Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  “You only want the young lady to think so—eh, sir?”

  For a moment Quentin made no comment. Then, staring at his boots he said wearily, “Life’s a jest, Rob. And Fate the Jester. You either laugh at it all—or wind up in Bedlam. I choose to laugh.”

  “And you love to meet Fate head-on and give his nose a pull, don’tcha, sir? Still, may I be boiled if I see something comical in this here sittyation.”

  “Then think how relieved poor Tiele will be when Sir John Macauley Somerville Martin Martin don’t present himself in the meadow at dawn. I’ve no doubt the poor fellow is reproaching himself for having called out an old man.”

  With perverse disappointment, the Corporal sighed, “It’ll be the first time as you ever backed away from a fight.…”

  Quentin flushed. “I’ve no choice. My first concern must be to deliver my message.”

  Killiam was silent, but regarded him with a faintly knowing grin, and Quentin’s colour deepened around the edges of his paint. He said sharply, “Blast you! I mean it!”

  “I didn’t say nothing, sir. I only—er, wondered if that wasn’t now your—ah, second … concern.…”

  For a moment they stared at each other; the one all innocent speculation, the other as resentful as he was troubled. At length Quentin said crisply, “There are too many lives at stake for me to reassign my loyalties, Corporal. Even if I could. I cannot. My word was given.”

  It was the Major speaking, not the friend, and the Corporal responded instinctively. “Yessir. As you say, sir. What we going to do, then?”

  “I think,” said Quentin, “the time has come for the old gentleman to depart.”

  * * *

  “I wasn’t never a bad girl, M-miss Penny,” wept Daffy, her words rather indistinct by reason of the apron.

  “I am very sure of that,” said Penelope kindly, sitting beside her on the comfortable loveseat and patting her hand. “I suppose you learned all your skills with cosmetics in the—er, ballet?”

  Daffy’s shrouded head nodded convulsively. “I had a knack, miss. And I—I was a uncommon good dancer, too.” One reddened eye peeped fearfully around the edge of the apron. “Only—the gentlemen was always at us.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Marvelling that this strait-laced girl had actually been one of Covent Garden’s notorious opera dancers, Penelope said, “I fancy the temptations are—overwhelming.”

  “Oh, no, they ain’t!” Daffy mopped at her eyes and lowered the damp apron, blinking down at it as she rolled it between nervous fingers. “It’s not what you might think—not by a mile, Miss Penny. Me mum told me to keep ’em off till a really fine gent should come around and make me a decent offer.” She sniffed. “The closest I come to a decent offer was a fat old banker, and his last ladybird used to say he was as clutchfisted as a clam! I wasn’t going to settle for that!”

  “I should … think not…” agreed Penelope, faintly.

  “Some of the girls struck lucky,” Daffy went on. “One was took under the protection of a Duke! And one found a chef who started his own gentlemen’s club. Bought her a dear little ’stablishment what she called the Salon Satin.” Daffy sighed. “I saw what happened to the girls who started to lose their looks, or their figures.… So I told me mum it was get out now, or start down that trail. I never thought I’d get a respectable position, but Mum used to be a lady’s maid, and she told me how to go on and how to act.” She stole a timid glance at Penelope’s face and read amazement there. “Oh, miss! Please don’t turn me off! I’m begging, Miss Penny! Don’t!”

  “Good gracious, Daffy—why should I do such a thing? It was thanks to your skill with the paints and powder that Major Chandler was enabled to get away from Highview. I shall never be able to thank you enough!” She gave the girl a grateful hug. “Now—we shall say no more about it. Unless”—a twinkle coming into her eyes—“unless Corporal Killiam chances to hear of it.”

  Daffy gave a squawk and grabbed at her apron. Very pale, she faltered, “You—you never think the Major would tell him?”

  “Would it really matter so much, dear Daffy?”

  The girl became scarlet, then disappeared into her apron, from whence came a muffled, “Oh … yes, miss.”

  Patting the spot that seemed most likely to be her head, Penelope said, “I am very sure Major Chandler would never be so unchivalrous. However, I had best warn you that he told that gentleman—Mr.—er—”

  “Philpott,” groaned the apron.

