Practice to Deceive Page 5

  “Then what has distressed you?”

  Daffy lowered her voice. “I heared such a great crashing and banging about, Miss Penny. Like—like the devil hisself was capering about milor’s study. Then the gentlemen went downstairs to their dinner—and well in their cups they was, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. I was watching from the top of the stairs to see which one would fall down first, when…” Her eyes became very round; she said with solemn drama, “—when I heared … it.”

  Trembling with apprehension, Penelope urged, “Oh, do hurry up, Daffy! When you heard—what?”

  “A … ghost…!” whispered the abigail awfully. “For there wasn’t no one in the study, as I do know. But I heared this drefful sound—like a soul in mortal sin and guilt—coming from in there. I was so frightened, miss! I ran—” She broke off with a shriek of terror and threw her arms about Penelope.

  Gordon Chandler stood watching them, and Corporal Killiam was in the act of closing the window. Both men looked very grim and in Chandler’s eyes was a horror echoed in Penelope’s heart.

  “You heard?” she asked, gently detaching Daffy’s convulsive clutch.

  Gordon nodded. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll take you, but you must let me go first, to be sure none of the servants is about.” Here, Daffy uttering a small whimper of dismay, Penelope turned to give her a reassuring hug. “I know this must seem a very odd circumstance to you, dear Daffy. But these gentlemen were—were friends of Master Geoffrey. I shall say no more than that. It is better for you to know none of the business. When we leave, you must go to the servants’ hall and stay with the others.”

  Daffy merely continuing to stare numbly at the two men, Penelope sighed and crossed to her standing mirror. The bedraggled creature reflected there caused her to utter a moan of frustration. To appear thus before the servants could not fail to attract attention. She took a cream shawl from her chest of drawers and draped it around her shoulders. Recovering her wits to some extent, but with many a nervous glance at the men, Daffy hurried to take up brush and comb and urge her mistress to sit down so that she might tidy her disordered locks. When she was done Penelope thanked her and turned to the door, but the abigail again clutched her arm and whispered distractedly, “Oh, miss! Oh, miss!”

  Penelope kissed her. “Whatever may chance, I ask only that for the sake of any affection you may have for me, you will not tell anyone downstairs that you have seen my friends.”

  Her eyes blurred with tears, Daffy nodded and turned away, dabbing her apron at her wet cheeks.

  Cautiously, Penelope opened the door a crack, gradually widening it until she could see the length of the west hall, past the railing of the stairs, to the door that once had been Geoffrey’s. There was no sign of anyone, but a distant burst of male laughter told her that Delavale and his cronies still lingered over their wine.

  She beckoned, and Chandler and the Corporal came swiftly to her side. “He is in a room at the other end of the north hall,” she whispered. “It is locked, I’ve no doubt, and if you break it in you’ll neither of you leave this house alive. My uncle has four strong manservants besides Otton and his friend Beasley, and any commotion here would be sure to rouse the grooms and gardeners.”

  Chandler nodded. “We are to enter through the Passion Path you spoke of, eh?”

  “Yes. It leads from the room that was used to be the master bedchamber. My mama did not care for the view from the windows, so my father had the three centre rooms converted to a master suite. Do you wait here whilst I go. If I am seen, I will have to make some excuse and return as soon as may be.”

  She started out, but Chandler caught her arm, looking down into her eyes. “If you betray us, ma’am,” he said with stern implacability, “I do assure you we shall take some of your relations to hell with us.”

  Penelope met his gaze gravely. “Do not forget our bargain,” she murmured.

  He released her, and she slipped into the hall.

  At once, her nerves tensed and she had to force herself not to walk too hurriedly. Expecting at any second to encounter a maid or a footman, she passed one bedroom door, another, and another. The sounds from the stairwell grew louder as she approached the landing. Her eyes were fixed on that crucial point, her hands tight-gripped on her shawl. She almost cried out with shock when she inadvertently trod too close to the large bowl of stocks on the ornately inlaid chest that Grandpapa had brought back from India. As usual, Lady Sybil had stuffed too many blooms into the vase. A large spray became entangled in Penelope’s shawl, and she caught the vase just as it toppled downwards. With shaking hands she restored it and then hurried on. The landing loomed up. Penelope forced her reluctant feet to wander past the stairs and pause while, with one hand lightly resting on the railing, she pretended to be about to descend. Luck was with her: there was no maid or footman to bow and watch and wonder. From below came another raucous shout of laughter. The gentlemen were drinking heavily, it would seem; probably, she thought, in an attempt to forget the inhuman things they had done.

