Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  “My grandfather appeared to think that up to that point I had not covered it with glory, sir, and so I took another to spare him.”

  This was not entirely true, but Lake had his share of tyrannical relations and nodded sympathetically. “What caused you to revert to Mathieson again? According to this, you served with distinction and attained the rank of captain. Did those achievements soften up the old fellow?”

  Mathieson smiled and said with becoming if insincere modesty, “Far be it from me to boast, sir …”

  Lake chuckled and returned his eyes to the letters. “And you were under the command of Colonel Archibald Cunningham? Is he the stern disciplinarian they paint him?”

  “If he is, then I’d say he has calmed down considerably. We thought of him more along the lines of a man-eating tiger!” And grinning in response to the captain’s laugh, he added, “Yes, sir. He was my commanding officer in the Low Countries. Though he was a major at that time.”

  “Well, ’tis to your credit that— What’s all this?” He flicked Mathieson’s cravat aside, renewed suspicion flaring in his eyes. “Why is your neck bleeding?”

  Mathieson returned his handkerchief to the cut, but before he could comment, Miss Bradford was smiling up at the dragoon and saying earnestly, “They become quite carried away with the drama, sir. I think they should use wooden swords, do you not agree? Real swords are so very dangerous.”

  The captain’s gaze travelled from the glossy ringlets to the little shoe that peeped from beneath her gown. His expression changed subtly. Returning her smile in a way that Mathieson found excessively revolting, he said, “You are very right, Miss Bradford. Do you appear in these plays?”

  “Sometimes,” she answered, dimpling at him.

  “Then I shall endeavour to see a performance.” He stepped closer and possessed himself of her hand. “Which way do you travel, ma’am?”

  She hesitated, and attempted to pull away, but he held her hand tighter. “We continue northward, Captain Lake.”

  “Alas. And my way leads to the south. However,” he moved even closer, “’tis not out of all reason that I might be able to—”

  “Come and watch us?” intervened Mathieson heartily. “Indeed we hope you may, sir. ’Tis always a pleasure to have a real gentleman lend dignity to our proceedings.”

  The captain regarded him with a marked diminution of approval, but released the girl’s hand. “It would be interesting to know sir, why a man of your background would travel with these people.”

  “Necessity, alas,” said Mathieson with a sigh. “’Tis not a life any of us would choose, but hunger is a stern taskmaster and Mr. Bradford was so kind as to accept me into his company.”

  “Not a matter of kindness, dear boy.” Bradford’s eyes were rather wide, but he carried it off nicely, patting Mathieson on the back and beaming at him. “Roland frequently plays our hero, sir. Much to the delectation of the fair ladies in the audience.”

  “I see.” More scornful than impressed, Lake asked, “And are you prepared, Captain, to pledge me your word as an officer and servant of the Crown that there is no involvement with rebels here?”

  A cold finger seemed to touch Mathieson. He was very sure now that Lady Ericson, the Bradfords, and this whole motley crew were either Jacobites or Jacobite sympathizers. If he swore that they were innocent and they were later arrested, it would surely put his head on the block. On the other hand, it looked as though he might, by a roundabout road, have come closer to MacTavish. The point now was whether the prize was worth the risk …

  “Jacobites?” he said, all innocent incredulity. “Jove, but we want no truck with that scurvy crew. Our sole concern is with entertaining the populace.”

  “We are loyal subjects of the king, sir,” struck in Bradford, indignant. “Of what do you suspect us, pray?”

  “An I suspected you in the slightest degree, Mr. Bradford, I’d have the whole lot of you clapped up until we came at the truth—one way or another! That Captain Mathieson vouches for you is good enough for me. At the moment. Nonetheless, should you be stopped again, you will be well advised to make sure that no rebs are skulking in your company.” The officer stamped over to mount the tired horse a trooper held for him. “Unless, of course,” he finished grimly, “you value the traitor more than your own heads.” He reined around. “I shall hold you accountable, Mathieson. Take care you—”

  “Captain! Captain!” His voice squeaking with excitement, and his accent pure Welsh, a trooper raced from one of the caravans. “Look ye at what I do ha’ found, sir!” He waved his hands. From each clenched fist hung ropes of glowing pearls, chains of gold, pendants that glittered with diamonds, and precious stones.

  ‘Oh, God!’ groaned Mathieson mentally. ‘Now I’ve lost it before I found it, and I’m going to be shot for not having revealed it!’

