Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  She continued downwards, remembering in the nick of time the bewildering stranger who had confronted her in the mirror just now, and contriving to walk with a provocative sway of her hooped skirts, fluttering her fan as Daffy had instructed.

  Sir John’s jaw was sagging. Oh, dear! It wasn’t Sir John any more. She must try to remember all these various identities. Lud, but how he stared! She frowned at him, reminding herself that she had caps to pull with Major Quentin Chandler, whatever his name was at this moment!

  Coming to the last step, she gave him her hand and said with flashing eyes but soft-voiced humility, “Dear Uncle—I hope I have not kept you waiting too long?”

  “Ecod…” said Quentin, feebly. “What a’God’s name have you done to yourself?”

  She had gone to all this trouble! Daffy had gone to all this trouble! For the first time in years she looked halfway like a personable young lady, and all he could say was “What have you done to yourself?” The heartless wretch! One supposed he was attracted only by middle-aged harridans!

  Her fan beginning to flutter at a more rapid rate, Penelope glanced at the farmer and found him goggling at her, his pale blue eyes starting out from his red face. Startled, she ventured a shy smile. The farmer dug his elbow into Quentin’s ribs. “Arhumph!”

  Quentin blinked at him. “Oh,” he muttered. “Ah—my niece, sir. Miss Martin—Mr. Johnson.”

  The farmer bowed as low as his waistline would allow. “Delighted, ma’am. ’Tis no wonder your uncle awaited you with such impatience. No wonder at all, ma’am. Your uncle tells me you travel to Town. Are you fond of city life, Miss Martin?”

  His eyes gleamed at her, and his red nose and cheeks looked bright and jolly. Penelope decided she liked his admiring smile and warm friendliness, and answered in her pleasant, unaffected way.

  Her efforts succeeded in enchanting Mr. Johnson. Almost as much did they infuriate Mr. Martin. Fastening a crushing grip upon his niece’s elbow, he snarled his farewells to the disappointed farmer, and Penelope’s feet all but left the floor as she was wrenched towards the coffee room. “Do not do that!” he raged as they started into the crowded room. “If ever I saw so revolting a display!”

  Indignant, she protested, “I was instructed, dear Uncle, to assume a new identity!”

  “I did not mean that new!”

  “You said people must not recognize me.”

  “I’d meant people should not think you a lady in mourning—not that people should take you for an opera dancer!”

  An opera dancer! Of all the crude, ungrateful, insulting— A waiter was bowing before them, his admiring eyes fastened upon her face. Penelope smiled brilliantly at him. The waiter, who had been about to offer a table near the kitchen door in hopes of a bribe to secure the last remaining fireside position, conveyed them at once to the latter table. He drew out Penelope’s chair with a flourish and contrived to bend over it as he assisted her to draw it closer to the table. Straightening dreamily, his head swimming with the fragrance of Plaisir d’Amour, he encountered a glare from the old gentleman that congealed his blood. He fled to the kitchen.

  “I am very sure,” Penelope hissed between her teeth, “that Daffy would not have allowed me to step out of our room had she fancied I looked unladylike.”

  “Oh, you are, are you,” he retaliated with wrath if not originality. “Do you tell me it was that proper maiden who fastened that vulgar patch below your eye? By God, I wonder half the men in this room ain’t gawking at us!”

  He glanced around and determined to his increased choler that considerably more than half the men in the room were gawking at them. Or, to be more precise, at Penelope.

  His niece, having arrived at the same conclusion, smiled triumphantly and retreated behind her fan. Several muffled exclamations were heard.

  Quentin’s exclamation was less muffled. “I’ve half a mind to make you go upstairs, miss, and wash your face!”

  “The state of your mind does not surprise me. And I’ll have you know, sir, that I am of age.”

  “And I’ll have you know, madam, that your father was a friend of mine, and what he would say to this— Ah, host. What have you to offer us? My niece has a somewhat finicking appetite which ain’t improved by all these curst clods ogling her. In about another minute I shall have recourse to my horsewhip!”

  Quentin’s fierce glare swept the room, and there were a few titters, but mine host, trembling lest this ferocious old gentleman provoke violence in his dining room, murmured timidly that he was sure no one had meant to offend.

  Her eyes very bright, Penelope fluttered her fan and looked anywhere but at her fuming ‘uncle.’

