Practice to Deceive (12 page)

Killiam trod down hard. Quentin swore and doubled over, clutching his foot, then sank on to the edge of the bed, head down, panting heavily.

Penelope exchanged a worried glance with the Corporal. “Did you mean to leave us so soon, Major Chandler?” she asked formally.

“Naturally … enough…” he gasped, without looking up.

“I'd dozed off in the chair, miss,” the Corporal confessed miserably. “Woke up to find him all dressed and trying to pull on a pair of boots. Don't ask me where he got the duds—I dunno. But he was ready to creep off, just like you said. And him no more ready to walk than any infant!”

“What folly,” she declared, frowning. “Quentin—I gave you credit for—”

“For what, ma'am?” His head jerked up. He was very white about the mouth, his bruises vivid against his pallor. “Did you credit me with—with some belated … sense of responsibility, perhaps?”

“Had you that, sir,” she said, sitting down beside him, “you'd not be trying to rush out before you are strong enough! I'd give you an hour, perhaps less, before you blundered into my uncle's men. Faith, but I'd not fancied you so enjoyed his care on Sunday that you yearn to return to it!”

“I do assure you, he'll not get his hands on me again. Not while I live.”

He spoke softly, but there could be no doubt that he meant it, and Penelope quailed, a terrified feeling of helplessness chilling her. She managed a scornful look. “La, but here's a high flight! And quite unnecessary. My uncle is off chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, and not expected to return for some days, so you may be easy until—”

“Easy!”
His voice sharp with emotion he cried, “How may I be easy whilst I skulk here like—like a damned Judas goat, knowing I bring the shadow of death over you all? Can you guess how I felt when I looked out of the windows and saw that bastard pawing you—and you not daring to so much as slap his filthy face?”

So that was what had brought all this about! She hid her elation that he would care so much that Otton had forced his attentions on her, and said, “Did you suppose I was pleading for your life in exchange for my virtue? It would not work, I think. Otton's by far too mercenary.”

Quentin scowled at her. “For Lord's sake, Penny!”

“Have I disappointed you?” She investigated the top of her head with a cautious hand. “Oh, dear. And I'd thought I did rather well…”

“You little wretch,” he said uncertainly. “
What
did you do?”

“Such a pity you missed it. But I suppose you were too busy breathing fire and smoke, dragging on your purloined clothes, and”—she fluttered her lashes at him—“and vowing to avenge my outraged innocence.”

The Corporal grinned and folded his arms across his deep chest. Not to be so easily fobbed off, Quentin demanded, “What did I miss, Penelope Anne?”

“When I was clasped against his heart,” she said demurely, “and he bent, panting with passion, to claim my reluctant lips…” Quentin was scowling again, with such delicious grimness, and she said with a sigh, “I sneezed all over him. Dreadfully. Wherefore the wicked Captain has a badly swollen mouth.”

Killiam laughed delightedly, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Jolly good, miss!” he said in a more subdued tone.

Quentin smiled. “I'll wager he was ready to strangle you. Would I'd seen it. Nonetheless, with that foulness lurking about—”

“But he will not continue to lurk. My uncle merely sent him here to bring clothing and his man. Even now, they pack for an absence of several days. They appear to labour under the delusion they have you cornered, dear sir.”

“Well,
that's
a slice of luck,” said the Corporal.

Quentin muttered thoughtfully, “Unless my brother is this will-o'-the-wisp Delavale follows.”

“Oh, how splendid of him,” cried Penelope, clapping her hands. “Yes, he is just the type to thoroughly enjoy leading Uncle Joseph on a wild-goose chase.”

Reverting to his glum manner, the Corporal grunted, “And liable to become a
cooked
goose!”

Quentin winced, and Penelope could have shaken his devoted but disastrous minion. “Mr. Gordon Chandler seemed to me a most capable gentleman,” she said swiftly. “And I do think one of you might have noticed how ill I look.”

Her small diversion succeeded. At once remorseful, Quentin said, “Yes, I did notice you looked hagged when you first came in, poor girl. Have you truly taken a cold, then? Lord knows, with all this worry and uproar, I'd not wonder at it.”

