‘Jasper, you little beast!’ thought Penelope, terrified.
“Only listen,” said my lady, her voice throbbing with emotion. “Only listen to the dear birdie!”
In the shrubs, Daffy dealt the dear birdie’s cage a sharp rap which effectively put a stop to his ill-timed serenade. She threw on her cloak, striving to conceal as much as possible of her burden beneath it, and retreated to the south door.
Having stepped gracefully into the entrance hall meanwhile, Lady Sybil sent one lackey running for Hargrave and another for Mrs. King. When those retainers arrived, they were notified that Sir John Macauley Somerville, one of my lord’s distinguished relations, was to be shown at once to the best guest chamber, and a bed installed in his dressing room so that his man could remain close by. A lackey was despatched to arrange suitable accommodations for his cattle and servants. Her invitation that Sir John join her dinner guests having been politely refused, my lady sank into a stately curtsey.
“You will honour us, Sir John,” she cooed, “if you treat this house as your own. Should you desire anything, you have only to pull your bellrope and my servants will wait upon you.”
‘Sir John’ responded appropriately. My lady desired Penelope to ensure all was as she herself would have wanted because he was her great-uncle, after all, and having wished her new guest a sweet good night, she rustled off to rejoin the guests she neglected.
She was smiling as she entered the drawing room. It had not been her dear husband whose coach she had fancied to have heard, she told them. It had instead been one of Joseph’s kinsmen. An emissary, in fact, of Sir Andrew Somerville—of whose exploits everybody knew. She perceived that her guests were impressed and when one of them asked dutifully just what it might be that Sir John was ‘emissary-ing,’ Sybil answered with a delicious shiver that he stood very high in government circles, and that his task had to do with “these wretched traitors in our midst.” The explanation would, she thought, please her husband, for if a Jacobite hunter stayed at Highview, no one could suspect anything underhanded of being conducted here.
The guests exchanged sober glances. Sybil all but purred as she seated herself amongst them. Behind her gracious smile and her easy chatter, she was titillated. The gown she wore tonight was very décolleté. When she’d sunk into her curtsey, the old gentleman’s eyes had lingered with appreciation upon the view that she was aware revealed most of her breasts. Sir John was quite decrepit, but in his younger days he must have been a very well-featured man. A harmless flirtation with him would help pass the time until Roland came back, and it might brighten the poor old fellow’s dull existence for a day or two.…
* * *
“A day or two!” Penelope uttered an unladylike and irate snort. “Do you not comprehend, Don Quixote, that in a day or two my gentle uncle will return? What shall you do then?”
Lying full length upon the bed, one arm behind his head, Quentin answered with a slow smile, “Be gone, I trust. But—until then…” He laughed softly. “Gad, Penelope Anne—can you not see the lovely irony of it? Here I lie, an honoured guest in the home of the man who without a soupçon of conscience planned to torture me to death. The man who, even now, scours the countryside for my valuable head, so as to stick it on a pike! And while he stamps and searches, suffering innumerable inconveniences and privations and furies, here am I, regaining my strength in pampered comfort. Fairly wallowing in luxury; eating his food, drinking his wine, and consorting with his family.” He chuckled and quoted, “‘We need greater virtues to bear good fortune than bad.…’”
There was a glint in his eyes Penelope did not at all like. She said crossly, “Good God, Quentin! You gloat like a naughty little boy. Are you forgetting that my uncle spent much time with you? He’ll not be fooled by a wig and a few bits of paint and cotton!”
“True. But never mind about that.” He sobered, and sat up, watching her with a frown. “What’s to happen to you if they discover you aided and abetted me in deception?”
“You should’ve thought of that, sir,” the Corporal pointed out bodingly, “afore you had such a lovely time making up Sir John Somerville.”
“Damn you—you’re right,” Quentin said wryly. “At the time, it was all I could come up with, but I see now that Rob’s come at the root of it, for I’ve dragged you into my masquerade, poor lass.”
“What stuff,” she exclaimed, at once on the defensive for him. “I had jumped from the carriage steps. One shout from you and the coachman would have been well away before my aunt could have sent the soldiers after you.”
