Penelope glanced to the lackey’s faint smirk. The fact that her aunt would be so crude as to make such a remark in front of a servant no longer surprised her. One purpose obsessed her bedevilled mind: to discover if there was any truth in what Otton had claimed. To that end, she started past, saying merely, “I shall see Uncle Joseph at once and apologize.”
My lady flung out a white arm and a wrist bright with the sparkle of diamonds. “He is engaged in his study at present and cannot— Girl? Are you deaf? I said he was engaged!”
“And I heard you, madam.” Penelope walked on. “I shall make myself presentable and then see him.”
“You will not! His man of business is here, and my poor husband in a foul humour. He wishes to see no one tonight. You had better get to your bed. You’ve likely taken a chill, which will serve you right for behaving like any village hobbledehoy! I vow I’ll never understand from whence you get your breeding, for your dear papa, however foolish, was a gentleman, and your mama came of good stock … so I am told.”
Halfway up the stairs, Penelope checked. How dare this vulgar, ill-bred woman presume to criticize her parents? She swung around, prepared to do battle, but the front door had been swung open again, and Roland Otton was striding with his slight swagger across the wide hall. Reminded of her purpose, Penelope hurried on up the stairs.
Lady Delavale had seen her niece’s expression change, and she turned questioningly. “Roland!” She extended her hand, stepping down to meet him as he came to press her fingers to his lips.
“A word, ma’am, if I may,” he murmured, his eyes smiling at her.
Sybil glanced to the retreating back of the lackey. “We can be private in the book room,” she said and led the way along the side hall to that large and now deserted chamber.
The instant the door closed, she flung herself into Otton’s ready arms, raising her face, her lips eagerly parted for his kiss. He claimed her hungrily, and she gave a whimper of delight when he at last released her mouth only to rain hot kisses over her eyelids and nibble his way down her throat. One hand slipped, unchallenged, below the deep plunge of her neckline. Sybil moaned, her eyes closed, her body straining against him. Otton bent to the breast he had exposed and gave it his full attention, until Sybil was gasping with desire. “Roland…” she whispered. “Oh … my love…”
He looked up and a cynical gleam came into his eyes. “He’s not like to find us?”
“No, no. He is too busied with—” She broke off, shivering all at once, and regarded her lover with a trace of horror. “He’ll not leave that ghastly room until they’ve broken the poor fool.”
“Which may take longer than your lord fancies.” Otton tidied his lady’s gown. “I saw Chandler when they hauled him in. I’ve come up against his type before. Delavale should have let me question him.”
Sybil shuddered again, then caught Otton’s hands, pressing them against her soft flesh and saying invitingly, “But he did not, and so we are safe, my dearest love.”
He smiled down at her. She really was a delightful dalliance, and always so willing. But—“You’re a hot little vixen, ain’t you, Sybil?” He ran his fingers down her cheek.
She swayed to him. “What would you expect, with Joseph for a husband?”
“Yet you loved him once.”
She pouted and said pettishly, “He had less resemblance to a whale then. Now, he lusts only after money.”
“Aye, so as to keep you satisfied, m’dear.” He grinned to see anger flash into her wide brown eyes, and added, “His present pursuit of riches may soon be interrupted.”
“No, I tell you! I have instructed the servants that he confers on weighty matters with his man of business and that he is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
He led her to the sofa and, when she had sat down, seated himself close beside her and took up her hand. He began to kiss the fingers, and then the palm. He had progressed to the wrist, and Sybil’s eyes were languorous again when he asked idly, “Did you also instruct your niece?”
She frowned and jerked her hand away. “Lud, but you are in a funning mood today, Roland! Yes. I told the chit he was to be left alone.”
He chuckled. “I think she will not heed you.”
“She had best do so, for her own good! If she—” Suspicious of the sly amusement in his expression, she interrupted herself. “And why would she do such a thing? She despises him.”
“Perhaps because … I told her, my life.”
“Told her? What?”
He kissed her ear and answered with a wicked twitch of the lips, “Why, that I have … won her hand in marriage.”
The lackey, crossing the hall towards the kitchens, paused as he heard the shriek that rang out from the direction of the book room. He gave a faint snort of mirth. That devil Otton must be really pleasing my lady.… One of these days milord would catch those two at it, and then … then the fur would fly!
