Cherished Enemy (27 page)

There was no sign of bad weather when they reached Lennox Court, but with Rosamond's hand on his arm, Victor whispered, “Gad, ma'am, I think another storm approaches!”

She'd had to exert all her will-power to be civil to the man, but she had not dared be otherwise until she had consulted with Papa. At this, however, her sorely tried nerves twanged tight. “What is it?” she demanded tensely. “Did you see—” She bit off the words “Captain Holt” and finished rather lamely, “Never say 'tis Trifle again?”

“Worse, perhaps,” he said with a chuckle. “Your aunt. Armed with a muddy trowel!”

Rosamond hid her relief, excused herself and hurried to her bedchamber to put off her bonnet. Addie was nowhere to be seen and Rosamond did not ring for her, but dusted the hare's foot over her nose, pinched some colour into her pale cheeks, and tidied her hair. And even then she hesitated, appalled because a man's life depended upon what she was about to do. She hardened her heart. Victor had not considered the risk to
their
lives, and he was an enemy of her king and country! She had no choice. Still, she felt wretched. She sank at last to her knees beside the bed and prayed with all her heart for guidance. Then, calmer but heavy-hearted, she went downstairs and turned towards the breakfast parlour where luncheon was served unless they had many guests. She was half-way across the hall when there was a crash and the sound of shattering chinaware. Startled, she glanced back. Addington had evidently been required to assist in the kitchen. The tray she had been carrying into the breakfast parlour lay at her feet surrounded by broken crockery. The tall girl, pale as a ghost, crouched above it, her wide eyes fixed on the man who had wandered from the billiard room.

Dr. Victor's gaze flew to Rosamond. “And there goes our luncheon!” he exclaimed lightly. “Are you all right, miss?”

Miss Seddon and a kitchen-maid came running. As red as she had formerly been white, Addington straightened, stammering out incoherent apologies and excuses. Victor picked up the tray and handed it to her. “Don't look so scared. You likely tripped on the rug. Accidents will happen.”

Rosamond forced her stiff lips to smile at him and continued along the hall to the northwest end of the house where was the colonel's study. Her mind was seething. It was one more piece of damning evidence against him. Addie had not tripped. She was a Scot, and she'd dropped the tray because she had recognized the evil physician! Probably she had known him in—

“Wake up, m'dear! Wake up and come in!”

The study door was open and here she stood, staring at nothing like a fine prospect for Bedlam. She slipped inside, feeling trapped and sick now that she was so close to taking this step that would very likely doom Robert Victor to a cruel death.

Lennox Albritton had risen to pull out a chair for his daughter and as she occupied it he leaned back against his big battered old campaign desk, folded his arms and smiled down at her. Failing, typically, to note either her pallor or her subdued manner, he said fondly, “Sink me if you ain't a sight to see, Rosa. That pink gown. Jolly nice. Puts me in remind of your mama…” His eyes became remote. Stifling a sigh, he murmured, “She was a beautiful woman, was my Irene.”

He seldom indulged in nostalgia, and Rosamond was considerably taken aback. Because he was such a strong man, she had not realized that even yet he might be grieving the wife he had idolized; that although the years had gone by, his loneliness may have remained. She said with regret for her belated comprehension, “You must have been very proud of her, dear sir.”

“Aye … I was.” He lifted dreamy eyes, saw the affectionate sympathy in her face, and flushed scarlet. “No need to fall into a maudlin megrim over it! I was—lucky to—er, have her for so long as I did. She was sensible, as well as lovely. Never”—his whiskers bristled—“messed about with my garden like—
some
people do!”

Even at this desperate moment Rosamond's instincts demanded she try to pour oil on troubled waters. She said, “I expect Aunt Estelle is occasionally a trial to you, Papa. But—she is extreme fond of you, you know.”

A look of stark astonishment came over the rugged features. He stammered, “Sh-she … is?
Estelle
is?” And then, with a return to his gruff manner, “Pshaw, child! Rubbish. We tolerate each other merely. Needed her when my Irene died. And Stella needed us. Nothing more to it.”

