Practice to Deceive (31 page)

“Sounds like my sire,” said Tiele with a grin. “You don't stand high in your uncle's favour, eh?”

“Somewhere at basement level, alas,” sighed Quentin.

“You surprise me,” said Holt mildly.

Nerves tightening, Quentin lifted one eyebrow in enquiry.

“I had thought you must be quite a favourite,” the Captain said, “since your uncle has given you his ring.”

‘Damn the fellow,' thought Quentin, glancing instinctively at the cunningly wrought dragon's head ring on his right hand. ‘How in the deuce could he have noticed it in those few moments downstairs?' He grinned at Holt admiringly. “Deuce take it, you're observant, Captain.”

Tiele was staring unblinkingly at him.

Holt said sternly, “It's an asset in my calling.”

“I don't doubt that. Actually, this ain't my uncle's. It's a tradition of my house. There are ten rings, exactly alike. When a male child reaches the age of one and twenty he is given a dragon ring, always supposing there is one available and he the next in line to receive it.”

“What a charming tradition,” said Holt. “May I see it?”

Quentin extended his hand. Holt gazed with interest at the ring for a moment, then gripped the steady, long-fingered hand. “Do you know, Mr.—er—”

“Somerville.”

“Your pardon. But—do you know, I must have met one of your kinsmen at some time, for I've seen this ring before … somewhere.… Well, I think I'll get to bed. No rest for a poor soldier, you know.”

They all stood, Holt a solidly powerful figure in marked contrast to the two taller men. Ushering him to the door, Tiele insisted on paying his shot at The Flying Dutchman. “Had it not been for my—duel,” he said, with a grim look at Quentin, “you'd not have racked up here.”

Holt shrugged. “As you wish. Thank you—I'll enjoy a comfortable night for once. My bed in the barracks leaves much to be desired. Very glad to have met you—er, Somerville.”

Quentin murmured an appropriate platitude.

Tiele closed the door behind his friend and leaned against it, saying nothing, until the brisk footsteps had died away.

Quentin set his empty wine glass gently on the table, then turned to face Tiele. “Get it said, whatever it is,” he said in a quiet and grim departure from his customary light-hearted manner.

“You damned liar,” said Tiele bitterly. “You're Quentin Chandler!”

XIII

Quentin's hand moved so fast that Tiele saw only a blur before a small pistol with an unpleasantly wide mouth was aiming at his chest. The hand that held the weapon was unwavering, the narrowed green eyes deadly. Markedly undaunted, Tiele strode forward. “By God! I should wring your stupid neck,” he declared wrathfully.

“I'm a selfish man,” said Quentin, somewhat taken aback by this attitude. “I must deny you. Very bad timing, Tiele. You should have claimed the reward while your military friend was here.”

“Reward! 'Twould have to be ten times the amount to reimburse me for all my trouble!”

“Stay back!” Quentin's finger tightened on the trigger. “I warn you, I'll not hesitate to use this.”

“And have twenty troopers here in two minutes? Rubbish!” Given pause nonetheless by the determined line of Quentin's mouth, Tiele halted. “What the deuce possessed you to bring a girl along? Did Gordon know you meant to do so?”

Quentin breathed uncertainly, “Gordon…?”

“My former friend. He asked me to bring you a message at Highview and was so ill informed as to describe you a very sick man who was like to turn up his toes at any second. Instead of which I've been badgered and poked at by a crotchety old fidget who added insult to injury by challenging me to a duel!”

Not bothering to make the obvious rejoinder, Quentin counter-attacked, “Why the Lord didn't you say at once that you were from my brother? Did you notice I'd thumbed back the hammer?”

“I did.” Tiele glanced at the pistol. “And respectfully suggest you release it with great care.”

Quentin did so. Replacing the weapon in his pocket, he put out his hand and said with a twinkle, “Terribly sorry to have run you such a chase. I wonder you did not consign me to perdition and forget the entire business.”

“Would have.” Tiele returned the handshake gingerly. “Only, it chances that my little brother served under you at Culloden. Sit down and I'll fill your glass.”

Quentin sprawled gratefully in the chair and stretched out his long legs. “What name did he use?”

