Journey to Enchantment (44 page)

“Don't be a fool,” said Delavale, his hand tightening about the grip of his sword. “Two of my men wait in the hall, and Miss MacTavish is above stairs. Do you dare threaten me in my own house?”

“One does not threaten a traitor,” declared Joseph, moving closer.

Delavale whipped sword from scabbard. “Stay back, or by God, I shall—”

“Do—precisely—nothing,” purred Otton. A sleek pistol was held steadily in his hand, aimed straight at Delavale's heart.

“One shot,” said Delavale, “and you will have everyone in the house down here.”

“And almost everyone in the house is loyal to Joseph,” said Beasley. “Not to you. I'll tell Hargrave to call the men.”

“Do you move a step closer to that bellrope, my fat friend,” said Delavale, “I shall cut you down. Never look at my uncle's paid killer. He'll not dare shoot, which he knows as well as I.”

The door burst open. Delavale's back was to it, and he dared not glance from the threat that faced him.

Otton smiled. “How obliging. Do come in, Miss MacTavish.”

With a dismayed gasp, Delavale spun around. He had been fooled by an old trick. Instead of Prudence, Mrs. King stood on the threshold, her goggling eyes taking in the scene.

Delavale jerked back immediately, but with a pantherish leap, Otton sent the pistol flailing at his head. Delavale swayed aside and whipped up his sword, but with courage born of desperation, Sybil snatched up a heavy candelabra and threw it with such accuracy that the sword was smashed from Delavale's hand. Otton grabbed his wrist, twisting it back; Beasley clamped a brutal grasp on his other arm. Joseph drew back his hamlike fist, his eyes glittering with triumph.

Recovering her wits, Mrs. King squealed, “
Soldiers!
There be soldiers in the house!”

XXI

Prudence thanked the timid housemaid and, clad in the hastily pressed pink silken gown, stepped into the hall. The staircase wound in a central spiral through the three storeys of the great house and, walking to the well, she looked down to the ground floor. She could see many servants milling about in the main hall, and there was a deal of flurried, low-voiced chatter, especially between the tall butler and the housekeeper. Prudence smiled faintly. They would do well to be disturbed, for from what Geoffrey had told her, they had made his poor sister miserably unhappy. She could not be easy to think of him, alone in the drawing room with Joseph and his cronies, and she trod swiftly down the stairs.

She was descending the final flight when she became aware that the servants had dispersed and that there was some kind of commotion outside. Uneasy, she slowed her steps. Mrs. King fairly shot across the hall and galloped to the drawing room. Her heart beginning to flutter, Prudence followed. She approached the door in time to hear Mrs. King's dramatic pronouncement. Once again, the cold and familiar hand of fear had her in its grip. There were no uniforms to be seen, but the housekeeper was plainly terrified. “My Gawd!” she gasped. “I don't want none of this, I don't!” and she fled back the way she had come, brushing past Prudence without a check.

Hurrying to the drawing room, Prudence closed the open door and leaned back against it, stunned. The occupants were gathered in a close unmoving group, like the figures in a charade. Geoffrey's sword was on the floor; Otton and Beasley held his arms, and Joseph Montgomery's upraised fist was menacingly clenched.

From beyond the door a loathed voice rang out. “Where is the master? No, not Montgomery. Captain Lord Delavale. I know he's here!”

Prudence shrank, the name ‘Cunningham!' emblazoned on her mind.

The frozen tableau sprang to life. Otton released Delavale, picked up the fallen sword, and handed it to him. Beasley ran to sit in an armchair and snatch up a glass of wine. Sybil and Joseph hastened to occupy the sofa. Geoffrey raced to the credenza and emptied the contents of a small rumpled bag into a comfit dish. His hair was dishevelled, and he thrust a quick hand through it, which was of little help. Prudence ran to his side, and he scowled as though vexed to see her there.

“Good afternoon, Captain Delacourt.”

Delavale wrenched his eyes from Prudence's bewildered little face and turned about, brows lifting in apparent surprise. “Colonel Cunningham! Jove, but you travel swiftly.”

“And sadly,” declared Cunningham with doubtful veracity since his hard eyes fairly blazed with triumph. “You cannot know how it grieves me to have to arrest one of my officers for desertion … at the very least.” Since Delavale betrayed nothing more than polite interest, he thought that this was going to be more difficult than he had hoped, and said with an air of regret, “How do you do, Miss MacTavish? I am glad to find you safe, but sorry to find you in such company.”

