Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  Quentin was still noisily asleep. Penelope reached out to alert him, then paused. Those snores seemed to enhance the image of an older man. She straightened his wig carefully and tucked away a few more betraying strands of his bright hair, then composed herself to wait, rehearsing what she must say to these soldiers.

  Her pulse began to race as the door was swung open and a tall, cold-eyed officer ran a frigid glance around the interior. His dark gaze lingered on Quentin’s sprawled figure for a few seconds, then he turned his attention to Penelope, saluting her with chill politeness.

  “Oh, Colonel,” she cried in a nervous voice, “whatever is it? My uncle and I are in a very great hurry to reach Town, on an urgent family matter. Whyever must you stop us?”

  “For nothing that need worry you, I suspect, ma’am,” he replied, his tone as cold as those hard, dark eyes. “Nor am I a Colonel. As yet. Though I thank you for the promotion.”

  Penelope smiled. She had a frank and winning smile, and the officer’s expression warmed a little. “Major…?” she said, looking uncertainly at his epaulettes.

  “Major it is, ma’am. Fotheringay. Mariner Fotheringay.”

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, before she could stop herself.

  He laughed outright, and Quentin stirred, mumbled incoherently and was still again.

  “Dreadful, I know,” said the Major, unknowingly becoming the second man that day to apologize to her because of a disliked name.

  “Well, it may be a trial to you now,” she said. “But only think—when you are famous, everyone will find General Mariner Fotheringay a splendidly high-sounding name.”

  This cold hunter was not, it seemed, proof against flattery. Grinning broadly, he thanked her, enquired as to her identity, whither in Town they were bound, and from whence they had come, then glanced at Quentin as another cacophonous snore rent the air.

  Awed, he said, “Good Gad! Your uncle is a prodigious explosive sleeper, Miss Martin.”

  “And with an even more explosive disposition, Major. Would you wish that I wake him?”

  He hesitated. “Has he slept the entire time, ma’am, I fancy you can answer my questions well enough. We seek an escaped Jacobite. A very desperate rogue who would cut your lovely throat as soon as look at you.” Being interrupted by a violent and prolonged outburst, he was obliged to pause, and then went on in a softer voice, “Have you noted anything suspicious along your way? A beggar or tramp, perhaps. Tall, thin, aged about thirty or thirty-five. Reddish hair and likely in very poor condition.”

  Penelope’s hands were icy cold. She knit her brows and said thoughtfully, “We did pass some men skulking along in the ditch about five or ten miles back. But—although I recollect that one was quite tall and thin, I could not vouch for the colour of his hair, for he wore a hat.”

  “About five or ten miles back, you say?” His eyes narrowed. “That would be just this side of Blenheim, if you have kept to this road?”

  She said they had. The Major stepped back and closed the door, calling to her as she opened the window, “I’d caution you against stopping if any man begs for food, ma’am. We know our rebel came southwards, and we’re warned he may now head east for Town and try to lose himself there. Have a care, Miss Martin, and a safe journey to you.”

  His eyes quite friendly, he waved the coach on, saluted again, and was lost to sight as the vehicle creaked and swayed and rumbled forward.

  Limp with relief, Penelope glanced at Quentin. He was watching her, looking disgruntled.

  “Five and thirty, eh?” he grumbled. “Now damn his eyes.”

  “So you were not asleep.”

  “I was until I awoke to find I was betrayed by my undisciplined nose.” He grinned wryly. “You should have woken me, Penelope Anne.”

  “Your noisy slumbers seemed to verify your extreme age, dear sir,” she said with a rather tremulous smile.

  “Wretched girl! I’ve been plagued thus since a villain broke my nose for me a year or so ago.” He was silent for a moment. “A fine cutthroat they paint me.…”

  His lips were tight, an unfamiliar bitterness in his eyes.

  Penelope said soothingly, “Naturally enough, they seek to frighten people into giving you away.”

  “How well I know it. Next time we’re stopped we must endeavour to discover how much this empty head of mine is now worth. The more valuable it becomes, the more hazardous our journey.”

