“It well might be!” exclaimed Fairleigh.
“Then let’s have at it,” said Victor, his enthusiasm fired once more.
“I begin to loathe this poem,” sighed Rosamond. “If only Deborah would come home and bring the—”
Even as she spoke, the door swung open. They all spun around apprehensively.
A girl stood on the threshold; a slender graceful silhouette against the white glare of the hazy sky, her features in shadow, her habit a sombre black, but the light making a bright coppery aureole of her simply dressed hair.
“Debbie!” cried Rosamond. “Oh, thank heaven!”
“Sweetheart…” breathed Charles, his blue eyes alight with love as he started eagerly towards her.
The girl shrank from him, pointed a quivering finger at Mr. Fairleigh, and screamed, “Otton!”
“Whoops,” muttered Fairleigh. His hand darted for his coat pocket.
Charles sprang at him, but Fairleigh’s left hand flung in a savage swipe and the young clergyman, sent reeling back, collided with Victor, crashed against the desk, fell heavily, and lay still. Recovering with lightning speed, Victor swung up his dagger, only to check and stand motionless.
The pistol in Fairleigh’s hand was aimed steadily at Rosamond. “Stay back!” he snapped, his black eyes narrowed and deadly. “The knife, MacTavish—down with it! I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m a selfish man. If ’tis her life or mine…”
Victor threw his weapon down. “Who is he, Miss Deborah?”
“A bounty hunter.” She closed the door swiftly behind her and with her fearful gaze on her love added, “He was at Highview Manor when I took the message to Quentin Chandler. He was hand in glove with the horrid people who tortured Quentin, and he has since been hounding the couriers. Is Charles—”
“I’ll own myself disillusioned,” interposed the man who called himself Fairleigh. “For when I saw you at Highview, ma’am, I thought you a charming creature.” The twinkle died from his eyes, leaving them cold and hard again. “No, Victor! You will stay where you are, if you please! Miss Rosamond—over here!”
“No! Don’t move, Rosa,” growled Victor, crouching menacingly.
Fairleigh said very softly, “I warn you, Victor … If you attack me, I shall shoot her—not you! And if I fire, the shot will be heard and can only bring help to me and death to all of you.”
Victor swore furiously but knew himself helpless.
“Do not fret so,” purred Fairleigh. “I want her only as a safe-conduct. Nothing more, I assure you. Walk carefully to me, ma’am. Now!”
Rosamond did as he said and was at once seized and whipped in front of him. Gasping, she said a trembling but contemptuous “And I thought you a gentleman!”
“Never mind,” he said kindly. “Belike your judgment will improve with the years.”
“But—you said you were sworn not to—”
“Betray your friends to the military. No more I will unless they force me to it. I merely seek to relieve them of their—burdens. I have no desire to prolong this visit, however.” His voice snapped out harshly. “The cypher. Pick it up.”
She hesitated.
The arm that crushed her against him tightened painfully and she gave an involuntary gasp.
Victor snatched up the cypher and thrust it out. “Here! Take it. Just don’t hurt her.”
Rosamond took the parchment.
With a grin of triumph, Fairleigh began to force her towards the door. His eyes were fixed on the raging Victor. He did not see that Charles had made a dazed recovery until the priest’s hands closed around his boot.
Fairleigh cursed, glanced down, and kicked savagely.
It was very fast, but it was all Victor needed. He hurled himself across the space that separated them to seize Fairleigh’s wrist and wrench the pistol upwards. Simultaneously, with all her strength, Rosamond drove her high heel at Fairleigh’s shin. He swore in anguish and his arm relaxed for a second. She tore free and ran clear.
Deborah Singleton, her beautiful face very white, flew to kneel beside Charles, who was doubled up, sobbing for breath.
