Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  Victor and Charles exchanged a grim glance.

  Rosamond gasped unsteadily, “What … do you here at this hour, sir?”

  He grinned. “I might well ask you the same, Miss Albritton—did I not already have the answer. May I see how you’ve progressed with the decoding?” He sauntered forward, but stopped as Victor growled, “You may explain what the devil you’re talking about. And why I shouldn’t pull this trigger do you take one more step.”

  “Does the name Meredith Carruthers mean anything to you?” Fairleigh tossed a corner of his cloak over one broad shoulder to reveal the beautifully cut mulberry broadcloth riding dress beneath. “I lent him a—er, helping hand, shall we say, in his little jaunt with the third cypher. I am also acquaint with a most valiant young fellow, Lord Geoffrey Delavale by name—or, at least, that is one of his names.”

  Watching breathlessly, Rosamond saw her brother again send a swift glance at Victor. She asked, “What does he mean?”

  Victor gritted, “Is of no import, ma’am. This fellow either knows too much, in which case he is a dead man; or too little—with the same result.”

  “Par grâce!” Fairleigh clapped a hand to his brow in an exaggerated gesture of despair, although his black eyes sparkled with amusement. “What a bloody-minded individual you are! How, I wonder, may I convince you of my sincerity?”

  Charles enquired coldly, “With regard to—what?”

  “Why, to assisting you, however I may, to decode the cyphers. I am in sympathy with the fugitives. I give you my word I am most deeply interested in their plight. Only ask Tony Farrar if he would be alive today had I not helped him when his back was to the wall.”

  With the pistol still aimed unerringly at Fairleigh’s heart, Victor said, “Perhaps, since you are so well informed on treasonable matters, you can tell the Reverend how the third cypher was delivered.”

  “By all means, dear boy. ’Twas by way of a gravestone. And a wretched time Carruthers had completing the task, with that clod Brooks Lambert doing his best to put a period to him.” He turned to Rosamond and said apologetically, “Because of my part in that unhappy business, this same Captain Lambert has taken me in great aversion. He is bumbling around this neighbourhood, wherefore I’ve been obliged to keep away, dear ma’am. I did not dare risk leading him here.”

  There was a moment of quivering stillness. Then Charles demanded, “Do you say you were sent here by Meredith Carruthers?”

  “No, sir. By Delavale, though he could not give me a written introduction—under the circumstances. Nor was I told with whom I was to be in contact. Only to come here and assist in whatever way I might.”

  His face stern and unrelenting, Victor said, “Charles, you’ll never believe this piece of theatre only because he can name some of our people?”

  “Mr. Fairleigh is a good man, I am very sure, Charles,” Rosamond interposed hurriedly. “But I do not understand why he spun me that involved tale about the stolen Shakespearean parchment.”

  Fairleigh shrugged. “My charge from Delavale was hastily imparted. In fact, we were interrupted before he could complete it. I was told nothing about—er, Dr. Victor’s presence. At first, I was inclined to believe he was my man, but gradually it began to appear that he might be a military spy sent here to entrap you. When you took me into your confidence, it seemed even more likely that Victor was not what he seemed. I could not be sure of how much you knew, dear lady, and I thought my tale of the parchment would cause you to come to me did you see such an article, rather than trusting a man who might very well at once arrest you.”

  “You confided in Fairleigh, Rosa?” asked Charles, looking grim.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She said guiltily, “Only that I—I was perplexed about Dr. Victor. I knew very little, but I was careful, Charles. Mr. Fairleigh was most kind and did indeed beg me to mention not a word to a soul if I saw the parchment, but to go at once to him.”

  “Clever,” sneered Victor. “A bounty hunter might have done the same.”

  “Very true.” Fairleigh said with a twinkle, “Still, you may be grateful I have interested myself in the difficulties of the unfortunate rebels. For had I not been aware that someone at Lennox Court has been the receiver of the cyphers, I might well have gone off and told the military there was something deuced odd going forward here.”

  Watching that dark countenance narrowly, Charles said, “You seem well informed. But what precisely is your object, sir?”

