Practice to Deceive (22 page)

“Hmmmnn. Still—you are not positive, wherefore we may have as much as two days' head start. And at that, it could be another week before they guess who Sir John MacTavish Somerville really was!”

“I wish
you
might guess! You are
Macauley
—not MacTavish!”

“I hesitate to contradict a lady, but I think the poor gentleman is gone to his reward.” He bowed as elaborately as the swaying carriage would allow. “Permit me to present m'self, dear lady. Mr. Martin, at your service.”

Penelope put one slim finger beneath her chin and ducked her head. “And I am Miss Anne Martin.”

“My grand-daughter?”

She appraised him thoughtfully. “You do not really look very much like a great-uncle, or a grandpapa. Perhaps you should merely be my uncle.”

Illogically pleased by this, he hesitated. “There'd have to be quite a spread in our family. You don't look a day over five and twenty.”

“Five—and—twenty!”
Her eyes flashing indignation, she saw his covert grin. “Oh—wicked boy! Are you never serious?”

“Never.”

She started to scold him, half seriously, half in amusement. Leaning back against the squabs, Quentin closed his eyes and smiled good-humouredly. But he was thinking that they would be fortunate indeed if Lord Joseph and that bastard Otton did not return until tomorrow, and even more fortunate if Sir John Macauley Somerville was not very soon identified as the rebel fugitive. The hunt would be on then, with a vengeance, and likely the reward on his head doubled, since they'd think he had deceived this innocent girl and run off with her as hostage. An unhappy prospect. Of one thing he must make very sure. Penelope Anne must be safely deposited with her Aunt Mary long before the hue and cry came thundering at his heels.

*   *   *

The skies darkened in late morning, and they approached old Oxford town through a light rain. Quentin had fallen asleep, and Penelope was looking out of the window, still enchanted by the constantly changing scene and wondering if she had ever been so happy. It was a happiness inspired by other things than her release from the dreary drudgery of her life at Highview, she realized as she turned to the man beside her.

Asleep, the humorous quirk was gone from his lips, and his mouth drooped wearily. Many of the lines in his face and the excessive pallor had been applied, of course, but he looked defenceless and vulnerable, and her heart twisted. She leaned to tuck away a curling lock of auburn hair that had escaped from under his wig. An unexpected sound caused her hand to jerk back, and she stared in stunned disbelief at the finely chiselled parted lips of her beloved. She had, it would seem, maligned poor Robert Killiam unjustly, for there could be no doubt now that the snores that had so disturbed her slumbers had not been uttered by the Corporal, but by Quentin. Incredulous, she watched him, then drew back with a little chuckle. Whoever would have thought that such a figure of romance could be so unromantical as to snore?

A sharp rapping on the roof sent her gaze flashing to the window. A mail coach was pulled off to the side of the road ahead, several soldiers standing in the rain, arguing with the irate coachman and some flustered-looking passengers. Their own coach slowed and came to a stop. Dutch Coachman shouted a vexed, “What's to do, my cove?” and was answered by an officious, “Never you mind. Pull to the side!” Dutch grumbled a response. The carriage lurched forward again and wheeled to the side of the road.

Quentin was still noisily asleep. Penelope reached out to alert him, then paused. Those snores seemed to enhance the image of an older man. She straightened his wig carefully and tucked away a few more betraying strands of his bright hair, then composed herself to wait, rehearsing what she must say to these soldiers.

Her pulse began to race as the door was swung open and a tall, cold-eyed officer ran a frigid glance around the interior. His dark gaze lingered on Quentin's sprawled figure for a few seconds, then he turned his attention to Penelope, saluting her with chill politeness.

“Oh, Colonel,” she cried in a nervous voice, “whatever is it? My uncle and I are in a very great hurry to reach Town, on an urgent family matter. Whyever must you stop us?”

“For nothing that need worry you, I suspect, ma'am,” he replied, his tone as cold as those hard, dark eyes. “Nor am I a Colonel. As yet. Though I thank you for the promotion.”

Penelope smiled. She had a frank and winning smile, and the officer's expression warmed a little. “Major…?” she said, looking uncertainly at his epaulettes.

