Practice to Deceive (23 page)

“She'll never miss it,” Daffy said nonchalantly. “Twenty bottles of scent has my lady on her dressing table, and this one never used because she says it don't please ‘the gentlemen.' Roland Otton isn't no gentleman was you to ask me!”

“Oh—Daffy,” said Penelope, dismayed, but eyeing the little bottle longingly, “you could be transported!”

“Oooh!” Daffy snatched for her apron, discovered she was not wearing it, and faltered, “Well … well, I won't be. And—and they owe you a sight more than one teensy bottle of scent, miss.”

There was, Penelope decided, more truth than fiction in that remark, and she accepted the bottle gratefully. Applying the fragrance behind her ears, she asked, “What did you mean about the Corporal? Is he put about with Major Chandler? I had fancied we went on fairly well today.”

“Fairly well if we do not count the fact that the Major runs his neck into a noose.”

“But we all knew that, Daffy. I warned you this morning how great was the risk, and I'll own to be dragging you deeper into this danger has greatly troubled me.”

Busily pouring water into the washbowl, Daffy paused to smile fondly at her mistress. “Stuff, Miss Penny, there's little risk for me. All I've to do is say that the gentleman properly pulled the wool over my eyes—and yours for that matter. 'Tis for himself the Major challenges the odds—or so says Robert Killiam. Fair warned, he was, and would pay no heed. I thought me poor heart would stop when that horrid Major come marching up to our carriage. Did
ever
you see such eyes? Like icicles all froze over. I says to the Corporal, Corporal, says I—”

“What do you mean—warned?” interrupted Penelope, taking the soapy cloth Daffy offered and beginning to scrub her face.

“Why, Betty, o'course, miss,” said Daffy, ready with the towel.

Penelope straightened abruptly, peering at her. “Betty! I had so hoped to thank her before we left, but I daren't go down to the kitchen and call attention to her. I cannot think why she didn't identify herself to me when she came up to my chamber. Who is she, do you know?”

“I know as she's no kitchen maid, and that she's a true friend to all Jacobites—and that's all I know, miss. As to telling you who she was, p'raps she wasn't sure you was helping the Major—or p'raps 'tis a case of least said soonest mended lest either on ye should ever be questioned, may the Lord forbid! A right brave lass she is, though, and come to Highview hoping to get a message to Major Chandler. If I'd but known it. But she dassen't say anything, no more did I. She guessed, I s'pose, and she whispered to him yesterday that the road to London was fair bristling with troopers. So did Mr. Gordon. He sent word with Dutch Coachman how the Major was to keep away from Town like it was full of Plague, and go straight to Kent. Would he? No, he would not! Stuck out his chin, says Corporal Robert Killiam, as he does when he be set on something, and off we go, hell for leather—if you'll excuse so wicked of a expression—and never a fig for the consequences! Now—come and sit ye here by the mirror, Miss Penny. At long last Daffy's going to get her hands on your pretty hair and make it look lovely again. Oh, how I have wanted and waited to dress it proper for you.”

Penelope sat obediently before the dressing table as Daffy fastened her wrapper tightly about her throat, but she was worried and said in vexation, “Mr. Chandler went to all that trouble, and Betty took such fearful risks to warn the Major, and he would not
listen?
Good God! Is he totally irresponsible?”

“I'll allow as he's reckless,” said Daffy, busy with brush and comb. She giggled suddenly and removed three hairpins from her mouth. “But—lor', miss, he's a lovable scamp. When I think of how he played up to milady Tickle-Me—er, I mean—your poor uncle cuckolded by the very man what he's hunting so cruel.”

Penelope stiffened, the colour draining from her face, but Daffy, brushing out the thick hair, did not see and went on, “Oh, how I laughed! Me and the Corporal, we…” She chattered on, her voice a background for Penelope's distress.

