Practice to Deceive (29 page)

Springing to his feet, Mr. Tiele said, “I assure you, sir—”

Simultaneously, Penelope began, “I was just explaining why—”

“Since we are not acquainted with this … gentleman,” Quentin intervened with a curl of the lip, “I see no cause for explanations.”

Mr. Tiele bowed. “In point of fact, sir, I was assuring Miss Montgomery—”

“As I have told you before,” said Quentin at his most disdainful, “my niece requires neither your assurances nor your attentions.”

“It appears to me, Sir John,” said Tiele, determined, “that your niece stands in need of protection, and—”

His eyes narrowing, Quentin snapped, “Do not fall into the error of supposing me to be so old and decrepit I cannot defend the ladies of my house.”

“Please, Uncle,” Penelope put in hurriedly, “Mr. Tiele has been only kind and concerned.”

“Admirable. And now, m'dear”—Quentin gestured to the hall—“since the concerned young man seems unwilling to take himself elsewhere, we shall do so.”

Tiele turned to Penelope. “I beg you will remember what I said, ma'am. I am at your disposal at any time.” He bowed over her hand, gave Quentin a perfunctory nod, and strode from the room.

As soon as they were alone, Penelope turned on Quentin, raging. “For heaven's sake—
why
treat him so? He is kind and gallant, and was only trying to—”

“I know very well what he was trying. And let me tell you, miss, that it ain't proper behaviour for an unmarried lady to slink away—”

“I did
not
slink!”

“—to keep a tryst with a stranger, and cuddle up cheek by jowl—”

She uttered a gasp of indignation. “Cheek by—!
Oh!
”

“—cheek by jowl with him, holding hands in an empty room! Do you keep this up, Penelope Anne Montgomery, and I may have to demand the fellow wed you to save your good name!”

“
You
may have to!” she snarled, wondering with some corner of her mind why she was so furious. “By what right—”

Even more furious, and very well aware of the reason, he grabbed her arms and shook her slightly. “By the right that you are in my care,” he said, his voice harsh and grating. “Had it not been for your insufferable interference, I'd have had you safe and sound in Hampstead by this time, instead of throwing yourself into the arms of … that…”

The sweet scent of her was all about him. The great hazel eyes, that scant seconds ago had flashed with rage, had softened and now gazed up at him with a most disturbing expression. He quite forgot the severe lecture he had given himself only a few hours ago, and finished disjointedly, “… busy-body.… Jove, but you look well in that gown, Penelope Anne.”

She said without much conviction, “Let me go at once!” And then, chancing to glance over his shoulder, gasped, and pushed at him frantically.

His grip tightened. “No—wait,” he murmured. “I must tell—”

A hand of iron caught his wrist and whirled him around. An impassioned countenance glared at him.

“So I guessed rightly,” growled Mr. Tiele. “Why—you dirty old blackguard! Unhand the lady at once!” And he slapped Mr. Martin Martin across the mouth.

*   *   *

“If you do not stop,” said Penelope crossly, taking soup into her spoon and trying to ignore the curious glances that came their way, “you will likely die of indigestion before Mr. Tiele puts a period to you.”

Her cutting remark served only to set him off again. Quentin smothered a final whoop and mopped his eyes with his napkin. “Oh, egad!” he wheezed. “No really, Penny—was ever anything so delicious? To think that silly young fribble—”

“Who is probably not a day older than yourself, Uncle.”

“To think he really thought I was … conducting an incestuous
affaire
with my own grand-niece! Oh, but I'm
such
a villain!” And he disappeared into his napkin again, his mirth smothered but so hilarious that several heads turned their way.

“People—are—
staring!
” she said between her teeth. “And how you can find it amusing that you have now contrived to be challenged to a duel tomorrow morning, is quite beyond my understanding.”

He sighed and sipped at his wine, succumbing to a muffled chortle only now and then.

“Major Chandler,” Penelope said with soft but impassioned urgency, “what, pray, do you mean to do about it?”

“
Do
about it?” He tilted his head back and regarded her wonderingly. “Why, oblige the fool, of course. We shall have to overnight here, but the duel itself will be very early and won't take long, m'dear.”

