Cherished Enemy (43 page)

Grief-stricken to hear of de Villars' death, Charles had taken up his prayer-book and started toward the settle.

The colonel sprang forward.

Holt stepped swiftly between him and the desk whereon the blunderbuss lay.

His bitter gaze fixed on his son, the older man seemed scarcely to notice. “I do not blame Rosa so much,” he grated. “It was
you!
You dragged her into it! Always she has loved you more than any of us!”

Rosamond sobbed a strangled protest. Quivering with passion, the colonel swept on, “I had three children. My eldest son died in honour, while in the service of his country. My youngest son will die in shame 'neath the headsman's axe! And”—his voice cracked a little—“and now—my loved
daughter
…!” His arm flailed out and the back of his hand smashed hard across Charles's mouth. The prayer-book fell and he was sent staggering back to fetch up, gasping, against the reference table.

“When they are hacking your worthless limbs off—
Reverend,
” croaked the colonel brokenly, “you may console yourself with the thought that your gentle little sister … will be doomed … also!
Damn
you! Do you see what you have done to this family?
Do you?
You have
destroyed
us! You are no son of mine, sir! I have no son…” His shoulders sagged. “No—daughter…”

A thin line of crimson trickled down Charles's chin but his father's anguish struck home far more deeply than had his rage or the savage blow. Charles's eyes fell, and he bowed his head, heartsick.

In a voice surprisingly gentle, Holt said, “Colonel Albritton, you've my deepest sympathy. Indeed, your sentiments do you credit. But—I must ask for an explanation. Mr. Singleton appears in no case to tell me what transpired here. I think you learned some of these truths before we arrived, no?”

“I did … indeed,” said the colonel, obviously making a strong effort to control his emotion and levelling a piercing glare at Victor. “My nephew was shot down without pity, Holt, because he—”

He was interrupted by a succession of thunderous crashes and a deafening outburst of hysterical barking. Pistol in hand, Holt sprinted to fling the door wide.

Whatever else might be said of Captain Jacob Holt, none could accuse him of cowardice. Running fearlessly down the steps, spurred on by that cacophonous barking, he saw through the dim light of a cloudy dawn that a man lay in a huddled heap a short distance away. What he did not see was the long chain tight-stretched across the steps. He ran into it, full-tilt, did a fine swan dive, emitted a brief, shocked cry, and landed hard.

Trifle had not previously encountered Lightning, but his ancestry included a long line of hunting hounds and when the cat had followed Callahan across the stable-yard, instinct had reared its head and Trifle had become imbued with the strength of three dogs. For some reason the revolting little house to which he was secured, having followed him this far, would not come through the railings as he had done. His hurled insults had been momentarily silenced by the jerk of the captain's weight against the taut chain. Not one to be easily discouraged, however, and maddened by the cat which sat just out of reach, smiling a smug feline smile as it cleaned its whiskers, Trifle resumed his full-throated monologue.

The two troopers, also alarmed by the uproar, had instinctively jerked around to the door. Victor, directly in the line of fire, was helpless. Without an instant's hesitation, Charles grabbed his cherished (and very heavy) edition of the
Life of Homer
as recorded by Herodotus in Ionic Greek. He brought it down with all his strength on the head of one trooper, who grunted and melted to the floor. Even as he did so, the colonel snatched up his blunderbuss and swung it high. The second trooper, not quick-witted, started to run. The blunderbuss landed, not on the young clergyman as Victor had feared, but on the back of the slow trooper's neck. The unfortunate soldier dropped his musket and joined his friend in slumber.

The sudden small well of silence was a startling aftermath to the moments of violence. Rosamond held her breath. Charles watched his father uncertainly. Scowling, the colonel marched over to him. Charles flinched a little in anticipation of another blow. The colonel drew out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his son's chin. “Damned … young idiot!” he grumbled.

Charles blinked. “I—do not understand. Sir—does this mean—you have forgiven me?”

“It most certainly does not!” rasped the colonel, his whiskers extremely active. “Can you believe I would forgive any son of mine for doing what you have done?”

Charles stifled a sigh and the dawning light of hope died from his eyes. “No, sir.”

