Cherished Enemy (19 page)

Twenty minutes past two! Still, it was possible Charles was still up, for he sometimes became so engrossed in a book that he would read half the night away. If there was any chance at all, she
must
talk to him! She went to the window and peered outside. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and damp. There was no sign of light from the pavilion, but Charles might have closed the curtains, which were thick, to keep out the draughts. She put on her cloak, crept across the room, and opened the door. Trifle raced past at top speed and scrambled, pranced, and slid his way along the corridor. ‘The
Unmitigated
…!' thought Rosamond, praying that the series of crashes as the overgrown puppy negotiated the back stairs had not awoken her father.

When she reached the ground floor and there still had been no rageful outcry, she breathed easily again. Trifle gamboled beside her to the rear door, then tore at the panel with energetic if destructive enthusiasm until she was able to swing the door open, whereupon he erupted into the darkness and was immediately lost to sight.

Once again tense and anxious, Rosamond waited for someone to come and investigate all the noise, but after a moment of comparative silence she judged herself spared, and with a sigh of relief she put up her hood, closed the door softly, and hurried down the steps and across the lawns.

The wind had become chill and was blustering about, sending leaves swirling across the grass. She could see narrow gleams of light as she approached the pavilion. Charles
was
still here then, thank heaven. She lifted her skirts and started up the steps, only to halt abruptly as the door began to open.

Dr. Victor, one hand on the doorknob, stood looking back into the room and speaking in a low, guarded voice. “… may be a widgeon, but she is a perfect darling of a girl.”

‘A widgeon!' thought Rosamond indignantly. She dodged around the handrail and tiptoed up the steps and around the curve of the wall to where she would be out of sight. But she smiled a little, for it was nice to be described as ‘a perfect darling.'

She heard the murmur of Charles's voice, and Victor said, “I'll insist you do so when she arrives for your sire's party!” Rosamond did not hear his next words, and she stood very still, her smile wiped away. So he had been speaking of some other ‘darling girl' … She experienced an odd hollow sensation and then he was growling harshly, “Well, I
am
here. And there's not a damned thing you can do to be rid of me! I warn you, Albritton. Be careful. Be
extreme
careful!”

On that sinister note he opened the door wider. Rosamond shrank closer to the wall, but peeped at him and for just a second before he closed the door she saw his face illumined by the glow from the room. He looked grim and dishevelled, and along the left side of his jaw was a red, angry swelling. Aghast, she watched him stride swiftly into the night. Not until she was sure he must have reached his bedchamber did she dare risk entering the pavilion. Then she rushed inside and closed the door quickly.

Her brother stood with one hand on the mantel and head bowed, gazing into the dying fire. He spun around at her precipitous arrival and stared at her in obvious consternation.

“Charles,” she cried, hurrying to him. “Why does Dr. Victor dare to threaten you?”

He took the hands she stretched out and held them strongly, smiling down at her and saying in his easy, pleasant voice, “Whatever do you mean, child? Have you had a nightmare?”

She scanned his face, noting even more than she had done earlier that this beloved brother was pale and tired-looking, with dark shadows under his eyes. “Oh, my dear,” she said, frightened. “Who is he? Has he some hold over you?”

He shook his head chidingly, led her to the chair, and sat cross-legged at her feet, as he had done so often in the past. “Now what bee have you in your pretty bonnet this time, my Rosa? Robbie Victor is an old friend, and—”

Leaning forward, she demanded intensely, “
Is
he? Is he
really
an old friend? Charles—we never have kept secrets from each other.
Tell
me!”

A wariness came into his eyes. “What is it I am to tell you? We were schoolmates, and—”

“Schoolmates! He did not even
know
you when we arrived!”

“Why—he had suffered a nasty spill and his mind may have been—”

“Charles, do not!
Don't
try to—to fob me off! I
heard
him threaten you just now, and—”

“And
I
would like to know, miss, just exactly why you were prowling the grounds at this hour of the night!”

