Cherished Enemy (35 page)

“Are ye feelin' a wee mite better the noo, Miss Rosa?” Addie bent over the chair anxiously, the vinaigrette bottle in one hand and a damp towel in the other.

The shock of the fight in the pavilion, climaxed by her father's sudden appearance, had taken more of a toll than Rosamond guessed. By the time she had managed to escape to her bedchamber so as to don her party clothes, her bones felt like melting butter and no sooner had the door closed than she had all but fallen into the alarmed abigail's arms.

“I am—very much better, thank you,” she murmured tremulously, leaning her head back and trying not to shake so.

“Well, ye dinna look it,” said Addie with a surprising degree of militance. “Who is it has upset ye, miss? Will I ring for some tea? If it's that wicked Captain Otton—”

“Captain?” Rosamond started and sat a little straighter. The tea, she acknowledged, was a splendid notion, but watching the tall girl hurry to tug on the bell-pull, she asked, “What do you know of him? Is he a serving officer? An Intelligence officer, perhaps?”

The abigail uttered a scornful snort. “Och, I hae me doots aboot
that!
He's a brain or two 'twixt his ears, I grant ye, but if he's captain of anything, 'tis likely o' his horse, and he made up his own rank, and that's the sum of it, whatever!”

Somewhat easier, Rosamond said, “You should have warned me at once that he used a false name.”

“I dinna see the rascal till this morning, Miss Rosa, and I came at the gallop to tell you, but you was oot and away. And I dinna ken—er, I do not know much o' the creature save he's as wicked as he's bonny.” The indignation in the grey eyes faded into fear. She added hurriedly, “Though—though, of course nowadays 'tis pairfectly according to the law does a gentleman hunt Jacobites to the axe, and—”

“And if the Jacobite chances to be Dr. Victor, who has also changed his name?” put in Rosamond softly. The abigail lost all her colour and reached out blindly to steady herself against the chair-back. “Who,” went on Rosamond, feeling her cheeks grow hot, “also chances to be a—a very dear friend of mine.”

Addie threw both hands to her mouth and moaned, “Och, miss! Ye shouldnae be fond o' the likes o' the MacTavish! He—he's a bonny wee lad, but—such fearful chances as he's taking! And as tae his future—whisht, but—”

Here, a maid appearing, Rosamond gave the order for the tea and, correctly interpreting the girl's resentful look at Addie, said, “I would have sent my woman, but I am not feeling quite the thing and need her by me, you see.”

At once the maid became so alarmed that it was necessary for Rosamond to caution her against any mention of her indisposition lest the colonel's birthday celebrations be marred. When she had gone hurrying after the tea, Rosamond gave a sigh of relief and went over to her wardrobe. “I must change my gown. I shall wear the white with the red 'broidery, and my hair must be dressed and powdered again, so we shall have to hasten, Addie. I fancy the colonel is at his breakfast, even now. Tell me what you know of all this.”

Addie, it seemed, had known Robert MacTavish by sight when she and her family lived near Inverness before the Uprising. He was, she declared, from a proud old Highland clan and had fought with great gallantry for Prince Charles Stuart until the Battle of Culloden Moor, when he was wounded and had to run for his life. “Ma brother served under his command, Miss Rosamond,” she confided.

“What?” exclaimed Rosamond, peering up under her eyebrows. “Not the one you told me ‘fell' at Culloden?”

Addie gave a guilty chuckle. “Aye, the verra same, miss, but I didnae lie aboot
everything.
Jock fell, but wasn't slain. He was helped escape by—friends o' Lieutenant MacTavish.”

“Then—he is the brother you told me was unable to work because of some English milord?”

“Which
could
have been so, Miss Rosamond. Surely 'twas an Englishman cut Jock doon. Only, praise God he's close by the noo—er, I mean now. And I can keep an eye on him. Can you be sae good as to put y'r bonny head doon a wee mite?”

“Addie, I think you're a scamp! Now tell me what you know of this wicked Captain Otton—or Mr. Fairleigh, if you please.”