“What the deuce kind of remark is that?” demanded Joseph, affronted.

“My uncle, sir,” said Delavale, his mind racing. “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Montgomery—Colonel Cunningham. Mr. Beasley. And this is—”

“We are acquainted.” Having bowed shortly to the Montgomerys and Beasley, the Colonel turned a speculative gaze upon Otton. “Faith, but you never cease to astound me, my dear Roland. I'd fancied to have seen the end of you in Flanders, and here you are again. I wonder what you are after this time. Treasure?”

Five startled pairs of eyes shot to Otton. He smiled faintly. “Always, sir. Always. And you?”

“My treasure, alas, is dross.” Cunningham's gaze returned to the dark young man who stood straight and tall beside the girl. Delavale looked proud and oddly regal, and the girl's hair gleamed like a flame around her pale face. He thought a detached, ‘They make a fine couple. Pity.' And he snapped his fingers.

Delavale stood motionless as a Sergeant and a trooper marched across the room to position themselves on both sides of him. His heart sank, but as usual, at the approach of danger a tingle of excitement went through him. “Sir?” he said, managing to sound astonished. “Am I to deduce that you believe me to have deserted?”

“I wonder why I should assume such a thing,” said Cunningham with a twisted smile. “Only because you used an assumed name whilst you were in Scotland?”

“I think you are provoked, Colonel, but the truth is that after I was hit I was quite incapacitated for several months. The people who rescued me on the field mistook me for poor Delacourt. I was told that was my name, and I believed it.”

“They call it amnesia, I believe.” Cunningham smiled. “How convenient.”

It would have pleased Joseph Montgomery had his nephew been so accommodating as to die of his wounds. He would have been only mildly remorseful had Beasley's hired assassins done their job properly here in England, or Otton's men succeeded in Scotland. But for Geoffrey to be dragged to the Tower of London, put to the question, and, eventually, condemned to a traitor's death did not suit him at all. It was not the prospect of his nephew being tortured and killed that appalled him. He had no use for either of his brother's children and was quite aware that Geoffrey disliked him. He was equally aware that the boy would make adequate—probably generous—provision for him and Sybil. If Delavale should die a traitor's death, however, his estates would be forfeit, leaving Joseph penniless. A horrid circumstance. Therefore, although he was very frightened, he now intervened, his voice louder than ever. “What the devil d'you mean, sir, by bursting in here and upsetting my dear wife? We've scarce had time to welcome m'nephew and his guest. And since when is it become a treasonable act to lose one's memory? A pretty pass we've come to, if a peer can be summarily brought to book for such nonsense! You'd as well arrest me for believing him killed!”

“Not at all, sir.” A gleam lighting his cold eyes, Cunningham replied, “I have no doubt at all of your motive in doing so.”

“The … deuce…!” Purpling, Joseph stood up and stepped forward.

Cunningham's voice was ice. “It is only fair to warn you, Mr. Montgomery, that if any here attempt to interfere in this matter, they will be arrested as conspirators!”

Sybil gave a whimper of terror and ran to clutch her husband's arm. The high colour draining from his face, Joseph led her to the rear of the room, temporarily, at least, out of the line of fire.

“As for you, Captain.” Cunningham turned back to Delavale. “The first charge against you is desertion in time of war. The second, and major charge, is of fermenting rebellion and unrest among the Scots; of assisting numerous enemies of the State to escape apprehension, and of treasonable activities against the Crown while masquerading under the name of Ligun Doone.”

At this terrible list of crimes, Prudence felt dizzied and sick. Sybil gave a shriek and sank, half fainting, against a pallid-faced Joseph. Delavale, his expression one of tolerant amusement, decided that if worst came to worst, he would try to fight his way out. Better to die quickly.

Genuinely surprised, Otton started and exclaimed, “By God! I thought Doone was a Scot!”

“He is,” said Prudence, trying to speak clearly though her lips felt cold and numb. “It is a mistake, is all.”

Delavale murmured, “Am I to understand, Colonel, that you suspect me of being a Scot? No, but I do assure you that I was born in this very house.”

