Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  The memory of the torment in Quentin’s eyes; the way he had reached out to her, as if knowing even in his misery that she would help if she could, haunted her. What were they doing to him at this very moment? Was Uncle Joseph busied with that ghastly cigar…? With a sob of despair, she ran on until, exhausted and near hysteria, she almost blundered into a tree trunk and halted, shocked to find herself in the woods. How stupid! How utterly weak and silly she was being! Not at all as she had fancied she would behave in a moment of real crisis! Whatever had she hoped to achieve by this headlong flight? At the back of her mind she knew that she had followed the impulse of all frightened creatures—to run. But it would not do! She was her father’s daughter, and Quentin needed her so desperately. She was his only chance. She must find a way.… “Please, God—let me be clever. Let me find a way to save him. Oh, dear Lord—I love him so! Guide me.…”

  And gradually, as she stood there very still in the dripping darkness, reason crept back, and the frenzy of her breathing lessened. She must go back at once—back to her own old bedchamber … ‘The Passion Pit,’ as Geoff had been used to call it. Her heart gave a sudden leap of excitement. The Passion Pit! My heavens! If the Passion Path was still usable…! And Uncle Joseph very likely knew nothing of it, for he had not lived at the Manor as a child. In the winter of 1689, the year before her father’s birth, much of the roof of Highview had been blown off during a great storm, and the interior so badly water-damaged that the family had removed to the Dower House. Grandfather Montgomery had been a frugal man, and Highview had not been completely refurbished until his son inherited the properties. Joseph had never lived in the great house until he himself had fallen heir, and Sybil had discharged the only servants who might have known about Great-Great-Grandfather Phineas. A handsome devil, Phineas, and madly infatuated with his brother’s wife. So deep was his desire for the lady that he had closed down the house one winter and nobly carried his wife and family out of England’s rain and cold to the warm sunshine of Italy. His steward had remained, however, busily occupied with the construction of a concealed passage leading from the master’s bedchamber to the room occupied by his love when she stayed at Highview. A century later, Lord Hector Delavale had discovered the tale in some old diaries and had poked about with his son until he found the illicit passage. Geoffrey had been wildly excited, but the passage ran behind the fireplaces and at that time Penelope had been an adventuresome girl of nine. Afraid that her billowing skirts might cause her to be burned while trying to get into the passage, my lord had sworn Geoffrey to secrecy. Not for another two years had Penelope learned about her ancestor’s Passion Path, and even then, true to his promise, Geoff had refused to show her how to enter the passage, gleefully taunting her instead with the hair-raising notion that if ever she heard anyone coming down her chimney it might not be a lover of her own, but rather the ghost of Lord Phineas. The forbidden passage had ceased to charm and, down through the busy years, had been all but forgotten. Until now!

  Immeasurably heartened, Penelope started back the way she had come. There was hope now. If she could just get— A branch snapped, very close behind her. Her blood turned to ice. She spun around, then screamed as something black and smothering engulfed her. Flailing out blindly, she was seized and swept off her feet. A man’s cultured voice muttered, “Don’t hurt the chit. Whatever else, she is a lady.” Another voice spoke in answer; a gruff voice, less well-bred. “A lady tiger kitten! I’ll go bail as she’s blacked my eye—if I ain’t downright blinded!”

  It was, thought Penelope dimly, some small consolation. And with a little sob, she fainted.

  * * *

  Penelope shivered and blinked up into the anxious grey eyes of a man who bent above her. The room was brightened only by a solitary candle, but that glow illumined features that seemed vaguely familiar. A lean face, framed by neatly tied back unpowdered dark hair. She asked, “Do I know you, sir?”

  This calm awakening caused the heavy brows to lift in surprise. “No, madam, but I know you. ’Twill suffice. Are you better?”

  Bemused, she said drowsily, “Have I been ill, then?”

  He peered at her in a puzzled way. From the shadowed recesses of the room another man said, “Mayhap she has taken a chill, Mr. Gor—”

  The first man swung around angrily. “No names, fool!” He turned back to Penelope. “May one ask why a lady was creeping about alone at night, ma’am?”

