Dedicated Villain (24 page)

“I think him the bravest, most honourable gentleman I ever met,” declared Fiona, cheeks flushed and small hands clenched.

“And the most handsome, eh? La, the pity of it! D'ye know the dance he'd lead you?—even were he honourable, which he ain't! The women wouldn't let him be faithful for a minute! You'd not know from one night to the next whose bed he was sharing, and—”

“Grandmama!”

“Tush and a fiddlestick! 'Tis time you faced facts, child. I've small use for Freemon Torrey, but by heaven I'd sooner see you wed him than lie down your heart for Roland Mathieson to stamp on! And don't pretend you're not halfway in love with him already, for you show it each time you look at the young devil. By heaven, but I've a mind to send him packing, even as Torrey asks!”

“And what will happen do we encounter Captain Lake again? Can you really judge the risk—to all of us—warranted, ma'am?”

My lady set her small chin and frowned into her granddaughter's
defiant face. “I must consider the risk to you, also,” she answered slowly.

Remorseful, Fiona sank to her knees beside the chair. “Dearest Grandmama, I do not mean to cause you worry, truly I do not. Captain Mathieson likely flirts with all the ladies and means this as no more.”

My lady smiled faintly, and reached out to stroke the silken curls. “So the child is not all innocence, after all.”

“No, but how could I be? Francis used to chatter with me of his—his
chères amies
, and—”

“That lecherous boy! To what extent?”

“Oh, nothing naughty—or at least, not very naughty.” Fiona rested her head on my lady's knee and murmured sadly, “I miss him so.”

“We all do, child. Be thankful he is safe away. But, for his sake as well as your own, I could never countenance a match with Roland Mathieson.”

Fiona sighed. “Now, dearest one, has he approached you in the matter?”

“No. Nor will he, for he is shrewd enough to know I have taken his measure. My fear is … Oh, pretty one, I'd not see you hurt!”

There were tears in Lady Clorinda's eyes, and, deeply moved, Fiona leaned to hug her tiny but so formidable grandmother and kiss the rouged cheek.

It was sweet, but not quite the answer my lady had hoped for.

The village hall was crowded with virtually the entire populations of both Nether- and North-Brackendale. Outside, the wind was rising to set doors and windows rattling, but the drab little hall was brightened by a row of rush lights that flickered merrily along the edge of the small stage, and by the “sand dunes” and “palm trees” on which the Avon Travelling Players had expended so many hours. It was seldom these country folk were able to enjoy an entertainment, especially one with such ambitious scenery, and they sat entranced as the drama unfolded.

Mathieson had come successfully through the first two acts of Heywood's play, and if he had at times remembered the dialogue imperfectly, he had improvised to such good effect that none of the spectators had detected the substitutions. They had now reached the third act.

Clad in a white open-throated shirt and black breeches, with a crimson sash around his waist, Captain Firebrand flourished his cutlass at the great treasure chest that spilled its bounty onto the island sands. “There, wanton!” he cried disdainfully. “Fill your greedy hands, since gold is your only idol! You sold me into slavery! You sold yourself to that—that unspeakable
cur—” he gestured towards the palm trees “—who even now comes to claim you!”

Miss Barbara, delectable in a gown of pale pink muslin trimmed with ecru lace, sobbed, and ran to the edge of the stage. “Ah, how can he be so cruel?” she asked the enthralled audience. “Yet—he does not know … and how may I tell him I—sold myself … in exchange for his dear life … ?”

“I'll tell him, lass!” shouted a sturdy farmer, springing to his feet. “Like any other fine gent, he cannot see past the end of his nose!” (Loud shouts of endorsement.) “Hey! Firebrand!—” Here, he was pulled down by his embarrassed spouse and subsided into surly growls that faded into awe as the bows and ‘midship of His Majesty's Frigate,
The Vengeance
, rumbled and lurched into view behind the shuddering palm trees at the right rear of the stage. The audience cheered lustily, and the muscular Alec, concealed behind the left-hand curtains hauled on the guide rope until the frigate jerked to a swaying anchorage.

Resplendent in a great periwig, purple velvet coat, beribboned breeches, and a flowing black cloak flung back from the left shoulder, Sir Roger sprang over the “side” of the vessel and bellowed, “Avast, you scum!” He suffered a small embarrassment when his cloak caught on a splinter in the frigate almost toppling it, so that he was obliged to prop it up and free himself, to the raucous amusement of some of the more rowdy elements in the audience. His temper was not improved by the sight of Mathieson's covert grin, but at last he was able to wrench out his sword and advance on the dashing pirate. “An ye want the girl,” he shouted in his fine, resonant voice, “fight for her!”

“I'll not fight for your leavings,” declared Firebrand, sheathing his cutlass, and folding his arms proudly.

Barbara flew to sink to her knees before him.

“Ye silly gert gowk,” howled a big wheelwright in the front row. “She's give up all fer ye'self!”

Mathieson had never dreamed that playacting could be so entertaining. He sent a delighted grin flashing at the captivated
playgoer that brought yearning sighs from many female throats and caused the vicar's wife, a fragile and romantically inclined lady, to grope dazedly for her vinaigrette bottle.

Behind the curtains, costumed as Firebrand's rascally uncle, Bradford whispered, “It's going along famously, Mama. Mathieson's got 'em in the hollow of his hand. Jove, but the boy's a natural-born actor!”

“Hmmnn,” said my lady drily. “You may be right at that.”

