Journey to Enchantment (11 page)

“Faith, but you look better each time I see you,” said the Colonel heartily. “You'll be rejoining your regiment at any day, I'll wager.”

“My fondest wish,” said the Captain with a sad smile. “Alas, my doctor continues to throw a rub in the way.”

“As well he might,” interjected Hortense, throwing an indignant look at Cunningham. “'Tis to be hoped you do not mean the Captain to go on patrol in his wheelchair, sir!”

The Colonel blinked; the Captain grinned behind his hand; and Prudence stared in astonishment at her frail aunt, suddenly become a bristling fury.

“I beg leave to tell you, sir,” went on the irked lady, “that
I
could better advise the Captain when he might safely return to his military duties.” She turned to the delighted Delacourt and asked in a very different voice, “Only let me have your sign, sir.”

He stared blankly. “My—sign?”

MacTavish said with a furtive grin, “My sister means when is your birthday, Captain.”

“Oh. August the fifth, Mrs. Hortense.”

She said ecstatically, “A Leo! I
knew
it! We shall have a nice cose when you feel well enough, and I will make a chart for you. The stars will tell us when you can return to active duty.”

“Ma'am,” said the Colonel, “if I thought the stars could be relied upon, be dashed if I wouldn't appoint you consultant at my headquarters. You could look into the skies and work out your charts, and unearth me this traitorous dog called Ligun Doone!”

There was a breathless hush. MacTavish, standing by the hearth, continued to swirl his wine gently in his glass, his face expressionless. His sister-in-law looked frightened. Prudence, her little face an accurate mirror of her emotions, flushed, her eyes flaming with rage.

Watching her thoughtfully, the Captain murmured, “Have you learned nothing of the pest, sir? I'd fancied he'd be taken and sent to the block weeks since.”

“Is—is that what you would … do, if you caught him?” quavered Hortense.

“He would be hanged till he was almost dead, ma'am,” replied Cunningham with deliberate clarity, “then taken down and revived. His limbs would be severed one by one, his entrails cut out, and lastly, he would be beheaded.” His keen eyes raked the room. “Which fate should displease none here, for we are all loyal subjects of the Crown, I feel sure.”

“You may be very sure I owe no allegiance to the Stuarts,” said MacTavish, and added tartly, “Nor, sir, do I appreciate having my ladies upset by a recital of the horrors of a traitor's death.”

“I feel sure Colonel Cunningham had no intent to—” Delacourt began.

“Thank you, Captain, but Mr. MacTavish is quite correct.” The Colonel, who had seated himself in the chair next to Prudence, came to his feet and bowed to the silent women. “My apologies,
mesdames.
I've been too long in the barracks room, I fear. I shall take my hasty tongue from your home, sir.” He went over to pick up the whip and gloves he'd put on the credenza.

Feeling sick and shaken, Prudence drew a breath of relief. It was checked as she intercepted a swift exchange of glances between her father and Delacourt. MacTavish hesitated. The Captain's eyes were stern. To Prudence's horror, her father, albeit with obvious reluctance, called, “No, no, Colonel. I hope we are not so nice as to send you off with dinner almost upon the board. Please join us.”

Cunningham hesitated. “You are very kind, but—I should not, you know. Already some unsavoury fellows have been observed lurking about the vicinity of your estate, and—”

“I thay now, Colonel! I take a dim view of that remark!” Thaddeus Briley came mincing in, quizzing glass upraised and a magnified and resentful eye fixed on the officer. A general laugh went up, easing the tensions of the moment. Briley, a vision in black and silver, an elaborate French peruke upon his head, advanced across the highly polished floor with a click of high red heels, still aggrievedly surveying the Colonel through his glass. “I may be unthavoury,” he admitted, “but I do not lurk, thir!”

“I hope I have not kept you waiting,” called a soft voice tentatively.

As MacTavish hastened to escort the Captain's cousin into the room, Prudence stared at her without delight. Miss Clandon wore a billowing
robe à la française
of white damask, caught up here and there with tiny bows of gold cord, and opening at the front to reveal a white satin underdress embroidered at the lower edge with a single golden rose. Her powdered hair was dressed high and interwoven with a golden fillet, and she looked a creature from a fairy tale, all gold-and-white daintiness.