  Penelope pressed his hand. “Do not speak so, I beg. In only a few more days you will be safely at Lac Brillant, and—”

  “Lac Brillant! God forbid! You never think I mean to go there?”

  Bewildered, she said, “But surely your brother and your father will be—”

  “My father?” He laughed rather wildly. “I thought you knew— No, of course, how could you? The dear old fellow is far from well. The shock would not help his health, you may be sure.”

  “Good heavens! Do you say he doesn’t know you fought for Prince Charles?”

  “I say precisely that. Nor, I pray, will he ever know. Frail he may be, but—he’d have my liver out!”

  “How on earth did you keep it from him?”

  “I fought under another name. My brother knew, of course. Gordon and I keep few secrets from each other. But my father … Jupiter! I shudder to think of his reaction did he learn what would be to him of all things most repugnant. He is fiercely loyal to the crown.” He said with a cynical laugh, “No matter how unfit the man who wears it.”

  Penelope’s thoughts drifted to her brother and his firm convictions of the unwisdom of the Scots Prince. What would Geoff think of her alliance with this man who might have faced him on the field of battle? Who might even— She thrust away that hideous conjecture. Geoff had been deeply fond of Quentin. However he may have despised the Jacobite cause, he would certainly have raged against the present savage persecution of the survivors.

  The carriage rolled steadily on through the rainy afternoon. The wheels sang a sharper song as they rattled over a bridge. They were following the Cherwell, the countryside rich and green, and cottages and farmhouses becoming more numerous. Penelope was absently aware of thatched roofs, whitewashed walls and neat gardens; of the distant loom of the graceful spires of the venerable city. She turned troubled eyes to Quentin. He was looking out of the window also, his face stern.

  She asked gently, “Where do you mean to go?”

  His bright grin flashed at her. “To London Town,” he answered. “To deposit you in the loving arms of your Aunt Mary.”

  “And—then?”

  “First, to deliver my message. After that—elsewhere. Now, never look so anxious, dear girl. I’ve friends who will help me to take ship, since, however I may love her, old England, it would seem, can do without me.”

  His smile was unwavering, but she sensed the desolation behind the cheerful words, and she put her hand on his arm sympathetically. He stared down at her hand in silence. “Have you funds?” she asked.

  “My brother will provide some—along the way. But how very kind of you to enquire, Penelope Anne.”

  “Will he bring sufficient? I have—” She thought of Mama’s pearls with a pang, but went on resolutely, “I can help a little.”

  The thick white brows lifted haughtily, the proud chin tossed upwards, seeing which, she added a hurried, “Just a loan, you understand. I shall expect to be repaid—with interest.”

  He chuckled, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Truly, I am fortunate in those—in my friends. But Gordon sent a very full purse along with the Flying Dutchman, and I shall manage very well, I assure you. Now—what of this niece of mine? Shall your Aunt Mary be willing to house you on an indefinite basis? Will she stand up to your uncle should he demand that you return to Highview?”

  The thought of pale, shy little Aunt Mary standing up to anyone was laughable. And her son, cousin Donald, was a fine figure of a man but—as Geoff had been used to remark—all show and no go. Uncle Joseph would only have t
o bellow at him once, and Donald would suddenly recall an urgent matter of business and take himself off, leaving the women to handle things as best they might.

  Some of these thoughts must have shown in her face, because Quentin tightened his hold on her hand and asked, “Will he compel you to go back?”

  She replied slowly, “He wants me to marry Roland Otton.”

  “As if you would!” He laughed. “Much chance that greedy hound has with you. I’d sooner— Oh, damme! Not again?”

  There was a barricade across the road ahead, and once more they were stopped and the carriage searched, although this time the sergeant in charge of the troopers was of a different mold to Major Mariner Fotheringay and recoiled from the wrath of ‘Mr. Martin.’

