Cherished Enemy (6 page)

Fairleigh's dark eyes twinkled. “But of course. Do I offend? You admire the gentleman, perhaps?”

Victor leaned back and said a rather clipped “I believe I admire no gentleman sufficiently to risk my head on his account, if that is what you mean. Pray continue. You spoke of treasure.”

“A vast treasure, sir. It seems Prince Charles sent out a plea for aid, and his supporters responded grandly. Their donations were destined for shipment to France, where they would buy guns, supplies, and mercenaries to swell the Jacobite ranks. When news of it leaked out, it caused no little stir in England. Indeed, I marvel that you did not hear of 't.”

The young doctor drew a battered old pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from an equally worn tobacco pouch. “If 'twas as vast an amount as you claim,” he replied drily, “
I
marvel that Prince Charles and his Jacobites did not bring their rebellion to a successful conclusion.”

“Rather,” sighed Fairleigh, “than suffering an ingominious defeat followed by wholesale slaughter, and the hunting down and summary execution of those unfortunates who survived the battle.” Beneath their thick, down-drooping lashes his shrewd black eyes watched the physician narrowly. Victor was busied with his tinder-box and appeared unmoved by this summation, and Fairleigh went on. “They were not able to transport the treasure to France, for our men-o'-war rove the east coast; our soldiers guard the northern passes.” He shrugged, moving his graceful white hands in a faintly French gesture. “Checkmate.”

“So what became of the treasure?”

“Alas, no one knows for sure. Rumour has it that some well-meaning fools, both Scots and English, have banded together in an attempt to restore it to the rightful owners. Many Jacobite sympathizers, and the families of men known to have fought for the Stuarts, have been dispossessed, you are aware? The poor creatures are quite literally starving. The return of a pretty bauble donated in better days to The Cause might now represent the price of a cottage or food and clothing. Riches to rags—eh, sir?”

“You are—kindly disposed towards Jacobites, perchance…?”

It was softly said, but Fairleigh hesitated, looking at the doctor from the corners of his eyes before answering as softly, “Such an admission could cost me my head, sir, but I'll own I feel no animosity towards the poor devils. God knows, they've suffered enough.”

Victor puffed on his pipe and watched Fairleigh's handsome earnest face through the blue smoke. “You seem remarkably well informed about all this.”

“'Twould be hard to dwell in the Three Kingdoms today, Doctor, and be uninformed. Half the army and as many public-spirited citizens, one gathers, search for Jacobite couriers, and—”

“Couriers?” interposed Victor, his brows lifting. “Of what?”

“Your pardon, I keep forgetting you have been—ah, abroad. At all events, it seems the Jacobites are now anxious to tuck their treasure away in some safe spot, and to that end have sent instructions to those who now hold it so that—”

“Have
sent
instructions? Is this treasure not in Scotland?”

“Apparently not. If rumour speaks true, it lies somewhere in England.”

Victor gave a sudden shout of laughter. “Ah, I have been properly hoaxed, I see! And deserve it for being so gullible.”

“
Mais non!
There is no jest, I promise you! Is said that, having been unable to put the treasure aboard ship in Scotland, it was sent down to England safely enough, because such a move was completely unexpected. Once there, the Jacobites believed it would be easy to transport to France, while all the English gunboats concentrated on the Scottish coast.”

“Daring, if true. What happened?”

“Time ran out, I fancy. Anyway, that is how the story goes. What do you make of it?”

“It all sounds very unlikely. But—you spoke of couriers?”

“I did. There are five, I heard. Four sent out from Scotland with coded messages supposedly concerning the disposition of the treasure. And the fifth—God help him!—with a list of all those who contributed.”

The doctor took the pipe from between his teeth and whistled softly. “Not a task I'd care to undertake. The poor devils must be hounded unmercifully. There are bounty hunters who think nought of tracking some exhausted fugitive and selling his head to the military. Can you picture what that kind of scum would do to get their hands on the cyphers you describe?”

Mr. Fairleigh regarded him gravely but before he could answer, a succession of scrambling thuds, much panting, and an exuberant charge brought Dr. Victor leaping from his chair with a muttered curse, barely in time to forestall Trifle's attempt to jump onto his lap.