Locked in desperate struggle for the pistol, Fairleigh and Victor plunged about the room, sending books and chairs crashing. Searching vainly for Victor’s pistol, Rosamond dodged around the combatants and ran to the fireplace. Even as she reached down to take up the heavy andiron, Victor smashed Fairleigh’s hand against the wardrobe. The pistol flew from Fairleigh’s grasp but his left fist struck home powerfully and although Victor swayed aside, it caught him on the temple, staggering him. Fairleigh seized the opportunity to make a dash for his pistol. With all her strength, Rosamond swung the andiron and let go. It soared across the room. Fairleigh snatched back his hand in the nick of time as the andiron landed with a deafening crash, missing his fingertips by a hair’s breadth. He gave Rosamond a reproachful look. Dazed, but still fighting, Victor launched himself in a flying tackle and the two men were down and rolling. Rosamond ran for the pistol, only to leap back as Fairleigh broke free and clambered up again. Victor was up also. He swung aside, evading the lethal blow that whizzed at him. All his remaining power was behind his clenched fist and it connected solidly with Fairleigh’s jaw. Fairleigh gave a grunt as he was driven back to crash against the bookcase. Accompanied by a shower of volumes, he went down hard, and lay inert.
“What the devil’s going on in there?” The irate bellow was nearby and unmistakable.
Looking up in horror, Charles’s dazed head pillowed on her knees, Deborah gasped, “Uncle Lennox!”
“Lord save … us all,” panted Victor, swaying slightly as he cherished his skinned knuckles. “The … table, lass. Quickly!”
Rosamond tossed the pistol to him. He caught it deftly and slipped it into his pocket. “Charlie, boy! Up, you sluggard!” he gasped, gripping the end of the reference table. “Tilt it, Rosa. No—down, love!”
Even in this perilous moment his whimsical grin was slanting at her and the instinctive term of endearment sent her heart jumping about crazily. She managed an answering smile as together they lowered the table so that it lay on its side. Victor seized Fairleigh by the ankles and hauled him unceremoniously behind the slanting tabletop, then began to pile books over him. Rosamond followed his example and Deborah helped Charles struggle to his feet.
Victor panted, “Up! Here he is!” and Rosamond stood straight, breathing hard.
“What—in the name of…?” growled the colonel, stamping inside.
“Uncle Lennox!” squeaked Deborah, running to throw herself at him so that he was obliged to catch and whirl her around.
Swiftly tidying her hair, Rosamond hissed, “Rob—the shoulder of your coat!”
He peered downward. The shoulder was ripped, the sleeve hanging. He tucked it in as best he could and, tasting blood, wiped a fast hand across his mouth.
“You saucy puss,” said the colonel, setting the laughing girl down. “’Tis time you arrived! But what I want to know is—”
“I rushed home for your birthday,” she interrupted shrilly.
“And now you’ve spoiled the surprise,” put in Rosamond, just as shrilly.
“What’re you doing—up and—and about, at this hour, sir?” asked Charles, his eyes out of focus as he blinked more or less in the direction of his father. “’Gainst—’gainst regulations…”
“Never mind about that. What’s to do here? What happened to you? Be da____ er, dashed if I—”
“Oh, these silly boys,” tittered Rosamond.
“We were wrestling, sir,” Victor explained with a grin. “Only Charles fell over the books and the table went down and him with it.”
“Yes—but, I heard—”
“More than you should, I’ll be bound,” cried Deborah, taking his arm and clinging to it fondly. “Oh, how glad I am to see you!”
“Yes, well, I’m glad too, begad, but—that’s another thing. Where’ve you—”
“And you cannot stay in here,” said Rosamond arc
hly. “I can see we must carry him away, gentlemen, and shall leave you to—er—tidy up.”
Huffing and “By Gad-ing,” the confused colonel was hurried and cajoled and flattered and at last extracted from the scene.
Charles, feeling his ribs gingerly, muttered, “Where the deuce is Fairleigh?”
A faint moan from under the shifting pile of books answered him. Fairleigh’s tousled head heaved into view and he blinked at them owlishly.
Victor took out the pistol and aimed it.
“You’ll have the whole house down here,” cautioned Charles.
“Aye,” sighed Victor. “But—losh mon, the temptation’s awfu’ strong, y’ken.”
Fairleigh wavered to his feet, shedding volumes.
“Restrain it,” suggested Charles.
Victor replaced the pistol and levelled Fairleigh with a neat uppercut.
“I meant—restrain your temptation,” Charles said reproachfully.
“I must have misunderstood,” grinned Victor. “What a pity. Let’s have off his stocking, you saintly fraud. A stocking makes a right bonny gag.”
* * *
“Are ye feelin’ a wee mite better the noo, Miss Rosa?” Addie bent over the chair anxiously, the vinaigrette bottle in one hand and a damp towel in the other.