  “Yes. The Major told him he’d mistaken you for your twin sister.”

  With a squeak of laughter, Daffy reappeared. “What a bouncer! Don’t say as Mr. Philpott believed it? He must’ve been proper foxed.”

  “Well, do you know—I believe he was. But the Major can be so grave and dignified sometimes. He told Mr. Philpott you had tried to reform your sister, but that ‘poor Daffy’ had gone her own wicked way. Mr. Philpott was so impressed he wanted to come up and apologize to you.”

  “I don’t doubt that!” Daffy’s indignant expression eased to a reminiscent smile. “Fancy! Mr. Philpott, of all people. Such a naughty gentleman! And him with a wife and six fine children! Oh, but the Major’s a rare one, ain’t he, Miss Penny?”

  Penelope’s thoughts turned to the averted duel. “Yes,” she said with a grateful sigh. “He’s a rare one, all right.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Tiele?” drawled Quentin, surveying the other man through his quizzing glass as Tiele opened the door.

  Tiele, looking slightly flustered, nodded, his brows lifting enquiringly.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. Adam Somerville. I am nephew to the gentleman with whom you were to—ah, meet in the morning.”

  Tiele stared. Now that he came to notice it, the resemblance was marked. This man, of course, was young and very good-looking with a fine head of auburn hair worn tied back and unpowdered, and thick dark brows which arched over eyes of the same brilliant green as his uncle’s. The fine-boned face, the not very straight, but slim, nose, the humorous mouth and firm chin might well have been those of Mr. Martin in his youth, thought Tiele. And there was something else … something elusive that stirred at the back of his memory and that he could not quite place. He saw curiosity come into his caller’s face and said hurriedly, “Your pardon, sir. Did you say the gentleman I—was to meet tomorrow? I trust Sir John is not indisposed?”

  Quentin smiled at him in a way that made Mr. Tiele flush. “Gad, what a clunch you must think me,” he apologized. “Do pray come in.”

  He ushered Quentin to a chair beside the unlit fire and provided him with a glass of sherry before drawing up another chair and occupying it.

  “Well—he is, I’m afraid,” said Quentin.

  Mr. Tiele thought back.

  “Indisposed,” Quentin provided.

  “Oh.” Much relieved, Mr. Tiele lied, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you?” murmured Quentin, quite unable to resist this delicious farce.

  Mr. Tiele stared.

  “I’ll own,” remarked Quentin, holding up his glass and watching the candle flame through the rich gold of the wine, “I was rather surprised that a man of Uncle John’s years…”

  His smile was very gentle but Tiele flushed scarlet. “There were—circumstances,” he said stiffly.

  “He’s a wicked old rogue. I fancy there were circumstances, well enough.”

  Tiele relaxed. He said with a rueful smile, “To own the truth, Somerville, I’m glad you’ve come here. Miss Montgomery should not be in the care of so—amorous an old gentleman.”

  “True. Is that why you called him out? I’d fancied you were the amorous party, and that my uncle had run you off.” He grinned engagingly into Tiele’s angry eyes.

  His colour much heightened again, Mr. Tiele said, “I’ll admit I find Miss Montgomery a most delightful lady. And that your uncle did not approve of my—er—”

  “Flirting?”

  “Admiration!”

  “I see.
So you decided to put the poor old fellow out of the way, did you?”

  Tiele, who had just taken a sip of his wine, snorted and choked. Eager to be of help, Quentin pounded him so heavily on the back that Tiele was obliged to duck away from that heavy hand. “By Gad, Somerville,” he wheezed, dashing tears from his eyes. “I—mislike your choice of—of words. Damme if I don’t!”

  “My apologies. I have rather an annoying tendency to come straight to the point, as it were.”

  “Devil you do! I’d no intention of running your uncle through! Well—that is to say … Well, what I mean is…” Tiele found it most difficult to meet his caller’s steady and faintly amused gaze. His own eyes falling away, he paused, shrugged, and admitted, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been trying to think of a way to get out of it. I’ll own I didn’t care for the way your uncle— I—er— Well, I dashed well kept forgetting his age. He’s a—most remarkably spry old chap.”

  “Thank you,” said Quentin. “I hope you do not mean to ask me to take his place. I’m not the swordsman the old gentleman is, I fear.”