  The roast beef Quentin ordered was excellent, but he proceeded to attack it as though it had been served up alive and must be slain as expeditiously as possible. Penelope picked her way daintily through the meal, very aware of the furtive but admiring glances that still came her way and pointedly ignoring Quentin’s sporadic attempts at conversation.

  His own ill humour having evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen, he lowered his voice and murmured with a beguiling grin, “Oh, come down out of the boughs do, Penelope Anne. I’d not the right to upset you, I’ll admit. God knows, I owe you my life and will never forget it.”

  “Your opinion of my appearance, dear sir,” she said coldly, “has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you feel indebted to me. Nor does it compel you to be civil, although I’ll own I was upset to be named—vulgar!” And her eyes, which had thus far avoided his, darted to him with so flashing an anger that he blinked.

  “Yes, that was very bad. But—I cannot like all this fluffing and flirting.”

  “Flirting! With whom have I flirted, Major?”

  “Uncle!” he hissed.

  She was shocked into the realization that if she flirted, it was with death, and she stared at him, pale with dismay.

  He winked. “No harm done. Do not look so gut-foundered.”

  His use of so outrageous an expression restored her spirits, as he’d intended. She strangled an instinctive smile and, breathing a little easier, said, “But—truly I was not flirting.” She thought, ‘I would not know how.’ And in that moment she caught the eye of a nearby gentleman, resplendent in a coat of purple velvet, who at once slyly raised his glass to her. She blushed and lowered her lashes.

  “There you go again!” Exasperated, Quentin exclaimed, “Not flirting, indeed! I should like to know what else you’d call it! Damme if you don’t look just like Sybil!”

  Outraged, Penelope gasped, “Oh! I am at least twenty years her junior!”

  “I did not mean in age, but in behaviour. Besides—your powder ages you.”

  How she could ever have been so foolish as to fall in love with this monster was beyond understanding. “Does it indeed,” she said airily, favouring the purple-coated gentleman with a coy sideways glance. “Well, if I do resemble my aunt that must be a compliment, since all the gentlemen think her beautiful.”

  “She is very beautiful. In a hard, calculating— Good Gad! What am I saying? My apologies to the lady. And allow me to inform you, miss, that if the coxcomb in the lurid coat rolls his greasy eyes just once more in your direction, I’ll shove his quizzing glass down his silly throat, so you will do well to stop luring him on.”

  “Lu—ring—him! Of all the—”

  “Yer name, hif y’please,” demanded a loud, abrasive voice.

  They had been so engrossed in their quarrel that neither had noticed the sudden hush as an army Sergeant entered and approached their table.

  Schooled by his long and desperate flight, Quentin’s expression did not change by one iota. Penelope, however, became white as a sheet and stared at the burly military man in horror.

  “Why the deuce should you want my name?” demanded Quentin irascibly. “Unless you’ve a message for me, perchance. What’s your name, for that matter?”

  The Sergeant, who enjoyed frightening people, was somewhat pulled up short by this at
titude, but he made a quick recover. “Me name’s Dexter. And Hi ain’t in the business o’ carrying messages. Me business, as Hi’d think any fool could see by this ’ere uniform what Hi’m a’wearing, is ho-fficial!” He threw a portentous glare around the quiet room and bellowed, “We’m searching out traitors. One traitor in p’ticlar. A escaped rebel. A desprit, bloody-minded cove as any fool what aids him has found out.” He returned his truculent glare to the old gentleman and the girl, mildly gratified to note that the latter looked pale.

  Quentin was both aware of and angered by the air of fear in the room. He leaned back and, hooking one thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat, said with a broad smile, “And you think I am this—er, bloody-minded traitor, do you? Faith, but you’re a brave man to approach me, Sergeant.”

  Through a flurry of smothered laughter, the Sergeant fixed his intended victim with a hard stare. He allowed, in a voice that must have been heard in the stables, that he hadn’t thought no such thing. “Me orders, which Hi do so ’ope don’t hinconvenience yer noble self, be to question anyone strange what comes inter this ’ere inn or tavern or posting ’ouse. You”—he jabbed a large wart-ridden finger under Quentin’s nose—“and the lady is the only folk Hi ’asn’t yet questioned. Unless Hi be deef and blind, which Hi ain’t, though there’s a sight of folks as wish Hi was.”

