Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  Quentin said cynically, “I’m very aware!” He regarded Tiele thoughtfully. “One thing—your friend, Holt…”

  “I’ve known him since we were scared eight-year-olds packed off to school. He’s a good man. But…” Tiele hesitated, then went on steadily, “God help anyone who runs afoul of him. He’s quite relentless.”

  “Yet you’re his good friend.”

  “Yes. One of his few friends, for he’s not the gregarious type. Even so, were there a price on my head and he came after me, I’d expect no mercy. Nor get any.”

  After a short pause, Quentin pointed out, “You risk a great deal, you know. If I should be taken, Holt will know we’ve talked.”

  “Hopefully, I could convince him I was merely interested in the lady. Is she really your niece, by the way?”

  “No! Devil take you! She is not!”

  “Oh.” Grinning, Tiele said, “I must try not to continue to think of you as elderly. May I ask who the lady is?”

  “Whoever she may be,” said Quentin, standing and replacing the glass on the table, “I’ve neglected her for too long, so I’ll say good night, and—”

  “And tell me—you thankless ingrate!”

  A smile flickering about Quentin’s lips, he strolled to the door. Tiele was before him, flinging himself back against the panels. “Come on, Chandler—”

  “Somerville!”

  “Blast your eyes! Somerville, then. Tell a poor fellow—unless … If she’s yours, of course…?”

  For a moment Quentin stared at him enigmatically, then he said, “No, she’s not mine, Tiele, though she is a very dear friend. I think of her more as—my sister.”

  “Well, that’s a dashed relief, I must say. And—her family?”

  It was evident, thought Quentin, that Gordon had judged it safer not to mention Penelope’s involvement in their schemes. He said, “She is Delavale’s niece, you maggot-wit.”

  Tiele’s eyes took on a glassy look. “You mean … she is a lady of Quality?”

  “I’d think that was obvious!”

  Undeterred by Quentin’s suddenly icy hauteur, Tiele stammered, “And you—took her away from—from Highview? My God! I thought she was your—”

  “Have a care!”

  “Oh … Jove! But—you and she—I mean—you’ve hauled her all over the countryside? Alone?”

  Irritated because Tiele’s shocked words merely intensified his own guilt, Quentin growled, “Don’t be such an ape, for Lord’s sake! We’d her maid and my man along, to say nothing of coachmen and grooms.”

  “Much that has to say to the matter! You’ve thoroughly compromised the poor girl, Chandler. That’s what you’ve dashed well done!”

  Quentin glared at him, then reached for the door latch. “With luck,” he said acidly, “some noble gentleman will come along who is willing to overlook Miss Montgomery’s scarlet past and—and make an honest woman of her!”

  He marched out and stalked along the hall, his face unwontedly grim.

  Duncan Tiele closed the door behind his departing guest, then stood there staring at it, lost in thought.

  * * *

  “I’m tired,” Lady Sybil faltered pathetically. “We have been driving for hours and hours and hours! Joseph! I want to go to bed.”

  “You can sleep in the carriage,” he grunted.

  Sybil bowed her head into her hands and wept.

  My lord looked across the grubby table of the grubby coffee room of this grubby inn. “Well? What d’you think?”

  Roland Otton, his eyes bloodshot with weariness, said dourly, “That I can scarce blame Beasley for giving up when we reached Hampstead. He’s likely found himself a cosier spot than this poor excuse for an inn.”

  My lord’s estimate of Beasley’s character caused Sybil to throw her hands over her ears.

  “Why a’ plague couldn’t Chandler go where he said he was going?” he went on broodingly. “If they’d been at Mary’s—”

  “They were not.”

  “I know that, fiend take you. We were agreed to drive on.”

  “True. But we’re going to have to get some rest some time. Even if we change horses again, the men need sleep, or they’ll likely drive you into a ditch.”

  “Besides,” Sybil put in tearfully, “there may be highwaymen … or worse.”

  That horrid possibility had occurred to Joseph. He pulled uneasily at his earlobe, then beckoned his valet, who waited with Simmonds at a side table, and sent the man off to find the host and procure suitable accommodations for the night.

