Read Online Practice to Deceive by Patricia Veryan - Free Book Online

downwards. Beyond him, Penelope saw the wide hearth and generous fire that warmed her uncle’s study. She heard a smothered groan from Gordon, but whatever he had seen that so affected him did not prevent his staying to help her. “Nobody about, at least,” he whispered, lifting her down the deep step. “Have a care, now. Everything’s hot.”
    As at the entrance, the passage opened directly behind the hearth, and the air struck Penelope’s face with fierce heat. She held her skirts close and edged carefully around the glowing logs. The room was dim, lit only by the oil lamp on the desk that once had been her father’s. Quentin no longer lay on the sofa and Gordon was running to the desk. She saw then that the prisoner lay huddled beside it, his wrists bound to one of the legs. She flew to kneel beside him. He looked quite dead, and she breathed a frantic prayer as Gordon reached with a trembling hand to feel for a pulse.
    Quentin moaned faintly. His dark head rolled back, revealing his face deathly white between numerous bruises. A cut above his left brow had covered his eye with dried blood, but the long lashes of the other fluttered, and he looked up. Penelope’s heart cramped with sympathy, and she could have wept with gratitude because he was still alive.
    Blinking rapidly, Gordon laid a gentle hand on his brother’s sound shoulder. “My poor old fellow,” he said huskily. “What a—a damnable fix you’ve got yourself into this time.”
    Quentin’s lips quivered betrayingly. The solitary green eye was suddenly glittering with tears, and for an instant there was an emotional silence. Then, incredibly, he managed a faint, irrepressible grin. He said weakly, “I thought you’d … never come. For Lord’s sake, Gordie … find my sword. And … get me to a chamber pot.”
    â€œI’ll find the sword,” volunteered Penelope, her face very pink.
    Quentin, who had not seen her because of his blind side, turned his head painfully. “Oh … my God!” he groaned.
    Between tears and laughter, Penelope said, “There is a commode in the next room, Mr. Chandler. Quentin—can you stand?”
    â€œOf course.” He peered at her curiously. “Ma’am … surely you’re not little Penny Mont—” The words were cut off by a gasp as his brother slid an arm under his shoulders and began to lift him. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip, his eye closed, and he sagged helplessly.
    Whitening, Penelope held his left arm and, between the two of them, they got him to his feet. Quentin swayed dizzily. Watching his face, Gordon asked, “How are you now, half-ling?”
    â€œI…” Quentin whispered, “shall do … thank you.”
    Penelope flew to the connecting door to her aunt’s room. She lifted the latch, inch by inch. Her straining ears could detect no sound from within, and very gradually she opened the door. A small fire flickering on the hearth provided the only illumination in the deserted room, and the open door to the adjoining parlour revealed no light beyond. She gestured to Gordon, and he half-carried his brother over, murmuring softly, “Thank you, ma’am. Do you try to make it appear as though Quentin had escaped through the window.”
    She turned at once, and heard him scold laughingly, “A fine way to greet me! And in front of a lady!” Faint but indignant, Quentin responded, “ You should only know the joys of being … trussed up for hours!”
    Penelope sped to fling open the window. The trees at this side of the house stretched their branches quite close, but it seemed unlikely that Delavale and his cohorts would believe that a man in Quentin’s condition could have made the climb without falling. Nonetheless, to emphasize the ‘escape route,’ she pulled over a chair and set it beneath the window