“Was it?” His expression bland, the Captain murmured, “Are you well acquainted with the gentleman?”
“Good Gad, Jake! Treve ain’t a gentleman! Women, cards, duelling—dreadful rascal!”
“But you like this—ah, rascal?”
“Yes. He’s rather hard to get to know, but really he’s the best kind of man. His uncle’s a close friend of my sire. Lord Boudreaux. Bit of a stately old fellow. Not like—” Tiele’s amiability faded. “You ever hear of a fellow called Sir John Macauley Somerville?”
The Captain considered the question in his unhurried, meticulous way. “No. I’ve never heard the name. Why?”
“Nothing important. I’d like to know more of the fellow, is all.”
There was a short silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. The Captain stirred at length, took up his gauntlets and whip and said that he must be about his business. “I’ll likely return later. Do you plan to overnight here, Duncan? If so, I’ll take dinner with you.”
Tiele, who was hoping to see a charmingly unaffected girl with the most speaking hazel eyes he’d ever encountered, evaded awkwardly, saying that he was undecided. “But if I should stay, why, I’ll be glad to join you.”
They walked outside together. In the yard, the Captain hesitated, then said reluctantly, “One thing, Duncan. It’s none of my bread and butter, of course, but—take my advice. Do not cultivate the acquaintance of de Villars. Nor his uncle, for that matter.”
Astonished, Tiele expostulated, “The devil! Why not?”
With a faint twitch of the lips, the Captain murmured, “They say—if a man lies down with dogs, he gets up with fleas.” He clapped his stunned friend on the shoulder. “Take care, old fellow. I’d not care to be obliged to haul you to the Tower!” And he stepped back, tossed a small salute, and strode away, shouting for his orderly.
Tiele, his eyes very troubled, watched Holt’s erect figure disappear into the stables, then he turned back to the inn. Wandering to the stairs, deep in thought, he muttered, “De Villars … by Jupiter!”
* * *
“I fail to see why you are so very put about,” said Penelope, as Quentin followed her inside and closed the bedchamber door. “And really, Uncle,” she added severely, “it is not proper for you to come in here!”
“Habit,” he said, accepting the cloak she handed him. Penelope seated herself at the dressing table and began to tidy her windblown hair. He watched the graceful way she had with her hands. She had lovely hands. And it really was incredible how those high-piled powdered curls became the chit. During those first rather ghastly days at Highview, she’d seemed a combination of angel of mercy and a modern Jeanne d’Arc. More than ever then, he’d realized— He pulled himself together and tossed the cloak onto the four-poster bed. “You know very well why I’m provoked,” he fumed. “To see that blasted chawbacon panting at your heels is downright disgusting.”
“Do you find it so?” Still awed by the poised lady in the mirror, Penelope pinched her cheeks.
“What the deuce you doing that for?”
“I forget you have no real sisters, poor soul.” She smiled at him kindly. “It is to put some colour into my poor face.”
He sat on the bed and, not rising to the bait, grunted, “The only poor thing hereabouts is that thimblewit, Tiele. I fancy you’re primping so as to go down and further captivate the fellow at dinner?” Penelope returning nothing more than a saintly smile, he went on, “You may be assured ’tis the last you’ll see of the young mushroom, for so soon as you are rested, we drive to Hampstead.”
“I am far more rested at this moment, dear Uncle, than are you. Only look at yourself and stop being so silly.”
Stunned by this rank insurrection, he glanced into the mirror. A haggard-faced old gentleman looked back at him. “Well, what d’you expect? With all this curst paint on my skin, I vow I’m drying up.”
“Oh, yes. I’d noticed you were a bit crusty.”
He grinned at that, then jerked to his feet, startled, as the door swung open.
Daffy came in, followed by Killiam, who carried the bird cage and a large valise. “Praise be, we’ve come this far safely, miss,” said Daffy, betraying not the least surprise at discovering Quentin in her mistress’s bedchamber. She took the bird cage and set it on a table. “You’ll be wanting to change for dinner, so I’ve brought a pretty gown up.”
