Practice to Deceive (34 page)

The inn itself was little more than a hedge tavern, and one of the most unprepossessing that Quentin had ever beheld. A collection of structures of varying heights and appearing to have come together more by accident than design, it possessed mullioned casements, whitewashed walls, and a thatched roof. The latter, although in seemingly good repair, had never been properly trimmed and hung like unkempt hair over the dirty windows. The wagon wheel atop it was in a disintegrating condition, several of the spokes hanging precariously, posing a potential threat to any unwary traveller who chanced to be beneath when they fell. The whitewash looked to have been applied at least a decade since, and now gave every appearance of an advanced case of mange. The paint hung in shreds from the front doors, and even the steps leading to the unimposing entrance were broken and uneven.

“Reckon you'll know it if you 'appen ter see it agin,” grunted a surly voice.

Quentin brought his incredulous glance around and beheld a tall, slouching ostler who watched him without enthusiasm. A straw hung from the mouth of this disreputable individual, his greasy coat was worn over a grimy shirt, his breeches were a disaster, and long, lank black hair straggled down from beneath what might once have been a hat.

“I pray I never have the opportunity,” said Quentin fervently, but curiosity getting the better of him, added, “Where are the kippers on your sign?”

A broad and oddly familiar grin spread across the lean, unshaven countenance. “Cat et 'em,” he said, and let out a loud hee-haw of a laugh.

The carriage came rattling up. The ostler looked at it with resentment. “You with that lot?” he asked.

“I might be,” said Quentin thoughtfully. “And you might be an ostler.” A pair of singularly beautiful grey eyes flashed to him with a twinkle in their depths he could not mistake. “Treve!” he exclaimed.

“Quiet, you block,” said the Honourable Trevelyan de Villars without rancour, and spat out his straw. “If it took
you
a minute or two to place me, I'm fairly safe. You best go round in back,” he advised the coachman
pro tem
with a careless stab of one finger towards the side of The Cat and Kippers. He added softly, “We heard you were at death's door. You look almost alive.”

His spirits soaring, Quentin said, “More than I could say for you, old lad. Have you words for me?”

“Several. That's a good scowl. Keep it up. Can you stay on that nag long enough to follow the carriage?”

Quentin said he could, advised Mr. de Villars in a loud and disgusted tone that he was an insolent clod, and urged his bone-shaker along the muddy path to the rear yard.

Two surprisingly luxurious carriages were in the roomy barn, and ostlers argued loudly as they rubbed down a team of matched bays. A stableboy ran to take Quentin's reins. His climb from the saddle was stiff, and the boy watched him shrewdly, then enquired with a grin if he was having a specially good day. Quentin tossed him a coin, told him to stow his gab, much to the boy's delight, and turned wearily to find Killiam at his elbow.

“What's
that?
” enquired the Corporal, eyeing Tiele's hack with disbelief. “And why was you riding of it? I thought—”

“Oh, stop fussing,” said Quentin shortly. “Mr. Tiele is—enamoured of Miss Montgomery.”

“Then you shouldn't of—”

“So I gave them a chance to get to know one another,” Quentin went on, the ring to his voice and the stern look in his eyes that said there would be no further discussion.

He walked over to hand Penelope down the steps of the carriage, but Tiele, laughing merrily at some shared joke, jumped out and turned back to assist her. Quentin at once changed direction. Dutch Coachman was running from the stables, a great grin of delight on his weathered features. Long ago he had seemed a giant to the very small boy he'd taught how to ride and care for his first pony. Now Quentin towered over him, but whatever else had changed, the bond between them was unwavering, and they greeted each other with an affection that went far beyond that of master and servant.

Penelope had enjoyed a delightful drive, for Mr. Tiele was a man of easy address and a keen sense of humour. She had blossomed under the warmth of his attentive admiration, so that had he not been captivated by her at the start of the journey, he certainly was by the end of it.

Glancing around anxiously as she trod down the steps, Penelope saw Quentin absorbed in conversation with Dutch Coachman. Her worries had evidently been unwarranted. He stood with his back to her, one hand resting against the coach, all graceful nonchalance, betraying no least sign of weariness.

