Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  While the men tended to the horses, built the fire, inspected damage done to the caravans, and hauled water, the ladies prepared stewed chicken, carrots, and onions. Soon, the little camp was redolent with the smells of woodsmoke, stew, and fresh bread procured en route from an isolated farmhouse. There was a keg of home-brewed ale also, and by the time the meal was over, the spirits of the Avon Travelling Players had lifted somewhat.

  Gathered around the fire, they discussed their plans. To travel by day would be extremely dangerous now, for they carried a fortune in gold, jewels, and objets d’art. Were they to be searched by dragoons who had previously inspected the caravans, they might have a chance of escaping detection, but a patrol stopping them for the first time might soon discover that the jewels were not imitations, and that the spaces in the set pieces were no longer empty. Mathieson was astounded to learn that in addition to gold and plate, several paintings of great value now resided inside the set pieces, including part of a tempera triptych by Giovanni Bellini, a small portrait by Van Dyck, and an en grisaille drawing by Rubens. The owners of these works of art, MacTavish explained with a rueful smile, had been too fearful to attempt to sell the pieces themselves, and had instead donated the works intact to the Cause. “The Prince had requested gold,” said my lady, “but—” she shrugged and spread her hands, “he was too gracious to express anything other than his grateful thanks.”

  They discussed the possibility of travelling only by night, which would also be dangerous—partly from the risk of accident to horses or caravans when traversing unknown roads in darkness, and partly because nocturnal travellers invariably aroused curiosity which might bring the military down upon them more surely than if they ventured by daylight. Also, as MacTavish pointed out, it would mean a long, slow journey, undesirable with winter coming on.

  Bradford frowned thoughtfully and turned to his mother. “Can you tell us now ma’am, exactly how far south is the chosen spot?”

  Lady Clorinda hesitated, glanced at MacTavish’s grave countenance, then replied carefully, “I will say only that ’tis within a few miles of the south coast.”

  A dismayed chorus arose. Heywood spoke for them all when he said, irked, “I wonder they didn’t make it a wee bit difficult for uth. Like Manchuria—or Africa!”

  “It was chosen,” said my lady with some asperity, “because initially ’twas hoped to send the treasure all the way down from Scotland by sea, and the selected location lies near some ideally secluded coves. It is a great house with cellars containing secret rooms where the treasure could be kept concealed for as long as is required. The most zealous of English officers would never think to search the south coast for a Scots treasure trove. It seemed ideal—until the first ship was nigh wrecked in a storm in the Irish Sea and was forced to put in to Liverpool. It was little short of miraculous that the Jacobites guarding the treasure were able to off-load it without being caught. But it was because they found themselves in a veritable sea of dragoons that they had to make hasty choices for temporary storage places.” She sighed and gave a little gesture of helplessness. “None of this, alas, was foreseen.”

  “Fate’s best-laid traps are never foreseen,” muttered Freemon Torrey, watching Fiona sad-eyed.

  “True,” agreed Bradford. “And we are, I suspect, hoist by our own petard. We’ve some of our scenery and most of our costumes, but we dare not stop to give performances now, else ’twould take forever and a day to get to the south coast.”

  “Our first plan was to become a gypsy group,” said Cuthbert. “Perhaps we should revert to it.”

  “And explain to any stray troopers how a gypsy group chances to be carrying set pieces and a pirate’s treasure chest,” drawled Mathieson sardonically.

  For once in agreement with his rival, Torrey said, “We’d be clapped up before you could wink an eye!”

  The discussion continued, but everyone was tired, no more satisfactory solution to their difficulties was propounded, and in the end they decided to continue as they were going. They would stay away from all main roads and highways; travel as fast and as long as was possible each day; and send out advance scouts to survey their route and provide warning of any sign of the military.

