Cherished Enemy (15 page)

There were certainly eyes in the coffee room, where a small family, two elderly gentlemen, and Mrs. Porchester all were watching the two young people in the hall. Rosamond gave a shrill little titter and said in a half-whisper, “Yes, and troopers also! The coachman bade me warn you. Likely, they seek smugglers, or the even more reprehensible individuals who publicly condemn the actions of Free Traders, but privately purchase their illicit goods.”

Victor took her arm and guided her down the steps, murmuring, “Will you grant me time to get away ere you inform against me?”

She gave an indignant exclamation and hurried to join her aunt. She had little to say to the physician through the meal, but he was so dense as to appear unaware of her scorn, conversing so agreeably with Mrs. Porchester that the lady's regard for him was increased.

“I cannot think,” she told her niece, when the chariot was once again rattling and bumping along the muddy road, “why you have taken the doctor in such aversion. He is not of our station in life, I doubt, for gentlemen of good family do not pursue a profession, but his address is all that could be desired, and he is certainly a fine-looking young fellow.”

“His manners,” Rosamond pointed out loftily, “are deplorable. Besides which, he is haughty and arrogant and—”

“Oh, I really must dispute that, dearest. I really must dispute that. Not many men will be charming to an older lady when a young beauty is present. And you must not forget that he looked after you aboard ship—”

“Very clumsily.”

“—in spite of the fact that the dear puppy had given him a nasty nip. Indeed, he still limps, and—”

“And did so before Trifle bit him, ma'am. He said 'twas the result of a—er, another encounter. Probably,” Rosamond added grimly, “of an illegal nature.”

“Illegal?” gasped Mrs. Porchester, alarmed both by her niece's unusually acerbic manner and by the implication. “What sort of—illegal?”

They had been so intent upon their discussion that neither had noticed the chariot slowing to a near halt, and they were startled when a rather harsh voice asked, “You have been troubled by something of an unlawful nature, ladies?”

Rosamond jerked her head around to discover a familiar face looking in the open window. “Captain Holt!” she exclaimed, incredulous and guiltily frightened.

He gave her an easy salute but asked unsmilingly, “May I know the nature of this illegal matter, Miss Albritton?”

“Oh,” said Rosamond, wondering how much he had overheard, and racking her brains in desperation. “'Twas merely that I saw a man in Rye who had so—so villainous an aspect I was sure he must be a smuggler. But what a surprise to see you here, Captain! You are acquainted with my aunt, I believe.”

Holt murmured a polite acknowledgement.

“La, yes,” said Mrs. Porchester. “You was at my sister's ball. Quite a coincidence that you should come upon us in Sussex, sir. Unless—” she added teasingly, “you are come seeking us?”

He gestured to the coachman and reined in his horse as the chariot stopped.

Victor hove into view, looking at Rosamond enigmatically over the captain's scarlet-clad shoulder.

“I am not come seeking you, ma'am,” said Holt with his thin smile. “Unless you chance to be badly cut.”

Rosamond felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Before she could speak, her aunt said blithely, “Oh,
I
am not, Captain. 'Tis my poor niece you refer to, I take it?” Shocked by Victor's expression, she looked with bewilderment at the captain's suddenly grim face and stammered, “Wh-what is it? Is—is something amiss? Is not a plague or—or a contagion, or—”

Frozen with fear, Rosamond was numbly aware that the captain's eyes were suddenly as devoid of expression as Dr. Victor's were deadly.

Holt asked softly, “You have sustained a wound, Miss Albritton?”

“The lady was injured aboard ship,” interjected Victor. “We encountered a severe storm in the Channel, and—”

Holt turned in the saddle so as to face him. “You sailed on the same packet, sir?”

“To our great good fortune,” said Mrs. Estelle, uneasily aware that her niece was deathly pale. “To our
great
good fortune. My niece was thrown down by the motion of the ship and was hurt. Dr. Victor tended her.”

“I see. How came you to be cut, ma'am?”

“I—I fell on a towel holder that had broken off the wash-stand,” faltered Rosamond.

Victor put in, “The lady also struck her head, which was more serious than the cut in her side.” He glanced at the girl's white face, and added, “She is still not quite herself.”