“So there you are,” cried Mrs. Porchester, following her disastrous puppy down the stairs with much billowing of silks and laces.

Fairleigh stood, and both gentlemen bowed and welcomed her.

“I declare, this vessel is like a ghost ship,” she said, somewhat short of breath as she restored several long wisps of hair that had been blown over her face. “Occupied by ghosts—or so they appear, poor things! How very fortunate that we are not among the afflicted. 'Tis nice to see you looking better this morning, Mr. Fairleigh. Dr. Victor, my niece is much improved, but I wish you will come and change the dressing.”

“I believe Miss Albritton would feel easier if you performed that small task,” he said quickly. “I fear I annoyed her when I ripped up her night-dress.”

Mr. Fairleigh was engaged in swinging a gold-chased quizzing glass from the chain that hung about his neck, but at this he gave an audible gasp, the hand holding that elegant chain jerked convulsively, and he stared wide-eyed at the physician.

Reddening, Victor added, “For bandages!”

“Ahhh…” murmured Fairleigh, titillated.

“You're a saucy rascal, sir, I can see,” said Mrs. Porchester, with a marked lack of severity. “Now, come along, Doctor. If 'tis a matter of your fee…”

Victor accompanied her into the cold wind, Trifle leaping along the deck before them. There were more people about now, uniformly pale and wan as they commiserated with one another upon the “frightful crossing” and gazed with hollow-eyed yearning at the distant cliffs. Victor offered his arm and shepherded his lady through.

“There will be no fee, ma'am,” he said.

“No fee?” She was surprised. “Are you always so obliging, sir? Or is it perhaps,” she added with a twinkle, “that my beautiful niece has captured another heart?”

“Not at all,” he replied baldly. “The truth is, Mrs. Porchester, I rather think I may be acquainted with a member of your family. But—'tis probably foolishness on my part, as there are doubtless many families of the same name. My friend was called Charles and—”

“Charles? Why, that is my nephew's name,” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “Charles Albritton! Rosamond's brother. Her
brother!
”

“Never say so!” A grin illumined his rather serious countenance in a way Mrs. Estelle thought delightful and that she was later to tell her niece made him seem almost as handsome as that devastating Mr. Fairleigh. “I've not seen Albritton since I left to continue my studies in Paris,” Victor went on. “I trust he is well, ma'am? Has he been ordained as yet?”

“Indeed he has, and—oh, hurry, hurry! I can scarce wait to tell my niece that you are acquainted with her dear brother.
What
a small world it is to be sure! What a
small
world!”

Left alone in the lounge, Mr. Fairleigh sat down again, but he did not take up his newspaper, gazing instead at the brightening portholes, and smiling his faint, cynical smile.

*   *   *

Aunt Estelle, thought Rosamond, must be experiencing some difficulty in finding Dr. Victor. Cautiously, she lifted the brush and with not a little discomfort coaxed one tendril of her darkly golden locks into a descending ripple beside her right ear. By proceeding very gently, she had managed to arrange her hair into a less severe style than her aunt had created. Her poor head still ached, and her side, when she raised her arm, was stiff and tender, but by and large she was feeling surprisingly well this morning, despite the continued tossing of the cabin. She really had no pressing need for the services of the block of ice that called itself Dr. Robert Victor. Nor did she at all like the creature, for how could one like a man—however attractive he might be—who looked upon one without the least spark of interest? Interest! Aversion, more like! And he had dared to say females flew into the boughs “at the least little thing.” The wretch! Thus, if she had not argued with her aunt's determination to bring him here, it was, she told herself, purely out of curiosity to see if those cold eyes ever reflected other emotions besides wrath, hauteur, and unfriendliness.