His thick lashes lowered. “But surely you must know I could not leave once I’d glimpsed that incomparable golden-haired witchery.…”
Penelope glared at him, saw the quirk at the side of his wide mouth, and said, “Wretched creature! I vow you’re as much a tease as ever you were! You did not leave because they’d have known then that you were going, not coming. And that I had helped you.”
“Lor’!” exclaimed the Corporal, pausing as he hung up a fine green velvet coat with broad, pleated skirts. “I’d not thought o’ that. They’d have had you off to the axe in no time, miss!”
The harsh reality of it all suddenly overwhelmed Penelope. She turned quickly to the window, but Quentin had seen her lips tremble, and he was off the bed and striding after her.
She was swung around. The brilliant eyes were smiling down at her. He swept her into a tight, consoling hug. Tears blinded her as a long, gentle hand stroked her hair. “Do you fancy I’d allow them to harm one hair of this funny, untidy little head?” he said.
At once irritated, she pulled away and stood with her back turned.
“Easy enough to say, sir,” Killiam grunted. “But after we’re gone it’s liable to go cruel hard with Miss Penelope. Like as not they’ll blame her for the whole and charge her with treason before you can say—”
With sudden and rare fury, Quentin rounded on him. “Blast your eyes! Do you never say anything cheerful? ’Fore God, but I’d be better off alone than listening to you moan and whine day and night! If you are so damnably out of curl, why in hell do you not take yourself off and cast your gloom over some other unlucky fellow?”
His eyes a green blaze in his white face, he glared at Killiam, who bowed his head and stood in silence with the air of a faithful dog inexplicably kicked by his god.
Her heart wrung, Penelope protested, “No, how can you talk to him so, when he has been so very good and loyal to you?” She turned to the stricken Corporal. “Major Chandler is very tired, you know. He did not mean—”
“By your leave, ma’am,” snapped Quentin, “I’ll make my own apologies.” He stepped closer to the Corporal, who continued to gaze down at the carpet in abject misery, and said in a contrite voice, “I should be flogged for speaking so, after all you have done, old friend.”
His head still bowed, the Corporal gulped, “Not your fault, sir. I—I’m sure I dunno how you put up with all me miseries. Only…” He lifted pleading eyes. “I allus sort of thought as ye knowed I didn’t mean nothing by it. It’s—just my silly, stupid way. Can’t help it.…” His gaze flashed to Penelope, who had walked over to straighten the bed, her back to the two men. With a small gesture towards her, Killiam mumbled, “I know why you was so provoked, but—”
“There was no cause for me to lose my temper.” Quentin clapped a hand on the Corporal’s drooping shoulder and added with his warm and endearing smile, “I ask your pardon, Rob.”
The Corporal said nothing, only he reached up to cover those thin fingers with his own strong clasp.
Fighting tears, Penelope plumped up the pillows. It was silly to be so hurt because he had used that harsh tone with her. He was still very much the invalid and under normal circumstances would have been confined to his bed for several more days at least, before venturing a few steps, much less coping with the exhausting events of this day. It came into her mind that had Geoffrey dealt her such a scold, she would have taken not the least of
fence. ‘But Geoff loved me,’ she thought, ‘and he was my brother.’ A sly inner voice taunted, ‘Which is exactly how Quentin Chandler thinks of you, foolish chit! As your fond but careless brother.’ Love, she reflected sadly, was a painful business when it was so one-sided.…
She turned from the bed and, trying to keep her voice calm and dispassionate like the bloodless creature he evidently supposed her to be, said, “I suppose this contretemps may have one redeeming feature—it will give you another day in which to rest, Major.”
Penelope Anne Montgomery was not noted for the infallibility of her predictions.
Lady Sybil lost no time next morning. A note was delivered with Quentin’s cup of hot chocolate, inviting him to join her at ten o’clock in the breakfast parlour. This presented a problem. His ‘age’ must be reapplied and, although Daffy, who had brought the chocolate, was able to commence her task at once, it was not a speedy process. When at last she was finished, it was a scramble to don Sir Hector’s clothes and a freshly ironed wig, and Quentin was already late when he proceeded cautiously down the stairs.
