Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  “Like a timber wolf in full cry,” snorted the fat gentleman, who had once seen a painting of such a creature.

  “Well, I could not get the front door open,” said Mrs. Porchester. “For it was locked. It was locked!” She fixed the host with an accusing stare. “And the key was—gone!”

  Rosamond’s eyes slipped to Victor. He looked tired but faintly amused.

  “Is none of my doing, Mrs. Porchester,” declared the host earnestly. “I never had such a thing happen, I promise you. Some lads larking about, I’ll be bound.”

  “That’s as may be,” said the fat lady, with the air of one who is not to be easily taken in. “I’m of a mind as there was summat more to it!”

  “But even if there was,” demurred Rosamond, “why did you all go outside?”

  “Ar—that’s what I do wonder, miss,” said the host, grateful for a shift of emphasis.

  The guests, who really did not understand why it had suddenly seemed so important to go outside in the middle of the night, exchanged rather sheepish looks.

  “Likely because we didn’t care to be locked inside and the key taken away,” said Victor.

  A relieved chorus of approval greeted this observation, nobody seeming to recall that Victor had not been present at the time of the mass exodus. With portentous emphasis the fat gentleman reaffirmed his wife’s conviction that “summat funny” was going on, whereupon the host redeemed himself by stating that they had all been disturbed and were understandably upset and would be the better for a “pot o’ brew” before retiring. His added “At the expense of the house,” brought smiles to the gentlemen, who adjourned to the tap looking a good deal less out of sorts as they callously deserted their ladies.

  Preceding her niece into their parlour, Mrs. Porchester sat on the small sofa and motioned Rosamond to join her.

  “I was hoping you would not be disturbed, my love,” she said. “Though when Trifle started to sing, the silly baby dog, I wondered you could sleep through it.”

  “Started to—sing?” echoed Rosamond. “I thought you said he barked to go out.”

  “Well, he did. But when I walked across my room, the drawer to the music box slid open. I think it must have been damaged when it fell during that storm in the ocean. At all events, it began to play, and—” She shrugged. “You know how he likes to join in.”

  “I do indeed,” agreed Rosamond. “Small wonder everyone woke up!”

  “Well, I am sure I did not,” said her aunt mournfully, “for I did not get a wink of sleep! Nor shall I be able to so much as close my eyes tonight, for every time I do—every time I do, I envision your dear papa’s face should that minx Deborah not have come home, and my spirits are quite sunk.”

  When Rosamond had tiptoed into the parlour earlier so as to take the cotton petticoat from the portmanteau and cut it up for bandages, both the good lady and Trifle had been snoring softly, but she refrained from pointing out this circumstance, saying instead, “I am sure you were right, dearest, and Deb will be at the Court before us. But if not, by the time you have to tell Papa—”

  “By the time? By what time? Rosa, an she is not there, I must tell him at once! Think how enraged he would be did I keep such shameful news from him. He would be enraged! He has made himself responsible for Deborah since her poor father passed to his reward.”

  “Truly, my father has been a great support to the Singletons, but—”

  “Well, there you are then. There you are!”

  “But, dear Aunt, we are hurrying home only because ’tis Papa’s birthday on Monday. An you tell him such news, he will be made miserable—and on his very special day! You know how he looks forward to his party every year. Sweet soul—we cannot spoil it for him!”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” wailed poor Mrs. Estelle, retreating into her handkerchief. “Whatever am I to do? Whatever am I to do?”

  Rosamond hugged her afflicted relation and did what she might to comfort her. At the same time she pursued her own argument so persuasively that at length the beleaguered lady gave her reluctant promise that if Deborah had not yet returned home, she would keep the disgraceful details secret—at least, until after the birthday of Colonel Lennox Albritton had been duly celebrated. Sighing, Mrs. Estelle went to her bed, vowing her conscience would allow her no peace, and insisting the connecting doors be left open so that she and her niece could chat the weary hours away.

  In the event, it was Rosamond who lay wakeful, listening to the faint resonance that wafted from both her aunt and The Unmitigated Disaster, while she stared at the lighter darkness of the window and worried about the poor boy in the ditch. When she at last fell asleep, however, her thoughts were not on the hapless fugitive, but on Dr. Robert Victor, and the needless brutality he had inflicted upon both the wounded boy and poor Billy Coachman.