  Resuming their journey at last, they did not stop again until they reached High Wycombe, where Quentin decided to rest the horses and take luncheon. Dutch Coachman pulled in to the yard of a pleasant inn called The Golden Goose, and they were at once surrounded by shouting ostlers. The host, a small, slightly built, nervous individual, welcomed them excessively, his delight increasing when he saw the second carriage turn into his yard. Penelope was shown to a cosy little bedchamber and Daffy hurried upstairs after her, bringing Jasper, who was, she declared, frightened out of his feathery little wits. No sooner were his covers removed, however, than the canary let out a shrilling flood of sound that could only be interpreted as rage, and proceeded to rush madly about his cage, flapping his wings and pausing frequently to scratch with much vigour so that birdseed and etcetera flew in all directions.

  The two girls looked at each other and broke into a laugh.

  “He is really vexed with us,” said Penelope.

  “Ar, miss. Well,” said Daffy, going to the door to accept a large travelling bag from a maid and deposit it on the bed, “if we be getting a fine scold from little Jasper, you may be sure the Major’s getting a finer one from Corporal Robert Killiam. Shall you wish to change your gown?”

  “I think not.” Penelope sighed. “I only wish I had some nice scent to wear.”

  “Never you fret about that, Miss Penny.” From a rolled towel tucked carefully into a corner of the bag, Daffy produced a silver-chased little bottle and flourished it triumphantly.

  “Plaisir d’Amour!” gasped Penelope. “My heavens! That is Lady Sybil’s!”

  “She’ll never miss it,” Daffy said nonchalantly. “Twenty bottles of scent has my lady on her dressing table, and this one never used because she says it don’t please ‘the gentlemen.’ Roland Otton isn’t no gentleman was you to ask me!”

  “Oh—Daffy,” said Penelope, dismayed, but eyeing the little bottle longingly, “you could be transported!”

  “Oooh!” Daffy snatched for her apron, discovered she was not wearing it, and faltered, “Well … well, I won’t be. And—and they owe you a sight more than one teensy bottle of scent, miss.”

  There was, Penelope decided, more truth than fiction in that remark, and she accepted the bottle gratefully. Applying the fragrance behind her ears, she asked, “What did you mean about the Corporal? Is he put about with Major Chandler? I had fancied we went on fairly well today.”

  “Fairly well if we do not count the fact that the Major runs his neck into a noose.”

  “But we all knew that, Daffy. I warned you this morning how great was the risk, and I’ll own to be dragging you deeper into this danger has greatly troubled me.”

  Busily pouring water into the washbowl, Daffy paused to smile fondly at her mistress. “Stuff, Miss Penny, there’s little risk for me. All I’ve to do is say that the gentleman properly pulled the wool over my eyes—and yours for that matter. ’Tis for himself the Major challenges the odds—or so says Robert Killiam. Fair warned, he was, and would pay no heed. I thought me poor heart would stop when that horrid Major come marching up to our carriage. Did ever you see such eyes? Like icicles all froze over. I says to the Corporal, Corporal, says I—”

  “What do you mean—warned?” interrupted Penelope, taking the soapy cloth Daffy offered and beginning to scrub her face.

  “Why, Betty, o’course, miss,” said Daffy, ready with the towel.

  Penelope straightened abruptly, peering at her. “Betty! I had so hoped to thank her before we left, but I daren’t go down to the kitchen and call attention to her. I cannot think why she didn’t identify herself to me when she came up to my chamber. Who is she, do you know?”

  “I know as she’s no kitchen maid, and that she’s a true friend to all Jacobites—and that’s all I know, miss. As to telling you who she was, p’raps she wasn’t sure you was helping the Major—or p’raps ’tis a case of least said soonest mended lest either on ye should ever be questioned, may the Lord forbid! A right brave lass she is, though, and come to Highview hoping to get a message to Major Chandler. If I’d but known it. But she dassen’t say anything, no more did I. She guessed, I s’pose, and she whispered to him yesterday that the road to London was fair bristling with troopers. So did Mr. Gordon. He sent word with Dutch Coachman how the Major was to keep away from Town like it was full of Plague, and go straight to Kent. Would he? No, he would not! Stuck out his chin, says Corporal Robert Killiam, as he does when he be set on something, and off we go, hell for leather—if you’ll excuse so wicked of a expression—and never a fig for the consequences! Now—come and sit ye here by the mirror, Miss Penny. At long last Daffy’s going to get her hands on your pretty hair and make it look lovely again. Oh, how I have wanted and waited to dress it proper for you.”

