Cherished Enemy (21 page)

A faint frown crept into Victor's grey eyes.

Charles said placidly, “Why, we all can learn from books, sir. The Greeks were most—”

“Most crushing bores,” interposed his father with finality.

“Spelled with two
o
's, dear?” enquired Estelle, fixing him with an irked stare.

Victor chuckled audibly and the colonel's angry gaze flashed to him. “Come now, sir,” he said laughingly. “You have been neatly ambushed. Your pickets are taken! Own it!”

For a moment the room was very still, then the colonel grinned ruefully. “My sister-in-law's tongue, alas, is—”

“Is humbly begging your pardon,” said Mrs. Porchester, contrite. “I forget we have a guest. Dr. Victor has been so kind, he seems almost one of the family.”

Rosamond looked at Victor steadily and was astonished to see his face redden and his eyes drop. “I fear we are embarrassing the doctor,” she murmured.

“Then I am sorry for it. But I should be very glad,” said the colonel, his whiskers vibrating, “to learn what happened to your dainty cousin Jacques, that I must needs be beholden to a stranger for the safe escort of my ladies!”

“No, no, sir,” protested Victor, “the task was my very great pleasure, and I am no stranger, but your son's good friend. Surely that gave me the right?”

‘Good friend, indeed! You blackmailing rogue,' thought Rosamond indignantly.

“Prettily said,” the colonel growled. “But—if there's anything I despise more than a jelly-backed mealy-mouth, it's a dandified fop—which is what Jacques is become!”

From the corner of his eye, Victor saw Charles's hand tighten into a fist on the table.

Rosamond protested, “No, but really, dear sir, 'tis very true that poor Jacques was most direly afflicted with—”

“Seasickness!” snorted the colonel. “What kind of dainty miss would give in to so trite—”

“It seems to me, Albritton,” mused Mrs. Estelle, “that when we crossed to Bordeaux last Spring—”

“Jove,” exclaimed the colonel hurriedly. “Before old Claxton comes breathing fire and fury, I must show you my roses, Victor. Dashed proud of 'em, if I say so m'self, and I set out every single bush with my own hands!”

“
Almost
 … every bush,” qualified Mrs. Estelle, with a demure flutter of her eyelashes.

The colonel glared at her. “If you ladies are finished…”

The ladies admitting this fact, Charles and Victor made haste to pull out their chairs. Rosamond and her aunt departed to consult with Miss Seddon as to the birthday party, and the colonel led their guest out into the bright morning.

Charles followed them to the French doors and watched frowningly as they walked across the lawn side by side. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the distant rose garden. “Oh—the deuce!” he gasped, and made a bee-line for his pavilion.

He was too late. Before he reached the steps, the colonel's full-throated roar echoed across the quiet grounds like a trumpet sounding the call to arms.

With a resigned sigh, the reverend gentleman detoured to the relief of his afflicted parent.

9

“What I fail to comprehend,” said Dr. Victor, grinning broadly, “is why your aunt would have introduced such an unrestrained calamity into the home of a man known to be a fanatic about his garden.”

Having come to the top of the hill, Rosamond reined in her dapple-grey mare and smiled perfunctorily but did not reply as she looked out over the softly rippling folds of the South Downs to where spread the distant blue reaches of the sea.

Had it not been for Trifle's dastardly desecration of her father's prize rose garden, she would not now be obliged to entertain the ruthless villain who rode beside her. The Rose Atrocity had been further magnified by the fact that the day was warm. The uprooted bushes must be replanted with tenderness and great care, and the rescue mission must be undertaken at once else they would surely perish. The colonel, in the grip of a nigh uncontrollable fury, had not for a moment considered allowing his perfectly competent gardener to repair the damage. As little as he valued his son's contributions to civilization, there was no denying that Charles was a man who knew his horticulture. However, when commanded to assist his father in the work of restoration, the young cleric had hesitated, his glance turning to their guest. Testily, his parent had informed him that he had nothing to do with his time that could prevent his complying with such a request, and that Rosamond would be happy to guide the doctor about the district. As usual, the colonel had had his way. Now, looking unseeingly at the rich serenity of this lovely southland, Rosamond could only pray that, just for once, Charles would manage to please their tempestuous sire.

