Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Driving the lead caravan, his mother bundled in her fur-lined pelisse on the seat beside him, Mervyn Bradford glanced back curiously. “’Tis going to rain, as if there was not already water everywhere one looks! But only listen to Heywood laugh. He’s a happy man this morning. It’s all midsummer with him! I think one of your granddaughters is destined to be a baroness, ma’am.”

  “And the other is falling in love with a rascal,” she muttered.

  “No, no, Mama,” he said, highly amused. “Faith, but you romantical ladies have but to see a fellow compliment a girl and—voila! ’tis a lifelong attachment! Be at ease. That suave young devil is not the man for my daughter, and well he knows it.”

  “He’s not the man for any woman with half a brain in her head. I’d have thought Fiona the last girl in the world to interest him. But—do you know Bradford, I begin to believe he is—intrigued, to say the least of it. He can scarce keep his eyes from the child and a time or two I’ve thought to catch a look … The last sort of look one would expect from such a rake.”

  “And why not, I’d like to know,” said her son huffily. “Fiona is a beautiful girl with a warm and loving nature and a happy disposition that would charm—”

  “Tush and a fiddlestick! She is a hoyden, sir! You have seen to it that she has been taught little of feminine wiles and maidenly propriety! She says what she thinks—when for a lady to think at all is fatal! She walks—or dances!—instead of mincing! She laughs aloud when she should shyly smile or titter behind her fan! I doubt she even dreams of how improper is this desperate business—nor would she care if she did, by heaven!”

  “Yet you appear to think those very qualities have intrigued a suave and polished individual such as Roland Mathieson,” her son riposted triumphantly.

  “Such a conquest gives you pride, does it?” she sneered. “Though you did but say he was not the man for her!”

  “Not for marriage—certainly not! I’ll not deny I like the rascal. But nor will I have my daughter claimed by a fellow with no fortune and precious little respectability, come to that!”

  My lady gave a derisive snort. “Marbury saw to it he’d a name, at least, if that is what you mean. ’Tis not his bastardy which concerns me, but his character. Or lack of it!”

  Despite his basic selfishness, Bradford was deeply fond of his daughter and at this he drew himself up and said majestically, “I’d fancied him a gentleman, whatever his background, but an you know of things to his discredit where the ladies are concerned, then I must insist that we get rid of the fellow at once.”

  “Don’t be more of a fool than you can help, Mervyn! You knew perfectly well why I ordered his horse be stolen, and why Cuthbert broke his head to keep him away from us.”

  Bradford flushed and said sulkily, “You said he was a dangerous man, but when you changed your mind, I thought—”

  “I changed my mind for—for several reasons. Mostly, because I’d had no suspicion he was in sympathy with our people, nor that he’d helped several get out of England. I judged him by his reputation.” She sighed wearily. “Lord knows why. One should never do so.”

  His jaw dropped. “But—you just said—”

  “Oh, why must you argue so? Do you not see how few we are? We cannot turn away a swordsman of Mathieson’s skill. Not while he is of use to us, that is.”

  “So you would sacrifice my daughter—”

  “Nonsense! I’ll own I cannot like to see her partiality for him, but—if worse comes to worst I can make an end of it. Meanwhile, we play a dangerous game which, God grant, is almost done.” She frowned and lapsed into a silence her son did not dare break. At length she said musingly, “The Mathiesons are a strange breed. If Roland should give Fiona his heart it could work to our advantage—for a little while. Certainly, his ties to us grow stronger with each day that passes, which is as well—especially now that poor Robbie MacTavish is ill.”

  “Humph. I said all along we should have more men. Lord knows there were enough willing.”

  “Aye, and all with tongues to wag and knowledge to be forced from them should they be taken. No, the Committee judged it best to keep our numbers as small as humanly possible. The temptation of what we will carry is too great. Besides, a fine show we would make riding with a full escort of gallants! Might as well send out a proclamation of who we are! Can you not hurry the beasts along, Bradford? The sooner we reach this Sandipool village Robbie has chose for us, the better I shall like it! Small wonder the poor lad has fallen ill. Did ever you see so much damp? Pools and meres and rivers wherever one looks! Lud, what a swamp of a county!”