  There was an instant of stunned silence. The dragoon captain, his eyes starting from his head, flung himself from the saddle. “Damme, but we’ve got the dirty traitorous dogs,” he exclaimed, sabre flashing into his hand.

  “Avast ye lubber!” Leering villainously, Mervyn Bradford lurched forward. “Steal me pirate gold, will ye?”

  Mathieson’s narrowed eyes darted to the girl. Her father had evidently lost whatever wits he might have had, but somehow, she must be got out of this damnable bog. To his surprise, Fiona gave a little trill of mirth.

  Lady Ericson said, “Oh, pray do not, Captain Lake. Our trinkets cost a pretty penny, and we lose enough to pickpockets who fancy them to be real gems.”

  The captain, who had faced Bradford, his sabre ready, scowled and hesitated.

  ‘Very neat,’ thought Mathieson.

  Grinning broadly, Bradford said, “Sir, ’tis nought but a chest full of fairings. We use them in our pirate farce.”

  The officer put up his sabre, took a pearl necklace from the trooper’s hand, bit it, and peered at it narrowly.

  Mathieson watched Fiona Bradford. If she was afraid, she hid it admirably. As for her sire, he appeared about to explode with mirth. Faith, but one could not but admire the gentleman. My lady also looked slyly amused. Freemon Torrey had recovered his poise, but he was still pale and as if aware of it, stepped back from the firelight.

  For once in his life praying that he had not come upon Prince Charlie’s treasure, Mathieson watched Lake.

  “Peel!” snarled the captain, and flung the pearls from him.

  The man was in a proper rage. He’d find some outlet for it, was he not provided a graceful escape route. Mathieson provided one. “I’ll have to admit I made the same mistake as the trooper, sir. For a minute or two I really thought I’d found the Stuart treasure. I fancy for a knowledgeable man those trumperies are easy enough to detect.”

  “Glass, and poor imitations at that,” said the captain scornfully, tossing down a “ruby” necklace and a “diamond” pendant. “Restore this ‘treasure’ to the pirate’s chest, trooper. And try to be less gullible in future.”

  His face rather red, he stalked to his horse looking neither to right nor left, flung into the saddle and with a wave of one gauntletted hand led his covertly grinning men from the clearing. Torrey sniggered audibly as the man who had discovered the “treasure” ran from the caravan and followed the troop.

  Lady Ericson hissed, “Quiet!”

  The hoofbeats faded into silence. For a few seconds nobody moved, then Miss Bradford said anxiously, “Come, Captain Mathieson, and we will tend that cut. I wish—”

  Cuthbert flung out a detaining hand.

  Freemon Torrey whipped out his rapier and held it levelled at Mathieson’s throat. “I think not, Fiona!” he said loudly.

  “If you thought at all, you would keep your voice low!” Lady Clorinda’s fierce eyes swept the small crowd. “Alec—make sure the soldiers have gone, and set Japhet to keep watch for us.”

  The young Scot nodded and hurried off, calling to a redheaded youth of about seventeen who had stayed by the horses throughout all th
is.

  My lady regarded Torrey’s dramatic stance with faint disgust. Flushed but defiant, he continued to hold his sword steady, and Mathieson made no attempt to step clear. My lady gave a slight shrug. “We will all speak softly, if you please. Captain Mathieson, some explanations, sir.”

  “But—Grandmama,” Fiona protested, “he helped us!”

  Solemn-faced, the others closed in around them. A quiet but determined circle that left Mathieson in no doubt but that his life hung in the balance.

  “Firstly,” said my lady, chin out and eyes flashing, “why were you so anxious to know the rank of that nasty captain?”

  “I am known to several dragoon officers, ma’am. One or two would give much to lay hands on me.”

  “For what reason?”

  He sent a swift glance around the ring of grim faces. “A few weeks ago,” he said slowly, “I assisted a fugitive to take ship for France.”

  Murmurs of approval greeted this deadly admission, but the old lady’s expression did not change. She was silent for a moment while the others waited, watching her with the respect that is accorded an acknowledged and proven leader. “I do not disbelieve you,” she said at length. “But even if what you say is truth, it does not explain why you would pretend to be of our company.”

  “Because he is a spy,” cried Torrey. “You heard that dragoon say he’s a captain. Sent here by the army to—”

  As though belatedly recovering his wits, Mathieson interrupted hotly, “I came only to reclaim the horse you people stole from me. Did you suppose I’d make no attempt to get him back?”