  The rooms were the best of a bad lot and, when a complaining Sybil had been deposited in one of them and Simmonds was fluttering about her, his lordship and Otton repaired to the small private parlour Joseph had reluctantly added to his suite, and sat before the inadequate fire. The room was clammy. Rain had begun to fall once more and tapped depressingly against the latticed casements.

  “As well I decided to stop here for the night,” said his lordship gloomily. “We’d not have got far at all events, as you see.”

  Otton darted him a contemptuous glance, but only said, “The important thing is that we get an early start in the morning, sir.”

  “Early start for where? Be damned if I see your logic for heading west. Chandler was running for London, whether to leave my wanton niece with her aunt, or merely to lose himself in the city.”

  “I doubt he will allow Penelope to leave him. She’s his best disguise. The military don’t seek an old fellow travelling with his grand-niece.”

  Lord Joseph frowned broodingly at his ragged fingernails, knowing he should not listen to Otton’s arguments but instead hold fast to his own convictions and head in to Town. “I’ll hold you personally responsible does he escape us,” he said.

  ‘I’m very sure you will, you fat fool,’ thought Otton. He said placatingly, “I cannot believe any fugitive would persist with a plan that led him into the patrols we have endured today, my lord. Further, you’ll own the last man to describe our disguised rebel even remotely was that Sergeant at High Wycombe.”

  Joseph’s lip curled in disgust. “Blasted fellow stank to high heaven!”

  “True. An abominable animal. Nonetheless, he had very definitely seen our quarry, and for all we’ve been able to learn since, Chandler and your niece might have vanished into thin air. Or changed direction.”

  A discreet scratch at the door announced the arrival of the waiter, and my lord brightened to the sight of a tray of fruit and cheeses, and a bottle of wine. The waiter deposited his burden on a small table within easy reach of Joseph’s pudgy hand, caught the groat Otton tossed him, and departed.

  Otton stood to pour a glass of port and hand it to Joseph. He carried his own glass back to settle himself again into the lumpy, musty-smelling chair.

  “Has Chandler the brains he was born with,” said my lord, appropriating a slice of Cheddar, “he will make straight for the coast.”

  “Or swing southeast to Tonbridge and thence to Lac Brillant.”

  “Ha! His sire would show him the door fast enough! I would, under the circumstances. Any man would.”

  Otton’s smile held the twist of bitterness. “My father would, I grant you. But—Sir Brian? I’m not so sure.”

  “Then you’re a noddicock. I only met Brian Chandler twice, but he’s properly high in the instep, I can tell you, and Lac Brillant is his pride and joy. I’ll lay odds he’d slaughter any man who caused him to lose it. Son or not.”

  Otton said thoughtfully, “We’re now a mile or so west of Stoke Poges. If Chandler realized by the time they reached High Wycombe they’d never come safe to Town, it’s likely he’d head west before daring to swing south again. Chances are, he’d make for Reading, and if—” He checked, glancing to the window as a flurry of activity sounded in the yard below. “Some high and mightyness has arrived, it would seem,” he muttered, and ambled over to pull back the curtain.

  A large and luxurious carriage stood in the yard, the centre of a beehi
ve of industry. Ostlers were removing the traces from the four blood horses; footmen wearing brown and cream livery under their wet, glistening cloaks carried luggage into the building; a gentleman’s gentleman with a dressing case under one arm left the vehicle and struggled to unfurl an umbrella. Before he succeeded in this endeavour, another man emerged from the carriage and trod gracefully down the steps. A tall gentleman this, wearing a tricorne over silver hair, his long, caped cloak swinging back as he descended, to reveal a rich habit à la française of dull red satin.

  “Thunder an’ turf!” said Otton softly, his exclamation springing not from admiration of the newcomer’s attire, but from the thin patrician features lit by the glow from the wide-open front door. “Only look here, my lord!”

  Intrigued by the note of excitement in his henchman’s voice, Joseph was already rising. By the time he reached the window, however, the valet below had succeeded in spreading the sheltering umbrella over his master, and all my lord saw was the hurried progress of a tall, cloaked individual and the gleam of gold buckles on high-heeled shoes. “Who was it? Who was it?” Joseph demanded testily.

