Cherished Enemy (34 page)

Dismayed, Rosamond started forward, only to pause as her father uttered in a vastly different tone, “If you ain't got pretty hair, Stella … Like a blasted great cloud. Be dashed if I ever noticed before…”

They stood very still, gazing at each other.

“Why—Lennox…” murmured Mrs. Porchester, a softness in her voice that no woman could fail to identify.

“Good heavens…!” breathed Rosamond. She felt a tug at her cloak and found Victor beside her. “Were I you, ma'am,” he whispered, “I'd debunk while the debunking's good.”

She could hear the smile in his voice and, putting her hand in his, crept away.

*   *   *

It was the custom at Lennox Court that the birthday person was allowed to sleep late, was served his or her favourite breakfast in bed, and did not descend the stairs until the dining-room table was set for the festivities and the immediate family was gathered in the lower hall to wish the celebrant joy of the occasion. Gifts were then presented, toasts were drunk, and at four o'clock friends and neighbours began to arrive for the party.

On this rather chill and overcast morning, however, long before the honoree was even beginning to stir, before the servants had laid out the fine tea-service of artificial porcelain that the colonel had acquired in France, or the gardener had brought in the fresh flowers, four people had gathered in the pavilion and were hard at work. Charles had trod up the steps shortly after six o'clock to find Victor waiting for him. Fairleigh had presented himself a few minutes later. Rosamond, having been obliged to summon Addie very early so as to wash and dry her hair, and do a hasty job of styling it, was the last to arrive. Very little had been said as they gathered around the reference table, and for the next three hours they racked their collective brains to come at the solution. In vain.

At quarter past nine o'clock, Victor crossed out his most recent effort and flung down the quill pen. “Och aweigh,” he groaned in exasperation. “We're on the wrong road, forbye!”

“Faith, but we must be,” agreed Charles, stretching. “We've tried every combination I can think of. Every fourth word from the beginning; every fourth word from the end; the fourth letter; the fourth line; straight down through all the fourth letters of all the stanzas, straight down through all the fourth words—”

“Until we came to a three-word line,” sighed Fairleigh. “Lud, but I never considered myself a dunce—till now.”

“And we must go back very soon,” said Rosamond, watching Victor worriedly. “And then there will be no chance to try again until everyone is abed tonight. So much time lost.”

His brows drawn together in concentration, Victor stared at the impregnable cypher, all too aware that, for him, time was running out; that at any minute there might come a troop of horse with orders for his arrest and that if he had to run for his life with the cypher still unbroken, his dangerous journey back to England would have been undertaken for nothing. His very presence here could, in fact, bring death's dark shadow over this splendid family, and in especial, over the bewitching little lady who had come to mean so much to him as to change his every hope for the future—had he the right to hope for a future … He swore under his breath, turned away from the table and strode to stand gazing blindly out of the window.

Rosamond followed and, placing a consoling hand on his arm, felt a tremor shake him at her touch. “You did your very best,” she said. “No man can do more.”

“A poor best, lassie,” he argued bitterly. “I failed at Culloden—”

Indignant, she cried, “Not so! You fought bravely for what you believed in, and—”

“And had to crawl from the field with the aid of—” She winced, and he broke off and put his hand over hers. Gazing at her, he seemed to sink into the sapphire depths of her eyes, and for a glorious but foolish moment was dizzyingly happy. He recovered his sanity with a start and exclaimed, “And I'm a clumsy clod! Your pardon, Miss Rosa. 'Tis just…” He shrugged in frustration. “It all seems such a waste. If I could but have helped the innocent families regain their valuables, I'd not feel so—so curst—
useless!
When I think of all Charles has done! And him an Englishman!”

Lost in thought, Charles appeared not to have heard their low-voiced colloquy, and now he muttered, “Rob may be right, at that. Perhaps we
are
still coming at it from the wrong direction.”

Victor asked intently, “How so, Charles? Do you think we should not be concentrating on the number?”

“Suppose,” said Charles thoughtfully, “the emphasis is meant to lie not on the number four, but only the first
three
numbers?”

“It well might be!” exclaimed Fairleigh.

“Then let's have at it,” said Victor, his enthusiasm fired once more.