  The ladies prepared to retire, and Mathieson abandoned his hope for a private moment with Fiona and slipped away to check on Rumpelstiltskin. The big stallion kicked up his heels when he heard the familiar whistle and came at a run, eager for the caress of his master’s hand, his head tossing, his nose searching for the carrot he knew lurked somewhere about. Laughing, Mathieson produced the treat from his pocket. “Cupboard love, is it?” he scolded, holding the carrot just out of reach. “Let me see you ask properly.” He whistled a short three-note melody, and at once the chestnut began to dance in circles, scattering the horses in his path. A low warbling note and Rumpelstiltskin came at the trot, to halt at Mathieson’s spoken command. “Now—make your bow, Rump.” Obediently, the horse leaned back on his haunches, and rendered his equine bow.

  Fiona, who had crept up unobserved, asked, “May I give him his reward, Roly?”

  His heart leaping, Mathieson swung around. The girl stood a few paces away, the distant light of the flames showing her little face aglow with the radiance that was not exactly a smile but that had come to mean more to him than any smile in the world.

  Without a word, he handed her the carrot and she trod nearer to the rope paddock.

  “Gently, Rump,” he admonished.

  She proffered the carrot; the big horse accepted it, his lips scarcely brushing her hand, and stood chomping contentedly.

  “How splendid he is,” she murmured.

  Mathieson glanced about, and drew her into the shadows. “But, of course. He belongs to me. I will own nothing less than the best.”

  Her head came up and she turned to him. The hood of her cloak fell back and he heard her low chuckle. “Ma belle,” he reached for her hand. “How very brave of you to come. I was afraid I’d have no chance for a word with you.”

  “Well, Grandmama has gone to bed, and Papa and MacTavish are still talking. Moira and Elizabeth will not betray me, so I very naughtily followed you. And now that I am here, what words have you, sir?” Her voice very soft, she swayed to him. “A scold for my—lack of propriety?”

  His arm slipped around her. He said, “There are advantages to being a scoundrel, and—”

  Her warm fingers shut off the rest. “I did not come to hear nonsense.”

  There was no need to ask the obvious. He knew why she had come, and he wasted no more time, but bent to her lips. She gave them up willingly and matched his ardour with her own shy but eager caresses. He knew he could take more than a kiss and for the first time in his life knew also that the only important thing was her—that she must not be frightened, or hurried, or persuaded to what would be even a small violation of her trust and her purity. He was not pursuing a brief flurry into passion, or even a more lasting affaire de coeur. This was for all his days. This was his madonna, and she must be handled with reverence and kept safe—even from him. With an inward sigh, he thought, ‘Especially from me!’ And smiling wryly, put her from him.

  “Roly,” she whispered yearningly. “If you knew how afraid I was. How very grateful that you came back safely. I-I was praying so hard …”

  He pressed a kiss into one soft little palm. “Which would explain why I did come back safely. Tiny Mite, I don’t like this plan of MacTavish’s. I want you out of danger and back at your home. There is no longer the need for you to journey with us.”

  Touching his cheek lovingly she murmured, “How do you know I would be safe at home, sir? You know not where I live—or how.”

  “True. But it must be a beautiful place, for you grew up there. Where do you live, Tiny Mite?”

  She chuckled again. “Guess. Tell me what you suppose.”

  What did he suppose? He frowned a little. It was doubtful that Bradford was completely poverty stricken. Besides, Fiona was Lady Clorinda’s grand
daughter. “A country manor house, or a gentleman’s farm perhaps,” he said thoughtfully.

  Faintly annoyed, she said, “Where I helped feed the chickens and churn the butter.” And with a teasing smile, “Or am I London bred, and accustomed to the balls and routs and endless seeking after pleasure which—”

  “Never that,” he murmured laughingly. “You’re no London belle, Tiny Mite.”

  Definitely annoyed, Fiona stiffened. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed, miss. You are too honest; too free from sophisticated artifice and—”

  “Too simple-minded? Gauche?” There was an unexpected hauteur in her voice, reminiscent of her grandmama. “A rustic do you mean, perchance? I’ll have you know, Mr. Mathieson, that I’ve not dwelt all my life in a caravan!”