  “The greatest piece of luck! Sir Brian Chandler!”

  “Is it, by Jove? What a coincidence!”

  “’Twould be a very great coincidence were Sir Brian and his son travelling in the same corner of England each unaware of the proximity of the other.”

  “Ahh-h-h,” breathed Joseph, turning back into the room as Otton closed the curtains. “Then—you think he comes to meet that young rapscallion?”

  “I do.” Otton grinned joyfully. “And our task becomes so much child’s play! All we’ve to do is let the gentleman lead us to his traitorous son!” He took up the bottle and refilled Delavale’s glass. Raising his own, he said an exuberant, “To obliging fathers!”

  The glasses clinked together.

  “To Sir Brian Chandler,” said his lordship.

  * * *

  “You are not cold?” enquired Quentin, guiding Penelope around a wide puddle in the lane.

  A little less than truthfully she answered, “No, thank you. I love to walk after the rain.”

  That, at least, was truth. And if the air was cool it was also clean and bracing, and sweet with the scents of wet grass and woodsmoke. The night sky blazed with brilliant stars, and one long cloudrack glowed luminously as it hoarded the moon’s glory to itself. Few people were abroad at this hour, for it was near ten o’clock, and country folk went early to bed. Lamplight gleamed from an occasional cottage window; somewhere nearby a man’s voice was raised in hearty laughter; a white cat with long silky hair was sitting on the post of a picket fence and offered a friendly mew as they passed. Quentin paused to stroke it. Penelope watched him obliquely, wondering why he had asked her to walk out. Earlier, she had thought to see fatigue in his eyes, but he had denied it, and indeed no one would suspect he was tired, for his stride was as supple, his manner as light-hearted as ever. She should not have agreed to come, of course, for he should be resting after such a long, tiring day. But—oh, how wonderful to be alone with him; to feel the occasional gentle touch of his hand on her elbow; to be guided carefully around obstructions as though she were something infinitely precious and her skirts must not be brushed by muddy fences or wet foliage.

  They went on, but after a moment, “Your friend is following,” she said.

  The white cat was treading daintily along the narrow pickets, its long plume of a tail waving high in the air.

  “What a fine fellow you are,” said Quentin, scratching beneath its chin as it came up to them. The cat uttered an amiable trill and rubbed against his hand. “Now, you must stay here,” Quentin ordered. “If you’re good and obey me, I’ll bring you a fat yellow bird for your breakfast.”

  “Villain,” cried Penelope. “I shall tell Daffy what you plan for her beloved Jasper!”

  “Beloved Jasper, indeed! That bird is the noisiest, messiest pest I ever saw. A canary is supposed to sing sweetly—not screech like a banshee! I wonder where Daffy found the wretched creature.”

  She chuckled. “A gift from one of her admirers, perhaps. Oh—see, Quentin! How pretty the moon is now.”

  The yellow orb was sailing majestically from behind the cloud to light the velvety blackness of the heavens with its radiance. Penelope’s hood fell back as she gazed upwards and, for a small space, Quentin studied her profile bathed in that gentle light. The look in his eyes would have astounded her, but when she turned to him he also was admiring the celestial display.

  “A smuggler’s moon,” he murmured nostalgically. “The lads will be busy along the coast tonight, I’ll warrant.”

  “And you wishing you were with them. Oh, never look so innocent, sir. I well remember the tales you used to tell Geoff and me of your forays with the Free Traders, and how your papa pretended to know nought of it.”

  He grinned, took her elbow and led her across the cobbled street. The white cat, ears back, tore after them and hurled itself into the graveyard of the serene little Gothic church.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Penelope, startled.

  “Mad cat,” said Quentin whimsically. “He’ll scare all the ghosts to death.”

  Laughing, she asked as they went on, “Did Gordon share your illicit pursuits?”

  “Lord—no! He has too much sense for that kind of lunacy. I pulled him into it eventually, of course. Poor old fellow. I’ve been a sore trial as a brother.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind very much. How did you ‘pull him in’? Were you able to persuade him to sail with you?”

  “Small chance of that. He held it to be all folly and bravado.”

