She had quivered responsively to the soft touch of his hand on her face. She had, in fact, been leaning slightly towards him although not until this moment had she realized it. She felt as though she had been struck and for a second could not catch her breath. Then, “Do you indeed,” she said tartly, walking on. “Would you suggest I wed him tonight, sir? Or might the ceremony wait until morning?”
* * *
‘I am not,’ thought Penelope, watching the moonlight slant serenely through her window, ‘going to cry all night. Not again!’ She blinked, groped under her pillow, sat up, and blew her nose. They were to part tomorrow. Tomorrow! Quentin had told her on the way back here that it was most fortunate he’d sent Killiam and Dutch Coachman on ahead, because Captain Holt had gone prowling about the stables to determine if, in fact, the old gentleman’s coach had left. She was afraid of the cold-eyed Captain, and when she’d reacted in a scared voice, Quentin had soothed her by saying that tomorrow she would see the last of Holt because Gordon would take her to Hampstead. “I mean to instruct him,” he added firmly, “that if he don’t think your aunt capable of protecting you, he’s to carry you to Lac Brillant. My father will know what to do, rest assured.”
Well, she was not resting assured. She was not resting at all. She had been such a fool as to give her heart to a man who not only had no fondness for her, but was so cruel as to play wretched little games. He had probably, she thought, shivering her way under the covers again, been the sort of little boy who tied kittens’ tails to the boots of stagecoaches, and— She checked, frowning into the darkness. Only, Quentin had not been like that. And even all those years ago at Lac Brillant, she had once or twice caught him watching her in an oddly speculative sort of way, as if— She gave an impatient little snort. Ridiculous! Why must she keep on torturing herself? Quentin Chandler, her dear papa had implied five years ago, was a rascal with the ladies. Just because those green eyes said “I love you,” while his lips said “I don’t want you” did not mean— Unless…? She sat up again, pulling the eiderdown around her chin and gazing with dawning suspicion across the moonlit room.
It was silly, really. She was only deluding herself. But looking backwards she could call to mind several instances in which she had thought to see a breathtaking tenderness in his eyes, that look invariably followed by some carelessly unkind remark. He had risked his life without question when he’d been so close to escaping Highview, and had stayed rather than leave her to face terror alone. Her brows puckered thoughtfully. Any honourable gentleman would have done the same … no? Again—there had been that moment when poor Killiam had gloomily predicted her possible execution, and Quentin had flown into such a towering rage. And there were more recent incidents. For instance, how furious he’d been when Daffy had dressed her so prettily and he’d found Duncan Tiele holding her hand in the private parlour; their bitter-sweet encounter with Sir Sylvester Serious in the dining room; the wistful sadness of his expression when their eyes had met in the reflection of the shop windows; the exquisite delight when he had gently traced around her lips, and the nonchalantly dismissing words that had followed.
She was trembling now, her eyes wide and staring. Surely only a most quixotic chivalry would demand that a man in love thrust his lady into the arms of another, to protect her? She gave a gasp. And surely Quentin Chandler was the very figure of chivalry! He was the same man who had plunged whole-heartedly into a doomed cause and never once whined because of what had followed. He was the same man who, weak and suffering and helpless, had yet fought against accepting his one hope of escape for fear of the possible consequences to her. He was the very type of dear simpleton who would, loving her with all his heart, push her away—to spare her!
“Oh, lud! Lud!” she whispered, both hands tight clasped about her knees. “It could be so. And if it is—how silly I have been! I’ve handled it all wrong!”
* * *
The morning dawned fair with a brisk westerly wind setting the inn sign creaking on its chains and chasing a few wispy clouds across the pale skies. Penelope was up early, as Quentin had requested, and joined ‘Mr. Somerville’ and Mr. Tiele for breakfast in the coffee room. Quentin had little to say beyond the usual pleasantries, leaving the field clear for Mr. Tiele who, delighted, engaged Penelope in a brisk conversation. They were neither inclined, as was Quentin, to be still drowsy at breakfast, and they soon found they had many interests in common, including a love of dogs. Quentin interrupted a deep discussion over the temperaments of the various setters to suggest it would be as well to get on the road as soon as possible.
