Cherished Enemy (42 page)

A trembling little hand wiped his forehead. He smelled the faint essence of Rosamond's perfume. “I shall want a thick pad,” he said shortly. “Use one of the towels.” Nobody was making a sound, though far off he could hear Trifle in full cry. If
only
he knew more about medicine…! At least he knew where the ball was now, but how in
hell
was he to dig it out without doing irreparable damage? He felt the blade touch the musket-ball and pried carefully. It didn't move a jot. If he pushed instead of pried…! If he exerted too much pressure, and the blade slipped…! ‘My God!' he thought. ‘I can't!'

Charles murmured, “Nasty. Lucky he has you to help him, Doctor.”

His hand beginning to tremble as the musket-ball defied his efforts, Victor risked a swift upward glance. The calm blue eyes smiled into his own. Charles gave him a confident nod.

Victor drew a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and dug. The knife blade slipped. Blood spurted over his hand. Horrified, he thought, ‘Well, I've killed him!' A voice he scarcely recognized as his own grated, “Wipe it clear!” and a female hand dabbed a pad of linen at the wound.

He heard an exclamation. Blinking, he saw that a small part of the bullet was now visible. He shoved the hook at Rosamond and snatched up the pincers. The slim steel jaws gripped the ball and moved it slightly, only to slip. He tried again—and again, but each sweating effort failed. He knew he was running out of time. In desperation, he flung the pincers away, grabbed the knife, dug it ruthlessly past the heavy iron ball, pushed back and pried hard. There followed what seemed an eternity of useless, nerve-racking effort. Then the ball fairly shot up and fell to the floor. The haemorrhage was immediate and horrifying. Sick with apprehension, Victor shouted at Charles to apply pressure to the wound while he himself grabbed for the pot of salve. ‘Lord,' he prayed silently, ‘I don't know what I'm doing.
Please
help me!' “Let up now,” he snapped. Charles removed the gruesome pad and at once Victor began to slap the black salve thickly over the wound. “Lift him,” he gasped. “Quick!”

Charles slid his arm under de Villars' shoulders. Rosamond had the pad ready.

Victor said breathlessly, “Hold the pad over it. Hard, girl! Harder! He's bleeding to death! That's it. Charles, hold him…” He wound the long strip over the pad and around de Villars' sagging body with desperate haste, and pulled each layer as tight as he dared, then told Rosamond to hold it in place while he cut the end, split it through the middle and wrapped one end again around de Villars. Charles lowered the unconscious man, and Victor tied his knot, then slumped, closing his eyes, breathing hard, feeling drained and sick and exhausted.

A small cheer went up. Rosamond tottered away, holding out her blood-stained hands in shuddering horror. Deborah snatched up another towel and ran to her and began to wipe off her hands.

Victor soaked a rag and washed his own hands, and Holt said, “You gave it a dashed good try, Captain!”

Colonel Albritton cleared his throat and said drily, “Looks dead to me.”

With a scared oath, Victor bent over de Villars' motionless form and felt vainly for a pulse.

“You'll never be after believin' what I just found, y'r honour!” Corporal Callahan reappeared at the door without a pannikin of hot water, but with a grimy, unshaven, and extremely untidy gentleman at his side.

“Good God!” exclaimed the colonel, astounded. “What the deuce happened to
you,
Fairleigh?”

“Jacob! My Jacob!” A purple bruise darkened Roland Fairleigh's classic jaw but as he hobbled across the room he beamed at the soldier and held out one hand eagerly. “You charged to my rescue like a regular conquering hero! How may I thank you,
mon cher
coz?”

Holt was Fairleigh's
cousin?
Victor met Rosamond's frightened glance steadily, but nerved himself for desperate action.

Torn between embarrassment and vexation, Holt slapped Fairleigh's hand aside. “Had you seen fit to let me know you was here, Roly, I'd have been more like to forbid your damned interference than ride to your rescue!”

Fairleigh did not appear cast down by this daunting reception, but, apparently only now becoming cognizant of the wider scene, his dark eyes widened. “Jove! What a slaughterhouse!” He wandered over to peer at the limp figure on the settle and stood for a moment very still.
“De Villars…!”

“Rejoice!” sneered Holt. “Your score with him is settled, as you see.”

