Practice to Deceive (32 page)

“Or swing southeast to Tonbridge and thence to Lac Brillant.”

“Ha! His sire would show him the door fast enough! I would, under the circumstances. Any man would.”

Otton's smile held the twist of bitterness. “My father would, I grant you. But—Sir Brian? I'm not so sure.”

“Then you're a noddicock. I only met Brian Chandler twice, but he's properly high in the instep, I can tell you, and Lac Brillant is his pride and joy. I'll lay odds he'd slaughter any man who caused him to lose it. Son or not.”

Otton said thoughtfully, “We're now a mile or so west of Stoke Poges. If Chandler realized by the time they reached High Wycombe they'd never come safe to Town, it's likely he'd head west before daring to swing south again. Chances are, he'd make for Reading, and if—” He checked, glancing to the window as a flurry of activity sounded in the yard below. “Some high and mightyness has arrived, it would seem,” he muttered, and ambled over to pull back the curtain.

A large and luxurious carriage stood in the yard, the centre of a beehive of industry. Ostlers were removing the traces from the four blood horses; footmen wearing brown and cream livery under their wet, glistening cloaks carried luggage into the building; a gentleman's gentleman with a dressing case under one arm left the vehicle and struggled to unfurl an umbrella. Before he succeeded in this endeavour, another man emerged from the carriage and trod gracefully down the steps. A tall gentleman this, wearing a tricorne over silver hair, his long, caped cloak swinging back as he descended, to reveal a rich
habit à la française
of dull red satin.

“Thunder an' turf!” said Otton softly, his exclamation springing not from admiration of the newcomer's attire, but from the thin patrician features lit by the glow from the wide-open front door. “Only look here, my lord!”

Intrigued by the note of excitement in his henchman's voice, Joseph was already rising. By the time he reached the window, however, the valet below had succeeded in spreading the sheltering umbrella over his master, and all my lord saw was the hurried progress of a tall, cloaked individual and the gleam of gold buckles on high-heeled shoes. “Who was it? Who was it?” Joseph demanded testily.

“The greatest piece of luck! Sir Brian Chandler!”

“Is it, by Jove? What a coincidence!”

“'Twould be a
very
great coincidence were Sir Brian and his son travelling in the same corner of England each unaware of the proximity of the other.”

“Ahh-h-h,” breathed Joseph, turning back into the room as Otton closed the curtains. “Then—you think he comes to meet that young rapscallion?”

“I do.” Otton grinned joyfully. “And our task becomes so much child's play! All we've to do is let the gentleman lead us to his traitorous son!” He took up the bottle and refilled Delavale's glass. Raising his own, he said an exuberant, “To obliging fathers!”

The glasses clinked together.

“To Sir Brian Chandler,” said his lordship.

*   *   *

“You are not cold?” enquired Quentin, guiding Penelope around a wide puddle in the lane.

A little less than truthfully she answered, “No, thank you. I love to walk after the rain.”

That, at least, was truth. And if the air was cool it was also clean and bracing, and sweet with the scents of wet grass and woodsmoke. The night sky blazed with brilliant stars, and one long cloudrack glowed luminously as it hoarded the moon's glory to itself. Few people were abroad at this hour, for it was near ten o'clock, and country folk went early to bed. Lamplight gleamed from an occasional cottage window; somewhere nearby a man's voice was raised in hearty laughter; a white cat with long silky hair was sitting on the post of a picket fence and offered a friendly mew as they passed. Quentin paused to stroke it. Penelope watched him obliquely, wondering why he had asked her to walk out. Earlier, she had thought to see fatigue in his eyes, but he had denied it, and indeed no one would suspect he was tired, for his stride was as supple, his manner as light-hearted as ever. She should not have agreed to come, of course, for he should be resting after such a long, tiring day. But—oh, how wonderful to be alone with him; to feel the occasional gentle touch of his hand on her elbow; to be guided carefully around obstructions as though she were something infinitely precious and her skirts must not be brushed by muddy fences or wet foliage.

They went on, but after a moment, “Your friend is following,” she said.

The white cat was treading daintily along the narrow pickets, its long plume of a tail waving high in the air.

“What a fine fellow you are,” said Quentin, scratching beneath its chin as it came up to them. The cat uttered an amiable trill and rubbed against his hand. “Now, you must stay here,” Quentin ordered. “If you're good and obey me, I'll bring you a fat yellow bird for your breakfast.”