On stage now was the clash of swords as Firebrand and Sir Roger fought for the girl they both loved. The duel had been rehearsed several times and on each occasion Mathieson had seen hatred peeping from Torrey's blue eyes. As always, the close brush with danger was exhilarating and he moved about nimbly, amused because it was so easy to lure his opponent into ever wilder attacks not included in the scenario.

Fiona watched with real anxiety, and when Captain Firebrand at last neatly disarmed Sir Roger, her sigh of relief blended with more cheers from the audience, while off to the side Thaddeus Heywood shook his head and muttered something about a day of reckoning.

Sir Roger, panting and thwarted, drew back, and the brave captain, only slightly out of breath, recommended that the distressed girl go away with the man to whom she had sold herself.

Barbara again appealed to the audience. “You know I am a good girl! I was betrayed!” She pointed dramatically at Sir Roger.

Loud boos and hisses sounded. Two men sprang onto the stage and made a run at Torrey, fists clenched and intentions clear. Cuthbert and Gregor sprinted to head them off and remind them it was “Just acting, sirs. Just acting.” Smouldering they allowed themselves to be shepherded back to their seats and Barbara proceeded to confess the noble self-sacrifice that had led to her fall from grace, and to identify the villain responsible.

Brave Captain Firebrand advanced on Sir Roger. “You shall pay for that villainy, sir!” he cried and swung up his fist.

At this point, the sound of a healthy blow was supposed to be heard, whereupon Torrey would stagger backward and fall. Heywood, perched on a stool behind the curtains and out of sight of the audience, made no attempt, however, to pound on the head of cabbage. Mathieson glanced to the side, and Torrey instinctively doing the same, the closely aimed blow actually grazed the villain's cheek. “Whoops,” said Mathieson under his breath. The crowd howled its approbation, and Torrey had no need to feign wrath as he staggered and went down.

Triumphant, Captain Firebrand held out his arms.

“I am forgiven!” Betrayed Barbara flew to the embrace of her pirate as tears flowed and handkerchiefs fluttered. The lovers, arms about each other, did not see Sir Roger recover sufficiently to slink over to the treasure chest and begin to stuff his pockets with gems. Howls of outrage and warning rang out.

“Jack!” cried Barbara, becoming aware of Sir Roger's dastardly behaviour. “That scoundrel steals your treasure!”

Captain Firebrand laughed and drew his lady close again. “Not so, beloved!
He
has found some pretty baubles.” He looked down at her adoringly. “'Tis I who have found the only
real
treasure!”

Gregor's flute and milady's paper and comb played a triumphal air, and amid more cheers and a veritable thunder of applause, Bradford and Gregor came in from each side, drawing the curtains closed.

“Oh, oh! It went so
well!
” cried Fiona, clinging to Mathieson's hand and dancing with excitement.

“You did that deliberately!” snarled Torrey, advancing in a very different frame of mind.

“No, really,” protested Mathieson. “I looked across to see why Thad did not whack his cabbage, is all, and you moved in the same direction. Like a gudgeon,” he added sweetly.

“I'll gudgeon you,” growled Torrey, snatching for his sword hilt.

My lady said tautly, “Oh, stop your silly quarrelling, do! Very well, Gregor.”

The curtains were pulled back and the cast of “My Lady Dairymaid” joined hands, walked forward, smiling, and took their bows to sustained cheers and applause.

The curtains closed once more.

“Heywood should make his bow as playwright, no sir?” enquired Alec.

“Aye, was he here,” agreed Bradford, glancing about. “Where a'pox has the boy got to?”

Fiona frowned a little. “Cuthbert is not here, either.”

“Well, they'd best hasten,” said my lady with a twinkle, “else they will miss our surprise party.”

“A party?” Moira Torrey clapped her hands. “Oh, wonderful!”

“What for?” asked Fiona eagerly.

“My brilliant debut,” drawled Mathieson. “Naturally enough.” He laughed at the storm of derision that greeted his boast, but his nerves were taut. Thaddeus Heywood was not the man to shirk his responsibilities, no more was Cuthbert. My lady, who might have been expected to be annoyed by such conduct, seemed not at all put out. Perhaps she had sent Cuthbert off to fetch supplies for her surprise party, but that did not explain Heywood's disappearance. His blood began to tingle, and he eased his jambiya dagger in its scabbard.

Beyond noting that she stood between two men, one of whom was Cuthbert, Thaddeus Heywood's attention was so fixed upon the cloaked figure of the girl that had the village suddenly disappeared he'd likely have been unaware of it. Just before the duel scene he had heard horses outside and with the eternal vigilance of the pursued, had investigated. His position behind the curtains at the far right of the small stage allowed him convenient access to both an outside window and the back
door, and his cautious glance through the one had sent him plunging through the other.

She stood with her back towards him, and the hood had fallen onto her shoulders so that he could see the shimmer the moonlight awoke on her unpowdered fair curls. She was speaking in the soft, lilting voice that had haunted his dreams, and he halted a few paces away and stood motionless, gazing and gazing.

The man beside Cuthbert had seen Heywood's approach, and he tensed, crouching a little, then smiled and relaxed again.

The girl spun around with a swish of petticoats. She was perhaps half a head taller than Fiona Bradford, and although she looked startled she was very pretty indeed.

The man she knew as Lord Thaddeus Briley whispered yearningly, “Beth … oh, Beth …”

Her great dark eyes widened with shock. She gasped, “Th-Thaddeus!” and reached out to him.

Heywood took her hands and pressed a kiss on each. And they stood there, unmoving, looking at one another in a poignant silence.