“Then you wasted your time,” growled Quentin. “We do not overnight here, Daffy. So soon as you ladies have refreshed yourselves we will take dinner and turn about for London.”
The Corporal regarded him glumly.
Daffy, busied with restoring light to Jasper’s world, exclaimed, “Oh, no! Miss—we must not!”
“If you are concerned about my reputation, sir,” said Penelope, rising and turning to Quentin, “pray remember I travel with my uncle and my maid, and am not likely to be reproached.”
He threw out one hand and said in vexation, “Be reasonable, Penny. Just give me one—”
He received considerably more than one. Jasper, profoundly annoyed, had been squawking from the moment of his arrival, and now that he was once more reprieved from his darkened little world, went into his full war dance. Scratching as vehemently as he shrilled, he sent debris flying in all directions. Quentin’s hand, palm up, received a generous donation. He gave an exclamation of revulsion and threw it back at the screaming bird. “Damn your beak and feathers!”
“Poor little creature,” said Penelope, secretly glad of this diversion. “Do not vent your wrath on him, Uncle Martin. Only look how you have terrified him.”
Since Jasper was screeching at the top of his small but powerful lungs, his tiny legs fairly flying, and his beady eyes fixed wrathfully on the ‘old gentleman,’ this latter statement was debatable.
The Corporal intervened. “Dutch Coachman begs a immedjit word with you, Major. He’s waiting in the stables.”
“Why in the deuce couldn’t the block come up?” snarled Quentin, wiping his sullied hand.
Penelope shook her head at him. “He has only risked his life for you,” she pointed out reproachfully.
He flushed scarlet, and his eyes fell. “As have you all. May God forgive me. I shall go down at once.” He looked at them one after another. “My poor friends,” he said, the picture of remorse, “however do you endure me?”
He was reaching for the door latch when Daffy said brightly, “I just saw that very same nice young gent we met this morning, miss, so I’ve fetched up your pink brocade Watteau gown and the pannier petticoat. Seemed like the gentleman had a twinkle in his eyes, and—”
“A whole dashed bonfire, more like!” exclaimed Quentin, instantly restored to wrath. “And one I mean to extinguish without delay.” He stamped out and slammed the door behind him.
The three left alone exchanged a grin.
“Is a something volcanic gentleman,” said Penelope ruefully.
“Aye, miss,” Daffy agreed with a flash of dimples. “And scarce to be wondered at, things being what they is.”
The Corporal, his gaze fixed upon those same dimples, said, “How has he gone on, miss? I fancied he was rather pulled when I come in just now.”
“He slept on the way here, but I doubt all the jolting over those dreadful roads has made his arm more comfortable. He’ll not admit it, of course. Corporal, we must not turn back to London.”
“He’s worried for your sake, miss. He’d be less than what I know him to be, if he didn’t try to bring you out of this mess—never mind the consequences to hisself.”
Penelope’s anxious eyes softened. “We cannot allow him to destroy himself out of a foolish concern for my good name.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t know as it be all that foolish, Miss Penny. You have runned off with us. What your aunt and uncle will say—”
Up went her chin. “I care not! I never shall live with them again! Only to look at them would make me remember what they did to him!” She went back to the dres
sing table and sat down, resting her chin on her hand wearily.
Daffy jerked her head to the door and the Corporal slipped out.
“You’m tired, my dearie dear,” said Daffy gently. “Come now and let me take off that gown and get ye bathed and rested ’fore your dinner. Then you shall go downstairs and show our Major he’s not the only fish in the sea … eh?”
It was close to half-past seven o’clock before Penelope was rested, bathed, her hair brushed out and dressed in long powdered ringlets that fell to her shoulders. The Watteau gown with its tiny waist and stomacher, and the box pleats that swept down at the back from shoulder to hem, was a glory she had scarcely remembered. Papa had allowed her to have it made shortly before his sudden death, and she had never worn it. When the laces were sufficiently tight and the dress was on at last, Penelope turned, gasping, to the mirror and stood quite still, her eyes becoming very round. “Oh, Daffy,” she breathed. “I do look—quite nice. I—may die of suffocation, but—I do look nice … don’t I?”