“I am a fighting man!” declared the colonel proudly. “I wanted a son with gumption! Not a niminy-piminy missish do-nothing of a ranting, canting preacher! Can you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What I have, it seems,” went on the colonel, “is a—rebellious priest who has the confounded effrontery to—to fight for what he believes in. As a man should do. Right, or … wrong! And you're
wrong,
of course, Charles! Hopelessly in the wrong, as I shall point out to you when there's more time! Only—I find you mean more to me than … my principles, dammit!” His voice broke. He reached out and pulled his son into a crushing hug.

Overcome, Charles buried his convulsed face against his father's neck.

Very briefly, the colonel's hand rested on the thick fair hair. He said unevenly, “Sorry I hit you so hard, boy. But—it
had
to look genuine! There must be
somebody
left here to make sure there's something for you to inherit when the King declares an amnesty!”

With a cry of joy, Rosamond ran to throw her arms about them both and was at once drawn into the embrace.

Victor, more moved than he would have cared to admit, turned a wary gaze on Howard Singleton.

His eyes very bright now, the boy crossed to face him. “Is it true, sir? About Hal?”

“I wish it were not,” said Victor grimly. “I mean—I wish I might tell you he died easier. 'Twas my great honour to have known him, and whatever you may think of his political beliefs, you could have had no finer man for your brother! He was a right bonny wee lad.”

Charles dragged a hand across his eyes, muttered something that brought a shaken smile to his father, and reached out to Deborah. She flew into his arms. He hugged her, then asked hoarsely, “Well, Howard? Are you with—or against us?”

“With you! I still don't understand it, but—yes. With you, Charles!”

“Then we must move fast, if we're to pull this off. Howard, go and quiet that wretched hound! We'll have everyone down here soon enough! Have a care! Holt's on the prowl. Then find Miss Rosamond's abigail and send her to fetch her brother Jock. He's a Scot living nearby and will help us.”

Singleton sprinted for the door.

Victor said, “I'll get after the staunch captain. Charles, these two—”

“Never fear,” said the colonel. “We'll store them away somewhere safe.”

“Blindfolds first, sir,” cautioned Victor, and turned to Rosamond. “Give a look at Treve, lassie.”

“But—he's dead,” she stammered.

“I've a hope your friend Fairleigh lied for us. Quickly now.”

She went at once to the settle and Victor ran outside.

Howard was picking himself up from the foot of the steps. He called a sharp—“'Ware the chain!” and Victor vaulted it in the nick of time.

Peering through the greying darkness, he discerned the ravening and frantically leaping “puppy” at one end of the chain; the new kennel tight-jammed against the stair-railing at the other end; and Captain Jacob Holt sprawled on the ground, in the middle. His jaw dropped. Awed, he gasped, “Did that—stupid hound drag his house …
all this way?
Whisht! I canna believe it!”

“I can!” Howard rubbed his knee painfully. “I took a pretty tumble over that dratted chain myself. Evidently, the bars stopped his kennel. I fancy the cat set Trifle off. Only look how it taunts him!”

“Zounds!” muttered Victor. “Turn the pup loose. Lightning will deal with him, I don't doubt. Then blindfold, gag, and tie Holt—unless he's broken that stiff neck of his. I'm after Callahan.”

Singleton freed Trifle, who went tearing in pursuit of a rapidly vanishing cat.

Starting towards the house, Victor halted, tensing as another figure loomed into view beside a prostrate form.

“Ith only me,” announced an unmistakable voice. “There'th a dragoon here who theemth to have—er, fallen down, poor chap.”

Callahan lay huddled and unmoving. Victor enquired, “Your work?”

Briley's grin flashed whitely through the dimness. “Never knew what hit him.” He restored a large horse-pistol to his pocket and picked up a set of chains and a coiled length of rope. “Obliging of him to have provided theeth. Lookth ath if we may need 'em. Have I mithed all the fun?”

Chuckling, Victor clapped him on the back. “We've saved some for you, old lad. But not here. I'll take those. Now, be a good fellow and ride at once to your smuggler friend. Yes, I know you're full of questions. Suffice it to say we have broke the cypher but that damned Holt caught us. We were able to turn the tables, but—he brought poor de Villars in, with a musket-ball in his back.”

