Dedicated Villain (39 page)

Lambert glanced at MacTavish who was trying feebly to sit up. “I'd not say we've been er, mollycoddling exactly.”

“I'd say you've been wasting time, sir! Wasting time! I want these people rousted off my land, and now, sir! NOW!”

“Your wants do not concern me. Nor do I see any need to shout,” said Lambert, coldly. “My men will do precisely as they are told—
when
I see fit to tell 'em!”

“
When
, sir? When, is it? Now, stretch me bleeding, but you're an insolent fellow! I'll remind you, sir, that 'tis humble folk like me who pay your wages, sir!”

Lambert, who would have liked very much to stretch Innings bleeding, said drily, “Which would, no doubt, explain why we are so underpaid.”

“For doing—what, sir? Disporting yourself at ease and allowing yon harridan to pamper that confounded clod? Move away from there, woman, afore I move you with me boot! Now—get about your business, Lambert, else I'll see to it you're promoted to corporal! Set your men to cleaning up this mess and sending these gypsies packing! At once, sir! I demand it! Never mind fussing with your drawers, sir! NOW, I say, d'ye hear?”

Drawn by the uproar, most of the troopers had gathered
around to watch this scene delightedly. Lambert, upon whose noble brow a dark frown had gathered, was not amused. His new breeches would almost certainly be stained, which was infuriating, and his demotion was still an exceedingly sore point. His dislike for this hectoring, bucolic clod became acute. “In the first place, sir,” he began icily, pulling on his gauntlets, “the acting troupe is up at the church, and—”

“Putting on their drivel at St. Peter's are they? I expressly forbade it! Go up and roust 'em all out and make 'em come down and do something useful for once by tidying—”

“In the second place,” interpolated Lambert, his voice rising above Mathieson's sustained howl, “until you become my commanding officer, I can think of no reason why I should do—one—damned—thing—you ask!”

“No—no
reason
? Confound you, sir! Your
duty
, sir!” Mathieson, who was becoming hoarse, bellowed, “I want these people off my lands! Tonight, I tellya! TONIGHT!”

Lambert waved to his orderly, who came up leading a fine bay mare with four white stockings. “Then, I would suggest you set about it with no more loss of time, sir,” sneered Lambert. “Patchett!”

“Mount up!” shouted the sergeant.

Sir Roger Innings shook his fist and raved. The troopers grinned. The fine bay mare danced and spun and cavorted her way out of the clearing, and the troop came to a trot and disappeared into the night.

“Disrespectful young jackanapes!” roared Mathieson, even as he dismounted and limped to bend over MacTavish. “I'll report you, sir! Be-damned if I don't! Stand warned, sir!”

MacTavish leaned his head back against Mrs. Dunnigan's shoulder and grinned up at him. “You lunatic …” he whispered. “What a chance to take!”

“Not my idea,” murmured Mathieson, oddly gratified by the thankful glow in this man's drawn face. “Start picking up this rubbish, woman!” he roared after the troopers. “I'm going after your accomplices!” He turned back to MacTavish and went on
softly, “I was forced into it against all my better judgment. A nice game they had with you. Can you get up?”

Japhet, who had followed Mathieson but stayed out of sight, now came running to join them, tears streaking his cheeks. Between them, they got MacTavish onto his feet again, and Mathieson pulled the sick man's arm across his shoulders.

Mrs. Dunnigan asked anxiously, “Why are you crying, son?”

“I laughed so hard I ache,” sighed the boy. “Captain, when you said that about your nickname being Second, I wonder I didn't bust a blood vessel!”

MacTavish chuckled feebly. “Yes—that struck a chord with me. Something Charles Albritton told me, but I cannot think—Jupiter! Wasn't Lambert the officer involved in that business with Merry Carruthers?”

“He was a captain then,” grinned Mathieson. “Poor block was clumsy as be-damned. Nigh got himself drummed out of the service.”

“And he likely blames you! You everlasting lamebrain, you had to taunt him with your ‘Second Innings!' If he'd recognized you … !”

“Hasn't got the brains. Still—you'd best keep your sharp eyes on 'em, Japhet. If they turn towards St. Peter's, Heywood will have to take over as Sir Roger. I've pushed La Belle Luck about as far as I dare tonight!”

In response to the lieutenant's wave, Patchett rode up to join him.

“You said you had searched their caravans before, sergeant?”

“Yessir. Only there was more to look through then, because—”

“Because they've taken all their paraphernalia to the church for their play. Obviously. Who inspected the pirate's treasure chest? You?”

There was contempt in the drawling voice and the sergeant, who had already conceived a deep dislike of this handsome young officer, said stiffly, “Captain Lake, sir. And right thorough he was, if—”

“Were there other big men among 'em?”

“Mr. Ford—er, I think his name was Ford.”

“Your thought is erroneous. His name is Bradford, so the woman told me. A poor memory is not an aid to advancement, sergeant. Go on.”

“Mr. Bradford—sir,” said the sergeant, drawing a steadying breath, “is a very large gentleman, and—”

“I count myself a gentleman, Patchett, and dislike being grouped with the member of a troupe of common actors. Correct, if you please.”

‘Cap'n Lake,' thought the sergeant, ‘why'd you go and leave us with this pretty sod?' “Sorry, sir. A very large
man
, sir.”

“Hmmnn. Has he any resemblance to the regrettable Sir Roger? Don't gape like a trout, man! Ah, but perhaps I used big words. I must not overestimate you, must I? Let me put it to you again. Does Bradford in any way look like Innings?”

Thinking balefully of what he'd like to do with a couple of big words, the sergeant answered, “Not at all, sir. Mr. Bradford is an older gen—er, man. About fifty, I'd think.”

