Dedicated Villain (26 page)

Heywood, who had come in with a beautiful young lady on his arm, walked up to clap Mathieson on the back. “You dog! By God, but you can fight!”

“Not—as well as some,” acknowledged Mathieson. “But better … than others.”

“'Twas a braggadocio boy's trick,” muttered Torrey sullenly.

“'Twas rash and reckless and superb,” grinned Mervyn Bradford. “Which is a deal more than could be said for
your
—” Belatedly, he saw the redcoats and stood motionless.

“Good evening, Captain,” drawled Mathieson.

Lady Clorinda came through her quieting people. “So you found the time to attend our performance, Captain Lake. I trust you were not disappointed?”

The dragoon nodded condescendingly. “'Twas a grand fight,
ma'am. My congratulations, Captain Mathieson. I must take care never to cross swords with you! But as to your performance, alas, I missed it. Unless— Surely, you do not tell me this fight was part of it, Mr. Bradford?”

Bradford grinned but stood in numb silence.

Mathieson thought fleetingly, ‘He has frozen solid!' Tossing Torrey his sword, he said, “I think you are not a fool, Lake. This was a personal matter I'd not expected to settle tonight, with ladies present.”

Captain Lake glanced at Torrey's red face and lifted a scornful eyebrow. “Forced on you, was it?” He clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Not the thing, sir.”

Torrey rammed his weapon into the scabbard, and, aware he'd behaved atrociously, muttered, “I admit that, Captain. But—” he looked angrily at Fiona “—there's a lot you don't know.”

Wondering why the dragoons were here, wondering how her cousin Elizabeth had reached them, Fiona struggled to appear calm.

Captain Lake turned to smile at her. “Ah—so that's the way the wind blows. I quite understand.” He moved to bow over her hand. “How do you go on, ma'am?”

“Very well, I thank you.” Despite her efforts, her voice trembled a little. “Our audience appeared well pleased, at all events.”

“And you are tired. I promise not to delay you for very long, though I am most distressed that I missed seeing the play, Miss Fiona.”

“You shall have to come again,” urged Mervyn Bradford, recovering his wits sufficiently to offer an insincere smile.

“I wish I may. Where do you go from here?”

“Into Cheshire, Captain. We are to give a performance in the vicinity of Chester.”

“Alas, then I shall miss it, for I am transferred to Salisbury in the south. I shall tell my replacement to look in on you, lucky fellow.”

“A promotion, sir?” enquired Mathieson, with not a vestige of interest in the matter.

“An advancement, certainly. For me. But a demotion for the man who takes over my command. Poor chap let some traitors slip through his fingers. Beastly luck, but—well, I'd best say no more, save that I fail to remember this lady …” He turned to the girl beside Thaddeus Heywood. “Your name if you please, ma'am.”

“This is my niece, Miss Elizabeth Clandon,” said Bradford. “Have you your papers, my dear? This gentleman will wish to see them, I expect.”

Miss Clandon produced some forged papers from the prettily embroidered reticule that was of the same stuff as her green cloak. Taking his admiring eyes from her lovely face the Captain scanned the papers briefly.

“So you are from Plymouth, Miss Clandon. You journey a long way to visit your kinfolk.”

“My papa is by way of being in business, sir, and had to be in London, but I have been a little unwell, so he preferred I breathe pure country air for a time.”

“Sensible gentleman. What—er, type of business occupies your father?”

“He inherited quite a large lending library, Captain. We serve teas and coffees also and have a quality line of dress stuff and fancy goods.”

“I see.” He found this petite young woman vastly pretty with her big brown eyes and golden hair, and enquired smilingly, “And just where is this—ah, establishment? I might like to pay it a visit.”

“We shall look forward to it, sir. Our library is situated just a short distance from the Citadel.”

“Ah. I had hoped 'twas in Town. Plymouth is rather a long way for me to go, I'm afraid. But I shall be in London very soon. When do you return, ma'am?”

