Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  “Green eyes?” Otton’s chair went over with a crash. “Chandler!” he cried, leaping up and driving a fist into his palm. “Chandler, by thunder! Cavorting about here whilst we scoured the countryside for him!”

  Shrinking back, one hand going to her throat, Sybil gasped, “You—you’re mad! ’Twas an old man, I tell you!”

  “He’s gammoning you, Sybil,” said his lordship, grinning broadly. “Can’t you see it? Chandler, indeed. That’s a good one! The man was all but a corpse!”

  “How came he here?” demanded Otton, his jaw grimly set as he turned on Sybil. “Did you see him arrive?”

  “Yes! I went out onto the terrace, for I heard a vehicle and thought you might have returned and could not wait for the servants to tell me. Penelope was just helping him into the carriage when—”

  “Helping him in?” said Lord Joseph sharply. “You mean he was leaving?”

  “Yes— No! That is— He had come thinking to find my late brother-in-law, and when Penelope told him that Hector was dead, Sir John would not stay.”

  “Only you persuaded him, eh, ma’am?” sneered Otton. “Had he papers? Identification? Calling cards, at least?”

  Sybil’s fear was intensifying. A hundred little details rose up to plague her, not the least of which was the old gentleman’s lovemaking prowess. “Since … since when do we demand identification when … when relations come to call?” she demanded threadily.

  “By Jupiter, I begin to think Otton has something here,” cried Lord Joseph, flinging down his knife and fork. “Are you gone daft, madam? To let in any Tom, Dick, or Harry, just because they claim kinship?”

  “But P-Penelope … knew him! And—and he was old. Besides, do you think I did not get a look at poor Chandler? Sir John showed no signs of having been beaten. His face was lined, his hair and eyebrows white, and—”

  “Cosmetics and a wig,” rasped Otton.

  Shaken by the memory of Sir John’s heavy use of paint, Sybil argued desperately, “No! I tell you—no! You said yourself Chandler could not even stand. Sir John was somewhat shaky upon his feet, true, but no more a wounded man than—” And she checked abruptly, one hand flying to her mouth.

  “Speak up, blast it all,” roared her lord.

  Thoroughly terrified now, she yet retained a strong instinct for self-preservation and chose her words with care. “I do remember that there was—one incident. We were walking in—in the shrubbery and … I tripped over a flagstone. Sir John caught me, and just for a second looked—as though anguished. But he had gout, so Penelope said, and I thought it natural enough. Oh—it cannot be!” She turned to her husband, her hands outstretched pleadingly. “I have my faults, my lord—I’ll not deny. But I am not a foolish woman. In truth, I am not.”

  Tears glittered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and she was very beautiful. For all his bombast and bluster, my lord was deeply fond of her. “Oh, pish,” he said with a gesture of impatience. “We make a lot of nothing, Otton. Let be. Sybil’s no maggot-wit.”

  “I grant that,” said Otton. “But—Miss Montgomery knew this Sir John Somerville, you said, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes. It never occurred to me to doubt him because she vouched for him. In fact, when I questioned her about him later, she said there had long ago been some scandal involving Sir John. It must have been shocking, for her papa would never speak of it.”

  Outraged, my lord shouted, “Fustian! Wasn’t no breath of scandal ever touched Margaret’s family. Heaven help us, her grandpapa was so strait-laced, he’d have strangled anyone so much as breathed the word!”

  “How much—ah, later was it that you questioned Miss Montgomery?” enquired Otton.

  “Lud—I don’t recall.” Sybil fluttered her fan distractedly. “A day or two, perhaps.”

  “A day or two? When precisely did he arrive?”

  “Oh, my heavens! Let me see … I have it! ’Twas the evening of my dinner party. Tuesday. And I—”

  “Dinner party?” howled my lord, dragging his bulk from the protesting chair and glaring at his wife. “You had a dinner party? Are you all about in your head? We’re in mourning, woman! You said yourself we’ve—”

  “Never mind about that!” His eyes ablaze, Otton intervened curtly, “If I’m right, Montgomery, we’ve been gulled by as neat a Canterbury trick as ever I heard!”