“That is not so, Papa,” she said, greatly daring. His brows twitched together and she went on quickly, “Surely you have noticed how worried she becomes whenever you have fallen ill; how willingly she partners you at cards, and argues when you crave an argument or—”

“Crave an— The deuce, girl! I
never
—”

“Yes, you do. You know you do. And Aunt Estelle knows too, so argues with you whenever you will. If you could but have seen her searching for just the right birthday gift…”

“Did she, by Jove,” he said, indignation vanishing. “Dashed good of her, I must say.” And with cunning nonchalance, “Do you—ah, know what she found for me?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes. And I'll not tell you, you sly rascal.”

“Oh, very well, very well. Get on with it, child. What is this ‘most important' matter you've to lay in my dish?”

She felt very cold and had to bite her lip hard to keep her resolve. This would properly ruin his birthday, poor darling! But in a thready voice she faltered, “I—scarce know where to begin … Papa—do you recollect the icon that Aunt Estelle—”

“Good God!” he exclaimed, leaping up and regarding her with horror. “Never say she has
found
it? If
that
is the ‘special birthday gift' she means to present me, I'll not scruple to tell you here and now—”

Staring at him in bewilderment, she stammered, “Wh-what do you mean? How could my aunt have
found
it? 'Twas stolen—no?”

“What? Oh—er, well it was. Of course.” But his eyes twinkled at her merrily and he looked so much like a little boy caught in some mischievous prank that Rosamond's brain reeled.

“My—heaven…!” she whispered, leaning weakly back in her chair. “Never say you—you
hid
it?”

“I certainly will say nothing of the sort! Thieves.” He gave a muffled snort of amusement. “God help 'em!”

Groping for comprehension, she muttered, “You
always
loathed it … but you knew Aunt Estelle thought it charming, so— Oh—Papa! How
could
you?”

He giggled rather nervously, then scowled. “Now why must you look at me like last week's porridge? Zounds, what a fuss and feathers over a hideous thing we're well rid of!” And then, guiltily, “You'll not tell your aunt? Jove, but I'd never hear the end of 't!”

*   *   *

Rosamond's hurriedly conjured-up plea that her aunt be permitted to keep Trifle did not impress her sire as being a “most important” reason for having delayed his luncheon and he was less than pleased as he escorted her to the breakfast parlour. His mood deteriorated when only his son and Dr. Victor stood as they entered, Charles imparting the news that his aunt had looked in and would be down “in just a moment.” The colonel's whiskers shivered. He glanced bodingly at Victor and growled, “See what I mean? Women!”

Mrs. Porchester was as good as her word, however, and in a very short time swept in with a rustle of petticoats and said airily that it was not the least bit of use for Lennox to be provoked with her, since it was on his account she had been delayed. Her twinkling glance restored his good humour and luncheon went off quite well save for her concerned observation that Charles looked “positively bruised” under the eyes and she feared he might be sickening for some ailment.

Dearly as she loved her brother, Rosamond scarcely heard the remark. Under any circumstances to lie was despicable, but it was utterly foreign to Charles's nature, especially that he should have deceived
her
—the person with whom of all his relations he had always had the closest ties. She was hurt and frightened and gripped by the helpless feeling that she was being drawn deeper and deeper into a nightmarish maze from which there was no way out.

It was clear now that Victor's hold over her brother had nothing to do with the long-vanished icon. Why then should Charles have invented so damning a tale? Unless the truth was even more horrible. Was it possible that he
was
involved with the Jacobites? That Victor was extorting money from him under threat of revealing some act of charity to a fugitive? Or had Charles judged it necessary to portray himself in such a bad light so as to shield someone else? Whom? Her father despised the Stuarts. And poor Howard Singleton's love for his dead brother would forbid he aid the Jacobites in the slightest way. Aunt Estelle's soft heart might have led her into an act of kindness that could be judged treasonable … or Debbie, perhaps…? Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadful it was! One thing was certain: she dare not confess the whole truth to Papa; not until she had somehow discovered exactly what it was that the wretched physician held over her hapless brother's head! And meanwhile, for all their sakes she must not let Victor suspect that she knew him for what he was.