Corporal Killiam having left them, the coachman and groom carried down the luggage and packed it in the boot. Daffy hurried out to the yard carrying Jasper’s cage, well shielded from the wind. Quentin’s spirits had been restored by his morning coffee, but his mood was not sufficiently improved to support the notion of sharing the carriage with Jasper. The bird, he declared firmly, must ride on the box. Indignant, Daffy refused to entrust her pet into the doubtful care of the groom who had been temporarily elevated to the status of coachman, and whom she had described to Penelope as “a proper block.” Dutch Coachman she had taken a great liking to, but Dutch Coachman had been obliged to drive the nonexistent Mr. Martin and his man to their next destination. She was, however, dismayed when Quentin relented and said Jasper might stay inside the coach, but that he himself would ride on the box. A lively discussion ensued, but Penelope had no intention of allowing Quentin to ride outside and, between the deft manipulations of the two girls, he was at length persuaded that Daffy would manage very nicely with the extra rug that was to be wrapped about her knees.
Much to her delight, Duncan Tiele lifted Daffy to the box, to the accompaniment of her small scream of maidenly modesty. The wind sent Penelope’s skirts billowing, and Quentin gave an appreciative grin as he handed her up the steps and climbed in beside her.
“Delightful morning, m’dear,” he said, watching her adjust her gown.
“If one cares to be ogled,” she returned. “I wonder my betrothed did not land you a facer, the way you stared at my ankles.”
He pulled the door shut but did not at once reply, and Penelope was struck by the thought that he looked rather heavy-eyed. He had refused to allow her to change his bandages last evening, saying that Killiam had made such a good job of it before he left that there was not the need. It struck her, then, that Rob himself had seemed somewhat concerned for his master, and she asked anxiously, “I wish you had let me look at that arm. Are you feeling not quite the thing? I’d not meant to—”
“Shock me?” he interpolated gravely. “I’m afraid you did, you know. It don’t matter if you utter such gaucheries with me, Penny. But—as I’ve tried to point out, Duncan’s a very proper sort of fellow.”
The ‘proper sort of fellow’ chose that moment to ride up to the window. He looked very well in a blue riding coat, spotless breeches, and high knee boots. He called a greeting, bowed to Penelope, and went on ahead.
“Tell me please what I have done now,” said Penelope. “I cannot afford more mistakes, for I do not think Mr. Tiele is quite as besotted as you suppose.”
Quentin looked mildly surprised, then answered, “There’s no doubt in my mind on that score. Even so, Penelope Anne, I think Geoff would want me to point out that a lady should not use cant terms—such as landing someone a ‘facer.’”
“’Twas Geoffrey taught me the term.”
“Perhaps so, but he was younger then, and—”
“And alive,” she put in bitterly.
“What did you say?”
That sharp question brought her head around, and she beheld an incredulous expression that she judged to be for once an authentic mirror of his feelings. Bewildered, she replied, “I said that my brother—” And she broke off, glancing to the window as the carriage slowed and stopped only a short way down the lane from the inn.
Quentin opened the window and peered out, then sat back, gave Penelope’s han
d a quick squeeze, and murmured, “Easy, child.”
Tiele came to the window again, his eyes holding a warning. Following him, neat and solemn as ever, rode Captain Holt.
“Give you good day, Mr. Sommerville,” called the officer. “Making an early escape?”
Despite herself Penelope gave a gasp, and her hand clamped convulsively upon a fold of her gown.
Not waiting for a reply, the Captain saluted her and smiled expectantly.
“I think you’ve not met our gallant soldier,” said Quentin. “Miss Martin—Captain Holt.”
The Captain acknowledged the introduction politely and remarked, “I fancy you’re off after your uncle, eh, Somerville?”
Quentin stared at him. “Are you subject to these mental aberrations? Why the deuce would I want to follow the old curmudgeon?”
“Misjudged you, have I? I’d thought you would be eager to obtain restitution.”
Every nerve tensing, Quentin asked, “For what? I’m not vastly put out because he required me to escort my cousin home, if that’s what you mean.”