  Annoyed at being addressed in such a way, Lord Joseph was half-inclined to give Otton a sharp setdown, but greed got the better of his pride. “I do not see it,” he grumbled. “If Chandler was somehow able to escape, why the deuce would he come back here?”

  “I always wondered how he managed to get out of that damned window,” muttered Otton.

  “Well, he did,” said my lord emphatically. “He certainly wasn’t in the room, dammitall! And the door was locked.”

  Scowling, Otton turned to the trembling Sybil and demanded, “Did anything else happen that struck you as odd? Was Miss Montgomery suddenly inspired to clean attics or basements? Were any large amounts of food used?”

  “No. Nothing like that. My niece was quite ill, in fact. She took a dreadful cold and was confined to her room.”

  “Ah-h-h…” breathed Otton. “And her food carried up to her on trays, no doubt!” His eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

  “Her abigail, of course. That wretched Saffy.”

  “That’s how they did it, then!” Otton rounded on his lordship. “Do you not see? Chandler never left here! He was carried out of your study while we ate that night and hidden in some other part of the house!”

  “But—they would’ve been seen! And I tell you, I locked the damned door!”

  “Devil take it, who knows how they managed it? Somehow, they did! We have been gulled, I tell you! Thoroughly, damnably gulled!” He turned to the tearful Sybil. “What manner of clothing did this alleged old gentleman wear?”

  “M-most elegant,” whimpered Sybil. “A trifle out of the c-current vogue, perhaps, but fine velvets, satins, and laces most costly.”

  “Not mine, then,” he muttered. “Chandler’s taller, I fancy, by half a head, and skin and bone. My clothes would not suit. Though my shoes did, evidently!”

  “He certainly couldn’t have worn mine,” said my lord.

  “There are some of your—your late brother’s trunks in the attic,” ventured Sybil.

  “Then that’s where they shopped,” said Otton. “Lord Hector was—” He paused as the door opened. The servants had been instructed to leave them alone, and he scowled as his lordship’s man crept in.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” said this scrawny individual, distraught. “My lord—I am desolated, but—we have had thieves in the house, I do swear! Your lordship’s new cloak that was but delivered last month, and a pair of your boots, Captain, have—”

  Joseph’s pained yowl was heard in the kitchens, and his valet, a nervous man, fled.

  As the door closed, Otton said grimly, “We’ve enough now to confront her.” He started towards the bell pull. “Let’s have Miss Montgomery in here, sir.”

  “No…” said Sybil, faintly.

  Two enraged countenances turned to her.

  “She is … gone!” she wailed, and burst into tears.

  * * *

  Quentin stretched, yawned, glanced out of the window, and sat up abruptly. The bustling streets and tall houses did not resemble the pleasant, rambling little hillside village of Hampstead. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “Have we passed it, then?”

  “Passed what, sir?” asked Penelope, innocently.

  “Where the deuce are we? And what time is it?”

  She regarded him calmly and said a tranquil, “It is nigh six o’clock, and we are on the outskirts of Reading.”

  “Reading? Has Dutch lost his wits?” He grabbed for the check string, but Penelope moved as fast to intercept his hand.

  “No, sir. He is responding very dutifully to my orders.”

  His brows pulled into a dark bar across the bridge of his nose. “You
told him to change direction? Now—blast it all, Penny—”

  “Your brother also instructed him to do so.”

  He removed her fingers and, mouth grim, reached again for the check string. “That’s soon remedied. We shall turn about.”

  He was again thwarted. The carriage was already stopping, for they had pulled into the yard of a large posting house and ostlers were running to unharness the horses. “Very well, ma’am,” he said angrily. “We shall change teams, then return to Town! By God!” he exclaimed with a sudden and unexpected grin, “one can appreciate why my coachman chose this place!”

  Following his gaze Penelope saw the sign that swung gently on its iron bracket. A fine four-masted merchantman ploughed through foam-crested billows, the name emblazoned upon her bow reading The Flying Dutchman.

  “You see,” Penelope cried triumphantly. “’Tis an omen, Quentin!”

  “Let us hope it is a good one.”

  The main building was an Elizabethan sprawl. Latticed windows sparkled in the pale sunshine of late afternoon. Hollyhocks bloomed in stately splendour around the heavy oak doors, and the air was fragrant with the scents of flowers and hay and horses, all pervaded by the appetizing aroma of dinner cooking.

