pass!”

  “But of course.” He placed one gauntletted hand over his heart. “If you do not wish to hear my news…”

  The velvety black eyes twinkled. A smile tugged at the corners of his shapely lips, and he waved her on grandiloquently.

  Touched by apprehension, she walked Missy past. “I am not so very late,” she said in a tentative probing. “I scarce fancy my aunt and uncle are thrown into despair.”

  Otton reined the chestnut alongside Missy, keeping pace with her. “’Tis more than that, m’dear.”

  Stiffening at the familiarity, Penelope exclaimed, “How—dare you!”

  “Egad!” He put one hand briefly across those dancing black eyes. “A slip of the tongue, merely. My humblest apologies. ’Tis only that—I’ve so much to tell you.”

  How gentle and winning the smile. How wistfully admiring the gaze. And how she loathed this ingratiatingly charming, treacherous young man! Yet he obviously was abrim with news, and so she said merely, “Pray see that your tongue does not slip again.”

  He sighed, and they rode side by side to the ancient stone bridge, she curious and uneasy, he maddeningly silent.


  They were clattering up the high-arching structure before she prompted, “Well, sir?”

  “You bade me hold my tongue,” he responded meekly. “I had thought—”

  “Oh, have done with your nonsense! What is it you taunt me with?”

  “Taunt…? Ah, how can you utter such cruel words, lovely lady? Am I not your slave, your faithful servant, your most—”

  “My most fulsome servant, ’twould seem. Speak, or have done. I am soaked, Captain, and would seek my chamber.”

  “Fortunate chamber,” he said yearningly, but noting the angry spark in her eyes, went on, “Did you know there are escaped rebels in the neighbourhood? When you failed to return, Lady Sybil feared—”

  “That I had been captured and held for ransom, perhaps?” Penelope gave vent to a small, unladylike snort. “Then she must in truth have been distraught! If my captors demanded a high ransom, whatever would the County say did she refuse to pay it?”

  He laughed softly. “How well you know her, dear Penel—er, Miss Montgomery. And—how well I know the depth of your longing to escape.”

  Startled, Penelope pulled Missy to a sudden halt. “What do you mean?”

  He turned his mount and brought up very close, so that he sat facing her, their knees all but touching. The smile was gone from his mouth now, and he looked very earnest. “Dear lady, can you think I do not see the humiliation that is daily visited upon you? Do you think I do not notice how Lady Sybil abuses and degrades you? With my poor bruised heart beating only for—”

  She said with chill hauteur, “Let us dispense with the disorders of your heart, Captain. Do you seriously suppose I mean to leave Highview? This is my home. The home of my forebears. And I—”

  “Are beyond words miserable.” He reached out to clamp strong fingers over her hand on the reins. “Dearest girl— No! Hear me out! You know my feelings. You cannot fail to have seen that I worship your—”

  Flushed and furious, she interposed, “Worship my—what, sir? I am no beauty. Nor have I a vast fortune to lure such a man as yourself! What is—” But she gave a gasp, really frightened as the hand upon her own tightened so that it was like a steel band around her wrist. His black eyes narrowed smoulderingly. She was jerked closer. His other arm swept around her and in a fluid muscular movement he had dismounted, dragging her with him so that she fell into his embrace.

  “Beauty?” he growled. “What have today’s vapid beauties to say to me? What care I for their simperings and giggling inanities? You have more character in your little finger than any dozen of today’s Toasts have in their entire powdered and scented bodies! Aye, and more sweet passion, I’ll warrant!”

  Enraged, Penelope struggled to no avail. Inexorably, she was crushed against his chest. He was taller than she and, with one arm trapped between them and the other caught up behind her, she was powerless, however she fought.

  “Let me go, you cur!” she panted. “Oh! Did my brother yet live…!”

  “Well, he does not, love. But I do—and you do! And what I see peeping from those lovely, forthright eyes of yours is not coy modesty, but the naked desire of the lusty heart you hide beneath your prudish posing.”

  “Beast!” she hurled at him. “Horrid, impertinent—”

  The balance of her denunciation was smothered as his mouth came down upon her own. All her attempts to evade him were wasted. His lips seared hers in a long, hard kiss. The arm about her tightened until she could scarcely breathe, and his other hand was wandering down her throat, tracing the shape of her breasts, beginning to unfasten the buttons of her habit. Tears of anger and humiliation stung her eyes, but since force would not serve, she relaxed gradually until she leaned limp and yielding in his arms, her lips parting before the insistence of his.

  Otton raised his head, a glow of triumph in the dark eyes that roved hungrily over her backward tilted head and the shapeliness now so lax against his eager body. Easing his grip on her, he began to kiss his way down her throat. “My sweeting,” he murmured huskily, “I always knew that—”

  With all her strength, Penelope tore free and boxed his ear. He gave a startled yelp and recoiled instinctively. With a pantherish spring she got one foot into the stirrup and, desperation lending her strength, leapt to grab the pommel and pull herself up.

  Otton was after her with a shout, only to pause as she rounded on him, her face livid, her eyes glinting as deadly as the steel blade of the knife she held in one purposeful hand. “Stay back, you filthy lecher! Stay back, or as God is my judge, I shall use this!”