“Major it is, ma'am. Fotheringay. Mariner Fotheringay.”

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, before she could stop herself.

He laughed outright, and Quentin stirred, mumbled incoherently and was still again.

“Dreadful, I know,” said the Major, unknowingly becoming the second man that day to apologize to her because of a disliked name.

“Well, it may be a trial to you now,” she said. “But only think—when you are famous, everyone will find General Mariner Fotheringay a splendidly high-sounding name.”

This cold hunter was not, it seemed, proof against flattery. Grinning broadly, he thanked her, enquired as to her identity, whither in Town they were bound, and from whence they had come, then glanced at Quentin as another cacophonous snore rent the air.

Awed, he said, “Good Gad! Your uncle is a prodigious explosive sleeper, Miss Martin.”

“And with an even more explosive disposition, Major. Would you wish that I wake him?”

He hesitated. “Has he slept the entire time, ma'am, I fancy you can answer my questions well enough. We seek an escaped Jacobite. A very desperate rogue who would cut your lovely throat as soon as look at you.” Being interrupted by a violent and prolonged outburst, he was obliged to pause, and then went on in a softer voice, “Have you noted anything suspicious along your way? A beggar or tramp, perhaps. Tall, thin, aged about thirty or thirty-five. Reddish hair and likely in very poor condition.”

Penelope's hands were icy cold. She knit her brows and said thoughtfully, “We did pass some men skulking along in the ditch about five or ten miles back. But—although I recollect that one was quite tall and thin, I could not vouch for the colour of his hair, for he wore a hat.”

“About five or ten miles back, you say?” His eyes narrowed. “That would be just this side of Blenheim, if you have kept to this road?”

She said they had. The Major stepped back and closed the door, calling to her as she opened the window, “I'd caution you against stopping if any man begs for food, ma'am. We know our rebel came southwards, and we're warned he may now head east for Town and try to lose himself there. Have a care, Miss Martin, and a safe journey to you.”

His eyes quite friendly, he waved the coach on, saluted again, and was lost to sight as the vehicle creaked and swayed and rumbled forward.

Limp with relief, Penelope glanced at Quentin. He was watching her, looking disgruntled.

“Five and thirty, eh?” he grumbled. “Now damn his eyes.”

“So you were not asleep.”

“I was until I awoke to find I was betrayed by my undisciplined nose.” He grinned wryly. “You should have woken me, Penelope Anne.”

“Your noisy slumbers seemed to verify your extreme age, dear sir,” she said with a rather tremulous smile.

“Wretched girl! I've been plagued thus since a villain broke my nose for me a year or so ago.” He was silent for a moment. “A fine cutthroat they paint me.…”

His lips were tight, an unfamiliar bitterness in his eyes.

Penelope said soothingly, “Naturally enough, they seek to frighten people into giving you away.”

“How well I know it. Next time we're stopped we must endeavour to discover how much this empty head of mine is now worth. The more valuable it becomes, the more hazardous our journey.”

Penelope pressed his hand. “Do not speak so, I beg. In only a few more days you will be safely at Lac Brillant, and—”

“Lac Brillant! God forbid! You never think I mean to go
there?
”

Bewildered, she said, “But surely your brother and your father will be—”

“My
father?
” He laughed rather wildly. “I thought you knew— No, of course, how could you? The dear old fellow is far from well. The shock would not help his health, you may be sure.”

“Good heavens! Do you say he doesn't know you fought for Prince Charles?”

“I say precisely that. Nor, I pray, will he ever know. Frail he may be, but—he'd have my liver out!”

“How on earth did you keep it from him?”

“I fought under another name. My brother knew, of course. Gordon and I keep few secrets from each other. But my father … Jupiter! I shudder to think of his reaction did he learn what would be to him of all things most repugnant. He is fiercely loyal to the crown.” He said with a cynical laugh, “No matter how unfit the man who wears it.”

Penelope's thoughts drifted to her brother and his firm convictions of the unwisdom of the Scots Prince. What would Geoff think of her alliance with this man who might have faced him on the field of battle? Who might even— She thrust away that hideous conjecture. Geoff had been deeply fond of Quentin. However he may have despised the Jacobite cause, he would certainly have raged against the present savage persecution of the survivors.