  “Have I not said it? To assist you in any way possible. I’ve a deep and personal interest in the Jacobite Cause, and I really do sympathize with the fugitives. In my estimation, Cumberland’s treatment of the poor fellows is downright heathenish. But do you doubt me, you’ve only to contact Delavale.”

  “Would that we dare,” muttered Charles. “He is watched day and night.”

  “As Fairleigh is very well aware,” said Victor. “The dragoons pray for some unwary rebel to come within a mile of him, for they’d sell their collective souls to lay hands on—”

  “On the intrepid Ligun Doone…?” murmured Fairleigh.

  Victor’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  Astounded, Rosamond gasped, “Is it so? Lord Delavale is really Ligun Doone?”

  “Aye,” nodded Victor. “And ye’d do well tae forget ye ever hearrrd what this reckless idiot said, ma’am.” Recovering his English accent, he added, “Fairleigh—be more discreet, if you please! For the lady’s sake. Well, Charles? What say you? Do we trust this rascally fellow?”

  Fairleigh chuckled. “You know me better than I thought, Victor. Or—is it—MacTavish? I wonder I did not earlier mark your resemblance to your lovely sister!”

  It was the final straw. The fact that this man had so much knowledge yet had very obviously not relayed it to the military told its own tale. Warmly by Charles and Rosamond, warily by Victor, Fairleigh was accepted into their ranks, and allowed to look at the cyphers.

  “Though I’ll warn you, friend,” said Victor, eyes and mouth at their grimmest, “if you’re a sneaking redcoat spy—you’ll not live to betray us!”

  Fairleigh cuffed him easily. “Devil fly away with you, Rob. I’ve no least wish to betray you. Indeed, I could not do so even if I did wish it, for my word of honour is given on that score.” He bent over the table, his eyes travelling rapidly down the lines. “And the last verse,” he muttered, moving Lightning’s tail aside in order to read it. “‘All is quiet—’ Jove, but that’s odd. Why the Arabic ‘4.’ I wonder, when the other three stanzas are numbered in the Roman?”

  They all leaned closer, peering at the parchment.

  “Damme, but you’re right,” said Victor. “I must be getting soft in the brainbox! I never even noticed!”

  “I noticed,” Rosamond murmured, “but thought it simply a slip of the pen, or that perhaps a different person writ the last stanza.”

  “No, no,” said Charles intensely. “They all were writ out by a Scots lady.”

  “And that intrepid grande dame don’t make slips of the pen,” said Victor. “Jove, but you may have found our key, Fair____”

  The door slammed open. “What in the deuce,” snorted Colonel Albritton, a cloak over his night-rail, “are you all messing about at in this wretched hut at this hour of the night?”

  “Oh, blast!” said Charles under his breath.

  “Papa!” squeaked Rosamond with an involuntary jump of fright.

  Snuffing the wave of cold air, Lightning gave an interested trill and jumped down from the table, precipitating the vital parchment to the floor.

  Victor uttered a smothered exclamation and made a grab for it, but as if malignantly guided, the parchment fluttered to land almost at the colonel’s feet. He bent and picked it up.

  Horrified, Rosamond gave a smothered little cry.

  Before the colonel had a chance to do more than glance at the page, Charles sprang forward and snatched it from his hand.

  “Now confound you, sir!” snorted his father, b
ristling.

  Charles whipped the sheet behind his back.

  Victor, very pale, stood rigidly still.

  “Papa!” shrieked Rosamond, running in front of her brother and spreading her cloak concealingly. “Do not look!”

  In immediate support of his quick-witted sister, Charles said, “No, sir—you really must not come in here, you know.”

  “The deuce I must not,” fumed the colonel, stamping forward, his whiskers vibrating strongly. “If Fairleigh can—”

  “But—’tis not my birthday tomorrow,” Fairleigh pointed out with a teasing smile.

  Brightening, the colonel checked. His eager eyes still strove to glimpse whatever was being so closely concealed behind his son’s back, but he made no real objection when Rosamond took his arm and pulled him gently towards the door. “Well, whatever mischief you young rascals are up to,” he called jovially, “have done with it for tonight. Come along now, and get to your beds, else you’ll be too tired to enjoy the party tomorrow.”

