Journey to Enchantment (45 page)

Otton said smoothly, “It is very fortunate that I am here to be your eyes and ears, Colonel. I saw Delavale enter the house. I've not left his side since. To my knowledge, he has hid nothing since he came.”

A tremor shook Delavale. His hands were suddenly wet, but he dared not show relief, and said with a frown, “One can but hope you are satisfied, sir.”

Cunningham's jaw was a grim jut. He scowled at the shredded garments the trooper still pawed through. Then, watching Delavale keenly, said, “Bring in the ladies, if you please, Sergeant.”

Delavale tensed.

Otton murmured, “I wish I might have had better news for you, sir. Perchance you should search his saddle.”

“My men have attended to that. No, I think it more likely he has passed the cypher to his lady—er, friend.”

“You go too far, Cunningham,” grated Delavale. “I escorted Miss MacTavish here. If I had this cypher you speak of, do you seriously think I would imperil her with it?”

Archibald Cunningham was a ruthless and ambitious individual, but he was a good officer, and he knew men. He was very sure that nothing would have induced Delavale to place a lady in jeopardy. But he was equally sure now that the girl was Delavale's Achilles' heel, and he meant to make good use of that fact. “Come in, Miss MacTavish,” he called genially. “Poor lady, you have had a very sad time of it, his lordship tells me. Captured by thieves and murderers; held prisoner in a great cave! Egad, 'tis no wonder he felt safer with the poem in your possession. I will relieve you of it, ma'am.”

Prudence had dreaded what she might find when allowed to return to the drawing room. She was relieved to see Geoffrey looking white and furious but unharmed, and noting also his grim look of warning, she said calmly, “That should be simple to do, Colonel, save that I do not recall his lordship ever giving me any poetry.”

Otton, his eyes dancing, murmured, “I hereby volunteer to search the lady.”

Prudence drew back instinctively.

Cursing, Delavale sprang at him, and the Sergeant and trooper ran to seize his arms and jerk him away. “Do you lay a hand on her,” he raged, “and as God is my judge, I swear I shall—”

“You shall be imprisoned in the Tower, Captain,” snapped Cunningham. “And it looks as if you mean to drag this poor lady to her death beside you.” He strode closer to Delavale and, his voice rising, thundered, “Hand over the cypher now, and spare her!”

“I have not got your cypher—damn you!”

“Rank insubordination,” said Otton, chidingly. “Sir, I wonder you—”

The hall door burst open. The butler said, “Colonel Cunningham. There is a man come asking for you.”

“Bring him in!” His eyes bright, Cunningham said, “
Now
you will see how stupid you are to lie to me, Delavale!”

Hurrying footsteps in the hall, and every eye was fixed on the doorway. A man came up, paused on the threshold an instant, then came inside.

Prudence's dread was justified, and despair overwhelmed her.

His heart plummeting, Delavale thought an anguished, ‘We have come so far. Almost, we escaped…' Prudence looked at him, tears trembling on her lashes. Somehow, he made his lips smile at her.

“Mr. Sidley,” said Cunningham, advancing to greet the newcomer. “My dear fellow, how very good in you to come all this distance. I was never more pleased than to hear of your miraculous escape.”

“Miraculous indeed,” replied Sidley, his stern gaze fixed on Delavale. “I doubt you can credit, sir, how glad I was to answer your summons and come down here. Such despicable treachery must not be allowed to go unpunished.”

“No more it shall, I promise you. We lack only the verification of it by a witness such as yourself. Had you any suspicion, poor fellow, of the fate that awaited you when you agreed to the scheme Captain Delavale proposed?”

“No, sir. I have a deep loathing for the Jacobites and I was willing, nay, eager, to do what I might to apprehend the traitor. But I'll own I had hoped to come safely back to Lakepoint, as the Captain—I had thought his name was Delacourt, sir—as he had said would certainly transpire.”

“Aye. Instead of which, you were seized and held captive and damn near killed! I can well imagine how you must have felt when you saw the Captain arrive.”

“There are no words to express it. I thought that great heathen had killed him, sir. And the next instant, he had turned his brutality on me. My head ached for days afterwards, and I was not hurt near so bad as the Captain.”

Cunningham frowned a little. “How's that? You mean—some one of the rebels made a mistake?”

