Cherished Enemy (33 page)

Rosamond gasped unsteadily, “What … do you here at this hour, sir?”

He grinned. “I might well ask you the same, Miss Albritton—did I not already have the answer. May I see how you've progressed with the decoding?” He sauntered forward, but stopped as Victor growled, “You may explain what the devil you're talking about. And why I shouldn't pull this trigger do you take one more step.”

“Does the name Meredith Carruthers mean anything to you?” Fairleigh tossed a corner of his cloak over one broad shoulder to reveal the beautifully cut mulberry broadcloth riding dress beneath. “I lent him a—er, helping hand, shall we say, in his little jaunt with the third cypher. I am also acquaint with a most valiant young fellow, Lord Geoffrey Delavale by name—or, at least, that is one of his names.”

Watching breathlessly, Rosamond saw her brother again send a swift glance at Victor. She asked, “What does he mean?”

Victor gritted, “Is of no import, ma'am. This fellow either knows too much, in which case he is a dead man; or too little—with the same result.”

“Par grâce!”
Fairleigh clapped a hand to his brow in an exaggerated gesture of despair, although his black eyes sparkled with amusement. “
What
a bloody-minded individual you are! How, I wonder, may I convince you of my sincerity?”

Charles enquired coldly, “With regard to—what?”

“Why, to assisting you, however I may, to decode the cyphers. I am in sympathy with the fugitives. I give you my word I am most deeply interested in their plight. Only ask Tony Farrar if he would be alive today had I not helped him when his back was to the wall.”

With the pistol still aimed unerringly at Fairleigh's heart, Victor said, “Perhaps, since you are so well informed on treasonable matters, you can tell the Reverend how the third cypher was delivered.”

“By all means, dear boy. 'Twas by way of a gravestone. And a wretched time Carruthers had completing the task, with that clod Brooks Lambert doing his best to put a period to him.” He turned to Rosamond and said apologetically, “Because of my part in that unhappy business, this same Captain Lambert has taken me in great aversion. He is bumbling around this neighbourhood, wherefore I've been obliged to keep away, dear ma'am. I did not dare risk leading him here.”

There was a moment of quivering stillness. Then Charles demanded, “Do you say you were sent here by Meredith Carruthers?”

“No, sir. By Delavale, though he could not give me a written introduction—under the circumstances. Nor was I told with whom I was to be in contact. Only to come here and assist in whatever way I might.”

His face stern and unrelenting, Victor said, “Charles, you'll never believe this piece of theatre only because he can name some of our people?”

“Mr. Fairleigh is a good man, I am very sure, Charles,” Rosamond interposed hurriedly. “But I do not understand why he spun me that involved tale about the stolen Shakespearean parchment.”

Fairleigh shrugged. “My charge from Delavale was hastily imparted. In fact, we were interrupted before he could complete it. I was told nothing about—er, Dr. Victor's presence. At first, I was inclined to believe he was my man, but gradually it began to appear that he might be a military spy sent here to entrap you. When you took me into your confidence, it seemed even more likely that Victor was not what he seemed. I could not be sure of how much you knew, dear lady, and I thought my tale of the parchment would cause you to come to me did you see such an article, rather than trusting a man who might very well at once arrest you.”

“You
confided
in Fairleigh, Rosa?” asked Charles, looking grim.

Her heart skipped a beat. She said guiltily, “Only that I—I was perplexed about Dr. Victor. I knew very little, but I was careful, Charles. Mr. Fairleigh was most kind and did indeed beg me to mention not a word to a soul if I saw the parchment, but to go at once to him.”

“Clever,” sneered Victor. “A bounty hunter might have done the same.”

“Very true.” Fairleigh said with a twinkle, “Still, you may be grateful I have interested myself in the difficulties of the unfortunate rebels. For had I not been aware that someone at Lennox Court has been the receiver of the cyphers, I might well have gone off and told the military there was something deuced odd going forward here.”

Watching that dark countenance narrowly, Charles said, “You seem well informed. But what precisely is your object, sir?”

