Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  “I understand,” he said quickly. “I will get me gone.” For surely this glib-tongued lady would wish to renounce her lie the moment he was out of sight! Constance could rest easy in her new-made marriage, he vowed silently as he strode away. Nightfall would find him far from here and he would keep his distance from Somerset and never trouble her again!

  To Tom, whose hand had closed fiercely over the hilt of his sword, sanity returned. A little while ago he had been resigned to raising his own voice to stop the hanging. Now there would be no need to do it. He could thank Pamela for that at least! He wheeled his horse around and headed for the crowd that encircled the dusty messenger from Lyme.

  Sadly Pamela watched him go. She barely inclined her head when the man she had just saved from the gibbet rode by and—full of wrong conclusions—saluted her with a last wave of his hat as he began a journey that would lead him all the way to Lincoln. She did not care what happened to him.

  Tom might condemn her, she thought—but then he did not love her, so what did his condemnation matter? At least she would be free of Dick Peacham!

  Huntlands, Somerset,

  June 12, 1685

  Chapter 33

  Pamela had many misgivings when she told her father what had happened in Bridgwater, but he took it surprisingly well.

  “So you have made yourself a scandal in order to rid yourself of your betrothal?” he mused.

  “That’s about it,” admitted Pamela, flushing.

  The Squire studied her. She was Virginia’s daughter, right enough, and ripe for scandal—but she was his daughter too, charging directly where her heart led her. “Perhaps now you will follow your heart,” he said cryptically, thinking of Tom. Tom, who but a short time before had gripped the Squire’s hand, asked him to look after Huntlands for him, and ridden away to Lyme to join Monmouth.

  “He didn’t even scold me!” Pamela told Constance in wonder. “And when Dick Peacham’s note arrived formally breaking our betrothal, he just snorted and tore it up! In fact, the whole thing seemed to buck him up. He had himself loaded onto a wagon and came home with me!”

  Constance could see how being rid of the prospect of Dick Peacham as a son-in-law might hearten the Squire. “But I still don’t understand why you did it, Pamela,” she insisted. “I mean, some stranger is being hanged and you—”

  She broke off as Stebbins came in to announce Captain Warburton.

  The Captain strode into the drawing room. He was almost chillingly handsome in black arid silver with wide-topped boots and wide gauntleted riding gloves which he had not bothered to remove. He swept both young ladies a graceful bow with a flourish of his plumed hat.

  “ ’Twas the Squire I came to see,” he began, his gaze passing over Constance, who was regarding him uneasily. “But perhaps one of you may know. Ned has ridden off without a word, his bed’s not been slept in. Do either of you know where he went?” And when they shook their heads in surprise, a deep voice from the hallway said, “He left with Tom Thornton to join the Duke in Lyme.” And they all turned to see the Squire, leaning heavily upon a cane, come into the room.

  “Hotheaded young fools,” muttered the Captain, but Pamela swung on her father accusingly.

  “You didn’t tell me that! I thought Tom was just avoiding me.”

  “Your behavior didn’t merit your being told,” the Squire told her crisply. He turned to the Captain. “You’ve no doubt heard how my daughter distinguished herself at yesterday’s ‘hanging’?”

  “Yes, I heard.” Captain Warburton gave Pamela an amused look. “And put not much stock in it!”

  There was a glint of amusement in the Squire’s glance too. Then he sighed. “Tom left before he heard the straight of it.”

  “How did you come to select a stranger for this honor, Mistress Pamela?” wondered Captain Warburton. “I’d have thought there were easier ways to break a distasteful betrothal,” he added shrewdly.

  “Oh, I saw the fellow climb over the roof that night at the inn,” dimpled Pamela. “And I didn’t think he’d have either the time or the inclination at that late hour to dash out and commit murder!”

  “Over—did you say over the roof?” demanded Constance, her face gone chalky.

  “Yes,” shrugged Pamela. “And I got Tabby to ask him, there on the scaffold, if he had any scars—and he did!” Now that the truth was out, she could laugh about it.