It all made sense now. Sybil's adoring gaze when she and Quentin had returned from that overlong drive. The look of covert amusement on Killiam's face when his master had been restored to his care. What a fool she'd been! Worrying and fretting for fear Sybil was tiring him.
Tiring
him! Looking back, she could see again that odd look he'd slanted at her when they had walked together towards his bedchamber; a look of mingled guilt and mischief she now comprehended. Hot tears of rage and hurt scalded her eyes. A fine villain she'd chosen as the man of her heart! A man who could stand firm against persecution and suffering, but was not proof against the invitation in a pair of wanton eyes. To think of how
fearful
she'd been that interminable morning … terrified lest his weakness overwhelm him. And all the time he had been wooing Sybil, kissing Sybil, even— Her cheeks blazed. Major Quentin Chandler might be gallant and brave, but he cared not whose heart he trampled on, so long as his animal appetites were assuaged. It mattered nothing to him that
she
had risked everything to save him.
She
was the “sister he'd never had.” Little better than a piece of furniture, in point of fact, to be used and discarded without a flicker of remorse.

And so she sat there, lashing herself into a fury of hurt and disillusionment until she at length began to hear what Daffy was saying,

“… so stubborn as any two mules, or so says Corporal Robert Killiam, what is one as should know. It were the same when Mr. Gordon begged him not to follow the Bonnie Prince. Not that Charles bean't the most handsomest prince as ever was, and
that
charming, they do say. Turn your pretty head this way now, if you will.”

“Stubborn indeed,” muttered Penelope, scornfully. “To rush into a doomed Cause with never a thought for his loved ones.”

“Well, as to that,” said Daffy, about-facing, “Corporal Robert Killiam thinks the sun rises and sets in him, for all his wildness.”

“Nor is he the only one to be so gulled,” fumed Penelope. “My aunt thought the same, 'tis very evident.”

A slow smile came into Daffy's eyes. She demurred, “Why, I do not think as the Major—er, dallied with my lady willingly, miss. He—”

“He is a
man!
” flared Penelope, incensed. “And never tell me he did not enjoy every minute of it!”

Daffy closed her lips and finished her task in a meek silence while Penelope seethingly recalled every least flaw in the character of the late Sir John Macauley Somerville.

X

The Golden Goose was a popular posting house and, as Penelope descended the staircase prepared to deal harshly with one lascivious rake, she heard a rumble of conversation from the coffee room and saw blue smoke drifting across the parlour where Quentin waited. As usual, she thought, her lip curling, he played his part well, for he looked the picture of aristocratic stateliness politely enduring the bluff, red-faced individual who appeared to be a successful farmer.

“… and if they'd of had a stronger man leading 'em,” the gentleman expounded firmly, “the tale might've had a far different ending is what I says. Mighty different. But be that as it may, 'tis over now and no cause to slaughter the poor misguided idjits. And what d'ye have to say to that, Mr. Martin?”

“Each man to his own opinion, sir,” drawled Quentin.

“Ar. Well, them's mine. You axed fer 'em. And if they doan't suit, 'tis no one to be blamed but yerself.”

“Just so. Now, if you will excuse me, my niece should be coming—” He glanced up, saw Penelope standing on the stairs, and stood.

She continued downwards, remembering in the nick of time the bewildering stranger who had confronted her in the mirror just now, and contriving to walk with a provocative sway of her hooped skirts, fluttering her fan as Daffy had instructed.

Sir John's jaw was sagging. Oh, dear! It wasn't Sir John any more. She
must
try to remember all these various identities. Lud, but how he stared! She frowned at him, reminding herself that she had caps to pull with Major Quentin Chandler,
whatever
his name was at this moment!

Coming to the last step, she gave him her hand and said with flashing eyes but soft-voiced humility, “Dear Uncle—I hope I have not kept you waiting too long?”

“Ecod…” said Quentin, feebly. “What a'God's name have you done to yourself?”

She had gone to all this trouble! Daffy had gone to all this trouble! For the first time in years she looked halfway like a personable young lady, and all he could say was “What have you done to yourself?” The heartless wretch! One supposed he was attracted only by middle-aged harridans!

Her fan beginning to flutter at a more rapid rate, Penelope glanced at the farmer and found him goggling at her, his pale blue eyes starting out from his red face. Startled, she ventured a shy smile. The farmer dug his elbow into Quentin's ribs. “Arhumph!”