Clad in a naughty pink silk gown, Lady Sybil waved away his apologies and greeted him warmly. Rather too warmly, he thought uneasily, meeting the flirtatious look she bestowed on him after he kissed her hand.
My lady’s coquettishness vanished when Penelope joined them. She could see that her niece was shocked because she’d not gone into her blacks again, and she became rather irritable. It very soon dawned on her, however, that Penelope, with her pale face, mousy hair, and quiet manners, presented a delightfully dowdy contrast to her own blooming beauty, and she cheered up enormously.
“I mean to take your great-uncle for a drive, dear Penelope,” she declared. “It must be many years since you visited the estate, Sir John. I fancy you will enjoy to see it again.”
Her long eyelashes were fluttering at him, and he assured her politely that he would enjoy it excessively, but his heart sank. In a hundred ways she could trip him, for actually he knew very little of the Montgomerys. With a distinct shock he realized that he didn’t even know what Lady Hector’s Christian name had been. Sybil prattled on, and he responded appropriately. When the opportunity arose, he slanted a desperate glance at Penelope. She interpreted that silent plea correctly, but when she attempted to accompany him upstairs she was foiled. It was my lady who offered her arm to “dear Sir John,” and my lady who walked with him to his bedchamber door, so that it was not until a few minutes later that Penelope was able to slip in and join him.
She found him looking very distinguished in a green coat and a handsome white waistcoat embroidered with green fleurs-de-lis. He was most apprehensive, however, and begged that she tell him as much as possible of her late mother. “For I dread lest I betray us all by my lack of knowledge.”
Penelope rather doubted that her aunt meant to discuss family matters, but she did all she might to help, providing pieces of information that someone in “Sir John’s” position might be expected to know and describing various relations until Quentin groaned that he would never be able to remember them all.
“Never worry so,” she said as she walked with him to the door. “Just remember that my mama’s name was Margaret, she was held to be very beautiful, and they called her Meg. You told Sybil that your mother was great-aunt to mine. What was her name?”
“Margaret,” he said promptly, and added a pleased, “sometimes Meg.”
“No, no. I mean your—Sir John’s—mama.”
He clutched at his wig. “Oh, egad! She’ll have to have a name, too, will she? Very well—er, Petrouchka. I’ll not forget that one.”
“Nor she believe it! Quentin—do be serious!”
His eyes slanted an emerald twinkle at her. “Catherine, then. Better?”
“Very nice. But you must remember it. Your mama was Catherine Macauley.”
“Where’d you get the Macauley? Whoops! It’s my middle name. I’d forgot.”
“Good God! Now—listen.… You are Sir John Macauley Somerville. Your mother was Catherine Macauley, and she was great-aunt to my mama who was…?”
“Margaret.” He beamed at her proudly.
“Correct. And your brother…?”
He stared blankly. “Brother…?”
It was Penelope’s turn to tear her hair. “Your famous brother, Quentin. Sir Andrew. The one who sent you here!”
“Heaven help us all,” groaned Sir John Macauley Somerville.
That small prayer was to remain in Penelope’s thoughts for the rest of that long morning. She performed a few household duties, but excused herself from staying downstairs after one o’clock, on the grounds that she still felt rather pulled after her bad cold. Truth to tell, she was as nervous as a cat and, once upstairs, she closed her door and flew to the window, scanning the drive in vain for a glimpse of the returning carriage.
She knelt in the window seat, knowing it was senseless to worry so. Quentin was not on top of his form, but he was an intelligent man. He’d go along famously and probably charm Sybil out of any suspicions she might hold. She would very likely find him handsome despite his ‘years’ and flirt with him even though he might have one foot in the grave. Penelope scowled and went to the press to look over the gowns she’d had packed away for the past year and a half. She must be ready with her new plan whenever the chance might offer … and there was not much time.