  Her brow wrinkled with the effort of thinking. “Yes … you may, but…”

  “Here.” A cup was offered. “Drink this. It will restore you.”

  She sipped and went into a spasm of coughing. Nonetheless, when she wheezingly recovered, she was urged to drink again. The potent brandy burned through her. Strengthened, she wiped her eyes and, discovering that she lay on a sofa, sat up and ordered her gown before asking where she was and what had happened.

  “I think you are, temporarily at least, our prisoner,” answered the man whose name was evidently Mr. Gordon.

  “Prisoner?” echoed Penelope, incredulous. “But—whatever for?”

  The second man chuckled and came into the small circle of light. He was less tall than his companion and more sturdily built, broad of shoulder, with long, powerful arms that seemed to strain at his frieze coat, and muscular legs encased in dark breeches and high knee boots.

  “You’re mighty calm about it all,” said Mr. Gordon, perching on the arm of a nearby chair. “I had feared lest you swoon once more.”

  The room, what she could see of it, looked and smelled familiar. Peering about, she answered absently, “Oh, no … good gracious! We are in my nurse’s cottage! Ah! Then you must be the man I saw here this afternoon!”

  Amused, Mr. Gordon said, “So she did not spot you, eh, Corporal?”

  The sturdy man eyed Penelope with grudging admiration. “You did not betray that you’d seen me, miss. Or seem afraid. Perhaps you fancied me to be someone you knew?”

  “I thought you might be a poor … Jacobite.…” With the word came full recollection and she ended with a faint cry of dismay.

  The two men exchanged grim glances. Gordon demanded harshly, “You have a fondness for traitors, madam?”

  Penelope sprang up and confronted her captors, trembling with agitation. “I have a fondness for honour, sir. In war or peace. And a disgust—a loathing for … for cruelty. Oh, you must let me go at once, for—for I—” But grief betrayed her, and her voice scratched into silence.

  Mr. Gordon had stood also. Very pale now, he fixed her with a piercing stare and asked in a fierce half-whisper, “Have you seen cruelty, then? Is—is that why you were rushing about in so distracted a way?”

  Her nerves tightened. He might be a military spy. He might have captured her to discover if her family was harbouring an escaped rebel. However she despised Uncle Joseph, he was her father’s brother. If she spoke, she could well be condemning him and his silly, spiteful wife to a traitor’s death. And Quentin, beyond doubt, would be hauled to the Tower and executed. It was not to be thought of. She looked away from that penetrating scrutiny. “I have been … given in marriage to a man I —very much dislike,” she faltered. “I was running away rather than—”

  “Fustian!” His iron hands gripped her arms once again. “However grieved you may be, you’d have stayed for a valise, or some of your clothing and belongings. And what has your betrothal to do with Jacobites and your dislike of cruelty? Speak, woman! Or—by God—”

  The Corporal came over to say urgently, “Easy, sir! There’s nought to be gained by terrifying the lass!”

  “If she has seen my bro—”

  “Mr. Gordon!”

  The gruff voice, sharp with warning, cut across the final word, but it had been sufficient for Penelope. She knew now where she had seen Gordon’s likeness in the past. As he released her, she demanded with frantic eagerness, “Sir, are you related to Mr. Quentin Chandler?”

  He jerked as if she had struck him. Under his breath, the Cor
poral swore and stepped closer. His face taut and strained, Gordon hesitated, then replied, “He is my brother. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes! He is at Highview.”

  The Corporal exhaled a hissing breath. “But—he’s dead, eh?”

  “No! Or—or at least, when I ran from the house he was alive.”

  “Tell me, I beg you.” Gordon Chandler’s voice quivered with emotion. “Have they sent for the authorities? Do they mean to give him up? Or are they helping him?”

  Aghast, Penelope stared at him, then dropped her face into her hands and sank on to the sofa once more. “If only they were!” She raised a pale, sad face. “It shames me to tell you, Mr. Chandler. Your brother is wounded, and—and it would seem he carries a most deadly secret.”