  “Of course you haven’t,” he agreed, much amused. “You spend at least half your time wallowing about in the mud, and baking plaster crumpets, to say nothing—”

  “La, what a fine picture you have of me, sir! Only think how people will mock you for having chose a muddy rustic for a bride!”

  “To say truth,” he teased, “I court you only because I covet Picayune, and because my grandpapa will get his just desserts when he samples some of your crumpets!”

  “A somewhat less than compelling reason for matrimony, Mr. Mathieson!”

  The chill in her voice startled him. He scanned her face and saw the proud tilt to the chin, the angry glint in the green eyes and cursed himself for a fool. “Vraiment but you are tired,” he said remorsefully, “and I have made you cross with my foolish nonsense. Forgive me as quickly as you can beloved, for we have so little time.”

  “Oh, I am a great stupid,” she said, at once repentant. “Very well, my dear. I live in an old house called Blackberry Manor. It is situated in Wiltshire, and we are so fortunate as to have the River Avon flowing through part of the estate. You would, I think, find it as beautiful as do I.”

  Unease touched him. He said in oblique probing, “And you, who are so humble, are in fact a great heiress, I understand.”

  She laughed. “Now you have been listening to Torrey. My brother Francis will inherit the estates of course, but I’ll own I have a comfortable inheritance which comes to me from my mama’s family.” Her fingers touched his chin. “Why look so glum? Only think, now you can claim to be a dastardly fortune hunter and—”

  “Not I! I shall say instead that my own fortune is vast. Since you never believe the truths I tell, you will then know that I am in fact a dastardly fortune hunter and will be able to warn Heywood that Miss Clandon’s fortune lures me in her direction!”

  “Ah, have you heard about that, then? Good gracious! I wonder if Thad knows.”

  Mathieson gave no sign of his surprise, and said blandly, “I think he would not care had she sixpence to her name.”

  “She was never that badly off, but just five months ago a cousin of her father’s went to his reward. The old gentleman had removed to Italy years since, and we all fancied him a pauper, but it seems he won a mare at the tables, and her foal became a great racehorse. The old gentleman built up his stables and died vastly rich—and childless.”

  “Jupiter! Did he leave some of his wealth to Miss Clandon?”

  “All of it! He had loved her dearly as a babe and never forgot her, so now—”

  “Fiona …?” Moira’s soft call interrupted her.

  Mathieson said urgently, “Listen to me! You must go back to Wiltshire at once! I don’t want—”

  “Foolish boy. As if I would leave you—or my people. Goodnight, now.” And she was gone, running quickly to her friend.

  For a long moment Mathieson gazed after her, frowning. He was roused when Rumpelstiltskin shoved him and uttered a friendly whicker.

  “It would seem, you old rascal, that we have two rich ladies among us. One with a comfortable inheritance, and the other a great heiress …” Mathieson scratched the stallion under his chin in the way Rumpelstiltskin particularly liked. “That puts a rather different complexion upon things—n’est-ce pas?”

  Eyes half-closed with pleasure, the horse made no response, and after a while Mathieson left him and walked slowly to the caravan, his thoughts very busy indeed.

  The rain stopped on Thursday night, and Friday morning dawned bright and sparkling with a return to warm autumn weather again. Old Shrewsbury town, proud on its perch above the River Severn, showed well on such a brilliant day. To walk its streets was to walk through history, and as Trooper Willhays told Sergeant Patchett, he expected that at any minute the door to one of the ancient timber-framed houses would open, and a lady in wimple and farthingale be handed down the steps and into her sedan chair.