  And on that haunting wistfulness in his eyes when he had, so outrageously, almost kissed her …

  * * *

  The morning was hazy, a sultry heaviness in the air. Rosamond donned her travelling gown and dressed her hair simply, drawing it to one side of her head and allowing two fat ringlets to hang to her right shoulder. She was ready before her aunt, and since Trifle declared himself in unequivocal terms, she put on her second-best cap and took him downstairs, managing to negotiate the steps by clinging to the rail with one hand and struggling to maintain a very short leash with the other. Having given his patronage to a hollyhock and several of the posts in the stable-yard fence, Trifle recognized a familiar face and made a lunge for Billy Coachman, who was inspecting one of the chariot wheels, a glum expression on his dark face. He grinned as Rosamond shot towards him and straightened up, steadying her as she all but lurched into his arms.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “This wretched dog!”

  “Bit wild, ain’t he?” he said, patting the ecstatic animal, but admonishing him sternly to giddown! “How’s the doctor?” he asked in his brusque way and, lowering his voice, added, “You might tell him, miss, as there’s troopers nosing about ’smorning.”

  Rosamond’s nerves gave a jump. She searched his face and he winked at her impudently and reached for the leash. “Whyn’t yer let me take this pup fer his trot while you gets yer breakfast?”

  Grateful, Rosamond relinquished her charge and the coachman slouched away, warning Trifle to behave or he’d snip his tail orf, and calling to Rosamond that it was “goin’ ter be perishin’ hot and there’ll likely be a storm ’fore the day’s out.”

  She hurried back into The Galleon, encountering Dr. Victor as he left the coffee room. He looked drawn, she thought, but not sufficiently so as to cause remark.

  He came to meet her and scanning her face his brows lifted. “I am sent to call you to breakfast, but pray tell me quickly lest I faint from the suspense. What new tragedy threatens?”

  At once irked by his sarcasm, she frowned at him. “None that I know of—save perhaps that you lack the courtesy to wish me a good day!”

  “Is that all?” He grinned. “From your air I fancied our coachman had absconded with your jewel boxes and The Unmitigated, at the very least.” He bowed her towards the coffee room. “I have secured a table for us, and your lady aunt awaits. Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  “You are too kind.” She put a detaining hand on his arm. He made a faint shrinking movement and she said, repentant, “Oh, I am sorry. I forgot.”

  “I wish I might say the same.” He looked at her narrowly. “You really must try not to be so dramatically dismayed. There are—I dread to sound dramatic myself—eyes everywhere.”

  There were certainly eyes in the coffee room, where a small family, two elderly gentlemen, and Mrs. Porchester all were watching the two young people in the hall. Rosamond gave a shrill little titter and said in a half-whisper, “Yes, and troopers also! The coachman bade me warn you. Likely, they seek smugglers, or the even more reprehensible individuals who publicly condemn the actions of Free Traders, but privately purchase their illicit goods.”

  Victor took
her arm and guided her down the steps, murmuring, “Will you grant me time to get away ere you inform against me?”

  She gave an indignant exclamation and hurried to join her aunt. She had little to say to the physician through the meal, but he was so dense as to appear unaware of her scorn, conversing so agreeably with Mrs. Porchester that the lady’s regard for him was increased.

  “I cannot think,” she told her niece, when the chariot was once again rattling and bumping along the muddy road, “why you have taken the doctor in such aversion. He is not of our station in life, I doubt, for gentlemen of good family do not pursue a profession, but his address is all that could be desired, and he is certainly a fine-looking young fellow.”

  “His manners,” Rosamond pointed out loftily, “are deplorable. Besides which, he is haughty and arrogant and—”

  “Oh, I really must dispute that, dearest. I really must dispute that. Not many men will be charming to an older lady when a young beauty is present. And you must not forget that he looked after you aboard ship—”

  “Very clumsily.”

  “—in spite of the fact that the dear puppy had given him a nasty nip. Indeed, he still limps, and—”

  “And did so before Trifle bit him, ma’am. He said ’twas the result of a—er, another encounter. Probably,” Rosamond added grimly, “of an illegal nature.”