  And Dev had a new long scar—new since Essex. This George Mayberry who had so nearly been hanged was Dev! Constance got unsteadily to her feet. “I think I need a breath of air,” she gasped.

  Captain Warburton found her on the front lawn as he left. He gave her a puzzled look. “We’ll agree that it’s no longer my affair,” he said. “But did you know this George Mayberry?”

  Constance gave him back as steady a look as the one he gave her. “We’ll agree,” she said distantly, “that it’s none of your affair.”

  The Captain jammed on his hat and left.

  Back inside, Pamela, who had by now ferreted out part of the story, grasped Constance as she came through the hall and swept her upstairs.

  “The man who left over the roofs that night at the inn—he was visiting you!” she accused.

  Constance had been shocked to discover that Pamela had discussed her situation with Tom. Now she gave the other girl a sad look. “I don’t have your icy control, Pam. My life is like my riding—I keep careening raggedly off the track. No grip on the reins like you have.”

  “Then he was—”

  “The man I married—” She had been about to say “long ago”; suddenly it seemed forever, in some other life. “Once,” she finished.

  “And to think, he might have been hanged for something he didn’t do!” gasped Pamela.

  “Yes, except for you.” And happenstance. There was always that.

  “I never dreamed, when I saw him ride off toward the east—”

  “Toward the east?” cut in Constance sharply.

  “Yes.”

  Not toward Bristol, then ... Dev had lied to her again. “Tom shouldn’t have left without telling me good-by,” worried Pamela.

  “No, he should not,” sighed Constance.

  “And especially since there could be a battle.”

  Constance gave Pamela a jaded look. “If England rises as expected, there’ll be more than one battle.”

  As it turned out, there was only one that really counted—and it took place at Sedgemoor. But they were not to know that—not yet. What they knew was that the Duke of Monmouth was moving north, gathering supporters as he went. Mostly they were country people, ill armed, untried in battle, and filled with enthusiasm for the Duke whom they now boldly called “King Monmouth.”

  The Squire’s frown deepened as the month of June proceeded. Monmouth had indeed gained a large following since landing at that ancient pier of unhewn stones known as the Cobb in Lyme Regis. With only eighty-two men and a drawn sword, he had plunged into the narrow blue rag-stone alleys of Lyme and been received by the villagers with a hail of flowers. Although the gentry had not flocked to join him, others had. Without difficulty he had seized Axminster. People rushed to join his banners every day, and it was with some eight thousand horse that he rode into Somerset.

  “The Duke has been crowned king in Taunton!” Pamela rushed in excitedly to tell her father and Constance as they sat in the drawing room. “I just heard it by way of the Hawleys’ head groom. He says he is off to join. Oh, do you not think we should go to Taunton, Father? There are bound to be all sorts of balls in celebration!”

  She is thinking Tom will be there, thought Constance, and was not surprised when the Squire growled, “ ’Tis a bit soon to celebrate. Wait until battle is joined—this young duke may not prevail!”

  Pamela paled a bit. “You do not think that battle can be avoided. Father?” she faltered. “I had hoped that if everyone joined him—”

  “Everyone will not join him,” Constance reminded her. She had received word throug
h the Hawleys that she was to remain where she was and channel messages. Galsworthy had come by only this morning and had brought gloomy news—all over England King James was having Monmouth’s supporters put under “preventive arrest.” He would give them no chance to lead uprisings against him! “Only in the West Country is there such optimism,” she said, and the Squire gave her a brooding look. If my daughter had shared your view, he was thinking, perhaps she could have dissuaded Tom Thornton from joining this shaky Cause. He did not know Constance as well as he thought.

  “What news of Captain Warburton?” asked Pamela, with a quick look at Constance.

  “No news,” rumbled the Squire. “He remains at Warwood as a sensible man should in times like these!”

  Pamela, whose heart was with Tom wherever he rode, made a face at them and flounced out into the garden.

  But the advancing days of summer brought little cheer. There was now a price on Monmouth’s head of five thousand pounds, dead or alive. Undismayed, the young duke drove through Glastonbury.

