Practice to Deceive (38 page)

Simultaneously, Quentin sprang forward and, not daring to delay for the instant it would take to unsheath his sword, with one savage swipe of the scabbard slammed the pistol from Otton's grasp.

Otton howled a curse, but made a very fast recover, his sword seeming to leap into his hand. Quentin unsheathed his own weapon by the simple expedient of whipping the hilt to the side so that the scabbard flew off across the table, in the process sending a vase of flowers toppling. He was barely in time to parry Otton's furious attack. In that first powerful engage he knew that not only was his opponent a master of the sword, but that he himself had very little time. The shock of the blow on Otton's pistol had sent a lance of pain through his arm, and now, for every movement he paid a savage penalty. Numbly, he thought, ‘If only I was left-handed…'

“It's as well,” jeered Otton, his blade circling warily. “I'd not have dared fire the pistol, at all events.”

On the last word he lunged, lightning fast. Quentin's parry of that thrust was barely strong enough. Drawing back, panting, he stumbled a little and Otton laughed. “Do not expect me to kill you at once, Chandler. I'll first have that cypher and be sure you've not tricked me.”

Quentin's desperate attack in sexte was unavailing, Otton parrying so strongly that he was obliged to use both hands to hold on to his sword. Grinning, Otton drove him relentlessly, his adept attack challenging Quentin's increasingly feeble defence again and again, the repeated violent shocks wreaking such havoc with Quentin that he was barely able to fight on. Knowing he must soon fall, he cried gaspingly, “Penny … the cypher! Into … the fire!”

Penelope had been watching the struggle, gripped by the terrified awareness that Quentin could not possibly hope to win. Her fear for her love far outweighed her concern for the cypher and, ignoring his desperate plea, she ran to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. The swords were ringing in a flurry of steel on steel but, disregarding the danger, she waited her chance, then darted behind Otton and swung the poker high.

With a shout of anger he sprang out of range of Quentin's faltering attack and Penelope's flailing poker. His left hand whipped out, the back of it connecting hard across the side of Penelope's head and sending her flying.

Frozen, Quentin saw her collide with the table and crumple. A red haze drifted before his eyes. A rage such as he had never known possessed him. With a primeval snarl, he swung up his sword.

Otton, whirling to cut down his disabled adversary, found himself facing a madman, and an attack that, astounding him by its power and brilliance, sent him reeling back, his offence abruptly changed to a desperate defence.

Quentin was oblivious of anything but a consuming drive to kill. He no longer felt the throbbing of his hurt arm, and his weariness had been swept away by the searing fire of his fury. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, he advanced, his sword a glittering menace that seemed to the bewildered Otton to come at him from every angle, ringing savagely against his blade in sexte, switching to quatre before he could rally, darting in a malevolent blur for his throat, so that, breathless and out-maneouvred, he fell back and back. Quentin's sword sang down his blade in a glizade that almost disarmed him. He riposted angrily, but in the perilous stroke down as the time thrust, Quentin advanced into Otton's attack and, barely eluding the plunging steel, thrust to the full length of his arm.

His face suddenly ghastly, Otton staggered, his weapon falling to the floor with a ringing clatter. Quentin disengaged hard and clean and stepped back. Otton clutched at his chest and sagged to his knees, staring up at Quentin's white, frowning face. Blood streaked through his gripping fingers, but he gasped, “By—God … but you can … fight!” And, coughing horribly, he sank, face down, to the floor.

“Well done! Oh, jolly well done!” cried de Villars, who had watched the last seconds of the ferocious battle from the doorway.

Out of breath, but having managed to stand up, Penelope tottered to Quentin's side. He flung down his reddened sword and took her in his arms. “Are … you all right … love?” he panted.

She nodded, her appalled gaze on de Villars, who had knelt beside Otton and turned him onto his back.

“Fumblefoot,” he said, with an admiring grin at Quentin. “Give me your handkerchief. You didn't kill the pest.” He accepted the handkerchief Quentin gave him, and glanced at Duncan Tiele, who sat up, groaning and holding his head. “One up. One down.”

Quentin staggered, suddenly feeling like a wet rag.

