Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  Quentin’s Highview masquerade as Sir John Macauley Somerville drew shouts of laughter from his brother and Tiele, and Penelope, managing to seem unaware of the sly wink Quentin directed at Gordon when Lady Sybil was mentioned, could only be happy to see him so relaxed and at ease. “I cannot but be grateful,” she said, looking around at them all fondly, “that so many brave people have been willing to aid Major Chandler. But why should Mr. de Villars help? He made it clear he has no fondness for Jacobites, and—” She broke off in confusion as she realized what she had implied.

  Gordon said with a chuckle, “Oh, you must never pay heed to what Treve says, ma’am. The entire family is rather off the road, to say truth. His uncle—Lord Boudreaux—was enraged by the persecution of the rebels, and has gone to considerable risk and expense to help wherever he can. I think he was never more surprised than to find that his notorious nephew was similarly engaged.” He slipped a fine enamelled watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “Quentin…?”

  “Should we be off, now?”

  “Yes. I regret to break up such a pleasant gathering, but Treve has—” He glanced expectantly to the door as the latch was raised, then sprang to his feet with a horrified exclamation.

  A tall, thin gentleman stood on the threshold. Elegant from the top of his immaculate wig to the buckles of his high-heeled shoes, he seemed to Penelope the very essence of aristocratic hauteur. She was conscious of a sense of familiarity, but not until Gordon hastened to kiss the regally outstretched hand did she realize who he was.

  Quentin, who had sat for a moment as though turned to stone, jumped up, his chair going over with a crash. “Father!”

  “So it is truth.…” His face livid, his eyes sparking with rage, Sir Brian Chandler stepped to the centre of the room, dominating them all with his presence. A grey-haired, impeccably clad retainer followed, his anguished gaze flashing from one to the other of the dismayed brothers. Lifting his quizzing glass, Sir Brian scanned Quentin from head to toe. “Good God!” he muttered. “How I’d prayed it was a lie.”

  Quentin hurried around the table and reached for his father’s hand, bowing respectfully above those frail white fingers. “Sir—I know you do not approve of—”

  Sir Brian snatched his hand away. “You may be sure,” he said in a voice of ice, “that I do not approve of deceit, sir! Of treachery, treason, and lies!”

  Quentin paled and, knowing what must follow, stood very still.

  “Father,” Gordon interceded, “at least allow him to—”

  “To do—what? Add to the falsehoods I have been told? That you have been cajoled into repeating to me?” Ablaze with wrath and hurt, his fine green eyes swept back to his younger son. “You look ill,” he said, still in that harsh, strained voice. “Did you manage to get yourself wounded?”

  “Yes, sir. But thanks to Gordon and—”

  “Oh, by all means! Let us thank the poor dupes you have gulled into helping you!” Ignoring the anxious entreaties of his faithful valet, Sir Brian advanced on Quentin, his hands clenching. “Are you quite without shame, that you can stand before me and brag that they have been so gallant, so unselfish as to risk death just so that you may escape the consequences of your crass recklessness?”

  Very white by now, Quentin said, “I make no apologies for fighting in a Cause I believed best for Eng—”

  Sir Brian gave a snort of disgust. In a contained but terrible voice, he grated, “You fought against England, sir! Can you guess what it means to me to have to name you a damnable rogue and a traitor?”

  Penelope shrank with a horrified gasp.

  Quentin flinched, and his head went down.

  Gordon had known from childhood that although he was loved, his flamboyant brother was closest to his father’s heart. And if at times he had been wounded by that awareness, never had it seemed less important than at this moment. “Sir,” he pleaded, “you do not give him a chance.”

  “Chance?” His face twisted with grief, Sir Brian cried, “What chance did he give you? Do you deny that you have risked arrest, questioning, disgrace, and a death beyond words hideous, for this rascally young here-and-thereian?”

  His head still bowed, Quentin said before Gordon could respond, “He may deny it, but it is quite true, sir.”