  “Here’s treachery!” growled the Corporal. “I told you, sir, that the Major should’ve trusted no man, however he—”

  His haggard gaze still fixed upon Penelope, Chandler made an impatient, silencing gesture. “Who told you that, Miss Montgomery?”

  “I overheard. They— Oh, sir, you must help him! They are—are questioning him. Perhaps, even as we speak! He is in dire need of a surgeon, and I fear that—if we do not hasten…”

  Gordon uttered a strangled sound and turned away, shoulders hunched. Pacing to stand close before her, the Corporal eyed Penelope grimly. “Are you saying your kinfolk have sunk to torment a wounded gentleman, miss?”

  She bowed her head and nodded miserably.

  “Do you know how much he has told them?”

  Chandler spun around. In a choked but angry voice he cried, “Nothing, damn you! Quentin would not speak. Not with all your lives at stake!”

  “That is truth,” said Penelope. “But he must be rescued, and quickly. He cannot—he could not withstand them for much longer.”

  With a prideful lift of his chin, Gordon said, “You do not know my brother, ma’am. Now, tell me. Is Quentin wounded to death?”

  She said slowly, “I saw only that his right arm was hurt. But he is very weak. He has likely not eaten…”

  “And very likely lost a deal of blood,” put in the Corporal, gloomily.

  Chandler drove a fist into his palm. “We must get him clear, Rob. Oh, Lord! To have to stand here and not know how to free him! While those bastards—”

  He strode to the sideboard, took up a saddle holster, and removed the long-barrelled pistol it contained.

  The Corporal leapt forward to grasp his wrist. “Are ye gone daft, sir? You must stay clear of this at all costs! You’re no Jacobite, or ever have been!”

  “Very true.” Chandler wrenched free. “But do you fancy I shall stay clear while they slowly murder him? By God, but I shall not!”

  “You would have no chance, sir,” Penelope interposed quickly. “Without me to help you, my uncle’s people would catch you before you ever entered the house.”

  They both stared at her. Chandler said a bewildered, “You? Why? Unless—did your papa hold Jacobite sympathies, perhaps?”

  It would probably be wise to answer in the affirmative, but lies had never served her well, and so she admitted, “No. He was in disgust of the Prince’s Cause. But he was an honourable gentleman and never would have treated your brother so savagely, whatever the inducement.”

  “Ah, so you know about the—inducement,” he sneered.

  Penelope met his scornful gaze levelly. “Yes. And that Quentin refuses to tell my uncle where the treasure is hid. If it is just the money, I would think—”

  “But it is not just the money. There goes with the treasure a list of all those who contributed.”

  She paled. “What madness! Sure death for all so named!”

  “Aye. And a traitor’s death. But for a man such as Delavale, an extra windfall, for it would be a choice gem of blackmail.”

  Surprised, Penelope asked, “You are acquainted with my uncle, Mr. Chandler?”

  His lips tightened. He slanted a glance at the Corporal, then replied, “I believe your father and mine were acquainted, but—well, I’ve—forgive me—I’ve heard rumours concerning your uncle. Is why I—we—came this way and watched day and night, hoping to intercept my brother.”

  Incredulous, she asked, “You knew Quentin would come to Highview?”

  “He was hounded this way. We knew he was hurt and desperate, so we thought it logical he might seek shelter here. For old times’ sake.” He saw Penelope wince, and went on quickly, “Each instant we delay likely holds a bitter price for him. We must start now. How can you help us, Miss Montgomery?”

  “I’d think,” the Corporal put in thoughtfully, “as the lady herself might be Major Chandler’s best hope.”

  Gordon tensed. “By Jove! You’re right, of course! What a clod that I did not think of it!” He appraised Penelope’s damp person speculatively. “Your uncle, m’dear lady, will pay highly for your safe return.”

  “Good God! Am I kidnapped, then?”

  “Aye. To be traded for my brother.”