The tip of the doctor's riding crop touched gently under her chin. “You are prettier when you do not think troubled thoughts,” he told her gently.

She jerked her head away and, because the kindliness in his eyes was so hurtful and so hypocritical that she yearned to scratch him, she said irritably, “One cannot be—” only to stop, biting her lip and vexed with herself.

“Pretty all the time?” he teased.

“As if I would say such a thing!”

“Probably not, but nor would you admit you are troubled. And you are. Why?”

‘Because you are here with your lies and your wickedness, you hateful creature!' she thought bitterly. And said, “I should think that would be obvious. Even to someone who has visited us for so short a time.”

“Charles? Oh, I'd not worry about him, were I you.”

(‘I'm very sure you would not, Dr. Treachery!') “How can I help but worry? You see how my father treats him.”

“Yes. He is extreme afraid of him, I grant you, but—”

“Charles is
not
afraid!” she flashed angrily.

“I'd not intended to imply he was. T'other way around, m'dear ma'am.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “My
father?
Afraid of—
Charles
…?”

She laughed scornfully, but sobered when Victor continued to regard her with steady gravity. “You are not serious?”

“But of course. I was sure you'd have realized, for you seem quite intelligent for an En—” He rephrased with scarcely a pause, “an engaging young lady.”

So the gentleman was in a teasing mood today. She could only be grateful that she was apparently not to be obliged—as she had feared—to deal politely with ardent (and perfidious) declarations of undying love! “No, you are
too
generous, sir.” But for Charles's sake, she tempered her sarcasm by adding a coquettish “I expect you think that I am actually very stupid.”

Instead of immediately protesting this as any true gentleman would do, he pursed his lips, then said, “I'd not really thought that … exactly.” His laughing eyes parried her irked ones. “No—surely you must see that your father bullies Charles because he is at a loss to know how to deal with him. He is probably reluctant to admit that Charles has the keener intellect. Now you really should not let your chin hang down like that or you'll be taken for an—”

“Icon?” she snapped. And immediately felt icy cold, her heart thundering with dismay that she could have blundered so unforgivably.

“A—what?”

“You—w-were asking me about Trifle, I believe,” she stammered. “We always had dogs when I was—gr-growing up, but they were older and—and well-mannered, you know. When Rusty died, Charles bought a new puppy, but it was frisky and dug up a few plants so we were obliged to give it to friends.”

“And your papa decreed there would be no more livestock, is that it?”

“Yes. But my aunt loves dogs, and Trifle was a gift to her whilst we were in Denmark, so she risked bringing him home.”

They started to walk the horses towards the lane at the foot of the hill, and Victor said, “Your aunt is a remarkable woman. She does not fear your rather awesome father, I think.”

“No more do I!”

His amused gaze challenged her, and she qualified, “Well—very seldom. Though I hate it when he shouts, or when he pinches at poor Charles all the time. Especially if he does so in front of strangers.”

“But you are unjust,” he argued in an aggrieved fashion. “You and I have braved wounds and peril together, and in happier days Charles suffered with me through Latin and history and other such obstacle courses, so I refuse to be dubbed a stranger.”

Rosamond urged her mare onward, shocked by the awareness of how far from a stranger she had come to think him. Had she allowed him to detect her attraction to him? If so, with his own heart secretly given to Deborah, how he must have laughed at her. Truly, she had been very foolish … And, perhaps because
she
was a stranger to deceit, she was finding it increasingly difficult to conceal her disgust of this smooth-tongued hypocrite whose eyes twinkled at her so whimsically even as he plotted against her brother.

Looking at him from under her lashes as he came up with her, she saw a small crease between his brows. Lud, but was he recalling her unforgivable remark about the icon? She
must
try to conceal her feelings, or Charles would pay the price. She forced her lips into a warm smile and asked with spurious interest, “
Were
they happy days for you?”

