Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  Shocked by such digressions, she gave herself a swift mental shake and tried to be more sensible. When all was said and done, what did she really know of the man? He had been invited to Tante Maria’s ball, but that did not constitute a really firm recommendation, for he might be a friend of Jacques’s and, fond as she was of her cousin, she could not deny that Jacques was rather rackety. The doctor was a strong individual. Yes, there could be no doubt of that. He had unhesitatingly come to her rescue just now when she herself had seemed in danger of becoming suspect. He had taken some most awful risks for reasons that might or might not be connected with herself. And if they did not have to do with herself, was it possible he had a deeper reason? A terrible reason? Could he himself be a Jacobite? Almost before the thought was formed, she rejected it. No rebel who had won his way to France would leave that sanctuary to return to England and run the high risk of capture, torment, and a hideous death. ’Twould be purest folly!

  At this point she was unutterably relieved to recollect that Dr. Victor was a friend of Charles’s. She drew a deep, grateful breath. No friend of her brother could be anything but an honourable gentleman!

  * * *

  “It fair sends me into the boughs!” Lieutenant Brooks Lambert drove one hand through his thick blond hair and paced across Jacob Holt’s tiny barracks parlour and back again, his blue eyes glowing with frustration. “To know the reb is somewhere close by! That we might put our hands on him, did we but reach out—and to be unable to find the swine! ’Sdeath!” He took a swallow from the glass he held. “’Tis damnable!”

  Holt, sitting on the worn sofa, his coat unbuttoned, frowned down at his own glass and murmured, “This rebel hunt exerts a powerful effect on you, Brooks. I wonder why.”

  “Why?” Lambert spun around. Even in his shirtsleeves, he was an impressive sight; handsome, powerfully built, the epitome of a dauntless British officer. “Why?” he repeated. “Are you gone daft, Jacob? They are vermin! The enemies of our country. I fought them from Prestonpans to glorious Culloden, and— Now why lift your brows at me? You think ’twas not a glorious victory, perchance?”

  Holt shrugged. “And—the aftermath? Do you count that glorious?”

  Lambert smiled slowly. Horribly, Holt thought. “They earned it. Every whining bastard of ’em!”

  “I heard them shout and roar,” Holt observed in his dry, pedantic way. “I do not recall many whines. And one might suppose Cumberland’s—er, reprisals would satisfy even such hatred as yours.”

  Lambert tossed off the rest of his brandy, slammed down his glass and looked at Holt with bitter, vengeful eyes. “Well, think again! I hate the guts of every last reb. Had I my way, not one would be shot. I’d put ’em to the question—each individually, while the others were made to look on and know what was coming to them. Let ’em die slow and hard.” He took up his coat. “I’ve scores to settle, Jacob. And settled they will be, by God! One way or t’other!”

  Holt concealed his disgust. He had no liking for Lambert, but then he liked few men, and cried friends with even fewer. If he had a fondness for anyone, it was most likely for a scapegrace cousin who called himself Roland Otton; and Roland could be trusted just about as far as one could throw Tower Bridge.

  He stood as his companion shrugged into his coat. It was very evident that some spur was goading Lambert. Likely the same one that had landed him in so much hot water a few weeks back when he’d set what he believed to be a trap for a fugitive and had instead been neatly outwitted—or so rumour had it. He’d been demoted for that fiasco. The wonder was that he hadn’t been cashiered, rather than reduced to the rank of lieutenant. His superb battle record was likely what had saved him. He was a splendid fighting man, always to be found in the thick of the action, and had never been known to show fear, even under the heaviest attack.