“I fancy any gentleman would find that a pleasant task,” said the Captain blandly, but with a little gleam in his eyes. “No, I’d referred to the fact that I hear you paid Mr. Martin’s bill this morning.”
The cold clarity that always enveloped Quentin at a moment of extreme danger made him intensely aware of Penelope’s terror. He could cheerfully have strangled Holt, but he laughed and replied lightly, “Oh, the old fellow’s not quite that bad, you know. He left me sufficient funds to pay our shot—and that’s dashed well all he left me!”
“I wonder you could be surprised,” said Penelope, somehow keeping her voice casual. “My uncle guessed why you wanted to meet us. And how you could have made such a request of him when he was in gout…! Really, coz!”
“How the devil was I to know that? And with all his blunt I do not see—” Quentin broke off and looked wryly at the two men. “Well, never mind about that. Tiele? Do you go with us or not?”
“One moment, if you please,” said Holt, unconvinced. “I had fancied your arrival at The Flying Dutchman a chance matter. Were you in fact expecting to meet your uncle, Mr. Somerville?”
Quentin frowned at him. “I do not see that it is any of your bread and butter, sir, but—yes. I learned my uncle was to escort Miss Martin home and that he meant to stop here, so I sent word I’d meet him.” Anticipating the next attack, he went on in an aggrieved way, “I’d fancied the old skinflint would at least have reserved me a room, but when my friends set me down I found I was expected to share his room!”
Holt said, “So you did not drive your own equipage. I had wondered by what means you arrived.”
“Devil you had! Nosing around were you, sir? Well, if you must know, I can no longer afford my own equipage, as my curst uncle refused to—”
“Cousin!” exclaimed Penelope, looking outraged, and having failed utterly to remember by what Christian name Quentin was presently known. “How can you speak so of your own family before strangers? Uncle could very well have refused to let you use his room at all.”
“Not if he wanted me to escort you back home, m’dear.”
“And—where exactly is—home, Miss Martin?” Holt said at once.
Quentin could feel Penelope shaking. “Well, if you ain’t bold as brass,” he said indignantly. “You only just met the lady!”
“I ask in my official capacity,” snapped Holt, irked at last.
“A likely story! Tiele—if this fellow’s a friend of yours, I can tell you I don’t care for his way of courting a—”
“I was not courting the lady,” Holt gritted, quite red in the face.
Keeping his mouth grave with an effort, Tiele said, “He is but trying to do his duty, Somerville. You must know there’s a widespread search for Jacobites, and—”
“Well, if Captain Holt fancies my cousin fought at Culloden, he must have maggots in his head! Be damned if I don’t mean to complain to old Mariner about this ridiculous harassment!”
Again, that name proved a magical one.
Holt stiffened. “You are acquainted with Major Fotheringay, sir?”
“You may believe I am! His papa and mine were schoolmates.” Quentin paused, as though struck by a sudden inspiration and, as if to himself, muttered, “Come to think of it, old Mariner broke my shins some time back.… Jove, I fancy he’ll be glad enough to fork over the dibs now!” He turned to Penelope. “Would you object if we turned about, coz? I’ve a notion Mariner’s stationed near Oxford and he owes me—”
Correctly interpreting his slight frown, she pouted, “Well, I would object! This has been a horrid journey and already taken much too long. I am promised to the Nashes at Coombe Bissett tomorrow, and I want to go home—now!”
“Then I shall detain you not another moment,” said Holt. “My apologies for any inconvenience, Mr. Somerville. But—duty is duty.” He reined back and hailed the coachman and the carriage rumbled forward, Tiele waving as he rode past beside it.
Captain Holt did not at once ride off, but looked after the carriage, deep in thought. His intuitive mistrust of Adam Somerville had evidently been unwarranted. His mouth twisted scornfully. A typical, selfish young wastrel with no thought for anyone but himself, and not the backbone of a pullet—far less a fighting rebel. Still, the girl had gone as white as a sheet when he’d first stopped them.… And that business about the old gentleman rushing away so suddenly had been more than a touch havey-cavey. He pursed his lips, debating with himself as to whether to send a trooper to keep an eye on them. Although—Tiele was with them, of course.…
The Captain turned about and rode slowly towards The Flying Dutchman.
