Practice to Deceive (11 page)

“
Boudreaux
was?”

The note of incredulity in his voice brought a spark to my lady's eyes. “You find that remarkable, perhaps?”

“I find it remarkable you did not snag him! He has half the money in the world, so they say.”

She made a little moue. “How vulgar you are. But—yes, I could have had him save for that wretched de Villars, who took a maggot in his head and turned his uncle against me, may he rot!”

The last three words were ground out between gnashing little pearly teeth, but although the inference was obvious, Otton did not tease her this time. “I've had a few brushes with de Villars myself,” he said thoughtfully. “A very nasty customer. But never mind that now—the thing is that if we do corner our man, we'll likely not haul him back here, so it's possible we shall be gone for some days. If I know Chandler, he'll be hard to break.” He paused and muttered, “Poor devil.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Sybil. “Pity? From
you?
Will wonders never cease?”

His mouth hardened. He threw her an angry glance, but said only, “The whole damned countryside's up. It's very obvious we're not the only ones who know this fugitive is worth his weight in gold.”

“You m-mean,” she faltered, “they may seek him …
here?
”

“It is apparently known he came this way.” He took her hand and went on intently, “You must receive any callers yourself, and instruct the servants they are to give out no information at all.”

“But—what shall I say?”

“That your husband and many of his people are hunting a traitor who was said to have been seen in these parts. Try, if you can, to ensure that no one discovers Chandler was inside the house.
Especially
if his kinfolks should come nosing around.”

“They would not dare! Their estates—including that magnificent place in Kent—would be forfeit if they were thought to be Jacobite sympathizers.” Curious, she asked, “Are they, Roland?”

“I rather doubt it. Quentin is the hothead. Gordon's a real sobersides; the type never to have done a foolish thing in all his days. But—there's a fondness, I believe, between them. Gordon
may
come, so—be careful.”

My lady nodded but with reluctance. “Oh, how horrid it all is! And with Joseph's wooden head we're liable to end in a pretty mess.”

He patted her hand. “Or rich, my pretty. Enormously rich, for there's enough to ensure each of us a life of luxury for the rest of our days.” She looked at him, her eyes shining at the thought of such a glorious future, and he smiled and added, “Worth the spilling of a little blood—eh?”

The glow faded from her eyes. She said with a trace of unease, “So long as it is not mine!”

*   *   *

Penelope went drearily about her appointed tasks, sneezing at an alarmed Mrs. King as she conferred with the housekeeper regarding the week's menus, sniffing through an interview with the silversmith who called to offer an estimate on repairs to the large epergne that had been dropped by a drunken footman, and succeeding in generally wheezing, coughing, and choking back sighs in so doleful a fashion that twice she saw parlour-maids turn aside into nearby rooms rather than encounter her in the hall.

At half-past one o'clock, she started down to the stables to look at Missy. The mare had been thoroughly soaked yesterday. Cole would take care of her, of course. Thank heaven they still had Cole. The tall, stooped, elderly man was as knowledgeable as he was devoted and had stayed on through all the changes at the main house, even Joseph having sufficient sense not to upset such a jewel of a groom.

“Good afternoon, m'dear.”

Her heart lurched with fright. Even as she spun around, her elbow was seized and she was swept breast to breast with Roland Otton.

“Alas, you look not in the height of bloom this morning,” he said, his black eyes gleaming as he bent over her. “Never say you hold a grudge because I sided with your uncle yesterday. One has to know on which side one's bread is buttered. And with a wife to support, I—”

“
Sided
with him?” she interpolated, her heart hammering but her scorn fierce. “I would say you aided and abetted him, rather! How proud you must have been, Captain Otton, to watch him burn and torment a wounded man! Faith, one can but admire such valour!”

He stiffened, then crushed her closer, his arms iron bands about her shapeliness. “You've a naughty mouth,” he murmured. “I shall silence it.”

His lips parted, his head lowered. Expecting a desperate struggle, Otton noted only that his captive was breathing oddly.

In the second before he claimed her unwilling mouth, Penelope sneezed with all her might, her head coming into sharp but gratifying contact with his front teeth.

