Journey to Enchantment (21 page)

His lordship asked, “What ith old Geoff up to? Your butler told me he ith gone out with your father.”

“Just a drive, I believe, sir. But my aunt tells me the Captain has formulated a plan to get our wounded safely away.”

“I believe he hath, but I doubt he will be content with it.”

“Of course not,” said Miss Clandon, smiling. “Geoffrey is never satisfied, and yet his schemes always work.”

“He is a very clever gentleman,” said Prudence.

“Or tho outrageouth that no one ith prepared for hith daring,” Briley qualified. “He taketh too many rithkth. I will be very glad when he ith comfortably in England again.” He scowled. “Whenever that may be.”

Prudence said, “He told me he does not expect to be here for long, so—”

“When did he say that?” demanded Miss Clandon sharply.

“Good God!” exclaimed Briley, his glance having turned to the house. “What the devil ith
he
doing here again?”

Colonel Cunningham and his small escort were returning across the lawns.

Prudence groaned softly. Miss Clandon trilled a delighted laugh and seized the sketch pad. “Only look, Thaddeus! Miss MacTavish has made the loveliest drawing of us!”

Briley turned at once. “Well done, m'dear,” he murmured.

Prudence was slightly taken aback at this familiarity until she realized that he referred not to her artistic skill but to Miss Clandon's acting.

“I thay,” he lisped, taking the pad and scanning the sketch admiringly, “you are very talented, ma'am,” and in a soft murmur, “Why
ith
he here?”

“To see my papa—he says,” she whispered, and added in a louder tone, “Flatterer! Should you like me to paint it for you?”

Miss Clandon said eagerly, “Would you? Oh, yes, please. It would be such a lovely memory.” Briley glanced at her swiftly. She raised her voice and called, “Colonel! Only see how talented is our dear Miss MacTavish.”

Cunningham joined them, bowed to Miss Clandon, shook his lordship's hand, apparently disturbing that gentleman's ruffles, and admired the sketch with much enthusiasm. “By Jupiter, but you're skilful, ma'am! How cleverly you have caught their expressions: his lordship so merry, and Miss Clandon a touch melancholic.”

Taken off-stride, Miss Clandon stammered, “Melancholic? Oh, do I seem so?”

They all peered at the sketch. It had not occurred to Prudence at the time, but it was truth; there was a sadness in the smile she had depicted. She thought, ‘Good heavens! I drew it and did not realize, but he saw it at once. How very astute he is!' She said, “What an eye you have, Colonel.”

He was pleased and said expansively that he was an admirer of art. “And I believe I know good work when I encounter it. I would be most grateful, Miss MacTavish, did you allow me to see some more of your drawings. Would that be intrusive?”

He was trying to be pleasant to the natives, of course, she thought cynically, and probably had no more interest in art than the man in the moon. Still she could not help but be flattered as she led the way back to the house, and thence to the first-floor chamber known as ‘Miss Prue's Workroom.'

X

Delacourt said earnestly, “I tell you, sir, Thad bears very little resemblance to the featherhead he portrays. He's a truly splendid fellow. He fought in Holland and won himself a magnificent reputation. Did you know?”

“My daughter said he was a Major.” MacTavish reined the team to a walk. “Sold out, did he?”

“Invalided out, sir. Came through the battles unscathed, but took a nasty one from a sniper after Dettingen and they thought he was finished.” His smile was without mirth as he said, “Happily, he was able to confound his doctors.”

MacTavish frowned, and for a moment there was silence. Then he said, “I take it he shall leave us very soon.”

“Early on Sunday morning. But not for England, alas.”

“What? But—I thought—in view of this damnable butler of mine—”

“
Because
of your damnable butler. Don't you see, sir? I'd intended to be the escorting officer of our rebels myself, but—”

MacTavish gawked at him. “
You?
You're mad!”

Delacourt made an impatient, dismissing gesture. “I've gone over it all a hundred times. I am their best hope. Their only hope, perhaps. We can dress my Scots as troopers, but should they encounter a patrol the officer will certainly have to talk, and he must be English.”

“Then
I'll
be the officer!” Dismayed by his own impulsiveness, MacTavish paled, and went on with markedly less vehemence, “I, ah, think my English is as good as your own.”