  “I am very wearied and—quite famished, dear Uncle,” said Penelope, sighing, as Quentin led her towards the door.

  His grip on her arm tightened. Dutch Coachman, a broad grin on his weathered face, clambered down the far side of the box.

  “You little wretch,” growled Quentin. “You think to turn me aside, but—”

  “I think,” Penelope answered meekly, “that we have not once been stopped by patrols since we turned westward, is that what you mean?”

  “No, it is not. I do assure you that I mean to have you safe in Hampstead by nightfall!”

  Irritated, she cried, “Why must you be so ridiculously stubborn? If you persist, I warn you I will—”

  Laughter, seldom far from his eyes, banished his vexation with her. “Do what, wicked wench?” he asked softly. “Enchant the nearest gallant and— Oh, my God!”

  “I give you good even, Miss Montgomery, Sir John,” called a vaguely familiar voice.

  “How providential for you, niece,” muttered Quentin.

  “Mr. Stee—er, Tiele,” cried Penelope. “How pleasant to encounter you again.”

  “Most pleasant, ma’am.” Duncan Tiele’s blue eyes were warm as he bowed over her hand, but the look he threw at Quentin was less apprehensive than measuring. “We meet again, sir.”

  “So I see,” drawled Quentin. “Might one ask whither you are bound, Mr. Tiele?”

  The old gentleman, thought Tiele, was nothing if not direct. Amused, he replied, “If you mean—was I following you, sir—the answer is no. I was of a mind you’d be headed for London, whereas my own business takes me to Salisbury.”

  “Does it?” said Quentin, dryly. “How fortunate.”

  Tiele looked irked, and Penelope inserted a swift, “Yes, indeed, sir.” She turned her bright smile upon the hapless young man, having not the remotest idea of how totally she thus enslaved him. “We follow the same direction, for my un—grandpapa and I travel to—” The words trailed off as Quentin’s hand closed sharply, but belatedly around her wrist.

  Tiele had noted both the stumble over the relationship and that quick and powerful grip. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” he asked, his eyes, suddenly frigid, fixed upon Quentin’s detaining hand.

  “No, no,” Penelope said hurriedly.

  In harsh opposition Quentin growled, “Yes, there is. The ‘wrong’ thing is yourself, sir. I resent your trailing after Miss—Montgomery. She stands in no pressing need of—” He checked momentarily as an officer rode into the yard with two troopers behind him, then continued, “—of the attentions of a persistent pest! Good day to you, Mr. Tiele!” And he marched Penelope to the doorway where mine host waited eagerly.

  He could, averred this rotund, merry little individual, show the lady to “a most hospitable chamber under the eaves, wiv a nice trundle bed for my lady’s abigail. And there’s a very fine room for yerself, milor’, proper cosy-like, jest down the hall from yer pretty … er…”

  “Niece!” snapped Quentin. “With whom I’ve caps to pull, so show us up at once, if you please.”

  Mr. Duncan Tiele, having started off to greet an arriving friend, changed his mind and returned to the cosy lobby in time to hear the end of this final remark. Troubled, he noted that the old gentleman had not relaxed his grip on Miss Montgomery’s arm, and that his ascent of the rather precipitous flight of stairs was surprisingly spry. He was frowning after them when he heard the host enquire, “And how long will you be with us, if I might be so bold as to ask, Mr. Martin?”

  Sir John Macauley Somerville answered with curt impatience. “Only a few hours, host. We shall dine and then push on, for we’ve urgent business in Winchester.”

  “Well … I’ll be damned!” gasped Mr. Tiele.

  “Never doubted it in the least,” said the officer, coming up beside him. “What’s to do, Duncan?”

  Tiele looked grim. “I think there’s something unsavoury about that old devil, Jacob.”