It developed that Addie had encountered Roland Otton, alias Roland Fairleigh, when she'd worked in Oxfordshire. “He was of the household of Lord Delavale, of Highview Manor, miss,” she explained, her voice muffled by the hairpins in her mouth as she shook powder over Rosamond's bowed head. “And a strange household it was, to be sure. The young lord, Geoffrey, had gone away to war and was killed—or so they thought at the time—and his uncle, Joseph Montgomery, had claimed the title and estates. A nasty man, if ever I saw one! And his wife little better than a
____
well, little better.”

“So Captain Otton worked for Lord Joseph?”

“Aye. They were neighbours and used to come and take their mutton wi' my mistress, often. It turned out later that the young lord wasnae slain after all, and now he's back, which must proper have put Lord Joseph's fat nose out o' joint, y'ken, not that anyone would grieve for him, for they were nae liked, the pair of 'em. The gossip aboot—aboot the captain and Lady Delavale, ye'd no believe! Nor did I doubt a word of 't, for she was so pretty as any picture, but in a—a bold way. And Otton—well! Ye've only to look at the naughty flirting eyes of him—or get within arm's length!” She chuckled softly. “Not that the maids minded, fer he was always generous, withal. But I heard after I was dismissed that the captain hunted the poor rebels without mercy. And they say he bragged—out loud, miss!—that he was a rogue and a villin, and not a good word t'say for his own self, if ye can credit that! I always thought it a right pity—so comely a gentleman, to be so evil.”

“True. Do you know anything of his background? His family?”

“Only that 'tis said he's high-born, but disowned. No lady in Town will receive him, though when they meet him, they're all busy wi' their fans and their eyelashes, the shameless hussies!”

“Hmmnn,” said Rosamond, and wondered if it was possible that there was no one to immediately miss the wicked captain.

15

Charles and Victor were already waiting in the lower hall when Rosamond went down the stairs, her great skirts shushing over the treads, her gifts wrapped in the paper she had hand-painted for the occasion. Addie, fastening the dainty pearl-and-ruby pendant about her throat, had been gratified by her lady's appearance. Charles, tall and handsome in his severe raiment, also looked pleased as he smiled fondly at her, and Victor, impressive in a silver-grey coat and pale blue brocade waistcoat, watched her with a rather stunned expression that deepened her blushes. There was no sign of either Estelle Porchester or of Deborah.

Crossing quickly to hand her parcels to Victor, who deposited them on the hall table, she turned to Charles. “Poor darling. Are you better?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Despite his nonchalance she noted the look of strain in his eyes and reached up to touch his temple gently. “How happy you must be, now that Debbie has come. Oh, I want so much to talk with her. But—you have the headache, I think?”

“A touch perhaps.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “But I'll warrant I feel better than does our slippery bounty hunter.”

She shivered and, her eyes wide, whispered, “Did you—do away with him?”

“Should have,” grunted Victor.

“He's trussed up and stuffed in the wood-shed behind the pavilion,” said Charles.

She gave a sigh of relief. “I fear I was quite taken in, and that he is a very bad man. My abigail knows of him.” Hurriedly she imparted what Addie had said. There was barely time to finish before Mrs. Porchester was rustling down the stairs, a picture in a wide-hooped gown of lilac silk trimmed with silver lace, and Deborah beside her, enchanting even in her blacks.

“You two boys have been sparring again, I see,” said Mrs. Porchester, shaking her head at them. “What a way to behave, eh, Deborah? What a way to
behave!
Men and their innate lust for violence!” She crossed to turn Charles's chin and inspect his bruises narrowly. “And you—a clergyman! I wonder dear Debbie can be bothered with you.”

His blue eyes drifting past her to meet the melting gaze of his beloved, Charles said that he would not blame Deborah did she abandon him, and could only pray she might never do so.

“Do not be making sheep's eyes again, Charles,” scolded the colonel from the top of the stairs. “I'll remind you this is
my
day!”

It was indeed, and they crowded around to wish him joy of it. Charles dropped to one knee and pressed his father's fingers to his lips, a reverence seldom given, but that brought a fond glow into the colonel's eyes even as he laughed that he was a simple retired hussar, not a nobleman of some high title. Victor shook his hand and wished him many happy repetitions of this day, and Rosamond and Deborah bestowed kisses that delighted the colonel and brought cries of envy from the two younger men. Blushing and unwontedly timid, Mrs. Porchester deposited her own salute on his cheek, whereupon the colonel stammered and reddened like a shy boy receiving his first kiss. He sought to cover his embarrassment by enquiring gruffly, “Fairleigh not up yet?”