“John House. He said you used to call him—”

“What—young Glasshouse?” Quentin sat straighter, accepting the wine Tiele brought him and asking eagerly, “How is the boy? He lost that leg, I'm very sure.”

“Yes. At the knee. And thanks to you is thumping around Brussels on a wooden one.” Tiele stood before Quentin and raised his glass in a salute. “Thank you, sir. If you hadn't carried him off the field…”

“Tush! It was the only way I knew to remove myself from that damned massacre.”

“You lie. Johnny said you were wounded but went back just the same.” Tiele saw the flush that lit Chandler's pale face and went on smoothly, “Not that it gave you the right to treat me with such savagery.”

They both laughed.

Quentin asked, “Did you go to Highview then?”

“I did. After you'd left, of course. I was supposed to get word to a maid there, but when I arrived she'd run off. I asked to see Delavale, but a regular block of a butler said he was gone to London. I could only think you'd managed to get away and would likely head for Lac Brillant, so I rode this way, hoping to warn you.”

“Warn me?” His voice sharp with anxiety, Quentin asked, “My brother's not suspect, I pray God?”

“Not that I'm aware.” Tiele, who had continued to stand, strolled to the bed and sat down. “I am not of your persuasions, I should tell you.”

“Nor is Gordie. We had our first serious quarrel over my allegiance to Charles Stuart.”

“I fancy Johnny and I did much the same. My elder brother was of a mind to tie him and keep him prisoner until the madness had passed.”

Quentin's eyes kindled. “Why is it that if a man does not understand the convictions of another he terms them madness?” He met Tiele's stormy look and grinned. “Only look at us. In another minute we'll launch into an argument that will last till dawn, belike, and solve nothing. However you believe, I'm deeply grateful you have brought me word from my brother. May I know what it is you've to tell me?”

Although they were quite alone, Tiele lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. “Gordon will meet you at The Cat and Kippers. It's a villainous old tavern on the Salisbury Road, about three miles west of Winchester.”

“When?”

“I don't know. He said the least I knew, the safer I'd be. But he was most anxious that you find a very good hiding place for the cypher, for he says the southland fairly throngs with ruffians would roast you alive to get their hands on it.”

Quentin said cynically, “I'm very aware!” He regarded Tiele thoughtfully. “One thing—your friend, Holt…”

“I've known him since we were scared eight-year-olds packed off to school. He's a good man. But…” Tiele hesitated, then went on steadily, “God help anyone who runs afoul of him. He's quite relentless.”

“Yet you're his good friend.”

“Yes. One of his few friends, for he's not the gregarious type. Even so, were there a price on my head and he came after me, I'd expect no mercy. Nor get any.”

After a short pause, Quentin pointed out, “You risk a great deal, you know. If I should be taken, Holt will know we've talked.”

“Hopefully, I could convince him I was merely interested in the lady. Is she really your niece, by the way?”

“
No!
Devil take you! She is not!”

“Oh.” Grinning, Tiele said, “I must try not to continue to think of you as elderly. May I ask who the lady is?”

“Whoever she may be,” said Quentin, standing and replacing the glass on the table, “I've neglected her for too long, so I'll say good night, and—”

“And tell me—you thankless ingrate!”

A smile flickering about Quentin's lips, he strolled to the door. Tiele was before him, flinging himself back against the panels. “Come on, Chandler—”

“Somerville!”

“Blast your eyes! Somerville, then. Tell a poor fellow—unless … If she's yours, of course…?”

For a moment Quentin stared at him enigmatically, then he said, “No, she's not mine, Tiele, though she is a very dear friend. I think of her more as—my sister.”

“Well, that's a dashed relief, I must say. And—her family?”

It was evident, thought Quentin, that Gordon had judged it safer not to mention Penelope's involvement in their schemes. He said, “She is Delavale's niece, you maggot-wit.”

Tiele's eyes took on a glassy look. “You mean … she is a lady of Quality?”

“I'd think
that
was obvious!”

Undeterred by Quentin's suddenly icy hauteur, Tiele stammered, “And you—took her away from—from
Highview?
My God! I thought she was your—”

“Have a care!”