“I begin to loathe this poem,” sighed Rosamond. “If only Deborah would come home and bring the—”

Even as she spoke, the door swung open. They all spun around apprehensively.

A girl stood on the threshold; a slender graceful silhouette against the white glare of the hazy sky, her features in shadow, her habit a sombre black, but the light making a bright coppery aureole of her simply dressed hair.

“Debbie!” cried Rosamond. “Oh, thank heaven!”

“Sweetheart…” breathed Charles, his blue eyes alight with love as he started eagerly towards her.

The girl shrank from him, pointed a quivering finger at Mr. Fairleigh, and screamed,
“Otton!”

“Whoops,” muttered Fairleigh. His hand darted for his coat pocket.

Charles sprang at him, but Fairleigh's left hand flung in a savage swipe and the young clergyman, sent reeling back, collided with Victor, crashed against the desk, fell heavily, and lay still. Recovering with lightning speed, Victor swung up his dagger, only to check and stand motionless.

The pistol in Fairleigh's hand was aimed steadily at Rosamond. “Stay back!” he snapped, his black eyes narrowed and deadly. “The knife, MacTavish—down with it! I don't want to hurt her, but I'm a selfish man. If 'tis her life or mine…”

Victor threw his weapon down. “Who is he, Miss Deborah?”

“A bounty hunter.” She closed the door swiftly behind her and with her fearful gaze on her love added, “He was at Highview Manor when I took the message to Quentin Chandler. He was hand in glove with the horrid people who tortured Quentin, and he has since been hounding the couriers. Is Charles—”

“I'll own myself disillusioned,” interposed the man who called himself Fairleigh. “For when I saw you at Highview, ma'am, I thought you a charming creature.” The twinkle died from his eyes, leaving them cold and hard again. “No, Victor! You will stay where you are, if you please! Miss Rosamond—over here!”

“No! Don't move, Rosa,” growled Victor, crouching menacingly.

Fairleigh said very softly, “I warn you, Victor … If you attack me, I shall shoot her—not you! And if I fire, the shot will be heard and can only bring help to
me
and death to all of
you.
”

Victor swore furiously but knew himself helpless.

“Do not fret so,” purred Fairleigh. “I want her only as a safe-conduct. Nothing more, I assure you. Walk carefully to me, ma'am.
Now!
”

Rosamond did as he said and was at once seized and whipped in front of him. Gasping, she said a trembling but contemptuous “And I thought you a gentleman!”

“Never mind,” he said kindly. “Belike your judgment will improve with the years.”

“But—you said you were sworn not to—”

“Betray your friends to the military. No more I will unless they force me to it. I merely seek to relieve them of their—burdens. I have no desire to prolong this visit, however.” His voice snapped out harshly. “The cypher. Pick it up.”

She hesitated.

The arm that crushed her against him tightened painfully and she gave an involuntary gasp.

Victor snatched up the cypher and thrust it out. “Here! Take it. Just don't hurt her.”

Rosamond took the parchment.

With a grin of triumph, Fairleigh began to force her towards the door. His eyes were fixed on the raging Victor. He did not see that Charles had made a dazed recovery until the priest's hands closed around his boot.

Fairleigh cursed, glanced down, and kicked savagely.

It was very fast, but it was all Victor needed. He hurled himself across the space that separated them to seize Fairleigh's wrist and wrench the pistol upwards. Simultaneously, with all her strength, Rosamond drove her high heel at Fairleigh's shin. He swore in anguish and his arm relaxed for a second. She tore free and ran clear.

Deborah Singleton, her beautiful face very white, flew to kneel beside Charles, who was doubled up, sobbing for breath.