“I see. And a man might make himself appear older, but I doubt could make himself younger …” He drew rein, and the sergeant threw up his arm, halting the troop.

Lambert turned in the saddle and looked back to where, dimly against the brightening sky, the tower of St. Peter's soared heavenwards. “No other large men among 'em?”

“One big cove, sir. Name of—ah, Cuthbert, as I recall. But—a much bigger frame than Sir Roger.” Patchett hesitated, watching the perfect profile cautiously. “P'raps we should go and see that play, if he looked like someone you know, sir?”

“Twas not his looks, exactly …” Half of Lambert's mind was on the dinner he'd bespoken at a picturesque old inn they'd passed that morning, the proprietor of which had a daughter
with a pair of saucy dark eyes and a dimple. It would be an hour's ride at least, and he had no desire to delay any longer. But … “There was something about the gentle Sir Roger,” he murmured. “Some mannerism or feature … I cannot quite place …”

“They could tell us in the village where Sir Roger lives, sir. Likely it's not too far, and you might enjoy the play they put on. It's a nice play and—”

“Shakespeare, at the very least, eh?” sneered Lambert, aware that Patchett would be only too glad to go back.

“Well, no. Nothing clever, sir, but the ladies is pretty. It's about this milkmaid who—”

Lambert shuddered. “Spare me. At all events, it was likely just a similarity to someone I've met at sometime, and of no real importance.” And dismissing Sir Roger Innings from his mind, he rode on.

The sergeant waved to the troop and followed, his lips silently mouthing a pithy and profane assessment of his superior officer.

Mathieson was so deeply asleep that his awakening was very gradual. Something was strange, but he could neither think what it was nor be greatly concerned, for he was warm and drowsily comfortable. There came by stages memories of yesterday; the delicious episode with Fiona in the cemetery; his bluffing of Lambert; and his wild dash back to St. Peter's where he had arrived in time to rescue a pale and panicked Heywood from taking over his role in the second act. Fiona's relief when he'd limped in had touched his heart, but there had been no time then to say anything more than that the soldiers had gone and Mrs. Dunnigan and MacTavish were unharmed. Later, when the red coach and the two largest caravans rolled up the hill to collect them, their scenery and properties, there had been need for caution because the vicar and the more influential local landowners had gathered around with what Mathieson had come to term “the three c's”—criticism, condescension, and congratulations—and it had been some time before they'd been able to escape.

On reaching the campsite Mathieson had been astonished by the complete restoration of order. There was no sign of the military upheaval; everything was neatly put away; MacTavish
was asleep in Gregor's bunk; and Mrs. Dunnigan had hot cider waiting for the weary troupe. In response to his incredulous, “How a'plague did you manage to get it tidied up so fast?” the lady had merely replied with a coy smile that she did not propose to share her secrets. Oilcloth had been stretched between the roofs of Lady Clorinda's and Bradford's caravans to create a small shelter from the damp night air, and in front of it a fire had been built. They'd gathered there in the warm good fellowship that comes from shared danger and hardship, enjoying the cider, slices of cold pork and cheese, and hunks of fragrant, buttered bread.

Japhet had come back from tending the horses and proceeded to regale them all with a highly dramatized account of the incident with the dragoons. Their fury over the rough treatment accorded MacTavish cooled a little when Mathieson's arrival was described, and by the time the tale was told the campsite rang with laughter. It was a rare experience for Mathieson to win praise and admiring looks from other men, and Japhet's obvious hero-worship, the awareness that he had done something that would have pleased
Maman
, and above all else, the loving pride in a pair of sparkling green eyes had not been hard to bear. He smiled faintly, hearing again the laughter and teasing, recalling the smell of the fragrant woodsmoke, seeing the firelight dance on one vivacious and lovely face.

It was very noisy in the caravan. Disturbed, Mathieson turned over and gave a startled shout as he was flung to a floor which jolted and shook and bounced under him. Fully awake at last, he realized that the back window was alternately a pale grey square or criss-crossed by the dark shadows of tree branches. It was, it would appear, the beginning of dawn, but they were moving—and moving very fast.

Pauley's head came over the edge of the upper bunk and peered down at him. “What're ye doin' awie doon there, laddie?”

“We're moving,” said Mathieson redundantly.

“Aye. We are, that.”

Heywood's bunk was empty. Mathieson clambered to his feet, moved erratically to the back door and saw the dark shapes of horses and a following vehicle. He made his way to the front, pulled the curtain aside and peered through the window which someone had taken the time to clean. Heywood, muffled to the ears, was driving the team. Mathieson opened the narrow door, drawing an indignant complaint from Pauley. The air was cold and damp. Mathieson snatched up his blanket and wrapped it about him. “Thad,” he shouted. “What's to do? Did the troopers come back?”

“Not that I'm aware.”

“Then why are we travelling at night?”

“Got a long way to go, dear old boy.”

“But—”

“SHUT THE BLUIDY DOOR!” yowled Pauley.

Mathieson closed the door. “Apologies, Alec. What's happening? Am I allowed to know?”

The snore that answered him was as loud as it was unlikely. He gave a resentful grunt but made no attempt to pursue the matter, for if Pauley had been told to say nothing, he could say nothing. Mathieson reached for his clothes and managed with some difficulty to get dressed. Shivering, he groped under his bunk for his boots, was flung to one side as the caravan swayed wildly, and grabbed instinctively at the supporting post quite forgetting the protruding nail. The nail wasn't there. Puzzled, he ran his fingers up and down the post, but it was perfectly smooth. It had been there yesterday. Now it was gone. With all that had transpired in these busy hours it seemed unlikely that anyone would have found the time to attend to an incorrectly driven nail. But—beyond doubting, it was not there.