Practice to Deceive (24 page)

His use of so outrageous an expression restored her spirits, as he'd intended. She strangled an instinctive smile and, breathing a little easier, said, “But—truly I was not flirting.” She thought, ‘I would not know how.' And in that moment she caught the eye of a nearby gentleman, resplendent in a coat of purple velvet, who at once slyly raised his glass to her. She blushed and lowered her lashes.

“There you go again!” Exasperated, Quentin exclaimed, “Not flirting, indeed! I should like to know what else you'd call it! Damme if you don't look just like Sybil!”

Outraged, Penelope gasped, “Oh! I am at least twenty years her junior!”

“I did not mean in age, but in behaviour. Besides—your powder ages you.”

How she could ever have been so foolish as to fall in love with this monster was beyond understanding. “Does it indeed,” she said airily, favouring the purple-coated gentleman with a coy sideways glance. “Well, if I do resemble my aunt that must be a compliment, since all the gentlemen think her beautiful.”

“She is very beautiful. In a hard, calculating— Good Gad! What am I saying? My apologies to the lady. And allow me to inform you, miss, that if the coxcomb in the lurid coat rolls his greasy eyes just once more in your direction, I'll shove his quizzing glass down his silly throat, so you will do well to stop luring him on.”

“Lu—ring—him! Of all the—”

“Yer name, hif y'please,” demanded a loud, abrasive voice.

They had been so engrossed in their quarrel that neither had noticed the sudden hush as an army Sergeant entered and approached their table.

Schooled by his long and desperate flight, Quentin's expression did not change by one iota. Penelope, however, became white as a sheet and stared at the burly military man in horror.

“Why the deuce should you want my name?” demanded Quentin irascibly. “Unless you've a message for me, perchance. What's
your
name, for that matter?”

The Sergeant, who enjoyed frightening people, was somewhat pulled up short by this attitude, but he made a quick recover. “Me name's Dexter. And Hi ain't in the business o' carrying messages. Me business, as Hi'd think any fool could see by this 'ere uniform what Hi'm a'wearing, is ho-fficial!” He threw a portentous glare around the quiet room and bellowed, “We'm searching out traitors. One traitor in p'ticlar. A escaped rebel. A desprit, bloody-minded cove as any fool what aids him has found out.” He returned his truculent glare to the old gentleman and the girl, mildly gratified to note that the latter looked pale.

Quentin was both aware of and angered by the air of fear in the room. He leaned back and, hooking one thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat, said with a broad smile, “And you think I am this—er, bloody-minded traitor, do you? Faith, but you're a brave man to approach me, Sergeant.”

Through a flurry of smothered laughter, the Sergeant fixed his intended victim with a hard stare. He allowed, in a voice that must have been heard in the stables, that he hadn't thought no such thing. “Me orders, which Hi do so 'ope don't hinconvenience yer noble self, be to question anyone strange what comes inter this 'ere inn or tavern or posting 'ouse. You”—he jabbed a large wart-ridden finger under Quentin's nose—“and the lady is the only folk Hi 'asn't yet questioned. Unless Hi be deef and blind, which Hi ain't, though there's a sight of folks as wish Hi was.”

“My good clod,” said Quentin, waving that intimidating hand aside, “I do assure you that m'niece ain't at all bloody-minded. Well—not as a general rule.”

Penelope took refuge behind her fan as every eye turned towards her and more laughter was heard. And she thought frantically, ‘Oh,
why
must he take up
every
gauntlet that is thrown?'

“Very hamusing, Hi'm sure,” snarled the Sergeant, flushing but taking out a battered notebook. “Hi'll 'ave yer name now,
hif
y'please.”

“Devil take you for a nuisance,” said Quentin, sitting up straighter and frowning haughtily. “I do not please.”

The Sergeant, a stub of pencil poised above his notebook, looked up. The expression in those small eyes appalled Penelope. “Uncle,” she intervened, “you should not be obstructive, you know.”

“Oh—very well,” said Quentin fretfully. “My name is Martin.”

“Mar—tin…” quoth the Sergeant, printing laboriously. “Martin—what?
Hif
it ain't too much ter ask in 'is Majesty's name.”

“Martin,” said Quentin, with a sly wink at the amused company.

“Yus, Hi got that.” The Sergeant glared at him. “Hi means yer
last
name.”

