Practice to Deceive (21 page)

Sybil, whose frantic signals to her niece had apparently gone unseen, now said, “Your uncle has a most urgent appointment, Penelope. He is to enter a monastic Order next week.”

Quentin could not resist turning his head to witness the effect of this solemn pronouncement. He was rewarded. Penelope's big eyes were almost as round as her pretty mouth. Well aware that his own eyes were all too apt to reflect his amusement, he lowered them and murmured humbly, “You may fancy it is too late.”

“Not if you leave at first light,” said Sybil, misinterpreting.

“I—do not think I can,” he said, rather muffled. “How very much more pleasant it would be to spend these last few days in the company of a lovely lady. And besides, if your husband does return, I can—”

Desperate, Sybil babbled, “You can enjoy the company of a lady on your journey, dear sir.”

Quentin turned to her, doubtfully.

“My poor—Penelope,” said Sybil, groping at any straw that offered, “has been in blacks for nigh two years. It has been in my mind these many weeks to send her to Town to stay with her Aunt Mary for a change of scene.”

Stunned, Penelope stared at her.

“My route lies north, to the monastery at York,” said Quentin. “But first, I've to return to Town, of course.”

“Why, then,” Sybil purred, “you could kill two birds with one stone, dear sir. Penelope could travel safely under your escort. She is a bright girl and would, I am sure, enliven your own last few days of—of civilian life.”

Her eyes alight, Penelope ran to clasp Sir John's hand. “Oh! Dear sir, I do not mean to impose, but—do—
do
please say I may go with you!”

Hargrave announced sonorously, “Dinner is served, milady.”

Sybil excused herself and hurried to engage him in a brief, murmurous discussion.

Penelope whispered, “You magician! How ever did you do it?”

“With brilliance, insight, and intuition.” He grinned. And as Sybil turned to them again, he patted his grand-niece's hand and said, “How can I refuse? Very well, little Miss Montgomery. You may accompany me to Town.”

They went in to dinner, two people who were secretly elated, and a third who thought rather wistfully that, although Sir John had been superb in some ways, it was as well to end the idyll here.

Daffy was waiting eagerly when Penelope went up to bed two hours later, and when she learned how things had evolved, she gave a little squeal and hugged her mistress ecstatically. “Just like the Major hoped, Miss Penny,” she cried. “Look, look! He bade me get ready, just in case.” She led Penelope into the dressing room where two portmanteaux, already packed, lay on the bed Quentin had lately occupied.

Bewildered, Penelope said, “He … hoped this would happen?”

“Aye, miss. More'n that. He
meant
it should happen! He never had no thought to leave you!”

Her heart swelling with thanks, Penelope blinked down at bright silks and satins. “But—why these? Daffy, we have three months yet of mourning. I—I could not.”

“The Major says your blacks will be sure to attract attention wherever we go, miss. So once we'm safe away you must become a young lady travelling with your grandpapa.”

Daffy chattered brightly on. She and Corporal Robert Killiam were to go with their respective employers, of course, for now everything was perfectly proper.

At such a joyous moment, how could Penelope refuse permission for a fifth passenger? It was firmly stipulated, however, that Jasper was to travel on the box with the Flying Dutchman and the groom.

*   *   *

As it transpired, when they left Highview the following morning, it was in two carriages. Quentin had persuaded Sybil that on a long journey he must support his “gouty foot” on the opposite seat and that, while he was willing to share the interior of the carriage with his grand-niece, he could not view with equanimity the additional presence of her abigail plus his man. Dreading lest he revert to his planned confession, Sybil had hurriedly agreed to the loan of Lord Hector's rather shabby old travelling carriage, in which could be piled the luggage, plus Daffy and Killiam, with Sir John's groom assuming the role of coachman.

Having parted tearlessly from her aunt and been settled in the well-sprung coach, Penelope looked out of the window and watched Highview vanish from sight. Sadness touched her briefly as she wondered whether she ever would return to this loved home, but she was so overjoyed because Quentin was safely away that her spirits could not for long remain depressed. The morning was chill and misty, with dripping leaves and vapours curling up from the meadows towards low hanging grey clouds, but she exclaimed happily, “Oh, how glorious it all is!”