  “My good clod,” said Quentin, waving that intimidating hand aside, “I do assure you that m’niece ain’t at all bloody-minded. Well—not as a general rule.”

  Penelope took refuge behind her fan as every eye turned towards her and more laughter was heard. And she thought frantically, ‘Oh, why must he take up every gauntlet that is thrown?’

  “Very hamusing, Hi’m sure,” snarled the Sergeant, flushing but taking out a battered notebook. “Hi’ll ’ave yer name now, hif y’please.”

  “Devil take you for a nuisance,” said Quentin, sitting up straighter and frowning haughtily. “I do not please.”

  The Sergeant, a stub of pencil poised above his notebook, looked up. The expression in those small eyes appalled Penelope. “Uncle,” she intervened, “you should not be obstructive, you know.”

  “Oh—very well,” said Quentin fretfully. “My name is Martin.”

  “Mar—tin…” quoth the Sergeant, printing laboriously. “Martin—what? Hif it ain’t too much ter ask in ’is Majesty’s name.”

  “Martin,” said Quentin, with a sly wink at the amused company.

  “Yus, Hi got that.” The Sergeant glared at him. “Hi means yer last name.”

  “I told you my last name. Are you indeed deaf, my poor fellow?”

  A gentleman in the corner who had imbibed freely began to laugh hilariously. Penelope, however, was terrified. This nasty Sergeant was clearly becoming more furious by the minute.

  Her reading of the Sergeant’s mood was correct. His was a brooding disposition wherein was combined a hatred of the aristocracy and a love of his own authority—very often misused. The frail old gent and the pretty girl had looked easy prey. He’d expected to intimidate them both thoroughly. He had intimidated several occupants of this room who trembled at the very mention of the word ‘Jacobite’ and did not dare stand up to his bullying. As a result, the sympathies of most of those present were with the old man and the girl. They were in fact delighted by the Sergeant’s embarrassment. Becoming very red in the face, he ground his teeth. “Hi’ll take a minute o’ me valuable time ter warn yer, sir. It don’t do ter come no ’anky-panky with a member of ’is Majesty’s armed forces.”

  Quentin smiled upon him. “How you do terrify me, Sergeant.”

  In a near roar, His Majesty’s minion demanded, “His you saying as yer name be Martin Martin?”

  “Jolly good, by Jove!”

  The laughter this time was sustained. Through it, the Sergeant glared at his prey. Frightened, Penelope said, “Dear sir, the poor man does but try to do his duty.” She smiled at the Sergeant’s belligerence. “This gentleman is Mr. Martin Martin of London, and I am his niece, Miss Anne Martin.”

  Quentin said laughingly, “There you are. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “No, it don’t. You likely got a calling card, ’as yer, Mr. Martin Martin?”

  Penelope’s heart skipped several beats.

  “Of course I have a calling card, Sergeant Impudence,” said Quentin, frowning. “And if you expect me to give you one to verify my identity, you may go soak your head! Dammitall, what’s England coming to when a gentleman mayn’t take supper with his own niece in a public inn, without being pestered by you military scalp hunters? Who the devil is your C.O.? If it’s my old friend Mariner Fotheringay, he shall hear about your insolent behaviour!”

  There was widespread public distaste for the persecution of Jacobite fugitives, and the laughter in the room was supplanted by a muttering that clearly supported Quentin’s stand. The Sergeant was rendered even more uneasy by this horrid old cove’s apparent acquaintance with a officer what had the most cutting tongue in the whole army. A officer what could make a man’s life not worth living, was he displeased. “Now, now,” he said in clumsy apology. “There ain’t no cause to take into a huff. Like the young lady says, a man must do ’is duty. Sir.”

  “There ye go, Mr. Martin,” shouted a wit at the rear. “Shake hands and give ’un a kiss.”

  “Buy ’im a ’eavy wet, why dont’cha, guv’nor,” suggested another. “An’ maybe he won’t chop off yer head.”

  “Ain’t no need o’ that, sir,” said the Sergeant, eyeing the tankard of ale with longing.

  “Perhaps not,” said Quentin, having no wish to chance another demand for his calling card. “But I rather fancy my niece is right as usual and I was hard on you. Join us for a moment, Dexter. I suppose you’ve a thankless job, eh?”

