Practice to Deceive (36 page)

“In the name of … God!” Staring at this man he always had idolized, his eyes glittering with tears, his face twitching and convulsed with horror, Quentin gasped, “
No!
Sir—you
surely
cannot think me so cruel and unfeeling?”

His father rushed on bitterly, “And what was
my
portion of your concern, Sir Galahad? You must have known that your actions were in violation of everything I honour and cherish! Did you console yourself by thinking I'd soon get over it? Did you suppose I'd not grieve to see your brother's head adorn Tower Bridge … beside your own…?”

Quentin's head bowed low and he was silent.

“Did you for one instant consider,” said Sir Brian, his voice shredding painfully, “that … that Lac Brillant has been in our family for almost eight hundred years?
Eight … hundred … years!
All the Chandlers and the Fromes before them.… My parents died there. Your dear mother, who so loved the old place, is buried there. And you—
you
would whistle it down the wind for a pretty princeling whose cause was doomed before ever it began!” He came to his feet, leaning heavily on the arm of his servant who appeared almost as distressed as he himself.

“Look at me, Quentin Frome Chandler,” commanded Sir Brian in a cold, harsh voice.

Quentin closed his eyes very briefly and took a deep breath, nerving himself. Then he turned to face his father squarely.

For a moment that seemed an eternity no one moved or spoke, and the only sound to break the silence was the patter of rain against the casements.

“I am done with you!” Sir Brian drew a fat purse from his pocket and flung it at Quentin's feet. “Get yourself out of England. I do not want to see your deceitful face—”

The door was flung open unceremoniously. De Villars thrust in his lean countenance, darted a narrow-eyed glance around the dramatic group, then said urgently, “Your friend Holt is less than half a mile away and coming at the gallop. Quentin—into the basement with you, before—”

Quentin sprinted for the bedchamber. Snatching up cloak, tricorne, and small-sword, he ran back, dropped to one knee beside his father, seized his nerveless hand and pressed a kiss upon it. Throwing a desperate glance at Penelope, he jumped to his feet and ran into the hall.

His voice almost suspended, Sir Brian whispered, “Quentin…” and sank into the chair.

Penelope ran across the room, but Gordon leapt to restrain her. “No, my brave lady,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

From the hall came de Villars' distinctive voice, raised in alarm. “Chandler! You damned idiot! Not
that
way!
Quentin!
Oh—for Lord's sake!”

As if an unseen hand had turned them all to stone, they waited, tense and silent, while in every heart lurked the same terrible dread.

As from a very great distance, Penelope heard a sudden tattoo of hooves on the cobblestones below the window. Wrenching away from Gordon's slackened clasp, she ran to the casement and flung it open. She was in time to see a horseman, crouched low in the saddle, racing at breakneck speed northwards along the lane, only to pull his mount suddenly to a rearing halt and turn back to the south. Seconds later, she heard a brittle crack, followed quickly by another, and then saw Quentin return in a blur of speed, galloping northwards again, closely pursued by a group of red-coated riders, sabres drawn and flashing.

Frozen with fear, she realized that someone stood beside her.

“The
damnable
gudgeon!” groaned Trevelyan de Villars savagely. “The ungrateful clod! After all my blasted
work!
”

On the other side of her, Gordon muttered, “He's leading them away. He's trying to protect us, Treve.”

De Villars swore.

XV

By four o'clock the rain was a downpour, beating so strongly against the windowpanes that some of the accumulated dirt was washing away. The skies had darkened and the parlour was dim. A fire had been lit in the grate to combat the plunging temperature, the light from the flames flickering over the four glum faces of those clustered about it, and shining less brightly on the three equally glum-faced servants seated nearby.

No one had spoken for quite some time when Sir Brian broke the silence, murmuring almost to himself, “I wonder why it is that no matter how vexed he makes me—however ashamed … I cannot stop loving him.”

Penelope smiled mistily at him, the ache in her heart lessened slightly by those forlorn words.

Gordon sighed. “I have not asked you, sir, how you found us.”

“I knew you were worrying. I began to suspect Quentin was in another scrape.… I knew if that was so you would try to help him—as usual. So—I had you followed. When we began to encounter all the patrols, I became suspicious…” He shrugged wearily. “Justifiably.”