“Oh, certainly, sir. To a Scot. But let an Englishman listen to you for two minutes, and he'd have you! There's no imitating us, alas. At least—not without concentrated study. There is a slight burr to your ‘r's when you're annoyed.” He smiled faintly. “Your daughter has similar lapses.”

MacTavish uttered a short bark of laughter. “Oh, Prudence becomes pure Scots when she's irked, I grant you. But—be sensible, man! When you ride out at night you return properly knocked up. How d'ye propose to stay in the saddle for twenty-five miles?”

“By having Lockerbie come after me with a chaise. I managed to get up into the hills when Willie Mayhew would trust no other.” With a trace of temperament he said, “Dammitall, they could glue me to the saddle, if necessary! I
know
I could have done it.”

MacTavish thought, ‘The spirit is willing.' And he asked with regret, “Did you
know
that you could walk across your room on Thursday night? You'll own you are subject to such attacks. What if you were to suffer one whilst you spoke with a patrol?”

“Oh, it could be accounted for, somehow. Only”—Delacourt scowled darkly—“now it will not serve, blast it!”

“Because of Sidley. By God, the fellow's a threat to you! To us all! Get rid of him!”

“Easy said, sir. But you would not pull the trigger, I doubt. No more would I. That poor devil's had about all any man should have to endure. I've convinced him I'm at Lakepoint as Cunningham's spy, and he's willing—eager—to obey any orders I give him. It occurred to me, therefore…” He paused, then went on with a wry grin, “Well, as I said, the officer must be an Englishman.”

MacTavish stared, then gave a hoot of mirth. “Why, you rogue! Remind me never to incur your displeasure! I vow you'd have me shipped off to some African mountaintop!”

“Dreadful, isn't it? Poor fellow. But I mean to instruct my men that he is to be treated kindly, and I shall see to it that his wife is funded until all this is done with and he is restored to her.”

MacTavish looked at him in a bewildered fashion. “I pay him well enough, Delacourt, and I'll be damned if I can see why you fret so. He's a treacherous hound and has been spying on us; only too eager to hand us all over to Cunningham's tender mercies.” Delacourt set his jaw but said nothing, and MacTavish went on, “Would you have my daughter's head adorn Tower Gate?”

Delacourt blanched. “Lord Almighty! Never think such a ghastly thing!”

“It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, sad to say. Now, how d'ye mean to convince him? Surely he'll think one of Cunningham's officers should take the rebels in charge?”

“Yes, of course. But I've told him he'll be masquerading as a Jacobite masquerading as an English officer in charge of prisoners, but in reality knowing he'll be met by other Jacobites along the route who mean to bring the wounded men to safety.”

MacTavish laughed. “And for why would he be doing so cockaleery a thing, when he might simply report them to our cunning Colonel?”

“Why, to learn more of Ligun Doone and his reprehensible henchmen, of course. After which, the cavalry will gallop to his rescue, and all the rebels be hauled off and shot.”

“Well, that, we pray, will not happen. Even so, he'll learn a good deal. I think I am not a bloodthirsty man, but … if Sidley should escape! The names he could name! The faces he would describe!”

“He'll not escape, sir. But just to be on the safe side, I'm sending Thad Briley along. As Sidley's Sergeant.”

The thought of Major Lord Thaddeus Briley posing as a Sergeant, while the butler enacted the role of Captain, reduced the MacTavish to such hilarity that it became necessary for him to mop at his eyes. He gasped out, “Would that I might be there to see it! I—I trust you'll instruct his lordship not to open that dainty mouth of his. He'd have small chance of uttering a sentence with no sibilants, and if Cunningham hears that among a troop of English soldiers was one who carried himself like an aristocrat and spoke with a lisp, he'll no be in doubt for long!”

Delacourt sighed. “True. Lord, but I wish I could go instead of old Thad.”

MacTavish sobered and laid a hand on the younger man's arm. “No, lad. Your plan is much better as it is. This way, you've an excuse for Sidley taking your place, and we'll be well rid o' the pest. Besides, I'd not be concerned about his lordship. He seems a resourceful enough fellow.”