  Ominously, word reached Axeleigh—even as the Duke reached Bridgwater amid much exultation—that Albemarle, at the head of the King’s troops, was advancing on Bridgwater. No novice in war, Monmouth was determined to present a moving target to his enemies. He brought his troops west from Glastonbury, determined to attack Bristol but found himself checkmated—Lord Feversham had already thrown a regiment of foot-guards into Bristol. With his unseasoned troops Monmouth now turned east toward Bath but found it impregnably defended.

  Hoping for better luck, he swung south—and defeated his half-brother, the Duke of Grafton, at Norton St. Philip.

  And now word came that the Scots, on whom Monmouth had counted, would not be riding south to aid him. Argyll had been routed in the western Highlands—he had been captured and was as good as dead already. The Duke hastily called a council of war at his present field headquarters, a half-timbered inn known as the George at Norton St. Philip.

  And it was there that Captain Warburton found him.

  It was a tribute to the confusion that he was ushered in at once, and what he had to say only created further dismay.

  “I bring word that the local militias are gathering against you,” the Captain told him grimly. “It is not too late to flee. Under cover of darkness your men can disperse—most can make it back to their homes and wait for some more fortuitous time to place you upon the throne in Whitehall, Your Grace.”

  His “Your Grace” was noted with frowns by those who were now calling the Duke “Your Majesty.”

  “Who let this man in?” demanded Lord Grey arrogantly. “His opinion is not solicited!”

  Captain Warburton turned on him a forbidding glance.

  “You are trapped,” he warned. “Bristol and Bath have stood ye off. Even now Feversham and the Scots are headed toward Sedgemoor. More troops are joining them.”

  “We know that. Be on with it, man,” cut in an impatient voice.

  Captain Warburton favored the speaker with a cold look. His voice slowed to an insolent drawl. “I’m hearing word of ‘preventive arrests’ all over England. Elsewhere the revolt has been nipped in the bud. It’s over. The West Country stands alone.”

  About him now no one was smiling. For a moment they saw their future plain: the fields littered with dead, the green untried soldiers fighting valiantly with plowshares and poles and rusty muskets against cannon and seasoned troops.

  “I am come to deliver Your Grace to-safety,” said Captain Warburton impressively, “if ye will have it. I know these back roads and I ask only that I be allowed to pick my own men to get ye safe away to Holland—to wait for better days.” And those men would include Ned and Tom Thornton and the other Valley lads.

  “There will come no better days!” cried someone. “We have already defeated Grafton, we must make our move now!”

  The handsome young duke gave him a distracted look. “I thank you for your offer,” he told Captain Warburton. “But methinks me there must be some way to win the day!”

  At that point someone came in and muttered in Lord Grey’s ear. He went out to find a flushed, mounted young captain, whom he recognized as Tom Thornton, and beside him on a dancing white mount the most beautiful blonde it had ever been his privilege to view. Lord Grey, who appreciated beauty, was quite bowled over.

  “This young lady is a neighbor of mine,” Tom told him. “She has come to see me and since I know all the rooms at the inn are taken—”

  “You would wish to escort her home,” Grey finished for him. “But you’re needed here.”

  “Mistress Pamela cannot be expected to ride back alone in the dark,” stated Tom. His jaw was thrust out.

  Grey did not even notice that outthrust jaw. His reflective gaze was on Pamela, who watched him with sparkling crystal blue eyes. “This conferring is apt to be a long business and could well take till morning,” he said. “The lady can have my room for the night.”

  Tom was startled. He would have protested but that Pamela, dimpling at Lord Grey, murmured, “I had heard of your courtesy, sir, but I am overwhelmed by your generosity!” She dismounted in a pretty flurry of scarlet riding skirts. “Now we can talk in private,” she told Tom.

  Lord Grey watched grimly as they went into the inn. It was not the first time he had stood aside for lovers, and there could be no mistaking the way this pair looked at each other.

  He went back inside where Captain Warburton—unknown to Tom and Pamela—was being shouted down.