“Villain,” cried Penelope. “I shall tell Daffy what you plan for her beloved Jasper!”

“Beloved Jasper, indeed! That bird is the noisiest, messiest pest I ever saw. A canary is supposed to sing sweetly—not screech like a banshee! I wonder where Daffy found the wretched creature.”

She chuckled. “A gift from one of her admirers, perhaps. Oh—see, Quentin! How pretty the moon is now.”

The yellow orb was sailing majestically from behind the cloud to light the velvety blackness of the heavens with its radiance. Penelope's hood fell back as she gazed upwards and, for a small space, Quentin studied her profile bathed in that gentle light. The look in his eyes would have astounded her, but when she turned to him he also was admiring the celestial display.

“A smuggler's moon,” he murmured nostalgically. “The lads will be busy along the coast tonight, I'll warrant.”

“And you wishing you were with them. Oh, never look so innocent, sir. I well remember the tales you used to tell Geoff and me of your forays with the Free Traders, and how your papa pretended to know nought of it.”

He grinned, took her elbow and led her across the cobbled street. The white cat, ears back, tore after them and hurled itself into the graveyard of the serene little Gothic church.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Penelope, startled.

“Mad cat,” said Quentin whimsically. “He'll scare all the ghosts to death.”

Laughing, she asked as they went on, “Did Gordon share your illicit pursuits?”

“Lord—no! He has too much sense for that kind of lunacy. I pulled him into it eventually, of course. Poor old fellow. I've been a sore trial as a brother.”

“He doesn't seem to mind very much. How did you ‘pull him in'? Were you able to persuade him to sail with you?”

“Small chance of that. He held it to be all folly and bravado.”

“Was it so?”

“Not … exactly.” He hesitated, then said with a shrug, “But I don't repent my deeds. I came into the game by accident and found them to be good men, Penny. Hungry men. I mislike our stupid tax laws and—well, life was curst dull during the Long Vacation. Smuggling was jolly good fun.”

Aghast, she thought, ‘Fun!' and said, “But you have not explained how your brother was involved.”

“Oh—well, we'd made the run from France one night and were almost home when a squall blew up. We were capsized and, if you can believe it, one of the lads couldn't swim. By the time—er, we got to the cove, the excisemen were hot after us. I'd managed to wrench my ankle a bit, and Paul had swallowed half the Channel, and we were a sorry pair. Luckily, Gordon had been out looking for us. He arrived just in time with some fast horses and off we rode through a hail of shot.” He chuckled. “Poorly aimed, fortunately.”

“Good gracious! What terrible chances to take. How lucky you are to have such a fine brother.”

“Yes.” His white grin gleamed at her. “I think I'll keep the chawbacon. Shall we cross here?”

Two farm labourers came towards them, returning wearily from some late task. They touched their caps respectfully, and said, “Evenin', zur and marm,” in their soft, pleasant country accents. The white cat scampered past again, then jumped on to the ledge of a deep bay window. Penelope stopped to caress the playful animal, and Quentin peered in the mullioned window. It was a confectioner's shop. “I wish they were open,” he murmured. “I'd buy you that big lollipop.”

Penelope laughed and scanned the pleasant shapes of red and white rock canes, marzipan and nuts, comfits and dishes of toffee. Quentin straightened, his gaze shifting to the reflection of a girl with a warm smile and clear, resolute eyes. Penelope looked up, met his eyes, and could not turn away. They stood thus, unmoving, through a hushed, enchanted moment, while diamond drops splashed softly from the eaves, and the white cat twined, purring, around their feet.

A cart rattled up the street. Quentin turned about rather hurriedly and ushered Penelope back the way they had come.

For some moments neither spoke. The sounds of the cart died away and the night was still once more, the wet cobblestones silvered by the moonlight. They approached a larger house set back in a pleasant garden across which drifted the pure notes of a violin playing a poignant and familiar love song. Quentin began to sing in a soft, clear baritone.

“I prithee send me back my heart

Since I cannot have thine.

For if from yours you will not part

Why then shouldst thou have mine?”

It was the final touch of delight, and Penelope seemed to float along in a daze.

A big dog came from nowhere to charge at the fence beside her, barking furiously, and she recoiled with a little cry of shock.

