Cherished Enemy (29 page)

“No,” persisted the young man doggedly. He raised his voice. “Mama wants to know, don't you, ma'am?”

“Course she does.” The colonel frowned at his son and settled the widow onto the sofa that faced the gardens. “We ain't all as squeamish as you, Charles! I am very sure Victor will be glad to tell my cousin the full story; eh, Doctor?”

“I will tell her if she truly desires to hear it,” said Victor, looking grave. “But I cannot say I shall be glad to do so. Is no tale for a lady's ears.”

Mrs. Singleton's white hands fluttered nervously. “Nor do I
wish
to hear it, sir,” she put in. “Indeed I can think of—of few things would more horrify me. But—not knowing is … even worse. I shall be obliged if you will tell me whatever you can. My prayer is that … someday I—I may meet a gentleman who…” Her voice began to disintegrate. “Who may have been … acquainted with my dear son, and—will be able to tell me just … just exactly how—” She pressed a handkerchief to her quivering lips and blinked rapidly, trying not to weep.

Rosamond ran to sit beside the stricken little woman and kiss her cheek, and the colonel, his gruff demeanour dissolving into one of stark horror, hurried to the sideboard and poured a glass of wine, which he carried to the lady.

Still looking unwontedly sombre, Victor pulled a chair close to Mrs. Singleton, waited until she had sipped her wine, then reached out to appropriate her glass and place it on an occasional table. He said very gently, “I was acquainted with Hal, Mrs. Singleton. I was, in fact, with him when he died.”

There was a collective gasp.

Stunned, Rosamond thought, ‘Oh! The
wretch!
What piece of fantasy are we to hear now?'

Charles started, stared hard at Victor, looked about to comment, but set his jaw and said nothing.

“Now bless my soul!” snorted the colonel.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Porchester.

“By God,” whispered Howard Singleton, paling markedly. “Why did you not tell me that when first we met? You must have known how I long to discover exactly what happened to my brother, and Charles could tell us very little.”

Very conscious of the glare that was scorching his way from two exceedingly lovely blue eyes, Victor said with a wry nobility that sickened the owner of them, “To say truth, I was not feeling quite the thing when first I made your acquaintance, Singleton. And it chances your brother was a very good friend of mine. The memory of his dying is—not one I care to indulge—can I avoid it.”

Howard's honest eyes fell before that quiet reproof, and he stammered an apology.

Seething, but infuriatingly helpless, Rosamond's attention flashed to the cousin she called Aunt Violet. That gentle lady's clasped hands were pressed to her mouth, her white face wearing so anguished an expression that it was all Rosamond could do not to jump up and put a stop to this disgraceful farce. She said in a scratchy little voice, “Since Dr. Victor finds this painful, we should not press him to—”

“Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Singleton tearfully. “Please, Doctor! I know how hard it must be for you, but—
please!
”

Victor took the hand she stretched imploringly towards him. “Very well, ma'am.” For a moment, he was silent, his head bowed while he stroked her hand absently.

‘He is busily concocting his melodrama,' thought Rosamond savagely.

The large, gracious room was hushed; every eye was on him through that tense pause. The mellow chimes of the tall case clock proclaiming the half-hour seemed ear-splittingly loud, and Estelle jumped nervously.

Victor began then, speaking in a low, halting voice. “Hal and I kept together insofar as we could—once the action began.” He glanced up at Mrs. Singleton from under his brows. “He was a splendid fighting man, you know. Pluck to the backbone, and a fellow could always count on him. The—enemy fought well, I'll own, and at one time it seemed that Hal and I were completely surrounded. We fought back to back. I'd a da
____
a dashed great giant of a man to deal with, and another pressing in beside him. I'd taken a cut in my leg. I was able to account for the big fellow, but then I went down and everything became a touch vague. I—remember hearing Hal shout, and I realized he was standing over me. I tried to get up and he yelled, ‘Get your second wind, Rob! I can hold 'em back for—'” His head ducked lower.

