Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  “Love a duck!” A crafty gleam coming into the Sergeant’s eyes, he said, “Sir—Hi didn’t mean ter cause yer no trouble jest now. Duty, y’understand. Hi could—er, pay yer. A little bit.”

  “No, no. I bought the secret and it’s mine to give out as I choose. But—I very seldom choose, and that’s a fact.”

  “Right y’are. No more would I. But—there’s this young woman Hi’ve sorta got me eye on, sir. And she’s got a ’ead full of maggots like all women does. Only it’s time Hi was a’settling down, says me ma. Hi—er, well, she might find me a touch more to her liking did Hi not ’ave all these warts.” He scanned Quentin anxiously and, finding only a dubious look, went on, “If there’s anything wot Hi could do fer you, sir. In exchange … like…”

  Quentin pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling. “I fail to see what. We’re simply trying to reach London as soon as possible and there’s nothing you could help us with in that.”

  “Hi could ’elp yer by telling yer it’ll likely take a week. They got troops so thick as ants round a treacle pot from ’ere to Chelmsford, down to Wrotham, crost ter Reading, and back up ter ’ere again. Ain’t a gnat will get through ’thout bein’ stopped twenty times a mile, belike.”

  His heart sinking, Quentin said, “Well, that’s of no help to me at all. However”—he shrugged—“I know your predicament, poor fellow. So I’ll share my secret. Drink up!”

  The Sergeant drained his tankard gleefully and bent forward so as not to miss a word.

  “You take a pound of lard,” said Quentin softly, “and you mix it well with—er…”

  “With…? With…?” the Sergeant prompted.

  “With the droppings of a sheep.”

  “Droppings of … a sheep?”

  “But only a black sheep,” cautioned Quentin, slanting a warning glance at Penelope’s quivering lips.

  “Why…” breathed the Sergeant, “must it be a black sheep?”

  Quentin frowned. “Be damned if I know. I think the old woman mumbled something about black magic.”

  “Ar—well, that’ll be it, right enough,” nodded the Sergeant importantly. “That makes sense, so it do. Go on, sir. Go on!”

  Quentin went on.

  * * *

  Propped by many lace-trimmed pillows, Lady Sybil held up her jewelled hand mirror and scanned her reflection glumly. She tweaked a stray curl into a little ringlet beside her left ear and sighed. “The house is like a tomb, Simmonds.”

  Simmonds held the heavy tray beside the bed and wondered why in the name of all that was holy the stupid woman worried about her face when there wasn’t a man to see it. “Belike his lordship will come home today, marm,” she intoned in a listless voice.

  “Is possible,” said Sybil with another sigh.

  “And—Captain Otton,” murmured Simmonds.

  Sybil brightened. “How nice that would be. Er—to have the gentlemen about again,” she added hastily, and launched into a one-sided discussion as to which gown should be selected for the morning. What she would like of all things would be to wear the cobalt blue robe battante, or perhaps that delicious orange robe à la française, or the white taffeta with that luscious red embroidery.

  Simmonds paid little heed to this monologue. My lady would have no choice but to put on her blacks again, as they both knew. If she descended the stairs before noon, thought poor Simmonds, whose corns were making her more than ordinarily miserable, ’twould be a miracle!

  There were no miracles that morning. It was a quarter to twelve and Sybil just leaving her dressing table when the imperative summons of a coaching horn was heard, followed by shouts, the grinding of wheels and the pounding of many hooves.

  Simmonds flew to peer eagerly through the rain-splashed windows.

  “Who is it? Who is it?” wailed my lady, patting frenziedly at her dainty cap and half hoping it was a certain elderly gentleman with wicked green eyes and a most remarkable virility.

  “’Tis my lord.” Simmonds added joyfully, “And Mr. Treadway!”

  “Good heavens, girl, what care I if my husband’s bailiff accompanies him? Is there no one else?”

  My lady might not be elated by Mr. Treadway’s return, but Simmonds’s bored eyes had taken on a marked sparkle. Her corns quite forgotten, she added saucily, “And Captain Otton, of course.”

  “Wicked jade,” said my lady with a little giggle. “Hurry then—my mauve fan, if you please. Ah, that will do nicely.”