Locked in desperate struggle for the pistol, Fairleigh and Victor plunged about the room, sending books and chairs crashing. Searching vainly for Victor's pistol, Rosamond dodged around the combatants and ran to the fireplace. Even as she reached down to take up the heavy andiron, Victor smashed Fairleigh's hand against the wardrobe. The pistol flew from Fairleigh's grasp but his left fist struck home powerfully and although Victor swayed aside, it caught him on the temple, staggering him. Fairleigh seized the opportunity to make a dash for his pistol. With all her strength, Rosamond swung the andiron and let go. It soared across the room. Fairleigh snatched back his hand in the nick of time as the andiron landed with a deafening crash, missing his fingertips by a hair's breadth. He gave Rosamond a reproachful look. Dazed, but still fighting, Victor launched himself in a flying tackle and the two men were down and rolling. Rosamond ran for the pistol, only to leap back as Fairleigh broke free and clambered up again. Victor was up also. He swung aside, evading the lethal blow that whizzed at him. All his remaining power was behind his clenched fist and it connected solidly with Fairleigh's jaw. Fairleigh gave a grunt as he was driven back to crash against the bookcase. Accompanied by a shower of volumes, he went down hard, and lay inert.

“What the devil's going on in there?” The irate bellow was nearby and unmistakable.

Looking up in horror, Charles's dazed head pillowed on her knees, Deborah gasped, “Uncle Lennox!”

“Lord save … us all,” panted Victor, swaying slightly as he cherished his skinned knuckles. “The … table, lass. Quickly!”

Rosamond tossed the pistol to him. He caught it deftly and slipped it into his pocket. “Charlie, boy! Up, you sluggard!” he gasped, gripping the end of the reference table. “Tilt it, Rosa. No—
down,
love!”

Even in this perilous moment his whimsical grin was slanting at her and the instinctive term of endearment sent her heart jumping about crazily. She managed an answering smile as together they lowered the table so that it lay on its side. Victor seized Fairleigh by the ankles and hauled him unceremoniously behind the slanting tabletop, then began to pile books over him. Rosamond followed his example and Deborah helped Charles struggle to his feet.

Victor panted, “Up! Here he is!” and Rosamond stood straight, breathing hard.

“What—in the name of…?” growled the colonel, stamping inside.

“Uncle Lennox!” squeaked Deborah, running to throw herself at him so that he was obliged to catch and whirl her around.

Swiftly tidying her hair, Rosamond hissed, “Rob—the shoulder of your coat!”

He peered downward. The shoulder was ripped, the sleeve hanging. He tucked it in as best he could and, tasting blood, wiped a fast hand across his mouth.

“You saucy puss,” said the colonel, setting the laughing girl down. “'Tis time you arrived! But what I want to know is—”

“I rushed home for your birthday,” she interrupted shrilly.

“And now you've spoiled the surprise,” put in Rosamond, just as shrilly.

“What're you doing—up and—and about, at this hour, sir?” asked Charles, his eyes out of focus as he blinked more or less in the direction of his father. “'Gainst—'gainst regulations…”

“Never mind about that. What's to do here? What happened to you? Be da
____
er, dashed if I—”

“Oh, these silly boys,” tittered Rosamond.

“We were wrestling, sir,” Victor explained with a grin. “Only Charles fell over the books and the table went down and him with it.”

“Yes—but, I heard—”

“More than you should, I'll be bound,” cried Deborah, taking his arm and clinging to it fondly. “Oh, how
glad
I am to see you!”

“Yes, well, I'm glad too, begad, but—that's another thing. Where've you—”

“And you cannot stay in here,” said Rosamond archly. “I can see we must carry him away, gentlemen, and shall leave you to—er—tidy up.”

Huffing and “By Gad-ing,” the confused colonel was hurried and cajoled and flattered and at last extracted from the scene.

Charles, feeling his ribs gingerly, muttered, “Where the deuce is Fairleigh?”

A faint moan from under the shifting pile of books answered him. Fairleigh's tousled head heaved into view and he blinked at them owlishly.

Victor took out the pistol and aimed it.

“You'll have the whole house down here,” cautioned Charles.

“Aye,” sighed Victor. “But—losh mon, the temptation's awfu' strong, y'ken.”

Fairleigh wavered to his feet, shedding volumes.

“Restrain it,” suggested Charles.

Victor replaced the pistol and levelled Fairleigh with a neat uppercut.

“I meant—restrain your temptation,” Charles said reproachfully.

“I must have misunderstood,” grinned Victor. “What a pity. Let's have off his stocking, you saintly fraud. A stocking makes a right bonny gag.”

*   *   *