“The devil!” Briley, who counted de Villars a close friend, asked anxiously, “Never thay old Treve ith d-dead!”

“Not far from it, but he'll put up a good fight for his life, you may be sure. 'Tis imperative we get him and Charles and Miss Albritton out of England. There's not a second to lose. We'll follow you as fast as possible.”

“Am I to wait at the cove for you?”

“No. Treve's Great-Uncle Boudreaux should be told. Perhaps, you'd not mind…”

Briley stared at him for a silent moment, then clapped him on the back and raced off toward the stables.

*   *   *

Jacob Holt and his unfortunate troopers had been securely tied and gagged and were locked in the woodshed. Deborah and Rosamond were at the house, packing frenziedly. In the pavilion, a high French peruke on his fair head, Charles shrugged into a coat of claret velvet, and said breathlessly, “I don't like it, sir. We all should go. Fairleigh knows enough to send Debbie to the block, and—”

“And withheld that knowledge,” said Victor, bending over de Villars. “I think he'll not dare speak, Charles. Besides, I've a notion that whatever else he may be, he'll hold true to his given word.”

The colonel, binding Singleton to a chair, said, “I agree. The fellow's a bounder, but he had your lives in his hand when he was released from the wood-shed. He didn't betray us then, I doubt he will now. Too tight, Howard? Has to look realistic, m'boy.”

Already beginning to be miserably uncomfortable, Singleton grinned and said gamely, “No difficulty, sir.”

Deborah came in and closed the door swiftly. “Oh, my poor love,” she said, with a sympathetic smile at her brother. “Am I to be bound also, Rob?”

“I've other plans for you, m'dear. Has Jock Addington arrived yet?”

“Yes. Addie just brought him. 'Tis why I came. They want to know which carriage to use.”

Charles said, “The old black chariot. I'll come.”

“Tell Jock to scatter all the other horses,” said Victor.

Charles nodded. “Good idea.”

“Why must you always ride in that wreck?” demanded the colonel, stalking to the door with him. “In despite all your late night work on it, 'tis as much of a bone-rattler as ever and will shake poor de Villars to death! If he ain't seized before then.”

“He won't be,” said Charles confidently. “You see, although my grandmama's coach is so large, sir, the boot is so
small.
”

His father halted, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

“The work I did was not to improve the springs,” Charles admitted with a faint grin. “Instead, my nocturnal efforts went into building a second wall across the rear of the boot, which creates a small hiding place. 'Tis very cramped, but sufficient for a man to lie between the back of the coach and my false wall, and be safely concealed. I've twice been stopped and searched, and it hasn't been detected.”

“Be damned!” exclaimed the colonel irately. “My mother's coach! She would turn in her grave, poor soul!”

Charles laughed at him. “From what I recall of Grandmama, she'd be in high gig.” He held out his hand shyly. “Sir—I must say goodbye.”

The colonel pushed his hand aside and hugged him crushingly. “A safe journey, my boy,” he said gruffly. “Take care of your sister, and don't lose that wallet I gave you!”

His eyes tearful, Charles said, “God bless you, sir. I'll—I'll write.”

He grabbed Deborah's hand and hurried out.

The colonel turned away and blew his nose. “Poor children,” he muttered. “Deuce take it, what's keeping Rosamond? The rest of Holt's platoon is liable to ride in here at any second!”

“She had to change her gown, sir,” Victor answered. “Looked as if she'd been working in a butcher's shop. I can't tell you how sorry I am that she was implicated. But I give you my word she'll be carried to safety.”

“Do you go with them? Gad, but you'll be obliged to sail then, lad! You'll not dare stay in England, for Holt will surely put out an information against you!”

“Not if you tell him I was forced at gunpoint to help carry de Villars.”

“Then you still mean to take him? I fancied you'd think better of it. The poor fellow is unlikely to survive, much less endure a long journey.”

Victor said gravely, “We've no choice, sir. I owe Treve more than I can ever repay and will not abandon him to face a long recovery and then death by the axe. Besides, he's fashioned of Toledo steel and would want us to give him this chance, however hard on him.” He glanced to the door and his eyes brightened revealingly as Rosamond entered wearing a beige wool travelling dress trimmed with brown velvet. “Now that's a great improvement, ma'am.”