Quentin, seated beside her, was as pleased by her delight as she was pleased by the passing countryside. But he teased, “One would think you'd never seen a soggy summer morning before.”

She turned to him eagerly. “Not such a morning as this. Oh—not for almost two years. Do you understand, dear friend? I am free! At last! I am free of them all!”

He did understand, and he squeezed her hand in silent sympathy. Penelope was mildly surprised by the grimness in his eyes, but almost at once he drew back, laughing. “Was there ever anything more exquisite than when those confounded troopers helped me into the carriage?”

“Or anything more terrifying than when they first marched up?” She shuddered. “I was sure they were going to arrest you.”

He turned his head against the squabs, the better to scan her animated face. “You did not look terrified, my intrepid ex-grand-niece and present grand-daughter. In fact, you've behaved throughout like a regular Trojan. Lord knows how I shall go on without you.”

Just for an instant his eyes were sombre, but then his lashes swept down, and he turned away again, saying lightly, “Speaking of which—where do we seek this aunt of yours?”

The thought of leaving him banished her brief sense of confusion. She replied, “Aunt Mary has a dear little house in a village called Hampstead, north of Town. But for the present, sir, should I not be putting off this habit?”

It had been her initial thought that they might stop at some secluded tavern where she could change clothes. Early that morning, however, Daffy had brought word that Major Chandler respectfully suggested she wear a light coloured travelling gown beneath her blacks so that at some opportune moment she would merely have to shed the outer garment. Were they to stop at an inn, he'd pointed out, a lady who arrived in mourning and departed in everyday dress must inevitably be remembered.

Quentin had already given his coachman instructions, and very soon the carriages turned on to a quiet lane leading through a grove of poplar trees. Here, Quentin alighted and walked back to confer with the groom who drove the second carriage. Penelope quickly divested herself of the black habit and thrust it into the small bag she had brought for the purpose.

No sooner had she accomplished this than she heard hoof-beats, and there was just time enough to settle herself before a masculine voice called, “Are you in some trouble, coachman?”

Dutch, as the coachman was known, rumbled a response, and a moment later a rider came up to the window. Penelope thought he would perhaps nod and go on his way. Instead, he glanced in curiously, promptly removed his tricorne and bent his powdered head to the open window.

“Good day to you, ma'am. May I be of any assistance?”

He was a pleasant-seeming young man whose light complexion and sandy eyebrows hinted at red hair. His eyes were blue, his undistinguished, rather snub nose dusted with freckles. He had a firm chin and a generous mouth that now smiled engagingly at her. She was very sure that Dutch had told him they required no assistance, and was more than a little elated to realize that (after all this time!) a gentleman was flirting with her. “It is indeed kind in you to offer,” she replied, as usual quite forgetting to be fashionably shy and simpering. “We have stopped for a moment so that my grandpapa may confer with our second coachman.”

He glanced back, saw an old gentleman stamping up fast, and bent again to the window. “May I introduce myself? I am Duncan Tiele, and—”

“Did you wish to speak with me, sir?”

That growl of a voice amused Penelope. Mr. Tiele sighed and drew back, dismounting and extending a gauntletted hand. “Tiele, sir. Duncan. At your service.”

Quentin scowled at the proffered hand and took it with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. “Thank you. But we require no service at the moment.” He turned to the carriage, and opened the door. “You all right, m'dear?”

Behind him, Mr. Tiele lifted his brows ruefully.

Her eyes full of laughter, Penelope assured her ‘dear grandpapa' that she was quite all right. “Mr. Tiele fancied we might be in difficulties, you see.”

“Don't see at all,” said Quentin, turning to glare testily at the would-be Good Samaritan. “Can't a man talk to his coachman for a minute without his grand-daughter being pestered by every young upstart from here to Jericho?”