A burst of laughter startled her. The colonel said, “Jove, but you'll be a magician can you achieve that, Victor!” and the doctor looked at Rosamond with the whimsical grin that so evil a man had no business possessing. She made herself smile in response, and in her mind heard again his words to Charles … “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!”

*   *   *

Rosamond's intention to confront her brother with what she had learned was thwarted when Dr. Victor begged that she accompany him to the barn and view the completed structure he referred to as “Trifle Towers.” She had no wish to be alone with him, but Charles had escaped somewhere, and the doctor persisted, blithely overcoming every objection she raised until, her father sending a puzzled glance her way, she capitulated.

The moment they were out of earshot of the others, Victor's demeanour underwent a radical change. He became grave and withdrawn, pacing beside her, his spurs softly jingling, the sun throwing his shadow before him. She noticed, as she had done several times, that he was seldom without his sword. A light dress sword today, but serviceable, she had no doubt. She thought, ‘Death walks very close to him,' and tried in vain to be consoled by that fact.

The silence became nerve-racking. She murmured, “You are very quiet, Doctor.”

“The wind has changed,” he said. “I wait to discover its new direction.”

She glanced at him curiously.

He shrugged. “On Thursday I was Dr. Heartless; Friday, Dr. Liar; yesterday, I dare to think—Dr. Desirable…'Tis an interesting game, if nothing more. What is the mask I must wear today, I wonder?”

“We might try no mask at all, but simple truth,” she riposted daringly.

“By all means. Were you deep in love with Hal Singleton?”

“Oh!” Indignant, she halted and turned to face him. “That is not what I meant!”

“Is what I meant. Come now—play fair. This is your game. If I must answer, so—”

“You
never
answer,” she cried, forgetting her decision not to antagonize this man. “At least—not with veracity. You told me that you did not fight at Culloden. You said that what you told the ensign and Captain Holt was untrue. Yet you spoke to my father as if you had
really
been in the battle!”

“One can be in a battle without taking an active part, you know. Have you forgot I am a doctor?”

Her lip curled. “Do you say you were there to treat the wounded? Yet your scabbard shows much wear.”

“How unkind in you to remark it.” He gave her a sorrowful look. “I bought it at second hand.”

‘Stuff!' she thought, and resumed the attack. “And you took a bayonet wound. Or so you claim. I suppose you will say 'twas inflicted by one of your patients.”

“Some people,” he said regretfully, “dislike physicians. That was why I was so glad you overcame your own aversion to me.” He sighed and added mournfully, “Yesterday, at all events.”

Before she could guard her tongue, the words were out. “You were not so glad you managed to stay awake!”

His hand gripped hers and pulled her to a halt. Moving to stand directly in front of her, he said softly, “I am awake now. Rosamond…”

The grey eyes that could be hard and cold as steel again held the wistful longing that wrought havoc with her. His mouth was curving to a smile of such tenderness … She thought, ‘Dare I try again? If I can make him really care for me, would he have mercy on Charles?' Loathing his touch, dreading his closeness, she made herself sway towards him. His hands held both her arms now and, very gently, he was drawing her nearer.

“You are much too lovely, little Sussex lassie,” he said huskily, and bent to her.

Rosamond closed her eyes to blot out that ardent face. His lips brushed hers and a flame burnt through her. She could have wept with frustration because her wretched body must be so weak; that her stupid heart must pound and her pulses leap and every tingling nerve betray her. She was only
acting.
This man who held her was vicious and evil. His lips were at her ear … so soft—so devastating … She gasped, and in desperation tried to visualize Hal Singleton's comely face. Succeeding, with an effort that left her knees trembling, she whispered, “Dr. Victor … are you really fond of—of me?”

“D'ye suppose I'd be doing—this … were I not?” he murmured, kissing her temple.

She shivered, but managed somehow to cling to a vestige of sanity. “Then … won't you help me…” she pleaded. “I so need you.”