Rosamond held her breath and thought, ‘A trap. Be careful! Oh, do be careful!’
Victor frowned, then said slowly, “Not unless you mean Major Filkins? Jove, but I never did hear what became of him. Recovered, I hope?”
A flicker of chagrin touched Holt’s eyes. “You’re right, he is a Major! Jupiter, but I sometimes think my memory’s going. Toby has recovered his health, but not his morale, I think.” He turned with a faintly apologetic smile to his host. “Forgive. We discuss a great block who managed to get himself bested by some puny Scots stripling on Culloden Moor.” His eyes darted back to Victor. “You disagree?”
“With your description, certainly. The last I saw of Toby he was fighting right well. And the lad may have been a—ah, stripling, but he knew how to manage his sabre!”
“Admittedly,” said Holt. “But what so mortified Filkins was that the Scot was already wounded. A—er, bayonet through his leg, I think Toby said…”
Charles observed musingly, “Yet he was able to best the bigger man.”
“He has my profound admiration,” declared the colonel. “Scots traitor or no! If you’ve ever had a bayonet stuck in you—”
“Lennox! Please…” implored Mrs. Estelle, paling. “Such a topic—just after dinner! Such a topic!”
“My apologies, ma’am,” said Holt. “Still, I must agree with the colonel. One cannot but admire the fellow. You suffered a—er, similar unpleasantness, did you, Victor? Or were you struck down by a musket-ball?”
His eyes glinting, Victor murmured, “No. Same disease, I fear. And I agree whole-heartedly. What happened to the gentleman? An he survived the battle he was executed, I suppose.”
Holt gazed thoughtfully at his wine, then replied, “I’ve no idea. Perhaps he has eluded the axe…” He smiled and added gently, “for a while, at least.”
* * *
With punctilious good manners Captain Holt took his leave at the end of half an hour that seemed to Rosamond several days long. She had consistently avoided Victor’s eyes but she knew he watched her. She knew also that she was shivering and terribly cold and was so unnerved by the time the door closed behind the soldier that she did not protest her aunt’s worried statement that she looked “worn to a shade” and must at once go and lie down upon her bed. She said her good-nights to three concerned gentlemen and allowed Aunt Estelle to shepherd her upstairs.
A short while later, alone in her bed in the darkened room, she stared blindly at the canopy and found she had no recollection of getting undressed or of who had put her to bed. Her mind seemed frozen; all of her seemed frozen; numbed by the terrible awareness that Robert Victor was a suspected Jacobite. There was no doubt but that Captain Holt believed he was the man who had fought his friend. Certainly, he would not entertain such a suspicion unless he had something more to justify it than Victor’s admission that he had taken a bayonet wound. Perhaps Holt had been given a description of this “Toby” person’s adversary. And it made sense. Indeed, so many little incidents were now explained that she marvelled at how dull-witted she had been not to have formed her own suspicions. Dull-witted or unwilling to admit the possibility. Now that she had faced it, there was no difficulty in believing him capable of treason. From the very beginning she had sensed strength in the man and a surfeit of pride. She could picture him wearing plaid and sporran … Almost she could see the ravening horror of that terrible battlefield; Victor standing straight and unyielding in the heaviest part of the fighting, his kilts swinging as he wielded his great sword, his fair head high-held despite the pain of his wounds, his pale face set and grim. As he slew dear Harold, perchance. She shuddered and closed her eyes, the tears creeping slowly from under her lashes, and her heart aching as it never had ached before.
What a sorry fool not to have realized something was odd when Victor had not denied having been at Culloden, but sort of skirted the issue with some devious twaddle about doctors being sworn to save lives—not take them. He’d been able to speak of the battle so easily because he had been there. Only fighting for the wrong side! And of course he had helped the fugitive—the man was one of his own! She recollected now that it had been Victor who had said “dinna” for “did not,” just as Addie said it. That slip should have told her he was a Scot. Oh, but she had been an easy foil for him! The silly little English girl, who had become fond … more than fond of a man for whom she should feel only disgust. She would not spare herself, but faced her guilt squarely, although to own it was racking. In the lane that night, just before they found the fugitive, shamefully, she had wanted Victor to kiss her … And when she had flirted with him this afternoon she had waited with trembling eagerness for him to hold her again. How vile! How disgusting that she should be so weak-kneed as to have given her heart to a creature who was at best a blackmailing and unscrupulous criminal, and at worst an unspeakably loathsome traitor!
