Practice to Deceive (35 page)

Tiele chuckled. “Rented him. My own mount picked up a stone bruise. Terrible gait, what?”

The host said politely, “Your pardon, sirs. We have put out the cold dishes. We'll fetch the hot food in ten minutes—shall that suit?”

Quentin told him it would suit very nicely, and he and Tiele went into the second bedchamber to refresh themselves for luncheon.

Penelope was the first to return. Daffy had worked wonders with her windblown curls, a snowy fichu had been placed about her shoulders, and she looked fresh and quite recovered. She had no sooner entered the parlour than the far door opened and Tiele hurried in, shooting the lace at his wrists, his eyes lighting up when he saw her.

“Are you better, Miss Penelope?” he asked, coming quickly to her side. “That wretched bird! After all you've been through, one can but sympathize.”

She allowed him to lead her to the sofa. “I am quite all right, thank you. Did Major Chandler tell you, then, of our—troubles?”

“More than I'd known before, at all events.” He pressed her hand shyly. “How splendid you have been.”

Blushing, her gaze slipped past him. Quentin stood in the open door of the bedchamber, in the act of looking away from them. “That wretched beast!” he cried, exasperated. “Only look at what he's about now!”

Four covers had been set. In the center of the table was a bowl of sliced cucumber and beetroot. Beside it, a board of fresh bread. And next to that, a shallow dish that had contained celery stalks, radishes, and raw new carrots. Most of these items had, however, been removed from the dish and deposited on the table. Tugging with determined energy at the last remaining stalk of celery was one small canary. Even as they watched, Jasper succeeded in his mission. He hopped eagerly to the now empty bowl, perched briefly on the edge, then launched himself into the water that had gathered there. While three astonished humans stood watching, he proceeded to splash busily about, making quick little chirping sounds and flapping his wings industriously, sending water in all directions.

Tiele murmured, “Jupiter! What d'you mean to do about that pest?”

Quentin's eyes flew to Penelope. She was watching him, hands clasped, her face mirroring his own amusement. Quite forgetting Tiele, he crossed to her. Her hands went out and he took and kissed each in turn, then asked intensely, “Are you better? Gad, but you scared me half out of my wits.”

She smiled up at him. “Yes, I am quite recovered. And what of you? You should never have ridden for so long, you know. You look very tired.”

“Tush,” he murmured, still holding her hands and gazing into the wide hazel eyes so tenderly regarding him. “Had it not been for Tiele's—” The name recalled him to the present. He fairly flung Penelope's hands away and turned about, his colour much heightened. “Tiele! Oh, what a fellow you must think me! Did you say something?”

Resisting a strong urge to comment upon the depth of the bond between Chandler and his adopted ‘sister,' Tiele said dryly, “I asked what you propose to do about our shameless public bather, though I can perfectly understand why you did not hear me.”

Penelope blushed and felt repentant.

Quentin's laugh was strained. “What we
should
do,” he answered, “is to wring its blasted—”

The outer door opened. Instead of the maids with the food the host had promised, Gordon Chandler stepped quickly into the room.

With a glad cry, Quentin rushed to hug and be hugged. “Gordie! Thunderation, but I'm glad to see you!”

Gordon gripped his brother's hand and scanned his thin face narrowly. “You look a deal more alive than when last I saw you, you great looby.” He turned to bow to Penelope, take her hand and press it to his lips. “For which I have you to thank, Miss Montgomery, though I shall never be able to do so properly.”

Her smile was, he thought, intriguingly mischievous, but she evaded, “How grateful I am that you sent Mr. Tiele to us. He has been simply splendid.”

Poor Tiele was at once inundated with thanks, Quentin, additionally driven by guilt, becoming so humbly earnest that Tiele declared an intention to leave at once, did they not “stop all the faradiddles! Only look at the time you are wasting!”

“True,” Quentin agreed, leading Penelope to the table and pulling out a chair for her. “We'd best start. Do sit down, Gordie.”

Staring thunderstruck at the bather, Gordon gasped, “Good God! Should he not at least be plucked?”