  She strolled across the landing to where the stairs continued up to the second floor. Again, all was quiet and deserted. Abandoning caution she ran to the northwest door and went quickly inside. Geoffrey’s old room. The cold and empty darkness, the dim glow from the hall lamp revealing the shrouded shapes of Holland-covered furnishings brought a lump to her throat. If only … But there was no time for grieving. Staying only to whip the window curtains closed, she ran back to the corner of the hall and gestured urgently. Her bedroom door opened wide. Chandler and the Corporal hurried towards her. She held her breath until they were safely beside her, then ushered them into the room and closed the door.

  Chandler whispered, “Well done, ma’am! Dare we light a candle?”

  “One only. The draperies are closed, but they are not very heavy.”

  The Corporal took a tinder box from his greatcoat pocket and by the light of the single candle he lit, Penelope led them to the wide hearth. “It is here somewhere. Behind the fireplace.”

  Gordon bent, peering. “I cannot discern any kind of bar, or handle.…”

  “Nor I.” She knelt and groped anxiously along the sooty walls. “I know it is here, but I was never told just how the door was opened. I had quite forgot about the passage, until—”

  “See here, sir!” The Corporal’s deep voice rang with excitement. “This part where we stand is much narrower than up above us. The hearth was a sight deeper at one time.”

  Despite this apparent corroboration there was no sign of a door or anything that might constitute a handle, and Penelope began to fear that the passage had been sealed off.

  “Logical enough that so secret a route would have been well hidden.” Gordon stepped back, carrying the candle with him. “Feel along the mantel,” he suggested. “Try for anything that gives a little, or can be twisted.”

  They obeyed, twisting, pulling, tapping all along the carven stone, but without success. In desperation Gordon wrenched at a wall sconce above the hearth, and the iron came away in his hand, leaving a chunk of crumbling masonry behind it. Three hearts that had leapt with hope knew the pangs of disappointment.

  “Try the other one, sir,” urged the Corporal. “Just in case.”

  Gordon reached across to the second sconce, but his cloak caught the remains of the one he had laid on the mantelpiece and sent it crashing to the hearth. Penelope gave a gasp of fright, and Gordon groaned his repentance. Killiam snatched up the offending article. Straightening, he cracked his head on the corner of the mantel. He had moved faster than he’d realized, and saw stars for an instant. He staggered and steadied himself by grasping an ancient iron brazier mounted on the wall beside the hearth. An instant deep creak resounded through the hushed room. The three conspirators looked at one another in breathless questioning.

  All thought of his throbbing head forgotten, the Corporal grabbed the brazier with both hands and pulled downwards. Little by little, grinding with the protest
of iron rusted in place for years, it lowered, the sounds becoming so piercing at length that Penelope’s heart thundered with the dread that at any instant they must be discovered.

  Snatching up the candle that Killiam had replaced in the branch, Gordon dropped to one knee in the hearth, holding the flame high. “Jove! Here’s the door now,” he exulted. “Good work, Rob! A trifle more, only.”

  Crouching beside him, Penelope saw a section of the chimney wall sliding jerkily in upon itself, revealing an aperture sufficiently large for a man to step through. “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” she whispered.

  A hand gripped her shoulder. Gordon was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “And thank you,” he said fervently. “I’ll confess I’d my doubts, but— Rob! That’s enough! Do you stand guard now, whilst the lady and I go through.”

  The Corporal’s face fell. Penelope hesitated. More than anything in the world, she longed to go with him. But the creaking of the brazier might very well have been overheard. Reluctantly, she offered to stay and wait. “For if anyone comes, you must see that I am the only person whose presence here might somehow be explained.”

  “The Corporal will deal with whatever chances. Come.”

