Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  “Very true.” But he still looked troubled, and muttered, “If it weren’t for that damnable list, I’d not be so concerned.”

  “List? Of the items contributed?”

  “Yes. And the contributors.”

  “My heavens! Quentin—you do not—”

  “No, no. You’ve seen my only message. But the poor devil who does carry the list bears the heaviest responsibility of us all. I’d not be in his shoes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Very well. A splendid young chap. What worries me is that the officer assigned to take him is that devil Fotheringay.”

  “The man you snored at so convincingly.”

  His smile was fleeting. “He’s the one.”

  “And you fear this Major Fotheringay.”

  “If all I hear of him is truth, he’s a man to be feared.”

  He lapsed into brooding silence, Penelope not interrupting his thoughts, content to put back her head and watch his profile against the swiftly changing scene of the far window.

  He turned to her. “Lord, what a clodpole! To be sitting here muttering in my teeth, when I could be loving you…”

  * * *

  Lady Leonard Epps was, she informed her husband, more than shocked to find that a girl of Penelope Montgomery’s breeding should be so flagrantly flaunting about the countryside with a strange man. “For that he is her husband, my dear Sir Leonard,” she expounded, spreading marmalade on her toast, “you will never convince me! Quite apart from that ugly ring, which was not in the slightest like a marriage band, I knew the instant I laid eyes on that young”—she lowered her voice, glancing around the almost deserted coffee room before continuing—“that young rake—the instant I laid eyes on him, I knew that he had seduced the chit!”

  “I noticed last evening how you stared at him,” murmured Sir Leonard, not above getting in a little snipe when the occasion offered.

  “Of course I stared at him!” She fixed her spouse with a militant glare. “But do you think he had the grace to be discomfited? He did not! Bold as brass! The tavernkeeper should be publicly chastised for permitting such disgraceful conduct. I, for one, shall never set foot in this place again! Such a nuisance, for it is not as dear as most of the other inns hereabouts. And as a Christian woman, I feel it my duty to tell him so.”

  Sir Leonard did not share his wife’s crusading spirit, his thoughts having run in another direction. “Do you recall how cool old Delavale used to be when we called?” he asked reflectively. “Always managed to make me feel I was beneath him.”

  “I certainly received no such impression! I hold myself quite the equal of any Montgomery ever born, so he’d not dare take such a tack with me! To the contrary, I thought him excessive courteous.”

  “Exactly so. Went out of his way to be polite. Noblesse oblige, I used to think. Not at all like his manner with Marbury.”

  “Of course not. His grace is of much higher rank.”

  “Dammit, that’s just what I’m saying, my lady. Delavale thought nothing of arguing with Marbury. Why, I once heard him address him as a cod’s head!”

  She stared at him, aghast.

  “’S truth, I assure you. But with me it always was punctilious civility. Used to get my hackles up, I don’t mind telling you. And now—to think his pious daughter has turned out to be little better than a lightskirt!” He laughed suddenly. “Rich—eh?”

  “It is disgusting,” his wife declared, tossing her napkin on the table and taking up her reticule. “Come, Sir Leonard. We have a duty to perform!”

  Thus it was that a few moments later the hapless proprietor of The Three Quails Inn stood at the desk in his own lobby, wringing his hands and protesting miserably that he’d had no idea anything hanky-panky was to do. “They seemed like such a well-bred couple, ma’am,” he wailed, “for all they had no personal servants. I’m a God-fearing man, as is my good wife. I assure you I’d never have allowed—”

  “The fact is,” my lady interpolated in her high, shrill voice, “you did allow it. That wicked young rogue had clearly seduced the gel, and in renting them a room here, you contributed to her downfall!”

  Since Lady Epps made no least attempt to lower her voice, the discussion attracted several interested listeners and, glimpsing a red coat amongst them, the landlord swore under his breath and declared in a more forceful way, “You’ve no call to accuse me of anything, ma’am. The gent claimed they was married, and I’d never a’ knowed no different save that when he left he forgot what name he’d given me. I told him just what I thought, then!”