*   *   *

The breeze had become a wind that was busily filling the sky with threatening clouds. Beyond the temporary haven of this strange old tavern, death and danger lurked, their grim shadows growing ever darker. But in the cosy first-floor parlour, six people ate, drank, and were merry, and the shadows were balked for a while. The food was excellent and, once the rosy-cheeked maids had brought all the dishes and crept away again, the conversation swept along fast and furiously, for Gordon was as full of questions as Penelope, Quentin, and Tiele were eager to share their adventures. They all had insisted that Killiam and Daffy join them. Daffy was too shy, however, to sit at the same table, so she and the Corporal took their plates to the small round table by the window, and joined in whenever they were called upon to contribute to the chatter. A brief lull occurred when Jasper, who had returned to the top of the curtains when the maids came in, swooped back and began to strut among the dishes, pecking curiously at this and that until Tiele objected and one lustily screeching canary was seized and thrust back into his cage. Jasper vented his outrage in his customary manner and Tiele, his indignation heightened, beat a hasty retreat from the deluge.

Quentin's Highview masquerade as Sir John Macauley Somerville drew shouts of laughter from his brother and Tiele, and Penelope, managing to seem unaware of the sly wink Quentin directed at Gordon when Lady Sybil was mentioned, could only be happy to see him so relaxed and at ease. “I cannot but be grateful,” she said, looking around at them all fondly, “that so many brave people have been willing to aid Major Chandler. But why should Mr. de Villars help? He made it clear he has no fondness for Jacobites, and—” She broke off in confusion as she realized what she had implied.

Gordon said with a chuckle, “Oh, you must never pay heed to what Treve says, ma'am. The entire family is rather off the road, to say truth. His uncle—Lord Boudreaux—was enraged by the persecution of the rebels, and has gone to considerable risk and expense to help wherever he can. I think he was never more surprised than to find that his notorious nephew was similarly engaged.” He slipped a fine enamelled watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “Quentin…?”

“Should we be off, now?”

“Yes. I regret to break up such a pleasant gathering, but Treve has—” He glanced expectantly to the door as the latch was raised, then sprang to his feet with a horrified exclamation.

A tall, thin gentleman stood on the threshold. Elegant from the top of his immaculate wig to the buckles of his high-heeled shoes, he seemed to Penelope the very essence of aristocratic hauteur. She was conscious of a sense of familiarity, but not until Gordon hastened to kiss the regally outstretched hand did she realize who he was.

Quentin, who had sat for a moment as though turned to stone, jumped up, his chair going over with a crash. “Father!”

“So it is truth.…” His face livid, his eyes sparking with rage, Sir Brian Chandler stepped to the centre of the room, dominating them all with his presence. A grey-haired, impeccably clad retainer followed, his anguished gaze flashing from one to the other of the dismayed brothers. Lifting his quizzing glass, Sir Brian scanned Quentin from head to toe. “Good God!” he muttered. “How I'd prayed it was a lie.”

Quentin hurried around the table and reached for his father's hand, bowing respectfully above those frail white fingers. “Sir—I know you do not approve of—”

Sir Brian snatched his hand away. “You may be sure,” he said in a voice of ice, “that I do not approve of deceit, sir! Of treachery, treason, and lies!”

Quentin paled and, knowing what must follow, stood very still.

“Father,” Gordon interceded, “at least allow him to—”

“To do—what? Add to the falsehoods I have been told? That
you
have been cajoled into repeating to me?” Ablaze with wrath and hurt, his fine green eyes swept back to his younger son. “You look ill,” he said, still in that harsh, strained voice. “Did you manage to get yourself wounded?”

“Yes, sir. But thanks to Gordon and—”

“Oh, by all means! Let us thank the poor dupes you have gulled into helping you!” Ignoring the anxious entreaties of his faithful valet, Sir Brian advanced on Quentin, his hands clenching. “Are you
quite
without shame, that you can stand before me and brag that they have been so gallant, so unselfish as to risk death just so that you may escape the consequences of your crass recklessness?”

Very white by now, Quentin said, “I make no apologies for fighting in a Cause I believed best for Eng—”

Sir Brian gave a snort of disgust. In a contained but terrible voice, he grated, “You fought
against
England, sir! Can you guess what it means to me to have to name you a damnable rogue and a traitor?”