He swore and released her, stepping back to clap handkerchief to lips. “By Jupiter—” he began, furious, but muffled.

Penelope sneezed again, snatched the handkerchief and blew her nose with a great noise, pinching her nostrils so hard that her eyes watered realistically. “I seeb to hab caught a liddle cold,” she gasped, mopping at her tears.

“So you do.” He took another step backwards.

With horror, Penelope saw that her efforts had left pink and black stains on the handkerchief. “Oh, dear. I'b afraid by dose is bleedi'g, just a little,” she lied. “Here you are.” She proffered the violated handkerchief. “Thag you very buch.”

“No, no. You keep it.” He smiled without much enthusiasm since his lips were starting to swell. “My betrothal gift.”

Penelope swept into a low curtsey, saw the glitter in his eyes and, even as she rose, sneezed again. It was a magnificent sneeze, but she had acted too well; her hair came loose and fell in a thick cloak about her shoulders.

Intrigued, Otton caught a silken strand and twined it about his finger. “I never knew you had such glorious hair.…”

Penelope stood very still, her eyes watchful above the handkerchief.

“What a pity I must leave.…” He sighed, and allowed the captive strand to slip through his fingers. “Oh, well, the time will pass quickly enough, I fancy, and then I'll come riding home to claim my—eager bride.”

“Sooner,” Penelope murmured sweetly, “would I be dead.”

“Easily said, m'dear. But do you not keep your pretty mouth still regarding what transpired here last evening—your wish may be granted right speedily. And we
all
may be dead!” He bowed. “Think on it, beloved. Adieu.”

Despite her aversion to the man, his words haunted Penelope as she made her way back to the house half an hour later. Nothing would have induced her to have acted differently with regard to Quentin. Her worry was not that his presence constituted a deadly threat, but that he might not survive his wound and the brutal handling he had endured. Nonetheless, she was not so selfish as to ignore the fact that others were involved. Her decision to shelter him did indeed bring the shadow of axe and block over Highview, and even if she argued that her unprincipled uncle had brought the situation about and that his wife was little better, there was Daffy to be considered. The faithful abigail was guiltless, and if
she
should be arrested … Penelope shivered and blotted out the ghastly spectres that sprang to mind. If the unthinkable
did
happen, she would swear that Daffy had been unaware of the presence of the rebel. And if the judge should demand to know how a maidservant could possibly be ignorant of the fact that two strange men were occupying her mistress's dressing room, it could be explained that Penelope had kept her away by professing to have contracted some highly contagious— She had opened the side door to the house, and her reverie was interrupted as, from somewhere close by, a feminine voice was upraised in complaint.

The worthy housekeeper—Mrs. King. And the complaint was, it would seem, directed to her ladyship. Penelope entered the hall, tiptoed to the point at which it turned into the main entrance, and stood there, out of sight, listening unashamedly.

“—filthy creature, ma'am. And likely et up with fleas and vermin. I've told and told the girl to get rid of it, but all she'll say is Miss Penelope give her leave.”

“I'll own I do not care for birds,” replied Sybil, impatience in her tone. “But I really fail to see why Brooks's canary should create such havoc. Heaven knows, the master and I have enough to worry us without fussing about a small pet.”

“But it is horridly dirty, ma'am,” argued the housekeeper in the whine that so irritated Penelope. “Throws its food and its—er, other things—all over the place. To say nothing of the diseases it likely spreads. They do say—”

“
Diseases?
Faith, I never thought of that! Yes, yes—you are perfectly right. Tell the girl to get rid of the pest. Oh, and before my husband's man leaves, send him up to my sitting room.”