The carriage rolled steadily on through the rainy afternoon. The wheels sang a sharper song as they rattled over a bridge. They were following the Cherwell, the countryside rich and green, and cottages and farmhouses becoming more numerous. Penelope was absently aware of thatched roofs, whitewashed walls and neat gardens; of the distant loom of the graceful spires of the venerable city. She turned troubled eyes to Quentin. He was looking out of the window also, his face stern.

She asked gently, “Where do you mean to go?”

His bright grin flashed at her. “To London Town,” he answered. “To deposit you in the loving arms of your Aunt Mary.”

“And—then?”

“First, to deliver my message. After that—elsewhere. Now, never look so anxious, dear girl. I've friends who will help me to take ship, since, however I may love her, old England, it would seem, can do without me.”

His smile was unwavering, but she sensed the desolation behind the cheerful words, and she put her hand on his arm sympathetically. He stared down at her hand in silence. “Have you funds?” she asked.

“My brother will provide some—along the way. But how very kind of you to enquire, Penelope Anne.”

“Will he bring sufficient? I have—” She thought of Mama's pearls with a pang, but went on resolutely, “I can help a little.”

The thick white brows lifted haughtily, the proud chin tossed upwards, seeing which, she added a hurried, “Just a loan, you understand. I shall expect to be repaid—with interest.”

He chuckled, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Truly, I am fortunate in those—in my friends. But Gordon sent a very full purse along with the Flying Dutchman, and I shall manage very well, I assure you. Now—what of this niece of mine? Shall your Aunt Mary be willing to house you on an indefinite basis? Will she stand up to your uncle should he demand that you return to Highview?”

The thought of pale, shy little Aunt Mary standing up to anyone was laughable. And her son, cousin Donald, was a fine figure of a man but—as Geoff had been used to remark—all show and no go. Uncle Joseph would only have to bellow at him once, and Donald would suddenly recall an urgent matter of business and take himself off, leaving the women to handle things as best they might.

Some of these thoughts must have shown in her face, because Quentin tightened his hold on her hand and asked, “
Will
he compel you to go back?”

She replied slowly, “He wants me to marry Roland Otton.”

“As if you would!” He laughed. “Much chance that greedy hound has with you. I'd sooner— Oh, damme! Not again?”

There was a barricade across the road ahead, and once more they were stopped and the carriage searched, although this time the sergeant in charge of the troopers was of a different mold to Major Mariner Fotheringay and recoiled from the wrath of ‘Mr. Martin.'

Resuming their journey at last, they did not stop again until they reached High Wycombe, where Quentin decided to rest the horses and take luncheon. Dutch Coachman pulled in to the yard of a pleasant inn called The Golden Goose, and they were at once surrounded by shouting ostlers. The host, a small, slightly built, nervous individual, welcomed them excessively, his delight increasing when he saw the second carriage turn into his yard. Penelope was shown to a cosy little bedchamber and Daffy hurried upstairs after her, bringing Jasper, who was, she declared, frightened out of his feathery little wits. No sooner were his covers removed, however, than the canary let out a shrilling flood of sound that could only be interpreted as rage, and proceeded to rush madly about his cage, flapping his wings and pausing frequently to scratch with much vigour so that birdseed and etcetera flew in all directions.

The two girls looked at each other and broke into a laugh.

“He is really vexed with us,” said Penelope.

“Ar, miss. Well,” said Daffy, going to the door to accept a large travelling bag from a maid and deposit it on the bed, “if we be getting a fine scold from little Jasper, you may be sure the Major's getting a finer one from Corporal Robert Killiam. Shall you wish to change your gown?”

“I think not.” Penelope sighed. “I only wish I had some nice scent to wear.”

“Never you fret about that, Miss Penny.” From a rolled towel tucked carefully into a corner of the bag, Daffy produced a silver-chased little bottle and flourished it triumphantly.

“Plaisir d'Amour!” gasped Penelope. “My heavens! That is Lady Sybil's!”