“Because of
him,
” she declared fiercely. “And do not insult my intelligence by telling me you were indulging in friendly horseplay!”

He was silent for a moment, then said in a slow, thoughtful way, “I wonder why—when first you came—I gained the impression you rather liked each other.”

She tried to meet his calm gaze, but could not, and her lashes sank above suddenly scarlet cheeks. “We—that is, I— Well, for a little while, perhaps, I … But—”

“Perhaps,” he said, “you should tell
me,
love. I understand that Rob treated you when you were hurt. Was he—offensive? I think you have never been—er, touched by a strange doctor. Especially in such—”

“He did not mean it,” she interposed swiftly. “The ship rolled and—and quite accidentally, his hand—” She stopped again, bit her lip, and looked away.

For that brief instant an expression very few people had ever seen lit the narrowed eyes of this man of God, but when Rosamond glanced up shyly, his face reflected only a fond concern. He said, “Now you defend him, and yet just a moment ago—”

“Oh, I know. I know!” She put a hand to her temple. “Is so
confusing!
Charles, I will tell you everything. But then—I want you to tell me the truth. Please.”

“I am not in the habit of lying to you, Rosa.”

The reproof was gentle, and well justified. Until now, at least. “I first saw him at Tante Maria's ball,” she began. “Oh, and Charles, that's another confusion. Did my aunt tell you that Deborah had not reached Paris until
August?
”

Slightly frowning, he said, “But—surely you must be mistaken? Aunt Estelle did not mention it to my father, and—”

“Because I begged her not to! If aught is amiss, I did not want it to spoil his birthday.”

“I scarce think anything is amiss. Debbie may simply have decided to spend some time in Denmark first.”

“But she did not, Charles! Aunt Caroline was in a huff because Deb had not taken the time to go up there!”

“Well then, she likely went to see Cousin Hilde, or her friend Mrs.
____
oh, I forget the woman's name—the one who lives in Rotterdam now. She might have decided she could not endure to have relations commiserating with her anymore. There are so
many
people she might have stayed with. Cousin Elise, for instance. The weather could easily have drawn Deb to the Mediterranean.”

He made it all sound sane and normal, yet somehow his very shrugging off of the matter, so at odds with the anxiety she had expected, was disturbing. Her brow puckered, she said slowly, “Deborah is with Cousin Elise now.”

He smiled. “Well then, why all the vapourings?”

“Charles,
pray
do not tease me. You
know
'tis peculiar, to say the least of the matter. I had understood that Mr. Troy would escort her as far as Paris, where he had business of his own to attend to, and that he expected to return to England
within a few days.
In which case, if Debbie changed her mind and went elsewhere, who took her? Certainly she could not have travelled alone and unchaperoned. Your tolerance is astounding, considering that the lady you mean to make your wife has disappeared for nigh
two months!
And how shocking that she would so high-handedly depart from the itinerary you had mapped out for her, sending word to none. She
must
have known we would worry.”

“
You
would, certainly,” he teased. “Not I, for I have implicit trust in her. Jove, but what a pother you make of it! Deborah is not one with a head full of maggots.”

“Has she written to you, then? I suppose she must have, since you are all but betrothed.”

“She meant to correspond only with my father and her family. I wanted her to have a complete rest. But Zachary Troy is the best of good fellows, and wrote directly he returned home to say that Debbie was safely with her cousins. I'll own it never occurred to me to ask had she changed her plans, or to which cousins he referred, but you may be sure whoever they are they would not permit of her jauntering about Europe unchaperoned! Where are your wits gone begging, Rosa? So far as I'm aware, our Continental cousins are not lost to all propriety, however rackety Jacques may be.”

It still seemed an extraordinarily liberal point of view. She said dubiously, “I suppose you are right and I am silly to worry so, but—would you send off a letter to Mr. Troy, and ask him if—”

“I can do better than that. The last I heard, Zack stayed with the Aynsworths at Willowvale. I'll ride over there and talk with him. Shall that appease your over-lively imagination, miss? Good. Then perhaps we may now go back to Tante and—” But at this point, noting his sister's painful blush, Charles paused, gave her skirts a tug and said kindly, “Forgive. I'm a clod to censure you when you mean only good.”

