Dedicated Villain (38 page)

She found that her eyes were misty and leaning down, pulled over a hassock, then sank to her knees to pray God's blessing on this betrothal and beseech His protection of the valiant gentleman she loved more than her own life.

Despite the varying degrees of misery with which the gentlemen coped as they played their parts, at the close of the first act a weary Mervyn Bradford acknowledged to his mother that it was the best performance they ever had given. “For Torrey is so pleased to be the hero again that his acting is inspired, and Mathieson has transformed Sir Roger into such a dastardly rogue that I wonder he's not been dragged out and lynched!”

“The customers certainly seem to be enjoying it,” murmured my lady, peeping through the curtains at the noisy and crowded benches.

Torrey had already changed into the rags he wore in the prison scene, and came to join them carrying the robe and tattered wig that transformed Bradford into the gaoler. “Is there any word from MacTavish?”

Handing his bag wig to his mother and shrugging into the long robe, Bradford answered grimly, “No change.”

“It will be tonight, then?”

“Heaven knows how,” said my lady. “If my poor battered actors can cope with the second act, 'twill of itself be a miracle. Cuthbert to looks purely exhausted already, and though he hides it well I think Mathieson can scarce endure to walk. Bend your head before you put on that pitiful object, Bradford, the sticking plaster is coming loose.” She remedied the matter, and watched her son worriedly as he cautiously settled the gaoler's wig over his bandage. “'Tis a monstrous bruise. How do you go on?”

“Fair to middling, I thank you,” replied the stalwart Bradford, whose head was now pounding so unkindly that at times he found it difficult to focus his eyes. “Never fret, ma'am, we shall do. Mathieson's pure steel, and I've never known Cuthbert to let us down yet.”

In the gentlemen's dressing room, Cuthbert was arguing with Heywood, who was attempting to put the sling about his neck.

“Be damned if I'll wear the stupid thing,” the big man grumbled. “Makes me feel a proper doddipoll.”

Mathieson turned on him frowningly. “Your wrist is puffing up, you block. An that arm becomes infected, we'll have to leave you behind. And we need you, Cuthbert! The play may be ‘the thing,' but we've a more important thing to worry with. The audience will understand, I've no doubt.”

Another moment Cuthbert scowled defiance, but the younger man's will prevailed. With a wry grin, Cuthbert said, “Oh, very well, then!” and allowed the sling to be put over his head and his hurt arm eased into it.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Mathieson limped over to Gregor, who, flute in hand, was standing where the rear curtains came together, peering at the audience.

“Is everything ready on stage?” asked Mathieson. “No sign of trouble is there?”

“Alec has the set pieces in place fer Scene Two. And they're getting waeful rrrresty oot yon. If 'tis trouble ye're sniffin'—why there's naun I glim, but … whisht, I've the scent o't. I'd a notion ye sensed it forbye.” He shook his head gloomily, walked around the screens and into the little passage.

Mathieson had difficulty with the Scots accent at times, and he glanced uncertainly at Cuthbert, who chuckled and translated: “He said the audience is tired of waiting for the next act. And that he smells trouble.”

Mathieson grunted and parted the end curtains just sufficiently that he in turn could scan the audience.

“I think that ith held to be bad luck,” warned Heywood cheerily. “Never trouble trouble, till trouble—”

“I think Gregor's nostrils did not lie!” Mathieson stood back holding the curtain aside.

Fiona hurried in with Japhet beside her. Both the Dunnigans had been left at camp with MacTavish. It was clear that the
youth was agitated and considerably out of breath. Heywood sprang to his feet and they all gathered closer.

“The soldiers came again,” said Fiona. “Japhet ran all the way here to warn us.”

Gregor's flute commenced the introduction to the prison scene which was played before the closed curtains, and without scenery. Cuthbert glanced in the direction of the stage. His part required that he appear very shortly and he swore in exasperation. “Lake again?”

“No, sir. A different officer, but I think it was the same troop.”

With a flutter of draperies, a much shocked Lady Clorinda came through the hall curtains. “Fiona! This is the gentleman's—Japhet! Oh, Lud! What's happened?”

The boy told her rapidly and she looked dismayed, but asked at once, “Is your mama all right? What about MacTavish?”

“I don't know, ma'am. I was with the horses when the dragoons rode in and they didn't see me. My mother was arguing with them, but she spotted me and gave me a nod, so I ran all the way here. But I surely didn't like leaving her and Mr. MacTavish.”

“Never fear,” said Mathieson, reassuringly. “An English officer would not allow his men to harm a woman alone with a sick man.”

“They were not touching Mama, but—they were bedevilling Mr. Rob,” said the boy with a grim look.

My lady asked anxiously, “In what way? He was in bed—an invalid to all appearances, no?”

“No, ma'am. He'd insisted on getting up and dressed, and the officer wouldn't listen when my mother said he was ill, and kept questioning him. He left off when Mr. MacTavish coughed so much, but told his men to keep at him. It looked ugly, I thought. When I left they were getting rough.”

“Be damned,” muttered Mathieson.

Cuthbert swore under his breath.

Heywood snatched up his cloak, and started for the rear curtains.

Mathieson thought ‘A typical hero!' and watched him with faint amusement.

My lady said sharply, “Thaddeus, don't be a fool! You cannot go down there!”

“Besides which, you cannot see well enough to
get
down there,” Mathieson drawled.