The white cat, which had been keeping pace with them in a sedate fashion, shot into the air with a yowl of fright, then was gone in a white streak across the darkness. In the same instant, Quentin's arm had whipped around Penelope's waist and swung her aside.

“Be quiet! Bad dog!” he snapped in an authoritative way. But the dog only barked more wildly than ever. Amused, he said, “He knows he's not really a bad dog, you see, but protecting his master's property as he should. Did he frighten you? My apologies, but I'd not seen him until he sprang. Here—” He took up her hand and tucked it into his arm. “We shall go on better like this, I think.”

They walked on, Penelope's heart still beating very fast, but no longer from fright. The dog's frenzied barking died into a growl, then he ran off in answer to a whistle from the house.

“Now, about Gordon,” said Quentin. “I'm to meet him tomorrow.”

With an exclamation of excitement Penelope demanded, “Where? When? How did you learn of it?”

“Question one: At The Cat and Kippers, near Winchester. Question two: When he shows himself, I collect. And as for Question three: My friend Duncan Tiele told me.”

Penelope halted and her jaw dropped. “Your …
friend?
” she echoed feebly. “B-but you were to
meet
him until— I thought you despised him.”

“Oh, no. He seems a very good sort of man. In fact”—he trailed one fingertip absently around her lips and, his eyes dreaming, murmured—“it turns out that … his brother served under me. A splendid young—” He broke off, drew back and finished abruptly, “All in all, I think friend Tiele may do very well for you, my bright little Penny.”

She had quivered responsively to the soft touch of his hand on her face. She had, in fact, been leaning slightly towards him although not until this moment had she realized it. She felt as though she had been struck and for a second could not catch her breath. Then, “Do you indeed,” she said tartly, walking on. “Would you suggest I wed him tonight, sir? Or might the ceremony wait until morning?”

*   *   *

‘I am
not,
' thought Penelope, watching the moonlight slant serenely through her window, ‘going to cry all night. Not again!' She blinked, groped under her pillow, sat up, and blew her nose. They were to part tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
Quentin had told her on the way back here that it was most fortunate he'd sent Killiam and Dutch Coachman on ahead, because Captain Holt had gone prowling about the stables to determine if, in fact, the old gentleman's coach had left. She was afraid of the cold-eyed Captain, and when she'd reacted in a scared voice, Quentin had soothed her by saying that tomorrow she would see the last of Holt because Gordon would take her to Hampstead. “I mean to instruct him,” he added firmly, “that if he don't think your aunt capable of protecting you, he's to carry you to Lac Brillant. My father will know what to do, rest assured.”

Well, she was not resting assured. She was not resting at all. She had been such a fool as to give her heart to a man who not only had no fondness for her, but was so cruel as to play wretched little games. He had probably, she thought, shivering her way under the covers again, been the sort of little boy who tied kittens' tails to the boots of stagecoaches, and— She checked, frowning into the darkness. Only, Quentin had
not
been like that. And even all those years ago at Lac Brillant, she had once or twice caught him watching her in an oddly speculative sort of way, as if— She gave an impatient little snort. Ridiculous! Why must she keep on torturing herself? Quentin Chandler, her dear papa had implied five years ago, was a rascal with the ladies. Just because those green eyes said “I love you,” while his lips said “I don't want you” did not mean— Unless…? She sat up again, pulling the eiderdown around her chin and gazing with dawning suspicion across the moonlit room.

It was silly, really. She was only deluding herself. But looking backwards she could call to mind several instances in which she had thought to see a breathtaking tenderness in his eyes, that look invariably followed by some carelessly unkind remark. He had risked his life without question when he'd been so close to escaping Highview, and had stayed rather than leave her to face terror alone. Her brows puckered thoughtfully. Any honourable gentleman would have done the same … no? Again—there had been that moment when poor Killiam had gloomily predicted her possible execution, and Quentin had flown into such a towering rage. And there were more recent incidents. For instance, how furious he'd been when Daffy had dressed her so prettily and he'd found Duncan Tiele holding her hand in the private parlour; their bitter-sweet encounter with Sir Sylvester Serious in the dining room; the wistful sadness of his expression when their eyes had met in the reflection of the shop windows; the exquisite delight when he had gently traced around her lips, and the nonchalantly dismissing words that had followed.