“I told you my last name. Are you indeed deaf, my poor fellow?”

A gentleman in the corner who had imbibed freely began to laugh hilariously. Penelope, however, was terrified. This nasty Sergeant was clearly becoming more furious by the minute.

Her reading of the Sergeant's mood was correct. His was a brooding disposition wherein was combined a hatred of the aristocracy and a love of his own authority—very often misused. The frail old gent and the pretty girl had looked easy prey. He'd expected to intimidate them both thoroughly. He had intimidated several occupants of this room who trembled at the very mention of the word ‘Jacobite' and did not dare stand up to his bullying. As a result, the sympathies of most of those present were with the old man and the girl. They were in fact delighted by the Sergeant's embarrassment. Becoming very red in the face, he ground his teeth. “Hi'll take a minute o' me valuable time ter warn yer, sir. It don't do ter come no 'anky-panky with a member of 'is Majesty's armed forces.”

Quentin smiled upon him. “How you do terrify me, Sergeant.”

In a near roar, His Majesty's minion demanded, “His you saying as yer name be Martin Martin?”

“Jolly good, by Jove!”

The laughter this time was sustained. Through it, the Sergeant glared at his prey. Frightened, Penelope said, “Dear sir, the poor man does but try to do his duty.” She smiled at the Sergeant's belligerence. “This gentleman is Mr. Martin Martin of London, and I am his niece, Miss Anne Martin.”

Quentin said laughingly, “There you are. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“No, it don't. You likely got a calling card, 'as yer, Mr. Martin Martin?”

Penelope's heart skipped several beats.

“Of course I have a calling card, Sergeant Impudence,” said Quentin, frowning. “And if you expect me to give you one to verify my identity, you may go soak your head! Dammitall, what's England coming to when a gentleman mayn't take supper with his own niece in a public inn, without being pestered by you military scalp hunters? Who the devil is your C.O.? If it's my old friend Mariner Fotheringay, he shall hear about your insolent behaviour!”

There was widespread public distaste for the persecution of Jacobite fugitives, and the laughter in the room was supplanted by a muttering that clearly supported Quentin's stand. The Sergeant was rendered even more uneasy by this horrid old cove's apparent acquaintance with a officer what had the most cutting tongue in the whole army. A officer what could make a man's life not worth living, was he displeased. “Now, now,” he said in clumsy apology. “There ain't no cause to take into a huff. Like the young lady says, a man must do 'is duty. Sir.”

“There ye go, Mr. Martin,” shouted a wit at the rear. “Shake hands and give 'un a kiss.”

“Buy 'im a 'eavy wet, why dont'cha, guv'nor,” suggested another. “An' maybe he won't chop off yer head.”

“Ain't no need o' that, sir,” said the Sergeant, eyeing the tankard of ale with longing.

“Perhaps not,” said Quentin, having no wish to chance another demand for his calling card. “But I rather fancy my niece is right as usual and I was hard on you. Join us for a moment, Dexter. I suppose you've a thankless job, eh?”

The Sergeant put away his notebook. “Ar, yer in the right o' that, Mr. Martin,” said he, seating himself and watching approvingly as the waiter hurried up with another tankard. “Your 'ealth, sir and miss!” He drank noisily, wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand, and went on, “You'd think as folks'd be grateful to us fer hunting down they vermin, but—no! ‘The war's over,' they whine. Enough to make yer—” He glanced at Penelope's shocked face and continued, “Scum of the earth they is, Mr. Martin. Flocking down here like vultures. Slit a man's throat so soon as a wink. And no woman's safe from—”

“Just so,” Quentin interrupted brusquely. “But there's no call to frighten my niece with such horrors. Lucky for us we've brave men like yourself to stand between us and the—er, villains.”

“Yussir. But we won't stand between yer fer long. No need. Ain't many left.” Sergeant Dexter patted his sabre with a broad grin. “And some as was caught won't never be took to trial,
Hi
can tell yer!”

The green eyes facing him suddenly flamed, but the Sergeant's gaze had lowered and he missed that murderous glare. “You know what, Mr. Martin,” he said in a slow, taunting way, “Hi noticed it just now, and Hi notice it again, fer Hi'm a very hob-servant hindividual. And what Hi says is—fer a very old man, you got awful young hands.” He lifted triumphant eyes. “Now just 'ow might yer explain that there very
odd
fack, sir?”