“I'm not concerned about Thad's courage, sir. He's the very best sort of man. The thing is I need him to carry our curst cypher to England. If anything should go wrong…” And with a sudden flare of frustration, he raged, “Oh,
damn
this everlasting—” He broke off, a hand to his lips as he coughed, ducked his head, and coughed again, his following breath coming in shallow, painful gasps.

MacTavish halted the team and watched sombrely.

After a few minutes, Delacourt straightened and lay back against the squabs, eyes closed and face waxy and streaked with sweat. He looked up then, met MacTavish's compassionate gaze, and smiled with wry amusement. “I fancy that put me in my place. You can … drive on now, sir. I'm better.”

MacTavish regarded him in tight-lipped silence, then slapped the reins on the backs of the team, and the carriage lurched forward once more. “Let this be the last of it,” he muttered.

Delacourt said, “I'd be easier if we'd a better plan. Have you come up with anything, sir?”

Guiltily aware that his efforts had been bent on his own work, MacTavish said feebly, “Yes. Get rid of Sidley and let the men rest in my pyramid until they're stronger.”

“You speak of months. I've a feeling our time is short, even without your butler.”

“Have you, now? A premonition? Well, my sister would agree. Her confounded stars are warning us from hell to breakfast. Oh, grin, then; I apprehend you think it madness. I can only say she's been at this jiggery-pokery for years and never quite so agitated by what she ‘reads' for us, as she is now.”

“I wish to heavens Mrs. Hortense's stars could tell her if Cunningham knows of the cypher.”

“Heaven forfend! He'd stop at nothing to get his hands on it. Ye canna doot that!”

“I canna doot that,” Delacourt confirmed with a twinkle, and as MacTavish chuckled, went on, “To business, sir. Here is how it will go. My fellows will bring the uniforms tomorrow night, and Sidley, Thad, and those who are to be ‘troopers' will escort the wagon away before dawn on Sunday. If all goes well, Thad will return here by Tuesday at the latest, pick up the cypher, and take it to its destination in England.”

“It sounds simple. But what if all does not go well?”

Delacourt shrugged. “I shall have to spin a new web, sir.”

*   *   *

Saturday was warm and hazy, the sky a whitish blue and the dampness in the air bringing lethargy. The day passed quietly enough, although for several residents of Lakepoint, coming events cast shadows that strained nerves to an almost unbearable pitch.

The evening was mild, and after dinner the terrace doors were opened to admit the cool air while MacTavish and Delacourt settled down to hear Hortense play a sonata for them on the fine harpsichord in the drawing room. Prudence took her place to turn the pages for her aunt. Hortense played quite well, even if her pace did not always match the notations indicated by Mr. Handel and, encouraged by the applause that greeted her first effort, she launched into a minuet.

Thaddeus Briley, seated at the rear of the room, shifted restlessly in his chair. He was not averse to opera, provided the chorus was pleasing to the eyes, but musicales bored him. Besides, he was to be off in the wee hours of the morning, and he could think of more interesting ways to spend these last moments at Lakepoint. With the bewitching Miss Clandon, for example. He glanced to the side. A vision in pink and ecru lace, with a small bunch of pink roses nestling amongst her high-dressed and powdered curls, his admired lady sat with her billowing skirts gracefully disposed on a cream brocade loveseat. She did not return his glance, but the corners of her pretty mouth twitched, and he knew she was aware that he watched her. He coughed softly.

Miss Clandon's fan came into play. From behind it she slanted an amused look at him, and he jerked his head towards the door, one imploring hand laid over his heart.

The fan lowered. Her lips formed the words “For shame!” But she was also conscious that he went into danger very soon, and she came to her feet and slipped quietly into the hall.

A few moments later his lordship found her in the front garden. She fluttered her fan at him. “You are very wicked, my lord.”

Typical of him, he had required a maid to bring her shawl and he now draped it about her shoulders. “If it be wicked to adore tho beautiful a creation ath your lovely thelf…” he murmured.

She leaned in his arm, looking up at him, but as he bent to kiss her the fan swept between them. “Rascal,” she chided. “Have you no sense of the proprieties?”

“On the boat coming up here—” he began.

“Never mind about that! And besides, it was very wrong of me. I'd not have you think me a fast girl, sir.”