Mr. Tiele was remarking lightly that she would be surprised by the bill of fare at this shocking old place, and that she must have a bedchamber where she could rest and refresh herself. She gave him a grateful smile and went on his arm into the rickety old building entertaining little hope of finding comfortable accommodations or decent food inside.

The hall they entered was long and dim and dusty. They passed a closed door leading to what was—to judge from a waft of ale and a buzz of hearty conversation—the tap. The next door was opening, and the same deplorable ostler who had waved the carriage around from the front came through it to meet them. He was quite tall and had a fine wide pair of shoulders. Uneasy, Penelope drew nearer to Tiele, wondering if he could handle this rascally fellow should the need arise. She was astounded when the ostler bowed gracefully before her, shook the hand Tiele extended, and said in deep, cultured accents, “He looks better than I'd feared. Were you followed?”

“I don't believe we were. But there was an officer in Reading who made a dashed nuisance of himself and I've a notion he ain't easy in his mind about us. Oh—my apologies, ma'am. Allow me to present Trevelyan de Villars, who is normally something of a dandy. Treve, this is Miss Montgomery.”

A wide, white smile came her way. “A very gallant lady,” said de Villars admiringly. “I beg you will forgive my dirt, ma'am.”

“Forgive it,” she exclaimed, overcoming her astonishment. “I honour you for it, Mr. de Villars. Are you also— Oh, dear. Forgive me. I should not ask.”

“If you was about to ask if Treve was a Jacobite—he ain't,” said Tiele.

“Lord, no,” de Villars confirmed, breezily. “Cannot abide the silly fellows, but it annoys me to see them so savagely hunted. This way.” He led them along the murky corridor until they reached an even murkier flight of stairs. “What was the name of your troublesome officer?” he asked as they progressed upwards. “Not Fotheringay, I sincerely trust?”

“No. It was Jacob Holt. A friend of mine—which will avail us nothing, I'm afraid.”

Penelope inserted quietly, “Major Mariner Fotheringay stopped us near Oxford, sir.”

De Villars halted for an instant, a frown making his dark face even more villainous. “Did he, by Jove! I'd not thought him this far south as yet.” He glanced at Tiele. “He's hounding another poor devil, and I'll tell you frankly, we'll be lucky can we bring
him
safely off.”

They had come to a small landing and a long hall leading off to right and left, and even dimmer and dingier than the downstairs passage had been. De Villars turned to the right, stopped at the last closed door, flung it open, and bowed Penelope inside. She passed him and stopped, amazed. She stood in a charmingly appointed parlour. Thick rugs were spread on gleaming oak floors, and chintz curtains hung at the windows. The furnishings included several comfortable armchairs and a sofa, a long mahogany table with covers set for luncheon, and a credenza which held a silver tray full of decanters and sparkling crystal glasses. There were two more doors; one on either side of the room. De Villars led Penelope to the right-hand door and opened it to reveal a bright and pretty bedchamber. Even as she trod inside, however, a shriek rang out and something whirred past her cheek at a great rate of speed.

De Villars dropped into a crouch, a long-barrelled pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic. Tiele gave a startled cry and jumped aside, and Penelope, despite her acquaintanceship with Jasper, found the beating of wings very close beside her face unaccountably frightening, so that a small shocked cry escaped her.

There came a quick light step. She was seized and spun around. Quentin scanned her face frantically. “What is it?” he demanded. “By God, Tiele! I gave her into your care! If you've—”

In the nick of time Penelope restrained her instinctive reassurances and snatched at the fine opportunity Fate offered. “No, no…” she gasped faintly. “It was … only…” And she swayed, drooping.

“Look out!” cried Tiele, alarmed. “Allow me, Miss—”

His outstretched hand was brushed aside.

“Oh, no, you don't,” snarled Quentin.

Penelope felt a pang of contrition as he swept her up into his arms, dreading lest he hurt himself again. But she consoled herself with the thought that she, too, had a battle to fight and win, and she lay limply against the cushions when she was tenderly deposited on the sofa.

Another scream rent the air. Daffy pushed between Quentin and her mistress and cried a tremulous, “Let me help her! Why has she swoonded, poor soul? Likely wore to a shade!”