  “Illegal?” gasped Mrs. Porchester, alarmed both by her niece’s unusually acerbic manner and by the implication. “What sort of—illegal?”

  They had been so intent upon their discussion that neither had noticed the chariot slowing to a near halt, and they were startled when a rather harsh voice asked, “You have been troubled by something of an unlawful nature, ladies?”

  Rosamond jerked her head around to discover a familiar face looking in the open window. “Captain Holt!” she exclaimed, incredulous and guiltily frightened.

  He gave her an easy salute but asked unsmilingly, “May I know the nature of this illegal matter, Miss Albritton?”

  “Oh,” said Rosamond, wondering how much he had overheard, and racking her brains in desperation. “’Twas merely that I saw a man in Rye who had so—so villainous an aspect I was sure he must be a smuggler. But what a surprise to see you here, Captain! You are acquainted with my aunt, I believe.”

  Holt murmured a polite acknowledgement.

  “La, yes,” said Mrs. Porchester. “You was at my sister’s ball. Quite a coincidence that you should come upon us in Sussex, sir. Unless—” she added teasingly, “you are come seeking us?”

  He gestured to the coachman and reined in his horse as the chariot stopped.

  Victor hove into view, looking at Rosamond enigmatically over the captain’s scarlet-clad shoulder.

  “I am not come seeking you, ma’am,” said Holt with his thin smile. “Unless you chance to be badly cut.”

  Rosamond felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Before she could speak, her aunt said blithely, “Oh, I am not, Captain. ’Tis my poor niece you refer to, I take it?” Shocked by Victor’s expression, she looked with bewilderment at the captain’s suddenly grim face and stammered, “Wh-what is it? Is—is something amiss? Is not a plague or—or a contagion, or—”

  Frozen with fear, Rosamond was numbly aware that the captain’s eyes were suddenly as devoid of expression as Dr. Victor’s were deadly.

  Holt asked softly, “You have sustained a wound, Miss Albritton?”

  “The lady was injured aboard ship,” interjected Victor. “We encountered a severe storm in the Channel, and—”

  Holt turned in the saddle so as to face him. “You sailed on the same packet, sir?”

  “To our great good fortune,” said Mrs. Estelle, uneasily aware that her niece was deathly pale. “To our great good fortune. My niece was thrown down by the motion of the ship and was hurt. Dr. Victor tended her.”

  “I see. How came you to be cut, ma’am?”

  “I—I fell on a towel holder that had broken off the wash-stand,” faltered Rosamond.

  Victor put in, “The lady also struck her head, which was more serious than the cut in her side.” He glanced at the girl’s white face, and added, “She is still not quite herself.”

  “Which is why you accompany her?” Holt smiled. “How very convenient.”

  Victor met his gaze and enquired sardonically, “Is it customary for a captain of dragoon guards to investigate a shipboard injury?”

  For a moment the two young men maintained that silent battle of the eyes, then Holt turned about and said with a warm smile, “Of a certainty I am concerned for your welfare, Miss Albritton. I trust you do not overtax your strength. Perhaps you would have been better advised to rest at The Galleon for a day or two.”

  Mrs. Porchester gasped, “How did you know we put up at The Galleon?”

  “Is my business to know such things, ma’am.”

  “But—you said you were looking for someone who was cut…?” she reminded him.

  “Yes. But I would be most surprised did that person turn out to be your niece, ma’am. We seek an individual who was caught helping a Jacobite traitor to escape. He fought his way clear although one of our men bayoneted him, but—Miss Albritton? Are you all right?”

  Rosamond, unused to dissembling, had started visibly at this unexpected revelation. From over the captain’s shoulder, Victor’s grey eyes blazed a warning. Desperate, she put a trembling hand over her eyes. “My—my fiancé was … bayoneted,” she whispered.

  “He was?” gasped Mrs. Porchester, astonished. “I thought Charles could not determine how Harold—”

  Victor interpolated swiftly, “Your nephew kept certain facts from Miss Albritton. I fear I was less considerate, and revealed the truth of Singleton’s death, which has upset the lady. Understandably.”