  Perhaps because this had been such a terrible day, Penelope began to laugh hilariously.

  “An odd reaction to a kidnapping,” Gordon said dryly. “I make you my compliments, ma’am. Most ladies would be indulging a fit of the vapours.”

  She gasped, “I very well … may be. Oh, sir—you cannot know how I pity you. If I thought ’twould serve, I’d agree, I swear it. As it is—alas, my uncle would be delighted did you make him such an offer. Delighted to be rid of me. The only use he had for me was to treat me as an unpaid drudge and to bully me into an advantageous marriage. But now I am to be given to his crony, Captain Roland Otton, in exchange, I gather, for his aid and a still tongue with regard to your poor brother.”

  “Nonsense! No man could be so base as to refuse the exchange under such circumstances. If nothing else, fear of what his friends and neighbours might say would surely weigh with him.”

  It was the argument she herself had used with respect to just such a situation, but to admit that now would not serve her at all. “The only thing that weighs with Delavale is gold. If he had any reaction to your demand, it would likely be to laugh for a week.”

  A trace of bitterness had come into her voice. Watching her from under his heavy brows, Gordon said uncertainly, “The fellow must be a black-hearted rogue if what you say is true. Killiam? What do you think?”

  “I think as ’tis likely the lady knows her kinfolk, sir. And that we are drove to the ropes before ever we start.”

  “No, no—you are not!” Penelope jumped up, her heart beating very fast. “Mr. Chandler, I may be able to get you to your brother. Whether you are able to spirit him away will rest in your own hands. It will be very chancy, but—I will help you … for a consideration.”

  Hope dawning in his eyes, he said eagerly, “Lady, if you can get us to Quentin, you may name any reward it is in my power to give.”

  “My—my price is—that, if you escape … I go with you.”

  III

  “Daffy! What is it?” Penelope closed the door and hurried to the plump abigail who had served her faithfully for the past five years and who now sat in a corner of the bedchamber, her face buried in the snowy folds of her apron.

  Phyllis Brooks sprang up, her round comely face alight with joy. “Miss Penny! You’ve come back! I was sure as sure as you’d runned off and left me!”

  Penelope wrapped the girl in a hug and, with a twinge of conscience, said reprovingly, “As if I would do so unkind a thing!”

  Despite her prim and sometimes rather Puritanical demeanour, Brooks had been ‘Daffy’ to Geoffrey and Penelope since she had let slip the nickname during her first week at Highview. She had been hired despite some rather questionable references, due mainly to the kind heart of the housekeeper who had later joined the ranks of the deserters. Her relationship with Mr. Hargrave was an uneasy one, since she had objected to a pinch he had generously bestowed upon her bottom, and the thought of being compelled to ask him for a reference was daunting. Thus, th
e reappearance of her young mistress lifted a great weight from her troubled mind. Fear lingered in the blue eyes, however, and she pleated her apron with nervous fingers as she wailed, “Oh, miss! I’ve had the most drefful time! You wouldn’t never believe what I been through!”

  Penelope regarded her distractedly for an instant, then ran to throw open the casement and peer into the rainy night. Below her, the wind tossed the branches of the great oak, but there was no other sound, no sign of life. She thought, ‘Whatever shall I do if they do not come…?’ and turned back to her astonished abigail, wringing her hands worriedly.

  Daffy decided that poor Miss Penny was all about in her head, which was only to be expected, what with the miserable life she led and that oily Captain Otton undressing her with his eyes every time he saw the dear soul! “Come away from there, miss,” she urged, trotting over to close the window. “You be fair soaked. Going out on such a night! Whatever next? You’ll take an inflammation of the lungs if—”

  “No! Pray leave it open. I am—er, rather warm. I was running to—to get out of the rain, you see. Now, do tell me, Daffy, what has so upset you? Has that footman been pestering you again?”

  “No, miss.” The saucy twinkle so at odds with her manner brightened the girl’s eyes. “Bingham has kept his place since I told him straight out to keep his hands in his own pockets.”