He gave her a long, sober look before replying, “At school?” His gaze became remote then and he murmured nostalgically, “Jove, but they were. At the time, I found them very often confining—irritating in many ways. But—in later years…” He sighed. “What a pity that we so often fail to appreciate what we have whilst we have it, rather than in retrospect.”

And what a pity it was that at times he could seem so likeable. But that was one of the hallmarks of villainy, of course. Longing to be elsewhere, she said, “Well, you have your memories, at least.”

“Very true. Memories of countless fierce debates and arguments; the frustration of grappling with some concept that was beyond my understanding, and the triumph when it was grasped. The friendships I made that hopefully will endure through life. The way we used to carouse about that historic old town. The golden afternoons on the river, or strolling along The Backs…” He lapsed into a dreaming silence, which was as well, since Rosamond was staring at him intently.

At some time or other, she had heard of “The Backs,” but she was quite sure that Charles had never mentioned such a place. Troubled by an intuitive sense that it was important, she was distracted by Trifle who, having been brought along so as to remove him from the threat of summary execution, was now barking furiously. From the corner of her eye she saw Victor's hand drop to the hilt of his sword. With a twinge of fear she turned to see a rider approaching at the gallop. The gentleman rode tall in the saddle and flashed up the slope at an incredible pace. There could be no mistaking the darkly handsome face, the graceful ease of movement.

“Pox on the fellow,” muttered Victor.

Rosamond's reaction was quite different. She thrust her worries aside and called a delighted “Mr. Fairleigh! Welcome! Oh, how
nice
that you can come to us!”

“And so soon,” drawled Victor with a good deal less enthusiasm.

“Your brother told me where I might—find you, Miss Albritton,” said Fairleigh, the words rather uneven as his tall chestnut horse pranced, eyes rolling at Trifle, who snapped at his hooves. “You look radiant as ever, ma'am. Servant, Victor. I—Ecod, but you've run your chin 'gainst a fist, I see.” His dark eyes glinted with amusement. “Obliged to strike him, was you, ma'am?”

Rosamond's smile was rather forced. “I resisted the impulse, Mr. Fairleigh. Trifle—
stop!
Dr. Victor suffered a fall.”

“Thanks to the same pest who now tries to unseat
you,
” said Victor, and roared, “Unmitigated—
DOWN
!”

Trifle sat down meekly, put his ears back and grinned at everyone with all the innocence of Man's Best Friend, unjustly maligned.

Victor exchanged an astonished glance with Rosamond and muttered, “Good God!”

Unable to restrain a laugh, she gave Fairleigh her hand. “You have been at the Court, then. Do tell me—is my poor papa still apoplectic?”

Instead of simply taking her hand, he bowed and contrived to press a kiss upon it, this manoeuvre bringing a derisive curl to the physician's lips. “He was all that is courteous, fair lady, and has, in fact, invited that I dine with you.” Quite aware of the scowl on Victor's face, he added demurely, “An you've no objection, of course.”

“I am only too pleased,” Rosamond assured him, with a smile of such warmth that his black brows lifted slightly.

“Well,
I
am not pleased,” said Victor. “I'd thought to have properly packed you off in the wrong direction.”

“I'll own 'twas a good effort. Nor do I blame you. ‘All policy's allowed in war and love.'” He glanced mischievously at the amused girl. “And as old Will Shakespeare said, ‘She's beautiful and therefore to be wooed.'”

“I blush,” said Rosamond, doing so, much to the apparent delectation of both men.

“Hmmn,” said Victor. “Miss Rosamond, 'ware the fellow who quotes poetry. Despicable trait!”

“How odd that I do not find it at all so,” she answered sweetly.

“I'm glad you do not care for it, dear boy,” drawled Fairleigh, “for I've no least intention of quoting the poets to
you.
”

“Thank the Lord for that,” said Victor, smiling absently as he watched Rosamond's mirth. “And, speaking of beautiful things…”

Her blue eyes shot to him and for a hushed moment they gazed at each other, while Fairleigh glanced shrewdly from Victor's fine-boned intent face to the lost look on the girl's delicately beautiful features. Then Rosamond frowned and jerked her head away, and Victor started and went on hurriedly, “Er—you've a fine animal, Fairleigh. How old is he?”