Journey to Enchantment (42 page)

To the tremendous relief of the host, his lordship mumbled an affirmative and, to the accompaniment of much shocked comment from the little crowd, was assisted above stairs and into Prudence's parlour. The host departed, saying he would have a pot of hot tea sent up as soon as may be, and MacLeod lowered Delavale onto the sofa. Prudence ran to the washstand, wet a small towel, and came back to gently remove the mud from his face. “Oh, what a nasty scrape! But how fortunate your eye was not—”

He waved the towel away and peered at her anxiously. “Prue, my dearest girl, I am so sorry. In truth, I'm the veriest fool. Can you ever forgive me?”

She sank to her knees beside him, tears gemming her lashes. “'Twas my fault, and none o' yer own. If ye knew what I've suffered, fearing you taken or—or shot.…” Her voice broke. Delavale tossed the towel away and gathered her into his arms.

Cole looked at MacLeod's rugged and bloody features and grinned. “Looks as if ye've caught yerself a fine ding, you wild man,” he said cheerfully. “Let me see if I can help.”

Mildly astonished, MacLeod followed meekly. Cole led him to the washstand, bade him sit beside it, and proceeded to bathe the gash along the Scot's jaw. “Did they follow you?” he asked.

“Nae, mon. There were four of 'em waiting us here. Beyond the yard, y'ken.”

Cole's deft hands checked. “They
knew
you were coming here?” he said, aghast.

Delavale's arms were fast locked about Prudence, his aching head forgotten as, between kisses, he whispered of his adoration and heard her soft voice thrilling with emotion as she murmured her tender responses. The others in the room ceased to exist, but through the ecstatic haze, Cole's shocked question drifted to Prudence's ears. With a little cry of alarm, she drew back. It was a testimonial to all they had gone through together that she experienced no embarrassment because their tender love-making had been observed. “Did you say the men who attacked you were
waiting
here?”

MacLeod nodded grimly.

Delavale said wearily, “You have it, Prue. They were not thieves.”

“My heavens! Not—not troopers?”

MacLeod stood and came over, holding the cloth to his jaw. “No, lady. Belike they were after yon cypher, Captain.”

Cole groaned. “Never say you could not deliver it, sir?”

“The man I was to give it to was away,” Delavale lied, watching Prudence's scared face. “Just as well, for it will give me a chance to get you safely to Highview. Lord, but I never drew an easy breath whilst I was away from you.”

This intensely uttered declaration won him such a melting look that it was as much as he could do not to pull her back into his arms.

Cole asked, “Were they after the cypher, sir?”

“If they were, they're an inept crew. What d'you think, MacLeod?”

The big man frowned. “I dinna ken, sir. Only they were powerfu' eager tae snuff ye. When ye went doon, I heard one o' the heathens shout, ‘Is he finished?' And aw' wi' never a look tae me, whatever.”

Prudence said, “But if they only wanted the cypher, why should they care if you were dead?”

“Why, indeed,” said Delavale. “Unless they were known to me, perchance, and feared I might betray them. What did bring me down, Mac? Did you see?”

“Aye. A thin rope across the lane.”

“Lying slack until we came up, no doubt, and then pulled taut. An old trick, and too damned effective. But— My God! What a dimwit I am!” He got to his feet and took the alarmed MacLeod by the hand. “Again, you have saved my life! You should have seen him, Prue, standing over me and fighting like a whole battalion, while I was useless.”

Colouring up, the Scot said gruffly, “Ye were nae useless fer long, sir. Else this”—he gestured to the cut on his face—“would hae found me throat instead.”

They smiled upon one another, their hands fast gripped, each knowing that the bond between them was deep and strong and would endure for a lifetime.

A scratch at the door announced the arrival of the tea tray, which was carried in by a sleepy-eyed maid who blushed rosily because she was clad in her nightrail with her hair a thick braided rope hanging down over one shoulder. There were little cakes, buttered bread, and cheese on the tray, but MacLeod, although ravenous, could scarcely drag his eyes from the buxom maid. She flashed him a shy smile as she set down the tray, and he darted over to hold open the door for her.

Delavale glanced at Cole and winked, and the groom muttered, “Great lummox!”