II
On the second floor of Highview Manor were some fourteen bedchambers, four having adjacent parlours, and all containing dressing rooms, some of which could be opened to an adjoining room to form a suite. The north side was reserved to the family and consisted of the master suite and five large bedchambers. One of these latter had been Geoffrey’s, and another, Penelope’s. Of late years, however, Penelope had been dispossessed several times and was now the occupant of a large but rather shabby room situated in the southwest corner. She did not turn in that direction when she reached the second floor because, contrary to what she had told her aunt, she had not the remotest intention of tidying her appearance before she confronted Lord Joseph. The knowledge that Roland Otton was already downstairs and undoubtedly conferring with Sybil fanned the flames of her rage. It was in vain that she told herself that Joseph, who had hitherto been so determined she should make an advantageous marriage, would not agree to her union with his penniless henchman. She had long ago deduced that her uncle from time to time engaged in activities that were, at best, shady. Captain Otton’s services were obviously valued; perhaps indispensable. Uncle Joseph’s reliance upon the Captain might well have led to his agreement to such a betrothal. Hurrying along the hall, she decided that if such was the case she would have no recourse but to run away. But—to whom? And where…!
She came at last to the door of the room which Delavale had caused to be converted to a private study. Her knock was drowned by an outburst of profanity from within. Seething, she tried the handle, but the door was locked. Well, she would not be put off! She must speak to him before Otton beguiled Sybil into speaking for him, for if that happened, her own cause was doomed! She hurried to her aunt’s bedroom. It was unlocked, and in another minute she stood at the connecting door and, not taking the chance that admission would be denied, flung it open, only to halt, stunned, all thought of her own predicament banished from her mind.
A man lay sprawled on the long sofa beside the hearth. A man of tattered and dishevelled appearance, his clothes in rags, his dark hair a tangled untidiness, his face bloodied and covered with a stubble of beard. Lord Delavale stood behind the sofa, both hands resting on the back as he blinked down on the recumbent figure through the curling smoke of a fat cigar. His bosom bow, that hulking lout Thomas Beasley, was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a dripping rag clutched in one beefy hand. All this Penelope saw in a brief second, even as a half-smothered moan rang out, a sound so tormented that it made her blood run cold. For one bewildered moment she thought the two men were ministering to the sufferer. Then, Beasley cried a triumphant, “There, Joseph! Did I not tell you I could bring him around again?”
“And about time,” grunted his lordship, his cunning little eyes glinting in his pudgy face. “Come now, Major. This is most unnecessary. Why put yourself through it? You’ll tell us what we want to know, eventually. All we ask is that—”
“That I … put the head of my … my friends on the block. Alongside mine … own, eh?”
Those words of intrepid defiance
were spoken in a feeble voice that caused Penelope’s heart to give a violent lurch, and so deepened her shock that she stood as though rooted to the spot, quite powerless to move or speak.
The man on the sofa struggled to sit up, an effort facilitated by Delavale, who reached down to grab the ragged shirt and wrench his victim upwards. With all the bluster of the weak man suddenly given absolute power, he snarled, “Would you prefer that we hand you over to the military? They’ll be less patient with a damned traitorous Jacobite than we have been, I can tell you! And there are implements in the Tower guaranteed to wring truth from vermin such as you in jig time!”
The prisoner’s right arm hung limply at his side, the sleeve torn and stained a dull red between shoulder and elbow. He seemed far spent, but answered jeeringly, “Then—why delay? Hand me … over, and be damned to—” But the words were cut off by a gasp as Beasley seized his disabled wrist, jerking it roughly.
“This arm should have a surgeon’s care, my friend. We’ve none at hand, alas, so I shall try to do my best for you. Poor fellow … I’ve had no experience. How do you suggest I begin, Delavale?”
His lordship flung the injured man down and watched without compassion as he writhed in silent agony. “For Christ’s sake, Chandler! Why be such a fool? I’d not have Beasley minister to me, especially were my arm in such condition! Only tell us where the gold is hid and we’ll get you safe to France. I’ll even summon my own surgeon to treat you, for to say truth, I am of a gentle disposition and in great distress to see you in such sorry case.”