  “’Tis held to be very beautiful, Mama.”

  “On a hot summer’s day, perchance, but—Here comes the rain! More water! Enjoy the beauty, Bradford! I shall go inside! Turn up your cape, for heaven’s sake!”

  Despite its inauspicious beginnings, by eleven o’clock the rain had stopped, and the day brightened. A little breeze came up to blow the clouds away and soon warm sunshine was lifting everyone’s spirits and awakening countless sparkles and glitters from new-washed leaves and grasses. Cuthbert, who had ridden out at dawn to find the campsite MacTavish had chosen for that night, returned to lead them to it, and now they drove along muddy lanes but with lovely Cheshire appearing to her best advantage.

  A squeak brought a twitch to Mathieson’s lips and he guided Rumpelstiltskin to where he might follow the lead caravan. Fiona had opened the window in the back door and waved merrily as he came up. “Oh, Roly,” she cried, her eyes as bright, he thought, as the sunshine, “is it not beautiful?”

  “Captain Mathieson,” he corrected, but with a smile. “Very beautiful.”

  “Yes, and—hello Rumpel— Oh, do look! What a pretty village! I declare it would make anyone reach for paints and canvas.”

  “If one could paint, which you cannot—or so you said.”

  “Very true. You see I do not tell wicked falsehoods—” she slanted a bewitching twinkle at him “—as do some unprincipled persons. And you need not think to have changed the subject, for I— Only see that cottage! Oh, I never saw such beautiful half-timbering!”

  “Nor I such a scatter-wit. Where is your shawl? The wind is chill and— No! Never mind about the village pond. ’Tis exquisite—and the ducks are all very well bred and superior, I grant you. Yes, even that fat goose waddles with savoir-faire. Not another word until you have your shawl. And then you may tell me of these alleged ‘wicked falsehoods.’”

  Fiona snatched up a shawl as carelessly as though it had not been very carefully chosen to complement her pale lemon muslin gown. Throwing it quickly about her shoulders, she said, “No—did you think I meant you, Captain Mathieson? Now what falsehoods might you have told, sir? Unless—’twas that you do not find me très beau?”

  “I find you a creature of vast conceit,” he drawled. “Torrey and I were discussing your grandmama, if you must know it, and—Good God!” (as a squeak interrupted him) “Now what bucolic wonder must I admire?”

  “That! That! No—turn your Mathiesonish head this way, do! There—now—what is it?”

  “Mathiesonish …” he echoed dubiously. “Hmmnn … Do for heaven’s sake stop squeaking like any dormouse! ’Tis a covered bridge, child. Surely you’ve seen one before?”

  “No! Never! There are none near our home and I’ve never seen one in London!”

  He sighed. “One must presume you close your eyes each time you cross London Bridge.”

  “Do not be supercilious, Roly! London Bridge is like a regular street, with shops and goodness knows what else besides! One can ride along it and scarce realize it spans the river. This is like—like a stretched out barn. How very quaint! And I do believe we are to go across! Oooh … !”

  Amused by her enthusiasm, he chuckled. The horses plodded patiently, their hoofbeats becoming suddenly hollow and echoing. The wheels rumbled a sharper song, and the light faded as they passed under the roof of the old bridge.

  Mathieson leaned closer
and said in sepulchral tones, “The daemon of this bridge has teeth a foot long and he devours squeaky little girls for his breakfast! Prepare to be boiled and spread on toast!”

  “Poor daemon—how dreadful when he goes to the dentist. Oh, how deliciously daemonish it smells in here! Is that by reason of his toast, do you think?”

  “Revolting child! You should shrink and quail and shake in your pretty slippers! Faith, but you are a great disappointment to me.”

  “What stuff! As if anyone would be afraid of a silly old bridge!”

  Mathieson chuckled, his thoughts far away.

  Watching the gleam in his eyes Fiona asked curiously, “Where have you gone? Come back, please. Of whom are you thinking now?”

