Practice to Deceive (46 page)
Read Practice to Deceive Online
Authors: Patricia Veryan
They were passing a little north of Woodchurch and almost home when they were stopped again. This time, the Sergeant was a pompous, authoritative individual with a florid complexion, beady brown eyes, and a loud bray of a voice.
Sick with dread, Penelope heard him question de Villars and Albritton and shout down their indignation at the suggestion that the coffin be opened. She clutched Gordon's arm. He said in a clipped voice, “Time for you to put in an appearance, m'dear. Can you deal with this block, d'ye think?”
“I will ⦠I must!”
By the time she and Gordon came up, the troopers had already opened the hearse door and were lowering the coffin to the ground. She uttered a genuine shriek. “What are you doing to my poor husband?”
De Villars put in quickly, “I warned 'em, dear lady. Wouldn't believe me. So be it. You stand well away, for your own sake.”
The troopers moved back uneasily. The Sergeant said with his loud laugh, “Aye, we've heard that tale afore! We be sound, sturdy men, we be. Not afeared o' no pox. Open the lid, you chaps, and quick about it!”
“You
cannot!
” wailed Penelope, desperate. “Ohhâit is
sacrilege!
”
Again, the troopers hesitated, eyeing their leader with marked trepidation. The Sergeant, dismounting to stand beside the widow, bellowed, “Open, I say! The poor gent will not object, be he really dead.”
The lid was swung open. If Quentin was breathing it was not apparent. He looked ghastly, his features waxy and so pallid he seemed a corpse. With a little moan Penelope swooned into the Sergeant's unready arms.
“Unhand her, you savage brute,” roared Gordon, appropriating Penelope's convincingly limp form.
Relinquishing his burden nervously, the Sergeant yelped, “I never meant nothing. I never doneâ”
“I'll have your stripes for this, damme if I don't,” de Villars put in with enthusiastic ire. “You're all witnesses, you men, of how this beastly clod brutalized and assaulted this poor grieving widow!”
Well aware that one or two of his underlings might have old scores to settle, the Sergeant protested, “I didn't do no such thing. I was just a'doing of me duty.” At this point his eyes alighted again upon the corpse and he gave a bellow of triumph. “
Dead,
is he? Stap me if ever I see a cadaver sweat like a ox! Only look at himâfair wringing wet, he be!”
Gordon, fanning Penelope, whitened.
The irrepressible de Villars nodded solemnly. “Death dew,” he declared.
Charles Albritton, still mounted and preparing for desperate action, jerked his head around to direct an incredulous stare at his resourceful friend.
“Death dew?” echoed the Sergeant, sneering. “What the hell's that? And how be I never heard of't?”
“I am a mortician,” said de Villars. “I doubt you've dealt with as many corpses as have I. It's the natural condensation in the body, especially on a warm day, d'ye see, when the cadaver's been shut up in a closed box.” Warming to his theme, he added ghoulishly, “Lord, man, I've seen the death dew spray up like a fountain when a lid was raised.” He reined his horse a few paces away. “They do say it clears the germs from the cadaver and that they transfer to the nearest warm body. I'd move the lady back, was I you, Mr. Gordon.”
The troopers leapt clear, as one man. The Sergeant, finding it difficult to quiet his horse, which Dutch Coachman had unkindly pierced with a pin, decided enough was as good as a feast and swung into the saddle. The troopers were deserting rapidly. It was clearly his duty to lead them. He applied his spurs. “Get that there hearse clear of His Majesty's highway,” he roared over his shoulder, and galloped off along the dusty lane, shouting redundantly, “At the double, you men. Forwardâ¦!”
De Villars strode to the coffin and bent over the cadaver. “You all right, dear old boy?”
Quentin blinked up at him blurrily.
“Death ⦠dew?”
he gasped feebly, the suspicion of a grin twisting his pale lips. “Damn you, Treve! Asâas if I've not enough misery, you ⦠have to make me laugh!”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The effort to open his eyes was taxing, but Quentin was warm and, except for an unpleasantness in his arm, relatively comfortable. He turned his head drowsily and beheld immaculate sheets, familiar bedcurtains and an empty but obviously recently occupied trundle bed. He was gazing thoughtfully at this object when a side door opened and a vision in pink and white gauze crept into the luxurious bedchamber.
“Penelope,” he cried, his voice a croaking whisper, and struggled to sit up.
With a sob of joy Penelope ran to sit on the bed and place a cool hand on her husband's brow. “Thank heaven! The fever has gone at last!”
“Never mind that, woman. Kiss me!”
She obliged the invalid so tenderly that several wonderful minutes passed before he muttered uncertainly, “At last? We are at Lac Brillant, I think?” And in quick anxiety, “No military about? Otton did notâ”
She placed her soft palm over his lips. “No, my darling. Thanks to your brave friends we are quite safe. We brought you here three days since, and you've been fast asleep, although with such a dreadful feverâ” She broke off. “But now you're better, praise God!”
He kissed the hand that caressed his cheek and, glancing to the trundle bed, said, “So you stayed beside me, faithful as ever, my dearest love.”
“Not I. Your old nurse took charge the moment they carried you in.” She had really thought him dead at that point, and shivered at the memory, then went on hurriedly, “I tried to tend you, but she would have none of me and I was bundled off to be pampered while she cared for you as if you were a babe. What devotion you do inspire in your dependents, dearest.”
He smiled at her, his sunken eyes so eloquent that she bent to kiss him again.
The outer door opened. Nurse, her uniform glaring cleanliness, her eyes militant, paused on the threshold.
Quentin murmured, “What does my father mean to do, love? I'd not bring disaster down on him.”
“De Villars has a yawl waiting. So soon as you are strong enough, we'll be away.” Slipping to her knees beside the bed, Penelope took up Quentin's thin hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Oh, darlingâonly think. We are safe together at last, and yet my aunt
must
have known that Geoffrey is alive.”
“Most assuredly she must. You'll recall you caught her reading his letter that first morning at Highview.”
“Then she must also have known in Little Snoring that she and my uncle would lose the title and the estate.”
Quentin did not voice the grim qualifying remark that came to mind. “And yet,” he mused, “she did not betray us. Perhaps Albritton's reminder of her immortal soul struck home.”
“Hmmmn. Or perhaps Sybil had a soft spot for a certain elderly gentleman.”
He grinned at her with a marked lack of repentance.
“Rascal.” She kissed his hand and murmured, “I had all but given up hope, but do you know, my dearest dear, I do believe that very soon we shall be safely in our little cottage near Paris.”
“Where I shall grow my cabbages, and”âhe gave her an arch lookâ“we might even produce ⦠other things.”
Joying in the return of that mischievous glint in his green eyes, she asked shyly, “Such asâ¦?”
“Well ⦠I've been thinking it would be nice to have aâer, cat. Do you think, Penelope Anne, that we might be able to find a white one ⦠with long silky hairâ¦?”
Penelope laughed merrily. “Odious creature! You know very well that is not what you meant.”
“Managing female,” he retaliated, his eyes adoring her. “I wish you will tell me then, what else I
should
mean.”
She crept back onto the bed and snuggled cautiously in his good arm. And she whispered in his ear exactly what he had really meant to say.
Nurse heard his deep chuckle ring out. Smiling, she closed the door and, singing softly, went down the hall.
Patricia Veryan
was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates
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PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
Copyright © 1985 by Patricia Veryan.
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Mass market edition/June 1986
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ISBN: 0-312-90298-0
Can. ISBN: 0-312-90299-9
eISBN 9781250118431
First eBook edition: March 2016