* * *
In the carriage, Penelope’s nerves gave way at last. With a muffled sob she closed her eyes, shaking uncontrollably.
Groaning, Quentin pulled her into his arms. “Do not! My poor, sweet soul! My God! What have I dragged you into! Please—I beg you—please don’t cry.”
But she wept helplessly into his cravat, and he held her, pleading that she cease, stroking her hair and eventually drawing out his handkerchief and dabbing clumsily at her tears. “I am so very sorry,” he murmured distractedly. “It’s all my fault! That damnable head-hunter—to frighten you so.”
“Only,” she gulped, “because I was—so afraid I m-might … let you d-down.…” It seemed to her that the hand clasping hers trembled at this, and she raised her brimming eyes hopefully.
He looked rather too cool. “Oh, no fear of that,” he said with a bracing smile. “You were very believable.”
Penelope sighed shakily. “That man terrifies me. He seems so inhumanly zealous—so cold.”
“Zealous, certainly. In pursuit of promotion rather than an ideal. Never mind, my niece. Between us, we properly bamboozled him.”
“Cousin…” she corrected huskily.
“Gad! It becomes more and more difficult to remember! At all events, with luck we’ll not see the creature again.” He leaned to the still open window. “Hi! Tiele!” he called, and pulled on the check string.
Alarmed, Penelope asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing treasonable, for once. Hello, Tiele. Change seats with me, there’s a good fellow. I feel the need for a ride.” He turned to Penelope and said just above a whisper, “It’ll give you a chance to trap the poor gudgeon.”
‘Coward,’ she thought, but she managed to look pleased, and whispered back, “Oh, thank you!”
She would have sworn that Quentin’s mouth was tightly compressed as he let down the steps and left her.
XIV
It was not easy to find The Cat and Kippers. Duncan Tiele’s optimistic “about three miles west of Winchester” turned out to be almost six miles west of that fair town, and “the Salisbury Road” was found to be Salisbury Lane, this muddy, pot-holed atrocity winding for another mile northwards before the inn came into view. Long before they reached Winchester, Quentin had regrett
ed his noble impulse in allowing Tiele to sit with Penelope whilst he rode one of the most jolting-gaited hacks it had ever been his misfortune to bestride. He was forced to the admission that he was not as fully recovered as he’d supposed, and had seldom been more pleased to come to the end of a journey.
Tiele’s description of the place had erred on the side of optimism, and Quentin viewed it with growing astonishment. The inn sign was of itself sufficient to cause any traveller possessing an ounce of self-preservation to beat a hasty retreat. One must hope, thought Quentin, amused, that whoever had painted the sign had some other employment to sustain him. Certainly, his work could not be in great demand. The Cat was a tabby of most unusual hues, blobs of near vermilion alternating with stripes of white and bright yellow. The head of this unlikely feline was several sizes too large for its body and, although it was smooth-coated, a gigantic and very fluffy white and yellow tail curled up behind it. This latter feature might account for the fact that the enormous round eyes of the creature were so surprised and stared at the visitor as if to say, “Why on earth are you coming in here?” Of the second half of the name there was no trace, for although the Cat pranced upon a red velvet cushion, nothing even faintly resembling a kipper was evident.
The inn itself was little more than a hedge tavern, and one of the most unprepossessing that Quentin had ever beheld. A collection of structures of varying heights and appearing to have come together more by accident than design, it possessed mullioned casements, whitewashed walls, and a thatched roof. The latter, although in seemingly good repair, had never been properly trimmed and hung like unkempt hair over the dirty windows. The wagon wheel atop it was in a disintegrating condition, several of the spokes hanging precariously, posing a potential threat to any unwary traveller who chanced to be beneath when they fell. The whitewash looked to have been applied at least a decade since, and now gave every appearance of an advanced case of mange. The paint hung in shreds from the front doors, and even the steps leading to the unimposing entrance were broken and uneven.
Practice to Deceive Page 25