Quentin blinked at him. “Oh,” he muttered. “Ah—my niece, sir. Miss Martin—Mr. Johnson.”

The farmer bowed as low as his waistline would allow. “Delighted, ma'am. 'Tis no wonder your uncle awaited you with such impatience. No wonder at all, ma'am. Your uncle tells me you travel to Town. Are you fond of city life, Miss Martin?”

His eyes gleamed at her, and his red nose and cheeks looked bright and jolly. Penelope decided she liked his admiring smile and warm friendliness, and answered in her pleasant, unaffected way.

Her efforts succeeded in enchanting Mr. Johnson. Almost as much did they infuriate Mr. Martin. Fastening a crushing grip upon his niece's elbow, he snarled his farewells to the disappointed farmer, and Penelope's feet all but left the floor as she was wrenched towards the coffee room. “Do not
do
that!” he raged as they started into the crowded room. “If
ever
I saw so revolting a display!”

Indignant, she protested, “I was instructed, dear Uncle, to assume a new identity!”

“I did not mean
that
new!”

“You said people must not recognize me.”

“I'd meant people should not think you a lady in mourning—not that people should take you for an opera dancer!”

An
opera dancer!
Of all the crude, ungrateful, insulting— A waiter was bowing before them, his admiring eyes fastened upon her face. Penelope smiled brilliantly at him. The waiter, who had been about to offer a table near the kitchen door in hopes of a bribe to secure the last remaining fireside position, conveyed them at once to the latter table. He drew out Penelope's chair with a flourish and contrived to bend over it as he assisted her to draw it closer to the table. Straightening dreamily, his head swimming with the fragrance of Plaisir d'Amour, he encountered a glare from the old gentleman that congealed his blood. He fled to the kitchen.

“I am very sure,” Penelope hissed between her teeth, “that Daffy would not have allowed me to step out of our room had she fancied I looked unladylike.”

“Oh, you are, are you,” he retaliated with wrath if not originality. “Do you tell me it was that proper maiden who fastened that vulgar patch below your eye? By God, I wonder half the men in this room ain't gawking at us!”

He glanced around and determined to his increased choler that considerably
more
than half the men in the room were gawking at them. Or, to be more precise, at Penelope.

His niece, having arrived at the same conclusion, smiled triumphantly and retreated behind her fan. Several muffled exclamations were heard.

Quentin's exclamation was less muffled. “I've half a mind to make you go upstairs, miss, and wash your face!”

“The state of your mind does not surprise me. And I'll have you know, sir, that I am of age.”

“And I'll have
you
know, madam, that your father was a friend of mine, and what he would say to this— Ah, host. What have you to offer us? My niece has a somewhat finicking appetite which ain't improved by all these curst clods ogling her. In about another minute I shall have recourse to my horsewhip!”

Quentin's fierce glare swept the room, and there were a few titters, but mine host, trembling lest this ferocious old gentleman provoke violence in his dining room, murmured timidly that he was sure no one had meant to offend.

Her eyes very bright, Penelope fluttered her fan and looked anywhere but at her fuming ‘uncle.'

The roast beef Quentin ordered was excellent, but he proceeded to attack it as though it had been served up alive and must be slain as expeditiously as possible. Penelope picked her way daintily through the meal, very aware of the furtive but admiring glances that still came her way and pointedly ignoring Quentin's sporadic attempts at conversation.

His own ill humour having evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen, he lowered his voice and murmured with a beguiling grin, “Oh, come down out of the boughs do, Penelope Anne. I'd not the right to upset you, I'll admit. God knows, I owe you my life and will never forget it.”

“Your opinion of my appearance, dear sir,” she said coldly, “has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you feel indebted to me. Nor does it compel you to be civil, although I'll own I was upset to be named—vulgar!” And her eyes, which had thus far avoided his, darted to him with so flashing an anger that he blinked.

“Yes, that was very bad. But—I cannot like all this fluffing and flirting.”

“Flirting! With whom have I flirted, Major?”

“Uncle!” he hissed.

She was shocked into the realization that if she flirted, it was with death, and she stared at him, pale with dismay.

He winked. “No harm done. Do not look so gut-foundered.”