Mrs. Singleton, tears coursing down her cheeks, clutched his hand convulsively. Howard, looking scarcely less affected, was standing very near, one hand on his mother's shoulder. Feeling sick and ashamed, scarcely knowing where to look, Rosamond saw that Aunt Estelle was weeping silently, and that Charles—who was directly responsible for this cruel mockery and should be putting a stop to it—stood at the window, very straight-backed, staring into the garden. “Charles,” she cried in a passion, “you cannot—”

“Hush, child,” said the colonel. “Just take your time, boy. We understand how difficult this is for you.”

‘Difficult!'
thought the outraged Rosamond. ‘Not for this scoundrel, Papa! To lie is second nature to him!'

Victor glanced up, encountered her white-faced glare, and looked down again. “That was the last word Hal ever spoke,” he said, his voice convincingly strained. “Next second he came down across me. The—musket-ball had taken him squarely between the eyes.” He heard a choked sob and went on hoarsely. “I doubt he … he even felt it.”

Mrs. Singleton dissolved into tears and Rosamond stood quickly, allowing Howard to sit beside his mother and gather her into his arms.

Mrs. Porchester whispered, “Come, Lennox; everyone. Let us leave them alone for a little while.”

Victor leaned back in his chair as Rosamond swept past. One hand was over his eyes, which shielded him from the scorch of her wrath. Charles opened the door. The colonel ushered Mrs. Porchester into the hall. Following, Rosamond met her brother's frowning gaze. For the first time in her life she regarded him with fierce disgust. She saw his eyes widen, and between her teeth she hissed, “For shame!”

*   *   *

There was no moon, and the wind was strong and had a chill edge as it whined around the barn and stables and rushed to fling itself at the pavilion. Rosamond drew her cloak tighter about her and walked faster. Tonight, she had neither closed her eyes nor rested upon her bed while she waited. Tonight, she would see her brother and have the truth from him, or tell Papa the whole, regardless of the consequences. The compunction she had felt yesterday was quite gone, banished by her disgust of the needless cruelty Dr. Victor had practiced on her grieving cousins.

There had been no chance to confront Charles before the Singletons and Victor emerged from the withdrawing room, for Papa and Aunt Estelle had not left them alone for a moment. During dinner poor Violet had been subdued, but with such a sadly resigned look on her face that it had been painful to witness it. Charles had said little, and had studiously avoided Rosamond's eyes. Howard was so obviously admiring of Victor that one could but deplore his gullibility; and as for Papa and Aunt Estelle, they, poor innocents, were completely taken in.

While the gentlemen were at their port, she had been trapped in the withdrawing room, listening to her aunts eulogizing Victor's gentleness and consideration, and exclaiming over the “fortunate coincidence” that had brought him here. It had been a real test of her resolution, and several times she had been hard put to it to restrain herself from telling poor Violet how wickedly Victor had lied to her.

The gentlemen had lingered for a longer time than was customary, and it was ten o'clock before they came into the withdrawing room. Miss Seddon and her maid had brought in the tea-trays very soon afterwards. Victor had been so solicitous to Mrs. Singleton, so gently charming that Rosamond yearned to empty the teapot over his head, but she had bowed to the inevitable and waited, promising herself that though her brother might have failed to bring this despicable villain to book,
she
would not fail.

She had reached the pavilion now and she lifted her panniers and trod quickly and quietly up the steps to lean an ear against the door. They were in there, all right; she could hear the faint murmur of their voices. She set her chin, took a deep breath, and reached for the doorknob, then gave a gasp of fright as a boisterous gust slammed against her, causing her to stagger a little. The doorknob was torn from her grasp, and the door flew wide, the wind immediately blowing out the candles.

There came a startled shout, and Victor's voice raised in a curse. Determined not to be denied entry, Rosamond ran into the darkened room, tripped over something—books, undoubtedly—and went to her knees, the sounds drowned by the banging of the wind-propelled door and Victor's colourful vocabulary as he also blundered into some obstacle.

Prepared to launch her attack, Rosamond started up, then paused as the door was slammed shut and he rasped, “All clear. Light up again, Charles.”

A scratching sound and then a small gleam pushed back the darkness, swelling to a warm glow as more candles were lit. Rosamond had fallen between the desk and the bookcases. With a tingle of excitement she thought, ‘They cannot see me. They don't know I've come in!' and she crouched lower, hoping to learn something of their secret before she was discovered.