MacTavish led her through the introductions. The Colonel bowed over her hand, his eyes frankly admiring. Lord Thaddeus, his own bow the epitome of grace, smiled, and Prudence almost thought he winked at the lovely Elizabeth.

“By Jove, sir,” said the Colonel heartily, “I believe I
will
accept your kind invitation to dine.” He beamed at the three ladies. “Dashed if you ain't the sly rogue, Delacourt, contriving to be billeted out here with all these beautiful creatures. Which reminds me, MacTavish, I've a replacement in today from England. Thinks he may have met your son down there. You did say he was visiting in Dorset, did you not?”

Very aware that Delacourt's eyes were fixed upon her absentminded scholar of a father, Prudence saw MacTavish's brows pucker in confusion. She interjected swiftly, “Papa, your memory is playing you tricks, I do believe. My brother is visiting in Devonshire, Colonel.”

“You're right, by Jupiter!” said Cunningham with a snap of his fingers. “My memory is no better than yours, my dear MacTavish!”

Providentially, Sidley appeared to advise that dinner was served, and they wandered down the hall to the dining room, his lordship squiring Hortense, the Colonel happily partnering Miss Clandon, and Prudence walking between her father and the Captain's invalid chair.

The chef had produced an excellent meal and although Prudence was tense and watchful, everything seemed to go along smoothly. The Colonel was clearly captivated by Miss Clandon, who flirted with him prettily; despite his lisp, Lord Thaddeus was a witty and amusing conversationalist and soon had Hortense giggling at his tales. Due to the uneven number of diners and the fact that Hortense was afraid of Colonel Cunningham, Prudence found herself with the Colonel to her left and Delacourt to her right. Her already depressed spirits were not enlivened by this arrangement, but she succeeded in behaving as though she had not a care in the world and responded politely to the Colonel's occasional remarks. Captain Delacourt had little to say, but several times she glanced up to find his eyes on her.

They were well into the second remove when Delacourt, in the midst of a casual comment regarding the beauty of the famous loch, suddenly gave an unmistakeable grimace of pain.

The Colonel enquired,
sotto voce,
“Are you all right, my dear chap?”

“Oh, tol-erable,” Delacourt answered, with a sidelong glance at Prudence. “Thank you, sir. Nothing serious.”

“Pray do not hesitate to retire if you would be more comfortable,” said Prudence solicitously. “We shall quite understand.”

“I am very sure you would, Miss MacTavish,” he replied enigmatically. “You are kindness itself.”

She scanned his face with suspicion, for she was very sure that he knew she suspected him. “There is, alas, too little of kindness in the world,” she said.

“I'll agree with that, ma'am,” the Colonel put in, his nasal voice ringing down the table. “One can but hope that now the recent tragic conflict is over, we'll enjoy a time of peace and Christian tolerance.”

“Is that what the Duke of Cumberland is about?” said Hortense. “Faith, but I'd never have guessed it.”

Through the following tense hush, the Captain's muffled “Ow!” was quite audible.

Amazed by her aunt's pluck, but dreading the consequences, Prudence glanced at him sharply and saw him jerk his hand from under the tablecloth.

“What the deuce have you got there, Delacourt?” asked the Colonel, not sorry for the diversion. “That's a nasty scratch on your hand.”

“It's the grey cat!” exclaimed Prudence, amused. “Captain!”

Delacourt groaned. “Alas, I am betrayed.”

“And should be thoroughly ashamed,” scolded Hortense, smiling broadly.

“Let's see the stowaway,” demanded the Colonel.

Sighing, the Captain detached the cat from his lap, and held her up. She blinked at the laughing faces, her whiskers sticking out ferociously.

“It is strictly against the house rules, Captain,” said Prudence, “to feed animals at table.”

“Besides which, it is suicidal,” he said ruefully. “She grabbed my first offering, and the next time I put my hand down, she apparently mistook the matter and sank her claws into it.” He turned the cat to face him and said, “M'dear, I fancy you are hoist by your own petard. Never bite the hand that feeds you!” He dropped her to the floor, a grinning footman held down a used plate enticingly, and Señorita, her tail sticking straight up into the air, darted from the room with him.

Amused, the Colonel asked, “What is the creature's name, ma'am?”

