Settling herself cosily in the warm cocoon of her blankets, she pulled the eiderdown higher about her ears, but it was of no help. The next rendition was clearly audible; she wondered in fact that the windows did not rattle. She might be forced to suggest to Corporal Killiam that a clothes peg be applied to his nostrils, for that gargantuan snore could very well spell disaster for all of them.
Yawning, she drifted back to sleep.
V
The bedcurtains were drawn aside and sunlight flooded in. Blinking into that brightness, Penelope saw Daffy smiling at her.
“What a nice sleep you had, miss! Half-past ten o’clock of a fine—”
Penelope sat up with a shocked cry, but she was at once advised there was no need for concern. She’d slept late, which was natural enough for a lady with such a “bad cold.” As Daffy balanced the breakfast tray across her knees, Penelope’s glance flashed to the dressing room.
Daffy said, “I already gave Corporal Robert Killiam hot water and Master Geoffrey’s shaving things, miss, and the gentlemen had their breakfast half an hour since.”
“Thank you, Daffy.” Penelope accepted a cup of tea gratefully. “Now, please draw a chair closer and talk to me for a little while. How is Major Chandler? Was he able to sleep last night?”
“Like a top, the Corporal says.” Daffy dragged a straight-backed chair near the bed and perched on the edge, hands primly folded in her lap. “He’s feeling quite hisself again, s’morning, says Corporal Robert Killiam.”
“Thank heaven for that!” Penelope applied herself to a toasted crumpet. “What of my uncle? Is he come home? Is there any news of the hunt?”
The corners of Daffy’s mouth pulled down. She said scornfully, “That slipperyshanks come back.”
Penelope lowered the crumpet and stared at the abigail with frightened eyes. “Captain Otton? Alone?”
Daffy nodded. “The master sent him back to bring his man and his clothes. They been a’scurrying and flapping about this hour and more. One might think his lordship was going away for a year!”
“Would that he were! But—why does he not come home?”
“Mr. Hargrave says he heard the Captain tell my lady as they’re hot on the trail of the rebel.” Daffy giggled and added saucily, “I don’t rightly see how that can be, Miss Penny, being as he’s right here in your bedchamber.”
It was very probable, reasoned Penelope, that her uncle in his arrogance had chanced upon the trail of some quite innocent traveller and was hunting the wrong man. Poor Uncle Joseph! She smiled into her teacup, finished her breakfast and very soon afterwards, washed and dressed, was seated before her mirror, looking at Daffy’s reflected frown and echoing, “What won’t do?”
“You, miss. Only look at yourself.”
Penelope did so. Her thick hair was neatly pinned up, and she did not appear to have thrown out a spot during the night. Everything seemed as it should be. She said questioningly, “I—do not see…?”
“You mayn’t, miss. But she will. Any woman would.” Daffy glanced to the dressing room.
A blush crept up Penelope’s throat. Her gaze returned to the mirror, and she surveyed the whole rather than the various parts. She discovered a girl who glowed with happiness, whose cheeks were becomingly pink, and whose eyes sparkled joyously. She stammered, “I—er, do not look ill—is that it?”
Daffy folded her arms and pursed her lips judicially.
Penelope said, desperate, “I know you—do not approve of all this, Daffy.”
“No, miss. I doesn’t. For your sake.”
“But—you said—I mean, I thought you were willing to help the Major.”
“I was.” Daffy sighed. “But—I didn’t think, then—”
Penelope swung around. “You wouldn’t betray him?” she cried imploringly. “Please stand by us, Daffy. Please!”
Distressed, Daffy clasped her outstretched hand. “You do know as I’d do anything for you, miss. Anything!”
Penelope jumped up and hugged her. “Thank you, my dear faithful friend. Now—tell me what I must do? Shall I paint my face so as to be pale?”
“Not you, miss. Me. I’ll go and get some things.” Daffy hurried out, to return very shortly carrying some tablecloths, ostensibly to be mended, from amongst which she unearthed sundry pots, bottles, and brushes. She wrapped a sheet around her young mistress, tilted up her face, and set to work with such confidence that Penelope said an astonished, “Why—I have never seen you use—”
“Mustn’t talk, if you please, miss. Be so still as you can.” And Daffy resumed her task, delicately wielding brush and pencil and hare’s-foot until at length she drew back, scrutinized her handiwork, and nodded. “That’ll do, I think.”