Victor laughed shortly. “You're white as any ghost. Did you fancy your sire had found us out?”

Charles said, “I wonder he has not already done so. Jupiter, if we don't break this accursed code soon— No, never stand there yawning, Rob! The night will be done before we can wink.”

“Aye—well, God send we can come at the solution and get some sleep.” Victor's voice, weary now, faded slightly.

Puzzled by this odd conversation, Rosamond supposed he had walked over to the reference table. “If your valiant lady would but come,” he went on. “Egad, but I begin to detest this stupid poem!”

“Not so stupid, since it can baffle the pair of us. Have you another suggestion? Be dashed if I know what's left that we haven't tried.”

Intrigued, Rosamond peeped around the corner of the desk. They were bending over the table with their backs to her. Both men had discarded their coats, which had been flung on the settle, and they appeared completely absorbed by something on the table. Determined to see what it was before either of them could invent some nonsense to account for their duplicity, she stood. She caught a glimpse of a very much battered sheet of parchment, and her heart sank. Was this the missing Shakespearean treasure that Roland Fairleigh had spoken of? If so, it must follow that Charles
knew
about it! ‘Oh my Lord!' she thought in anguish. ‘Was he
part
of the scheme?'

Victor groaned and drew a hand across his eyes. “Lord, but I'm tired! My brain has stultified! Charles—what the
deuce
shall we do if we cannot break it, and Miss Deborah don't bring Sir Ian?”

At this point, concentrating on the two men and baffled by the reference to her missing cousin, Rosamond crept forward. She came into slight collision with a corner of the rickety old desk. A second later, with piercing clarity the strains of “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?” tinkled through the silence. Victor spun around in a blur of movement and Rosamond uttered a small squeal of fright as he crouched facing her, a long, deadly looking pistol gleaming in one hand.

“Don't shoot!” shouted Charles, leaping between them.

Deathly pale, Victor whispered, “God ha' mercy!” and went on in a pronounced Scots accent, “Are ye run fair daft, lassie? D'ye no ken I almost blew yer bonnie wee brrrains oot?”

“Is—is what you get for your scheming and plotting, D-Dr. Traitor,” she stammered rather illogically, her heartbeat thundering in her ears and her palms wet.

“Put it up!” snapped Charles.

Victor was already easing the hammer back carefully. He thrust the pistol into the waist of his breeches, then drew out a handkerchief, mopped his sweating face with a hand that shook, and leaned weakly back against the table.

Charles strode around to pick up his coat. With bizarre incongruity the music box was still ringing out its gentle metallic serenade. He stalked over to close the drawer, piled some books against the little box, and put on his coat. “So you
had
to come poking your nose into this, did you, Rosamond?” he said angrily. “How nice it would be had you placed some trust in me rather than—”

“Not so harsh, old fellow,” Victor interpolated in punctilious English, also shrugging into his coat. “The lady means no harm, and—”

Impatient, Charles broke in, “Oh, have done, man! After your unguarded welcoming speech she would have to be the village idiot not to realize you're a Scot! As for you, miss—I vow I could spank you!”

Her jaw dropping, Rosamond all but staggered.
“Spank me?”
she echoed wrathfully. “After all the falsehoods you've tried to fob me off with? All the wicked lies this wretched Jacobite has told? Creeping into our home and forcing you to obey his slightest command! Hoaxing my father! And I'll allow he is a master at
that
art! When I think of poor dear Violet, weeping this afternoon, never dreaming how the villain deceived and cheated her, only so as to win Papa's confidence! How
could
you be a party to it? You—of all men to endanger your family by shielding a scheming vicious traitor who—”

“That will do!” snapped Charles, his face dark with anger.

Never in all her days had he used such a tone to her. Shocked, hurt, bitterly disillusioned, she turned on Victor and demanded, “
Deny
you are a traitor!”

He met her eyes frowningly and said with quiet vehemence, “Not to my Prince, madam.”

“Ah! So we come at last to the truth! Deny that you lied in your teeth to my poor cousin!
You
were not with Hal when he died—unless you were the murderous brute who killed him!”