  His eyes hardened as he stared first at the unwavering blade, then up into the savagery of her eyes. He laughed suddenly. “I ever loved a maid with spirit.”

  “I do not doubt it. Go and seek one who is also willing. You should find many such in the taverns at Banbury or Oxford!” And seeing the dark brows twitch together over his slim, straight nose, she added, “I go to my uncle on the instant, to tell him of how you dared to paw and insult me. Have you any belongings, I advise you to gather them, Captain Otton—or whatever your real name is!”

  It was a bow drawn at random, but that it hit home was evidenced by the shock that came briefly into his face. Then he grinned confidently. “Go to him, then. But he’ll not see you tonight.”

  “He will see me, never fear!”

  “If he does, which I doubt, I can tell you what he’ll say, for I had words with him on the subject of your lovely self, this very day.”

  Gathering the reins with one hand, even as she held the knife firmly with the other, Penelope said, “You lie! Scheming rogue that you are! You lie!”

  “Ask him,” he taunted, folding his arms across his broad chest and laughing up at her. “Or ask her ladyship. She knows.”

  “Anything concerning you, Captain, holds no interest for me.”

  “Oho! What a firebrand! Yet you’ll make me a good wife, nonetheless!”

  Speechless with shock, she stared at him.

  “Aye—wife, m’dear! I told your kindly uncle that I crave, I burn, I shake with the need to wed and bed you. You cannot say there’s aught dishonourable in that—eh?” He chuckled to see her face so white, her eyes stunned with disbelief. “You are mine, sweet shrew. And before the month is out, I’ll have you, soft and naked, under—”

  Quite forgetting the knife in her hand, she lashed at him with the end of the reins. Then, even as he lunged to catch those same reins, she drove home her heels in earnest so that the placid Missy gave a snort of shock and jumped into something resembling a gallop.

  Swiftly, they passed down the other side of the bridge and along the winding drivepath, leaving behind an elegant gentleman who laughed loudly as he watched that whirlwind progress before turning to recapture his own mount.

  * * *

  Highview Manor was an imposing flat-roofed structure situated in the centre of a nice, if not large, park, and surrounded by once neat flower gardens. These latter were now in the process of being torn out, for the prevailing admiration of bare lawns suited the new Lord Delavale. He grudged not a penny spent on mansion or house servants, but flowers he held to be a wasteful affectation, requiring the care of far more gardeners than were needed to care for lawns and shrubs. Besides, the great red brick house, rising to a square three storeys and brightened by white ornamented balustrades, was, he declared, sufficiently striking as to require no further adornment.

  Riding Missy straight up to the front steps instead of going around to the stables as was her usual fashion, Penelope scarcely noticed the further desecration of the flowerbeds Mama had so loved. She dismounted in such haste that she had to run a few steps to catch her balance. The stable boy, sprinting to take Missy’s reins, gawked his astonishment that even so unaffected a lady as Miss Penelope should rush up the steps in such a scrambling way, holding the skirts of her habit so carelessly that almost he could see the tops of her boots.

  The lackey who flung open the door gazed at a point two feet above the sagging ruins of Miss Penelope’
s hat. He had observed her headlong approach with glee, and could scarcely wait to apprise the staff of this latest impropriety.

  “Where,” Penelope demanded breathlessly, “is Lord Delavale?”

  “I believe as his lordship is not to be disturbed, miss,” drawled the lackey, his supercilious gaze still fixed upon the invisible midair marker.

  “I asked you…” Penelope’s bosom heaved as she strove to catch her breath, “a question.”

  Inch by inch, the lackey lowered his gaze until his perpetually bored brown eyes encountered the blaze of her hazel ones. Having discovered that she grasped the carving knife, she now thrust it at him. The boredom left the lackey, abruptly. “Yi!” he yelped, and gave a leap to the rear.

  “Penelope!” shrilled a feminine voice.

  Penelope set her teeth. For the first time since his arrival at Highview the lackey encountered an icy stare that caused him later to advise the staff that Miss Penelope was a blue-blood all right. “Take this at once!” she commanded and, having been gingerly divested of the knife, turned her dishevelled soddenness to face the affronted splendour of Sybil, Lady Delavale.

  Her ladyship, having come to a halt on the last step of the staircase, stood with one hand held to the white swell of her magnificent bosom and gazed in horror at her niece. Although she was nearing forty, Sybil Montgomery was still a lovely woman. Small-boned and dainty, she had only to stand near Penelope to make that young lady feel as tall and ungainly as a camelopard, or giraffe, as some people now called them. Her complexion was a delicate pink and white, the fair skin showing no sign of a wrinkle. Her golden hair had been swept up over a pad so that it framed her face, falling into ringlets at each side and threaded by a pink velvet riband that was somewhat at odds with the black brocade of her Watteau gown. Great brown eyes that could, when she so wished, be soft as velvet, were now flashing with irritation, and the cupid’s bow of her mouth was set in a tight, vexed line. “Whatever are you about?” she demanded. “Your uncle has been vastly annoyed. I’faith, but you look a drowned rat!”