Practice to Deceive (26 page)

Sybil tensed and bit her lip.

Lord Joseph exclaimed, “Yes, by God! Where is the chit, Sybil? Have her in here at once. She knew Chandler, so she said. She may be of some use for once.”

“You do not ask how I have been managing, all alone here, while you were gone,” she evaded, pouting.

Joseph looked at her. She flirted her fan, her eyes provocative, and he chuckled. “Madam witchery! Very well, then. How did you manage? Not much for you to do, poor gel. Egad, but I'll be pleased when this blasted mourning period is done! How much longer is it?”

“Three months, officially. But, 'twas none so bad, Joseph. I'd company. However decrepit.”

“Old Lady Burrows, was it? Shouldn't call her decrepit, m'dear, though I'll own—”

“
Not
Lady Burrows,” Sybil interposed with an arch air of mystery. “A relation of yours, my love. Somewhat distant, 'tis true, but—”

“Good God! Who's come fuzzing around you whilst I was away? From what I know of the distant lot it was likely cousin Amos—a Jeremy Diddler if ever I saw one! I hope you were not gulled into—”

“Good gracious, my lord! Whatever are you talking about?” Sybil put down her wine glass and imparted, “It was Sir John Macauley Somerville. A most splendid gentleman and one you might well be proud to have in the family.”

“Somerville…?” murmured Otton. “Don't recall your mentioning his name, sir.”

“No more do I. Sure you ain't bosky, Syb? Ain't been on the tipple while I was beating the countryside for that damned gallows bait, have you?”

“I do not ‘tipple!'” she repudiated with magnificent indignation.

“And you
did
say … Macauley Somerville?” said Otton thoughtfully. “From whence came he, ma'am?”

Ignoring him, Lady Sybil said, “I doubt you've heard of him for years. His mother was some kind of aunt-in-law, and his brother is Sir Andrew Somerville. You surely know of
him!
”

“Why, I—er … I may have heard the name,” said his lordship cautiously. “Cannot remember every dirty dish in your family, m'dear.”

“Oh, do
pray
attend me, my lord! I refer to your poor brother's wife, Lady Margaret.”

Her life's companion lowered his laden fork and stared at her. “Margaret, you say? She was a
Halsted!
”

Captain Otton inserted curiously, “What like was this—‘splendid gentleman,' my lady? You said … decrepit, I believe.”

“I know all Margaret's kinfolk,” muttered my lord, scowling. “Be damned if they include a Macauley Somerville. What's he look like?”

Exasperated, but by now uneasy, Sybil replied, “He is elderly and a trifle feeble, but—not, er, wholly infirm. And a very well-bred type of man. As to looks, he was—”

“Short and fat, with a Friday face, gravestones for teeth, and half-blind so he could not appreciate your looks, I'll warrant,” said Otton with a chuckle.

Angered, she fell into his trap. “To the contrary, Captain! He was a fine-looking old gentleman, tall and slender with white teeth, a gentle, mannerly voice, and extraordinarily vivid green eyes that—”

“Green eyes?”
Otton's chair went over with a crash. “Chandler!” he cried, leaping up and driving a fist into his palm. “
Chandler,
by thunder! Cavorting about here whilst we scoured the countryside for him!”

Shrinking back, one hand going to her throat, Sybil gasped, “You—you're mad! 'Twas an
old
man, I tell you!”

“He's gammoning you, Sybil,” said his lordship, grinning broadly. “Can't you see it? Chandler, indeed. That's a good one! The man was all but a corpse!”

“How came he here?” demanded Otton, his jaw grimly set as he turned on Sybil. “Did you see him arrive?”

“Yes! I went out onto the terrace, for I heard a vehicle and thought you might have returned and could not wait for the servants to tell me. Penelope was just helping him into the carriage when—”

“Helping him
in?
” said Lord Joseph sharply. “You mean he was
leaving?
”

“Yes— No! That is— He had come thinking to find my late brother-in-law, and when Penelope told him that Hector was dead, Sir John would not stay.”

“Only you persuaded him, eh, ma'am?” sneered Otton. “Had he papers? Identification? Calling cards, at least?”