  Thus it was that when the gentlemen, tired, muddy, and disenchanted with one another, their ill-fated quest, and their various and seemingly doomed hopes, came into the hall, they were greeted by a vision in a billow of black lace over mauve satin; all feminine daintiness from the frill of her little cap to the buckle on the slipper that peeped from beneath her gown.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” trilled Sybil, extending both hands to her husband.

  My lord gave a grunt, deposited a kiss on his wife’s smooth cheek, and allowed she looked hale and hearty. “Which is more than I can say for m’self or Otton,” he added sourly.

  “Had you a—er, successful journey?” Sybil asked, giving Captain Otton her hand and a meaningful glance.

  “No, we had not,” declared Joseph flatly. “I am starved for some decent food, my head aches like the deuce, and I yearn to have the dirt removed from my person.”

  My lady summoned butler and housekeeper. A bucket brigade was organized, the cook indulged himself in a palpitation when required to furnish a hot lunch within the hour, and servants rushed up and down stairs with valises, portmanteaux, decanters, and dressing cases.

  In the midst of the uproar, my lord having disappeared in the direction of his bedchamber, my lady discovered a pair of dark eyes smiling at her. She turned away with a flutter of her fan and the flirt of one satin shoulder.

  “All this fuss and feathers,” murmured Roland Otton in his deep, pleasant voice, “and not one word as to your welfare, ma’am. Have you managed to keep from falling into the doldrums during our absence?”

  A tiny smile played about my lady’s red mouth. She covered it with her fan. “I have managed … tolerably.”

  He knew that gleam in her eyes and his own sharpened. “Sybil,” he murmured, stepping closer to her as they trod up the stairs together, “what the devil have you been up to?”

  She giggled. “Oh … I have been—entertained. But never mind that. To judge from Joseph’s demeanour he has made mice feet of the business, eh?”

  Otton scowled. “We were led a merry dance, I can tell you. Chandler has—” He checked to the warning touch of her hand. A maid he had not seen before was crossing the hall. A winsome lass with a nice shape and hair of reddish gold. She looked up as though she felt his eyes on her, and, with a shy half-smile, hurried on her way. ‘Hmmmnn…’ he thought, and resumed, “Chandler has friends, and we were led like a group of fools chasing a will-o’-the-wisp till we were miles from anywhere on a heath swarming with gypsies and other cutthroats. And damned lucky to have got out of it!”

  She turned to face him, astonished. “Not—literally?”

  “Oh, I give you my word. I’ve a score to settle with that accursed rebel—and will settle it—do not doubt!”

  “It would seem to me you settled it before he escaped you,” she said dryly. “How the man could have eluded you in the condition he’d come to, I cannot fathom.”

  They had reached the top of the first flight of stairs. Otton, glancing about, responded with an edge to his voice, “Well, he did. I’ll tell you of it when I’ve bathed and changed clothes. Where’s Penelope?”

  My lady wandered towards her husband’s bedchamber, from whence could be heard the grumble of his voice. “Oh—she’s … somewhere about,” she called airily over her shoulder.

  * * *

  “Of course I am … laughing,” said Penelope, sighfully drying her tears. “Nonetheless, ’twas a dreadful risk to take, and so needless.”

  “Do you think so?” Quentin h
anded her into the waiting carriage and climbed in to sit beside her. “Just goes to show the different outlooks of man and maid. You thought it a needless risk, and I thought it a very vital duty to so—er, develop Sergeant Dexter’s personality.”

  She strove to look at him severely, but was quite unable to keep the mirth from her eyes.

  Quentin chuckled and took her hand. “No, really, Penny. The fellow’s a brute and a bully. ’Twill do him the world of good to make an ass of himself.”

  “I doubt he will agree when he discovers how you’ve hornswoggled him.”

  The carriage jolted its way over the cobblestones of the inn yard and began to bowl along the lane.

  Quentin mused, “Do you think he will discover it? He really believed my tale of the witch, you know. As if such creatures existed.”

  “If they do not, very many people are misled.”

  “Well, of course, for there is ignorance—” He broke off, peering at her curiously. “You don’t believe in witches and warlocks and all that sort of gibberish, do you?”