“Well, Mac,” said Delavale, sitting down and taking the steaming cup Prudence handed him, “did you notice anything about those louts?”

“Och, I do…” murmured the Scot dreamily. Delavale laughed. Reddening, MacLeod said, “Er, I'm sorry, sir. But ye'll own she's a bonnie wee lassie.”

“Not so wee,” muttered Cole. “But the right size for you, I'd— Hey, what's that you have?”

MacLeod inspected the small package he held. “Mistress Hetty give it me the noo. 'Tis fer yersel', sir.”

“Mistress Hetty, is it?” Amused, Delavale took the package and opened it. He took out a folded letter and excused himself while he read it quickly. “By Jove!” He looked up and said an enthused, “It's from Treve de Villars, the rascal. He has sent me identification papers.” He read from the letter: “‘… due to the state of unrest because of these damned Jacobites, it might be well for you to postpone your sightseeing for a day or two, and be sure to keep your papers with you. England has changed since you left, my lad, as has your ancestral mansion. You should be prepared for a surprise.'” He frowned thoughtfully. “He wrote this with an eye to the possibility of its being intercepted, that's certain.” Looking up again, he met Prudence's worried glance with a smile. “These papers will serve us well, I've no doubt. Good old Treve! We're almost there, my friends! We're almost safe home!”

*   *   *

Highview Manor was listed in the guidebooks as a three-storey Tudor mansion set in a nice park with woods and acreage comprising approximately one square mile. It was a good-sized house, constructed of red brick with white ornamented balustrades and having some four and fifty rooms, plus numerous outbuildings. Since, however, it did not possess such lures as battlements, turrets, pagodas, moats, or any outstanding uniqueness of design, and had not even a ghost or two to recommend it, it was not much patronized by sightseers. For two hundred years the principal seat of the head of the house of Montgomery, it was perhaps a trifle less attractive now than it had been in earlier years, for the beautiful gardens that had long ago been the pride and joy of Margaret, Lady Delavale, had been torn out by the present baron, Joseph Montgomery, this particular Lord Delavale being out of sympathy with the expense of maintaining such frivolities as flowers.

On this pleasant summer afternoon a deep silence had descended upon the manor. The lawns having been neatly scythed, the three overworked gardeners were labouring in the area of the cottage that had once been occupied by the nurse of poor young Lord Geoffrey Delavale—dead these ten months and more—and his sister, Miss Penelope, who had fled England with her traitorous Jacobite husband, and whose name was not permitted to be uttered at Highview.

The lord of the manor was closeted in his study with his bosom bow, Mr. Thomas Beasley, who had arrived but an hour since, his carriage caked with mud and his horses in a fine sweat.

In the servants' hall, Mrs. King, the housekeeper, was enjoying a cup of tea with the butler. Tall and broad-shouldered was Mr. Hargrave, with a proud and graceful carriage, an ingratiating manner, and a vicious, bullying temperament which was frequently turned upon those unfortunates who served him. He was very aware that Mrs. King adored him and, although inwardly designating her a scrawny old hen, he took care to stay in her good graces, knowing that Mrs. K, as he called her, had the ear of the master, and did not hesitate to fill it to the detriment of those who earned her displeasure. An excellent understanding existed between these two rulers of the staff, and thus it was that Mr. Hargrave, with a cautious glance at the door, went on, “… oh, I agree with you, Mrs. K. A beautiful woman is her ladyship. And knows how to use it. But I repeat, she's been very careful since the business with that strange old gentleman, Sir George Somerville. An odd affair”—he smirked—“
if
I may use the play on words, ma'am. A
very
odd affair.”

Mrs. King threw one hand to her face in mock embarrassment, but although assuring the butler he was “such a naughty boy!” followed this pleasing admonition by reminding him that the gentleman's name had been John, not George Somerville. The pucker of annoyance that disturbed the brow of the object of her regard caused her to add quickly that Mr. Hargrave was “so very right, just the same. Was there anything more”—she lowered her voice—“more
disgraceful
than the way she flung herself at that poor old fellow? I'll lay you odds she'd not have give the old man one look had Captain Arrogant Otton not been off with the master. Hardly able to keep their hands from one another, milady and that there Captain—if he
is
one.”