“Have I not said it? To assist you in any way possible. I've a deep and personal interest in the Jacobite Cause, and I really do sympathize with the fugitives. In my estimation, Cumberland's treatment of the poor fellows is downright heathenish. But do you doubt me, you've only to contact Delavale.”

“Would that we dare,” muttered Charles. “He is watched day and night.”

“As Fairleigh is very well aware,” said Victor. “The dragoons pray for some unwary rebel to come within a mile of him, for they'd sell their collective souls to lay hands on—”

“On the intrepid Ligun Doone…?” murmured Fairleigh.

Victor's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

Astounded, Rosamond gasped, “Is it so?
Lord Delavale
is really Ligun Doone?”

“Aye,” nodded Victor. “And ye'd do well tae forget ye ever hearrrd what this reckless idiot said, ma'am.” Recovering his English accent, he added, “Fairleigh—be more discreet, if you please! For the lady's sake. Well, Charles? What say you? Do we trust this rascally fellow?”

Fairleigh chuckled. “You know me better than I thought, Victor. Or—is it—MacTavish? I wonder I did not earlier mark your resemblance to your lovely sister!”

It was the final straw. The fact that this man had so much knowledge yet had very obviously not relayed it to the military told its own tale. Warmly by Charles and Rosamond, warily by Victor, Fairleigh was accepted into their ranks, and allowed to look at the cyphers.

“Though I'll warn you, friend,” said Victor, eyes and mouth at their grimmest, “if you're a sneaking redcoat spy—you'll not live to betray us!”

Fairleigh cuffed him easily. “Devil fly away with you, Rob. I've no least wish to betray you. Indeed, I could not do so even if I did wish it, for my word of honour is given on that score.” He bent over the table, his eyes travelling rapidly down the lines. “And the last verse,” he muttered, moving Lightning's tail aside in order to read it. “‘All is quiet—' Jove, but that's odd. Why the Arabic ‘4.' I wonder, when the other three stanzas are numbered in the Roman?”

They all leaned closer, peering at the parchment.

“Damme, but you're right,” said Victor. “I must be getting soft in the brainbox! I never even noticed!”

“I noticed,” Rosamond murmured, “but thought it simply a slip of the pen, or that perhaps a different person writ the last stanza.”

“No, no,” said Charles intensely. “They all were writ out by a Scots lady.”

“And that intrepid grande dame don't make slips of the pen,” said Victor. “Jove, but you may have found our key, Fair
____
”

The door slammed open. “What in the
deuce,
” snorted Colonel Albritton, a cloak over his night-rail, “are you all messing about at in this wretched hut at this hour of the night?”

“Oh, blast!” said Charles under his breath.

“Papa!” squeaked Rosamond with an involuntary jump of fright.

Snuffing the wave of cold air, Lightning gave an interested trill and jumped down from the table, precipitating the vital parchment to the floor.

Victor uttered a smothered exclamation and made a grab for it, but as if malignantly guided, the parchment fluttered to land almost at the colonel's feet. He bent and picked it up.

Horrified, Rosamond gave a smothered little cry.

Before the colonel had a chance to do more than glance at the page, Charles sprang forward and snatched it from his hand.

“Now
confound
you, sir!” snorted his father, bristling.

Charles whipped the sheet behind his back.

Victor, very pale, stood rigidly still.

“Papa!” shrieked Rosamond, running in front of her brother and spreading her cloak concealingly. “Do not look!”

In immediate support of his quick-witted sister, Charles said, “No, sir—you really must not come in here, you know.”

“The
deuce
I must not,” fumed the colonel, stamping forward, his whiskers vibrating strongly. “If Fairleigh can—”

“But—'tis not
my
birthday tomorrow,” Fairleigh pointed out with a teasing smile.

Brightening, the colonel checked. His eager eyes still strove to glimpse whatever was being so closely concealed behind his son's back, but he made no real objection when Rosamond took his arm and pulled him gently towards the door. “Well, whatever mischief you young rascals are up to,” he called jovially, “have done with it for tonight. Come along now, and get to your beds, else you'll be too tired to enjoy the party tomorrow.”

Charles rolled the parchment and slipped it into his pocket. “D'you know, sir, I think you're in the right of it. We've accomplished enough.” He glanced from Rosamond to Victor's enigmatic face. “One way or another.”