Dr. Robert Arrogance had accused her of possessing an “over-active imagination,” but why should the recollection of his mockery make her feel shy or cause her cheeks to become so heated? She banished the feeling of being hopelessly at sixes and sevens, smiled at her brother and assured him he was not a clod, then proceeded to tell him everything that had happened. By the time she came to the end of this lengthy recitation, all her apprehensions had returned. She said, “And just now, he threatened you!” She reached out suddenly and grasped the hands he had linked around his knees. “Your knuckles are broken! You
did
strike him! Oh, never deny it! Charles—I am
afraid
of that man! What does he want here? You are the gentlest person I know; what can he have done that would cause
you,
of all men, to raise your hand 'gainst him in violence?”

With supple ease he came to his feet and strolled over to poke up the last embers of the fire. Still holding the poker and half-turned from her, he said with low-voiced reluctance, “Very well, Rosa. I will tell you. Only … I'll admit myself surprised by your concern for the rebel you found. After Hal's death I fancied you abhorred the Jacobites.” He glanced at her narrowly. “Have your feelings undergone a change?”

“No! How can you even
think
such a thing? I despise them! I always shall! Only—when I saw that boy … he was so pathetic, you know. Just a hurt and desperate human being. And—so very young and helpless. Are you angry because I tried to help him? Was it wrong, because of—of dear Hal?”

“Wrong because you've a kind heart? Certainly not! I count it admirable, rather. And very brave besides, for I doubt you ever have seen a wounded man before.”

“No, and pray I never shall again! He was in such pain, and—the blood…!” She shuddered.

“Yes, I recall how the sight of blood always sickened you. Poor girl. I can imagine what a shock it was. I wonder you did not swoon away. In fact”—he replaced the poker in its bracket—“I was surprised you were able to help Rob so bravely.”

It was during those moments that Victor had intimated he held a
tendre
for her. Charles's eyes seemed unusually piercing tonight. Avoiding them, she said, flustered, “I—I owed him that much.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you did endanger him if he helped the lad only because you begged him.”

“He
said
that. But I begin to fear that Dr. Victor says whatever will best serve him at the time. In point of fact, I have come to believe he is—playing some very deep game, and after I heard what he said to you tonight … Charles—we must tell Papa!”

He turned back to the fire, and after a short silence sighed and said ruefully, “I cannot. You see—you were right, little sister. Victor does hold something over me.”

Not until this moment had she realized how intensely she'd hoped she was mistaken. Her idiotic heart plummeted, and she gave a gasp. “Oh, Charles! Then—then he was coming here all the time? Had Aunt Estelle not asked him to serve as our courier, he would have found some excuse to accompany us?”

“I rather think so. Yes.”

“But, dearest, you have never done anything wrong in your life! What could he possibly know that he could use against you?”

A longer pause this time. Then, still turned from her, he squared his shoulders. “You were only a sprout at the time, but—do you recall when thieves broke into the house in the winter of '39, and my great-grandfather's icon was stolen?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes enormous as she watched him. “Poor Aunt Estelle was devastated.”

“I—had got myself into the most awful mess at Oxford,” he said, his voice very low. “I studied so hard and seldom went out, but—one night … some friends persuaded me to go with them, and—well, I was unused to drinking. And, later, there was—gaming.”

“Oh … my God! Y-you—stole Great-Grandpapa's icon?
You?
”

His fair head lowered, and his hand on the mantel was gripping very hard. “You see … I am very far from being the saint you fancy me, Rosa.”

She flew to throw her arms about him, and lean her cheek against his back. “I never fancied you a saint. Just a—a very kind and—gentle man. And you were not to blame! You were no more than a boy—a scholarly boy who had led so sheltered a life! But—oh dearest, if
only
you had told Papa. He would have—”