  With a bow, the Captain left and went in search of Ned. Finding him was not easy, for Ned and two others were out on a reconnaissance mission. Looking around him at other young fools, so eager to fight and die in this hopeless Cause, the Captain heaved a deep sigh. Fools they might be but they were West Country fools, and he knew that when the battle was joined, he would be with them. Not to fight for any Stuart, but to fight beside his own. He settled himself in the encampment to wait for Ned.

  Meanwhile, inside the inn, Tom was leading Pamela up the stairs.

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Pam,” he remonstrated. “Is the Squire mad that he allows you to go jaunting about the countryside alone in times like these?”

  “Father’s abed again and could not stop me,” Pamela told him as they reached the landing. “For he slipped on the stairs and fell down the entire flight and has hurt his back again—more grievously this time, I am afraid.”

  Tom stared at her. Himself he had invented that lie about the Squire’s having fallen down the main staircase at Huntlands and now it had come true over at Axeleigh! There was Someone Up There counting the hairs on your head after all! “But he had others to stop you,” he pointed out.

  “They have all run away to fight for the Duke—except Stebbins, who is too old, and I managed to elude him." She was walking into the room Tom indicated was Lord Grey’s as she spoke and now she tossed her scarlet-plumed hat on the bed and whirled to face him. “Latch the door, Tom.”

  “But I’m not staying, Pam. Consider your reputation if—”

  “My reputation is long gone. I scattered it to the winds at Bridgwater.” She sighed and gave him a slanted look. “You see before you a scarlet woman, Tom.” Her excited laughter tinkled. “The color of my riding habit is appropriate!”

  “Pamela!” he protested. But he latched the door.

  “And I have heard there is a great host gathering on Sedgemoor to face you.” She gave him a steady look.

  “That is true.”

  Her attack veered. “When you went to join up, why did you not tell me good-by?”

  That reminded him of the scene in Bridgwater when a plumed-hatted stranger had swept her an elegant bow. And she had known the location of a scar below the stranger’s belt! “You were already occupied with telling someone else good-by,” he said grimly.

  “Oh, Tom! You could not have thought that man mattered to me!”

  His golden brows shot up. “I thought he might. Since you so candidly admitted you spen
t the night with him at the inn!”

  She gave him a roguish look. “Surely you did not believe it?”

  “I knew not what to believe. First you betrothed yourself to Peacham—”

  “But that was only because Dorothea Hawley showed me the ring you had given her and told me of your secret betrothal.”

  “Ring?” echoed Tom. “I gave Dorothea Hawley no ring— nor is there any secret betrothal!” Suddenly he remembered the ring he had lost that Dorothea had found. “And it was because of this that you plighted your troth to Peacham?”

  She nodded. “And then I wanted out of it but I knew my father would hold me to it because he had given his word, so I—”

  “Invented a lover!” Tom was staring at her, near bereft of speech.

  “On the spur of the moment.” She gave him a demure smile. “How else was I to wait for you, Tom?”

  The anger that had gnawed at him ever since that day in Bridgwater melted away in an instant. Tom had almost been hoping that he would die in battle, now that Pamela was lost to him. That she should be suddenly restored near took his breath away!

  “Then you mean—”

  “That man they nearly hanged was Constance’s lover, not mine. He’d been in her room—not mine.”

  The joy that washed over Tom was so overwhelming that it staggered him. Almost without volition, his arms went around Pamela.

  “Oh, Pam! And I thought—!”

  “But you were wrong,” she whispered. “I have never loved anyone but you.”

  They were silent for a long time, kissing, murmuring. Then Tom pushed her away from him. Firmly. “You still shouldn’t have come, Pam. Harm could befall you here. Battle will be joined soon—and it is possible we will lose.”

  “I couldn’t let you go into battle without knowing how matters stood between us,” she said wistfully. “And whether you meant to return to me—or to Dorothea Hawley.”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” Tom’s voice was husky.

  “Yes. I know the answer now. Oh, Tom, come home with me! Forget Monmouth, come home!”