Practice to Deceive (27 page)

“
Most
pleasant, ma'am.” Duncan Tiele's blue eyes were warm as he bowed over her hand, but the look he threw at Quentin was less apprehensive than measuring. “We meet again, sir.”

“So I see,” drawled Quentin. “Might one ask whither you are bound, Mr. Tiele?”

The old gentleman, thought Tiele, was nothing if not direct. Amused, he replied, “If you mean—was I following you, sir—the answer is no. I was of a mind you'd be headed for London, whereas my own business takes me to Salisbury.”

“Does it?” said Quentin, dryly. “How fortunate.”

Tiele looked irked, and Penelope inserted a swift, “Yes, indeed, sir.” She turned her bright smile upon the hapless young man, having not the remotest idea of how totally she thus enslaved him. “We follow the same direction, for my un—grandpapa and I travel to—” The words trailed off as Quentin's hand closed sharply, but belatedly around her wrist.

Tiele had noted both the stumble over the relationship and that quick and powerful grip. “Is something wrong, ma'am?” he asked, his eyes, suddenly frigid, fixed upon Quentin's detaining hand.

“No, no,” Penelope said hurriedly.

In harsh opposition Quentin growled, “Yes, there is. The ‘wrong' thing is yourself, sir. I resent your trailing after Miss—Montgomery. She stands in no pressing need of—” He checked momentarily as an officer rode into the yard with two troopers behind him, then continued, “—of the attentions of a persistent pest! Good day to you, Mr. Tiele!” And he marched Penelope to the doorway where mine host waited eagerly.

He could, averred this rotund, merry little individual, show the lady to “a most hospitable chamber under the eaves, wiv a nice trundle bed for my lady's abigail. And there's a very fine room for yerself, milor', proper cosy-like, jest down the hall from yer pretty … er…”

“Niece!” snapped Quentin. “With whom I've caps to pull, so show us up at once, if you please.”

Mr. Duncan Tiele, having started off to greet an arriving friend, changed his mind and returned to the cosy lobby in time to hear the end of this final remark. Troubled, he noted that the old gentleman had not relaxed his grip on Miss Montgomery's arm, and that his ascent of the rather precipitous flight of stairs was surprisingly spry. He was frowning after them when he heard the host enquire, “And how long will you be with us, if I might be so bold as to ask, Mr. Martin?”

Sir John Macauley Somerville answered with curt impatience. “Only a few hours, host. We shall dine and then push on, for we've urgent business in Winchester.”

“Well … I'll be damned!” gasped Mr. Tiele.

“Never doubted it in the least,” said the officer, coming up beside him. “What's to do, Duncan?”

Tiele looked grim. “I think there's something unsavoury about that old devil, Jacob.”

Captain Jacob Holt was a broad-shouldered young man of no great stature. His powdered hair was austerely tied back with a thin black riband. His features were notable only for a dominant chin, a rather small mouth, and eyes of blue ice. His friends were few but his friendship, once given, was unwavering so long as it did not interfere with his career. He had met Duncan Tiele at Eton and, unlike that carefree individual, had worked hard at his studies, well aware of the sacrifices his family had made to ensure his education. But if his house might be impoverished, the Captain's ambitions were very grand indeed. A flame burned behind his cold exterior; the driving need to succeed, to become a power in the military world. He followed his dream relentlessly and already had made his mark in his chosen profession; and, as inevitably, had made enemies.

He glanced at the now empty stairs, then slipped a hand onto his friend's shoulder. “Were I you, old fellow, I'd stay well to the lee of that lovely creature. I saw her grandpapa, or whatever he is.”

“Whatever, indeed,” muttered Tiele grittily.

“What do you mean?”

Tiele hesitated. What he suspected was not something to be bruited about on so little evidence. Especially when a lady was involved. He shrugged, slapped Holt on the arm, and said ruefully, “Wishful thinking, likely enough. The old boy has warned me off in no uncertain terms.”

They turned into the well-patronized tap and sat together at a corner table. Holt called for two tankards of Kentish ale. “Going home, are you, Duncan?”

“No, matter of fact. I'm off to Salisbury to see my uncle before Brooks does.” He grinned. “You know him, I believe?”

