Practice to Deceive (10 page)

A faint echo of his remembered chuckle sounded.

She said, “Oh, Quentin, you should have a physician. If only—”

“No need,” he interposed weakly. “You cannot guess how—how magnificent I feel. Clean and dry and well fed—and 'twixt linen sheets again! Paradise! I … I never…” His eyelids drooped. “Never thought…” And he slept.

Penelope gently replaced his lax hand on the blanket and crept back into her bedchamber.

Killiam and Daffy were huddled close to the dying fire, and she joined them to map out their initial strategy. The Corporal, of course, would sleep in the dressing room. The concern of the two girls to provide an adequate bed amused him. He would be far more comfortable lying on the floor of a snug room, he assured them, than when he'd “kipped” in the fields of Flanders, with rain coming down in buckets and a freezing wind, to boot. “Quieter here, too,” he added. “Unless—” An arrested expression came into his eyes.

Penelope said understandingly, “I expect you have lost many friends during your campaigning, Corporal.”

He agreed that was the truth and no mistake, then clapped large hands onto his knees, and stood. “You'll be needing your beauty sleep, ma'am, so I'll be off. P'raps you'd be so kind as to give the door a scratch when the coast is clear, as y'might say, in the morning, Miss Brooks? If the poor Major lasts through the night, we—”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Penelope, aghast. “Of course he will last through the night! I had thought he might be in a raging fever by now, instead of which he is peacefully asleep. And
I
shall waken you after I get up, for Daffy will not stay with me tonight.”

Up went the snowy apron again. Round with horror grew Daffy's big eyes. Her protestations were brushed aside, nonetheless. Penelope pointed out that it would not do to have her ‘ailment' become severe too suddenly. “In the morning I shall go about my tasks as usual,” she said with a tired but mischievous smile. “By afternoon I give you my word the entire household will be heartily glad to see me take to my bed for a week!”

Killiam looked troubled. He started off, checked, and returned to stand at attention and clear his throat before launching into a disjointed but intensely sincere speech of thanks. “It don't never mind 'bout me,” he said, by now rather red in the face, “but—him”—he jerked a thumb towards the dressing room—“he's—true blue, he is. Best officer I ever served under. One of the right 'uns. Always out in front, he were. When we went into action it was all the men could do to catch up with him.” His blue eyes fixed on the worn rug, he finished, “Hadn't been for you, miss, he'd be dead by now, 'cause that uncle o' yours would've kept at him till they'd killed him. No doubting. If—if we come through this alive…” He looked up, his face very red now, but his gaze steadfast. “What I means is—I'm your man, Miss Penelope. Whatever. Whenever. I'll never forget 'twas you as saved him. Never!” His eyes flickered to Daffy's solemn face. He gulped bashfully, “You, too, ma'am,” and bolted for the dressing room.

*   *   *

Penelope was so weary that her head no sooner touched the pillow than she was fast asleep. Her last thought was that she must be up early, but she was surprised to open her eyes and find the room pitch-dark. She lay there between sleeping and waking for a few seconds, vaguely aware that something of great importance had changed her life, but not quite able to recall what it was. Abruptly, Quentin's drawn face was before her mind's eye. She gave a gasp and sat up in bed, wondering if she had woken because he had cried out. But the Corporal was with him, of course. It was silly to be so apprehensive. He was going to be all right. He was going to make a rapid and complete recovery … please God.

She lay down again, staring into the darkness, her mind at once grappling with the many details that had yet to be worked out. Of immediate concern was the matter of suitable clothing for Quentin. The Corporal was right; he should at all times be prepared to run for his life. She considered and rejected the most logical source. Dear Geoff had been of shorter stature. His nightshirt had served, but the sleeves had been midway up Quentin's forearms. No, she would have to look elsewhere, unless—

Her schemes were interrupted by a sound she'd not heard since she and Geoff were children and had crept into Papa's bedchamber early one morning to surprise him with their birthday gifts. She could still remember how surprised they had been, and how they had stood beside the bed giggling hysterically until Papa woke up and caught them. Papa had been a powerful snorer, but the emanations from the dressing room would have put Papa's efforts to shame. She remembered then that the Corporal had started to say something about it being quiet in the dressing room, and then that oddly guilty look had come over his face. No wonder! It was to be hoped that Quentin would be able to sleep through all the uproar. But perhaps the senses of a hunted man were alert to sounds that spelled danger, and something so innocuous as a snore would not disturb him.

