Practice to Deceive (19 page)

“I mean to take your great-uncle for a drive, dear Penelope,” she declared. “It must be many years since you visited the estate, Sir John. I fancy you will enjoy to see it again.”

Her long eyelashes were fluttering at him, and he assured her politely that he would enjoy it excessively, but his heart sank. In a hundred ways she could trip him, for actually he knew very little of the Montgomerys. With a distinct shock he realized that he didn't even know what Lady Hector's Christian name had been. Sybil prattled on, and he responded appropriately. When the opportunity arose, he slanted a desperate glance at Penelope. She interpreted that silent plea correctly, but when she attempted to accompany him upstairs she was foiled. It was my lady who offered her arm to “dear Sir John,” and my lady who walked with him to his bedchamber door, so that it was not until a few minutes later that Penelope was able to slip in and join him.

She found him looking very distinguished in a green coat and a handsome white waistcoat embroidered with green
fleurs-de-lis.
He was most apprehensive, however, and begged that she tell him as much as possible of her late mother. “For I dread lest I betray us all by my lack of knowledge.”

Penelope rather doubted that her aunt meant to discuss family matters, but she did all she might to help, providing pieces of information that someone in “Sir John's” position might be expected to know and describing various relations until Quentin groaned that he would never be able to remember them all.

“Never worry so,” she said as she walked with him to the door. “Just remember that my mama's name was Margaret, she was held to be very beautiful, and they called her Meg. You told Sybil that your mother was great-aunt to mine. What was
her
name?”

“Margaret,” he said promptly, and added a pleased, “sometimes Meg.”

“No, no. I mean
your
—Sir John's—mama.”

He clutched at his wig. “Oh, egad! She'll have to have a name, too, will she? Very well—er, Petrouchka. I'll not forget that one.”

“Nor she believe it! Quentin—
do
be serious!”

His eyes slanted an emerald twinkle at her. “Catherine, then. Better?”

“Very nice. But you must
remember
it. Your mama was Catherine Macauley.”

“Where'd you get the Macauley? Whoops! It's my middle name. I'd forgot.”

“Good God! Now—listen.… You are Sir John Macauley Somerville. Your mother was Catherine Macauley, and she was great-aunt to
my
mama who was…?”

“Margaret.” He beamed at her proudly.

“Correct. And your brother…?”

He stared blankly. “Brother…?”

It was Penelope's turn to tear her hair. “Your
famous
brother, Quentin. Sir Andrew. The one who sent you here!”

“Heaven help us all,” groaned Sir John Macauley Somerville.

That small prayer was to remain in Penelope's thoughts for the rest of that long morning. She performed a few household duties, but excused herself from staying downstairs after one o'clock, on the grounds that she still felt rather pulled after her bad cold. Truth to tell, she was as nervous as a cat and, once upstairs, she closed her door and flew to the window, scanning the drive in vain for a glimpse of the returning carriage.

She knelt in the window seat, knowing it was senseless to worry so. Quentin was not on top of his form, but he was an intelligent man. He'd go along famously and probably charm Sybil out of any suspicions she might hold. She would very likely find him handsome despite his ‘years' and flirt with him even though he might have one foot in the grave. Penelope scowled and went to the press to look over the gowns she'd had packed away for the past year and a half. She must be ready with her new plan whenever the chance might offer … and there was not much time.

*   *   *

“But we have lots of time, dear—cousin.” Lady Sybil edged a tiny bit closer to the old gentleman. They had left the carriage and wandered through a pleasant copse of trees before sitting here on the wall that divided the south meadow from the park. It was a low wall, but she'd convinced Sir John that she must be lifted onto it. He had seemed breathless when he'd perched beside her, but the hands that had encompassed her tiny waist had been deliciously strong, despite his age. On this sunny morning, my lady had worn a full-skirted gown of blue and violet floral silk. The neckline, swooping very low, was edged with tiny pleats of lace. Her hair was powdered and pulled high on her head to fall in thick ringlets onto her creamy shoulders. She knew she looked very well, and she pouted and went on, “Lud, but one would think you anxious to leave us. And here am poor I”—she leaned to him coyly—“so lonely for the company of a gentleman now that my husband has gone from me.”