“Señorita,” Prudence told him.

“Very Gaelic,” the Captain remarked gravely.

She smiled at him with a warmth hitherto restrained, and saw puzzlement come into his eyes.

“It certainly is not a Scots name,” said Cunningham. “And speaking of atypical names, what d'ye make of Ligun Doone, MacTavish? Is
it
Gaelic?”

MacTavish, who had been slicing a piece of roast beef, paused, then murmured, “I am loath to admit it, sir, but I do not know. My field, you know, is archaeology.”

Cunningham nodded. “I've heard the meaning somewhere. But I cannot recollect what it is.”

“I can tell you the meaning,” drawled Delacourt. “Villainy personified. That rogue has confounded the rightful execution of the law at every step. But for his interference, Lord knows how many desperate renegades and murderers would have been brought to their just deserts.”

“Desperate renegades, is it?” flared Prudence hotly. “Say rather brave men who were willing to die for their beliefs, as is Ligun Doone! And contrary to the Duke of Cumberland, he never kills, but merely provides escape for the poor fellows who are being hunted and persecuted and slaughtered with no trace of mercy!”

Her words seemed to hang upon a heavy silence. Aghast, she knew that her father was frowning at her and that on every face was astonishment. She thought, ‘Lord God Almighty! What have I done the noo?'

Delacourt said with a bored shrug, “The price of rebellion, ma'am, and your admired Doone no less of a traitor.”

“Nor this a fit subject for the dinner table,” said Cunningham benignly. “Are you fond of cats, Miss Clandon?”

The taut atmosphere eased, and Miss Clandon admitted her affection for felines and began to relate a tale of her own tabby and the various litters she had presented her family. The conversation turned to dogs. Laughter was heard again, and the meal progressed evenly.

Prudence took little part in the chatter. She was appalled by her own lack of control. Her temper had betrayed her into a major indiscretion—just as the wicked spy had planned. She dared not meet her father's stern eyes, and the balance of the meal was, for her, a misery alleviated only by the fact that she was not obliged to speak to Delacourt, who had become very silent.

Hortense stood and led the ladies from the table. Prudence heard the Captain announce his intention of withdrawing also, and the Colonel volunteer kindly to wheel him to his room.

Her mind spinning, Prudence accompanied the ladies to the rear hall, then excused herself, saying she must run upstairs for a moment. She walked sedately to the back stairs, lifted her panniers, and ran as quickly as she could manage to the first landing, flying along the corridor and frightening a housemaid who leapt from her path with a shocked squeal. Prudence raced to the main stairwell and tiptoed along, listening. She could hear the quiet murmur of male voices and she knelt beside a large aspidistra plant, straining her ears. After a moment, peering through the leaves, she saw shadows coming along the downstairs hall, then Cunningham's voice, low but irked.

“… damned ill-timed, I can tell you. Here I've been doing all I might to convince these people I'm not the black-hearted villain they fancy me, and you've to go get 'em all stirred up again!”

The wheelchair came into view, Cunningham pushing it slowly towards the north hall.

“I thought it went rather well, sir,” said Delacourt. “There was no pretence. The MacTavish girl's shrewish temper could have been controlled were it vital, I do not doubt.”

“I wonder. With that red poll she likely couldn't practice deception if she tried.”

Prudence pressed her hand to her mouth, struck by the truth of those unkind words.

“She's honest to a fault,” said Delacourt, chuckling. “And has a right generous portion of Scots pride, among other things.”

“I'll own that. But you've seen no trace of complicity here? No evidence of that thrice-damned Doone?”

“It's early days, sir. But I do think—”

A footman appeared and the conversation ceased abruptly. The Colonel turned the chair into the north hall, and Prudence got to her feet and walked with lagging steps back the way she had come.

She had her proof now. Why her father had become suspect, she did not know. Certainly, he had not been flatly betrayed, or they would all be in prison at this very moment, where Geoffrey Delacourt plotted to put them. They must be suspicious of the MacTavish, and waited, very likely, for him to lead them to Ligun Doone. At least, she could ensure that so stark a tragedy never happened. Heavy-hearted, she trod down the rear stairs. As soon as all was quiet she would go to her papa's bedchamber and tell him what she had heard. This time, he
must
believe her!