* * *
“But we have lots of time, dear—cousin.” Lady Sybil edged a tiny bit closer to the old gentleman. They had left the carriage and wandered through a pleasant copse of trees before sitting here on the wall that divided the south meadow from the park. It was a low wall, but she’d convinced Sir John that she must be lifted onto it. He had seemed breathless when he’d perched beside her, but the hands that had encompassed her tiny waist had been deliciously strong, despite his age. On this sunny morning, my lady had worn a full-skirted gown of blue and violet floral silk. The neckline, swooping very low, was edged with tiny pleats of lace. Her hair was powdered and pulled high on her head to fall in thick ringlets onto her creamy shoulders. She knew she looked very well, and she pouted and went on, “Lud, but one would think you anxious to leave us. And here am poor I”—she leaned to him coyly—“so lonely for the company of a gentleman now that my husband has gone from me.”
“About the King’s business, I understand,” said Quentin, unpleasantly aware that he should have pleaded age and infirmity rather than swinging the lady onto this blasted wall. “You must miss him sadly, poor child.”
“Child, is it?” Playfully, she rapped her fan on his knee. “I doubt that very many years separate us, dear sir. Nor…” She spread the fan again and held it just below her big eyes. “Nor do I fancy you so very feeble.”
“Why—at my age, you know, one has to be—”
Entranced by his smile, she leaned closer, whispering, “Careful?”
Her ripe lips were parted as she lowered and folded her fan. Delicate, blue-veined lids drooped provocatively over those great brown eyes. And her bodice, what there was of it, was sagging so that one might easily—
Quentin recovered himself with an effort and drew back. “I was—going to say,” he stammered, “that—that one has to remember we are—related, ma’am. And I a—very old fellow. Not up to your—er, playfulness, my pretty.”
“How is it, I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “that your face may be just a trifle—middle-aged, let us say. And yet your eyes are so very…”
He stiffened. “Very—what, ma’am?”
She giggled. “I’ll not flatter you, you rogue. Tell me of Peggy. What was she like? I never knew her.”
‘Peggy…’ he thought desperately. ‘Who the deuce is Peggy?’
His hesitation was noted and the obvious interpretation placed upon it. “Penelope’s poor mama,” my lady prompted. “Joseph always called her Peggy. She was a beauty, he said, so she could not have resembled my niece who is so plain as any pikestaff.” His frown and the slight l
ifting of his chin warned her, and she amended, “Not that she ain’t a good enough gel—in her way.”
“A very good girl, indeed,” said Quentin austerely. “But I fancy you are correct, my lady. Margaret did have a look of young Geoff about her, now that you mention it. Especially about the—ah, eyes, y’know.”
“What a memory! Why, she must have been gone these … how many years?”
‘Good God!’ thought Quentin. “Now—er, let me see,” he muttered.
With a sudden trill of laughter, she leaned to him. “See what, you naughty boy?”
Her white, rounded bosom was scant inches beneath his chin. He thought faintly, ‘I am a … sick old man…’ and clung to the wall, answering threadily, “I … forget.”
Edging ever nearer, she murmured, “Not—everything, I trust?”
‘Help!’ thought Quentin.
Sybil stretched up to place a moist kiss upon his chin. “My goodness,” she said, peering at him curiously. “You do use a lot of paint, dear sir. I wonder it—”
Quentin fairly leapt from the wall. Flung off balance, my lady squealed and tumbled. He grabbed for her instinctively, then gritted his teeth, reeling and sickened by the resultant stab of pain.
Sybil gripped at his arm to steady herself, then gripped tighter, laughing provocatively. It was either free himself or fall at her feet. He thrust her away and, to cover the fact that the landscape wavered before his eyes and that Sybil herself was a blur, he croaked, “Madam, I remind you that I am kin to your husband, and a guest in his home.”
Enraged, Sybil drew herself up. “How—dare you! Be assured that I—” But she did not finish her threat. The old gentleman’s eyes were positively glazed, and tiny drops of perspiration trickled down his temples. With a little cry of admiration, she flung herself into his unready arms. “What iron control,” she breathed huskily. “Do you think I do not see how you desire me? Dear, foolish fool. I knew the moment you arrived that you were a wicked rogue. And I have ever … loved a rogue. So—you may have just one little kiss, my poor gallant gentleman.”
Practice to Deceive Page 14