The housekeeper murmured a humble acknowledgement, and Penelope heard the jingle of her keys as she hurried away. Triumphant. Horrid creature! Well, Daffy should
not
have to part with Jasper. How much trouble could a tiny canary cause? The poor girl had little enough of joy in her life, and she loved that silly bird devotedly. Penelope peeped around the corner. She saw the departing flutter of the black gown as Mrs. King hurried towards the back stairs. Lady Sybil stood looking down at something she held, then she walked along the hall and entered the breakfast parlour. There was something almost furtive in her manner, and why in the world would she go in there at this hour? Whatever the reason, however, such a move fitted very well into Penelope's schemes. She followed, treading as softly as possible. When she drew level with the door, she discovered her aunt, standing by the far window, engrossed in reading a rather battered document. Penelope walked in, edged as close as she dared, then emitted one of her best sneezes. She had become rather good at it, she thought, and the result was shattering.

Lady Sybil uttered a piercing shriek, leapt into the air, and lost her grip on the letter. She juggled with it frantically and, having somehow regained it, whipped it behind her back and spun around. Penelope had hoped to alarm the lady, but was considerably astonished by so violent a reaction.

Sybil was deathly pale, and an expression of stark terror lit those dark eyes. “
Wretched
girl,” she shrilled. “Must you creep and slither about, spreading your germs to every corner of this house? I wonder you did not startle me into a spasm!” She clutched at her heart and sank into a nearby chair.

Despite these manifestations of weakness, Penelope noticed that there was no trace now of the document she had been reading. Perhaps it was a love note. The question would then become—from whom? Otton, most likely. Although, with Sybil, one could never tell. The only person
not
likely to have sent such a missive was her husband.

“I was goi'g to ask,” Penelope mumbled, taking a dutiful step backwards, “if I might be excused frob talki'g to the architect this afterdood. I ab feeli'g rather—”

“Yes, yes! Did I not tell you to keep to your room?”

“Yes, ma'am. But—I thought you just me'd last dight.”

“Oh—well, I did. But—for heaven's sake, we shall likely not add the new ballroom until next Spring at all events. Get to your bed, do! You look perfectly horrid. And whatever happened to your hair? Cannot your stupid woman pin it better than that?”

Penelope lowered her eyes and imparted meekly that she'd had an encounter with Captain Otton.

With oblique logic and inward fury, my lady scolded, “Do not be crude. You may stay in bed for a day or so, at least.
I
have no wish to become ill.”

“Thag you. But—suppose U'cle Joseph cobs hobe…”

“Your uncle will likely be gone for several days.” My lady rose, her eyes cold. “And you had best hope his mood improves before he discusses
your
conduct of yesterday!”

At any other time those ominous words would have thrown Penelope into an agony of dread that she was soon to be subject to another of her uncle's shouting rages. Today, however, she didn't give a button. Quentin would have several days in which to recover; several days of rest and warmth and care. Hope burgeoned in her heart, and it was all she could do not to dance her way up the stairs.

Her bedchamber was empty and, despite her efforts to bring a little cheer into the stark room, it looked drab and shabby. Penelope scarcely saw the worn rugs, the ill-matched furnishings, or the faded curtains. Her eager gaze flashed to the dressing room, and she swung shut the hall door and tiptoed across the room, only to halt in alarm.

From inside came the sounds of strife: voices low and rasping, stumbling, feet, a thump as something fell. Otton must have come! He had crept up here to waylay her, perhaps, and discovered the fugitive! Frantic, she scanned the room for some kind of weapon. Daffy had not yet removed the large copper pitcher in which she had brought up the hot water this morning. Penelope snatched it up and wrenched open the door.

She had maligned Captain Otton unjustly. Quentin and the Corporal were the two who struggled so desperately in the tiny room. Penelope was amazed to note that the invalid was dressed in shirt, breeches, and stockings, but no boots, and that this man who had seemed at death's door yesterday afternoon now strove so effectively that the Corporal was hard put to it not to hurt him.

“Sir,” wailed Killiam. “Oh, sir—let be! For Gawd's sake, Major—I don't want to hit you!”

“Then give over,” snarled Quentin. He wrenched free and up came his left arm, the fist knotted and looking competent, no matter how thin.

The Corporal dodged, saw Penelope, and cried, “He don't know what he's about, miss! Help me—else I must knock him down, surely!”

“Nonsense,” said Penelope, recovering her wits. “Step on his toe, merely.”