  Bored by this dispute, the young officer made his way through the gathering. “Host,” he began, “I need—”

  “You need to remember your manners, Captain,” interrupted Sir Leonard tartly. “My wife is speaking.”

  The Captain frowned, but my lady gave him no chance to respond. “And despite the rude interruption,” she shrilled, “you must be either blind or a halfwit to have thought them wed, host! I hope I am not a busybody, but the ring no more fit the gel’s finger than would have a bracelet!”

  “Nor was it a wedding band,” her husband put in, adding hurriedly, “Not that I’d have noticed, had it not fallen off, right at my feet.”

  “A most hideous thing,” his wife confirmed, “for all he claimed it to be a family heirloom.”

  The Captain’s ears perked up. “Did it look like an heirloom, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Well, if it was, I can but be glad it is not in my family! It was shaped like the head of a dragon with horrid evil red eyes, and certainly—”

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” the Captain intervened, the harsh note of authority in his voice. “I regret the necessity to interrupt, but it chances we seek a man who wears such a ring.” He jerked his head, and the Sergeant who had followed him into the room at once began to herd the onlookers away with the demand that they “move along, now, move along.”

  They obeyed with reluctance, while the Captain obtained the identities of the now uneasy trio before him. “My name is Holt,” he said briskly. “The register, if you please, host.”

  The host swung the dog-eared book around, maintaining that he was always most careful and ran a good Christian house, no matter what anyone said.

  Holt’s keen eyes flickered down the page. “Nothing here. What name did he use?” The host pointed, and Holt muttered, “Bainbridge. Hmmnn. The lady who wore the dragon ring, ma’am. Was she a tall young woman? Quite attractive, with very fine eyes and a rather unaffected manner?”

  “Bold, more like it,” said her ladyship huffily. “My husband is acquainted with her family, and I know them slightly. I vow I was never more shocked!”

  “You know the lady?” said Holt, slanting his cold gaze to Sir Leonard.

  The older man hesitated. He wasn’t above a bit of gossip, especially about the family of so high-in-the-instep a fellow as Hector Delavale had been. But if this was serious business, the matter took on a different colour. “I—er, cannot be certain,” he said warily. “What business have you with the girl?”

  “She is believed to have given aid to a Jacobite fugitive.”

  Lady Leonard gave a gasp and turned very pale.

  “You mean—she is wanted for … treason?” gasped her husband. “Oh, I was certainly mistaken, then. I’ve not seen the chit since she was a child, and might very easily—”

  “As you say,” the Captain intervened, familiar with the reaction. “A description of the man, if you please, host.”

  Thoroughly frightened, the host wet his lips and stammered, “Why, he was very tall, Captain, and—and his hair was brown, but reddish … and his eyes so green as—”

  The Captain spun on his heel. “Sergeant! Mount up! We have him, by God!”

  He ran into the yard, scattering the awed crowd around the doors. “Get the stablehands over here! One of ’em must have seen which way that coach went.”

  “I see ’em, sir,” volunteered a shifty-eyed ostler, much relieve
d that this ugly customer wasn’t here because of last week’s little difference of opinion about the pistol that had been stole by wicked gypsies out of the Sergeant’s saddlebags.

  “Speak up, fellow!” snapped Holt. “Which way?”

  “They took the left fork at the crossroad, sir. To Godalming.”

  “South! I knew it!” Holt swung into the saddle, his eyes alight. “That damned rebel’s heading for the coast! At the gallop, Sergeant!” And he was away with a creak of leather and pound of hooves, the troop clattering after him.

  In the suddenly quiet lobby, Sir Leonard Epps threw a dismayed glance at his wife.

  “Well … well, we are not to blame,” she said defensively. “After all, she brought it on herself.”

  “So that’s why he changed his name.” The landlord mopped a handkerchief at his sweating brow. “Poor lad. Poor lad.”

  “And they did seem very devoted,” muttered Sir Leonard. “God help them!”

  For once, her ladyship had nothing at all to say.