Miss Clandon hesitated. She recognized the signs and had no
wish to be pursued by this grim-looking officer, nor dare she offend him.

Mathieson, who had not failed to notice the intensity with which Thaddeus Heywood followed this conversation, interposed blandly, “Perhaps you should rather ask her affianced, sir. Miss Clandon is by way of being betrothed to Mr. Heywood.”

Surprise and delight were mixed in Heywood's tawny eyes. Miss Clandon blushed becomingly and looked shy and conscious.

The captain stiffened. “Indeed? My congratulations, sir.” He returned the girl's papers, swung around and said with a sudden dark frown, “It all sounds a touch havey-cavey to me. What do you make of it, Mathieson?”

Over Lake's shoulder, Mathieson could see Fiona Bradford's pale solemn little face. Her green eyes met his own with unwavering confidence. Lake was suspicious, obviously, which was extreme dangerous. But again, fate offered him a chance to save himself. A few words only and he would be protected from the possible wrath of military justice. They, of course, would all be hauled off to the Tower … The Tiny Mite, my lady, young Japhet. To say nothing of Thaddeus Heywood for whom, against all logic and reason, he had formed a grudging affection. It was irritatingly nonvillainous, but he had no wish to save his neck at the cost of destroying these people. Besides, he hadn't toiled all these months only to now lose every chance at the treasure. He answered, “I do believe 'tis all above board, sir. I knew Mr. Heywood's affianced was to join us.”

The captain grunted. “Very well.” He looked sternly around the silent group. “Keep your eyes open, Mathieson. There are rebels about. Dammit, I can smell 'em!” He saluted in the general direction of Fiona Bradford and stamped from the hall, his men following.

By common consent there was silence until the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Then, my lady turned to Mathieson. “You've a quick wit, lad. Again, we have to thank you.”

“I—motht of all—am eternally indebted to you,” said Heywood, his eyes upon Miss Clandon with such obvious worship that there could be no doubting this was his love.

Amused, Bradford said, “My dear, allow me to present the gentleman who announced your betrothal—Captain Roland Mathieson.”

Bowing, Mathieson said laughingly, “I trust you will not feel bound as a result of my impudence, ma'am.”

“Irretrievably,” murmured Heywood, his eyes wistful. “She cannot ethcape now that it hath been formally announthed.”

Miss Clandon offered her hand and said with a twinkling little smile, “Now see the pickle you have got me in, Captain Mathieson.”

Heywood had long since abandoned all hope of winning the lady, but her reply held an encouragement that he scarcely dare acknowledge. He turned so white that his freckles stood out darkly and he stared at her, dazed and tongue-tied.

Taking pity on him, Fiona said, “Again, you have risked your life for us, Captain Mathieson. Though why you should do so after the treatment we mete out to you,” her eyes rested scornfully on Torrey, “escapes me.”

“It escapes me also,” said Mathieson thoughtfully. “I had quite meant to denounce you all and thus save my own neck!”

There was much laughter at this. Then, hugging her newly arrived granddaughter, Lady Clorinda asked in eager impatience, “Where is MacTavish? He did come with you, no?”

Mathieson stood perfectly still, breath held in check.

Cuthbert, who had come into the hall in time to hear the end of this, said quietly, “Rob's away again, my lady. Should never've come. The young jabbernoll's properly sick. When we spotted the dragoons he knew he'd be unable to bluff 'em, as poorly as he was feeling, so he's gone back.”

Mathieson drew a quivering breath of relief and his taut muscles relaxed.

Bradford asked anxiously, “What ails him?”

“He says 'tis a cold, Uncle Mervyn,” said Miss Clandon, shaking her head dubiously.

“More like an inflammation of the lungs, was you to ask me,” grunted Cuthbert.

Clearly worried, my lady said, “Lord protect the lad. We cannot have him ill! How ever should we go on without him? Did he send any word for me?”

Cuthbert nodded and lowered his voice. “We have messages, ma'am.”

It was decided the messages must wait until they were packed up and had returned to their camp, and a rather subdued troupe set to work.

