Practice to Deceive (20 page)

He could not, of course, Penelope acknowledged as she relinquished him to the Corporal's care and went to her own bedchamber. But—oh, how she wished he had! It was very apparent that Lady Sybil was completely captivated, in which case it would take all Quentin's diplomacy to escape the lady's clutches before Lord Joseph returned. She sighed. At least he would be able to rest for a little while. From the look of him just now, he was likely fast asleep at this very moment.

She was quite mistaken. Far from sleeping, Quentin lay on the bed, convulsed, his mirth so hilarious that Corporal Rob, grinning broadly, was finally obliged to put a pillow over his face.

*   *   *

Penelope's best mourning gown was of black velvet, trimmed with white lace, having a square-cut neckline and rounded hoops, the great back Watteau pleats swooping into a small train. It was a charming dress, but Penelope had not worn it since she had been included in a small dinner party at Sir Thomas Beasley's house the previous Christmas. She gasped for mercy when Daffy tugged relentlessly at her stay laces, but when the dress was fitted to her trim waist she was quite pleased with the effect.

Daffy brought out Lady Margaret's pearls but, having slipped them about Penelope's slender white throat, whisked them out of sight again. “Too fast, by far,” she decreed primly. “It's bad enough that milady cavorts in her bright colours only nine months after dear Master Geoffrey's passing aloft. We want no tongues wagging about
you,
Miss Penny.”

Penny agreed at once, feeling wretchedly disloyal to dear Geoff's memory. “But”—she touched the hair which Daffy had dressed so severely that it caused her eyebrows to feel stretched to the crown of her head—“do you not think I might curl and—and powder my hair? Just for—”

“Heavenly whiskers, miss!” Much shocked, Daffy cried, “Whatever next? We must go slowly. I dast not think what my lady will say when she sees you looking so prettily in this gown. Slow and careful, Miss Penny. Like a tortoise with the ague.” She sprayed a discreet puff of Spring Morning behind the ear of the reluctant tortoise. High heels clicked in the hall at that instant and, turning to her maid in dismay, Penelope received Spring Morning in her face instead. She sneezed violently just as my lady entered the room with a rustle of satin and laces.

All dainty femininity from the top of her high powdered wig to the tip of her tiny begemmed slipper, Sybil raised a lace-edged handkerchief to her little nose and surveyed her niece uneasily. “Lud, girl—have you that horrid cold, still? Heaven knows you've lain about doing nothing long enough that I'd fancied you were over it.”

“So I am, ma'am. Though I thank you for your concern.”

Penelope's irony went right over Sybil's pretty head. “You do not look almost well. You look horrid. Wherever did you find that antiquated gown? I vow it makes you look older than Sir John. Go and sit over there and try to breathe in the other direction. Saffy—or whatever your name is—fetch a chair for me, and then you may go.”

Daffy pulled the chair to the point at which my lady felt relatively safe from any of Penelope's lingering germs. It was as well, thought Daffy, yearning to tug the chair a foot or two to the rear as my lady settled herself upon it, that she'd not allowed poor miss to wear her mama's pearls, for they certainly would have drawn attention to her flawless complexion. And had she piled up and powdered her curls…! She suppressed a shudder. Not that Miss Penny was a beauty, nor ever would be. But there was something about her … something that drew all the gentlemen's eyes. And my lady knew it!

She slanted an encouraging glance at Penelope, bobbed a curtsey and took herself to the door, wondering what Lady Tickle-Me-Quick—as she'd long ago apostrophized Sybil—wanted here. She certainly looked a dasher in that pink gown, the bodice cut so low it almost reached her waist, and enough to make any man's head swim. Daffy closed the door, her heart heavy. She longed to arrange Penelope's luxuriant hair into a more becoming style, to dress her in the pretty gowns that had looked so well on her tall, slender person, to busy herself with rouge and powder. Instead of which, obedient to the Major's orders, she'd done all she might to render the dear girl as unattractive as possible. There'd been nothing she could do about the gown of course. Short of tearing it “accidental” which might have made her mistress suspicious. And it would be cruel to get her hopes up, when Major Chandler might not be able to pull off his scheme.