  * * *

  There really was no cause, thought Penelope, to be so nervous. They had come very far, very fast, with relatively little trouble, only once having been stopped as they approached the New Forest. The young lieutenant in charge of the troopers, obviously disliking his task, had been sufficiently conscientious as to demand identification, but had then engaged in a pleasant banter with Quentin, and had waved them on within a few minutes. Quentin had seemed strained, his good humour unfailing, but an underlying tension in his manner that had not escaped her. They had obtained sandwiches at the posting house where they’d stopped to change horses, but he had pressed on immediately and they’d eaten their luncheon in the swaying carriage.

  It was quite warm now, and there was nothing odd in the fact that Quentin had wished to ride on the box for a little while. “Like to get a breath of air, if you don’t object, love,” he’d said cheerily. She wrinkled her brow. He had been so tender with her, so jealous of any incident that separated them for even a few moments. And now—to leave her alone like this, seemed … But she was being silly. They were almost safe, for he’d told her with a grin that she soon would have a clue to their destination. They were driving through the New Forest even now, the sunlight dappling the quiet road ahead with ever-changing shadows, and the trees providing a cooler temperature. Very soon, Quentin would be able to deliver that terrible little piece of parchment. There would be only the final run to Lac Brillant, and then—a ship, France, and a new life. Penelope smiled dreamily. She would look back on all this one day, while Quentin dug around his cabbages, and she would think it only—

  She was flung to the side and reached out to steady herself. They were moving at a great rate, for the coach began to rock wildly, and the trees flashed past. Alarmed, she started up, then quailed as she heard a sudden sharp crack, like a brittle tree limb snapping. Before her startled mind could identify the sound, three more retorts shattered the peace of the drowsing forest. The trap was swung upwards, and Quentin’s face peered down at her.

  “They’ve sniffed us out, I’m afraid, m’dear,” he shouted. “No—don’t talk. No time.” He ducked as another shot rang out, but went on, “You must do exactly as I say. There’s a side road about a mile up ahead. We shall turn off there and stop very suddenly. Jump out just as fast as you can. Dutch and I will drive on a little way, then swing back for you. As soon as you alight, run and hide, and stay there until we come.” He threw down his purse. “Just in case we become separated, this will help you get to my father at Lac Brillant, and—”

  “No! No! Quentin—let me—”

  “Do as I say, if you please!”

  And he was gone, the trap slamming down to blot out his unwontedly stern face.

  Cold with terror, Penelope took up the purse and put it into her reticule, her mind struggling to cope with this sudden but so long dreaded disaster.

  She gave a little cry as she was hurtled to the side, her shoulder making bruising contact with the door frame. She heard the screams of frightened horses. The carriage was leaping crazily, but they were stopping. Somehow, she got the door open and, without lowering the steps, sprang out. The vehicle was still moving, and she fell heavily. She could hear Quentin’s voice, sharp with anxiety. “Get up, Penny! Hurry!”

  She scrambled to her feet. She saw Quentin’s face, white and anguished. Then, obedient to his fierce gesture, she stumbled off the road and into the trees, blinded by tears, her knees bruised and scratched, but that pain a small and distant thing, as nothing to the grief and terror that pierced her. Looking back, sobbing, she fell again and, even as she tried to struggle up, she was deafened by another shot. Terrified, she lay pressed against the damp earth, biting back her sobs, feeling the ground tremble to the thunder of many hooves, praying in a whispering near-hysteria for God’s mercy on her beloved.

  The violent sounds faded. The silence of the forest settled down again, broken only by the heartbroken weeping of the girl who lay huddled among the ferns.

  * * *

  “You can order yer lady, Master Quentin,” shouted Dutch Coachman, manipulating the ribbons with skilled desperation, “but ye bean’t able to order me. Not on this.” He gave a gasp as a musket ball whistled past his ear. “You—you just be trying to get me orf safe.”

