Practice to Deceive (40 page)

Penelope reached for her reticule and her
pro tem
wedding band slipped from her finger, bounced to the floor and rolled to lie at Sir Leonard's feet.

Quentin moved very fast, scooped it up, and bowed to the astonished knight. “Old family heirloom,” he said with oblique honesty. “My love, since you've become so thin, it would behoove us to have this resized. I'd not like any gentleman fancying you to be unattached.” He winked outrageously at the shocked Sir Leonard, bowed to Lady Martha, swept Penelope from the room, and giggled hysterically all the way up the stairs.

“Oh … Jove…!” he gasped, striding across the bedchamber to collapse on the bed with a shout of laughter. “Did ever you see two such quizzes? I thought the old fellow would swallow his eyeglass, and his lady looked about to burst her staylaces!”

“Very well for you, sir,” said Penelope, mortified. “I was embarrassed to death, and am quite disgraced.”

“Well—don't blame me if you cannot remember your own husband's name! John Somerville, indeed! I dashed near told 'em you were confusing me with your first husband!”

“Oh! Quentin! You never did?”

But he was off again, laughing so heartily she could get no sense out of him and at length sat beside him and pulled his hair.

Lying there, laughing up at her, his eyes softened, and he reached up to touch her lips. “Such a sweet mouth.”

She kissed his fingers, but when he sat up and slipped an arm about her, she said, “No, love. Not now.”

His lips quirked. “Do you mean—no
love?
Or—‘
no,
love'?”

“Quentin, please—this is so important to me. What did you mean about my brother?”

He sobered at once. “Deuce take me for a fool. Of course it's important. However came you to make such an error, Penelope Anne? You surely must have had his letters?” Scanning her face, he saw the colour leave it, and said, “Good Lord! You really
believed
him slain?”

“Y-yes,” she whispered, her heart pounding dizzyingly. “Is—he … not?”

“By God, he is not! How do you think I came to Highview, except that Geoff— Oh, no!” His arms were around her wilting form. Terror-stricken, he moaned an imploring, “Do not faint! Penny—you would not do so dreadful a thing! Lie down.” He tried to pry her hands from around his neck and, failing, looked frantically to the pitcher of water so near and yet so far, on the bedside table.

Penelope tucked her head under his chin, the room distorting strangely about her. “I'll be … all right … in a moment,” she whispered.

Somehow, she was lying back against the pillows, and Quentin, his hand shaking, his eyes wide and dark with fear, was holding a flask to her lips and begging that she take a sip.

She obeyed, coughed, and sipped again, a warm glow spreading through her to dispel the dizziness. “Oh, thank you, love,” she said, smiling tremulously up at him.

“Now you mean to cry,” he groaned. “My dearest girl, what would you have done had I told you old Geoff was as dead as you'd thought? And how the plague
could
you have thought such a thing?”

“I received a letter from Whitehall, telling me he was—was wounded at Prestonpans.”

“Well, so he was, poor fellow. Out of his head for weeks, but he didn't slip his wind.”

“But—they sent a second letter, saying he had been killed and buried by the Scots in an unmarked grave.”

“Damned idiots! My God, Penny, do you think if that were so I would have come to you for help?”

She refused the flask he offered. “I—I didn't know you
had
come to us. I thought it chance that my uncle had taken you. And I knew that Geoff would have deplored the treatment handed out to escaped rebels.”

Quentin stoppered the flask and set it aside. “After their defeat at Prestonpans, Scotland was an unsafe place for King George's soldiers, as you can guess. Geoff was taken in by a kindly Scots family, but for months his life was despaired of. He began at last to improve, but the family had come under suspicion and it was necessary that he be moved. They tried to smuggle him to the Border, but were balked at every turn and eventually were obliged to carry him to the northeast and Inverness. Soon afterwards, we suffered the tragedy of Culloden.” He frowned and left her to pace to the window and stare broodingly into the night. “The tables were properly turned. We suffered a crushing defeat and
Jacobites
were hunted, not the English.”

“Thank heaven you got away! So Geoff helped you?”