‘You chose right well, Rosamond,’ she thought bitterly. ‘You could not be in love with a gallant gentleman like Harold Singleton, but you were easily captivated by the murdering savage who could very well have killed him!’ And how Victor must have laughed at her, for he doubtless hated the English—even as she hated all Jacobites. Covering her face, she writhed with shame and humiliation, but to indulge such emotions was to waste time. She bit her lip hard and then wiped savagely at her tears. She was aware now of both his infamy and her own foolishness. There must be an end to folly, and there was another terror to be faced.
Captain Holt was very obviously an ambitious man and had looked at her tonight with eyes as hard and cold as any agates; very different to the glowing admiration he had affected at Tante Maria’s ball. It would appear that, suspecting Victor to be a Jacobite, he also thought that she was in cahoots with the man. The wonder was that they had not both been arrested. Holt must lack proof. He would have plenty of that very soon, for if he had not already done so, he would certainly send a request to The Horse Guards at Whitehall for information concerning one Captain Robert Victor. At the most it would be a day or two before he learned that no such officer had fought at the Battle of Culloden Moor. In behalf of King George, at least! The next step would be the arrival of a troop of horse, clattering up the drive to drag the wretched doctor away! And her also, belike! To face a terrible nightmare ending in death! And what of Charles and Papa? Would they be accused of harbouring the king’s enemies? Would her gentle aunt be suspected? Dear God! Only this morning her greatest worry had been her brother’s theft of the icon. How trite that offense seemed now, by comparison with this hideous threat. For it would be judged high treason! The traitorous doctor had brought the ghastly shadow of axe and block to hover over her loved ones! The very thought made her blood run cold and she knew she could wait no longer. Why Roland Fairleigh had chosen to desert her just when she most needed his counsel, she could not guess, but her mind was made up. As soon as the gentlemen retired, she would seek out her father and lay the whole terrible business before him.
* * *
Chichester’s famed Cathedral Church of the Holy Trinity was farther afield than Lennox Albritton’s customary place of worship, but it was where he had been christened, and on the Sunday closest to his birthday he never failed to transport his family to the beautiful eleventh-century cathedral. Dr. Victor, who had accompanied them, was properly quiet during the service, but when they were leaving, expressed a deep admiration of the great building, especially the detached campanile with its octagonal top storey. Pleased by his awe, Colonel Albritton urged Charles to recount some of the history of the cathedral, and as they emerged slowly into glaring sunlight and a hot wind, Victor listened attentively to details anent the Lady chapel and library, the unique cloisters, the height of the spire, and the fires that had raged there during the twelfth century.
Rosamond, who knew it all by heart, seized her opportunity. Thanks to having drifted off to sleep last night before completing her plan, she had not spoken to her father, and because they had left early this morning, there
had been no time to snatch a word with him. Aunt Estelle had not accompanied them to church, pleading the onset of a cold. Nor had Howard Singleton ridden over to join them as he often did on this special Sunday. Probably, she thought irritably, due to the attraction of the dashing Mr. Fairleigh, but it was as well neither of them was here, because now at last she had a moment alone with her father. Taking the arm he offered, she whispered a plea for an interview with him as soon as they reached home.
The colonel had an idea that his sister-in-law’s absence had nothing to do with a cold, but was instead connected with preparations for his birthday. He was therefore in an expansive mood and, squeezing his pretty daughter’s hand, urged, “Tell me what you are up to, puss. Those young cubs won’t hear.”
“I cannot, Papa. Is most important. May I come to your study before luncheon?”
“Secrets, eh? Very well. But you shall have to be brief, for I’m famished. Ah, here’s Amos with the chariot. Hurry up, you young jabbernolls, mustn’t keep the horses standing!”