  “Good, is he?” said Tiele, all interest.

  “Superb,” said Quentin modestly.

  “Lord! I need not have felt so badly.”

  “You might have felt a good deal worse, my dear chap. Unless you are a very fine swordsman.”

  “Who’s a fine swordsman?” Captain Holt had opened the door unobserved and now strolled into the room, nodding to his friend and eyeing Quentin with mild curiosity.

  Quentin stood and smiled easily through the introductions. Holt had a grip of iron, and Quentin felt it in every nerve of his arm. Every instinct warned that this soldier was a formidable antagonist, and despite his carefree manner, he was very much on guard.

  “Have we met somewhere, Mr. Somerville?” asked the Captain.

  “I fancy I remind you of my uncle,” Quentin replied and then realized with a tightening of his muscles that Tiele knew the ‘old gentleman’ as Somerville, but that he was registered as Martin Martin. “You may have seen him at dinner,” he went on easily. “He escorted my cousin Anne—a most delightful lass in a pink brocade gown.”

  Holt took the glass Tiele offered and sat on the end of the bed as the other two men returned to their chairs. “Thank you, Duncan. Your health, gentlemen.”

  “Quite a resemblance, ain’t there, Jacob?” said Tiele.

  “Remarkable,” Holt agreed, watching Quentin levelly over his glass. “You should be abed, my dear Tiele. You’ve to be up early in the morning. And thanks to your hot-headedness, so do I.”

  “Well, you’re reprieved, old fellow. Won’t have to second me after all. My adversary has been taken ill, unfortunately.”

  “My sympathy, sir.” Holt’s icy blue eyes remained steadily on Quentin’s face. “Would you wish that I send the apothecary up to his room?”

  “You are too kind, but it is no more than a bad cold. He took a violent dislike to this inn, and his coachman has taken him off somewhere. I tried to persuade him to stay but—as well talk to the wind. You know how these old martinets are. I only aggravate his gout, I fear.”

  “Sounds like my sire,” said Tiele with a grin. “You don’t stand high in your uncle’s favour, eh?”

  “Somewhere at basement level, alas,” sighed Quentin.

  “You surprise me,” said Holt mildly.

  Nerves tightening, Quentin lifted one eyebrow in enquiry.

  “I had thought you must be quite a favourite,” the Captain said, “since your uncle has given you his ring.”

  ‘Damn the fellow,’ thought Quentin, glancing instinctively at the cunningly wrought dragon’s head ring on his right hand. ‘How in the deuce could he have noticed it in those few moments downstairs?’ He grinned at Holt admiringly. “Deuce take it, you’re observant, Captain.”

  Tiele was staring unblinkingly at him.

  Holt said sternly, “It’s an asset in my calling.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Actually, this ain’t my uncle’s. It’s a tradition of my house. There are ten rings, exactly alike. When a male child reaches the age of one and twenty he is given a dragon ring, always supposing there is one available and he the next in line to receive it.”

  “What a charming tradition,” said Holt. “May I see it?”

  Quentin extended his hand. Holt gazed with interest at the ring for a moment, then gripped the steady, long-fingered hand. “Do you know, Mr.—er—”

  “Somerville.”

  “Your pardon. But—do you know, I must have met one of your kinsmen at some time, for I’ve seen this ring before … somewhere.… Well, I think I’ll get to bed. No rest for a poor soldier, you know.”

  They all stood, Holt a solidly powerful figure in marked contrast to the two taller men. Ushering him to the door, Tiele insisted on paying his shot at The Flying Dutchman. “Had it not been for my—duel,” he said, with a grim look at Quentin, “you’d not have racked up here.”

  Holt shrugged. “As you wish. Thank you—I’ll enjoy a comfortable night for once. My bed in the barracks leaves much to be desired. Very glad to have met you—er, Somerville.”

  Quentin murmured an appropriate platitude.

  Tiele closed the door behind his friend and leaned against it, saying nothing, until the brisk footsteps had died away.

  Quentin set his empty wine glass gently on the table, then turned to face Tiele. “Get it said, whatever it is,” he said in a quiet and grim departure from his customary light-hearted manner.