“They think the master don't see, Mrs. K. But he suspects, I'll warrant. And one of these days.…”

*   *   *

“One of these days, Sybil,” murmured Captain Roland Otton, nuzzling the warm curve of Lady Delavale's soft throat, “your estimable husband will catch us fondling. You take too many chances, m'dear.”

Sybil drew back pettishly and took up the embroidery hoop that lay on the grass. “Joseph,” she muttered. “Always Joseph. He grows to be such a bore. I vow, Roly, this month you've been ill has been the dullest of my life.” She turned her lovely but dissatisfied brown eyes to the man who lay propped against the tree beside her. A month since, Quentin Chandler had driven his sword into Otton's chest during a desperate fight for possession of a valuable cypher and her detestable niece, Penelope. Otton had been held prisoner by Jacobite sympathizers but, two weeks after he had taken his wound, had managed to get away, and had arrived at Highview in a sorry state. Sybil had enjoyed several pleasant little dalliances with him while ‘nursing' him back to health, but it seemed to her that he was not quite as ardent as he had been before Penelope had run off with her traitor. She scanned him narrowly. His pallor seemed to enhance his dark good looks, and if the cynical twist to his mouth was more marked, his black eyes were dreamy at this moment and did not hold the hard, calculating look that usually characterized them.

“I'll own it has not been the happiest period of my existence.” He smiled wryly at the beauteous little lady and reached out to touch a soft ringlet that drooped upon her shoulder. “I wonder why you are always so desirable when you pout.”

Her eyes lit up. Eager, she leaned to him again, taking care not to rest her weight where it might pain him. A lovely armful, my lady Sybil, with a magnificent swell of bosom that so inflamed the convalescent gentlemen he sat up, seized her in an unexpectedly strong grasp, and with a twist laid her across his knees and proceeded to kiss and caress her in a way that would have enraged her husband almost as much as it delighted her.

She was limp and panting when he sighed and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Egad, woman, but you exhaust me. If your valiant spouse saw that, he's like to regret his charity in allowing me to return after my—failure.”

“Failure!” She sat up and restored her gown. “You were nigh killed by that—that rebel vermin! I'll own I was surprised, for I've seen you fence.” Her eyes became remote and a little wistful. “Was Chandler very good, Roly?”

“He was lucky!” he declared, his own eyes glinting angrily. “I'd have had the bastard and that cypher were it … not—” His lips tightened. He checked, then said as though compelled, “Yes—may he rot! He was very good. A truly magnificent swordsman, and beat me properly, damn him. Speaking of which, your lord and master is a long time with the beastly Beasley.”

My lady looked to the house uneasily. “Yes. Thomas sounded alarmed when he arrived, did you—Have a care! Here comes Joseph now!”

“Your 'broidery,” he hissed, closing his eyes. “At least, Thomas does not accompany him. One fat fool at a time, eh, my lovely wanton?”

She flushed, but kept her head downbent as she murmured, “Vicious beast! If he knew how you have cuckolded him…”

“Then it would be your loss as well as mine own, lovely one. Which is also why you let Chandler get away—no?”

Sybil gave a gasp. Her eyes darted to the unpleasant sneer on his face and the colour drained from her cheeks.

“What the devil are you about down here?” puffed Joseph, coming up with them, his protruding dark eyes turning suspiciously from his wife to his henchman's drowsing indolence. “One might think you more recovered by now, Otton.”

“You give me too much credit, sir. I am a mere mortal man, after all.”

“Aye. As you demonstrated last month,” said his lordship, hands on fat hips and lower lip jutting petulantly over his weak chin. A faint flush crept into Otton's pale cheeks, and his shapely mouth tightened. Joseph had scored, and pleased, he reminded, “I pay you to defend my interests. Not to fail me when most I need you.”

“You have not paid me at all, of late,” Otton pointed out, a note of steel in his voice.

“I do not pay for failure. Count yourself lucky you have been cared for here.”

Otton's dark gaze rested upon him in a chill, unblinking stare, and Joseph, more than a little afraid of this man, went on hurriedly, “If you're capable of it, you may soon have a chance to redeem yourself.”

Otton got to his feet and bowed. “You are too good. Blubbery Thomas Beasley has upset you, I see.”