  “Thank you,” raged his father. “I might well have lost both my sons to your mad folly! Dare I hope you have some small vestige of contrition for what you have brought down upon your friends? Look about you, brave rebel. Have you given one single thought to the jeopardy in which you have placed this gently bred child of my dearest friend?”

  “My God!” Quentin whispered, his anguished gaze flashing to Penelope. “Can you think I have not? Father—I beg you will believe—”

  “I believe,” rasped Sir Brian, taking another step towards him, “I believe that you did not give a button for the fact your brother might well be called upon to pay the supreme penalty! I believe that now you must pay the price of your braggadocio airs and graces, you do not hesitate to imperil your poor faithful batman, or any other man or woman necessary to your protection! God knows I am aware you’ve no shred of affection for me, but—”

  “No, no, sir!” Quentin reached out imploringly. “Do not say such dreadful things! Rake me down if you must, but—please, you know I love you! You know I always—”

  “’Fore God, stop with your protestations and muling falsehoods! The last letter I had from you was sent from Rome, I was told. From Rome! And where did you write it, my loving liar? After the grisly battlefield whereon you raised your sword against your countrymen? Did you know that young Bremerville fell at Prestonpans? Your lifelong friend! Was yours the sabre that cut him down?” His voice rose. He thundered, “Was it?”

  Tiele, horrified, had retreated to the wall, but when Quentin’s attempt to respond resulted only in a choked incoherency and the helpless gesture of one unsteady hand, he ventured a faltering, “Your son s-saved my brother’s life at Prestonpans, Sir Brian.”

  “And thus claims yours in exchange?” The older man gave a mirthless laugh, and staggered.

  Quentin sprang to support him, only to be repelled by a fierce shove. The valet threw an arm about his master, and Gordon ran to pull up a chair. Terrified, Daffy seized the opportunity to slip into the hall, followed at once by Killiam. Appalled by this terrible confrontation, Penelope hastened to pour some wine and carry it to this remorseless gentleman she remembered as having always been the soul of kindly courtesy.

  Sir Brian accepted the glass with a trembling hand. “My poor girl, how came you to be tricked into aiding my worthless traitor?”

  Penelope looked down into eyes ravaged by heartbreak and disillusion. Glancing to the side, she saw the man she loved, his shoulders very straight, his white face expressionless, his pain betrayed only by the hands tight-clenched at his sides. She felt oddly strengthened and, throwing pride away, said calmly, “I love him, sir.”

  Quentin gasped. He looked fully at her. Then, as though this was the last straw, he averted his face.

  “Sweet innocent!” Sir Brian exclaimed. “I pray you will not pay a terrible price for your devotion. How proud you must be, my son, to have endangered the lady who has given you her heart!”

  Shattered, Quentin was quite incapable of a response and could only shake his head in numb helplessness.

  Gordon glanced at his brother. Frowning, he said, “Quentin did not want Miss Montgomery involved, sir.”

  “Oh, that is true, Sir Brian,” said Penelope in a shaken voice. “He begged—”

  Once more Sir Brian laughed, the sound a racking travesty of mirth that made his hearers shrink. “Oh, I know how well he begs, m’dear! Why do you not beg him to tell us what was in his mind when he embarked so blithely on this insanity? Did he think, I wonder, that his brother would stand by him, no matter what happened? That Gordon would die willingly enough rather than—”

  “In the name of … God!” Staring at this man he always had idolize
d, his eyes glittering with tears, his face twitching and convulsed with horror, Quentin gasped, “No! Sir—you surely cannot think me so cruel and unfeeling?”

  His father rushed on bitterly, “And what was my portion of your concern, Sir Galahad? You must have known that your actions were in violation of everything I honour and cherish! Did you console yourself by thinking I’d soon get over it? Did you suppose I’d not grieve to see your brother’s head adorn Tower Bridge … beside your own…?”

  Quentin’s head bowed low and he was silent.