  “My apologies. I was thinking of a very fine fellow. A dashing captain of dragoon guards. Er, that is to say he was a captain. Now he seems to have—ah, tumbled a little way down the ladder of rank. Nonetheless, he is most impressive. Very good-looking. All splash and dash. And purely terrified of covered bridges.”

  She giggled. “But has fought bravely in countless terrible engagements, I take it?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a terror on the battlefield. But—show him a covered bridge, and he’ll run a mile!”

  “Roly, you dreadful creature! What fibs you tell. But I do love your stories. Pray enlighten me as to why this so dashing fellow suffers from such an affliction. If you can manufacture a satisfactory cause, that is.”

  “’Tis already manufactured, you little wretch. It seems this dashing young captain rode his dashing mare onto a covered bridge one evening at dusk. A flock of bats chose the same instant to leave the bridge with the result that our military friend, who has a horror of bats, suddenly found himself surrounded by dozens of the creatures at very close quarters. His mare who is all nerves and show, took fright, shied, and threw him and I’m told he came nose to nose with the king bat. They say our valiant captain beat his mare to the end of the bridge …”

  Laughing, Fiona said, “The king bat, indeed!”

  “Well, perhaps just a crown prince.” He grinned. “Gad, how I should love to have seen it.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Are you serious? It really did happen?”

  “Oh yes. It is perfectly true. Only see how I tend to your education. Today we have learned of bats and covered bridges. Now—as to the dentists who tend daemons—did you know that they also have to be of the daemonish persuasion …? I once knew a daemon went to a regular human dentist, and …”

  The golden moments slipped away while they enjoyed a whimsical discussion on daemons and dentists, punctuated by much merriment, and ending with the mutually agreed upon conclusion there was little to choose between them.

  Half an hour later they came to their campsite and Mathieson slipped away to attend to a matter which he had postponed longer than was expedient. When he had finished, he led Rumpelstiltskin to the paddock Alec had fashioned. The young Scot was still there, chatting quietly with Moira Torrey, and, to cover his embarrassment at being caught alone with her, promptly demanded to know where Mathieson had been.

  “Attending to my friend’s toilette,” replied Mathieson lightly. “You would seem to have put your time to better use, dear boy.”

  Miss Torrey turned quite pink, but she was more perceptive than her shy admirer and, looking past him, exclaimed, “Oh, whatever have you done to your fine animal? His pretty white stockings are gone!”

  Alec’s eyes sharpened. “And the blaze on his face. For why, mon?”

  “Because I am reminded that there are certain dragoons who know Rumpelstiltskin almost as well as they know me.”

  “And if they recognized him …?” asked Moira in a scared whisper. “Would that be very bad?”

  “It would not be—shall we say—very good.” Mathieson looked into her wide dark eyes and grinned deprecatingly. “For me, ma’am. I might, in fact, be called upon to pay an overdue debt. And I’ve no doubt it would be collected—with interest.”

  “At all events,” said Captain Lake, strolling across the muddy courtyard of The Four Fiddlers Inn, “there are worse places to be quartered.”

  The tall young lieutenant beside him was of fair colouring, well built and very handsome, a splendid example of British manhood. His blue eyes were hard, however, and the fine mouth had a bitter droop. He glanced about the old inn yard without favour, and with a toss of his powdered head grunted sourly, “And better.”

  “Small doubt of that.” The captain shouted for his orderly, halted, and while pulling on his gauntlets turned to face the younger man. “Take my advice, Lambert. There’s a reb in the vicinity—I can feel it in my bones. Keep your wits about you and your men more in the saddles than out of ’em, and you might be a captain again sooner than you think.” His horse being led out, he glanced critically at his accoutrements and prepared to mount up. “Well, I’ll be off. Good luck t’you.”

  As they shook hands Lambert looked glum. “God—if you but knew how I envy you! To be going back to the south country! What is there up here but yokels and desolation?”

  “Another chance, man!” said Lake bracingly. “Cheer up! You’ve a roving commission. If you sniff a Jacobite—hunt him to earth and exterminate the swine! Or better yet, haul him in alive. I’ll wager it wouldn’t take much to restore you to favour again. As for envying me, why, you’ve had a set-back, but it could be worse. You didn’t lose your commission, and many a man would envy you! A young buck with your looks—well born, good education; and you’ve a grand battle record, I marked that.”