Penelope said, as the door closed, “You look very well, ma'am. Are you expecting Uncle Joseph home?”

Lady Sybil levelled a cold stare at her. “Do not be impertinent. You know very well he would not like me to put off my blacks. Indeed, I would never have done so had not your great-uncle been so sadly in need of cheering up. He seems most depressed, poor old fellow.”

This intelligence surprised Penelope, but she said nothing.

My lady slanted an oblique glance at her and began to flutter her fan. “It seems strange,” she observed idly, “that no one in the family has spoken of him before this.”

With a twinge of nervousness, Penelope said, “I doubt anyone has even thought of the gentleman for years. There was some—er, scandal, I believe. I don't know what. The Somervilles are related in a distant way to my mama.”

“So the old gentleman said. He has … never married…?”

“I really could not say.”

“How odd.”

“Odd?” echoed Penelope, frightened.

“One might suppose so exceeding attractive a man would have been snapped up long ago.” Watching her niece, Sybil murmured, “He is old now, of course, but—exactly how old is he?”

Desperate, Penelope stammered, “I do not know. Near seventy, I would think, to look at him.”

“What rubbish!” Irked, Sybil contradicted, “In his early sixties at most. And even at that…” She broke off, staring at the empty grate, then went on in a softer voice, “It is remarkable that he should be so amazingly…”

Penelope said, intrigued, “Amazingly—what, ma'am?”

“Eh?” Sybil turned dreaming eyes on her niece, recollected herself, and stood, smoothing down her satin. “Nothing you are ever likely to understand, poor creature,” she said unkindly. “I shall ask my husband, since you appear to be so sadly uninformed as to your dear mama's relations. Lord Joseph has ever been vastly proud of her side of the family.” She opened the door and said over her shoulder, “I have told Cook that we will dine at eight. There is no need for you to come down until then.” And she was gone, leaving behind the heavy fragrance of her perfume.

Penelope, who had politely risen, gazed with considerable anxiety at the closed door. Sybil had come here only to try to get information about ‘Sir John.' He had properly bewitched her, which had been most unwise. She gave a rueful sigh. As if he could help himself. It was as natural for him to attract the ladies as it was for she herself to fail to attract him. “There is no need for you to come down until then.…” She took up her fan and began to ply it abstractedly, although it was chilly in the room. My lady wanted to be alone with her fascinating guest.…

IX

“I make it a practice,” Quentin murmured into the warm curve of Sybil's throat, “never to answer questions when there are better things to be done.”

She offered only a breathless little giggle by way of resistance, and he kissed her long and thoroughly. They sat on the sofa in a cosy saloon that was rich with crimson and gold. Because of the coolness of the evening, a fire burned in the marble hearth, the air was warm and scented, and Quentin had seen to it that my lady's glass was always filled. Sybil responded to him with a dismaying ardour, and he proceeded as he knew she wished, taking more and more liberties until Sybil was moaning faintly, her eyes closed, her head thrown back in eager submission.

“Go on,” she gasped blissfully. “My darling … my superb lover … why do you stop?”

Shaken, he lifted his head from her fragrant bosom. “I am—a mere man, lovely one.”

Soft with passion, her eyes opened. “You are magnificent,” she said, her voice just above a husky sigh. “Never have I been loved with such fire … and virility.”

“For an old fellow I do not so badly, eh?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

She took his hand and pressed it to her lips. “You are wondrous—even for a young man! Indeed”—she smiled coyly—“when my husband returns he will be hard put to it to—”

It was the chance he'd waited for. With an exclamation of repugnance, he put her from him and sprang to his feet. “Do not so reproach me!” he cried dramatically. “Oh, do not!”

“Eh?” said Sybil, sitting up and blinking at him. “How should I reproach you?”

“How should you not?” he cried, beginning to stride up and down and wave his arms about. “Coming here … accepting of my kinsman's hospitality. And—and in return, seducing his wife! Oh!” Up went one arm in a wild gesture that caused my lady to draw back uneasily. “Wickedness, thy name is Somerville!”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Sybil, not overpleased by this new side of Sir John. “You are very hard on yourself, I think.”