Daffy scanned the tall, graceful figure in the mirror. The ringlets were thick and luxuriant, and the little tendrils that wound down beside her ears added breadth and softness to the rather long oval of the face. The pale pink brocade was enriched by darker threads woven into a subtle floral design, the colour further emphasizing her perfect skin. Daffy went to the jewel box and took out the single strand of pearls, and for a final touch, pinned a spray of tiny pink silk roses amongst the soft curls.
Slightly dazed by her own reflection, Penelope whispered, “He will like me a little tonight … do you think?”
The abigail blinked. “Any man would be a simpleton not to like you very much, miss,” she said. “He’s likely waiting for you in the downstairs parlour.”
“Oh, my!” Penelope snatched up reticule and fan and tripped to the door, only to pause at the last instant. “It—is really me?” she said, turning back. “I am not dreaming…?”
Daffy flew to kiss her and swing wide the door. “Off you go, now. And—have a lovely time.”
She watched Penelope drift with a shushing of petticoats along the narrow corridor and then closed the door, snatching her apron to her eyes. “She should ought to be used to looking so sweet and lovely,” she advised Jasper. “She should have had lots of nice gentlemen admiring her.…” She sniffed and whispered tearfully, “My poor dearie … whatever lies ahead o’ ye, my duck, my sweet lady? Oh—whatever lies ahead o’ ye?”
XII
Never in her comfortable existence had Lady Sybil Montgomery endured such a nightmare as that wild ride towards London. There was nothing she had wanted less than to accompany the men, for they were all of them in a most ugly humour, even Thomas Beasley, usually at his oiliest with her, having snapped her nose off when she’d dared to complain about being forced to go with them. She must come, snarled her lord. She was the only one knew what Chandler now looked like and if by some chance he had abandoned Penelope along the way, Sybil would be able to identify him. And so she’d been bundled unceremoniously into the new carriage, Joseph and Beasley climbing in with her, and Otton with three or four of the grooms riding escort. The coachman had been ordered to spring ’em, and the coach had set off with a lurch, followed by the second carriage wherein rode Simmonds, my lord’s man, and Otton’s batman.
They were stopped often by the military, as were all travellers, Joseph’s chagrin at the interminable delays being eased by the consoling thought that Chandler and his ‘great-niece’ must also have been thus hindered in their flight. At each stop Otton made enquiries for the runaways, but not until they were coming into Oxford was he successful. A hawk-faced major who looked tired and irritated remembered an elderly gentleman travelling with his niece. The young lady had been most charming, and he was inclined to think she’d said they were en route to Town on some pressing family business. His keen eyes had begun to glint with suspicion when Joseph’s glee became apparent, and Otton had been obliged quickly to invent a tale of having discovered some new information that would be of great benefit to the ‘old gentleman.’
It was late afternoon before they left this check point, and a short while later they pulled up once more and Otton rode to the window. The rain that had fallen softly for several hours had stopped now, and the air was sweet and fresh as Joseph swore and lowered the window. “Not another search?” he growled. “Devil take it, they’ll have properly vanished before we can come up with ’em!”
“I doubt it, sir. We’ve made very good time, considering, and have not once stopped for food, save the few minutes when the horses were being changed.”
“How well I know it,” moaned Sybil.
“Do you mean to drive on through?” enquired Otton. “We’ll likely not reach Hampstead before dark.”
“We could overnight at The Spinning Wheel in High Wycombe,” Sybil interpolated hopefully.
“Aye, we could,” grunted Joseph. “Lord knows I’m ready for some good beef and a raised mutton pie, perhaps. But—we will not, ma’am, so do not refine on’t. We drive straight through, Otton. Do you enquire at every stage for our accursed rebel.”
“Naturellement,” drawled Otton with a contemptuous smirk, and turned his mount so that he might shout up to the coachman.
“But I am tired, and hungry, and nigh black and blue,” wailed Sybil, pouting prettily. “’Tis cruel to expect a lady to endure being bounced and tossed about hour after hour on these horrid roads.”
“You may lay those miseries at your own door, for being such a gullible maggot-wit,” observed Lord Joseph with a marked lack of sympathy.
