Practice to Deceive (5 page)

Otton frowned but, meeting the distraught eyes of his promised bride, he shrugged, spread his hands fatalistically, and sighed,
“C'est la guerre…”

Penelope fled.

*   *   *

The rain drove stinging drops against her cheeks, and the night was very dark, but Penelope ran on, her breath coming raspingly now and a catch in her side protesting the speed of her going. She was forced to stop at last and rest for a moment. Standing there in the wind and rain, one hand pressed to her labouring chest, she waited for her pounding heartbeat to ease, while thoughts tumbled chaotically through her mind. Sometimes, during the Rebellion, she had heard snatches of male conversation, hurriedly broken off when ladies came near. Hushed talk of captured officers tortured because they refused to divulge military information. She had convinced herself that such remarks were grossly exaggerated, that such hideous things did not really happen in this enlightened age. Now, she had to face the fact that such things
did
happen. She had seen her adored Quentin's suffering with her own eyes.… And to think such horror had taken place at Highview! How enraged Papa would have been. How dear Geoff would have exploded with wrath at Uncle Joseph's greed and evil … and how in the name of God could she stop it? To whom could she turn for help? The servants, perhaps? But most of the dear, faithful people who had served the Montgomerys for decades had been replaced after Papa's death by individuals Aunt Sybil considered more suitable. Ryan, whose quiet gentility had been an inspiration to every footman with dreams of someday rising to the exalted state of butler, had been a short, rather emaciated man. Lady Sybil had let him go and in his stead hired Hargrave, a tall, broad-shouldered toad-eater who openly admired her, bowed splendidly, and made the life of the downstairs staff miserable. Papa's aging valet, Peterson, had served the new Lord Delavale for exactly one month before tendering his resignation, having advised the housekeeper that his reputation would not survive dressing a man who was not only as fat as a flounder, but had the manners of a wart hog. And so it had gone. One after another, new servants had appeared in place of the old; younger, better-looking, and lamentably less qualified. But even had their own loyal retainers still been at Highview, how could she possibly have asked their help? To give aid to an escaped Jacobite was punishable by death. And if the fugitive chanced to be of noble birth and was judged guilty of High Treason … She shuddered at a vision of dismemberment and disemboweling before the final savage mercy of execution. How could she ask any friend or neighbour to risk such a ghastly fate?

The memory of the torment in Quentin's eyes; the way he had reached out to her, as if knowing even in his misery that she would help if she could, haunted her. What were they doing to him at this very moment? Was Uncle Joseph busied with that ghastly cigar…? With a sob of despair, she ran on until, exhausted and near hysteria, she almost blundered into a tree trunk and halted, shocked to find herself in the woods. How stupid! How utterly weak and silly she was being! Not at all as she had fancied she would behave in a moment of real crisis! Whatever had she hoped to achieve by this headlong flight? At the back of her mind she knew that she had followed the impulse of all frightened creatures—to run. But it would not do! She was her father's daughter, and Quentin needed her so desperately. She was his only chance. She
must
find a way.… “Please, God—let me be clever. Let me find a way to save him. Oh, dear Lord—I love him so! Guide me.…”

And gradually, as she stood there very still in the dripping darkness, reason crept back, and the frenzy of her breathing lessened. She must go back at once—back to her own old bedchamber … ‘The Passion Pit,' as Geoff had been used to call it. Her heart gave a sudden leap of excitement. The Passion Pit! My heavens! If the Passion Path was still usable…! And Uncle Joseph very likely knew nothing of it, for he had not lived at the Manor as a child. In the winter of 1689, the year before her father's birth, much of the roof of Highview had been blown off during a great storm, and the interior so badly water-damaged that the family had removed to the Dower House. Grandfather Montgomery had been a frugal man, and Highview had not been completely refurbished until his son inherited the properties. Joseph had never lived in the great house until he himself had fallen heir, and Sybil had discharged the only servants who might have known about Great-Great-Grandfather Phineas. A handsome devil, Phineas, and madly infatuated with his brother's wife. So deep was his desire for the lady that he had closed down the house one winter and nobly carried his wife and family out of England's rain and cold to the warm sunshine of Italy. His steward had remained, however, busily occupied with the construction of a concealed passage leading from the master's bedchamber to the room occupied by his love when she stayed at Highview. A century later, Lord Hector Delavale had discovered the tale in some old diaries and had poked about with his son until he found the illicit passage. Geoffrey had been wildly excited, but the passage ran behind the fireplaces and at that time Penelope had been an adventuresome girl of nine. Afraid that her billowing skirts might cause her to be burned while trying to get into the passage, my lord had sworn Geoffrey to secrecy. Not for another two years had Penelope learned about her ancestor's Passion Path, and even then, true to his promise, Geoff had refused to show her how to enter the passage, gleefully taunting her instead with the hair-raising notion that if ever she heard anyone coming down her chimney it might not be a lover of her own, but rather the ghost of Lord Phineas. The forbidden passage had ceased to charm and, down through the busy years, had been all but forgotten. Until now!