  Marching briskly beside him en route to the livery stable, the sergeant returned only a grunt. He liked Willhays; the boy’s clean-cut face and earnest grey eyes had impressed him the instant they first met. ‘A decent, God-fearing youngster,’ he’d thought then, and he was still of that opinion a year later. Further, Willhays possessed a mind that was full of interest in the world about him. He could, thought Patchett, work his way up through the ranks—might even earn a battlefield commission some day. He had it in him to make a fine officer—if Lambert didn’t crush him first. Taken a dislike to Willhays had the charming lieutenant, because the boy had made an intelligent observation about the Jacobite Cause in his hearing. Lambert had enjoyed a jolly few minutes, cutting the trooper to ribbons with his caustic tongue. The lieutenant, thought Patchett bitterly, was acid to his fingernails—and would probably rise to be a general, ruining God knows how many promising subordinates along his way. He cursed the army mentally and shocked the trooper by spitting into the kennel.

  The subject of his thoughts pushed back his chair in the coffee room of the small hostelry where the troop had headquartered for two days, and walked out into the sunlit street, pausing on the steps to draw on his gauntlets. Unlike Trooper Willhays, Lambert paid no attention to the gracious old buildings. The sunshine glinting on their deep latticed or mullioned windows and brightening the flower boxes escaped him utterly. His deep blue eyes rested with indifference on the glittering river that girdled the high peninsula whereon was the town. Shropshire, beautiful in the eyes of so many, he judged a bore, and everything in it a damnable nuisance. Each moment he was here was a moment he might have been in Town with an eye to winning back his captaincy. Small chance there was of tracking those blasted rebs up here. Since Lake had gone flaunting back to the south country he’d caught not so much as a whiff of—

  His bitter musings were interrupted by loud voices from inside the building. The host was saying angrily, “… hired to mend my roof, which you said as you could do. Well, it ain’t been done. Not right, that is. I told you as I wouldn’t pay full money for a half-done job of work, and I meant it! Now take yourself off, or I’ll call the constable!”

  Lambert’s lip curled as he started down the steps. Disgusting that a guest should be obliged to hear such a vulgar dispute! You’d not find such behaviour at a decent inn, but—

  He checked, standing shocked and motionless as another voice rose. A whining, rasping, crudity of a voice that whipped him back to a small dim chamber under Castle Carruthers, and the traitorous hireling whom he had shot down to protect himself from a charge of kidnapping and attempted murder. He whispered, “Hessell!” and walked on, knowing this threat must be properly silenced or he would face a greater loss than his commission.

  Moving swiftly, he went down the steps and along the street to the baker’s shop, continuing to the far side of the deep bow window. Affecting to inspect the cakes displayed there, he had a fine view of the front of the inn, and in less than a minute saw Ben Hessell’s ungainly figure come shambling down the steps and slouch off. At once, he followed. Hessell was going towards the livery stable, which was bad, because that insolent clod Patchett would likely be bringing the horses at any minute.

  Lambert hastened his steps until he was very close to his quarry. Hessell started across a nar
row alley. Coming up behind him, Lambert said softly, “My pistol is at your back, Hessell. Turn in here. No—not a word! Move—or I’ll do the world a favour and shoot here and now!”

  The big shoulders jerked and then cowered, as Hessell identified the voice. His cunning mind told him that if he once walked into that alley, he’d never come out alive. Pulling his shattered nerves together, he halted and said, “I told me mate as I’d seen yer, Lieutenant, sir. And I told him what we’d done … you and me. If I don’t come back …”

  “You filthy lying bastard,” ground out Lambert, shoving him hard. “You’ve got precisely ten seconds, and then—”

  “But I bin follering you, sir. Honest I have! May me liver rot if I’m telling a whisker! I don’t hold no grudge, Lieutenant. I know what you and yer friend Captin Otton is up here fer, and—”

  Lambert’s eyes widened in shock. Rage made him very fast. Hessell’s arm was seized in a bruising grip and he was spun into the mouth of the alley and slammed against the wall behind a tall rain barrel. Two narrowed eyes blazed into his own. The muzzle of a pistol was rammed hard under his chin, so that he gave a yelp and in terror and desperation, gabbled shrilly, “Don’t yer never scrag me, Lambert! Don’t you never! On top o’ all the rest, you’d be—”