Mathieson, assisting in taking down the curtains, became aware of a sudden silence, and swung around, ready as always, for violent action.

Freemon Torrey stood behind him, pale but defiant, fists clenched and shoulders pulled back. “A word with you, sir,” he said haughtily.

Mathieson turned to face him. The silence deepened, the others pausing in their labours to watch this exchange. “Well?”

“I—” Torrey bit his lip. “No, sir. Is not ‘well.' What I did—” His auburn hair glowed in the candlelight, the costume accentuated his muscular figure, and he looked magnificent, but his head drooped. Staring at his boots, his face suddenly scarlet, he went on, “'Twas—despicable. Dishonourable. Disgusting. I—was—”

“Very jealous.”

Torrey's head came up angrily.

“But—quite without cause,” soothed Mathieson. “The lady is
très beau
, a delight, a pearl beyond price.” And quite aware that Fiona watched and listened, he finished, “But I, you know, am a wanderer—an impoverished, unemployed soldier. With no fortune, no estate, no prospects. Sorry competition for such as you … eh?”

Torrey eyed him with suspicion. “But—you admire her. Don't deny it!”

“
Hein!
I said I am without fortune—I did not imply I am dead, sir!”

Hearing smothered chuckles, Torrey bristled again. “Now see here!”

“
Oui.
Forgive. I interrupted your so humble apology. Pray continue.”

Infuriatingly, Torrey could not think what to say, and stammered, “Yes. Er—well, I do not expect you to—to forgive the offense. It was unpardonable.”

“Quite. And deplorable. My poor fellow—
whoever
taught you to fence?”

Heywood, standing nearby, was overcome and shouted with laughter, the others joining in.

“Dammitall,” raged Torrey, but Mathieson's eyes were gleaming with mischief, and, won to a shamefaced grin, he went on, “I'd no suspicion I fought the world's best swordsman, curse you!”

“Second best,” said Roland Fairleigh Mathieson modestly.

Picayune, who had enjoyed left-over sausage for breakfast, half woke as the caravan jolted over a pothole. She yawned, stretched, and proceeded to drag herself into a more comfortable position on Elizabeth Clandon's lap.

“Never in my life,” admitted the girl, stroking the little cat absently. “I suppose that is why I so mistrust your Captain Mathieson. No man should look like that. 'Tis most unfair. Only think how 'twould be to love such a one!” She shuddered. “Heaven forfend!” Fiona remaining silent, Elizabeth glanced at her curiously, then steadied Picayune as the caravan rocked again. “Were you offended by what he said to Torrey last evening?”

“I've no objection to being named
très beau
—even if it is not true. Or—a pearl beyond price …” Fiona gave a soft little chuckle. “The sly wretch.”

“A ‘sly wretch' is it? Yet you think he is a good man, dear coz?”

“I know he is. Grandmama likes him. And Papa.”

“And Torrey.” Elizabeth's eyes twinkled. “Oh yes, I could see the liking between
them!
”

Fiona said with a shrug, “Torrey is jealous.”

“With reason?” And noting the hesitation, the heightened colour in her cousin's cheeks, Elizabeth, who was fond of Freemon Torrey, thought, ‘My heavens!' and asked anxiously, “Never say you have formed a
tendre
for Captain Mathieson? He is an adventurer if ever I saw one. Surely Grandmama does not approve your—”

Fiona's chin tilted upward. “He saved my life, Beth. And I told you about the poor creature he rescued from the ducking stool.”

“Aye, but you say he claimed he merely tumbled into the river, and—”

“Oh, that is just his way. He is so modest he never will take praise for what he does. We are to believe Rumpelstiltskin only
chanced
to run away with him. 'Twas
accidental
, one gathers, that he threw the poor woman and me onto his horse and stayed behind to face that horrid mob alone. Stuff!”

‘Lud! What vehemence!' thought Elizabeth. “But why would he say such things an they are not so? Surely every gentleman wishes to appear brave and dauntless rather than proclaim himself a rascally creature.”