  “I never have seen one.” Penelope detached her hand gently. “But I agree with whoever said ‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’”

  “Shakespeare, I think,” he murmured, glancing idly out of the window. “It was in— Good … Gad!” He sat up straight, then burst into hilarious laughter.

  Leaning forward to look around him, Penelope saw a broad slope dotted with a flock of sheep. The red uniform was startlingly out of place in such a setting. “Ooh!” she squealed, clasping her hands with delight. “It never is?”

  “Be—be damned … if it ain’t,” Quentin gasped. “And—oh, Lord, that I was permitted to see it! Look—only look!”

  Impervious to the bleating animals that milled around him, Sergeant Dexter followed one creature with marked determination. A small black lamb.

  It was too much. They fell into each other’s arms and laughed until they cried. Coming to the belated realization that he held Penelope to his heart, Quentin released her abruptly and collapsed, breathless, against the squabs. “He’ll likely be following that lamb in the rain for a week,” he said.

  She turned her laughing face to him, and he watched her for a long moment until for some reason the silence between them became fraught with tension. “Will you tell me, please,” he asked quietly, “why you were so very angry with me?”

  Her lashes swept down. Not until danger threatened him again had she realized how unjustified had been her anger. She had no right to censure him. Wives were taught to pay no heed to their husbands’ little affaires. And she was not a wife. She was not even a betrothed. She was only a sister. And sisters are not jealous …

  With one slim fingertip he touched her hand very gently. “Penelope Anne?”

  She looked up. No man, she thought weakly, should have such beautiful eyes. It was unfair. She answered rather unconvincingly, “Because you take such dreadful and—and unnecessary chances. As if life was just a game. As if your own life did not hang in the balance.”

  He’d feared she might have discovered—and been offended by—the fact that he’d seduced her aunt. “Oh, dear,” he said with a relieved grin, “you begin to sound just like my father. He has dubbed me a hot-headed here-and-thereian.”

  “I have always thought Sir Brian a most sensible gentleman.”

  “No, really, Penelope Anne! How can you be cross? Only look at me.” He sat back, folding his hands piously. “Am I not the picture of respectable senility? And what could be further from recklessness than our staid and proper journey?”

  “Proper—journey? The last route we should follow is the London Road. You saw how many times we were stopped this morning. You ignored the warnings you were given before we ever began, but you must know the Sergeant spoke truth.” She placed one hand on his sleeve and said pleadingly, “I beg you will turn aside. You can leave Daffy and me at some nice inn and we will manage very nicely, I am sure. Only—do not, do not rush into the trap they set for you.”

  She was in dead earnest, and her concern for him very plain. That this course was reckless he was all too well aware. He knew also that Penny would be a good deal safer without his perilous self for an escort. But he was uneasy about this Aunt Mary and meant to see for himself that the lady had sufficient backbone to stand up to Joseph Montgomery. If she proved an unreliable ally, he’d be damned if Penelope Anne would be left in Hampstead to be forced into a marriage with the likes of Roland Otton! He shrugged and said in a bored manner, “Foolish child. They search for a battered young man, near death. How shall they connect such a fugitive with an affluent old gent who travels with his niece?”

  ‘If Uncle Joseph had returned to Highview and learned of Sir John Macauley Somerville’s true identity, they would very soon connect an older man with the desperate fugitive,’ thought Penelope.

  Covertly watching her, Quentin lied, “Besides, I have business in Town. Relax, my child. We are making better progress this afternoon, had you noticed? Why, at this rate we’ll be safely in Hampstead this evening, and I shall be away before nightfall.”

  Penelope said nothing. If he did have business in Town, which she doubted, it couldn’t be of a vital nature or Gordon would not have warned him away. It was as well she had told Daffy to give Dutch Coachman his new direction. Quentin would very likely be furious when he learned of it but, God willing, by that time it would be too late to turn back. She felt a light tap on her hand again and looked up.

  “Are you still angry?” he asked, transferring his fingertip to the corner of her mouth and gently trying to coax it into a smile.

  He looked so uncharacteristically humble that she could not withstand him. “No. I am not angry.”

  He sighed and lay back. “Good. Then I can rest easy.” He appeared to fall asleep, and she watched him lovingly. After a moment, one eye opened, twinkling with mischief as he peered up at her.