“Are you
mad?
With that arm?”

“Well, I certainly cannot fight him with my feet!” He chuckled as wrath glittered in her eyes. “No—truly, dear girl, there's nothing I can do, you know. The idiot hit me.”

Strangling her napkin, she said an all-embracing, “
Men!
It may have escaped you, sir, but we chance to be making a desperate bid to get you out of the country. You cannot afford to indulge in such irresponsible foolishness. If you care nothing for my safety, you might at least pause to recollect that you've a wound in your arm that is being given no chance to heal.”

“Oh, I do recollect, Penny.” His voice was low and his smile a fond caress. “But—do you know what I had forgot? How dark and sparkling your eyes become when you're angry.”

Both words and look combined to take her completely off stride, and she stared at him, her lower lip slightly sagging. For a hushed, enchanted moment they were very still, not speaking, not touching. It seemed to Penelope that she glimpsed sorrow behind his smile and, guessing that it was inspired by the fact that they soon must part, her dread of that same parting intensified, so that she clung to this moment, lost to the room and everyone in it save this man she so loved.

The waiter rushed past their table, glasses clinking on his tray.

Startled, Penelope glanced up at him, and when she looked again at Quentin he had fashioned his napkin into a rabbit that peeped at her above the edge of the table.

“Hello, pretty lady,” said the rabbit in a squeaky falsetto, and waved one ear at her.

“
Will
you be serious?” said Penelope, her dreaming done.

“As you wish,” the rabbit replied, bowing sloppily. “Sir Sylvester Serious—at your service.”

It was such a ridiculous rabbit, and Quentin's studiedly innocent air so comical, that it was all she could do to keep a straight face. With an effort, she summoned a frown. “I do wish—” she began.

“I can grant any wish for precisely sixty-five seconds,” squeaked Sir Sylvester. “Dragons slain, excursions through the land of faerie, husbands provided for lovely ladies in pink gowns.…”

Penelope caught her breath. Sir Sylvester essayed a pirouette, then waved at a choleric-appearing old gentleman, all whiskers and quizzing glass, who had half-risen from his chair to look with incredulous horror at this performance.

“'Pon my soul!” snorted the whiskers-and-quizzing-glass.

Sir Sylvester waved at him, undaunted; a lady laughed in amusement, and the old gentleman subsided.

Very red in the face, Penelope said, primly, “Please—Sir Sylvester. Go away.”

The rabbit turned to peer up at Quentin's empty smile. “Why does she say unkind words when her eyes laugh so?”

“Because you are embarrassing her,” said Quentin gravely. “It is very, very ill-mannered to behave so in a public dining room, and likely none of these good people will ever speak to her again.”

“Oh.” Slowly, Sir Sylvester folded his ears one upon the other, and sank beneath the table edge. Having almost vanished, he suddenly popped up again, so that Penelope and several other diners who had watched his descent, fascinated, jumped. “Have they spoken to her before?” he asked brightly.

“No.”

“Then—I do not see why—”

“It is not for you to see,” said Quentin.

Penelope interjected, “Besides which, you have no eyes!” and then drew back, her hand clapping over her lips in mortification.

The rabbit gave a small shriek. “She spoke to me! She spoke to me! I shall find her a husband!” He nodded so vehemently that both ears collapsed.

Her pulses leaping about erratically, Penelope saw that by this time approximately half the diners and three grinning waiters were watching them. “I wonder,” she whispered, trembling with anticipation of what Sir Sylvester might say next, “that you do not wave a flag with the Scots thistle on it, so as to attract more attention to yourself!”

The rabbit peeped out from between its ears. “Her eyes are very beautiful when she's cross—you were right. She will make some lucky man a splendid wife.”

Penelope was motionless, scarcely able to breathe.

“In which case,” chirped the rabbit, “you must promise not to hurt her most eligible suitor—Mr. Tiele.”

He had done it again. Lulled her into that breathlessly sweet expectancy, and then shattered her with a carelessness that was beyond comprehension. Hurt and reeling, Penelope managed somehow to collect herself and enter this nonsense. “How, Sir Sylvester, if Mr. Tiele succeeds in ridding the world of his foolish adversary? How then?”