Immeasurably heartened, Penelope started back the way she had come. There was hope now. If she could just get— A branch snapped, very close behind her. Her blood turned to ice. She spun around, then screamed as something black and smothering engulfed her. Flailing out blindly, she was seized and swept off her feet. A man's cultured voice muttered, “Don't hurt the chit. Whatever else, she is a lady.” Another voice spoke in answer; a gruff voice, less well-bred. “A lady tiger kitten! I'll go bail as she's blacked my eye—if I ain't downright blinded!”

It was, thought Penelope dimly, some small consolation. And with a little sob, she fainted.

*   *   *

Penelope shivered and blinked up into the anxious grey eyes of a man who bent above her. The room was brightened only by a solitary candle, but that glow illumined features that seemed vaguely familiar. A lean face, framed by neatly tied back unpowdered dark hair. She asked, “Do I know you, sir?”

This calm awakening caused the heavy brows to lift in surprise. “No, madam, but I know you. 'Twill suffice. Are you better?”

Bemused, she said drowsily, “Have I been ill, then?”

He peered at her in a puzzled way. From the shadowed recesses of the room another man said, “Mayhap she has taken a chill, Mr. Gor—”

The first man swung around angrily. “No names, fool!” He turned back to Penelope. “May one ask why a lady was creeping about alone at night, ma'am?”

Her brow wrinkled with the effort of thinking. “Yes … you may, but…”

“Here.” A cup was offered. “Drink this. It will restore you.”

She sipped and went into a spasm of coughing. Nonetheless, when she wheezingly recovered, she was urged to drink again. The potent brandy burned through her. Strengthened, she wiped her eyes and, discovering that she lay on a sofa, sat up and ordered her gown before asking where she was and what had happened.

“I think you are, temporarily at least, our prisoner,” answered the man whose name was evidently Mr. Gordon.

“Prisoner?”
echoed Penelope, incredulous. “But—whatever for?”

The second man chuckled and came into the small circle of light. He was less tall than his companion and more sturdily built, broad of shoulder, with long, powerful arms that seemed to strain at his frieze coat, and muscular legs encased in dark breeches and high knee boots.

“You're mighty calm about it all,” said Mr. Gordon, perching on the arm of a nearby chair. “I had feared lest you swoon once more.”

The room, what she could see of it, looked and smelled familiar. Peering about, she answered absently, “Oh, no … good gracious! We are in my nurse's cottage! Ah! Then you must be the man I saw here this afternoon!”

Amused, Mr. Gordon said, “So she did not spot you, eh, Corporal?”

The sturdy man eyed Penelope with grudging admiration. “You did not betray that you'd seen me, miss. Or seem afraid. Perhaps you fancied me to be someone you knew?”

“I thought you might be a poor … Jacobite.…” With the word came full recollection and she ended with a faint cry of dismay.

The two men exchanged grim glances. Gordon demanded harshly, “You have a fondness for traitors, madam?”

Penelope sprang up and confronted her captors, trembling with agitation. “I have a fondness for honour, sir. In war or peace. And a disgust—a loathing for … for cruelty. Oh, you must let me go at
once,
for—for I—” But grief betrayed her, and her voice scratched into silence.

Mr. Gordon had stood also. Very pale now, he fixed her with a piercing stare and asked in a fierce half-whisper, “Have you seen cruelty, then? Is—is that why you were rushing about in so distracted a way?”