  “He could have told the soldiers about that,” Fiona pointed out. “But he very kindly did not!”

  “Why not?” demanded the dark-haired saturnine individual. “Such noble forbearance isnae natural in a body, y’ken!”

  “We ken that you talk too much, Gregor,” said my lady sharply. “And if Captain Mathieson wasn’t aware of your birthplace before that revealing little speech, he assuredly knows it now.”

  “All the more reason to finish the dirty creeping—” began Torrey, advancing his rapier so that Mathieson was obliged to swing his head back to avoid being spitted.

  The lisping Mr. Heywood’s sword flashed out and for the second time beat Torrey’s weapon aside. “The man did uth a favour! Let him talk.”

  “He very likely will,” snarled Torrey. “To his army friends! I tell you, he knows too much!”

  “And you are too quick with your steel,” cried Lady Clorinda jabbing a finger at him. “Oblige me, sir, by putting it up. Now, sir!”

  Torrey hesitated, looking angrily in search of support.

  “Man, are ye daft?” growled Cuthbert. “Ye’ll not challenge the Committee?”

  ‘The Committee?’ Mathieson’s ears perked up. He’d heard of the small, select group who had been instrumental in spiriting many desperate fugitives to safety, and who were said to guard the treasure. Was this dainty little old lady one of their number? Surely that was unlikely. Yet if she was indeed, he had progressed much farther than he’d dared hope. ‘Roly, my lad,’ he told himself, ‘’twil be a very great bore to journey with these busybodies, but you must endeavour to do so.’

  With a muttered curse, Torrey slid his sword into its scabbard and stood glowering at Mathieson with brooding dislike.

  “Thank you,” said my lady ironically. “Captain Mathieson, we must have your answers at once, but I grow tired. Come with me, if you please.” She rested her hand on Cuthbert’s arm and he led her towards the caravan from which Fiona had come, the Bradfords walking with them, Fiona talking to her grandmother in a low, impassioned voice.

  Torrey shoved Mathieson roughly and unnecessarily, since he had already started to follow. Mathieson darted a grim glance over his shoulder at the powerful young man, but said nothing, and they all fell into a small procession in my lady’s wake.

  The caravan was large and light green, and at some time in the past an artistic but too liberal hand had embellished the sides with twining vines and flowers, now faded. Fiona ran lightly inside, to return with a cushion which she placed on the top step, and Lady Clorinda settled herself down, ordered her skirts and petticoats, and perched there like some tiny feudal empress, with the small group gathered before her.

  Mathieson’s eyes flickered from face to face. Freemon Torrey stared back with scowling hostility; Bradford looked troubled in an heroic way; and the expressions of the lisping Mr. Heywood and the dark, gaunt Scot, Gregor, reflected a sober withholding of judgment. Cuthbert betrayed no emotion whatsoever, and the younger Scot—Alec—had not yet returned. In addition to my lady and her granddaughter there were two other females, the plump dark girl with the long ringlets who had been stirring the cooking pot when first he arrived, and the woman who had been peeling the potatoes; tall, middle-aged, with a careworn face and sad blue eyes. Both of them looked upon him with interest, and he was confident there would be help from that quarter, should it come to a vote in which they were permitted to participate. The girl, he noted, had a singularly sweet expression, a ruddy, full-lipped mouth and big dark eyes, and her figure was lush and enticingly—

  “You are no fool, Mathieson.” Lady Clorinda’s high-pitched voice cut through his reflections. “You have reached a conclusion?”

  He looked at her levelly. “My lady, I’d be a fool had I not. You are either Jacobites or Jacobite sympathizers. This acting business is, I think, a screen for whatever it is you really are about.”

  There was no consternation at this, although the dark girl looked scared and Torrey muttered explosively under his breath.

  Lady Clorinda leaned forward. “If you knew that much, you have properly put your head in jeopardy by lying to the soldiers.”

  “I am aware, ma’am.”

  “A fearful risk to take,” said Bradford, gravely distinguished.

  Lady Clorinda murmured, “And a sensible man does not take fearful risks without he has a compelling reason.”