“About the King's business, I understand,” said Quentin, unpleasantly aware that he should have pleaded age and infirmity rather than swinging the lady onto this blasted wall. “You must miss him sadly, poor child.”

“Child, is it?” Playfully, she rapped her fan on his knee. “I doubt that very many years separate us, dear sir. Nor…” She spread the fan again and held it just below her big eyes. “Nor do I fancy you so
very
feeble.”

“Why—at my age, you know, one has to be—”

Entranced by his smile, she leaned closer, whispering, “Careful?”

Her ripe lips were parted as she lowered and folded her fan. Delicate, blue-veined lids drooped provocatively over those great brown eyes. And her bodice, what there was of it, was sagging so that one might easily—

Quentin recovered himself with an effort and drew back. “I was—going to say,” he stammered, “that—that one has to remember we are—related, ma'am. And I a—very old fellow. Not up to your—er, playfulness, my pretty.”

“How is it, I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “that your face may be just a trifle—middle-aged, let us say. And yet your eyes are so very…”

He stiffened. “Very—what, ma'am?”

She giggled. “I'll not flatter you, you rogue. Tell me of Peggy. What was she like? I never knew her.”

‘Peggy…' he thought desperately. ‘Who the deuce is Peggy?'

His hesitation was noted and the obvious interpretation placed upon it. “Penelope's poor mama,” my lady prompted. “Joseph always called her Peggy. She was a beauty, he said, so she could not have resembled my niece who is so plain as any pikestaff.” His frown and the slight lifting of his chin warned her, and she amended, “Not that she ain't a good enough gel—in her way.”

“A very good girl, indeed,” said Quentin austerely. “But I fancy you are correct, my lady. Margaret did have a look of young Geoff about her, now that you mention it. Especially about the—ah, eyes, y'know.”

“What a memory! Why, she must have been gone these … how many years?”

‘Good God!' thought Quentin. “Now—er, let me see,” he muttered.

With a sudden trill of laughter, she leaned to him. “See what, you naughty boy?”

Her white, rounded bosom was scant inches beneath his chin. He thought faintly, ‘I am a … sick old man…' and clung to the wall, answering threadily, “I … forget.”

Edging ever nearer, she murmured, “Not—everything, I trust?”

‘Help!' thought Quentin.

Sybil stretched up to place a moist kiss upon his chin. “My goodness,” she said, peering at him curiously. “You do use a lot of paint, dear sir. I wonder it—”

Quentin fairly leapt from the wall. Flung off balance, my lady squealed and tumbled. He grabbed for her instinctively, then gritted his teeth, reeling and sickened by the resultant stab of pain.

Sybil gripped at his arm to steady herself, then gripped tighter, laughing provocatively. It was either free himself or fall at her feet. He thrust her away and, to cover the fact that the landscape wavered before his eyes and that Sybil herself was a blur, he croaked, “Madam, I remind you that I am kin to your husband, and a guest in his home.”

Enraged, Sybil drew herself up. “How—
dare
you! Be assured that I—” But she did not finish her threat. The old gentleman's eyes were positively glazed, and tiny drops of perspiration trickled down his temples. With a little cry of admiration, she flung herself into his unready arms. “What iron control,” she breathed huskily. “Do you think I do not see how you desire me? Dear, foolish fool. I knew the moment you arrived that you were a wicked rogue. And I have ever … loved a rogue. So—you may have just one little kiss, my poor gallant gentleman.”

Despite his throbbing arm, a bubble of mirth rose in Quentin's throat. The strumpet! She really fancied that no man could fail to lust after her! He had begun to hope his noble renunciation would have so irked her she would demand he leave Highview at once. Now, however, another and even more tantalizing notion tickled his fancy. His eyes began to dance, and he bent lower. She lay against him, her eyes half-closed, her smiling lips parted invitingly, and that fantastic bosom surging against the slight restraint of her gown.

‘It would,' thought Quentin, ‘be such a pity to let it all go to waste.…'

*   *   *

It was almost half-past two o'clock before the carriage came into view, moving at a leisurely rate along the drivepath to disappear momentarily around the jutting side of the house.