Settling herself cosily in the warm cocoon of her blankets, she pulled the eiderdown higher about her ears, but it was of no help. The next rendition was clearly audible; she wondered in fact that the windows did not rattle. She might be forced to suggest to Corporal Killiam that a clothes peg be applied to his nostrils, for that gargantuan snore could very well spell disaster for all of them.

Yawning, she drifted back to sleep.

V

The bedcurtains were drawn aside and sunlight flooded in. Blinking into that brightness, Penelope saw Daffy smiling at her.

“What a nice sleep you had, miss! Half-past ten o'clock of a fine—”

Penelope sat up with a shocked cry, but she was at once advised there was no need for concern. She'd slept late, which was natural enough for a lady with such a “bad cold.” As Daffy balanced the breakfast tray across her knees, Penelope's glance flashed to the dressing room.

Daffy said, “I already gave Corporal Robert Killiam hot water and Master Geoffrey's shaving things, miss, and the gentlemen had their breakfast half an hour since.”

“Thank you, Daffy.” Penelope accepted a cup of tea gratefully. “Now, please draw a chair closer and talk to me for a little while. How is Major Chandler? Was he able to sleep last night?”

“Like a top, the Corporal says.” Daffy dragged a straight-backed chair near the bed and perched on the edge, hands primly folded in her lap. “He's feeling quite hisself again, s'morning, says Corporal Robert Killiam.”

“Thank heaven for that!” Penelope applied herself to a toasted crumpet. “What of my uncle? Is he come home? Is there any news of the hunt?”

The corners of Daffy's mouth pulled down. She said scornfully, “That slipperyshanks come back.”

Penelope lowered the crumpet and stared at the abigail with frightened eyes. “Captain Otton? Alone?”

Daffy nodded. “The master sent him back to bring his man and his clothes. They been a'scurrying and flapping about this hour and more. One might think his lordship was going away for a year!”

“Would that he were! But—why does he not come home?”

“Mr. Hargrave says he heard the Captain tell my lady as they're hot on the trail of the rebel.” Daffy giggled and added saucily, “I don't rightly see how that can be, Miss Penny, being as he's right here in your bedchamber.”

It was very probable, reasoned Penelope, that her uncle in his arrogance had chanced upon the trail of some quite innocent traveller and was hunting the wrong man. Poor Uncle Joseph! She smiled into her teacup, finished her breakfast and very soon afterwards, washed and dressed, was seated before her mirror, looking at Daffy's reflected frown and echoing, “What won't do?”

“You, miss. Only look at yourself.”

Penelope did so. Her thick hair was neatly pinned up, and she did not appear to have thrown out a spot during the night. Everything seemed as it should be. She said questioningly, “I—do not see…?”

“You mayn't, miss. But
she
will. Any woman would.” Daffy glanced to the dressing room.

A blush crept up Penelope's throat. Her gaze returned to the mirror, and she surveyed the whole rather than the various parts. She discovered a girl who glowed with happiness, whose cheeks were becomingly pink, and whose eyes sparkled joyously. She stammered, “I—er, do not look ill—is that it?”

Daffy folded her arms and pursed her lips judicially.

Penelope said, desperate, “I know you—do not approve of all this, Daffy.”

“No, miss. I doesn't. For your sake.”

“But—you said—I mean, I thought you were willing to help the Major.”

“I was.” Daffy sighed. “But—I didn't think, then—”

Penelope swung around. “You wouldn't betray him?” she cried imploringly. “Please stand by us, Daffy.
Please!
”

Distressed, Daffy clasped her outstretched hand. “You do know as I'd do anything for you, miss. Anything!”

Penelope jumped up and hugged her. “Thank you, my dear faithful friend. Now—tell me what I must do? Shall I paint my face so as to be pale?”