  A hot tide of crimson burned up Penelope’s throat. She closed her own eyes hastily and turned her head away.

  For another moment, Quentin was very still, gazing at her. Then he went to sleep.

  XI

  “What I cannot understand,” said Lady Sybil, toying with the fruit on her plate and trying not to notice how noisily Lord Joseph consumed his food, “is what convinced you it was Chandler who fled before you.”

  “His friends convinced us, madam,” said his lordship rather thickly. “Always just a short way ahead of us. Calling out, ‘This way, Quentin,’ or ‘Hang on, old fellow—almost there,’ or some such fustian.”

  “Fustian we heeded for four damnable days,” muttered Otton, his dark brows fixed in a frown. “When I think of my feet sinking into that loathsome mud … And now my fool of a man cannot find my new shoes!”

  His lordship waved his knife at his wife, his florid face purpling. “When I get my hands on young Chandler again—he’ll rue the day, dammim! I’ll skin him alive!”

  “To expedite that glorious occasion,” said Otton, his thin lips sneering as he watched my lord’s gluttony, “we might perhaps have an—ah, discussion with Miss Montgomery.”

  Sybil tensed and bit her lip.

  Lord Joseph exclaimed, “Yes, by God! Where is the chit, Sybil? Have her in here at once. She knew Chandler, so she said. She may be of some use for once.”

  “You do not ask how I have been managing, all alone here, while you were gone,” she evaded, pouting.

  Joseph looked at her. She flirted her fan, her eyes provocative, and he chuckled. “Madam witchery! Very well, then. How did you manage? Not much for you to do, poor gel. Egad, but I’ll be pleased when this blasted mourning period is done! How much longer is it?”

  “Three months, officially. But, ’twas none so bad, Joseph. I’d company. However decrepit.”

  “Old Lady Burrows, was it? Shouldn’t call her decrepit, m’dear, though I’ll own—”

  “Not Lady Burrows,” Sybil interposed with an arch air of mystery. “A relation of yours, my love. Some
what distant, ’tis true, but—”

  “Good God! Who’s come fuzzing around you whilst I was away? From what I know of the distant lot it was likely cousin Amos—a Jeremy Diddler if ever I saw one! I hope you were not gulled into—”

  “Good gracious, my lord! Whatever are you talking about?” Sybil put down her wine glass and imparted, “It was Sir John Macauley Somerville. A most splendid gentleman and one you might well be proud to have in the family.”

  “Somerville…?” murmured Otton. “Don’t recall your mentioning his name, sir.”

  “No more do I. Sure you ain’t bosky, Syb? Ain’t been on the tipple while I was beating the countryside for that damned gallows bait, have you?”

  “I do not ‘tipple!’” she repudiated with magnificent indignation.

  “And you did say … Macauley Somerville?” said Otton thoughtfully. “From whence came he, ma’am?”

  Ignoring him, Lady Sybil said, “I doubt you’ve heard of him for years. His mother was some kind of aunt-in-law, and his brother is Sir Andrew Somerville. You surely know of him!”

  “Why, I—er … I may have heard the name,” said his lordship cautiously. “Cannot remember every dirty dish in your family, m’dear.”

  “Oh, do pray attend me, my lord! I refer to your poor brother’s wife, Lady Margaret.”

  Her life’s companion lowered his laden fork and stared at her. “Margaret, you say? She was a Halsted!”

  Captain Otton inserted curiously, “What like was this—‘splendid gentleman,’ my lady? You said … decrepit, I believe.”

  “I know all Margaret’s kinfolk,” muttered my lord, scowling. “Be damned if they include a Macauley Somerville. What’s he look like?”

  Exasperated, but by now uneasy, Sybil replied, “He is elderly and a trifle feeble, but—not, er, wholly infirm. And a very well-bred type of man. As to looks, he was—”

  “Short and fat, with a Friday face, gravestones for teeth, and half-blind so he could not appreciate your looks, I’ll warrant,” said Otton with a chuckle.

  Angered, she fell into his trap. “To the contrary, Captain! He was a fine-looking old gentleman, tall and slender with white teeth, a gentle, mannerly voice, and extraordinarily vivid green eyes that—”