  Penelope offered no further argument but, allowing him to help her scramble up through the tiny doorway, she knew that whatever he had said, they still did not completely trust her. She thought, ‘Who could blame them?’ and, following Gordon’s hunched figure, was touched by the depth of devotion that had compelled him to walk unhesitatingly into what he suspected to be a deathtrap.

  The flickering candle flame illumined only a very small section of the winding, cobwebbed walls. The air was thick with the smell of soot, the floor was uneven, and Penelope held her breath as they crept past the area of her Aunt Sybil’s bedchamber. The tiny passage began to grow warmer, and by the time Gordon came to a halt, it was very warm indeed.

  “Here is the other end,” he whispered. “Pray, Miss Montgomery.”

  Penelope had been praying for some time. She heard him fumbling about, and then he swore under his breath and wrapped his coat skirt about his hand and gripped a heavy iron latch. Her heart jumped once more when a sharp thud was followed by an all-too-familiar high-pitched squealing. Gradually, their dim little passage was brightened by a rosy, leaping glow.

  Over his shoulder, Gordon whispered, “Hold fast to your skirts, ma’am,” and stepped downwards. Beyond him, Penelope saw the wide hearth and generous fire that warmed her uncle’s study. She heard a smothered groan from Gordon, but whatever he had seen that so affected him did not prevent his staying to help her. “Nobody about, at least,” he whispered, lifting her down the deep step. “Have a care, now. Everything’s hot.”

  As at the entrance, the passage opened directly behind the hearth, and the air struck Penelope’s face with fierce heat. She held her skirts close and edged carefully around the glowing logs. The room was dim, lit only by the oil lamp on the desk that once had been her father’s. Quentin no longer lay on the sofa and Gordon was running to the desk. She saw then that the prisoner lay huddled beside it, his wrists bound to one of the legs. She flew to kneel beside him. He looked quite dead, and she breathed a frantic prayer as Gordon reached with a trembling hand to feel for a pulse.

  Quentin moaned faintly. His dark head rolled back, revealing his face deathly white between numerous bruises. A cut above his left brow had covered his eye with dried blood, but the long lashes of the other fluttered, and he looked up. Penelope’s heart cramped with sympathy, and she could have wept with gratitude because he was still alive.

  Blinking rapidly, Gordon laid a gentle hand on his brother’s sound shoulder. “My poor old fellow,” he said huskily. “What a—a damnable fix you’ve got yourself into this time.”

  Quentin’s lips quivered betrayingly. The solitary green eye was suddenly glittering with tears, and for an instant there was an emotional silence. Then, incredibly, he managed a faint, irrepressible grin. He said weakly, “I thought you’d … never come. For Lord’s sake, Gordie … find my sword. And … get me to a chamber pot.”

  “I’ll find the sword,” volunteered Penelope, her face very pink.

  Quentin, who had not seen her because of his blind side, turned his head painfully. “Oh … my God!” he groaned.

  Between tears and laughter, Penelope said, “There is a commode in the next room, Mr. Chandler. Quentin—can you stand?”

  “Of course.” He peered at her curiously. “Ma’am … surely you’re not little Penny Mont—” The words were cut off by a gasp as his brother slid an arm under his shoulders and began to lift him. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip, his eye closed, and he sagged helplessly.

  Whitening, Penelope held his left arm and, between the two of them, they got him to his feet. Quentin swayed dizzily. Watching his face, Gordon asked, “How are you now, half-ling?”

  “I…” Quentin whispered, “shall do … thank you.”

  Penelope flew to the connecting door to her aunt’s room. She lifted the latch, inch by inch. Her straining ears could detect no sound from within, and very gradually she opened the door. A small fire flickering on the hearth provided the only illumination in the deserted room, and the open door to the adjoining parlour revealed no light beyond. She gestured to Gordon, and he half-carried his brother over, murmuring softly, “Thank you, ma’am. Do you try to make it appear as though Quentin had escaped through the window.”

  She turned at once, and heard him scold laughingly, “A fine way to greet me! And in front of a lady!” Faint but indignant, Quentin responded, “You should only know the joys of being … trussed up for hours!”