“Perhaps Mr. Fairleigh has too much sensibility to intrude upon a family gathering,” said Rosamond quickly, and glancing aghast at Victor's amused face, bit her lip and could have sunk.

“Well, I'm glad
you
don't object to being treated as one of the family, my boy,” said the colonel, clapping Victor on the back.

“I cannot begin to tell you how little I object, sir,” responded Victor fervently. The colonel, who flattered himself that he was not blind, gave a knowing chuckle. But Victor knew he should not have made the remark. He was very conscious that Charles watched him and, reminded of his hopeless circumstances, he could not meet that steady scrutiny and looked away.

The gifts were received with much exclaiming and gratitude. Victor surprised everyone by offering a small box which contained a pipe carved in the shape of a dog's head. “Just in case,” he said with bland innocence, “you should ever be bereft of Trifle, sir.” This drew a predictably fiery outburst from the colonel, who then accused Victor of provoking his whiskers again, and they were all laughing when they were led into the gardens for the presentation of the final gift, which Mrs. Porchester had designated “an extra special one.”

The weather had turned, yesterday's brazen blue skies replaced by sullen grey clouds veiled by drifts of darker grey, and the sultry air carrying a whiff of rain. As the birthday group made their way toward the rose garden, Rosamond glanced uneasily to the pavilion, wondering if the treacherous Fairleigh might contrive to kick down the walls of the wood-shed, or raise some outcry that would attract attention.

Victor's voice murmured at her ear. “Never fear, little lass. He's quite securely trussed, assure you.”

Contrarily, she felt a pang of sympathy. “He
can
breathe?”

“I'm afraid so.” The smile left his grey eyes; he said harshly, “Do not waste your concern, ma'am. Luckily for him, he had Charles to deal with. I'd not have been so merciful. The scoundrel's less than a vulture, and deserves whatever may befall him.”

It was quite true, of course. Only—there was something about Roland Fairleigh, or Otton, or whatever his real name was, that prevented her from detesting him as thoroughly as she should. She whispered, “Whatever are you going to do with him?” but there was no chance for Victor to reply, as they had by this time reached the rose garden, and come up with the rest of the party.

“What's all this?” muttered the colonel, shooting a sidelong frown at Mrs. Porchester.

“My surprise to you, Lennox,” trilled the lady. “Come here, now. Over here!”

A sheet, held down at the edges by pegs, was draped over a small framework in the centre of the garden. His colour deepening and his whiskers beginning to quiver alarmingly, the colonel said in a stifled voice, “Is this what you were about last night, ma'am? 'Tis the prime spot in my rose garden—the place I have reserved for the cutting Lord Evers has promised from his
damascena.
You
know
that, Stella!”

“Your admired
Rose damascena
may be very well,” she acknowledged loftily, leading him to The Surprise. “But what
I
have found for you is infinitely more to be coveted! Now—pull off the sheet, Lennox. Pull it off!”

His attempt to do this was not at first successful, for with each tug Mrs. Porchester let out a shriek and begged that he “be careful,” added to which the pegs appeared to have been set in concrete and showed a marked disinclination to move. At last, however, with the assistance of Charles and Victor, the pegs were overcome and the sheet lifted reverently aside.

A somewhat wilted but well-watered young vine was revealed, at which they all gazed in silence.

“What is it?” growled the colonel, looking grim.

“Is exceeding rare, Lennox,” said Mrs. Porchester, and added with a flourish, “'Tis called
Cothurnus paradigma.
”

“Good God!” exclaimed Victor, astonished. “You remembered, ma'am!”

“Well, I didn't just at first,” she admitted. “But it came to me in the middle of the night, and I jumped out of bed and writ it down at once, lest I should forget again. Oh, Lennox! Are you pleased? You should only see the lovely dainty little blossoms, and it has to be imported, you know.
Imported,
Lennox! There are only a very few in the three kingdoms, so you will have something to really be proud of. To be
proud
of!”