Holt gave a rather brittle laugh. “Captain Brooks Lambert? The Adonis of St. James's? Jove, but I know him. And does
he
know you're bound to Salisbury, he'll get there before you if he has to desert to do it.”

“I fancy he's not
that
desperate. But enough of me and my deplorable cousin. Why are you in these sylvan solitudes? Change of station? Or just rebel hunting?”

Something about the tone of voice sent Holt's eyes slanting to him unsmilingly. “You dislike the occupation?”

For a moment Tiele did not answer. Then he said with quiet candour, “Yes. Do you?”

“They sought to overthrow the crown. The price comes high. As it should.”

Tiele said
sotto voce,
“But—only look at who
wears
the crown, Jake.”

“Guard your tongue, for God's sake!”

Glancing around the dim room, Tiele distinguished several red coats. He said musingly, “Cannot recall when I've seen so concentrated a hunt. What is it, old boy? Are there fears of another Uprising?”

“Your word, Tiele?” This being at once given, Holt said very softly, “We're after a small group. Four—perhaps six men at most. Each carrying parts of a cypher.”

“What about? Where do they take it? And for Lord's sake—why? The Rebellion was crushed, the Cause lost. What could be so important as to justify such desperation?”

Again, Holt's keen stare raked the room. Speaking barely above a whisper, he leaned closer. “A king's ransom in gold, silver, and jewels. More than enough to finance another Uprising. At least—to start things going.”

Tiele whistled soundlessly. “Jove! Don't blame you, dear old boy. Only say the word, and I'm with you. Always fancied a treasure hunt, and how satisfying it would be to spend one's spare moments counting out ‘a king's ransom.' Let us hie forth and become corrupted with wealth!”

“Idiot,” said Holt, his stern face lit by a rare grin.

“Tell me more. Whence came this king's ransom? Jacobite contributors?”

Holt nodded. “Charles Stuart called for it, hoping to run the blockade and hire mercenaries on the Continent. A list was kept of contributors and each donor was promised lands or recompense when their war was won.”

“'Sdeath! You seek the
list?
”

Holt nodded once more. “They're traitors all, who've spun their webs and written their own doom. And what the devil do you scowl at?”

Drawing back, Tiele said an austere, “I think it damnable. The treasure's one thing. Every man for himself, there. But—to destroy a man's family, to confiscate home and lands—”

“And heads,” the Captain put in with grim emphasis.

“—and all for a Cause lost this three months? That rankles with—”

The Captain made a sharp, warning gesture, and Tiele was silent as the waiter came up and set out two brimming tankards. Holt raised his in salute. Tiele stared at him for a moment, then grinned and returned the salute, and both men drank thirstily.

Tiele asked, “Is that why you've been in Berkshire? Hunting these poor devils?”

Staring into his tankard, Holt asked without inflection, “How did you know I was in Berkshire?”

“Someone chanced to mention they'd seen you. I can't recall— Yes, I can! It was Trevelyan de Villars.”

“Was it?” His expression bland, the Captain murmured, “Are you well acquainted with the gentleman?”

“Good Gad, Jake! Treve ain't a gentleman! Women, cards, duelling—dreadful rascal!”

“But you like this—ah, rascal?”

“Yes. He's rather hard to get to know, but really he's the best kind of man. His uncle's a close friend of my sire. Lord Boudreaux. Bit of a stately old fellow. Not like—” Tiele's amiability faded. “You ever hear of a fellow called Sir John Macauley Somerville?”

The Captain considered the question in his unhurried, meticulous way. “No. I've never heard the name. Why?”

“Nothing important. I'd like to know more of the fellow, is all.”

There was a short silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. The Captain stirred at length, took up his gauntlets and whip and said that he must be about his business. “I'll likely return later. Do you plan to overnight here, Duncan? If so, I'll take dinner with you.”

Tiele, who was hoping to see a charmingly unaffected girl with the most speaking hazel eyes he'd ever encountered, evaded awkwardly, saying that he was undecided. “But if I should stay, why, I'll be glad to join you.”

They walked outside together. In the yard, the Captain hesitated, then said reluctantly, “One thing, Duncan. It's none of my bread and butter, of course, but—take my advice. Do not cultivate the acquaintance of de Villars. Nor his uncle, for that matter.”