  Captain Jacob Holt was a broad-shouldered young man of no great stature. His powdered hair was austerely tied back with a thin black riband. His features were notable only for a dominant chin, a rather small mouth, and eyes of blue ice. His friends were few but his friendship, once given, was unwavering so long as it did not interfere with his career. He had met Duncan Tiele at Eton and, unlike that carefree individual, had worked hard at his studies, well aware of the sacrifices his family had made to ensure his education. But if his house might be impoverished, the Captain’s ambitions were very grand indeed. A flame burned behind his cold exterior; the driving need to succeed, to become a power in the military world. He followed his dream relentlessly and already had made his mark in his chosen profession; and, as inevitably, had made enemies.

  He glanced at the now empty stairs, then slipped a hand onto his friend’s shoulder. “Were I you, old fellow, I’d stay well to the lee of that lovely creature. I saw her grandpapa, or whatever he is.”

  “Whatever, indeed,” muttered Tiele grittily.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tiele hesitated. What he suspected was not something to be bruited about on so little evidence. Especially when a lady was involved. He shrugged, slapped Holt on the arm, and said ruefully, “Wishful thinking, likely enough. The old boy has warned me off in no uncertain terms.”

  They turned into the well-patronized tap and sat together at a corner table. Holt called for two tankards of Kentish ale. “Going home, are you, Duncan?”

  “No, matter of fact. I’m off to Salisbury to see my uncle before Brooks does.” He grinned. “You know him, I believe?”

  Holt gave a rather brittle laugh. “Captain Brooks Lambert? The Adonis of St. James’s? Jove, but I know him. And does he know you’re bound to Salisbury, he’ll get there before you if he has to desert to do it.”

  “I fancy he’s not that desperate. But enough of me and my deplorable cousin. Why are you in these sylvan solitudes? Change of station? Or just rebel hunting?”

  Something about the tone of voice sent Holt’s eyes slanting to him unsmilingly. “You dislike the occupation?”

  For a moment Tiele did not answer. Then he said with quiet candour, “Yes. Do you?”

  “They sought to overthrow the crown. The price comes high. As it should.”

  Tiele said sotto voce, “But—only look at who wears the crown, Jake.”

  “Guard your tongue, for God’s sake!”

  Glancing around the dim room, Tiele distinguished several red coats. He said musingly, “Cannot recall when I’ve seen so concentrated a hunt. What is it, old boy? Are there fears of another Uprising?”

  “Your word, Tiele?” This being at once given, Holt said very softly, “We’re after a small group. Four—perhaps six men at most. Each carrying parts of a cypher.”


  “What about? Where do they take it? And for Lord’s sake—why? The Rebellion was crushed, the Cause lost. What could be so important as to justify such desperation?”

  Again, Holt’s keen stare raked the room. Speaking barely above a whisper, he leaned closer. “A king’s ransom in gold, silver, and jewels. More than enough to finance another Uprising. At least—to start things going.”

  Tiele whistled soundlessly. “Jove! Don’t blame you, dear old boy. Only say the word, and I’m with you. Always fancied a treasure hunt, and how satisfying it would be to spend one’s spare moments counting out ‘a king’s ransom.’ Let us hie forth and become corrupted with wealth!”

  “Idiot,” said Holt, his stern face lit by a rare grin.

  “Tell me more. Whence came this king’s ransom? Jacobite contributors?”

  Holt nodded. “Charles Stuart called for it, hoping to run the blockade and hire mercenaries on the Continent. A list was kept of contributors and each donor was promised lands or recompense when their war was won.”

  “’Sdeath! You seek the list?”

  Holt nodded once more. “They’re traitors all, who’ve spun their webs and written their own doom. And what the devil do you scowl at?”

  Drawing back, Tiele said an austere, “I think it damnable. The treasure’s one thing. Every man for himself, there. But—to destroy a man’s family, to confiscate home and lands—”

  “And heads,” the Captain put in with grim emphasis.

  “—and all for a Cause lost this three months? That rankles with—”

  The Captain made a sharp, warning gesture, and Tiele was silent as the waiter came up and set out two brimming tankards. Holt raised his in salute. Tiele stared at him for a moment, then grinned and returned the salute, and both men drank thirstily.

  Tiele asked, “Is that why you’ve been in Berkshire? Hunting these poor devils?”

  Staring into his tankard, Holt asked without inflection, “How did you know I was in Berkshire?”

  “Someone chanced to mention they’d seen you. I can’t recall— Yes, I can! It was Trevelyan de Villars.”