  Charles rolled the parchment and slipped it into his pocket. “D’you know, sir, I think you’re in the right of it. We’ve accomplished enough.” He glanced from Rosamond to Victor’s enigmatic face. “One way or another.”

  The candles were extinguished and they left the pavilion and started across the lawn. The night was black as pitch, and the wind still moaned fitfully among the trees. Trifle appeared to have detected them, for the rattling of a chain in the stable-yard was followed by a wild outburst of barks and howling.

  “Lord God Almighty!” groaned the colonel. “That flea-bitten cur will rouse the house!”

  “It appears to me, sir,” said Fairleigh, peering ahead, “that ’tis already roused.”

  Following his gaze, Charles muttered, “What on earth…?”

  A faint light gleamed through the shrubs, and as they changed direction and drew closer to the flower gardens, Rosamond caught a glimpse of a white shape drifting about, lit by an unearthly greenish glow. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she shrank closer to Victor, who at once slipped an arm about her.

  “Ghosts…?” murmured Fairleigh.

  “Is it, by God,” said the colonel uneasily, slowing his steps.

  Victor grunted a cynical “Dragoons, more like, fancying we’ve a fugitive hid here.”

  “May heaven help the curd-brained dragoon I find trampling my gardens at dead of night!” hissed the colonel, recovering himself. “Come on, you fel____” He broke off with a muffled gasp and came to a complete halt as the apparition fluttered, seemed to fold in upon itself, and vanished. “Now—stap me vitals,” he finished rather hollowly.

  Victor pulled Rosamond back and said low-voiced, “You’d best stay here, Miss Albritton.”

  She was very tired, and not a little unnerved by this new threat, therefore she put up no argument, but watched anxiously.

  Treading swiftly and silently, the men moved ahead. The spectral figure could no longer be seen, but the faint light still filtered through the bushes to glint eerily on the long-barrelled pistol in Victor’s hand, and the sleek colichemarde Fairleigh had drawn.

  Suddenly, the figure shot into view again. Rosamond gave a squeak of fright.

  “Charge!” roared the colonel.

  The four men charged. Well ahead, the colonel tackled the spectre vigorously. A shovel flew into the air. A piercing scream resounded. Trifle barked frenziedly.

  “Oh—wait!” gasped Rosamond with belated comprehension, and ran to the fray.

  “Help!” cried Victor, deserting cravenly, with Fairleigh in close pursuit.

  “Lennox Albritton! Unhand me this instant!” shrilled Mrs. Porchester, struggling. “Unhand me, sir!”

  “Oh! Good … gad…!” groaned the colonel, clambering up and assisting his indignant relation to her feet.

  “Aunt Estelle!” cried Rosamond as Charles deserted. “Oh, but your hair is all come down! Are you all right?”

  “All right?” sputtered Mrs. Porchester. In the full light of the lantern, which had been placed beneath a shielding green silk parasol now kicked aside, she was magnificent in her wrath, her luxuriant dark tresses all about her. “All right? I doubt I shall ever be—all right again! My stars! To be gripped and thrown to the ground like—like any— Are you drunk, Albritton? Are you inebriated, sir? Or is it merely that you have gone stark raving mad?”

  “You’ve no—absolutely no b-business … digging up my garden in the wee hours,” gulped the colonel. “Apologize, was I rough with you. But—you deserved it, be dashed if you didn’t! Not content with massacring m’prize roses and calling it ‘pruning,’ not content with fair ruining m’rhododendrons—you must sneak and creep about at dead of night to wreak your dastardly desecrations under cover of darkness! I vow, Stella—”

  “Oh!” shrilled the outraged lady, tearing off her large gardening glove and flailing it at his head between little rushes of words. “You horrid—wretch of an—an in-law!—I know just as much—just as much—if not more—of gardening—than do you, sir!”

  “No, Stella! Now, Stella!” gasped the colonel, dodging about while trying to catch her flying hand.