“Brandy—quick!” snapped Quentin, rounding on the aghast Tiele.

“Daffy—
go away!
” whispered Penelope between her teeth as her devoted maid bent over her.

For a split second Daffy stared, then tossed her apron over her head to conceal her sudden comprehending grin, and withdrew, wailing.

“Devil take it!” cried the frantic Quentin. “What the deuce happened?”

“I—ah, think the bird frightened her,” said de Villars, his clear grey eyes glinting with amusement.

“Me poor Jasper got away,” moaned Daffy, having discovered that her unpredictable pet was sitting on top of the curtain rod, leering triumphantly down at them.

“Stuff,” said Quentin, taking the glass Tiele hurried over with. “Penny is the bravest girl I ever knew. She'd not be scared by that stupid little pest.”

“I assure you it is not unusual for people to become alarmed when wings flutter in their faces,” said de Villars. “I've a friend who's fairly besotted over the feathered varmints, and even he instinctively ducks if one of his small friends zooms at him.” He added deprecatingly, “If you will forgive the play on words…”

Tiele grinned. Unamused, Quentin held the glass to Penelope's lips. “Here, love,” he said in a caressing tone she had never dreamed to hear. “Just a little sip, Penelope Anne.”

“You're spilling it down her neck,” Tiele criticized. “Let me…”

“Be damned if I will! Stay back! She's fairly exhausted, sweet lass, and no wonder. Penny—please, my darling girl. Try to take a little.”

Penelope knew a soaring joy when the man of her heart designated her his darling girl. However, the brandy trickling down her neck was not very comfortable, besides which she had an uneasy feeling that de Villars was at any second going to laugh aloud. She therefore sighed deeply, fluttered her lashes, and opened her eyes.

Quentin had moved very fast. It was Duncan Tiele who leaned above her, the glass in his hand and a troubled look in his honest eyes.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Penelope, sitting up with one hand to her sticky throat. “How very silly of me.” Under her lashes she slanted a glance to Quentin, who now stood at the window, hands on hips, glaring up at Jasper. “Much more of you, my fine feathered friend,” he said darkly, “and you will be served up to a very amiable white cat who waits hopefully in Reading.”

De Villars came up beside him. Quentin turned, hand outstretched. “My dear old boy, how very good of you to stick your silly nose into this bumble broth.”

“Isn't it,” drawled de Villars. “I would hope you see the error of your ways, Chandler, but I doubt it.”

“What I see is that once again you risk your neck to—”

“Oh, stubble it, for Lord's sake. My Uncle Boudreaux got me into this, and were I not seeking to turn him up sweet—”

“Liar! His feelings for you have not changed one whit. Do not try and gammon me.”

Lowering his voice, de Villars said, “You're the one gammoning, friend. I fancy that lovely lady is—”

“Never mind about that,” Quentin interpolated hastily. “Tell me only—is my brother here?”

“Yes. And I've to ask if you have the cypher.”

“I do. And well hidden.”

“Do you care to tell me—where?”

Quentin regarded him steadily. “No.” He saw de Villars' head tilt upwards in prideful resentment, and reiterated, “No, Treve. I'll not add your life to the rest. If I cannot bring it to its destination, it will be lost with me.” He glanced broodingly to Penelope and to Duncan Tiele, who bent solicitously above her. “God knows, enough innocent lives have been endangered and I'll—” He paused as a scratch sounded at the door.

The host came in with three maids carrying bowls and platters, which they proceeded to arrange on the table.

Daffy led Penelope into the bedchamber, de Villars took himself off, and Tiele wandered over to Quentin, who had sprawled wearily in a chair, put back his head, and closed his eyes.

“See here, Chandler,” Tiele began in a low, urgent voice.

Quentin looked up at him.

“I'd not thought,” Tiele went on awkwardly, “that you—that Miss Montgomery—”

“Good,” said Quentin. “We're not.”

“But—deuce take it, man, I saw the way you … I mean—I heard you call her your—er—”

“I was merely distraught. That is—er, I'd not have said it save that I'm rather tired. But—she did not hear it, which is all that matters. And—” Quentin hauled himself upright. “Where the plague did you find that miserable bone-shaker of a hack?”