Astonished, Tiele expostulated, “The devil! Why not?”

With a faint twitch of the lips, the Captain murmured, “They say—if a man lies down with dogs, he gets up with fleas.” He clapped his stunned friend on the shoulder. “Take care, old fellow. I'd not care to be obliged to haul
you
to the Tower!” And he stepped back, tossed a small salute, and strode away, shouting for his orderly.

Tiele, his eyes very troubled, watched Holt's erect figure disappear into the stables, then he turned back to the inn. Wandering to the stairs, deep in thought, he muttered, “De Villars … by Jupiter!”

*   *   *

“I fail to see why you are so very put about,” said Penelope, as Quentin followed her inside and closed the bedchamber door. “And really, Uncle,” she added severely, “it is not proper for you to come in here!”

“Habit,” he said, accepting the cloak she handed him. Penelope seated herself at the dressing table and began to tidy her windblown hair. He watched the graceful way she had with her hands. She had lovely hands. And it really was incredible how those high-piled powdered curls became the chit. During those first rather ghastly days at Highview, she'd seemed a combination of angel of mercy and a modern Jeanne d'Arc. More than ever then, he'd realized— He pulled himself together and tossed the cloak onto the four-poster bed. “You know very well why I'm provoked,” he fumed. “To see that blasted chawbacon panting at your heels is downright disgusting.”

“Do you find it so?” Still awed by the poised lady in the mirror, Penelope pinched her cheeks.

“What the deuce you doing that for?”

“I forget you have no real sisters, poor soul.” She smiled at him kindly. “It is to put some colour into my poor face.”

He sat on the bed and, not rising to the bait, grunted, “The only
poor
thing hereabouts is that thimblewit, Tiele. I fancy you're primping so as to go down and further captivate the fellow at dinner?” Penelope returning nothing more than a saintly smile, he went on, “You may be assured 'tis the last you'll see of the young mushroom, for so soon as you are rested, we drive to Hampstead.”

“I am far more rested at this moment, dear Uncle, than are you. Only look at yourself and stop being so silly.”

Stunned by this rank insurrection, he glanced into the mirror. A haggard-faced old gentleman looked back at him. “Well, what d'you expect? With all this curst paint on my skin, I vow I'm drying up.”

“Oh, yes. I'd noticed you were a bit crusty.”

He grinned at that, then jerked to his feet, startled, as the door swung open.

Daffy came in, followed by Killiam, who carried the bird cage and a large valise. “Praise be, we've come this far safely, miss,” said Daffy, betraying not the least surprise at discovering Quentin in her mistress's bedchamber. She took the bird cage and set it on a table. “You'll be wanting to change for dinner, so I've brought a pretty gown up.”

“Then you wasted your time,” growled Quentin. “We do not overnight here, Daffy. So soon as you ladies have refreshed yourselves we will take dinner and turn about for London.”

The Corporal regarded him glumly.

Daffy, busied with restoring light to Jasper's world, exclaimed, “Oh, no! Miss—we must not!”

“If you are concerned about my reputation, sir,” said Penelope, rising and turning to Quentin, “pray remember I travel with my uncle and my maid, and am not likely to be reproached.”

He threw out one hand and said in vexation, “Be reasonable, Penny. Just give me one—”

He received considerably more than one. Jasper, profoundly annoyed, had been squawking from the moment of his arrival, and now that he was once more reprieved from his darkened little world, went into his full war dance. Scratching as vehemently as he shrilled, he sent debris flying in all directions. Quentin's hand, palm up, received a generous donation. He gave an exclamation of revulsion and threw it back at the screaming bird. “Damn your beak and feathers!”

“Poor little creature,” said Penelope, secretly glad of this diversion. “Do not vent your wrath on him, Uncle Martin. Only look how you have terrified him.”

Since Jasper was screeching at the top of his small but powerful lungs, his tiny legs fairly flying, and his beady eyes fixed wrathfully on the ‘old gentleman,' this latter statement was debatable.

The Corporal intervened. “Dutch Coachman begs a immedjit word with you, Major. He's waiting in the stables.”

“Why in the deuce couldn't the block come up?” snarled Quentin, wiping his sullied hand.