  Again, Holt swung in the saddle. “You were acquainted with Singleton, Dr. Victor? Are you a military man, then? I fancied to catch a tang of it. Perchance you was at Culloden?”

  Victor nodded. “I am no longer on active service, however.”

  “Sold out, did you? But you’ve an uncle of fine reputation, I understand.”

  Rosamond gripped her hands together in an attempt to hide how they shook, and dared not look at Victor.

  “I see you are thorough in your military duties,” said the doctor coolly. “Which is more than could be said for the ensign from whom you obtained your information.”

  “Indeed?” Holt bent to the window once more. “I trust this unpleasant but necessary military interference has not given you a distaste for me, ma’am, and that I still have leave to call upon you?”

  “Of course,” said Rosamond, forcing her stiff lips to smile. “I am very sure that my papa would commend you for your efficiency.”

  He thanked her, saluted briskly, and waved the chariot on.

  Mrs. Porchester eyed her niece with trepidation as Rosamond craned her neck to be sure the troopers were riding off. “I have the most dreadful apprehension,” she wailed. “Rosa—what have you done? Oh dear, oh dear! What have you done?”

  Rosamond felt weak and drained and could not stop shaking. Victor was riding abreast of Billy Coachman. He likely dare not come back to talk to her while Holt remained in sight. She gathered her wits and managed somehow to convince her aunt that she was distraught because of what the physician had “told her” of poor Harold’s death. Mrs. Porchester’s tender heart was touched, and, her suspicions lulled, she adjured her niece to try to rest.

  Obediently, Rosamond put back her head and closed her eyes. Her mind was a dizzying whirl of questions and conjecture, all having to do with the enigma that was Dr. Robert Victor. She wondered uneasily to what extent he had lied to that dragoon last evening. The ensign had lost no time, obviously, in passing the information, or misinformation, on to his superiors. Which meant that the doctor now went in great peril of discovery. Was she to blame for his having taken so ghastly a risk? She shrank from such a fearful responsibility. There could no longer be any doubt, however, t
hat despite his professed contempt for those who helped Jacobites, and his initial brutality to the injured rebel, he had later risked his life to help the boy. She thought worriedly, ‘Likely he was not at all influenced by my pleas. He might have been troubled by conscience and repented his earlier cruelty.’ After all, he was a doctor and could well have been reminded of the ethics of his calling. She had to stifle a cynical exclamation. He had not been moved by those same ethics aboard the packet! Besides, if his sole motivation for having taken such a risk was a desire to please her, surely he would have wanted her to be aware of his heroic action? Instead of which, he had concocted that nonsensical tale about having been involved with a smuggler at the time. Perhaps shyness, or humility, had forbidden that he boast to her of his deeds. Again, she gave a mental sniff. He had not impressed her as being overly endowed with either of those attributes! But it was possible that, having relaxed his principles for her sake, he had felt he dare not trust her with the truth. Certainly, to do so would have been to put his life in her hands. She stiffened. Had the wretch dared to believe she might betray him? Surely he could not think her capable of such treachery?

  Through the flare of her anger came a small voice whispering that he might have kept the truth from her feeling that the less she knew, the safer she would be. And anger was routed.

  She stared blindly at the window. A gentleman would only be so gallant in behalf of a lady for whom he cared a good deal—no? And Dr. Robert Victor did not care for her. For the most part he spoke to her with rudeness or cynicism. The very first evening they had met, he had looked at her with disdain, and things had retrogressed from that point! He had behaved most shockingly in the cabin of the packet! He had berated her, teased her, thrown her over his shoulder, and spanked her in a most indecent way. She sighed. To give him the benefit of the doubt, his disgust of her at the ball might have been slightly excused—just slightly—by the little embarrassment with the strawberry sherbet; and his mood aboard ship might have been aggravated by the fact that Trifle had nipped him. And then, of course, he had been the recipient of a shower of mud—again in an attempt to protect her. She smiled faintly. That was when the wicked rogue had tried to kiss her…’Twas remarkable really that, despite his arrogance, his lips had a charmingly humorous quiver, sometimes … And the proud tilt to his chin when he was provoked was rather delicious …