“Not you, miss. Me. I'll go and get some things.” Daffy hurried out, to return very shortly carrying some tablecloths, ostensibly to be mended, from amongst which she unearthed sundry pots, bottles, and brushes. She wrapped a sheet around her young mistress, tilted up her face, and set to work with such confidence that Penelope said an astonished, “Why—I have never seen you use—”

“Mustn't talk, if you please, miss. Be so still as you can.” And Daffy resumed her task, delicately wielding brush and pencil and hare's-foot until at length she drew back, scrutinized her handiwork, and nodded. “That'll do, I think.”

Penelope turned eagerly to the mirror and gave a gasp. The glowing girl had vanished, and in her place was a sickly-looking young woman with a bright pink nose, deathly pale face, and darkly shadowed eyes. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “However did you manage it? I look positively
ill.
”

Daffy blushed with pleasure. “I used to work for a—a actress, once. I was fair took aback when I first watched her change her face, but after a bit I began to help her. She—she said I'd a real knack for it.”

“You have, indeed! But how comes it about that I did not know you'd worked for an actress? Is she famous? Would I know her?”

“Oh, no, miss. She's—er, she's dead these five years. I didn't speak about it 'cause—well, me mum didn't approve of me situation with her. Nor I didn't, neither. 'Cept, she paid very well, and—” perturbed, she said in a rush, “oh, miss—I hopes as ye won't think bad of me now?”

“
Bad
of you! I think it splendid!” Penelope stood, removing the sheet. She glanced towards the dressing room, hesitating, knowing she should delay no longer in putting in an appearance downstairs.

Daffy said, “I think Corporal Robert Killiam's shaving him, miss.”

“Oh,” said Penelope. “Well—into the fray! Wish me luck.”

Daffy did so and ran to open the door. She ventured to give her mistress an encouraging little pat on the back as Penelope stepped into the hall but, having closed the door, she leaned against it, her own words coming back to her. “I'd do anything for you, miss. Anything!” She muttered, “And there's not nothing I wouldn't do to keep you from being hurt, neither!”

*   *   *

“Not now, Sybil!” There was a hint of irritation in Captain Otton's voice as he removed my lady's little hands and did up the buttons she had so eagerly unfastened.

She flounced to the window seat of her boudoir and sat there pouting. “You said you wished to talk to me.”

“Exactly so.” Straightening his laces, he laughed suddenly. “I meant—talk, believe it or not.”

“Pon rep! Something new, Roly. You are becoming staid. Perhaps you and Penelope will suit, after all.”

She was jealous. Amused, he said, “Our proud maiden is far from staid. Her blacks make her look dowdy, but—Gad! You should've seen her when she pleaded with me for Chandler.
There
was passion, my Sybil. Deep and fiery and … pure.”

“Passion!” My lady sprang to her feet, flushed with anger. “The chit despises you! Besides which she is untouched. What does
she
know of passion? Any more than
you
know of purity?”

He bowed low. “
Touché!
But—it will be jolly to teach her what I
do
know.”

She gave a little squeak of rage and flew at him, clawing for his face. Laughing, he caught those dainty wrists, swung her to him and kissed her long and deeply. When he lifted his head she lay lax against him, her eyes closed.

“None of which,” he murmured, very aware of how his cards must be played, “has anything to do with our delightful, ah … liaison, m'dear.”

My lady leaned back her golden head and blinked languorously up at him. “Devil!”

He chuckled and held her at arm's length. “Now you must listen, for this is of an urgency, Sybil—for all of us.” He led her to the window seat, sat beside her and went on in serious fashion, “Delavale fancies us hot on the trail of our valuable rebel, and—”

“And you do not?” She pulled away, her great eyes wide and scared. “Does Joseph follow a false trail, then? I might have guessed it. They are clever, those Chandlers. I met the father and the elder brother once at a soirée. They engaged in a quoting match or some such thing with that dandy Thaddeus Briley and—oh, I forget who else. I was bored to death, but Boudreaux thought them very well-read, so—”

“Boudreaux?” Otton intervened sharply. “Lord Boudreaux?”

She nodded and, with a flutter of lashes and a pert shrug, said, “He was—very interested in me at one time, you should know.”