  “You old fool!” Quentin’s hands clamped onto the reins. “Let go, damn you!” And as the coachman swore at him, and the coach leapt and plunged along the winding lane, he shouted, “Dutch—for the love of God! She must not be left alone, and I’ve this blasted message to deliver. I beg you—go back to her. Help her! For my sake, Dutch. For the sake of—”

  The shot was closer this time. Dutch Coachman yelped and his hands were suddenly slack on the reins. Quentin flung a steadying arm around him and with his free hand gripped the reins desperately. “Dutch! My poor fellow—are you—”

  “I be so … fine as … fourpence ha’penny,” quipped the faithful man weakly. “Just … my side. A graze, likely.”

  He was clutching his ribs with crimson-stained fingers. Quentin flashed a quick glance behind. One of the trooper’s horses had gone down in the mud they’d just splashed through, and the men were milling in confusion. The carriage raced into a good lead. “This next curve,” shouted Quentin. “You’ll go back for her, Dutch?”

  “I—I will that, sir. I’ll bring her to you … I do swear.”

  “Now!”

  Again the poor horses were wrenched back. Again, the carriage rocked and lurched. The coachman became a Flying Dutchman indeed as he leapt into and annihilated a tall clump of shrubs.

  The carriage rolled on. Quentin shouted, “Get on! Giddap! Giddap!” slapping the reins against the foam-streaked backs of the team. After a minute he glanced behind. The troopers had re-formed and were coming up fast. He grabbed the whip and sent it swinging out to crack loudly over the heads of the horses. It was the last straw. They took the bits between their teeth and bolted. The carriage flew. Quentin braced his feet and prayed. The lane swung in a wide left curve through the trees and as they came out onto the straight-of-way again, he saw a hump-backed bridge looming ahead. He thought tensely, ‘Only a few miles to go.’ But then he realized that Holt must know this road, and had done exactly as he himself would have done in like circumstances. A trooper had been sent through the trees to cut him off, and now rode in from the side, musket levelled. The coach roared past, heading for the bridge. Quentin ducked as the trooper’s musket belched flame. There was a shattering crack. One of the horses screamed and staggered as they thundered on to the bridge. The carriage leapt crazily into the air. Quentin was hurled from the box. He had a brief impression of slowly spinning trees and sky. He was falling. Something dark and big was coming down over him. Water glittered and a tree loomed up, a stone wall beyond it. Instinctively, he threw out his arms to protect himself. A violent impact brought pain that was too intense to be borne and wiped everything into emptiness.…

  * * *

 
; It was hours now. Hours of prayer and pleading and nightmare imaginings. And still he did not come. Penelope’s tears seemed to have dried up with her hopes. She stood at last, and brushed mechanically at her skirts. A small rabbit, who had watched her for some time, made no attempt to run, but crouched there, its long whiskers twitching, its bright eyes fixed on her. Almost, she thought dully, as though it could feel her despair and was staying to keep her company. She took up her reticule. Her little hand mirror was smashed, but there were two large pieces left and, by resting them side by side in the crook of a branch, she was able to see herself. She was shocked, not by her mud-streaked face, swollen eyes, and dishevelled hair, but by the dull hopelessness of her expression; as though the light of life within her had been turned out and she was already dead.

  “Mrs. Chandler—have I chanced to mention that I love you…?” The words were so clear that she could almost hear them, almost see the worship in the fine green eyes, the half-smile on the beautifully shaped mouth. Mrs. Chandler … A widow, perhaps, before she was legally a wife. She lifted her hand. The dragon ring gleamed in the sunlight, and pausing to touch it tenderly, she marvelled again that despite her falls it had somehow stayed on her finger. Her shoulders stiffened. What would her dear husband think of her now? He once had called her a valiant lady—she was not being very valiant at this moment. She began to tidy her hair as best she might, and to wipe the mud from her face. Quentin would have been here by now, had he been able to get away from the soldiers, but he’d said that if he was delayed she must make her way to Lac Brillant. It was possible, surely, that he had been driven so far out of his way that he dared not swing back for her? It was possible that he was now making a desperate attempt to get closer to Lac Brillant, even if he would not dare go directly there with the troopers hot on his heels. If he was able to escape, eventually he would seek her there. There was no point in waiting here any longer. Somehow, she must make her way to Lac Brillant.