There was no sign of bad weather when they reached Lennox Court, but with Rosamond’s hand on his arm, Victor whispered, “Gad, ma’am, I think another storm approaches!”
She’d had to exert all her will-power to be civil to the man, but she had not dared be otherwise until she had consulted with Papa. At this, however, her sorely tried nerves twanged tight. “What is it?” she demanded tensely. “Did you see—” She bit off the words “Captain Holt” and finished rather lamely, “Never say ’tis Trifle again?”
“Worse, perhaps,” he said with a chuckle. “Your aunt. Armed with a muddy trowel!”
Rosamond hid her relief, excused herself and hurried to her bedchamber to put off her bonnet. Addie was nowhere to be seen and Rosamond did not ring for her, but dusted the hare’s foot over her nose, pinched some colour into her pale cheeks, and tidied her hair. And even then she hesitated, appalled because a man’s life depended upon what she was about to do. She hardened her heart. Victor had not considered the risk to their lives, and he was an enemy of her king and country! She had no choice. Still, she felt wretched. She sank at last to her knees beside the bed and prayed with all her heart for guidance. Then, calmer but heavy-hearted, she went downstairs and turned towards the breakfast parlour where luncheon was served unless they had many guests. She was half-way across the hall when there was a crash and the sound of shattering chinaware. Startled, she glanced back. Addington had evidently been required to assist in the kitchen. The tray she had been carrying into the breakfast parlour lay at her feet surrounded by broken crockery. The tall girl, pale as a ghost, crouched above it, her wide eyes fixed on the man who had wandered from the billiard room.
Dr. Victor’s gaze flew to Rosamond. “And there goes our luncheon!” he exclaimed lightly. “Are you all right, miss?”
Miss Seddon and a kitchen-maid came running. As red as she had formerly been white, Addington straightened, stammering out incoherent apologies and excuses. Victor picked up the tray and handed it to her. “Don’t look so scared. You likely tripped on the rug. Accidents will happen.”
Rosamond forced her stiff lips to smile at him and continued along the hall to the northwest end of the house where was the colonel’s study. Her mind was seething. It was one more piece of damning evidence against him. Addie had not tripped. She was a Scot, and she’d dropped the tray because she had recognized the evil physician! Probably she had known him in—
“Wake up, m’dear! Wake up and come in!”
The study door was open and here she stood, staring at nothing like a fine prospect for Bedlam. She slipped inside, feeling trapped and sick now that she was so close to taking this step that would very likely doom Robert Victor to a cruel death.
Lennox Albritton had risen to pull out a chair for his daughter and as she occupied it he leaned back against his big battered old campaign desk, folded his arms and smiled down at her. Failing, typically, to note either her pallor or her subdued manner, he said fondly, “Sink me if you ain’t a sight to see, Rosa. That pink gown. Jolly nice. Puts me in remind of your mama…” His eyes became remote. Stifling a sigh, he murmured, “She was a beautiful woman, was my Irene.”
He seldom indulged in nostalgia, and Rosamond was considerably taken aback. Because he was such a strong man, she had not realized that even yet he might be grieving the wife he had idolized; that although the years had gone by, his loneliness may have remained. She said with regret for her belated comprehension, “You must have been very proud of her, dear sir.”
“Aye … I was.” He lifted dreamy eyes, saw the affectionate sympathy in her face, and flushed scarlet. “No need to fall into a maudlin megrim over it! I was—lucky to—er, have her for so long as I did. She was sensible, as well as lovely. Never”—his whiskers bristled—“messed about with my garden like—some people do!”
Even at this desperate moment Rosamond’s instincts demanded she try to pour oil on troubled waters. She said, “I expect Aunt Estelle is occasionally a trial to you, Papa. But—she is extreme fond of you, you know.”
A look of stark astonishment came over the rugged features. He stammered, “Sh-she … is? Estelle is?” And then, with a return to his gruff manner, “Pshaw, child! Rubbish. We tolerate each other merely. Needed her when my Irene died. And Stella needed us. Nothing more to it.”