The candles were extinguished and they left the pavilion and started across the lawn. The night was black as pitch, and the wind still moaned fitfully among the trees. Trifle appeared to have detected them, for the rattling of a chain in the stable-yard was followed by a wild outburst of barks and howling.

“Lord God Almighty!” groaned the colonel. “That flea-bitten cur will rouse the house!”

“It appears to me, sir,” said Fairleigh, peering ahead, “that 'tis already roused.”

Following his gaze, Charles muttered, “What on earth…?”

A faint light gleamed through the shrubs, and as they changed direction and drew closer to the flower gardens, Rosamond caught a glimpse of a white shape drifting about, lit by an unearthly greenish glow. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she shrank closer to Victor, who at once slipped an arm about her.

“Ghosts…?” murmured Fairleigh.

“Is it, by God,” said the colonel uneasily, slowing his steps.

Victor grunted a cynical “Dragoons, more like, fancying we've a fugitive hid here.”

“May heaven help the curd-brained dragoon I find trampling my gardens at dead of night!” hissed the colonel, recovering himself. “Come on, you fel
____
” He broke off with a muffled gasp and came to a complete halt as the apparition fluttered, seemed to fold in upon itself, and vanished. “Now—stap me vitals,” he finished rather hollowly.

Victor pulled Rosamond back and said low-voiced, “You'd best stay here, Miss Albritton.”

She was very tired, and not a little unnerved by this new threat, therefore she put up no argument, but watched anxiously.

Treading swiftly and silently, the men moved ahead. The spectral figure could no longer be seen, but the faint light still filtered through the bushes to glint eerily on the long-barrelled pistol in Victor's hand, and the sleek colichemarde Fairleigh had drawn.

Suddenly, the figure shot into view again. Rosamond gave a squeak of fright.

“Charge!”
roared the colonel.

The four men charged. Well ahead, the colonel tackled the spectre vigorously. A shovel flew into the air. A piercing scream resounded. Trifle barked frenziedly.

“Oh—wait!” gasped Rosamond with belated comprehension, and ran to the fray.

“Help!” cried Victor, deserting cravenly, with Fairleigh in close pursuit.

“Lennox
Albritton!
Unhand me this instant!” shrilled Mrs. Porchester, struggling. “
Unhand
me, sir!”

“Oh! Good … gad…!” groaned the colonel, clambering up and assisting his indignant relation to her feet.

“Aunt Estelle!” cried Rosamond as Charles deserted. “Oh, but your hair is all come down! Are you all right?”

“All right?” sputtered Mrs. Porchester. In the full light of the lantern, which had been placed beneath a shielding green silk parasol now kicked aside, she was magnificent in her wrath, her luxuriant dark tresses all about her. “All
right?
I doubt I shall
ever
be—all right again! My stars! To be gripped and thrown to the ground like—like any— Are you drunk, Albritton? Are you inebriated, sir? Or is it merely that you have gone stark raving mad?”

“You've no—absolutely
no
b-business … digging up my garden in the wee hours,” gulped the colonel. “Apologize, was I rough with you. But—you deserved it, be dashed if you didn't! Not content with massacring m'prize roses and calling it ‘pruning,' not content with fair
ruining
m'rhododendrons—you must sneak and creep about at dead of night to wreak your dastardly desecrations under cover of darkness! I vow, Stella—”

“Oh!”
shrilled the outraged lady, tearing off her large gardening glove and flailing it at his head between little rushes of words. “You horrid—wretch of an—an
in-law!
—I know just as much—
just
as much—if not more—of gardening—than do
you,
sir!”

“No, Stella! Now, Stella!” gasped the colonel, dodging about while trying to catch her flying hand.

“You have
always
been jealous of—my gardening, for everything
you
plant—dies!” she declared wildly, evading his grip and landing a good one on the end of his nose. “And I don't scruple to tell you that you may—save yourself the trouble of hiding my secateurs, for I've bought a dozen new pairs, a
dozen
new pairs! And—”

“Have done, woman!” roared the colonel, seizing her in a strong grip and pulling her close. “Jove—if you ain't…”