“Oh, I don't think I would call it that, Colonel. They hate us, you know. And in a way I cannot blame them, for had my boy lived, I know he'd not have liked to see what the Duke of Cumber—”

“Yes, well, never mind that. What I mean is, when they realized their leader was come among them, they must have been wild with joy. And you, my dear chap, must have fancied you'd succeeded beyond your wildest hopes.”

Sidley shook his head rather despondently. “Oh. Well, I never saw
him,
you know.”

Delavale, who had been watching the erstwhile butler narrowly, was already experiencing the first stirrings of hope. Not daring to look at Prudence, he waited tensely.

“Never
saw
him?” echoed Cunningham, glaring at Sidley. “You just said that you saw Delavale ride in.”

“Oh, yes. I saw the Captain and Miss MacTavish, poor lady. But I did not see the man they call Ligun Doone. They took good care of that.”

Through the following deathly hush, Cunningham became very white and then as red. “Do you say,” he snarled, “do you say that the man standing before you—” He flung an arm ferociously in the general direction of Delavale. “Do you say he is
not
Ligun Doone?”

Sidley's eyes opened very wide, and his jaw dropped with what Delavale thought admirable ‘astonishment.' “Captain …
Delacourt
…?” he gasped.

“No!” roared Cunningham, savage with frustration. “Captain Lord Geoffrey Delavale!”

“Lord?” said Sidley, impressed. “I never knew you was a lord, sir.”

His eyes beginning to dance, Delavale said, “Well, you see I—”

“I do not give one thin
damn
whether you knew he was a lord,” Cunningham howled. “
Is
he, or is he
not,
Ligun Doone?”

“Well, of course he's not, sir,” Sidley answered. “They'd scarce have tried to kill him, had he been. Very near succeeded, too. Indeed, I am most glad to see you well, my lord,” he added, turning to beam at Delavale.

“It is a
conspiracy!
” Cunningham raged, his face purpling. “
Damn
your eyes, I will—”

Delavale interposed in a voice of steel. “You will be well advised to abandon this unfortunate obsession. I have the greatest respect for your rank and your abilities, Colonel, but I must warn you that if you do not cease this persecution, I shall have no choice but to lay the matter in the hands of my solicitors and lodge a formal complaint at the Horse Guards. You have invaded my home, intimidated my servants, frightened my family, destroyed my property, threatened me, and all without a vestige of proof.” And for once in his life using his rank, he added sternly, “As a British peer, I am not obliged to stand still for such nonsense. My godparent, the Duke of Marbury, is expected here momentarily, and I should grieve to have his Grace disturbed by this fiasco.”

It was a telling stroke. Marbury was a confidant of His Majesty, a man of tremendous wealth and power, and known to be a placid, rather bored individual who could become a terror when aroused. Torn between rage and self-preservation, the Colonel chewed his lower lip, clenched his fists, glared at Delavale, and, grasping at his last straw, said hoarsely, “You are, nonetheless, most assuredly guilty of desertion, and—”

“Ah—I had quite forgot to tell you. During my illness in the cavern I regained my memory. Therefore, as soon as we reached England, I reported to the army post at Bath, explained my absence, and advised the commanding officer that I will be selling out. Major Price-Danby was most understanding. He has forwarded my papers to Whitehall, and advised me to consider myself on medical leave until the separation can be effected.”

Quivering with mortification, Cunningham gritted, “Very clever. You think to have won, but we shall see who has the last laugh, Delavale!” He turned and began to stamp out, pausing only to bow jerkily to Sybil, whose charms had done little to calm his emotions.

Always aware when a gentleman found her desirable, she cried, “Oh, poor Colonel! Such a disappointment. We must not send you off angry. Here…” She had been scrambling to the sofa when Cunningham arrived and thus had not seen Delavale fill the comfit dish, but noting it contained sweets, she took it up and swung with a flutter of skirts to offer it to the glowering officer.

Delavale caught his breath. Moving to the Colonel's side, he said, “Sir, I hope this need not cause ill-feeling.”

Cunningham ignored him and reached for the single blue-wrapped toffee.

“I really had no … no intent…” Delavale's voice became thready.