“He did indeed. The lady with whom he stayed chanced to be sister to Lord Boudreaux and great-aunt to Treve de Villars. Geoff discovered that she was also a staunch Jacobite and involved with Treve and many others, in helping fugitives to safety. You can guess he plunged in—up to his neck!”

“But surely there would have been an English army garrison there after the battle. Did he not have to report his survival?”

“Well … yes, and no. He reported his survival, but—not as Geoffrey Delavale.” Quentin saw her bewilderment and explained, “You see, there had been a typical army mix-up. There was an officer in Geoff's Brigade named Geoffrey Delacourt who was killed at Prestonpans. They reported poor
Delacourt
missing, and your brother slain and buried. Geoff knew nothing of his premature demise until after Culloden. He was by that time deeply engaged in helping fugitives and decided, for the sake of his family, to keep his false identity. In that way, should he be caught, you would not be endangered, nor the estates confiscated.”

“My heavens!” Sitting up, Penelope cried anxiously, “Is he now a fugitive also?”

Quentin came back to reassure her. “No, no. But he's running some blasted close risks, I can tell you. To all intents and purposes, he's a hopeless invalid. Actually, he's busier than a dog with two tails, arranging escape routes. That's why he hasn't come home.” He sobered. “I know for a fact he has sent several letters off to you. Why you haven't received them—” His eyes narrowed. “Your uncle…?”

Shocked that her own family would have kept such news from her, she nodded wordlessly.

“That miserable bastard! I'll warrant he kept you thinking Geoff was dead, hoping to ensure it and inherit!”

“But, it would have been so easy to get rid of my brother. Uncle Joseph need only have told the authorities of his Jacobite involvement, and—”

“And the estates would have been confiscated,” he interpolated grimly, sitting beside her again, and taking up one of her trembling hands. “No, he dared not do that. He probably hoped to receive word that Geoff was coming home, and could then have had him ambushed. Blast, but he's a filthy swine! To think of them keeping you in those hideous blacks all these months and letting you grieve for Geoff—as though it were not bad enough to have lost your father.”

“I remember,” she whispered distractedly, “that on the first day you were hidden in the dressing room, I surprised my aunt reading a letter. She seemed so guilty, and whipped it out of sight. I fancied it was from one of her cicisbeos. I never dreamed it might be from Geoff.”

“Likely it was, love. Lord knows how many letters they've intercepted. I fancy that's how they knew I was on my way.”

“Oh…!” She bowed her face into her hands. “How shamed Geoff will be when he learns how his own relations have betrayed him. Only think—if you'd given into them and let them have your message—or cypher, as you call it—we would have been responsible!”

He patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Well, I didn't—and at all events, I only carry part of the cypher. Just the first stanza.”

“I saw that it was a poem. There are other verses, then?”

“Yes. I don't know how many, but when they all are pieced together the whole will tell where the treasure is to be taken, and to whom the list may be entrusted.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment. Then, she said slowly, “What a fearsome responsibility. Dearest—heaven forbid the need should arise, but—if anything should go wrong, what must I do?”

Quentin frowned and the faint premonition of trouble that had dogged him all day returned, stronger than ever. He said curtly, “Nothing. I will not involve you.”

She dried her tears. “My brother risks his life to be involved. I am involved because I love you. And I am involved because had it not been for my family you might have safely completed your mission by now. Tell me, dear.”

For a long moment he was silent, common sense battling the instinct to protect her. Then he stood and crossed to take up his sword-belt and carry it to the bed. He showed Penelope how to open the little plate on the hilt of the sword, then drew out the small piece of parchment upon which rested the lives and fortunes of so many. “If I should be taken and there is any chance for you to do so without endangering yourself, my heart, get this to Treve or my brother, or to Geoff. They'll know what to do.”

“May I see?” She took the parchment and read:

I

Cattle sleep at night

Walls of darkness round them.

Songs of owls affright, but

Cannot confound them.

Break of day will brighten.

Stiff and chill the wind,

Zealously to waft away

Bat and elfin-kind.