  Penelope sped to fling open the window. The trees at this side of the house stretched their branches quite close, but it seemed unlikely that Delavale and his cohorts would believe that a man in Quentin’s condition could have made the climb without falling. Nonetheless, to emphasize the ‘escape route,’ she pulled over a chair and set it beneath the window sill. She found the sword-belt on the floor behind the desk. As she snatched it up, her frayed nerves were jolted by the sound of approaching voices.

  Lord Delavale proclaimed in an irritated bray, “… tell you the fool is too weak by far to free himself! You likely heard something from th’ stables, is all. Where’s th’ damned key?”

  Guiding his brother’s faltering progress back into the room, Gordon glanced to the hall door and hissed, “Into the passage! Run!”

  Penelope flew. Gordon bent, threw Quentin over his shoulder, and followed. Heedless of decorum or the display of her pretty ankles, Penelope scrambled into the Passion Path. Gordon set his brother down and guided him around the logs, and Quentin struggled feebly to climb into the passage. A key rattled in the lock. It was no time for compassion. Penelope seized Quentin’s shoulders and Gordon boosted him up. Quentin shuddered and became a dead weight in Penelope’s arms, but he made no sound. The door burst open even as Gordon jumped in and began to pull his brother’s legs from sight.

  Delavale let out a howl of fury. “He’s gone! The filthy scum got away! Well, do not stand there, you stupid dolt! Rouse the house! Call the grooms! Horses, man! And fast! Oh, may he rot in hell for this!”

  There was no chance to close the passage door. Holding Quentin’s head pillowed against her breast, Penelope shrank back, trying not to breathe so rapidly, and listening in terror to her uncle’s maddened bellowing. He had only to look this way and he must see them, for the dancing flames must surely light their precarious hideaway. Through those flames she saw several pairs of male legs run into the room. The voices of Otton and Beasley added to the uproar. Milord’s blistering accusations against everyone but himself were cut off as Otton said coldly, “We avail ourselves nothing with all this chit-chat! Chandler had help. He was in no case to have crawled as far as the window, much less climbed down the tree! Delavale—your pistols! Hargrave, your master’s cloak. Come—we must scour the neighbourhood before someone else gets—er, claims the rew
ard!”

  And with slams, shouts, and curses, they were gone.

  * * *

  “At last!” Gordon stroked back the damp hair from his brother’s forehead. “He’s coming round.”

  Penelope glanced up from her ministrations. Quentin blinked at her, and briefly there was such weariness and pain in his eyes that she asked with a pang of sympathy, “Am I hurting you very badly? I am no apothecary, I fear.”

  “No … you are not.…” A trace of the mischief she so well remembered crept into his eyes. “For which I do not … intend to … grieve.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm, and bent shyly to her bandaging.

  Gordon asked anxiously, “How are you, my great looby?”

  “Very much better … thank you, sir.” With an effort, Quentin peered about. “Where the deuce are we?” And, becoming belatedly aware that he was half-sitting, half-lying in Killiam’s arms, he said with an attempt at heartiness, “Rob, you old scoundrel! What? Have I … dragged you into this, also?”

  “Aye. And never try to fob me off with your nonsense, Major. I’d hoped ’twas a clean sword cut you’d taken, rather than that ugly mess. A musket ball, eh, sir?”

  “It went right through, so let us have none of your gloom. Thanks to—you all, I’m reprieved. And so soon as this lady is—is finished, we…” The brave words trailed off, Quentin’s eyes widening as he became aware of the dainty bed on which he reposed, and the faint feminine scent that lingered about the pillows. “The devil! Never say I am—”

  Penelope chose that moment to tighten her bandage and as her patient was thereby bereft of breath, she said gently, “But—you are, sir. And very improperly, I might add.”

  He stared at her in dismay, his face so white and pinched that fear gripped her anew and she asked that Gordon please produce the flask of brandy he’d brought.

  “I’d thought we were—well away,” Quentin gasped. “Are we still at Highview, then? Lord—if we are found, this lady—”

  Gordon shoved the flask at him. “Take a pull at that, it’ll warm you. Hold him up, Rob.”