Penelope shrank with a horrified gasp.

Quentin flinched, and his head went down.

Gordon had known from childhood that although he was loved, his flamboyant brother was closest to his father's heart. And if at times he had been wounded by that awareness, never had it seemed less important than at this moment. “Sir,” he pleaded, “you do not give him a chance.”

“Chance?”
His face twisted with grief, Sir Brian cried, “What chance did he give you? Do you deny that you have risked arrest, questioning, disgrace, and a death beyond words hideous, for this rascally young here-and-thereian?”

His head still bowed, Quentin said before Gordon could respond, “He may deny it, but it is quite true, sir.”

“Thank you,” raged his father. “I might well have lost both my sons to your mad folly! Dare I hope you have some small vestige of contrition for what you have brought down upon your friends? Look about you, brave rebel. Have you given one single thought to the jeopardy in which you have placed this gently bred child of my dearest friend?”

“My God!” Quentin whispered, his anguished gaze flashing to Penelope. “Can you think I have
not?
Father—I beg you will believe—”

“I
believe,
” rasped Sir Brian, taking another step towards him, “I
believe
that you did not give a button for the fact your brother might well be called upon to pay the supreme penalty! I
believe
that now you must pay the price of your braggadocio airs and graces, you do not hesitate to imperil your poor faithful batman, or any other man or woman necessary to your protection! God knows I am aware you've no shred of affection for
me,
but—”

“No, no, sir!” Quentin reached out imploringly. “Do not say such dreadful things! Rake me down if you must, but—
please,
you know I love you! You
know
I always—”

“'Fore God,
stop
with your protestations and muling falsehoods! The last letter I had from you was sent from Rome, I was told. From
Rome!
And where
did
you write it, my loving liar? After the grisly battlefield whereon you raised your sword against your countrymen? Did you know that young Bremerville fell at Prestonpans? Your lifelong friend! Was
yours
the sabre that cut him down?” His voice rose. He thundered,
“Was it?”

Tiele, horrified, had retreated to the wall, but when Quentin's attempt to respond resulted only in a choked incoherency and the helpless gesture of one unsteady hand, he ventured a faltering, “Your son s-saved my brother's life at Prestonpans, Sir Brian.”

“And thus claims yours in exchange?” The older man gave a mirthless laugh, and staggered.

Quentin sprang to support him, only to be repelled by a fierce shove. The valet threw an arm about his master, and Gordon ran to pull up a chair. Terrified, Daffy seized the opportunity to slip into the hall, followed at once by Killiam. Appalled by this terrible confrontation, Penelope hastened to pour some wine and carry it to this remorseless gentleman she remembered as having always been the soul of kindly courtesy.

Sir Brian accepted the glass with a trembling hand. “My poor girl, how came you to be tricked into aiding my worthless traitor?”

Penelope looked down into eyes ravaged by heartbreak and disillusion. Glancing to the side, she saw the man she loved, his shoulders very straight, his white face expressionless, his pain betrayed only by the hands tight-clenched at his sides. She felt oddly strengthened and, throwing pride away, said calmly, “I love him, sir.”

Quentin gasped. He looked fully at her. Then, as though this was the last straw, he averted his face.

“Sweet innocent!” Sir Brian exclaimed. “I pray you will not pay a terrible price for your devotion. How proud you must be, my son, to have endangered the lady who has given you her heart!”

Shattered, Quentin was quite incapable of a response and could only shake his head in numb helplessness.

Gordon glanced at his brother. Frowning, he said, “Quentin did not
want
Miss Montgomery involved, sir.”

“Oh, that is true, Sir Brian,” said Penelope in a shaken voice. “He begged—”

Once more Sir Brian laughed, the sound a racking travesty of mirth that made his hearers shrink. “Oh, I know how well
he
begs, m'dear! Why do
you
not beg him to tell us what was in his mind when he embarked so blithely on this insanity? Did he think, I wonder, that his brother would stand by him, no matter what happened? That Gordon would die willingly enough rather than—”