“Which is why you accompany her?” Holt smiled. “How very convenient.”

Victor met his gaze and enquired sardonically, “Is it customary for a captain of dragoon guards to investigate a shipboard injury?”

For a moment the two young men maintained that silent battle of the eyes, then Holt turned about and said with a warm smile, “Of a certainty I am concerned for your welfare, Miss Albritton. I trust you do not overtax your strength. Perhaps you would have been better advised to rest at The Galleon for a day or two.”

Mrs. Porchester gasped, “How did you know we put up at The Galleon?”

“Is my business to know such things, ma'am.”

“But—you said you were looking for someone who was cut…?” she reminded him.

“Yes. But I would be most surprised did that person turn out to be your niece, ma'am. We seek an individual who was caught helping a Jacobite traitor to escape. He fought his way clear although one of our men bayoneted him, but—Miss Albritton? Are you all right?”

Rosamond, unused to dissembling, had started visibly at this unexpected revelation. From over the captain's shoulder, Victor's grey eyes blazed a warning. Desperate, she put a trembling hand over her eyes. “My—my fiancé was … bayoneted,” she whispered.

“He was?” gasped Mrs. Porchester, astonished. “I thought Charles could not determine how Harold—”

Victor interpolated swiftly, “Your nephew kept certain facts from Miss Albritton. I fear I was less considerate, and revealed the truth of Singleton's death, which has upset the lady. Understandably.”

Again, Holt swung in the saddle. “You were acquainted with Singleton, Dr. Victor? Are you a military man, then? I fancied to catch a tang of it. Perchance you was at Culloden?”

Victor nodded. “I am no longer on active service, however.”

“Sold out, did you? But you've an uncle of fine reputation, I understand.”

Rosamond gripped her hands together in an attempt to hide how they shook, and dared not look at Victor.

“I see you are thorough in your military duties,” said the doctor coolly. “Which is more than could be said for the ensign from whom you obtained your information.”

“Indeed?” Holt bent to the window once more. “I trust this unpleasant but necessary military interference has not given you a distaste for me, ma'am, and that I still have leave to call upon you?”

“Of course,” said Rosamond, forcing her stiff lips to smile. “I am very sure that my papa would commend you for your efficiency.”

He thanked her, saluted briskly, and waved the chariot on.

Mrs. Porchester eyed her niece with trepidation as Rosamond craned her neck to be sure the troopers were riding off. “I have the most dreadful apprehension,” she wailed. “Rosa—what have you done? Oh dear, oh dear! What have you
done?
”

Rosamond felt weak and drained and could not stop shaking. Victor was riding abreast of Billy Coachman. He likely dare not come back to talk to her while Holt remained in sight. She gathered her wits and managed somehow to convince her aunt that she was distraught because of what the physician had “told her” of poor Harold's death. Mrs. Porchester's tender heart was touched, and, her suspicions lulled, she adjured her niece to try to rest.

Obediently, Rosamond put back her head and closed her eyes. Her mind was a dizzying whirl of questions and conjecture, all having to do with the enigma that was Dr. Robert Victor. She wondered uneasily to what extent he had lied to that dragoon last evening. The ensign had lost no time, obviously, in passing the information, or misinformation, on to his superiors. Which meant that the doctor now went in great peril of discovery. Was
she
to blame for his having taken so ghastly a risk? She shrank from such a fearful responsibility. There could no longer be any doubt, however, that despite his professed contempt for those who helped Jacobites, and his initial brutality to the injured rebel, he had later risked his life to help the boy. She thought worriedly, ‘Likely he was not at all influenced by my pleas. He might have been troubled by conscience and repented his earlier cruelty.' After all, he
was
a doctor and could well have been reminded of the ethics of his calling. She had to stifle a cynical exclamation. He had not been moved by those same ethics aboard the packet! Besides, if his sole motivation for having taken such a risk was a desire to please
her,
surely he would have wanted her to be aware of his heroic action? Instead of which, he had concocted that nonsensical tale about having been involved with a smuggler at the time. Perhaps shyness, or humility, had forbidden that he boast to her of his deeds. Again, she gave a mental sniff. He had not impressed her as being overly endowed with either of those attributes! But it
was
possible that, having relaxed his principles for her sake, he had felt he dare not trust her with the truth. Certainly, to do so would have been to put his life in her hands. She stiffened. Had the wretch dared to believe she might betray him?
Surely
he could not think her capable of such treachery?