“I see.” Gordon said with a wry smile, “He is a hopeless case, sir.”

Predictably, his sire's eyes sparked resentment, the handsome head whipping upwards, but before Sir Brian could speak, Gordon went on reflectively, “Do you recall when he was ten, how he took on those village louts who had tied the puppy to the water wheel? He didn't give a straw that there were six of them—all bigger than he. The cause was there—so he fought.”

“And got himself properly knocked up! The cause he fought for this time was a less worthy one, though I doubt he gave it any more consideration!”

“He could not defend himself on that score, sir,” argued Gordon quietly. “He fancied you too ill for him to put his political convictions in your dish. The truth is that he feels very strongly on the issues, and has nothing but contempt for the House of Hanover.”

“As I have nothing but contempt for a cheat,” snapped Sir Brian, his wan face flushing. “Had he come to me honestly, and told me of his beliefs, I'd—”

With a courage that awed Penelope, Gordon interposed, “You would have flown into the boughs—as you did today; raged at him, as you did today; and fretted yourself into horse nails every hour he was away. No, sir. Quentin dared not ride off to his loved Scots and leave you grieving. You were still recovering from your surgery, and I doubt would be sitting here now, had he done so.”

Staring at this usually taciturn son in astonishment, Sir Brian growled, “You're mighty eloquent in defense of your brother, seeing that all his life he has taken advantage of you and persuaded you always to what he wished. Do you think I have not seen how he uses and abuses your good nature?”

“Your pardon, but”—Gordon's voice hardened—“that is not true, sir. In point of fact, Quentin is straight and above-board in everything. I am more … devious, I fear.” He raised a hand, slightly smiling as he saw his indignant father ready to defend him. “No, no, it really is the case, sir. It was as a rule comparatively easy for me to—ah, persuade Quentin that we did as
he
wished, when in many instances I had first implanted the idea in his mind, then argued so forcefully against it, he was convinced it must be the only thing to do.” His smile faded away. With a regretful shrug, he added, “On one issue I could not sway him, however. The most important issue of his life. I was so desperate that we came to blows over it. Quentin tried to fend me off, for he had no wish to fight me. He had lowered his fists when I … struck him.” He bit his lip and added reluctantly, “I broke his nose.”

His jaw dropping, Sir Brian gasped, “
You
did? But—but he told me—”

“He told you whatever he felt would cause you the least distress, Papa. He was afraid you would be less than pleased to know that perfect nose of his had been ruined by your heir.”

Sir Brian glanced at him sharply, for the first time wondering if this young man he had always secretly judged clever, but rather dull, was aware of his opinion. He said in new anxiety, “Gordon—you know, lad, that my love for you is just as deep as that I hold for your brother.”

Reddening, Gordon said gruffly, “Thank you, sir. But if you truly love Quentin, you will do as I ask and leave here now.”

“No! How can you ask me to go—not knowing whether he is alive or dead?”

“I ask only that you go as far as Winchester. We will get word to you as soon as we hear. Treve has men out now, trying to find out what happened. Sir—” Gordon leaned forward, saying intensely, “He is risking his life—do not make his sacrifice for nought.”

“Then you
do
think it a sacrifice!” Remorseful, Sir Brian said, “He looked so tired and ill, and—God forgive me! If he dies with my last words to him having been so…” His voice broke and he bowed forward, one thin hand wavering up to cover his eyes.

With a little cry of pity, Penelope ran to kneel beside his chair and take his other hand between both her own. “Oh, my dear sir—do not! Can you suppose Quentin does not know of your love for him? You were deeply hurt and shocked, and disappointed—as much for all of us as for him. What could be more natural than for you to rail at him? If … God forbid … he should be killed, why he—he would die with no other feeling for you than devotion. It is not his way to hold a grudge. His heart is too … too generous.…” Her own voice broke, and the hand she clasped was dampened by her tears.

“Good God! What a damp-nosed lot!”