Penelope, who had been sitting at the window of ‘Sir John's' room, called a tremendously relieved, “They're coming!” The Corporal and Daffy left their cards and ran to join her, and all three peered anxiously as the carriage came into sight once more.

“So long they've been gone,” murmured Daffy.

Penelope said a worried, “Poor Major Chandler must be quite exhausted. I only pray he has not made some dreadful blunder. My aunt is very shrewd in some ways.”

Having formed a fairly accurate opinion of my lady's character, the Corporal's thoughts had taken a different direction, but he said nothing.

The guest bedchamber faced west and thus the carriage came to a stop almost directly beneath the windows. The groom sprang down and opened the door. He did not let down the steps but, having glanced inside, stood back and waited in a patient, wooden-faced way. The fear in Penelope's heart deepened. Why did they not get out? Was Quentin so ill he could not walk? She was on the brink of running into the hall when the steps were put down and Quentin descended to hand my lady down. Sybil leaned to him and they wandered slowly up the steps together, she clinging to his arm and gazing up at him in what Penelope thought a disgracefully bold way.

‘Wretched woman,' she thought, hurrying into the hall. ‘She thinks to enslave every man who comes within her orbit!'

By the time she reached the lower flight of steps, the travellers were in the front hall. My lady's little hands were on the old gentleman's chest, and he clasped them tightly, though whether to support her or keep himself from falling would have been hard to say.

Seething, Penelope trilled sweetly, “Did you have a nice drive?”

They both jerked around to face her. She thought that Quentin looked positively haggard, yet his eyes glinted brightly. My lady Sybil wore an expression in which surprise and another emotion seemed to struggle for supremacy. Penelope could neither identify that emotion, nor did she very much care. Running down the last few stairs, she cried, “My goodness! Such a long drive has been too much for you, Uncle John! I trust you have not made yourself ill.”

Quentin uttered a mumbling jumble of refutation, but my lady gave a little rippling laugh. “'Twould take considerably more than a long drive to tire this … magnificent gentleman,” she said huskily. “Nonetheless, I think we both should rest, dear Sir John.” She smiled up into Quentin's face with that same expression that Penelope now recognized as a sort of awed admiration. “We'd a silly little accident,” Sybil rushed on, having seen Sir John's gaze slant with some apprehension to her niece. “I was so clumsy as to fall, and your great-uncle was so gallant as to catch me, but I fear it has been rather a—er, strain on him.”

“Not at all,” murmured Quentin.

“Small wonder you are so wearied, sir,” said Penelope in rather a brittle voice. “May I help you to your room?”

Sir John thanked her and said jauntily that he was not so decrepit he could not manage to negotiate a few stairs. My lady leaned to his ear and whispered something that so amused him he tripped, and Penelope slipped a supporting arm about his waist.

“Sweet child,” he murmured. “Damme if I ain't developing a liking for all this pampering.”

When they reached the second-floor landing, my lady clasped Sir John's hand and promised she would have luncheon brought to his chamber. “You must have a nice long nap,” she urged, “for we cannot be deprived of your exhilarating presence at the dinner table. Until seven, then.…” She withdrew her clasp, smiled dreamily at him and murmured a soft and caressing, “Adieu, dear … cousin.…”

“What a revolting performance!” snarled Penelope the moment Sybil was out of earshot.

Quentin darted a startled glance at her.

“That horrid, horrid woman,” she went on. “Only look how exhausted you are. Quentin—why
ever
did you let her keep you out so long?”

“She is—something hard to withstand,” he asserted, studiously avoiding her indignant eyes.

“Especially when she wants to captivate some hapless gentleman! Did she really fall?”

“Oh, she fell, right enough.”

Quite aware of that betraying quirkish grin, Penelope said scornfully, “Very revealingly, I've no doubt. Faith, but she's a—” She cut off the sentence in the nick of time, and finished, “I suppose you hurt your arm?”

Leaning against the wall as she opened the door, Quentin said, “Not to speak of. And—I could not very well let her just—crash down, now could I?”