Once again cold with fear, Penelope considered how she could delay this wretched savage if Quentin decided to make a dash for freedom.

Quite unruffled, Quentin shrugged. “I do not usually explain it at all.” He glanced around and leaned nearer. “However, since I see you've the same curst trouble that plagued my younger days, I'll tell you.”

“Will yer now?” The Sergeant dropped one beefy hand to the hilt of his sabre. “Hi'd be powerfully diverted, as the nobs say, to 'ear this 'un, so—
please
don't you make me wait, sir.…” He inched the sabre from its scabbard, his sneering gaze fixed on Quentin's expressionless face.

A deathly hush prevailed, everyone's attention turned on the little drama.

Quentin hesitated, then said with disastrous clarity, “Manure.”

Penelope stifled a gasp.

The Sergeant's cruel eyes widened. “Wot?”

Quentin nodded soberly.

“Manure…?” echoed the Sergeant. “Now—what the 'ell—”

“Hush!” Quentin leaned closer. “Do you want to be rid of those warts, or not?”

He had touched a sore point. The Sergeant gave a start, glanced down at his unsightly hands and snatched them from sight.

“Know just how you feel,” said Quentin. “Had the same trouble. Dreadful.”

With a lightning swoop the Sergeant gripped Quentin's wrist and stared down at the graceful white hand and neatly manicured nails. “You tryin' to be funny, or summat?” he growled, lifting narrowed suspicious eyes. “You never 'ad the same trouble as wot Hi got!”

“Worse,” Quentin averred with a sober nod. “Much worse. Had to wear gloves most of the time, which is most difficult,” he embellished artistically, “when one is a musician.” He lowered his voice yet again, almost whispering. “Not a doctor could help me. Silly fellows; they're all quacks, you know.”

“Ho, yus,” said the Sergeant. “Hi'll trot wi' yer on that one. Paid over me groat many a time, Hi done. Not that it were a bit o' good. 'Ow did yer find out, then? Gypsies? Hi tried 'em. Thieving maggots! Should be 'ung, the lot of 'em. If you're a'going to tell me as they—”

“I'd not dream of fobbing off an intelligent man with such rubbish. I—” Quentin glanced around in so conspiratorial a fashion that Penelope, torn between mirth and terror, was hard put to it to keep her face straight. “I bought the secret from…” Quentin hissed, “a—witch.”

“Cor!” The Sergeant crooked the first and middle fingers of his right hand in quick defence against such foul frights. “You never did!”

Quentin nodded solemnly. “When a man's desperate, Sergeant, he has to take desperate measures.”

“And—and what she told yer—it worked? It made yer hands look … like that there?”

“Well, you're not blind, man. You see the evidence of your own eyes! And I'm rising five and sixty.”

“Love a duck!” A crafty gleam coming into the Sergeant's eyes, he said, “Sir—Hi didn't mean ter cause yer no trouble jest now. Duty, y'understand. Hi could—er, pay yer. A little bit.”

“No, no. I bought the secret and it's mine to give out as I choose. But—I very seldom choose, and that's a fact.”

“Right y'are. No more would I. But—there's this young woman Hi've sorta got me eye on, sir. And she's got a 'ead full of maggots like all women does. Only it's time Hi was a'settling down, says me ma. Hi—er, well, she might find me a touch more to her liking did Hi not 'ave all these warts.” He scanned Quentin anxiously and, finding only a dubious look, went on, “If there's anything wot Hi could do fer you, sir. In exchange … like…”

Quentin pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling. “I fail to see what. We're simply trying to reach London as soon as possible and there's nothing you could help us with in that.”

“Hi could 'elp yer by telling yer it'll likely take a week. They got troops so thick as ants round a treacle pot from 'ere to Chelmsford, down to Wrotham, crost ter Reading, and back up ter 'ere again. Ain't a gnat will get through 'thout bein' stopped twenty times a mile, belike.”

His heart sinking, Quentin said, “Well, that's of no help to me at all. However”—he shrugged—“I know your predicament, poor fellow. So I'll share my secret. Drink up!”

The Sergeant drained his tankard gleefully and bent forward so as not to miss a word.