  “Was it so?”

  “Not … exactly.” He hesitated, then said with a shrug, “But I don’t repent my deeds. I came into the game by accident and found them to be good men, Penny. Hungry men. I mislike our stupid tax laws and—well, life was curst dull during the Long Vacation. Smuggling was jolly good fun.”

  Aghast, she thought, ‘Fun!’ and said, “But you have not explained how your brother was involved.”

  “Oh—well, we’d made the run from France one night and were almost home when a squall blew up. We were capsized and, if you can believe it, one of the lads couldn’t swim. By the time—er, we got to the cove, the excisemen were hot after us. I’d managed to wrench my ankle a bit, and Paul had swallowed half the Channel, and we were a sorry pair. Luckily, Gordon had been out looking for us. He arrived just in time with some fast horses and off we rode through a hail of shot.” He chuckled. “Poorly aimed, fortunately.”

  “Good gracious! What terrible chances to take. How lucky you are to have such a fine brother.”

  “Yes.” His white grin gleamed at her. “I think I’ll keep the chawbacon. Shall we cross here?”

  Two farm labourers came towards them, returning wearily from some late task. They touched their caps respectfully, and said, “Evenin’, zur and marm,” in their soft, pleasant country accents. The white cat scampered past again, then jumped on to the ledge of a deep bay window. Penelope stopped to caress the playful animal, and Quentin peered in the mullioned window. It was a confectioner’s shop. “I wish they were open,” he murmured. “I’d buy you that big lollipop.”

  Penelope laughed and scanned the pleasant shapes of red and white rock canes, marzipan and nuts, comfits and dishes of toffee. Quentin straightened, his gaze shifting to the reflection of a girl with a warm smile and clear, resolute eyes. Penelope looked up, met his eyes, and could not turn away. They stood thus, unmoving, through a hushed, enchanted moment, while diamond drops splashed softly from the eaves, and the white cat twined, purring, around their feet.

  A cart rattled up the street. Quentin turned about rather hurriedly and ushered Penelope back the way they had come.

  For some moments neither spoke. The sounds of the cart died away and the night was still once more, the wet cobblestones silvered by the moonlight. They approached a larger house set back in a pleasant garden across which dr
ifted the pure notes of a violin playing a poignant and familiar love song. Quentin began to sing in a soft, clear baritone.

  “I prithee send me back my heart

  Since I cannot have thine.

  For if from yours you will not part

  Why then shouldst thou have mine?”

  It was the final touch of delight, and Penelope seemed to float along in a daze.

  A big dog came from nowhere to charge at the fence beside her, barking furiously, and she recoiled with a little cry of shock.

  The white cat, which had been keeping pace with them in a sedate fashion, shot into the air with a yowl of fright, then was gone in a white streak across the darkness. In the same instant, Quentin’s arm had whipped around Penelope’s waist and swung her aside.

  “Be quiet! Bad dog!” he snapped in an authoritative way. But the dog only barked more wildly than ever. Amused, he said, “He knows he’s not really a bad dog, you see, but protecting his master’s property as he should. Did he frighten you? My apologies, but I’d not seen him until he sprang. Here—” He took up her hand and tucked it into his arm. “We shall go on better like this, I think.”

  They walked on, Penelope’s heart still beating very fast, but no longer from fright. The dog’s frenzied barking died into a growl, then he ran off in answer to a whistle from the house.

  “Now, about Gordon,” said Quentin. “I’m to meet him tomorrow.”

  With an exclamation of excitement Penelope demanded, “Where? When? How did you learn of it?”

  “Question one: At The Cat and Kippers, near Winchester. Question two: When he shows himself, I collect. And as for Question three: My friend Duncan Tiele told me.”

  Penelope halted and her jaw dropped. “Your … friend?” she echoed feebly. “B-but you were to meet him until— I thought you despised him.”

  “Oh, no. He seems a very good sort of man. In fact”—he trailed one fingertip absently around her lips and, his eyes dreaming, murmured—“it turns out that … his brother served under me. A splendid young—” He broke off, drew back and finished abruptly, “All in all, I think friend Tiele may do very well for you, my bright little Penny.”