  “You damned liar,” said Tiele bitterly. “You’re Quentin Chandler!”

  XIII

  Quentin’s hand moved so fast that Tiele saw only a blur before a small pistol with an unpleasantly wide mouth was aiming at his chest. The hand that held the weapon was unwavering, the narrowed green eyes deadly. Markedly undaunted, Tiele strode forward. “By God! I should wring your stupid neck,” he declared wrathfully.

  “I’m a selfish man,” said Quentin, somewhat taken aback by this attitude. “I must deny you. Very bad timing, Tiele. You should have claimed the reward while your military friend was here.”

  “Reward! ’Twould have to be ten times the amount to reimburse me for all my trouble!”

  “Stay back!” Quentin’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I warn you, I’ll not hesitate to use this.”

  “And have twenty troopers here in two minutes? Rubbish!” Given pause nonetheless by the determined line of Quentin’s mouth, Tiele halted. “What the deuce possessed you to bring a girl along? Did Gordon know you meant to do so?”

  Quentin breathed uncertainly, “Gordon…?”

  “My former friend. He asked me to bring you a message at Highview and was so ill informed as to describe you a very sick man who was like to turn up his toes at any second. Instead of which I’ve been badgered and poked at by a crotchety old fidget who added insult to injury by challenging me to a duel!”

  Not bothering to make the obvious rejoinder, Quentin counter-attacked, “Why the Lord didn’t you say at once that you were from my brother? Did you notice I’d thumbed back the hammer?”

  “I did.” Tiele glanced at the pistol. “And respectfully suggest you release it with great care.”

  Quentin did so. Replacing the weapon in his pocket, he put out his hand and said with a twinkle, “Terribly sorry to have run you such a chase. I wonder you did not consign me to perdition and forget the entire business.”

  “Would have.” Tiele returned the handshake gingerly. “Only, it chances that my little brother served under you at Culloden. Sit down and I’ll fill your glass.”

  Quentin sprawled gratefully in the chair and stretched out his long legs. “What name did he use?”

  “John House. He said you used to call him—”

  “What—young Glasshouse?” Quentin sat straighter, accepting the wine Tiele brought him and asking eagerly, “How is the boy? He lost that leg, I’m very sure.”

  “Yes. At the knee. And thanks to you is thumping around Brussels
on a wooden one.” Tiele stood before Quentin and raised his glass in a salute. “Thank you, sir. If you hadn’t carried him off the field…”

  “Tush! It was the only way I knew to remove myself from that damned massacre.”

  “You lie. Johnny said you were wounded but went back just the same.” Tiele saw the flush that lit Chandler’s pale face and went on smoothly, “Not that it gave you the right to treat me with such savagery.”

  They both laughed.

  Quentin asked, “Did you go to Highview then?”

  “I did. After you’d left, of course. I was supposed to get word to a maid there, but when I arrived she’d run off. I asked to see Delavale, but a regular block of a butler said he was gone to London. I could only think you’d managed to get away and would likely head for Lac Brillant, so I rode this way, hoping to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” His voice sharp with anxiety, Quentin asked, “My brother’s not suspect, I pray God?”

  “Not that I’m aware.” Tiele, who had continued to stand, strolled to the bed and sat down. “I am not of your persuasions, I should tell you.”

  “Nor is Gordie. We had our first serious quarrel over my allegiance to Charles Stuart.”

  “I fancy Johnny and I did much the same. My elder brother was of a mind to tie him and keep him prisoner until the madness had passed.”

  Quentin’s eyes kindled. “Why is it that if a man does not understand the convictions of another he terms them madness?” He met Tiele’s stormy look and grinned. “Only look at us. In another minute we’ll launch into an argument that will last till dawn, belike, and solve nothing. However you believe, I’m deeply grateful you have brought me word from my brother. May I know what it is you’ve to tell me?”

  Although they were quite alone, Tiele lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. “Gordon will meet you at The Cat and Kippers. It’s a villainous old tavern on the Salisbury Road, about three miles west of Winchester.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. He said the least I knew, the safer I’d be. But he was most anxious that you find a very good hiding place for the cypher, for he says the southland fairly throngs with ruffians would roast you alive to get their hands on it.”