  Penelope sat obediently before the dressing table as Daffy fastened her wrapper tightly about her throat, but she was worried and said in vexation, “Mr. Chandler went to all that trouble, and Betty took such fearful risks to warn the Major, and he would not listen? Good God! Is he totally irresponsible?”

  “I’ll allow as he’s reckless,” said Daffy, busy with brush and comb. She giggled suddenly and removed three hairpins from her mouth. “But—lor’, miss, he’s a lovable scamp. When I think of how he played up to milady Tickle-Me—er, I mean—your poor uncle cuckolded by the very man what he’s hunting so cruel.”

  Penelope stiffened, the colour draining from her face, but Daffy, brushing out the thick hair, did not see and went on, “Oh, how I laughed! Me and the Corporal, we…” She chattered on, her voice a background for Penelope’s distress.

  It all made sense now. Sybil’s adoring gaze when she and Quentin had returned from that overlong drive. The look of covert amusement on Killiam’s face when his master had been restored to his care. What a fool she’d been! Worrying and fretting for fear Sybil was tiring him. Tiring him! Looking back, she could see again that odd look he’d slanted at her when they had walked together towards his bedchamber; a look of mingled guilt and mischief she now comprehended. Hot tears of rage and hurt scalded her eyes. A fine villain she’d chosen as the man of her heart! A man who could stand firm against persecution and suffering, but was not proof against the invitation in a pair of wanton eyes. To think of how fearful she’d been that interminable morning … terrified lest his weakness overwhelm him. And all the time he had been wooing Sybil, kissing Sybil, even— Her cheeks blazed. Major Quentin Chandler might be gallant and brave, but he cared not whose heart he trampled on, so long as his animal appetites were assuaged. It mattered nothing to him that she had risked everything to save him. She was the “sister he’d never had.” Little better than a piece of furniture, in point of fact, to be used and discarded without a flicker of remorse.

  And so she sat there, lashing herself into a fury of hurt and disillusionment until she at length began to hear what Daffy was saying,

  “… so stubborn as any two mules, or so says Corporal Robert Killiam, what is one as should know. It were the same when Mr. Gordon begged him not to follow the Bonnie Prince. Not that Charles bean’t the most handsomest prince as ever was, and that charming, they do say. Turn your pretty head this way now, if you will.”

  “Stubborn indeed,” muttered Penelope,
scornfully. “To rush into a doomed Cause with never a thought for his loved ones.”

  “Well, as to that,” said Daffy, about-facing, “Corporal Robert Killiam thinks the sun rises and sets in him, for all his wildness.”

  “Nor is he the only one to be so gulled,” fumed Penelope. “My aunt thought the same, ’tis very evident.”

  A slow smile came into Daffy’s eyes. She demurred, “Why, I do not think as the Major—er, dallied with my lady willingly, miss. He—”

  “He is a man!” flared Penelope, incensed. “And never tell me he did not enjoy every minute of it!”

  Daffy closed her lips and finished her task in a meek silence while Penelope seethingly recalled every least flaw in the character of the late Sir John Macauley Somerville.

  X

  The Golden Goose was a popular posting house and, as Penelope descended the staircase prepared to deal harshly with one lascivious rake, she heard a rumble of conversation from the coffee room and saw blue smoke drifting across the parlour where Quentin waited. As usual, she thought, her lip curling, he played his part well, for he looked the picture of aristocratic stateliness politely enduring the bluff, red-faced individual who appeared to be a successful farmer.

  “… and if they’d of had a stronger man leading ’em,” the gentleman expounded firmly, “the tale might’ve had a far different ending is what I says. Mighty different. But be that as it may, ’tis over now and no cause to slaughter the poor misguided idjits. And what d’ye have to say to that, Mr. Martin?”

  “Each man to his own opinion, sir,” drawled Quentin.

  “Ar. Well, them’s mine. You axed fer ’em. And if they doan’t suit, ’tis no one to be blamed but yerself.”

  “Just so. Now, if you will excuse me, my niece should be coming—” He glanced up, saw Penelope standing on the stairs, and stood.