  Holt respected that quality, but aside from it thought they had little in common; and yet Lambert seemed to have taken a liking to him. That same liking did not, apparently, extend to Otton, although for a while the two men had been friends. Something had happened between them at about the time of Lambert’s disgrace. What it was, or how Roland had been involved, Holt did not know. His few attempts to find out from his cousin had been diverted so smoothly that even as he acknowledged defeat he could not but admire Roly’s skill. From time to time, Lambert would make polite enquiry as to Roland’s well-being, but when Holt had once or twice idly suggested the three of them take dinner together, Lambert’s face had become as empty as a poor-box and he had offered rather lame excuses for declining. If Roly had bested Lambert by means of some sort of chicanery, it was the more remarkable that Lambert appeared to hold no grudge against his cousin, and continued to seek his company. To be sought out, however, was an unfamiliar experience that awoke Holt’s curiosity. He was not a scintillating conversationalist; they were not old school chums; they had no shared interests. Had he possessed anything of value, he’d have suspected that Lambert wanted something of him, but since he was poor as any churchmouse, he could only surmise that Lambert, popular with neither officers nor men, was lonely, and having found another solitary type, felt an empathy with him.

  The clock struck five. Glancing at it, Lambert grunted, “I’ll be off.” He shrugged into his coat and his brilliant smile flashed. “Don’t you forget, Jacob, that we are here to catch this cowering weasel of a reb. Not to let him slip through our fingers as so many have done, thanks to the interference of sanctimonious, weak-kneed, curst unpatriotic clods.”

  Jacob Holt was a born soldier who performed the tasks assigned him with unquestioning efficiency, but not always with pride. “I fancy some people feel sorry for them,” he said in a cold, clipped voice, and crossed to open the door.

  “Damned rebel lovers! Well, at least we’ve a proper punishment for that breed! The prospect of having his bowels ripped out for the sake of a bare-kneed Scot gives a man cause to think twice!” Lambert grinned and went out, adding over his shoulder, “Or a woman!”

  Closing the door after him, Holt’s light eyes were thoughtful. He stood for a moment, irresolute, then opened the door again and shouted for his orderly.

  A short time later, a dragoon corporal faced him at rigid attention, albeit his sturdy knees were trembling. “In the arm, sir,” he said.

  Holt asked coldly, “How can you be so sure? I want facts, not bragging.”

  “Saw his hand I did, sir. And made a quick push at it. Me bagnet was blooded, so I know I—”

  “You saw your bayonet hit home? In his arm?”

  “We-ell, no. Not to actually see it go home, sir. But—”

  “And then, he gave you one in the bread-basket.”

  The corporal sighed and admitted, shamefaced, “Aye, sir. A good one. And while I was down, he got the reb clean away.”

  “Regrettable.” Holt took a few paces and asked, “Are you quite sure there was only one man?”

  “One…?” Surprised, the corporal stammered, “Why—I did but see one.”

  “And you’re quite sure the one you blooded was the same man who struck you?”

  A baffled pause. Then, slowly, “Why, now you come to mention—it was very dark in the shade of them trees, sir, and—”

  “Did he cry out? Any sound as if he’d been hit?”

  “No, but he walloped me s’quick, I—”

  Holt swung back to face him. “I want you to think very carefully. You got a look at the wounded reb. Could he have struck you?”

  “Lor’ no, sir. He was all blood and so weak as a cat. Couldn’t even stand up. ‘Sides, he wasn’t much more than a lad. Fellow as walloped me had a fist like solid rock.”

  “Which is remarkable, wouldn’t you say, for a man who’d just had a bayonet stuck through his arm?”

  The corporal stared at him, waiting.

  “Now, Corporal,” said Holt softly. “Cast your mind back, and be very sure of your answer. Is it possible that there were two people helping the reb? That one of them might have been—a
woman?”

  Horrified, the corporal gasped, “Gawd, sir! Be you saying as I stuck me bagnet in a female?”

  “I am asking if ’tis possible. When you have thought about it you will doubtless let me hear your answer.”

  The corporal flushed. ‘Bloody cold fish!’ he thought. Still … “I reckon it ain’t impossible, Captain,” he said reluctantly. “Be just like a woman to try and help the poor cove. I never thought, but—you’re right enough, not many men could’a walloped me like that right after I shoved me bagnet in ’em. Very likely there was two on ’em—though whether one was a female woman … hum…”

  Captain Holt took a deep breath, nodded, and dismissed the corporal, having first cautioned him against mentioning this interview to a living soul.

  When he was alone again, he poured himself another drink and stood for a long time, swirling the brandy in the glass, and gazing somberly down at it.