Chandler laughed weakly.
Delavale’s hands clenched, and the high colour in his cheeks rose dangerously. It was with an obvious effort of will that he held his temper and went on in a cajoling tone, “If ’tis your friends you fear for, they’ll not be harmed, I swear it! Chandler? Blast the fellow, I believe he’s gone off again! Chandler? Do you hear me? Have some sense, man! Your cause is lost and has no need of the treasure now. What can be more important than your own life? Speak up! Tell us! Where is it hid?”
Chandler roused slightly and panted, “Go to … hell!”
With a cry of frustration, Beasley shook the prisoner savagely, then uttered an aggrieved wail as Chandler sagged, lax in that merciless grip. “The fellow means to die!” Beasley complained. “Damn his eyes, he means to die, Joseph!”
“Tush! No man dies for an ideal, save in epic poems!” But Delavale bent lower, peering anxiously. “Do you know what I think, my Thomas? We have sadly neglected our guest. He does look poorly.… Ah, that amuses you, does it, Chandler? I have only your good in mind, and I cannot but think your wound should be seared, lest it become infected.…” He glanced up at his friend, grinning slyly.
A trace of consternation came into Beasley’s face. He drew back and began to pluck uneasily at his lower lip as Delavale tapped the ash from the end of his cigar and bent forward to rip aside the fabric of Chandler’s shirt-sleeve.
The sight awoke Penelope at last from the trancelike state she had fallen into. With a shriek of horror, she ran into the room. “Stop! Oh—please do not!”
Delavale jerked back with a yowl of fright. White and appalled, Beasley cried shrilly, “Blast and damn the chit! We are undone!”
Chandler struggled on to one elbow, turning to Penelope so that for the first time she saw him fully. The haggard countenance was scarcely recognizable, the cheeks so sunken, the fine mouth white and twisted. But even frantic with pain, the eyes were unmistakable and into their green depths came recognition. One hand stretched out to her in a mute pleading. Then, awareness faded, the heavy eyelids closed, and he slumped down to sprawl forward over the edge of the sofa.
All but pouncing at his niece, Delavale raged, “What in the devil—? Miserable girl! How dare you intrude here?”
“She will betray us!” howled Beasley. “I told you it was too chancy! Damn you, Joseph! I told you!”
“My God!” Penelope sobbed, utterly distraught. “Oh, my dear … God! What—monstrous cruelty is this?”
His face murderous, the hard little brown eyes narrowed and threatening in the flabby face, Delavale snapped, “Nothing that would trouble a patriotic conscience, girl. Is a Jacobite dog not worth the hanging and will end with his head on a spike on Tower Bridge when the military get their hands on him!”
Penelope’s horrified gaze was still fastened upon the unconscious man, and she scarcely heard the callous words. “How can you hurt him so?” she gulped, wringing her hands in anguish. “Do you not know he is a dear friend of my father, and that we were guests in his home? How—” And she shrank back with a shocked cry as her uncle’s hand cracked across her cheek.
“After all that my loved wife and I have endured because of your ungrateful behaviour! After all our forbearance, you have the gall to stand there and name a traitorous rebel a friend to any member of this family? Do you know what would happen if we were suspected of Jacobite sympathies?”
“Or—if you were discovered to be concealing a fugitive…?”
The mocking voice came from behind Penelope. Faint with horror, she turned quickly, her repugnance of the tall young rake who stood there forgotten in the nightmare of this development. “Stop them,” she begged, tears beading on her lashes. “In the name of heaven—I beg of you! Stop them!”
Otton took her by the arms, smiling down into her distressed face. “Now here’s a happy improvement. It would be worth much to me to win favour in your lovely eyes, m’dear.”
Like a scared rabbit, Beasley darted to close the door and lean against it as though to prevent Otton leaving.
“If I lose the prize,” his lordship warned, scowling, “then you lose the prizes, Captain. Do not forget that it is because of this”— he gestured to Chandler—“that I gave you—her.”
Otton’s black eyes glinted. “Ah, but only think how much sweeter is a willing bride than a reluctant one. And—I would win a reward.”
Beasley mopped his brow, his pale gaze shifting nervously from one to the other of the two men.