“I'll go,” growled Cuthbert.

“You're due on stage in about thirty seconds,” argued Lady Clorinda.

Mathieson pointed out, “Besides, if any of you go charging down there, they'll know we've been warned and that we responded most urgently. Such desperation might well awaken their suspicions that we had guards posted—that we've something to hide.”

“You told me just now you couldn't afford to lose me,” said the big man. “'Tis sure as hell that we cannot afford to risk
Rob's
life!”

“We need a diversion all right,” agreed Mathieson. “Preferably from someone they've not seen.” They might, he thought, prevail on some sturdy yokels to provide a distraction. He glanced up. Japhet watched him, his bright eyes alight with admiration. Fiona's loved face was turned to him adoringly; she fairly glowed with pride. Uneasy, he said, “I was—er, thinking—”

She said in that husky little voice that reduced his common sense to idiocy, “Yes. How brave you are! I
knew
you would know what to do, Captain Mathieson!”

Stunned, he realized they all were smiling at him …

Heywood's rawboned grey horse made short work of the hill and Mathieson was galloping towards the camp while he was
still wondering why he had been so stupid as to agree to this ridiculous and decidedly risky endeavour. But, heigh-ho, what was done was done. He certainly could not have driven that glowing look from the Tiny Mite's dear face, or shaken the pedestal on which Japhet had so obviously set him. Besides, with luck the soldiers had already gone, and he would merely have to turn around and gallop back up the hill again so as to make his appearance in the third act.

He heard male laughter as he approached the camp, and knew his hope had been ill-founded. Still, the new officer would likely be some Johnny raw, and he'd be able to use the calling card my lady had given him and intimidate the young fellow into taking the troop away. He came around the end caravan then, and drew the grey to a halt, staring motionless at the scene before him.

Once again, their belongings were strewn carelessly about. Once again, troopers were searching through the caravans. Mrs. Dunnigan, looking angry and frightened, stood to one side, ignoring the sergeant who was talking quietly to her. Nearer at hand, three troopers were grouped about Rob MacTavish, shouting questions at him, but interrupting his faltering attempts to reply by shoving him violently from one to another and raucously mimicking his gasping coughs. An immaculate and amused young officer lounged on the steps of Lady Clorinda's caravan, his snowy breeches protected by the blue gown he had used as a cushion.

It was very apparent there was no real suspicion here. Just a jolly spirit of sportiveness. And a sick man their helpless foil. Rage seared through Mathieson. “Hey! You, there!” he roared.

So intent had the troopers been on their fun that his arrival had gone unnoticed. His shout had unexpected results. One of those baiting MacTavish spun about. MacTavish, barely conscious and reeling from a hard shove, lurched weakly through the opening and fell heavily.

The officer sprang to his feet with a cry of anger. “Damme if the beastly fellow ain't splashed mud on me!”

There was no moon yet, and the clearing was lit only by the flickering flames from the campfire, but the officer's tall figure was lithe and perfectly formed, and the deep voice struck Mathieson like a blow. He thought a shocked, ‘Lambert!' and for an instant time stood still.

Lieutenant Brooks Lambert, he well knew blamed him for the loss of his inheritance, the loss of his lady, and the loss of his captaincy. To an extent, he was justified. With this in mind, staring at the man who had every reason to wish him dead, Mathieson knew he was batting on a very sticky wicket indeed.

At this moment, Lambert's anguished attention was on his violated breeches. “Who the hell is this person, Patchett?” he snapped, trying to repair the damage with his handkerchief and not looking up.

The sergeant left Mrs. Dunnigan and strode rapidly to Mathieson's stirrup. He was a thin man of average height, somewhere in the mid-thirties, with a deeply lined face and dark eyes devoid of expression. He said in a London voice, “Lieutenant Lambert would like your name and papers, if you please, sir.”

Mathieson had been questioned by this man when Lake had commanded the troop, but Patchett clearly did not recognize him. Sir Roger must be believable then, and between the dimness and the pillow under his belt, he began to hope he might manage to bluff his way through without having to fight his way out. Lambert's was a stubborn and contrary nature however, necessitating that his own intended tactics be discarded. His mind racing, he decided on a new approach. He had a bad moment when Mrs. Dunnigan, running to MacTavish, glanced up at him, and her eyes widened suddenly. But she went on, giving no other sign of recognition, and knelt beside the exhausted Scot.

“Papers?” roared Mathieson. “Don't be a blithering idiot! I do not carry papers about with me—especially when I come to kick a parcel of worthless gypsies off my lands! Here—” From
his waistcoat pocket he extracted the card my lady had given him. “My card, sir. Innings. Sir Roger Innings.” A gleam of unholy joy came into his eyes, and unable to resist the temptation, he added, “They don't call me that, though. Call me ‘Second.' If I don't getcha in the first innings, begad, I'll getcha in the second!” He gave a bray of a laugh that brought a grin to the sergeant's lean features. “Jolly good—what? Haw!”

“Gad!” muttered Lambert, disdainfully waving the card away. “State your business, whatever your name is.”

“Innings,” trumpeted Mathieson. “Just toldya. And my business, sir, is what jolly well should've been
your
business long before this! This is
my
land, sir! And I asked that this trash be cleared from it yesterday! Gave you the job, did they? Took you blasted well long enough, sir! Does no good to mollycoddle this kind of scum, y'know.”