Banish every fear, my dear.

Summer's almost here.

“Good heavens,” she muttered, bewildered. “Who on earth could make any sense of that?”

“Someone evidently. It makes no sense to me, I grant you. Unless perhaps it refers to an estate having walled pastures, and Lord knows there are plenty of those, particularly in the North.”

“Hmmnnn,” she said dubiously. “But what about the bats and the elfin-kind?”

He chuckled, took back the parchment and replaced it in its holder. “It wasn't written so as to be easily deciphered, that's certain. Perhaps the key is in the other stanzas—who knows? At all events, we must be on our way. It seems to have stopped raining and we dare travel a few miles farther, I think.” He scanned her features keenly. She looked tired, despite that valiant smile, and there were shadows beneath her trusting eyes. She had lived a nightmare since he had re-entered her life. The insidious whisper of danger warned that she would be so much safer if he left her here.… “Penelope Anne,” he said softly, taking her face between his long sensitive hands and gazing down at her, “how much do you love me?”

She took in every line of the beloved face and, her eyes soft with love, whispered, “Oh, my dear. Do not you know?”

“Then—for my sake, do as I ask.” He sat beside her and holding the hand that at once came out to him, went on, “This is taking too long. I cannot wait for the coach. I can cut across country if I ride.”

Fear rested its cold and now familiar touch upon her heart. She said with resolution, “I ride very well across country.”

“Darling girl—be reasonable. Only see how tired you are. Penny, I
must
leave you.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “You are far more tired than I. And if you go, I shall follow.”

“Dear heaven! Must I tie you to the bed, woman?”

She said demurely, “For what purpose, dear sir?” But when he frowned, she put up her hand to smooth away the furrows in his brow. “‘Whither thou goest…'” She tilted her head. “Listen…”

He heard a soft pattering as of many tiny feet rushing across the windows. “Oh, no!” he groaned, and strode to fling open the casement.

Running to his side, Penelope looked gladly into the rainy darkness, sniffed the sweet clean air, and leaned to him as his arm slipped so naturally around her waist. “Admit you are thrown in the close,” she said.

He was silent, knowing that he should go on, rain or no rain.

Reading his thoughts, she twined her arm about him. “Dearest, you cannot. We'd have you ill again. Your arm was more inflamed after that awful duel with Otton. It would be the height of folly to ride any more tonight, especially in the rain. And you are so very tired.”

He was tired, and it was true that his arm was a bit of a nuisance. He glanced down at her face, so full of concern and love, and was lost. “Delilah,” he murmured huskily, pulling her to him. “Very well, but we must be up with the dawn, so—early to bed for both of us.”

Her face upraised, she said with a small sigh, “Whatever you wish.
Whatever.
”

Whatever he wished … He kissed her gently and then not so gently, her eager response so sweetly passionate that he fled like a craven, closing the door hard and leaning back against it, eyes closed, breathing hard, the flame of desire fighting his nobler impulses.

Left alone, Penelope tottered to the window and flung the casement wide, allowing the night air to cool her blazing cheeks. Leaning there, feeling the rain now and then splash on to her skin, she whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks for her brother's survival and begged that this valiant and honourable gentleman who had won her heart not be taken from her; that his so precious life not be sacrificed and she left alone in a void of grief and loneliness.

She was a good deal more tired than she had realized, and almost fell asleep while bending over the washbowl to clean her teeth. And yet, once her head touched the pillow, she could not sleep and lay there, staring into the darkness, battling the intrusive images of horrors that might be, attempting instead to concentrate upon the dear vision Quentin had pictured: the pretty French cottage with its vegetable garden; the dog and cat, and perhaps, God willing, other companions in the fullness of time … a little boy, maybe, with his father's laughing eyes and indomitable courage. But always the fear crept back, and the yearning, until she could stand it no longer and, throwing back the covers, sat on the edge of the feather bed. She gazed at the connecting door, feeling wretchedly lonely, knowing that he was so short a distance away. Only a few yards separated her from the solace of his nearness; the blessed comfort of his strong arms about her.…