His gaze having returned to its preoccupation with Sybil's beautiful bosom, Cunningham was staggered as Delavale lurched against them and fell headlong, dashing the bowl from Sybil's hand, the sweets scattering.

With a shriek, Prudence ran to him. “It is one of his swoons! Poor soul!”

Consternation reigned as they crowded around the stricken man, but even as Sidley asked anxiously if he should bring some brandy, Prudence noted that among the toffees littering the carpet, not one had a blue wrapper. She chafed Delavale's unresponsive (and clenched) hand. Joseph bellowed for a lackey to ride for the apothecary. Sybil, who had a morbid fear of death, shrank away moaning that her nephew looked to have expired, and only Otton, once more perched against the arm of the sofa, remained an amused and unmoved spectator.

Colonel Cunningham bowed to defeat and stamped out, toffeeless.

*   *   *

Highview Manor was seldom more beautiful than when bathed in the warm glow of sunset, and this afternoon was no exception. The roseate beams illumined a busy scene: A small mountain of luggage was piled on the front steps. Footmen and lackeys scurried to load the boot of the next-best carriage, and the team stamped and snorted, impatient to be gone.

Not at all eager to be gone, Sybil wept as she was handed into the coach. With a thoughtful look at Delavale, Otton swung into the saddle of his tall chestnut horse. “We shall meet again, I think,” he murmured.

“Do you?” said Delavale with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

His florid face even more so in the glow of the sunset, Joseph grumbled, “A fine reward for my silence! You are properly high-handed, nephew, to kick us out. I wonder what your poor papa would think.”

Delavale took him firmly by the arm and marched him out of earshot. “Let me tell you what he would think, sir—that I am a fool to allow you to leave without lodging charges against you!”

“For what, I should like to know, damme!”

“For my attempted murder. Not once—but several times.”

“By
Gad,
sir! Of all the
damned
beastly lies! D'ye dare to imply—”

“No, Uncle. I do not imply. I state. We were invaded at Lakepoint by men whose one aim was to put an end to me. One of them wore a multi-coloured leathern vest. It seemed to me I had seen it before, but not until very recently did I recall where. It was here—at The Blue Boar in the village. Coincidence? Hardly. Again, when you learned I had left Scotland and was likely to arrive here uncomfortably alive, you sent out assassins to ensure you would retain the title and estates you had unlawfully appropriated.”

“Why, you—you ungrateful … blasted young … ingrate!” blustered Joseph, very pale. “Much chance you have of—of proving your Canterbury tale!”

“No. Because your would-be murderers are scattered, I've no doubt. But
I
know, Uncle. And
you
know. You will be wise to settle for the consolation prize of the house in Town, and an allowance. But—know this—should my life end suddenly, for
any
reason; should Miss MacTavish be hurt or threatened in any way, my solicitors will find in their safe a written statement to be opened in such an eventuality. Also, the Duke of Marbury has a like statement. Your arrest on charges of conspiracy, attempted murder, and treason would say the least of the matter. Perhaps your past affairs would stand up well. I doubt it.”

Joseph's pudgy features were the colour of pastry dough. His mouth opened, yet nothing but an inarticulate gabble came forth and he closed it again, staring at his nephew's grave face in helpless chagrin.

Delavale said regretfully, “A sad pass we have come to that I must speak so to my father's brother. Yet I do believe my sire would have been less lenient with you than I. Goodbye, Uncle Joseph. It will be better, I think, do we not meet again. I am assured you will be able to live comfortably on the allowance I shall make you. But you had best hope, sir, that
I
live to a ripe old age.”

*   *   *

Delavale paused outside the drawing room door and, with an effort, erased the grimness from his eyes and entered cheerfully.

Prudence was seated by the empty fireplace talking with Sidley, who sprang up as he came in. Delavale went forward, his hand outstretched.

“My dear fellow! However could you have been so very magnanimous as to come to my rescue when I had served you so shabbily?”

Rather bashfully taking his lordship's hand, Sidley returned the strong grip. “Shabbily, sir? Scarcely. Oh, you had me properly gammoned, I'll admit, but I'd not been long in that wretched cave before I came to realize how much simpler it would have been for you to have me killed out of hand. And, after being with those poor devils for a while…” He shook his head and smiled wryly. “Nothing is ever a simple black or white, is it? When I escaped—”