Penelope turned eagerly to the mirror and gave a gasp. The glowing girl had vanished, and in her place was a sickly-looking young woman with a bright pink nose, deathly pale face, and darkly shadowed eyes. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “However did you manage it? I look positively ill.”
Daffy blushed with pleasure. “I used to work for a—a actress, once. I was fair took aback when I first watched her change her face, but after a bit I began to help her. She—she said I’d a real knack for it.”
“You have, indeed! But how comes it about that I did not know you’d worked for an actress? Is she famous? Would I know her?”
“Oh, no, miss. She’s—er, she’s dead these five years. I didn’t speak about it ’cause—well, me mum didn’t approve of me situation with her. Nor I didn’t, neither. ’Cept, she paid very well, and—” perturbed, she said in a rush, “oh, miss—I hopes as ye won’t think bad of me now?”
“Bad of you! I think it splendid!” Penelope stood, removing the sheet. She glanced towards the dressing room, hesitating, knowing she should delay no longer in putting in an appearance downstairs.
Daffy said, “I think Corporal Robert Killiam’s shaving him, miss.”
“Oh,” said Penelope. “Well—into the fray! Wish me luck.”
Daffy did so and ran to open the door. She ventured to give her mistress an encouraging little pat on the back as Penelope stepped into the hall but, having closed the door, she leaned against it, her own words coming back to her. “I’d do anything for you, miss. Anything!” She muttered, “And there’s not nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you from being hurt, neither!”
* * *
“Not now, Sybil!” There was a hint of irritation in Captain Otton’s voice as he removed my lady’s little hands and did up the buttons she had so eagerly unfastened.
She flounced to the window seat of her boudoir and sat there pouting. “You said you wished to talk to me.”
“Exactly so.” Straightening his laces, he laughed suddenly. “I meant—talk, believe it or not.”
“Pon rep! Something new, Roly. You are becoming staid. Perhaps you and Penelope will suit, after all.”
She was jealous. Amused, he said, “Our proud maiden is far from staid. Her blacks make her look dowdy, but—Gad! You should’ve seen her when she pleaded with me for Chandler. There was passion, my Sybil. Deep and fiery and … pure.”
“Passion!” My lady sprang to her feet, flushed with anger. “The chit despises you! Besides which she is untouched. What does she know of passion? Any more than you know of purity?”
He bowed low. “Touché! But—it will be jolly to teach her what I do know.”
She gave a little squeak of rage and flew at him, clawing for his face. Laughing, he caught those dainty wrists, swung her to him and kissed her long and deeply. When he lifted his head she lay lax against him, her eyes closed.
“None of which,” he murmured, very aware of how his cards must be played, “has anything to do with our delightful, ah … liaison, m’dear.”
My lady leaned back her golden head and blinked languorously up at him. “Devil!”
He chuckled and held her at arm’s length. “Now you must listen, for this is of an urgency, Sybil—for all of us.” He led her to the window seat, sat beside
her and went on in serious fashion, “Delavale fancies us hot on the trail of our valuable rebel, and—”
“And you do not?” She pulled away, her great eyes wide and scared. “Does Joseph follow a false trail, then? I might have guessed it. They are clever, those Chandlers. I met the father and the elder brother once at a soirée. They engaged in a quoting match or some such thing with that dandy Thaddeus Briley and—oh, I forget who else. I was bored to death, but Boudreaux thought them very well-read, so—”
“Boudreaux?” Otton intervened sharply. “Lord Boudreaux?”
She nodded and, with a flutter of lashes and a pert shrug, said, “He was—very interested in me at one time, you should know.”
“Boudreaux was?”
The note of incredulity in his voice brought a spark to my lady’s eyes. “You find that remarkable, perhaps?”
“I find it remarkable you did not snag him! He has half the money in the world, so they say.”
She made a little moue. “How vulgar you are. But—yes, I could have had him save for that wretched de Villars, who took a maggot in his head and turned his uncle against me, may he rot!”