  “Did you for one instant consider,” said Sir Brian, his voice shredding painfully, “that … that Lac Brillant has been in our family for almost eight hundred years? Eight … hundred … years! All the Chandlers and the Fromes before them.… My parents died there. Your dear mother, who so loved the old place, is buried there. And you—you would whistle it down the wind for a pretty princeling whose cause was doomed before ever it began!” He came to his feet, leaning heavily on the arm of his servant who appeared almost as distressed as he himself.

  “Look at me, Quentin Frome Chandler,” commanded Sir Brian in a cold, harsh voice.

  Quentin closed his eyes very briefly and took a deep breath, nerving himself. Then he turned to face his father squarely.

  For a moment that seemed an eternity no one moved or spoke, and the only sound to break the silence was the patter of rain against the casements.

  “I am done with you!” Sir Brian drew a fat purse from his pocket and flung it at Quentin’s feet. “Get yourself out of England. I do not want to see your deceitful face—”

  The door was flung open unceremoniously. De Villars thrust in his lean countenance, darted a narrow-eyed glance around the dramatic group, then said urgently, “Your friend Holt is less than half a mile away and coming at the gallop. Quentin—into the basement with you, before—”

  Quentin sprinted for the bedchamber. Snatching up cloak, tricorne, and small-sword, he ran back, dropped to one knee beside his father, seized his nerveless hand and pressed a kiss upon it. Throwing a desperate glance at Penelope, he jumped to his feet and ran into the hall.

  His voice almost suspended, Sir Brian whispered, “Quentin…” and sank into the chair.

  Penelope ran across the room, but Gordon leapt to restrain her. “No, my brave lady,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

  From the hall came de Villars’ distinctive voice, raised in alarm. “Chandler! You damned idiot! Not that way! Quentin! Oh—for Lord’s sake!”

  As if an unseen hand had turned them all to stone, they waited, tense and silent, while in every heart lurked the same terrible dread.

  As from a very great distance, Penelope heard a sudden tattoo of hooves on the cobblestones below the window. Wrenching away from Gordon’s slackened clasp, she ran to the casement and flung it open. She was in time to see a horseman, crouched low in the saddle, racing at breakneck speed northwards along the lane, only to pull his mount suddenly to a rearing halt and turn back to the south. Seconds later, she heard a brittle crack, followed quickly by another, and then saw Quentin return in a blur of speed, galloping northwards again, closely pursued by a group of red-coated riders, sabres drawn and flashing.

  Frozen with fear, she realized that someone stood beside her.

  “The damnable gudgeon!” groaned Trevelyan de Villars savagely. “The ungrateful clod! After all my blasted work!”

  On the other side of her, Gordon muttered, “He’s leading them away. He’s trying to protect us, Treve.”

  De Villars swore.

  XV

  By four o’clock the rain was a downpour, beating so strongly against the windowpanes that some of the accumulated dirt was washing away. The skies had darkened and the parlour was dim. A fire had been lit in the grate to combat the plunging temperature, the light from the flames flickering over the four glum faces of those clustered about it, and shining less brightly on the three equally glum-faced servants seated nearby.

  No one had spoken for quite some time when Sir Brian broke the silence, murmuring almost to himself, “I wonder why it is that no matter how vexed he makes me—however ashamed … I cannot stop loving him.”

  Penelope smiled mistily at him, the ache in her heart lessened slightly by those forlorn words.

  Gordon sighed. “I have not asked you, sir, how you found us.”

  “I knew you were worrying. I began to suspect Quentin was in another scrape.… I knew if that was so you would try to help him—as usual. So—I had you followed. When we began to encounter all the patrols, I became suspicious…” He shrugged wearily. “Justifiably.”

  “I see.” Gordon said with a wry smile, “He is a hopeless case, sir.”

  Predictably, his sire’s eyes sparked resentment, the handsome head whipping upwards, but before Sir Brian could speak, Gordon went on reflectively, “Do you recall when he was ten, how he took on those village louts who had tied the puppy to the water wheel? He didn’t give a straw that there were six of them—all bigger than he. The cause was there—so he fought.”