  Lambert said nothing, but the blue eyes were brooding, and, curious, Lake said, “I’ve no wish to pry, but—if you don’t mind my asking, just what the devil did go wrong?”

  “Everything,” muttered Lambert. “And just when life seemed perfect. Beware the whims of fate, friend! Six months ago I’d the world at my feet, or so I fancied. My aunt’s fortune was to be mine; I was preparing to marry the lady I’d been courting for some years; my record was spotless. Then …” His mouth twisted. “My greedy uncle plotted against me; the woman I courted betrayed me; the friend who promised his help, instead conspired with my uncle to so entrap and ruin me that I lost my lady, my rank, and the fortune!”

  “A fine friend!” exclaimed Lake, shocked by this litany of treachery.

  “A devil, rather,” muttered Lambert. “But we’ll meet again, I promise you …” A glint came into his eyes, and his smile was not pleasant.

  “And when you do,” said Lake uneasily, “you’ll call out the dirty swine, eh?”

  Lambert did not at once answer. Then he looked up. His smile was warm, his expression so open and cheerful that Lake thought he must have imagined that rather horrible and secretive look.

  “Something like that, sir,” said Lambert. “But never heed me. I brought it all on myself, belike, and must take the consequences.”

  “Good man.” Lake swung into the saddle, then reined around. “Oh, and don’t forget—if you’re up Chester way, look in on that acting troupe I mentioned. They put on a damn good show, and there are a couple of dashed pretty fillies …” He winked. “Impoverished now, but were once of good family, I’d think. Might be just the sort of—ah, diversion you need.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

  Lake waved his riding crop and started across the yard, his orderly and his escort falling in behind.

  Lambert stared after him until horse and man had left the yard. His smile vanished then, and he spat contemptuously at the cobblestones. He could find all the “pretty fillies” he wanted, and with his looks he wasn’t obliged to sink to the level of actress whores for his “diversion”!

  By the time luncheon was finished the afternoon sun had become quite warm. Mathieson, who had been discovered to have a flair with the scissors, was required to trim Bradford’s hair, the big man complaining it was getting so long as to be too hot under his wig. When this task was completed, Mathieson offered his services to Heywood, but that devoted swain ha
d seen his love carry some mending to the steps of the caravan she now shared with Fiona and Moira Torrey, and he lost no time in hurrying to keep her company. Mathieson contemplated wandering past the red coach to try what he could overhear of what Cuthbert, Torrey, and Gregor were plotting with my lady. The risk of being detected at this stage of the game seemed unwarranted, however. Now that Rob MacTavish was apparently too ill to join them, he could bide his time—at least for the next day or two.

  Alec was repairing some saddle leathers, but his hazel eyes kept turning hopefully towards the table where Mrs. Dunnigan and Miss Torrey prepared vegetables for the evening meal. Alec, thought Mathieson, starting off in search of firewood, was sorely smitten. He wondered how it would end.

  His own time here was almost at an end, that was certain. He had learned to respect life’s often bizarre coincidences and even with the threat of MacTavish’s arrival postponed, he knew it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that at any moment—particularly during a performance—some acquaintance might see him and denounce him for what he was. The phrase galled. “For what he was …” What was he? Had he yet reached the depth of depravity his father had foretold? Was he truly an evil man?

  He was in the gold-splashed shade of the woods now, and halted as a small and familiar shape came towards him, sounding a friendly trill. So the little cat had not forgotten that he had (however inadvertently) saved her life. He glanced around furtively. No one in sight. Rumpelstiltskin had a weakness that was shared by both the cat and dog of one of Mathieson’s few friends. It was possible that Picayune suffered the same addiction. He groped in his coat pocket and brought out the carefully wrapped piece of cheese he’d saved for the stallion.

  “Here, cat,” he whispered, dropping to one knee and offering the bribe.

  Picayune sat down and considered him.