  The Sergeant put away his notebook. “Ar, yer in the right o’ that, Mr. Martin,” said he, seating himself and watching approvingly as the waiter hurried up with another tankard. “Your ’ealth, sir and miss!” He drank noisily, wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand, and went on, “You’d think as folks’d be grateful to us fer hunting down they vermin, but—no! ‘The war’s over,’ they whine. Enough to make yer—” He glanced at Penelope’s shocked face and continued, “Scum of the earth they is, Mr. Martin. Flocking down here like vultures. Slit a man’s throat so soon as a wink. And no woman’s safe from—”

  “Just so,” Quentin interrupted brusquely. “But there’s no call to frighten my niece with such horrors. Lucky for us we’ve brave men like yourself to stand between us and the—er, villains.”

  “Yussir. But we won’t stand between yer fer long. No need. Ain’t many left.” Sergeant Dexter patted his sabre with a broad grin. “And some as was caught won’t never be took to trial, Hi can tell yer!”

  The green eyes facing him suddenly flamed, but the Sergeant’s gaze had lowered and he missed that murderous glare. “You know what, Mr. Martin,” he said in a slow, taunting way, “Hi noticed it just now, and Hi notice it again, fer Hi’m a very hob-servant hindividual. And what Hi says is—fer a very old man, you got awful young hands.” He lifted triumphant eyes. “Now just ’ow might yer explain that there very odd fack, sir?”

  Once again cold with fear, Penelope considered how she could delay this wretched savage if Quentin decided to make a dash for freedom.

  Quite unruffled, Quentin shrugged. “I do not usually explain it at all.” He glanced around and leaned nearer. “However, since I see you’ve the same curst trouble that plagued my younger days, I’ll tell you.”

  “Will yer now?” The Sergeant dropped one beefy hand to the hilt of his sabre. “Hi’d be powerfully diverted, as the nobs say, to ’ear this ’un, so—please don’t you make me wait, sir.…” He inched the sabre from its scabbard, his sneering gaze fixed on Quentin’s expressionless face.

  A deathly hush prevailed, everyone’s attention turned on the little drama.

  Quentin hesitated, then said with disastrous clarity, “Manur
e.”

  Penelope stifled a gasp.

  The Sergeant’s cruel eyes widened. “Wot?”

  Quentin nodded soberly.

  “Manure…?” echoed the Sergeant. “Now—what the ’ell—”

  “Hush!” Quentin leaned closer. “Do you want to be rid of those warts, or not?”

  He had touched a sore point. The Sergeant gave a start, glanced down at his unsightly hands and snatched them from sight.

  “Know just how you feel,” said Quentin. “Had the same trouble. Dreadful.”

  With a lightning swoop the Sergeant gripped Quentin’s wrist and stared down at the graceful white hand and neatly manicured nails. “You tryin’ to be funny, or summat?” he growled, lifting narrowed suspicious eyes. “You never ’ad the same trouble as wot Hi got!”

  “Worse,” Quentin averred with a sober nod. “Much worse. Had to wear gloves most of the time, which is most difficult,” he embellished artistically, “when one is a musician.” He lowered his voice yet again, almost whispering. “Not a doctor could help me. Silly fellows; they’re all quacks, you know.”

  “Ho, yus,” said the Sergeant. “Hi’ll trot wi’ yer on that one. Paid over me groat many a time, Hi done. Not that it were a bit o’ good. ’Ow did yer find out, then? Gypsies? Hi tried ’em. Thieving maggots! Should be ’ung, the lot of ’em. If you’re a’going to tell me as they—”

  “I’d not dream of fobbing off an intelligent man with such rubbish. I—” Quentin glanced around in so conspiratorial a fashion that Penelope, torn between mirth and terror, was hard put to it to keep her face straight. “I bought the secret from…” Quentin hissed, “a—witch.”

  “Cor!” The Sergeant crooked the first and middle fingers of his right hand in quick defence against such foul frights. “You never did!”

  Quentin nodded solemnly. “When a man’s desperate, Sergeant, he has to take desperate measures.”

  “And—and what she told yer—it worked? It made yer hands look … like that there?”

  “Well, you’re not blind, man. You see the evidence of your own eyes! And I’m rising five and sixty.”