His arm lowered with slow drama. He sighed, “They will be harder … in the monastery.”

Her jaw fell. “M—monastery?”

He hung his head. “I take the vows … next week.”

“You … do?” gasped Sybil, failing but single-minded. “What a dreadful waste!”

Vastly amused, Quentin could almost have liked the wretched woman. She was wholly immoral, cruel, and without a vestige of faithfulness, but at least she did not feign either reluctance or repentance. With difficulty he responded heavily, “My entire life has been a waste.”

“Surely not, dear sir? You have spent it in the service of your King and country, after all, and—”

“And—sinned excessively, alas.” His shoulders slumped. “Even now, I sin. On this—my last mission. I had hoped to end my career with a fine coup. But having reached here—instead of tending to business—” He sighed again.

Sybil had tensed and now said keenly, “But I understood you to say you
chanced
to be travelling this way.”

“Did I say that?” He averted his face, then said forcefully, “It will not do, ma'am! Do you not see? You are not to be blamed. I took advantage of you. I was bewitched by your beauty, alas!”

She had been a little alarmed, but at his last words she relaxed a little, smiling.

“I cannot enter the Order with such a flagrant abuse of hospitality on my overburdened conscience,” he said with resolution. Watching her reflection in the mirrored sconce above the mantel, he added, “I shall have to confess.”

She was growing bored, and her irritation showed when she said pettishly, “Oh, I do not know why you must make such a piece of work of it.”

“When will your husband return?” he asked, turning to her, solemn-faced.

Sybil brightened. “Never fear, my love, I do not expect him until tomorrow at the very earliest.”

“Ah. That decides it then. I shall wait and try to find words that will mitigate my offence.”

“What?”
Whitening, Sybil sprang to her feet. “You never mean to confess to
Joseph?
”

He spread his hands. “To whom else, dear lady?”

“My God!”

“Oh, yes. To Him, certainly.”

“No, no! What I mean is— I had fancied you meant to confess to the—the High Priest, or whomever—”

“The Abbot,” he inserted gently, grateful that her knowledge of such matters was even less than his own. “But that would be a cowardly evasion, my lady. If your husband wishes to reproach me—”

“
Reproach
you?” she squeaked, a hand pressed to her heaving bosom. “He will rend you limb from limb!”

Under the circumstances, Quentin thought this would be a quite logical reaction on Lord Joseph's part. Trying not to grin, he said with saintly humility, “I should deserve it, I fear.” He groaned and put a hand over his eyes. “I must have been mad!”

It came to Sybil that this was an eccentric old gentleman, after all. She was very frightened but, before she could respond, the door opened. “Oh, come in, come in,” she said crossly.

Penelope obeyed, flashing a quick glance from her aunt's petulant frown to the dramatic pose of Sir John Macauley Somerville. A little glow of mirth crept into her eyes. Now what was he up to? She dropped him a curtsey and said demurely that she hoped he was rested.

Quentin frowned at her. He had distinctly told Daffy to attire Penny as unattractively as possible, instead of which here she was looking as fresh and sweet as a flower by comparison with Lady Sybil's paint and posturing. “My soul cannot rest,” he said mournfully. “Not until I have words with your Uncle Joseph.”

Taken aback, Penelope exclaimed, “Good gracious! What about, sir?”

He came forward and ushered her to a chair by the fire. “Alas,” he sighed, “were I to tell you—”

“Fie upon you, Sir John,” Sybil interpolated shrilly, fear gleaming in her eyes. “'Twould be most improper of you. And at all events, I cannot say exactly how long my husband will be away. It—it may be several weeks.”

Quentin uttered an artistic moan and went over to gaze morosely into the flames.

“Weeks?” echoed Penelope. “But—I thought you said—”

Sybil made an imperative gesture, then tapped her temple and nodded suggestively to Sir John.

Penelope viewed the droop of Quentin's shoulders with admiration. How the rascal had managed it, she could not begin to guess, but it was clear her aunt's infatuation was cooling. “I hope,” she ventured, praying she was saying the right thing, “it will not be impossible for you to wait such a time, sir? I know my aunt and I would be most delighted if you can do so.”