Irked by the complete lack of panic in his prey, Cunningham rasped, “I accuse you of being Ligun Doone, not of being a Scot. I will not ask you for a refutation, however. You would doubtless suffer another ‘lapse of memory,' and I detest to waste time. It will go easier on you, my lord, if you confess now and hand over the cypher.”

Whether it was a bluff, or whether Cunningham had certain knowledge that he carried the cypher, Delavale could not guess. He frowned as though perplexed. “Cypher? Sir, I must disappoint you. I have no cypher.”

“Alas, my lord. You leave me no alternative but to have you searched.”

Trembling with terror, and sure that the deadly cypher was even now residing in the comfit dish, Joseph spluttered, “Search a
peer?
'Sblood, but the fella babbles like a halfwit. What's all this about a cypher?”

“Nothing that need concern you, Mr. Montgomery,” said Cunningham. “Unless your nephew proves to have it concealed about his person, or in this house. In which case, it will be my unhappy duty to arrest you all. Well, my lord? Have you decided to be sensible and hand it over?”

“I think I am a reasonable man, sir. But if you wish to search me—or my home—I shall have to ask to see your warrant.”

Cunningham's jaw set. The truth was that he had no warrant. His General had been sceptical that any English aristocrat who had been brutally handled by the Scots would subsequently so bestir himself in their behalf. Nor had he been easy as to the consequences of mistakenly arresting a peer of the realm. Eager for promotion and convinced his suspicions were justified, Cunningham had gone over his General's head and had approached his Grace the Duke of Cumberland in the matter. His Grace, infuriated by Ligun Doone's successes, had roared hearty approval. He had always applauded initiative in his officers, he said, and did Cunningham pull off his coup, he would be “suitably and gratefully rewarded.” That, of course, meant the long yearned for promotion, but Cunningham was under no illusions. If things went awry, his Grace would have no part of it, and the first to be flung to the lions would be himself.

There was no hint of any of this in his demeanour, however, when he said with cold inflexibility that no warrants were needed for traitors. “Sergeant, I want Lord Delavale stripped and thoroughly searched. Leave no seam or lining of his clothing intact. We seek a quite small piece of parchment containing a poem. Otton—be so good as to escort the ladies from the room.”

Delavale turned to Prudence and reached for her hand. It was cold as ice, and he squeezed it and said coolly, “My dear lady, I am indeed sorry that your arrival at Highview has been marred in this ridiculous fashion. I fear that poor Cunningham has been ill advised, but we must give him enough rope, so please do not be alarmed.”

Taking her cue from him, she murmured, “But, my lord, it is so disgraceful. Do you mean to do nothing?”

“No need, ma'am. My solicitors will handle matters.”

He looked so calm, so unruffled; certainly not afraid. Commencing to experience the first twinges of nerves, Cunningham's choler rose. “Very impressive,” he snapped. “Captain Otton?”

Ten minutes later, grim-lipped and inwardly seething, Delavale adjusted the lace at his wrists, shrugged into the jacket the butler had brought him, and enquired, “Well, Colonel? You have torn to shreds several perfectly serviceable articles of clothing and a costly pair of boots. I have explained why I did not advise you of my true identity. I have told you how Miss MacTavish and I were abducted from Lakepoint and held for ransom, and why I have only now managed to return here. I have yet to hear one iota of evidence against me.”

“You will, my lord,” said the Colonel with a tight smile. “A witness is en route here who will testify as to your treachery in so damning a way you must be convicted beyond hope of reprieve. Otton, I ask you as a former officer in the service of our King, did this traitor hand anything to anyone upon arriving? Did you see him put anything away, or go to any drawer or cupboard? There is a large reward for the capture of Ligun Doone, to say nothing of the amount offered for the cypher he likely carries.”

Very aware of the mercenary nature of his hired sword, and of his lack of loyalty to any but himself, Joseph stared at Otton in mute despair. Beasley, his heart leaping crazily, began to weave desperate schemes to exonerate himself from any suspicion of complicity in Joseph's activities. Delavale stood very still, prepared for the words that would spell his doom. Otton had seen him empty the toffees into the comfit dish. The man's impenetrable gaze was steady on him. He knew. A few words only, and he could collect the rewards, while the rest of them would face arrest, and his own fate— Delavale forced his mind away from that horror.