Sybil's fear was intensifying. A hundred little details rose up to plague her, not the least of which was the old gentleman's lovemaking prowess. “Since … since when do we demand identification when … when relations come to call?” she demanded threadily.

“By Jupiter, I begin to think Otton has something here,” cried Lord Joseph, flinging down his knife and fork. “Are you gone daft, madam? To let in any Tom, Dick, or Harry, just because they claim kinship?”

“But P-Penelope … knew him! And—and he
was
old. Besides, do you think I did not get a look at poor Chandler? Sir John showed no signs of having been beaten. His face was lined, his hair and eyebrows white, and—”

“Cosmetics and a wig,” rasped Otton.

Shaken by the memory of Sir John's heavy use of paint, Sybil argued desperately, “No! I tell you—
no!
You said yourself Chandler could not even stand. Sir John was somewhat shaky upon his feet, true, but no more a wounded man than—” And she checked abruptly, one hand flying to her mouth.

“Speak up, blast it all,” roared her lord.

Thoroughly terrified now, she yet retained a strong instinct for self-preservation and chose her words with care. “I do remember that there was—one incident. We were walking in—in the shrubbery and … I tripped over a flagstone. Sir John caught me, and just for a second looked—as though anguished. But he had gout, so Penelope said, and I thought it natural enough. Oh—it
cannot
be!” She turned to her husband, her hands outstretched pleadingly. “I have my faults, my lord—I'll not deny. But I am not a foolish woman. In truth, I am not.”

Tears glittered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and she was very beautiful. For all his bombast and bluster, my lord was deeply fond of her. “Oh, pish,” he said with a gesture of impatience. “We make a lot of nothing, Otton. Let be. Sybil's no maggot-wit.”

“I grant that,” said Otton. “But—Miss Montgomery knew this Sir John Somerville, you said, ma'am?”

“Yes, yes. It never occurred to me to doubt him because she vouched for him. In fact, when I questioned her about him later, she said there had long ago been some scandal involving Sir John. It must have been shocking, for her papa would never speak of it.”

Outraged, my lord shouted, “Fustian! Wasn't no breath of scandal
ever
touched Margaret's family. Heaven help us, her grandpapa was so strait-laced, he'd have strangled anyone so much as breathed the word!”

“How much—ah, later was it that you questioned Miss Montgomery?” enquired Otton.

“Lud—I don't recall.” Sybil fluttered her fan distractedly. “A day or two, perhaps.”

“A
day
or two? When precisely did he arrive?”

“Oh, my heavens! Let me see … I have it! 'Twas the evening of my dinner party. Tuesday. And I—”

“Dinner party?”
howled my lord, dragging his bulk from the protesting chair and glaring at his wife. “You had a
dinner party?
Are you all about in your head? We're in
mourning,
woman! You said yourself we've—”

“Never mind about that!” His eyes ablaze, Otton intervened curtly, “If I'm right, Montgomery, we've been gulled by as neat a Canterbury trick as ever I heard!”

Annoyed at being addressed in such a way, Lord Joseph was half-inclined to give Otton a sharp setdown, but greed got the better of his pride. “I do not see it,” he grumbled. “If Chandler
was
somehow able to escape, why the deuce would he come back here?”

“I always wondered how he managed to get out of that damned window,” muttered Otton.

“Well, he did,” said my lord emphatically. “He certainly wasn't
in
the room, dammitall! And the door was locked.”

Scowling, Otton turned to the trembling Sybil and demanded, “Did anything else happen that struck you as odd? Was Miss Montgomery suddenly inspired to clean attics or basements? Were any large amounts of food used?”

“No. Nothing like that. My niece was quite ill, in fact. She took a dreadful cold and was confined to her room.”

“Ah-h-h…” breathed Otton. “And her food carried up to her on trays, no doubt!” His eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

“Her abigail, of course. That wretched Saffy.”

“That's how they did it, then!” Otton rounded on his lordship. “Do you not see? Chandler
never left
here! He was carried out of your study while we ate that night and hidden in some other part of the house!”

“But—they would've been
seen!
And I tell you, I locked the damned door!”