The shock of the fight in the pavilion, climaxed by her father’s sudden appearance, had taken more of a toll than Rosamond guessed. By the time she had managed to escape to her bedchamber so as to don her party clothes, her bones felt like melting butter and no sooner had the door closed than she had all but fallen into the alarmed abigail’s arms.
“I am—very much better, thank you,” she murmured tremulously, leaning her head back and trying not to shake so.
“Well, ye dinna look it,” said Addie with a surprising degree of militance. “Who is it has upset ye, miss? Will I ring for some tea? If it’s that wicked Captain Otton—”
“Captain?” Rosamond started and sat a little straighter. The tea, she acknowledged, was a splendid notion, but watching the tall girl hurry to tug on the bell-pull, she asked, “What do you know of him? Is he a serving officer? An Intelligence officer, perhaps?”
The abigail uttered a scornful snort. “Och, I hae me doots aboot that! He’s a brain or two ’twixt his ears, I grant ye, but if he’s captain of anything, ’tis likely o’ his horse, and he made up his own rank, and that’s the sum of it, whatever!”
Somewhat easier, Rosamond said, “You should have warned me at once that he used a false name.”
“I dinna see the rascal till this morning, Miss Rosa, and I came at the gallop to tell you, but you was oot and away. And I dinna ken—er, I do not know much o’ the creature save he’s as wicked as he’s bonny.” The indignation in the grey eyes faded into fear. She added hurriedly, “Though—though, of course nowadays ’tis pairfectly according to the law does a gentleman hunt Jacobites to the axe, and—”
“And if the Jacobite chances to be Dr. Victor, who has also changed his name?” put in Rosamond softly. The abigail lost all her colour and reached out blindly to steady herself against the chair-back. “Who,” went on Rosamond, feeling her cheeks grow hot, “also chances to be a—a very dear friend of mine.”
Addie threw both hands to her mouth and moaned, “Och, miss! Ye shouldnae be fond o’ the likes o’ the MacTavish! He—he’s a bonny wee lad, but—such fearful chances as he’s taking! And as tae his future—whisht, but—”
Here, a maid appearing, Rosamond gave the order for the tea and, correctly interpreting the girl’s resentful look at Addie, said, “I would have sent my woman, but I am not feeling quite the thing and need her by me, you see.”
At once the maid became so alarmed that it was necessary for Rosamond to caution her against any mention of her indisposition lest the colonel’s birthday celebrations be marred. When she had gone hurrying after the tea, Rosamond gave a sigh of relief and went over to her wardrobe. “I must change my gown. I shall wear the white with the red ’broidery, and my hair must be dressed and powdered again, so we shall have to hasten, Addie. I fancy the colonel is at his breakfast, even now. Tell me what you know of all this.”
Addie, it seemed, had known Robert MacTavish by sight when she and her family lived near Inverness before the Uprising. He was, she declared, from a proud old Highland clan and had fought with great gallantry for Prince Charles Stuart until the Battle of Culloden Moor, when he was wounded and had to run for his life. “Ma brother served under his command, Miss Rosamond,” she confided.
“What?” exclaimed Rosamond, peering up under her eyebrows. “Not the one you told me ‘fell’ at Culloden?”
Addie gave a guilty chuckle. “Aye, the verra same, miss, but I didnae lie aboot everything. Jock fell, but wasn’t slain. He was helped escape by—friends o’ Lieutenant MacTavish.”
“Then—he is the brother you told me was unable to work because of some English milord?”
“Which could have been so, Miss Rosamond. Surely ’twas an Englishman cut Jock doon. Only, praise God he’s close by the noo—er, I mean now. And I can keep an eye on him. Can you be sae good as to put y’r bonny head doon a wee mite?”
“Addie, I think you’re a scamp! Now tell me what you know of this wicked Captain Otton—or Mr. Fairleigh, if you please.”
It developed that Addie had encountered Roland Otton, alias Roland Fairleigh, when she’d worked in Oxfordshire. “He was of the household of Lord Delavale, of Highview Manor, miss,” she explained, her voice muffled by the hairpins in her mouth as she shook powder over Rosamond’s bowed head. “And a strange household it was, to be sure. The young lord, Geoffrey, had gone away to war and was killed—or so they thought at the time—and his uncle, Joseph Montgomery, had claimed the title and estates. A nasty man, if ever I saw one! And his wife little better than a____ well, little better.”