From under the black brows Fairleigh's gaze darted to him. “You have proved his involvement, then?”

“Amply.”

Fairleigh stared down at de Villars with a rather unpleasant smile. “Dead, is he?”

Victor said miserably, “I was—not sufficiently skilfull. Unfortunately.”

Charles turned perfectly white and ducked his head for a moment.

“Nonsense!” said Holt. “I seldom saw a better effort! As for you, Roland, I have no need to ask
why
you are here. Perhaps you will enlighten me as to
when
you were discovered and
what
you have learned.”

18

Fairleigh sighed and gave a Gallic gesture of resignation. “The one negates the other, alas. I was discovered before I learned anything of value, struck down without mercy, trussed up like a side of beef, and deposited in that disgusting wood-shed whence your splendid trooper rescued me!”

Victor had to struggle to restrain a start. He looked obliquely at Charles, who was regarding Fairleigh with a total lack of expression.

Also watching his cousin narrow-eyed, Holt snapped, “Which of these people attacked you?”

“Would that I knew.” Fairleigh sighed. “'Twas dark, and I was creeping up on this wretched structure to see who was inside. Next thing I knew, I had been beaten and stowed in my horrid prison. And just when I'd thought myself about to learn something. Life is so curst full of disappointments, alas. Speaking of which, if you shot young Singleton, my Jacob, you were off your mark, dear boy.”

“I did not.” Holt sneered, “But do, by all means, enlighten me.”

Rosamond, who had endured the sickening ordeal of assisting Victor through his crude surgery, was now overset by reaction and clung to Deborah, so weak in the knees that she could scarcely remain standing. Her shocked brain groped for an understanding of what was taking place. For some reason Roland Fairleigh had not betrayed them just now, but there was little hope that he would continue to be silent. She felt cold with despair and looked to the man she loved, longing for his comforting arm about her.

Victor also was grappling with this worsening situation. For there to be any chance at all of rescuing his lady and completing the task he was sworn to accomplish, at least
one
of them must be free to attempt a rescue. With Fairleigh's advent, the last door appeared to have closed. And yet Fairleigh had not told his cousin about the cypher, or their Jacobite involvement. Why? Deborah Singleton had said he was a bounty hunter; perhaps he wanted not the reward for informing, but the treasure itself! He was just the type of flamboyant adventurer to scorn the achievable riches and shoot for the greater and unattainable prize. And regardless of his motives, their best hope was to make a move while Holt still had only half a patrol.

His gaze flickered over the opposition. The three troopers looked a poor lot; probably Callahan had the most spunk and he could be dealt with. Holt was a major danger, however, and Fairleigh would be no mean opponent. His glance shifted to the colonel. The man looked haggard, but his head was still well up. Of them all,
he
would be the power to be reckoned with, partly because he was Rosa's father and must not be hurt. Howard Singleton slumped with his hips against the table and his head bowed. His wound appeared to have stopped bleeding, and Miss Deborah had taped the pad over it. The poor lad was likely devastated by grief and shock, aggravated by the effects of his wound; certainly he looked barely able to stay upright and would pose little of a problem. Even so, in the final analysis it was seven to two; poor odds, and four of the seven were armed, while the colonel had that damned great blunderbuss which could bring down a whole roomful was it loaded with nails or loose shot! His jaw set grimly. It was not beyond hope, and must be attempted.

Fairleigh's impudent gaze reflected astonishment meanwhile, as he regarded his cousin. “Enlighten
you?
” he drawled. “Dear my Jacob—surely I must not hear aright? Do you—truly—admit that
you
need
me
to point out your traitors?”

The troopers grinned covertly at one another, and Callahan uttered a muffled snort.

Reddening, Holt said a pithy “
Truly,
I yearn to have been the one who administered that chastisement to your jaw, Roland! You are correct in that I
need
you not at all! Though you may make yourself useful—check and be sure that fellow is dead. You men—keep your arms at the ready.”

Two troopers swung up bayoneted muskets. Callahan aimed a pistol. Victor thought prayerfully, ‘Do not breathe, Treve old lad!'