“Devil take it, who knows how they managed it? Somehow, they
did!
We have been gulled, I tell you! Thoroughly, damnably gulled!” He turned to the tearful Sybil. “What manner of clothing did this alleged old gentleman wear?”

“M-most elegant,” whimpered Sybil. “A trifle out of the c-current vogue, perhaps, but fine velvets, satins, and laces most costly.”

“Not mine, then,” he muttered. “Chandler's taller, I fancy, by half a head, and skin and bone. My clothes would not suit. Though my shoes did, evidently!”

“He certainly couldn't have worn mine,” said my lord.

“There are some of your—your late brother's trunks in the attic,” ventured Sybil.

“Then
that's
where they shopped,” said Otton. “Lord Hector was—” He paused as the door opened. The servants had been instructed to leave them alone, and he scowled as his lordship's man crept in.

“Your pardon, my lady,” said this scrawny individual, distraught. “My lord—I am desolated, but—we have had thieves in the house, I do swear! Your lordship's new cloak that was but delivered last month, and a pair of your boots, Captain, have—”

Joseph's pained yowl was heard in the kitchens, and his valet, a nervous man, fled.

As the door closed, Otton said grimly, “We've enough now to confront her.” He started towards the bell pull. “Let's have Miss Montgomery in here, sir.”

“No…” said Sybil, faintly.

Two enraged countenances turned to her.

“She is … gone!” she wailed, and burst into tears.

*   *   *

Quentin stretched, yawned, glanced out of the window, and sat up abruptly. The bustling streets and tall houses did not resemble the pleasant, rambling little hillside village of Hampstead. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “Have we passed it, then?”

“Passed what, sir?” asked Penelope, innocently.

“Where the deuce are we? And what time is it?”

She regarded him calmly and said a tranquil, “It is nigh six o'clock, and we are on the outskirts of Reading.”

“
Reading?
Has Dutch lost his wits?” He grabbed for the check string, but Penelope moved as fast to intercept his hand.

“No, sir. He is responding very dutifully to my orders.”

His brows pulled into a dark bar across the bridge of his nose. “You told him to change direction? Now—blast it all, Penny—”

“Your brother also instructed him to do so.”

He removed her fingers and, mouth grim, reached again for the check string. “That's soon remedied. We shall turn about.”

He was again thwarted. The carriage was already stopping, for they had pulled into the yard of a large posting house and ostlers were running to unharness the horses. “Very well, ma'am,” he said angrily. “We shall change teams,
then
return to Town! By God!” he exclaimed with a sudden and unexpected grin, “one can appreciate why my coachman chose this place!”

Following his gaze Penelope saw the sign that swung gently on its iron bracket. A fine four-masted merchantman ploughed through foam-crested billows, the name emblazoned upon her bow reading
The Flying Dutchman.

“You see,” Penelope cried triumphantly. “'Tis an omen, Quentin!”

“Let us hope it is a good one.”

The main building was an Elizabethan sprawl. Latticed windows sparkled in the pale sunshine of late afternoon. Hollyhocks bloomed in stately splendour around the heavy oak doors, and the air was fragrant with the scents of flowers and hay and horses, all pervaded by the appetizing aroma of dinner cooking.

“I am very wearied and—quite famished, dear Uncle,” said Penelope, sighing, as Quentin led her towards the door.

His grip on her arm tightened. Dutch Coachman, a broad grin on his weathered face, clambered down the far side of the box.

“You little wretch,” growled Quentin. “You think to turn me aside, but—”

“I think,” Penelope answered meekly, “that we have not once been stopped by patrols since we turned westward, is that what you mean?”

“No, it is not. I do assure you that I mean to have you safe in Hampstead by nightfall!”

Irritated, she cried, “
Why
must you be so ridiculously stubborn? If you persist, I warn you I will—”

Laughter, seldom far from his eyes, banished his vexation with her. “Do what, wicked wench?” he asked softly. “Enchant the nearest gallant and— Oh, my God!”

“I give you good even, Miss Montgomery, Sir John,” called a vaguely familiar voice.

“How providential for you, niece,” muttered Quentin.

“Mr. Stee—er, Tiele,” cried Penelope. “How pleasant to encounter you again.”