“So Captain Otton worked for Lord Joseph?”
“Aye. They were neighbours and used to come and take their mutton wi’ my mistress, often. It turned out later that the young lord wasnae slain after all, and now he’s back, which must proper have put Lord Joseph’s fat nose out o’ joint, y’ken, not that anyone would grieve for him, for they were nae liked, the pair of ’em. The gossip aboot—aboot the captain and Lady Delavale, ye’d no believe! Nor did I doubt a word of ’t, for she was so pretty as any picture, but in a—a bold way. And Otton—well! Ye’ve only to look at the naughty flirting eyes of him—or get within arm’s length!” She chuckled softly. “Not that the maids minded, fer he was always generous, withal. But I heard after I was dismissed that the captain hunted the poor rebels without mercy. And they say he bragged—out loud, miss!—that he was a rogue and a villin, and not a good word t’say for his own self, if ye can credit that! I always thought it a right pity—so comely a gentleman, to be so evil.”
“True. Do you know anything of his background? His family?”
“Only that ’tis said he’s high-born, but disowned. No lady in Town will receive him, though when they meet him, they’re all busy wi’ their fans and their eyelashes, the shameless hussies!”
“Hmmnn,” said Rosamond, and wondered if it was possible that there was no one to immediately miss the wicked captain.
15
Charles and Victor were already waiting in the lower hall when Rosamond went down the stairs, her great skirts shushing over the treads, her gifts wrapped in the paper she had hand-painted for the occasion. Addie, fastening the dainty pearl-and-ruby pendant about her throat, had been gratified by her lady’s appearance. Charles, tall and handsome in his severe raiment, also looked pleased as he smiled fondly at her, and Victor, impressive in a silver-grey coat and pale blue brocade waistcoat, watched her with a rather stunned expression that deepened her blushes. There was no sign of either Estelle Porchester or of Deborah.
Crossing quickly to hand her parcels to Victor, who deposited them on the hall table, she turned to Charles. “Poor darling. Are you better?”
“Much better, th
ank you.”
Despite his nonchalance she noted the look of strain in his eyes and reached up to touch his temple gently. “How happy you must be, now that Debbie has come. Oh, I want so much to talk with her. But—you have the headache, I think?”
“A touch perhaps.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “But I’ll warrant I feel better than does our slippery bounty hunter.”
She shivered and, her eyes wide, whispered, “Did you—do away with him?”
“Should have,” grunted Victor.
“He’s trussed up and stuffed in the wood-shed behind the pavilion,” said Charles.
She gave a sigh of relief. “I fear I was quite taken in, and that he is a very bad man. My abigail knows of him.” Hurriedly she imparted what Addie had said. There was barely time to finish before Mrs. Porchester was rustling down the stairs, a picture in a wide-hooped gown of lilac silk trimmed with silver lace, and Deborah beside her, enchanting even in her blacks.
“You two boys have been sparring again, I see,” said Mrs. Porchester, shaking her head at them. “What a way to behave, eh, Deborah? What a way to behave! Men and their innate lust for violence!” She crossed to turn Charles’s chin and inspect his bruises narrowly. “And you—a clergyman! I wonder dear Debbie can be bothered with you.”
His blue eyes drifting past her to meet the melting gaze of his beloved, Charles said that he would not blame Deborah did she abandon him, and could only pray she might never do so.
“Do not be making sheep’s eyes again, Charles,” scolded the colonel from the top of the stairs. “I’ll remind you this is my day!”
It was indeed, and they crowded around to wish him joy of it. Charles dropped to one knee and pressed his father’s fingers to his lips, a reverence seldom given, but that brought a fond glow into the colonel’s eyes even as he laughed that he was a simple retired hussar, not a nobleman of some high title. Victor shook his hand and wished him many happy repetitions of this day, and Rosamond and Deborah bestowed kisses that delighted the colonel and brought cries of envy from the two younger men. Blushing and unwontedly timid, Mrs. Porchester deposited her own salute on his cheek, whereupon the colonel stammered and reddened like a shy boy receiving his first kiss. He sought to cover his embarrassment by enquiring gruffly, “Fairleigh not up yet?”
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