“Why,” said the rabbit, “in that case your great-uncle won't dance at your wedding, will he?”

Whitening, she murmured, “Oh. What a
wretched
thing to say!”

“Did you not know that rabbits are all wretched?” said Quentin lightly. Much to the disappointment of his small audience, he folded the napkin, sent his brilliant grin to three old ladies who applauded, and took up his wine glass. “Now—speaking of Mr. Tiele, the poor hot-blooded fellow labours under the delusion he has been so brave as to challenge an infirm old gentleman.” He waited, but Penelope kept her eyes on her plate and ignored him, so he went on, “In all honour, I should warn him that I'm some forty years younger than he supposes.”

“It would seem far simpler,” said Penelope, more or less steadily, “merely to leave tonight while Mr. Tiele sleeps.”

He gave a shocked gasp. “You never mean it? A gentleman don't run away when he's been challenged to a duel! Good God! Didn't Geoff teach you
anything?
”

She flinched a little. “He taught me that Geoffrey Montgomery would not do so. Neither, I take it, would Quentin Chandler. Mr. Martin Martin, however, being nonexistent, cannot be held accountable.”

“Why, you little conniver! I vow you could argue me into all manner of improprieties, had you a mind to it.”

His voice was hushed, his eyes quizzing her. But that he meant to flirt with death in the hush of tomorrow's dawn, Penelope had no doubt, and she refused to be diverted. “You once told me that your father names you an irresponsible here-and-thereian,” she said, her eyes chill. “I think I begin to understand why.”

“Ouch,” he said ruefully. “No, Penny—be fair. A man must face what comes his way. Not run from it.”

“You do not run from trouble, Quentin. You run
at
it! Had you not objected so violently to his simple kindness to me, none of—”

“Simple kindness, my Aunt Maria! The fellow's fairly moonstruck over you, and you know it.”

She said demurely, “As Sir Sylvester Serious observed, Mr. Tiele is my most eligible suitor.” And she stood, so that he had perforce to rise and pull back her chair.

Leaning over her shoulder, he murmured, “Oh, very well. Since you plead so eloquently for his life, I'll not fight the silly fellow.”

Both irked and overjoyed, she spun to face him.

“I owe you a great deal more than to spare the life of your lover,” he said with perfect gravity.

“Oh! You are—
impossible!
” she stormed, and turned to the door.

Daffy was already hurrying across the room towards them. She bobbed a curtsey. “The host would like to know do we plan to keep the rooms overnight, sir,” she said. “They seem to be full up with—”

“Why, you
fraud!
What the deuce are you got up like
that
for?”

The resonant voice belonged to a tall, well-featured man of middle years who was bearing down on them, grinning broadly. Horrified, Penelope saw that a young officer who had just come in and was seated alone at a table near the dais had turned to watch them.

Also aware of the Captain's interest, and with his every nerve tingling to the awareness of peril, Quentin slid his hand casually into his great pocket, closing his fingers around the butt of the small pistol Gordon had sent him.

“Oh … my!” whimpered Daffy.

“If
ever
I saw such a farce,” uttered the newcomer, halting before them.

“I think I have not your acquaintance, sir,” Quentin said coolly, from the corner of his eyes noting that the Captain had come to his feet.

“I am Philpott,” said the tall man, grinning broadly. “Henry Philpott. Certainly you must remember me. I'd know you anywhere in spite of that ridiculous disguise or whatever it is.”

It seemed to the stunned Penelope that things were happening very slowly. Again, they were the centre of attention and people stared curiously. The military gentleman had taken a step towards them. Quentin stood very still, but his lean body was poised for desperate action, his face watchful and grim.

Daffy's voice, faint and faltering, cut through the silence. “Y-you must've mistook me fer some … other girl, sir.”

Astonished, Penelope saw that the abigail's comely face was white as chalk and that she looked petrified with fear.

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Philpott, still beaming at her. “The belle of the ballet? How could I forget? You've grown a touch more buxom, I'll admit, but—”