“The only trouble is,” said Penelope, taking out Otton's handkerchief and inspecting it, “my illness comes off rather easily. I shall have to be more careful.”

Curious, the two men moved closer, and she showed them the pink and black stains. Staring at her, Quentin exclaimed, “Jove! It's masterly. Do you say that you are perfectly well?”

“Not very loudly,” she answered, twinkling at him. “My ‘cold' won my freedom from that pestilential Otton, and a happy exile to my bed. Oh, my performance was superb, I'll own, but without Daffy's talents I doubt I could have convinced my aunt.”

Awed, the Corporal said, “Miss Brooks did it? Cor! I don't see how she—”

The outer door flew open with a crash. Penelope leapt up, her heart in her throat. Killiam whirled around, and Quentin struggled to his feet, prepared to fight for his life.

Someone was running for the dressing room. Penelope sprang to the door but it was too late, and she uttered a shocked little cry as it was wrenched open.

Her eyes reddened, tears streaking her cheeks, her hands wringing frantically, Daffy sobbed out, “Miss Penny … they're going to take him! Oh, but they mean to take him!”

Blanching, Penelope cried, “Are we found out, then? Are they coming here?” From the corner of her eye she saw that Quentin had produced a serviceable-looking dagger. Beside him, the Corporal gripped a large horse pistol. Both men looked grim and desperate.

“It's so cruel,” sobbed Daffy. “He shouldn't have to die … just 'cause he's got some naughty habits.”

“Wh-what…?” breathed Penelope.

“Only last night he sung so sweet to me whilst I lay in bed. Even with the cover right up over him.”

“Good … heavens…!”

The corners of his mouth twitching, Quentin murmured a pious, “I deny everything!”

Bewildered, Killiam stared from the Major to the distraught girl.

“Mrs. King says I can either give him up, or—or I shall be turned off,” wailed Daffy. “Oh …
miss
…!” She threw her apron over her face and wept copiously.

Penelope drew a deep breath of relief. “It's all right, gentlemen. Her canary is at risk, merely. Do please lie down again, Quentin.”

It was clear that the two men were strangling on suppressed mirth, and she left them, closed the door, and led Daffy to a chair. “Sit here. And try to compose yourself.”

Something about that quiet voice broke through the girl's woe. She lowered her apron and blinked through her tears. “I—I don't want to lose that little rascal, Miss Penny,” she said hoarsely. “You—you
will
help me?”

“As you were willing to ‘help' Major Chandler?”

Briefly, Daffy looked frightened, then she lowered her reddened eyes. “I went in there to take their bowls and—and the Major
begged
as I should fetch him something to wear. I was only looking for to help—”

“You know how desperate he is to be gone from here—for our sakes. And you knew he was much too weak to leave here today. Yet when you saw me downstairs you said no word of this.”

“Corporal Robert Killiam was there, and—”

“And fast asleep. Which you also knew.”

The abigail was shaking visibly, but Penelope hardened her heart. “I cannot abide treachery, Brooks. I am of a mind to—”

With a wailing moan, Daffy flung herself to her knees. “Don't ye say it! Dear Miss Penny, as I do so love—don't ye never say such a awful thing!” And burying her face against Penelope's skirts, she wept again; a different sobbing this time, less frantic, but revealing a deeper grief.

Penelope looked down at that desolate figure, wondering remotely why it meant so much to the girl to stay in a house where she was treated badly and paid such a penurious wage.

“I'll own up,” Daffy mumbled. “You're right, miss. I did it—deliberate, like.” She slanted a frightened glance upwards, saw Penelope's frown, and whimpered, “I see a look in your eyes, Miss Penny. A look I'd never seen before. And—oh, miss! He couldn't never bring you
nothing
but fear and sorrowing. And a cruel horrid death, mayhap. I'd sooner see you wed to that horrid Otton, than— Your dear papa and—and Master Geoffrey, they wouldn't want
that
kind of a man for you, miss! They wouldn't!”

Appalled, Penelope sank into a chair. “You would have sent him to his
death?
To try to protect me?”