His lordship stiffened, then uttered a disparaging snort. “Humbug! You are not the sort to whistle a fortune down the wind in exchange for a handful of coins! This rebel fool must soon break. Before dawn, I’ll warrant. And we shall be rich men. You, my dear Otton”—he grinned towards his niece—“doubly so.”
Her own anguished gaze fixed on Quentin, Penelope knew he would not tell them. Nothing would induce an honourable gentleman to betray his comrades. But he was so weak, he could not stand much more. If they kept at him, he would surely die. Never had she felt so helplessly at the mercy of her uncle. Reaching out to Otton in desperate appeal, she said, her voice breaking, “If—if you truly love me, Captain Otton … oh, do not let them do this awful thing. I implore you!”
“And I wish I could help, m’dear, but”—he grinned ruefully—“your uncle’s up to every move on the board, I own it.”
With a relieved sigh, Beasley returned to the sofa.
Penelope caught Otton’s arm. “Surely you cannot be so lost to all human feelings—to all sense of decency? You are not without breeding, and civilized men do not torment wounded prisoners only for the sake of—”
“For the sake of a king’s ransom in gold and jewels, amassed by the Jacobites to save their miserable Cause?” Otton smiled. “Alas, dear lady, for much, much less than this, bloody murder has been done all through the history of our illustrious civilization. And for your sake, I must— Beasley!” His voice sharpened. “Gently, man! The poor fellow is far spent. Would you have a corpse on your hands before we’ve loosened his tongue?”
Wild with grief and rage, Penelope beat small clenched fists at his chest, sobbing hysterically, “I might have known! You are just as depraved! Just as—”
“Silence!” thundered his lordship. “Get to your room, miss! And keep a still tongue in your head, or you’ll rue it, I promise! I’ll deal with you tomorrow, when we’ve done with this makebait! And you may count yourself fortunat
e do I not take a whip to your sides!”
Otton frowned but, meeting the distraught eyes of his promised bride, he shrugged, spread his hands fatalistically, and sighed, “C’est la guerre…”
Penelope fled.
* * *
The rain drove stinging drops against her cheeks, and the night was very dark, but Penelope ran on, her breath coming raspingly now and a catch in her side protesting the speed of her going. She was forced to stop at last and rest for a moment. Standing there in the wind and rain, one hand pressed to her labouring chest, she waited for her pounding heartbeat to ease, while thoughts tumbled chaotically through her mind. Sometimes, during the Rebellion, she had heard snatches of male conversation, hurriedly broken off when ladies came near. Hushed talk of captured officers tortured because they refused to divulge military information. She had convinced herself that such remarks were grossly exaggerated, that such hideous things did not really happen in this enlightened age. Now, she had to face the fact that such things did happen. She had seen her adored Quentin’s suffering with her own eyes.… And to think such horror had taken place at Highview! How enraged Papa would have been. How dear Geoff would have exploded with wrath at Uncle Joseph’s greed and evil … and how in the name of God could she stop it? To whom could she turn for help? The servants, perhaps? But most of the dear, faithful people who had served the Montgomerys for decades had been replaced after Papa’s death by individuals Aunt Sybil considered more suitable. Ryan, whose quiet gentility had been an inspiration to every footman with dreams of someday rising to the exalted state of butler, had been a short, rather emaciated man. Lady Sybil had let him go and in his stead hired Hargrave, a tall, broad-shouldered toad-eater who openly admired her, bowed splendidly, and made the life of the downstairs staff miserable. Papa’s aging valet, Peterson, had served the new Lord Delavale for exactly one month before tendering his resignation, having advised the housekeeper that his reputation would not survive dressing a man who was not only as fat as a flounder, but had the manners of a wart hog. And so it had gone. One after another, new servants had appeared in place of the old; younger, better-looking, and lamentably less qualified. But even had their own loyal retainers still been at Highview, how could she possibly have asked their help? To give aid to an escaped Jacobite was punishable by death. And if the fugitive chanced to be of noble birth and was judged guilty of High Treason … She shuddered at a vision of dismemberment and disemboweling before the final savage mercy of execution. How could she ask any friend or neighbour to risk such a ghastly fate?
Practice to Deceive Page 3