The last three words were ground out between gnashing little pearly teeth, but although the inference was obvious, Otton did not tease her this time. “I’ve had a few brushes with de Villars myself,” he said thoughtfully. “A very nasty customer. But never mind that now—the thing is that if we do corner our man, we’ll likely not haul him back here, so it’s possible we shall be gone for some days. If I know Chandler, he’ll be hard to break.” He paused and muttered, “Poor devil.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Sybil. “Pity? From you? Will wonders never cease?”
His mouth hardened. He threw her an angry glance, but said only, “The whole damned countryside’s up. It’s very obvious we’re not the only ones who know this fugitive is worth his weight in gold.”
“You m-mean,” she faltered, “they may seek him … here?”
“It is apparently known he came this way.” He took her hand and went on intently, “You must receive any callers yourself, and instruct the servants they are to give out no information at all.”
“But—what shall I say?”
“That your husband and many of his people are hunting a traitor who was said to have been seen in these parts. Try, if you can, to ensure that no one discovers Chandler was inside the house. Especially if his kinfolks should come nosing around.”
“They would not dare! Their estates—including that magnificent place in Kent—would be forfeit if they were thought to be Jacobite sympathizers.” Curious, she asked, “Are they, Roland?”
“I rather doubt it. Quentin is the hothead. Gordon’s a real sobersides; the type never to have done a foolish thing in all his days. But—there’s a fondness, I believe, between them. Gordon may come, so—be careful.”
My lady nodded but with reluctance. “Oh, how horrid it all is! And with Joseph’s wooden head we’re liable to end in a pretty mess.”
He patted her hand. “Or rich, my pretty. Enormously rich, for there’s enough to ensure each of us a life of luxury for the rest of our days.” She looked at him, her eyes shining at the thought of such a glorious future, and he smiled and added, “Worth the spilling of a little blood—eh?”
The glow faded from her eyes. She said with a trace of unease, “So long as it is not mine!”
* * *
Penelope went drearily about her appointed tasks, sneezing at an alarmed Mrs. King as she conferred with the housekeeper regarding the week’s menus, sniffing through an interview with the silversmith who called to offer an estimate on repairs to the large epergne that had been dropped by a drunken footman, and succeeding in generally wheezing, coughing, and choking back sighs in so doleful a fashion that twice she saw parlour-maids turn aside into nearby rooms rather than encounter her in the hall.
At half-past one o’clock, she started down to the stables to look at Missy. The mare had been thoroughly soaked yesterday. Cole would take care of her, of course. Thank heaven they still had Cole. The tall, stooped, elderly man was as knowledgeable as he was devoted and had stayed on through all the changes at the main house, even Joseph having sufficient sense not to upset such a jewel of a groom.
“Good afternoon, m’dear.”
Her heart lurched with fright. Even as she spun around, her elbow was seized and she was swept breast to breast with Roland Otton.
“Alas, you look not in the height of bloom this morning,” he said, his black eyes gleaming as he bent over her. “Never say you hold a grudge because I sided with your uncle yesterday. One has to know on which side one’s bread is buttered. And with a wife to support, I—”
“Sided with him?” she interpolated, her heart hammering but her scorn fierce. “I would say you aided and abetted him, rather! How proud you must have been, Captain Otton, to watch him burn and torment a wounded man! Faith, one can but admire such valour!”
He stiffened, then crushed her closer, his arms iron bands about her shapeliness. “You’ve a naughty mouth,” he murmured. “I shall silence it.”
His lips parted, his head lowered. Expecting a desperate struggle, Otton noted only that his captive was breathing oddly.
In the second before he claimed her unwilling mouth, Penelope sneezed with all her might, her head coming into sharp but gratifying contact with his front teeth.
He swore and released her, stepping back to clap handkerchief to lips. “By Jupiter—” he began, furious, but muffled.
Penelope sneezed again, snatched the handkerchief and blew her nose with a great noise, pinching her nostrils so hard that her eyes watered realistically. “I seeb to hab caught a liddle cold,” she gasped, mopping at her tears.
“So you do.” He took another step backwards.