Leaping to support him, de Villars said, “Correction. Two down!”

“Down…” muttered Quentin, sinking gratefully onto the sofa, “but not—out, Treve.”

“Oh, no, dear boy. Most definitely not out.”

*   *   *

Roland Otton was bandaged and borne off to some unknown destination by a pair of grimy ostlers, neither of whom said a word, although Quentin was perfectly sure he recognized the twinkling green eyes of one of them as belonging to a dashing young peer named Horatio Glendanning.

His own wound had not been improved by the violent duel and, although he made light of it, Penelope had come to know the white look about his mouth and she insisted upon inspecting the injury while Quentin fortified himself with a glass of brandy and de Villars tended Tiele's broken head. Her fears that Quentin's wound might have reopened proved unjustified, but it was very angry and swollen. Coming over to view the damage, de Villars swore under his breath and said in a voice of ice, “I pray I may someday have the pleasure of meeting your uncle, Miss Montgomery.”

Penelope winced, and Quentin said quickly, “Not today, I hope, Treve. Tell us if you will, how Otton found us, and what happened to our friends.”

“We were able to overpower Otton's men with no harm to your people,” said de Villars, returning to the table and bending over Tiele, who sat in a dazed silence. “Your abigail, ma'am, was in such a state that I've ordered her to rest until you are all able to leave. As for finding you—I gather Otton and Delavale followed Sir Brian here. Most of the scurrilous crew charged off after friend Holt. I suppose they thought if he didn't catch you, Chandler, they would. Didn't you see 'em?”

“Well, it was raining, you know. I knew there were a devil of a lot of men pounding along after me, but this is my country, Treve. I know the Plain like the back of my hand. We'd a governess who lived in Salisbury, and Gordon and I spent several summers with her while my father was abroad. I led them towards the stickiest spots and left them swearing.”

Penelope asked, “What about my groom, Cole? He has a—a deep dislike for the Jacobites, but he's a good man. I hope he wasn't hurt?”

“Oh, no,” said de Villars, winding a makeshift bandage expertly about Tiele's head. “We had a little chat and he's gone haring off to Scotland, as you might expect. Shall you be well enough to travel, Quentin?”

“Of course. Thanks to you and to my lady's valour, I'm right as a trivet. We should leave at once, I gather?”

De Villars said with a rather grim smile, “Five minutes ago would be better.”

Quentin stood and took Penelope's hand. “Well, love—I fancy you're bound to go with me.”

Still puzzling over why Cole should be going up to Scotland, Penelope gathered her cloak and reticule. “I've no choice,” she said demurely, “since I am also a wanted fugitive.”

Quentin scowled. “If one is to believe Otton. What d'you mean to do with him, Treve?”

“I doubt he'll be causing anyone any trouble for a while.” De Villars grinned. “However, we'll keep him tucked away. By the time he recovers, I fancy an amnesty will have been declared and his fangs thus pulled. Well, let's get you on your way.”

Tiele's floundering attempt to accompany them was firmly suppressed, and his protestations that he had promised to escort Penelope were cut off when she kissed his pale cheek and thanked him profusely for all his gallant efforts in their behalf. Quentin wrung his hand, and Tiele subsided to watch regretfully as de Villars ushered the pair into the drab hall.

In a comfortable downstairs sitting room, their parting from Daffy and Killiam was more painful. Daffy was distraught at the thought of being separated from her beloved mistress, and even offered to leave Jasper behind if she could but go along. Killiam put his arm about her in a proprietory way and told her to stop fretting. “We ride alone, do we, sir?” he said. “I should've knowed it.”

“Not you and I, old friend.” With quiet finality Quentin said, “They know us now. If we travel as a group, they'll have us in no time. You must take Daffy to Lac Brillant and wait for us there. I'll ask that you swing north and come into the estate by the east road. Take care of your lady, you old villain. And keep your eye on that blasted bird!”

Penelope ran to hug Daffy, and the abigail sobbed heartbrokenly. “Oh, miss—you cannot go orf like this! I—I mean it—it ain't
proper!
”

Quentin put his arm around her and gave her a hearty buss on the cheek. “Your
Miss
will be my
Mrs.,
Daffy, m'dear, just as soon as may be.” He took the Corporal's hand in both his own. “Rob—Godspeed. Pray tell my father what happened here, and that we shall wait at the old lighthouse until he sends word the coast is clear.”