“No, really, sir,” Mr. Tiele objected. “Not pestering. Do assure you. There are groups of varmints hunting down rebels hereabouts and they're apt to shoot first and ask questions later. So I—”

“And so they should, sir! England stands in no pressing need of rebels. Nor I in need of your much vaunted service.” Quentin started to swing the steps down, recollected his age, and fumbled the business so convincingly that the eager Mr. Tiele had let down the steps in a flash and all but lifted the ‘old gentleman' inside. Quentin had not expected such a burst of energy and, resenting the powerful boost, attempted to wrench away from it, thereby contriving to twist his hurt arm. “Con-confound you, sir!” he panted, but was too breathless to say more, and had to content himself with wheezing, infuriated gasps, and a wrathful shaking of his cane at the well-meaning young gallant.

Mounting up with a lithe swing, Mr. Tiele again bent to the window and surveyed Quentin anxiously. “Poor old fellow,” he said sympathetically. “Heart—is it, ma'am?”

“Gout,” Penelope answered. “No, Grandpapa, you really must not so excite yourself. It is more than kind of you to try to help, Mr.—er…”

“Tiele, ma'am. Silly name. T-i-e-l-e. No one ever knows how to spell it if they hear it said, nor how to pronounce it if they read it.” He grinned. “Cannot think how my papa was so foolish as to inherit it. I—ah, fancy your own name is less difficult, Miss…?”

“Montgomery,” she said, amused by such astute impertinence.

“And none of your affair,” roared Quentin, recovering his breath and lunging forward to snatch Penelope's hand away before the eager Mr. Tiele could grasp it. “Devil take you, you young jackanapes! Be off about your business! Drive on, coachman!”

He drew up the window and resumed his seat as the whip cracked, the horses leaned into their collars and the great coach rolled forward, leaving poor Mr. Tiele looking wistfully after it.

Penelope laughed merrily. “Unfortunate young man! You were something hard on him, Quentin!”

“Be damned if I know what the world is coming to,” he asserted with rather questionable justification but considerable indignation. “Fellow lays eyes on a pretty girl, and forgets whatever manners ever were bred into him!”

Penelope's betraying heart had given a happy leap. She asked hesitantly, “Am I—pretty, Quentin?”

“Don't be such a goose. 'Course you are. Likely a lot of men would find you downright—” He checked abruptly. “Gad, that fellow had a silly face! If I'd behaved in such a way at his age—”

“You!”
She gave a trill of mirth. “You
are
his age! And you've no room to criticize after the way you flirted with my aunt!”

He reddened and looked quickly away. “A different matter, entirely.”

“And perfectly justified,” she agreed warmly, laying her hand on his arm.

He smiled at her, covering her hand with his own and saying softly, “What a jolly good trooper you are, Penny. Always were. Most girls would likely have raised a very great fuss.”

“How could I do so,” said the ‘jolly good trooper,' “with you entering a monastery next week?”

He threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “Oh, faith! Do not remind me. Shall I ever forget Sybil's expression? Like a landed trout!”

Penelope joined in his mirth until he added breathlessly, “And your own face not far removed from it.”

“What a horrid thing to say! I'll own I was a trifle taken aback…”

He at once imitated her astonishment so exaggeratedly that she cried an indignant, “Oh! Wretched beast!”

He chuckled. “You named me so once or twice before, as I recall. At Lac Brillant.”

“What happy days they were,” she said with a sigh.

He glanced at her sharply. What a fool to have made her think of the good old days. “Speaking of names,” he said, “it is time for you to change yours, m'dear.”

“It is?” she said, suddenly short of breath.

“Aye. Unless we are to set the pack properly on our heels!”

The dream faded. Frightened, she asked, “You think they'll be after us, then?”

“I do, Penelope Anne. And it will set them on the right track at once if they discover Miss Montgomery now wears a pretty green gown.”

“Oh, heavens! Of course! I should not have given Mr. Tiele my true name! What a widgeon I am.”

“It's as well you realize it,” he teased, but her answering smile was wan. He went on cheerfully, “I pray you do not fall into a deep decline over one small error. When do you suppose your uncle will return to Highview?”

“I had feared … today, perhaps. They certainly have not recaptured you. And Uncle Joseph is a man who likes his creature comforts. I doubt he will stay from home much longer.”