She sighed and scanned her reflection. She was not of a noble family and had neither title nor fortune to recommend her, but her birth was far from contemptible and although she was not a vain girl, she could not fail to know that she was very pretty. “All this stuff” indeed! Revolting creature! How dare he use such terms to describe her hair? It was true that blondes were out of fashion, but with the unfortunate gold of her luxuriant tresses concealed under powder, and just the right flutter of her curling lashes, she had captured several most desirable Parisian beaux into becoming worshipful members of her court. She eased back an unruly curl and frowned. “All this stuff…”

Her gaze drifted down to the blouse that Aunt Estelle had very gently helped her into, so that she would not have to lift her arms to don a proper night-dress. Cautiously, she pulled it up. The bandage Dr. Victor had wound around her just below her breasts came into view and she eyed it with resentment. The dear dainty little night-dress on which she had expended so many patient hours—and he'd torn it up without so much as enquiring if there was another piece of cotton that might have been less disastrously utilized. He had not made a very neat bandage either. But, of course, one had to allow for the fact that the ship had been heaving frenziedly, and the doctor obviously put about because Trifle had been so disobliging as to bite him a little bit. He deserved it, the oaf. That's what he was—a woman-hating oaf, who needed to be taught a lesson.

She replaced the blouse thoughtfully. There was no doubting that Englishmen lacked the savoir-faire, the polished courtliness of French gentlemen. They improved, of course, with a little simple instruction …

She chuckled and returned to the bunk, climbing in and arranging the bedclothes so as to present her stricken self to best advantage. The drawings and paintings she had done during their travels lay near at hand, and she began to leaf through them. She really had made some rather good water-colours of Versailles, and her sketches of the Seine when the clouds had come up so suddenly one day were the very thing to have framed for Charles's vicarage—whenever he should be awarded a permanent living, poor darling. Papa might like the one of the splendid troop of cuirassiers who had ridden in through the Montmarte Gate that beautiful breezy morning. She'd captured the sunlight on their breastplates rather well, if she said so her—

Aunt Estelle's voice was close at hand. Rosamond tossed the sketches onto the small chest, eased herself down, and spread her fair curls across the pillow. And, even as she did so, wondered why she was troubling herself. The man was only a doctor, after all; one could not really expect him to behave as a gentleman.

The door opened. Trifle plunged in, raced to the bunk and sprang upon it, cavorting about and barking madly. Forgetting all about her appearance, Rosamond let out a shriek and tried to protect herself.

A deep voice growled an oath. Trifle was dealt a sharp blow with some rolled-up papers. Immediately interpreting this as a new game, he seized the end of the impromptu weapon and flung himself whole-heartedly into the tussle. The cloudy view of the Seine was rent asunder. The magnificent cavalry troop shredded.

Rosamond wailed, “My sketches! Oh
no!
”

Dr. Victor swore under his breath and abandoned the struggle as Trifle bore off his prize, hotly pursued by his vexed owner.

“'Twould seem I can do nothing to please you, madam,” gritted the doctor, flushed.

“Those sketches are irreplaceable,” declared Rosamond tearfully, thinking that the horrid man was a full-fledged disaster. First her night-dress, and now those lovely sketches and paintings. All her hard work—ruined! And it had been far and away the best work she'd ever done! She had
so
looked forward to presenting them to Charles and her dear papa.

He picked up a fragment of cuirassier and looked at it without marked contrition. “Sorry. Perhaps they can be stuck back together.”

Stuck back together?
The fiend! Incensed, she said somewhat unjustly, “I thought you had come to attend
me,
sir, not to play with Trifle.”

“
Play
with him! I'd like to—” He broke off, compressing his lips, then snarled through his teeth, “How do you go on this morning?”

“Very much better, I thank you,” she replied, with difficulty restraining the impulse to add “until now!” But the sight of him, face like a thunder-cloud, standing as far away from the berth as possible, hands clasped behind him, presented an irresistible challenge. Lying back, she pressed a hand to her side, and said in a fainter voice, “I think I must have hurt it a little when Trifle jumped on me.”

Victor bit his lip. Pretty Miss Albritton was very obviously the type of female who would find something to complain at no matter how one tried to please. Still, she certainly presented an angelic appearance, lying there looking so helpless, with her shining hair spread like a cloud of gold on the pillow.

Mrs. Porchester, having subdued Trifle with her slipper and banished him to lie panting happily under her bunk, came breathlessly to say that she had found some salve and had water and bandages all ready.