Holt drew a document from his pocket and marched to confront the colonel, who immediately pulled back his shoulders and stood rigidly straight. Holt said sternly, “My regrets, sir, that I must bring bitter news to a man of your rank and reputation.” He turned to face Charles, unfolded the paper in his hand and read, “Charles Albritton, I arrest you in the King's name as a ringleader in a scheme to protect traitorous fugitives from justifiable arrest and execution; for consistently plotting against the King's justice in behalf of enemies of the Crown; for attempting to conceal and divert from the proper authorities a treasure amassed by The Young Pretender; and—for high treason 'gainst your king and country!”

Charles stood just as straight as his father. He was deathly pale but his eyes did not waver while these charges were listed, wincing only when that most terrible of all crimes, high treason, was levelled at him.

The colonel uttered a strangled sound as Holt swung to face Rosamond.

Charles cried angrily, “My sister is innocent! She knew nothing of this!”

Holt gave him a contemptuous look and proceeded to read off an almost identical indictment. Folding the paper, he said to the white-faced colonel, “We now know, sir, that your daughter went to Paris not merely to visit relatives, as you believed, but to attempt a meeting with a member of Prince Charles Stuart's staff—one Colonel Sir Ian Crowley. Failing in that endeavour, she tricked an English officer into becoming her courier on the journey home, hoping in that way to shield herself from suspicion.”

Rosamond stood motionless, frozen with horror. She had escaped one nightmare, it seemed, only to be directly plunged into another. She felt dizzied, and was sustained only by the blind faith that her love and her brother would somehow contrive to rescue her.

Holt paused and asked over his shoulder, “Have I the right of that, Victor?”

Inwardly astounded, Victor lied gravely, “I fear I was quite taken in, Captain.”

“Not
quite,
sir.” Holt's lip curled. “You protected the lady in the matter of her wound. 'Twas not taken aboard ship, I think.”

Victor's mind raced. If he agreed to that, Mrs. Estelle would be implicated. “You're out there, Holt. Miss Albritton did indeed suffer a—small scratch on the ship. But—er…” He lowered his eyes guiltily.

“But later suffered a more serious injury when she sought to help the wounded Jacobite near Lewes—is that it?”

“At the time, I set it down to misguided feminine sympathy.” Victor shrugged helplessly. “My error. But—” He glanced at the colonel's glowering countenance, wondering how long the man meant to wait before exploding all this nonsense.

“I see. You felt sorry for Colonel Albritton. Regrettable. I would suggest you make a clean breast of it at the trial. You will be prepared to testify against the Albrittons, of course?”

Victor nodded.

“No!” wailed Deborah, drawing away from her cousin as though appalled. “Rosa—you were in love with Hal! Say this is not true! You cannot be a traitor! You—
cannot!
”

Holt threw her a pitying glance. “Regrettably, ma'am, your cousin's loyalty to her brother appears to have outweighed her other loyalties.” He gestured to Callahan, and as the trooper moved forward, pistol at the ready, said, “Bring chains for our ignoble reverend. And be quick about it!”

Callahan went out, and Lightning, who had roused himself and was stretching lazily, jumped up and darted along with him, tail high.

Holt snapped, “Roly? What about de Villars?”

“Dead as a mackerel.” With a bored shrug Fairleigh looked up from de Villars' motionless figure. “Wish he'd lasted long enough for me to—er, chat with him.” He tossed down the limp hand he had been investigating for a pulse and said, disappointed, “I owed him one, Jacob.”

“He's paid the price. Be satisfied.” Holt frowned thoughtfully. There were questions to be asked now; details to be learned. 'Twould be as well if Roly was occupied elsewhere, for the less he knew, the better. He said, “Now you may be of more use. The rest of my patrol will be coming in and I'd not depend on their finding us. Get up on the Chichester Road and guide the blockheads here, if you please.”

“Do you know, Jacob,” drawled Fairleigh with a curl of the lip, “I believe you would be rid of me.”

“For what reason?” All innocence, Holt arched his brows. “Did I suspect you had withheld information, I'd simply have you put in irons and packed off to the Tower—dear boy.”

Fairleigh laughed. “You make your point, Coz. Deuce take me but you do.” He bowed low. “
Mesdames et messieurs,
I am obliged to leave you.” His impudent smile flashed at Victor. “Till we meet again, my friend.” He sauntered to the door and was gone.