“Oh … Jove! But—you and she—I mean—you've hauled her all over the countryside? Alone?”

Irritated because Tiele's shocked words merely intensified his own guilt, Quentin growled, “Don't be such an ape, for Lord's sake! We'd her maid and my man along, to say nothing of coachmen and grooms.”

“Much that has to say to the matter! You've thoroughly compromised the poor girl, Chandler. That's what you've dashed well done!”

Quentin glared at him, then reached for the door latch. “With luck,” he said acidly, “some noble gentleman will come along who is willing to overlook Miss Montgomery's scarlet past and—and make an honest woman of her!”

He marched out and stalked along the hall, his face unwontedly grim.

Duncan Tiele closed the door behind his departing guest, then stood there staring at it, lost in thought.

*   *   *

“I'm tired,” Lady Sybil faltered pathetically. “We have been driving for hours and hours and
hours!
Joseph! I want to go to bed.”

“You can sleep in the carriage,” he grunted.

Sybil bowed her head into her hands and wept.

My lord looked across the grubby table of the grubby coffee room of this grubby inn. “Well? What d'you think?”

Roland Otton, his eyes bloodshot with weariness, said dourly, “That I can scarce blame Beasley for giving up when we reached Hampstead. He's likely found himself a cosier spot than this poor excuse for an inn.”

My lord's estimate of Beasley's character caused Sybil to throw her hands over her ears.

“Why a' plague couldn't Chandler go where he said he was going?” he went on broodingly. “If they'd been at Mary's—”

“They were not.”

“I know that, fiend take you. We were agreed to drive on.”

“True. But we're going to have to get some rest some time. Even if we change horses again, the men need sleep, or they'll likely drive you into a ditch.”

“Besides,” Sybil put in tearfully, “there may be highwaymen … or worse.”

That horrid possibility had occurred to Joseph. He pulled uneasily at his earlobe, then beckoned his valet, who waited with Simmonds at a side table, and sent the man off to find the host and procure suitable accommodations for the night.

The rooms were the best of a bad lot and, when a complaining Sybil had been deposited in one of them and Simmonds was fluttering about her, his lordship and Otton repaired to the small private parlour Joseph had reluctantly added to his suite, and sat before the inadequate fire. The room was clammy. Rain had begun to fall once more and tapped depressingly against the latticed casements.

“As well I decided to stop here for the night,” said his lordship gloomily. “We'd not have got far at all events, as you see.”

Otton darted him a contemptuous glance, but only said, “The important thing is that we get an early start in the morning, sir.”

“Early start for where? Be damned if I see your logic for heading west. Chandler was running for London, whether to leave my wanton niece with her aunt, or merely to lose himself in the city.”

“I doubt he will allow Penelope to leave him. She's his best disguise. The military don't seek an old fellow travelling with his grand-niece.”

Lord Joseph frowned broodingly at his ragged fingernails, knowing he should not listen to Otton's arguments but instead hold fast to his own convictions and head in to Town. “I'll hold you personally responsible does he escape us,” he said.

‘I'm very sure you will, you fat fool,' thought Otton. He said placatingly, “I cannot believe any fugitive would persist with a plan that led him into the patrols we have endured today, my lord. Further, you'll own the last man to describe our disguised rebel even remotely was that Sergeant at High Wycombe.”

Joseph's lip curled in disgust. “Blasted fellow stank to high heaven!”

“True. An abominable animal. Nonetheless, he had very definitely seen our quarry, and for all we've been able to learn since, Chandler and your niece might have vanished into thin air. Or changed direction.”

A discreet scratch at the door announced the arrival of the waiter, and my lord brightened to the sight of a tray of fruit and cheeses, and a bottle of wine. The waiter deposited his burden on a small table within easy reach of Joseph's pudgy hand, caught the groat Otton tossed him, and departed.

Otton stood to pour a glass of port and hand it to Joseph. He carried his own glass back to settle himself again into the lumpy, musty-smelling chair.

“Has Chandler the brains he was born with,” said my lord, appropriating a slice of Cheddar, “he will make straight for the coast.”