Through the flare of her anger came a small voice whispering that he might have kept the truth from her feeling that the less she knew, the safer she would be. And anger was routed.

She stared blindly at the window. A gentleman would only be so gallant in behalf of a lady for whom he cared a good deal—no? And Dr. Robert Victor did not care for her. For the most part he spoke to her with rudeness or cynicism. The very first evening they had met, he had looked at her with disdain, and things had retrogressed from that point! He had behaved most shockingly in the cabin of the packet! He had berated her, teased her, thrown her over his shoulder, and spanked her in a most indecent way. She sighed. To give him the benefit of the doubt, his disgust of her at the ball might have been slightly excused—just slightly—by the little embarrassment with the strawberry sherbet; and his mood aboard ship might have been aggravated by the fact that Trifle had nipped him. And then, of course, he had been the recipient of a shower of mud—again in an attempt to protect her. She smiled faintly. That was when the wicked rogue had tried to kiss her…'Twas remarkable really that, despite his arrogance, his lips had a charmingly humorous quiver, sometimes … And the proud tilt to his chin when he was provoked
was
rather delicious …

Shocked by such digressions, she gave herself a swift mental shake and tried to be more sensible. When all was said and done, what did she really know of the man? He
had
been invited to Tante Maria's ball, but that did not constitute a really firm recommendation, for he might be a friend of Jacques's and, fond as she was of her cousin, she could not deny that Jacques
was
rather rackety. The doctor was a strong individual. Yes, there could be no doubt of that. He had unhesitatingly come to her rescue just now when she herself had seemed in danger of becoming suspect. He had taken some most awful risks for reasons that might or might not be connected with herself. And if they did
not
have to do with herself, was it possible he had a deeper reason? A terrible reason? Could he
himself
be a Jacobite? Almost before the thought was formed, she rejected it. No rebel who had won his way to France would leave that sanctuary to return to England and run the high risk of capture, torment, and a hideous death. 'Twould be purest folly!

At this point she was unutterably relieved to recollect that Dr. Victor was a friend of Charles's. She drew a deep, grateful breath. No friend of her brother could be
anything
but an honourable gentleman!

*   *   *

“It fair sends me into the boughs!” Lieutenant Brooks Lambert drove one hand through his thick blond hair and paced across Jacob Holt's tiny barracks parlour and back again, his blue eyes glowing with frustration. “To know the reb is somewhere close by! That we might put our hands on him, did we but reach out—and to be unable to find the swine! 'Sdeath!” He took a swallow from the glass he held. “'Tis damnable!”

Holt, sitting on the worn sofa, his coat unbuttoned, frowned down at his own glass and murmured, “This rebel hunt exerts a powerful effect on you, Brooks. I wonder why.”

“Why?”
Lambert spun around. Even in his shirtsleeves, he was an impressive sight; handsome, powerfully built, the epitome of a dauntless British officer.
“Why?”
he repeated. “Are you gone daft, Jacob? They are vermin! The enemies of our country. I fought them from Prestonpans to glorious Culloden, and— Now why lift your brows at me? You think 'twas
not
a glorious victory, perchance?”

Holt shrugged. “And—the aftermath? Do you count
that
glorious?”

Lambert smiled slowly. Horribly, Holt thought. “They earned it. Every whining bastard of 'em!”

“I heard them shout and roar,” Holt observed in his dry, pedantic way. “I do not recall many whines. And one might suppose Cumberland's—er, reprisals would satisfy even such hatred as yours.”

Lambert tossed off the rest of his brandy, slammed down his glass and looked at Holt with bitter, vengeful eyes. “Well, think again! I hate the guts of every last reb. Had I my way, not one would be shot. I'd put 'em to the question—each individually, while the others were made to look on and know what was coming to them. Let 'em die slow and hard.” He took up his coat. “I've scores to settle, Jacob. And settled they will be, by God! One way or t'other!”