  “And got himself properly knocked up! The cause he fought for this time was a less worthy one, though I doubt he gave it any more consideration!”

  “He could not defend himself on that score, sir,” argued Gordon quietly. “He fancied you too ill for him to put his political convictions in your dish. The truth is that he feels very strongly on the issues, and has nothing but contempt for the House of Hanover.”

  “As I have nothing but contempt for a cheat,” snapped Sir Brian, his wan face flushing. “Had he come to me honestly, and told me of his beliefs, I’d—”

  With a courage that awed Penelope, Gordon interposed, “You would have flown into the boughs—as you did today; raged at him, as you did today; and fretted yourself into horse nails every hour he was away. No, sir. Quentin dared not ride off to his loved Scots and leave you grieving. You were still recovering from your surgery, and I doubt would be sitting here now, had he done so.”

  Staring at this usually taciturn son in astonishment, Sir Brian growled, “You’re mighty eloquent in defense of your brother, seeing that all his life he has taken advantage of you and persuaded you always to what he wished. Do you think I have not seen how he uses and abuses your good nature?”

  “Your pardon, but”—Gordon’s voice hardened—“that is not true, sir. In point of fact, Quentin is straight and above-board in everything. I am more … devious, I fear.” He raised a hand, slightly smiling as he saw his indignant father ready to defend him. “No, no, it really is the case, sir. It was as a rule comparatively easy for me to—ah, persuade Quentin that we did as he wished, when in many instances I had first implanted the idea in his mind, then argued so forcefully against it, he was convinced it must be the only thing to do.” His smile faded away. With a regretful shrug, he added, “On one issue I could not sway him, however. The most important issue of his life. I was so desperate that we came to blows over it. Quentin tried to fend me off, for he had no wish to fight me. He had lowered his fists when I … struck him.” He bit his lip and added reluctantly, “I broke his nose.”

  His jaw dropping, Sir Brian gasped, “You did? But—but he told me—”

  “He told you whatever he felt would cause you the least distress, Papa. He was afraid you would be less than pleased to know that perfect nose of his had been ruined by your heir.”

  Sir Brian glanced at him sharply, for the first time wondering if this young man he had always secretly judged clever, but rather dull, was aware of his opinion. He said in new anxiety, “Gordon—you know, lad, that my love for you is just as deep as that I hold for your brother.”

  Reddening, Gordon said gruffly, “Thank you, sir. But if you truly love Quentin, you will do as I ask and leave here now.”

  “No! How can you ask me to go—not knowing whether he is alive or dead?”

  “I ask only that you go as far as Winchester. We will get word to you as soon as we hear. Treve has men out now, trying to find out what
happened. Sir—” Gordon leaned forward, saying intensely, “He is risking his life—do not make his sacrifice for nought.”

  “Then you do think it a sacrifice!” Remorseful, Sir Brian said, “He looked so tired and ill, and—God forgive me! If he dies with my last words to him having been so…” His voice broke and he bowed forward, one thin hand wavering up to cover his eyes.

  With a little cry of pity, Penelope ran to kneel beside his chair and take his other hand between both her own. “Oh, my dear sir—do not! Can you suppose Quentin does not know of your love for him? You were deeply hurt and shocked, and disappointed—as much for all of us as for him. What could be more natural than for you to rail at him? If … God forbid … he should be killed, why he—he would die with no other feeling for you than devotion. It is not his way to hold a grudge. His heart is too … too generous.…” Her own voice broke, and the hand she clasped was dampened by her tears.

  “Good God! What a damp-nosed lot!”

  The insouciant charm of the deep voice brought them all to their feet. Penelope was across the room in a flash, sobbing into Quentin’s drenched cloak, his cold, wet arms fast about her. He tilted up her chin and kissed her very gently on the brow, with lips like ice and water dripping from his soaked hair. Reaching around her, he returned his brother’s strong handclasp.

  His gaze turned to his father. Penelope stepped away from him. Apprehensive and uncertain, Quentin waited.