Beasley, who had begun to nod, yawned and stretched. “Did you mark Otton’s sneer just now?”
“He’ll smirk on t’other side of his face, if we fail to recapture Chandler,” said his lordship. “He’ll have neither fortune nor Penelope.”
Beasley grinned, for he had no love for Roland Otton. “Do you fancy Chandler means to take her to France with him?”
“I doubt that. He fancies himself a chivalrous man and what gentleman would drag a girl along while he’s hunted? If she was caught with him, they’d likely lop her head with his. Oh, no. He’ll see her safe if he can. But—without we capture him, I’ve no call to marry her to a penniless Jack-at-warts like Roland Otton!”
“And what if they are not in Hampstead?” asked my lady.
“Then, my dear, there being a full moon tonight, we shall keep on driving until we do find them!”
Sybil moaned.
* * *
The proprietor of The Flying Dutchman was wont to claim that his was one of the finest posting houses in the south country. All his bedchambers boasted wax, not tallow, candles; the rugs on the gleaming oak floors were thick and colourful; the stairs were always neatly swept; and the dining room was elegant, with many tables of heavy oak flanked by cushioned chairs, and in the centre of the room a dais where sat an accomplished lady of middle years who played a harp while the guests enjoyed their dinner.
Penelope breathed the scents of beeswax and ale and roast beef as she descended the stairs. A gentleman waited in the vestibule, even as Daffy had said. He was inspecting a figurine in a display cabinet, and his back was turned. He wore a French wig tied with a riband of blue velvet that matched his silver embroidered blue coat. Smiling tenderly, Penelope crossed to join him, but as though he sensed her arrival he straightened and spun around. He was sturdily built, and not tall enough, and Penelope gave a dismayed gasp.
“Miss Montgomery,” exclaimed Duncan Tiele. “Ah, I had so hoped to see you for a moment.”
As dismayed as he was delighted, she stammered, “Oh! I thought you were— That is to say—I—”
His bow was smooth but, she thought, lacked Quentin’s grace. Straightening, he said, “You are distressed, I think. If—in any way—I can be of assistance, you must allow it, or do me a grave injustice.”
The admiration and the sincerity in this nice man’s blue eyes could not but impress her. “How kind yo
u are,” she murmured.
He extended his arm. “May I take you in to dine?”
She put her hand on his sleeve. “I fancy my uncle will be coming downstairs at any moment, sir. If we could perhaps go into the parlour for a moment?”
He led her in without a word but, when he had seated her and drawn a chair close beside the cushioned loveseat, he murmured, “Uncle? I must have mistaken it, ma’am. I’d thought you named the gentleman your grandpapa.”
“You’ve a most excellent memory, Mr. Tiele,” she said, surveying him from under wrinkled brows.
A slightly austere look had come into his eyes. A smile supplanted it. He said, “Where so lovely a lady as yourself is concerned…”
Penelope blushed and lowered her eyes. “I should explain.”
“Not at all, ma’am. I am a stranger to you and there is no least reason you should feel obliged to do so.”
“I am sure you must wonder why we have been so devious.” Her mind groped for something believable. Quentin, in the wink of an eye, would have a tale to account for such erratic behaviour. She must emulate his facility, for his life might well hang in the balance. “You see,” she said, taking refuge behind her fan, “of late I have been pursued by a—a most determined gentleman. A powerful gentleman who has fixed upon me as his future wife.”
He frowned and leaned nearer. “And you do not desire this man’s attentions?”
“I do not, sir. Were my brother alive still, there would be no least problem, but—” She thought, ‘Geoff, dear—forgive me,’ and went on, her voice a little uncertain by reason of all these lies, “But he is dead, and Sir John deep in this—er, man’s debt.”
“And you are the price of his ruination, is that it?” Eyes flashing, Mr. Tiele dared in his indignation to grasp her hand. “How abominable! So you ran away? Have you no male relatives to defend you, ma’am? You certainly have admirers, I’d think—”
“My uncle is very strict, as you saw,” she said desperately.
He was a little bewildered, but said without hesitation, “My sword is at your disposal, ma’am.”
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