Her nerves tightened. He might be a military spy. He might have captured her to discover if her family was harbouring an escaped rebel. However she despised Uncle Joseph, he was her father's brother. If she spoke, she could well be condemning him and his silly, spiteful wife to a traitor's death. And Quentin, beyond doubt, would be hauled to the Tower and executed. It was not to be thought of. She looked away from that penetrating scrutiny. “I have been … given in marriage to a man I —very much dislike,” she faltered. “I was running away rather than—”

“Fustian!” His iron hands gripped her arms once again. “However grieved you may be, you'd have stayed for a valise, or
some
of your clothing and belongings. And what has your betrothal to do with Jacobites and your dislike of cruelty? Speak, woman! Or—by God—”

The Corporal came over to say urgently, “Easy, sir! There's nought to be gained by terrifying the lass!”

“If she has seen my bro—”

“Mr. Gordon!”

The gruff voice, sharp with warning, cut across the final word, but it had been sufficient for Penelope. She knew now where she had seen Gordon's likeness in the past. As he released her, she demanded with frantic eagerness, “Sir, are you related to Mr. Quentin Chandler?”

He jerked as if she had struck him. Under his breath, the Corporal swore and stepped closer. His face taut and strained, Gordon hesitated, then replied, “He is my brother. Have you seen him?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! He is at Highview.”

The Corporal exhaled a hissing breath. “But—he's dead, eh?”

“No! Or—or at least, when I ran from the house he was alive.”

“Tell me, I beg you.” Gordon Chandler's voice quivered with emotion. “Have they sent for the authorities? Do they mean to give him up? Or are they helping him?”

Aghast, Penelope stared at him, then dropped her face into her hands and sank on to the sofa once more. “If only they were!” She raised a pale, sad face. “It shames me to tell you, Mr. Chandler. Your brother is wounded, and—and it would seem he carries a most deadly secret.”

“Here's treachery!” growled the Corporal. “I told you, sir, that the Major should've trusted no man, however he—”

His haggard gaze still fixed upon Penelope, Chandler made an impatient, silencing gesture. “Who told you that, Miss Montgomery?”

“I overheard. They— Oh, sir, you
must
help him! They are—are questioning him. Perhaps, even as we speak! He is in dire need of a surgeon, and I fear that—if we do not hasten…”

Gordon uttered a strangled sound and turned away, shoulders hunched. Pacing to stand close before her, the Corporal eyed Penelope grimly. “Are you saying your kinfolk have sunk to torment a wounded gentleman, miss?”

She bowed her head and nodded miserably.

“Do you know how much he has told them?”

Chandler spun around. In a choked but angry voice he cried, “Nothing, damn you! Quentin would not speak. Not with all your lives at stake!”

“That is truth,” said Penelope. “But he must be rescued, and quickly. He cannot—he
could
not withstand them for much longer.”

With a prideful lift of his chin, Gordon said, “You do not know my brother, ma'am. Now, tell me. Is Quentin wounded to death?”

She said slowly, “I saw only that his right arm was hurt. But he is very weak. He has likely not eaten…”

“And very likely lost a deal of blood,” put in the Corporal, gloomily.

Chandler drove a fist into his palm. “We must get him clear, Rob. Oh, Lord! To have to
stand
here and not know how to free him! While those bastards—”

He strode to the sideboard, took up a saddle holster, and removed the long-barrelled pistol it contained.

The Corporal leapt forward to grasp his wrist. “Are ye gone daft, sir? You must stay clear of this at all costs! You're no Jacobite, or ever have been!”

“Very true.” Chandler wrenched free. “But do you fancy I shall stay clear while they slowly murder him? By God, but I shall not!”

“You would have no chance, sir,” Penelope interposed quickly. “Without me to help you, my uncle's people would catch you before you ever entered the house.”

They both stared at her. Chandler said a bewildered, “You? Why? Unless—did your papa hold Jacobite sympathies, perhaps?”

It would probably be wise to answer in the affirmative, but lies had never served her well, and so she admitted, “No. He was in disgust of the Prince's Cause. But he was an honourable gentleman and never would have treated your brother so savagely, whatever the inducement.”