  7

  By the time the chariot was skirting the environs of Chichester, Billy Coachman’s prediction had been borne out; for the last hour they had journeyed through the lovely South Down country under sullen skies lit by occasional flashes of lightning and the distant grumbling of thunder. The quaint old market town was bathed in a lurid glow from tumbled clouds edged with a muted saffron, and when the horses at length turned onto the lane that passed the Court, an oppressively warm wind sent the tree-tops swirling.

  There was no sign of the house, but having obtained directions from Mrs. Porchester, Victor rode ahead until he reached a pair of wide iron gates whereon was displayed the name Lennox Court. He leaned from the saddle to open the gates, then drew his horse aside to allow the chariot to pass. Billy Coachman raised his whip and offered a grin by way of appreciation and the chariot rumbled past, the horses tossing their heads skittishly as thunder bellowed, much closer. Glancing inside, Victor met a solemn look from Miss Albritton. Mrs. Porchester gave him a bright smile and waved her mittened hand, and he waved back, his troubled heart lifting somewhat. A good lady was the aunt.

  He closed the gates and spurred his horse, anxious to reach Charles before the colonel learned of his arrival. The drive wound through several stands of trees and some remarkably beautiful gardens before the house came into view, the chariot pulling up before it.

  A charming, many-gabled edifice, Lennox Court nestled comfortably in the centre of its twenty acres. Architecturally, it fell within the loosely structured bounds known as Old English. The plastered walls were adorned with half-timbering, carefully restrained ivy, and the warm patina of age. There had been several additions, obviously, with a resultant jumble of little angles and juts, but the original style had been preserved, the deep latticed bay windows and the pitch of the gables faithfully reproduced throughout the pleasant sprawl of the building. The single front door, of thick boards, painted white and dramatically accented with black Gothic ironwork, was slightly recessed under a small brick arch. The door opened as Victor approached, and two men hurried onto the steps.

  The first was an erect gentleman, well preserved and fiftyish, a suggestion of the military about his bearing and the cut of his coat. The second, a slender, good-looking young fellow with dark chestnut-brown unpowdered hair, was clad in sombre black relieved only by his white stock and ruffles, the dark garb accentuating his pale colouring.

  ‘Charles,’ thought Victor.

  A gardener who had been toiling in a bed of roses jumped up and opened the door of the coach, only to reel back as Trifle hurtled at his chest. With considerably less precipitation, the two ladies followed.

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Porchester as the gardener began to pick himself up.

  “Rosamond! Estelle!” called the elder gentleman, beaming.

  “Welcome home!” shouted the younger.

  Trifle, who had started toward a promising tree across the drive-path, was pleased by such appreciation, and took a shortcut so as to return the greeting—between the legs of the team. In the same instant a bright flash split the lowering heavens and thunder cracked deafeningly. Terrified by the combination of events, the horses reared and plunged, started to bolt, and caromed into Victor’s mount. The hack shied, and almost foundered. Victor, his keen gaze fixed on the man he was sure must be the colonel, was caught unprepared and thrown from the saddle.

  Rosamond gave a shocked cry. Mrs. Porchester screamed. More single-minded, Trifle launched himself at the colonel, barking joyously.

  “What the devil—?” spluttered Colonel Albritton, beating off the rapturous canine advances.

  Trifle turned around three times, and increased his volume. The frightened team neighed, plunged, and reared, and Billy Coachman swung down and sprinted to their heads. Rosamond ran to the casualty, the fair-haired gardener and the darkly garbed young gentleman following.

  The two men helped Victor get up. He was pale and looked dazed. Alarmed, Rosamond said, “Heavens! Are you all right?”

  “Yes—thank you,” he answered, and laughed rather breathlessly, his eyes on the colonel. “I’ve made a dashed poor—first impression…’fraid, sir.”

  “Not at all,” growled the colonel, his glittering gaze on the prancing dog. “What is that?”

  “Oh, you have hurt yourself, Doctor!” cried Mrs. Porchester. “You’re bleeding!”

  Gripping his left arm painfully, Victor admitted that he seemed to have landed rather clumsily. “But ’tis nothing to worry about.”