“That is not so, Papa,” she said, greatly daring. His brows twitched together and she went on quickly, “Surely you have noticed how worried she becomes whenever you have fallen ill; how willingly she partners you at cards, and argues when you crave an argument or—”
“Crave an— The deuce, girl! I never—”
“Yes, you do. You know you do. And Aunt Estelle knows too, so argues with you whenever you will. If you could but have seen her searching for just the right birthday gift…”
“Did she, by Jove,” he said, indignation vanishing. “Dashed good of her, I must say.” And with cunning nonchalance, “Do you—ah, know what she found for me?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes. And I’ll not tell you, you sly rascal.”
“Oh, very well, very well. Get on with it, child. What is this ‘most important’ matter you’ve to lay in my dish?”
She felt very cold and had to bite her lip hard to keep her resolve. This would properly ruin his birthday, poor darling! But in a thready voice she faltered, “I—scarce know where to begin … Papa—do you recollect the icon that Aunt Estelle—”
“Good God!” he exclaimed, leaping up and regarding her with horror. “Never say she has found it? If that is the ‘special birthday gift’ she means to present me, I’ll not scruple to tell you here and now—”
Staring at him in bewilderment, she stammered, “Wh-what do you mean? How could my aunt have found it? ’Twas stolen—no?”
“What? Oh—er, well it was. Of course.” But his eyes twinkled at her merrily and he looked so much like a little boy caught in some mischievous prank that Rosamond’s brain reeled.
“My—heaven…!” she whispered, leaning weakly back in her chair. “Never say you—you hid it?”
“I certainly will say nothing of the sort! Thieves.” He gave a muffled snort of amusement. “God help ’em!”
Groping for comprehension, she muttered, “You always loathed it … but you knew Aunt Estelle thought it charming, so— Oh—Papa! How could you?”
He giggled rather nervously, then scowled. “Now why must you look at me like last week’s porridge? Zounds, what a fuss and feathers over a hideous thing we’re well rid of!” And then, guiltily, “You’ll not tell your aunt? Jove, but I’d never hear the end of ’t!”
* * *
Rosamond’s hurriedly conjured-up plea that her aunt be permitted to keep Trifle did not impress her sire as being a “most important” reason for having delayed his luncheon and he was less than pleased as he escorted her to the breakfast parlour. His mood deteriorated when only his son and Dr. Victor stood as they entered, Charles imparting the news that his aunt had look
ed in and would be down “in just a moment.” The colonel’s whiskers shivered. He glanced bodingly at Victor and growled, “See what I mean? Women!”
Mrs. Porchester was as good as her word, however, and in a very short time swept in with a rustle of petticoats and said airily that it was not the least bit of use for Lennox to be provoked with her, since it was on his account she had been delayed. Her twinkling glance restored his good humour and luncheon went off quite well save for her concerned observation that Charles looked “positively bruised” under the eyes and she feared he might be sickening for some ailment.
Dearly as she loved her brother, Rosamond scarcely heard the remark. Under any circumstances to lie was despicable, but it was utterly foreign to Charles’s nature, especially that he should have deceived her—the person with whom of all his relations he had always had the closest ties. She was hurt and frightened and gripped by the helpless feeling that she was being drawn deeper and deeper into a nightmarish maze from which there was no way out.
It was clear now that Victor’s hold over her brother had nothing to do with the long-vanished icon. Why then should Charles have invented so damning a tale? Unless the truth was even more horrible. Was it possible that he was involved with the Jacobites? That Victor was extorting money from him under threat of revealing some act of charity to a fugitive? Or had Charles judged it necessary to portray himself in such a bad light so as to shield someone else? Whom? Her father despised the Stuarts. And poor Howard Singleton’s love for his dead brother would forbid he aid the Jacobites in the slightest way. Aunt Estelle’s soft heart might have led her into an act of kindness that could be judged treasonable … or Debbie, perhaps…? Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadful it was! One thing was certain: she dare not confess the whole truth to Papa; not until she had somehow discovered exactly what it was that the wretched physician held over her hapless brother’s head! And meanwhile, for all their sakes she must not let Victor suspect that she knew him for what he was.
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