The insouciant charm of the deep voice brought them all to their feet. Penelope was across the room in a flash, sobbing into Quentin's drenched cloak, his cold, wet arms fast about her. He tilted up her chin and kissed her very gently on the brow, with lips like ice and water dripping from his soaked hair. Reaching around her, he returned his brother's strong handclasp.

His gaze turned to his father. Penelope stepped away from him. Apprehensive and uncertain, Quentin waited.

“You … damned rascal!” croaked Sir Brian, and held out his arms.

Quentin gave a small sigh of relief and stepped into a crushing embrace.

Her eyes blurring, Penelope had to turn away.

“
Peccavi—peccavi,
sir,” gasped Quentin, drawing back. “Egad, for—for a sick gentleman, you're vastly strong.”

“In my denunciations, at least,” said his father, then scowled and added ferociously, “Not that you didn't deserve most of it!”

“I'll not argue that, sir. But…” Tilting his head to watch his sire with a tentative smile, he asked, “Am I—just a little forgiven?”

“No!” snarled Sir Brian. And seeing that anxious smile fade, he said, “Why did I have such a rogue for a son? Blast you, Quentin, you could charm the fangs from a snake, I swear!”

“I'd never have drawn such a simile, Father—I do assure you.”

Sir Brian laughed. “Come over here by the fire, boy! You're soaked through. Ah! Have I hurt you again? The arm, is it?”

“Hanging by a thread,” said Quentin solemnly, a twinkle creeping into his eyes as Gordon rushed to draw a chair closer to the fire, Penelope brought him a glass of wine, and the Corporal took away the dripping cloak.

“How did you get away, Rabble?” asked Gordon, gripping his shoulder.

“Very bravely! If you did but know the misery I endured whilst I led that fumble-footed troop in circles.…” He laughed suddenly, the wine and the fire warming him. “Lord, but they were a muddy mess! I left poor Holt struggling to free himself from a lovely bog on Salisbury Plain! Faith, you could hear the man curse for miles! Tiele! You stayed, then. My dear fellow, how very good of you.”

He stood to shake Tiele by the hand and, noting the joy in the faces of Killiam and his father's speechless valet, wrung their hands also.

“Let's get you into some dry clothes, sir,” said the Corporal, blinking rapidly.

“What he needs is a good long sleep,” Sir Brian muttered.

“No time for that, sir. I must be on my way. With your permission, I'll go and change my clothes.”

He took Penelope's hand and started for the bedchamber, Killiam hurrying ahead. At the door, Quentin looked down at her tenderly. “You're a bold hussy,” he murmured softly. “But I fancy my papa will be glad enough to care for you until I can come back home and claim you.”

“It makes no odds, love,” she said, just as softly. “I go with you. You'll not be rid of me so easily.”

He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips. “Nothing would please me more. But I've a task to complete.” His eyes very soft, he murmured, “And then … my darling girl.…” He glanced up. The others were gathered about the fire, having apparently seen or heard nothing of this tender exchange. He bent and kissed her full on her willing mouth, drawing back to murmur, “Then you will have yet another name.” He kissed her hand and left her.

Penelope, her heart full, rejoined the gentlemen at the fire, and a moment later the hall door opened to admit de Villars.

Without preamble, he said, “Your carriage is ready, Sir Brian. We've no time to lose. That confounded Holt is quite likely to come here, although your idiot son very dangerously made it appear he'd come past—not from—our scruffy tavern.”

“Just one moment, if you please,” commanded Sir Brian autocratically, and then proceeded to express his gratitude so humbly that de Villars, renowned rake and duellist, fled in disorder.

Amused, Gordon asked, “Tiele? Do you ride with us?”

Ever the gentleman, Duncan Tiele said it was as Penelope wished, and volunteered to escort her. Penelope thanked him, but announced her intention to remain with Quentin. Gordon said that she must travel under his escort, and Sir Brian insisted she ride to Lac Brillant with him. “It will be my opportunity to become better acquainted with my future daughter,” he added with a fond smile.

They were still arguing when Quentin returned, looking weary despite his best efforts, but considerably less drowned. His caped cloak, which Daffy had appropriated and spread before the fire, was steaming but still very wet. Gordon offered his in substitution, since it had now been decided he would ride in the coach with his father.