With horror, Penelope saw that her efforts had left pink and black stains on the handkerchief. “Oh, dear. I’b afraid by dose is bleedi’g, just a little,” she lied. “Here you are.” She proffered the violated handkerchief. “Thag you very buch.”
“No, no. You keep it.” He smiled without much enthusiasm since his lips were starting to swell. “My betrothal gift.”
Penelope swept into a low curtsey, saw the glitter in his eyes and, even as she rose, sneezed again. It was a magnificent sneeze, but she had acted too well; her hair came loose and fell in a thick cloak about her shoulders.
Intrigued, Otton caught a silken strand and twined it about his finger. “I never knew you had such glorious hair.…”
Penelope stood very still, her eyes watchful above the handkerchief.
“What a pity I must leave.…” He sighed, and allowed the captive strand to slip through his fingers. “Oh, well, the time will pass quickly enough, I fancy, and then I’ll come riding home to claim my—eager bride.”
“Sooner,” Penelope murmured sweetly, “would I be dead.”
“Easily said, m’dear. But do you not keep your pretty mouth still regarding what transpired here last evening—your wish may be granted right speedily. And we all may be dead!” He bowed. “Think on it, beloved. Adieu.”
Despite her aversion to the man, his words haunted Penelope as she made her way back to the house half an hour later. Nothing would have induced her to have acted differently with regard to Quentin. Her worry was not that his presence constituted a deadly threat, but that he might not survive his wound and the brutal handling he had endured. Nonetheless, she was not so selfish as to ignore the fact that others were involved. Her decision to shelter him did indeed bring the shadow of axe and block over Highview, and even if she argued that her unprincipled uncle had brought the situation about and that his wife was little better, there was Daffy to be considered. The faithful abigail was guiltless, and if she should be arrested … Penelope shivered and blotted out the ghastly spectres that sprang to mind. If the unthinkable did happen, she would swear that Daffy had been unaware of the presence of the rebel. And if the judge should demand to know how a maidservant could poss
ibly be ignorant of the fact that two strange men were occupying her mistress’s dressing room, it could be explained that Penelope had kept her away by professing to have contracted some highly contagious— She had opened the side door to the house, and her reverie was interrupted as, from somewhere close by, a feminine voice was upraised in complaint.
The worthy housekeeper—Mrs. King. And the complaint was, it would seem, directed to her ladyship. Penelope entered the hall, tiptoed to the point at which it turned into the main entrance, and stood there, out of sight, listening unashamedly.
“—filthy creature, ma’am. And likely et up with fleas and vermin. I’ve told and told the girl to get rid of it, but all she’ll say is Miss Penelope give her leave.”
“I’ll own I do not care for birds,” replied Sybil, impatience in her tone. “But I really fail to see why Brooks’s canary should create such havoc. Heaven knows, the master and I have enough to worry us without fussing about a small pet.”
“But it is horridly dirty, ma’am,” argued the housekeeper in the whine that so irritated Penelope. “Throws its food and its—er, other things—all over the place. To say nothing of the diseases it likely spreads. They do say—”
“Diseases? Faith, I never thought of that! Yes, yes—you are perfectly right. Tell the girl to get rid of the pest. Oh, and before my husband’s man leaves, send him up to my sitting room.”
The housekeeper murmured a humble acknowledgement, and Penelope heard the jingle of her keys as she hurried away. Triumphant. Horrid creature! Well, Daffy should not have to part with Jasper. How much trouble could a tiny canary cause? The poor girl had little enough of joy in her life, and she loved that silly bird devotedly. Penelope peeped around the corner. She saw the departing flutter of the black gown as Mrs. King hurried towards the back stairs. Lady Sybil stood looking down at something she held, then she walked along the hall and entered the breakfast parlour. There was something almost furtive in her manner, and why in the world would she go in there at this hour? Whatever the reason, however, such a move fitted very well into Penelope’s schemes. She followed, treading as softly as possible. When she drew level with the door, she discovered her aunt, standing by the far window, engrossed in reading a rather battered document. Penelope walked in, edged as close as she dared, then emitted one of her best sneezes. She had become rather good at it, she thought, and the result was shattering.
Practice to Deceive Page 8