  “You have always been jealous of—my gardening, for everything you plant—dies!” she declared wildly, evading his grip and landing a good one on the end of his nose. “And I don’t scruple to tell you that you may—save yourself the trouble of hiding my secateurs, for I’ve bought a dozen new pairs, a dozen new pairs! And—”

  “Have done, woman!” roared the colonel, seizing her in a strong grip and pulling her close. “Jove—if you ain’t…”

  Dismayed, Rosamond started forward, only to pause as her father uttered in a vastly different tone, “If you ain’t got pretty hair, Stella … Like a blasted great cloud. Be dashed if I ever noticed before…”

  They stood very still, gazing at each other.

  “Why—Lennox…” murmured Mrs. Porchester, a softness in her voice that no woman could fail to identify.

  “Good heavens…!” breathed Rosamond. She felt a tug at her cloak and found Victor beside her. “Were I you, ma’am,” he whispered, “I’d debunk while the debunking’s good.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice and, putting her hand in his, crept away.

  * * *

  It was the custom at Lennox Court that the birthday person was allowed to sleep late, was served his or her favourite breakfast in bed, and did not descend the stairs until the dining-room table was set for the festivities and the immediate family was gathered in the lower hall to wish the celebrant joy of the occasion. Gifts were then presented, toasts were drunk, and at four o’clock friends and neighbours began to arrive for the party.

  On this rather chill and overcast morning, however, long before the honoree was even beginning to stir, before the servants had laid out the fine tea-service of artificial porcelain that the colonel had acquired in France, or the gardener had brought in the fresh flowers, four people had gathered in the pavilion and were hard at work. Charles had trod up the steps shortly after six o’clock to find Victor waiting for him. Fairleigh had presented himself a few minutes later. Rosamond, having been obliged to summon Addie very early so as to wash and dry her hair, and do a hasty job of styling it, was the last to arrive. Very little had been said as they gathered around the reference table, and for the next three hours they racked their collective brains to come at the solution. In vain.

  At quarter past nine o’clock, Victor crossed out his most recent effort and flung down the quill pen. “Och aweigh,” he groaned in exasperation. “We’re on the wrong road, forbye!”

  “Faith, but we must be,” agreed Charles, stretching. “We’ve tried every combination I can think of. Every fourth word from the beginning; every fourth word from the end; the fourth letter; the fourth line; straight down through all the fourth letters of all the stanzas, straight down through all the fourth words—”

  “Until we came to a three-word line,” sighed Fairleigh. “Lud, but I never considered mys
elf a dunce—till now.”

  “And we must go back very soon,” said Rosamond, watching Victor worriedly. “And then there will be no chance to try again until everyone is abed tonight. So much time lost.”

  His brows drawn together in concentration, Victor stared at the impregnable cypher, all too aware that, for him, time was running out; that at any minute there might come a troop of horse with orders for his arrest and that if he had to run for his life with the cypher still unbroken, his dangerous journey back to England would have been undertaken for nothing. His very presence here could, in fact, bring death’s dark shadow over this splendid family, and in especial, over the bewitching little lady who had come to mean so much to him as to change his every hope for the future—had he the right to hope for a future … He swore under his breath, turned away from the table and strode to stand gazing blindly out of the window.

  Rosamond followed and, placing a consoling hand on his arm, felt a tremor shake him at her touch. “You did your very best,” she said. “No man can do more.”

  “A poor best, lassie,” he argued bitterly. “I failed at Culloden—”

  Indignant, she cried, “Not so! You fought bravely for what you believed in, and—”

  “And had to crawl from the field with the aid of—” She winced, and he broke off and put his hand over hers. Gazing at her, he seemed to sink into the sapphire depths of her eyes, and for a glorious but foolish moment was dizzyingly happy. He recovered his sanity with a start and exclaimed, “And I’m a clumsy clod! Your pardon, Miss Rosa. ’Tis just…” He shrugged in frustration. “It all seems such a waste. If I could but have helped the innocent families regain their valuables, I’d not feel so—so curst—useless! When I think of all Charles has done! And him an Englishman!”

  Lost in thought, Charles appeared not to have heard their low-voiced colloquy, and now he muttered, “Rob may be right, at that. Perhaps we are still coming at it from the wrong direction.”

  Victor asked intently, “How so, Charles? Do you think we should not be concentrating on the number?”

  “Suppose,” said Charles thoughtfully, “the emphasis is meant to lie not on the number four, but only the first three numbers?”