His distress very obvious, Killiam said huskily that he would do as the Major wished. “And—good luck, sir,” he added gloomily. “Gawd knows—you'll need it!”

Quentin grinned at him, took Penelope's arm and ushered her from the room.

Outside, the wind howled around the old inn, but the rain had stopped. Dutch Coachman had driven the carriage to the back door and a porte-cochere which had survived an earlier and more affluent period. Her hood flying, Penelope was handed up the steps. Quentin climbed in beside her, then turned to let down the window. He reached out to wring de Villars' hand. “You'll be protected, Treve?”

“Oh, never worry for my carcass. For Lord's sake try to get some sleep. You look worn to a shade! You've your famous cypher safe, I trust?”

Quentin patted his sword hilt.

“Do you mean to overnight at Farnborough?”

“Not if we can reach Guildford.”

“You'd best take these.” De Villars handed some papers to Quentin. “A bill of sale for a horse you bought; a letter addressed to Mrs. Bainbridge—that's you, ma'am; and an estimate from a landscape gardener for renovation of your grounds. Your estate is Bainbridge Hall, in Kent, and you are a prominent surgeon, Edward Bainbridge. No—don't thank me. Goodbye—and God go with you.”

Quentin raised the window, sat down and gathered Penelope into his arms. The carriage lurched into the start of its journey. “Bainbridge Hall,” murmured Penelope, with a little sigh. “How wonderful it would be was there really such a place. And you and I returning to it with friends and loved ones awaiting us.” She sighed and, receiving no answer, said, “Quentin…?”

But he was already fast asleep.

XVI

They were stopped three times during the long drive south and eastwards. Quentin slept like one dead, and fortunately the soldiers were tired and, having endured much vilification by irate gentlemen, were willing enough to accept Penelope's identification papers and her plea that her husband not be wakened since he was a doctor and had sat up with a sick patient all the previous night. The sun was beginning to be obscured by clouds and the violent jolt as the carriage wheels encountered a large pot hole finally awoke Quentin. He was at once fully alert and tensing to the possibility of some new threat. Penelope touched his hand and murmured, “What a good nap you have had, darling.”

This fond observation inspired him to devote the next ten minutes to convincing his affianced bride of the depth of his love for her, at the end of which time they were both so enraptured that he put her from him hastily and said, “That had better be enough of that, my girl! Lord, but you drive me wild!” He peered out of the window. “Where in the deuce are we?”

Considerably shaken, Penelope managed, “A little way east of Aldershot, I believe. We have made not very good speed, love. The roads were so muddy and we have been thrice stopped.”

Astonished that he had slept through it all, he next drew forth the watch Gordon had left with him, and was shocked to discover it was nearly quarter past seven. “Oh, egad! And from the look of the sky we'll not get much farther tonight.” He turned to Penelope again, but contented himself with taking up her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Have you been able to rest at all, Mrs.—er … Oh, the plague! Who the devil are we this time?”

She laughed. “Bainbridge, love. And I am much too happy to be tired.”

Her chin was tilted upwards. He kissed the end of her nose and murmured, “Dearest Penelope Anne Montgomery—how little I have to offer you. My future is questionable; my estates may be forfeit; and I am a younger son without a splendid fortune to lie at your feet. I have brought you into the shadow of the axe and the gallows, when all I wished to bring you was joy and contentment.”

“Foolish creature,” said Penelope, her eyes misting. She tucked her head under his chin and snuggled into his cravat. “For how long have you wished to bring me anything at all?”

“For a very long time,” he said dreamily, his cheek against her fragrant hair. “But I suppose, with absolute certainty that first moment, when I saw you standing in that hellish room while your uncle was—questioning me. I couldn't make out what it was you were saying, but you seemed to me like an angel from heaven. For a moment…” He paused, then said very quietly, “Do you know, Penelope Anne—for a moment I really thought I had died.”

Too moved to say anything, she hugged him tighter and pressed a kiss into his cravat.