“No, no! He's much stronger already. And—and he would have the Corporal and likely—”

Penelope leaned forward. Very softly, she interrupted. “If you truly love me, Daffy, listen to me. If anything—
ever
—happens to Quentin Chandler because of you … for so long as I live I shall never, never forgive you.”

Daffy's sobs ceased. For a moment they remained thus, silent and intense, looking into each other's eyes. Then Daffy said, not as servant to mistress but as woman to woman, “I didn't know. It was so soon, I didn't think…”

“I met him five years ago, you see.”

“Ah. And I didn't understand how it were. I am so sorry. So very sorry.” She made the sign of an X across her bosom and said very solemnly, “Cross my heart and hope to die—nothing won't happen to the Major 'count of me, Miss Montgomery. Not though I'm tied twixt two mad horses and torn asunder, it won't!”

The unlikelihood of such a gruesome fate brought a furtive smile into Penelope's eyes, but the use of her surname affected her almost as much as Daffy had been stricken by being addressed in such a way, and her vision blurred. The two girls fell into each other's arms and embraced tearfully, then drew back, each drying her eyes in some embarrassment.

“You do forgive me, then?” Daffy asked timidly.

“Now that we understand each other, of course I do.”

“And—and you won't
never
call me—Brooks—again, please, miss?”

“Not unless you give me cause—dear Daffy.”

With a sigh of relief, Daffy stood up, shook out her rumpled skirts and straightened her apron. “In that case, Miss Penny—what about my Jasper?”

VI

Despite his insistence to the contrary, Quentin's brief period of activity had exhausted him, and when Penelope went in later to change the bandages, he was fast asleep. With an inward sigh of relief, she decided not to waken him, but stayed for a little while, holding a whispered conversation with the Corporal before returning to her room and settling down to some mending. The afternoon was cool, and she would have liked to start the fire, but her aunt would likely suppose her to be in bed and warm enough, and there would be trouble if she dared use too much coal at this season of the year.

Quentin awoke when Daffy brought up a late luncheon, and half an hour later Penelope again gathered her salves and lint and bandages.

Watching her, Daffy saw the white hands tremble. She said compassionately, “Let me do it this time, Miss Penny.”

Penelope struggled to overcome her dread of treating the wound again. “I do not quite know why I am so—so overset today,” she said threadily. “I did fairly well … last evening.”

“'Course you did. You was wonderful. But we was all so frightened that the Major would be killed, or that we'd all be found. I think we sort of—outdone our selves. Still, there's no reason you should have to—”

“Yes. There is.” And knowing that her dread was rooted in the fact that the hurt was Quentin's, that
his
was the flesh so cruelly torn, Penelope pulled back her shoulders. “I must not be a coward. Heaven knows, the Major is not.”

Despite those resolute words, she prayed for strength as she cut through the bandages. The Corporal had told her that Quentin had been shot by a lone trooper early on Friday morning. His desperate ride for life, his capture two days later by her uncle, and Lord Joseph's subsequent brutality had done nothing to expedite the healing process, but at least the inflammation was reduced today. Penelope worked as carefully as she was able, but it was impossible not to cause her patient considerable discomfort. He endured bravely, but each time he flinched, she did. She could not know how white and stricken she looked and, glancing up, was surprised to find his eyes upon her filled with such anxiety that she could not keep from smiling. At once his pale lips curved into an answering smile. The awareness that he had been worried for her sake gave her the strength to master her nausea, and she chattered easily, drawing from him an occasional breathless response.

When she finished, the Corporal had ready a glass of wine for all of them, and they toasted one another in grateful relief that the ordeal was over. Afterwards, Quention dozed off, having thanked her for her care of him, those thanks echoed by the Corporal when he opened the door for her.

“I don't know many ladies would be able to face that,” he whispered, glancing back over his shoulder at the injured man. “Them damned musket balls! Asking your pardon, ma'am, but it'll be months afore he's himself again, specially with the burns what your uncle—”

“No, no,” Penelope intervened hurriedly. “Major Chandler is young and basically in excellent health. I doubt he would be so pulled were it not for all these weeks of being starved and hunted. Even so, I fancy he will heal fast enough can he but have three or four more days here.”