  This morning, Mathieson had seen a dreaming look of tenderness soften the old lady’s shrewd bright eyes. Unless he was much mistaken, she had been a great beauty in her day, probably with her share of affaires de coeur. In his experience, time did not dim the romance in a lady’s heart any more than the twinkle in a gentleman’s eye. And he knew just how to manipulate romantical ladies. This particular lady was deeply fond of her granddaughter … He allowed his eyes to drift to Miss Fiona. How anxiously the chit watched him. Smitten. Yes, there was no doubt she was smitten, which might be useful. He gazed at her for a moment, with just the right touch of wistfulness, saw the uncertain smile curve her lips, and, aware that my lady had missed not an instant of the little byplay, acknowledged, “Very compelling.”

  There came a sudden rush of colour to the girl’s cheeks and the thick lashes drooped shyly. ‘Oh, nicely done,’ he thought. ‘Or was that pure innocence?’

  Freemon Torrey had also missed nothing of the interchange, and although he did not comment, his hand dropped to caress his sword hilt, and his eyes said very much indeed.

  “Favour us with this so compelling reason, sir,” growled Cuthbert.

  “Actually, there are several,” Mathieson explained, not altogether fallaciously. “I myself take small interest in politics, but I number some of your, ah—colleagues among my close friends.”

  “For instance?” demanded my lady.

  “For instance—a fellow named Carruthers, and a fugitive who called himself Lascelles.”

  Bradford smothered an oath and Cuthbert started visibly. Lady Clorinda’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “Also,” continued Mathieson, “I am favoured with the friendship of a regular blockhead, by name Anthony Farrar, whose affianced bride wangled a promise from me that fairly forbids I should inform against such as—yourselves.” He shrugged and gave them his wry, winning smile. “Wherefore I am, you see, unable to betray you even did I wish to do so. And, to say truth, I have no slightest desire to betray anyone
to the—er, peculiarities of military justice. Perhaps I was unwise in telling the dragoons I am a member of your troupe, although it seemed to answer at the moment, but I’ll be glad to travel with you for a while, in case Captain Lake should feel driven,” he smiled at Fiona, “to find you again.”

  “No!” objected Torrey. “Lady Ericson says he is dangerous, and a soldier of fortune, which is why we snabbled his horse and sent him off on a wild goose chase.”

  Mathieson caught his breath and his head jerked around to Lady Clorinda. She frowned irritably, but did not interrupt.

  “What if he is also a damned bounty hunter?” Torrey went on. “We’ve seen how quick-witted the fellow is! Heed the lies and fustian he tells and we all might pay with our heads!”

  Several voices were raised in endorsement of this remark. The stern faces become sterner. The lives of these men and women were at risk every hour of every day. The slightest threat must be harshly dealt with were they to survive. It was a philosophy Mathieson could understand, but that very understanding told him his chances had diminished.

  Cuthbert growled, “Ma’am, I’m not one for unnecessary killing, but—we must protect our own lives—and our mission.”

  “Aye,” struck in Torrey eagerly. “Do you not see, my lady, that this fellow is the slippery type? With that pretty face and his beguiling ways, he needs no flute to charm a serpent. He thinks that by travelling with us, he’ll learn something of real value, and once he does—may the Lord help us!”

  Mathieson drawled, “That would depend on what you term ‘real value.’”

  “The location of the Jacobite treasure, for instance,” jeered Torrey. “Or—the real identity of the gentleman who calls himself Ligun Doone. That would be a good saleable item, eh? How much would you get for selling his head?”

  Mathieson’s fists clenched hard, and a glint came into his eyes. Ligun Doone had not been heard from of late, but not long after the Battle of Culloden that intrepid gentleman had run the English victors a merry dance. Dozens of fugitives had been spirited away from under their noses; wounded rebels had been helped and hidden until they were well enough to be carried off to safety in France. Vital cyphers concerning the disposition of the Jacobite treasure had been sent out and safely delivered. And all accomplished without the loss of any more English lives, for Doone was known to believe there had been too much of death in this bitter struggle. Despite threats and intimidation, Doone’s fame had spread, his courage and brilliance heartening the crushed populace as much as it infuriated the occupation forces. Enraged and outwitted, the notorious Duke of Cumberland had offered a huge reward for information that would lead to Doone’s capture, but until the day he had vanished from the scene, not one single farthing of that reward had been claimed. Still the reward posters flaunted their message, and now, always hopeful of making an example of the man who had thumbed his nose at oppression and cruelty, the military had raised the ante: Ligun Doone’s brave head was currently worth an unprecedented Six Hundred Guineas; a fortune, in any man’s language.