  “I must make you known to my father,” said Rosamond. “Papa, this gentleman is a friend of Tante Maria and has been so kind as to escort us here.” Deliberately leaving the introduction unfinished, she added, “I believe he is already acquainted with my brother.”

  The colonel, who had never until now thought his daughter’s etiquette at fault, was astonished.

  ‘Vixen!’ thought Victor and with a broad smile turned to the sombrely clad gentleman. “Never say you’ve forgotten me, Charles?”

  The young man stared at him.

  Rosamond’s heart thudded and she experienced an almost overpowering need to burst into tears. She managed to say quietly, “That gentleman is my cousin, Howard Singleton.” She put her hand on the sleeve of the fair-haired gardener. “This—is my brother.”

  “G’day, Rev.” said the coachman’s jeering voice.

  “Of all the confounded insolence!” snorted the colonel. “Take yourself off, fellow!”

  “Ain’t been paid,” protested Billy, indignant.

  The “gardener,” who had been staring at the coachman, jerked his gaze to Victor.

  The hurt man swayed drunkenly. “’Pologies,” he mumbled. “’Fraid I’m a touch dizzy … Do you remember me, Charles? I’m—”

  “Of course I remember you.” The Reverend Charles Albritton slipped one rather muddy hand under Victor’s elbow. “You’re Rob____”

  “Robert Victor. “Only—I’ve a title now. You must call me—Doctor … old boy.”

  “Dr. Oldboy it shall be,” said Charles, grinning. “Sir, Rob and I—”

  He was interrupted as lightning flashed glaringly, thunder roared, and the rain began to pelt down.

  The colonel threw his arm about his sister-in-law. “Into the house, everyone!”

  Charles supported Victor. Howard Singleton took Rosamond’s arm, and they all hurried for the front door, Trifle well in the lead.

  “Hey!” howled Billy Coachman. “Wot abaht me?”

  “Oh, blast the fellow,” said the colonel testily. “I’d best—”

  “No, no, sir,” said the young priest. “I’ll pay the reckoning. If someone will help Rob—he’s a bit knocked out of time, I’m afraid.”

  Singleton at once lent his free arm to the doctor.

  “A fine way to spoil your homecoming, Rosa,” grumbled the colonel, as they stepped into a wide warm hall. “If you had but let us know you was— By Jove! Where’s Deborah?”

  Rosamond, who had been hoping against hope, caught her breath. So Debbie had not yet returned home! Shocked a
nd dismayed, she dare not look at her aunt.

  Singleton turned to ask anxiously, “Yes. Where is my sister, Aunt Estelle?”

  “She is—following,” said Mrs. Porchester hurriedly. “Oh, poor Dr. Victor! That arm is bleeding badly, and we keep you standing here. Standing here! Lennox, do please let us get the poor gentleman up to The Slaughterhouse so that we may help him.”

  Victor’s grey eyes widened and slanted to Rosamond. Her heart skipped a beat. His arm was already bandaged. No one must know that. Captain Holt was quite likely to come here and would be vastly intrigued to learn that Victor’s arm had been hurt at some time prior to his having been thrown.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Dr. Victor,” said Howard Singleton, starting toward the handsomely panelled staircase. “The Slaughterhouse is so named because when we were children that is where Nurse or Aunt Estelle would repair our battle wounds.”

  “All our emergency medical regalia is kept up there,” explained Mrs. Porchester. “All our medical regalia. I shall come and help you.”

  Rosamond at once intervened, pointing out that this gave her the opportunity to repay in kind the favour the doctor had rendered, and insisting that she was quite able to attend to the cut.

  “What d’you mean, Rosa?” asked the colonel, looking alarmed. “Was you ill, child?”

  Following the two men up the stairs, Rosamond called, “Do you explain to Papa and Charles, Aunt Estelle. I am sure they will also wish to know about Deborah. And Trifle.”

  Mrs. Porchester sent a pained glance after her.

  Victor sank wearily onto the cot in the neat little chamber they called The Slaughterhouse, and Singleton said kindly, “You look a touch pulled, sir. Let’s have that coat off and—”

  “Good gracious,” interrupted Rosamond, her voice rather shrill. “I forgot to ask Papa to send up hot water. Howard, would you mind?”