Feather Castles (18 page)

Tristram stood motionless, but watchful.

Narrowed eyes gleaming malevolently, the dog prepared to spring.

“For God's sake!” breathed Tristram, readying for violent action.

“Here, boy!” The slender fingers snapped, scant inches from those powerful jaws.

Growling deep in its throat, the dog's long tail began to wag. The fearsome rumble stopped. The upcurled lip relaxed. The bristling hair lowered.

Slowly, easily, Devenish touched the wolfish head, then tugged at one rather mangled ear. The dog whined, moved closer, and butted its head under that caressing hand.

“I'll be … damned!” gasped Tristram.

Devenish grinned up at him. “I've a bit of a way with animals.”

Tristram had detected a new sound. “I trust you've a bit of a way with farm labourers. I fancy your friend here was the advance guard.”

Devenish sprang up. “You stay, old fellow,” he ordered, and the dog lay down at once.

“Come on!” urged Tristram. “Those rakes don't look any too friendly!”

The farmhands proved a lusty crew, armed with an unnerving array of implements from pitchforks to shovels, and it was some time before their prey dared slow to a walk. Long after he had regained his wind, however, Tristram was silent, his brow furrowed, and the occasional remarks of his companion earning only an abstracted grunt by way of answer.

“Women?” Devenish asked. “They're the devil, are they not?”

Tristram smiled faintly. “Matter of fact, I was thinking of a man. Dev—are you by any chance acquainted with a fellow named Sanguinet?”

“By God—I am not!” Devenish responded, considerably affronted. His ire faded when he saw that Tristram watched him with an almost fearful intensity. The matter must be important, he deduced, and elaborated, “The father was said to be tutor to the Fiend Incarnate. He's dead these five years and more. Unhappily, before he slipped his wind, he sired three sons. Of Guy, the youngest, I know little save that he has fought several duels and is considered deadly. Parnell, the middle brother, is universally despised, and universally catered to. They've wealth beyond imagination, besides which, rumour has it that those who cross them suffer strange and often fatal reverses. My Tyrant claims that Claude, the eldest of 'em, is a monster
veritablement!
”

The ghastly suspicion that had bedevilled him ever since Shotten had voiced his poison, strengthened its grip. Tristram asked, with an attempt at nonchalance, “Dangerous? Oh—to the women, you mean?”

“No. But he is, I'll admit. How any woman could stomach him is more than I can fathom, for his reputation is perfectly horrible. Money, I suppose. He has an English chit for a playmate at the moment. A beauty, so I hear. Her family's smoky, to say the least of it, but—that she would sink to his level is downright shocking!” He shook his head righteously, happily unaware of the menace of two glinting eyes. “He means to marry her, apparently. Lord knows why—unless he wants to wed into England's society. He's not picked a prime example, but—beggars can't be choosers, and with his past, no matchmaking Mama of the
ton
would allow her daughter within arm's length of the creature. The only other explanation is that the slut's in a delicate condition and blackmailing the dirty bas—” He choked. A hand of iron had gripped his cravat and dragged him to within inches of a face he scarcely recognized, so contorted was it with passion.

“Apologize! You filthy, lying swine!” grated Tristram.

Devenish spluttered, “You're ripe—for Bedlam! Let go!”

“Take back what you said—damn your soul!”

“The … the devil I … will!”

The murderous grip tightened. Not all Devenish's struggles were of any avail, and a red haze was clouding his vision when he was flung away so violently that he staggered.

“By God!” Tristram snarled. “Did I not outweigh you…”

Devenish stood swaying, clutching his throat, and gasping for breath. But in a very few seconds he hurled himself at his tormentor. Tristram placed one hand squarely in the middle of the enraged man's chest, and held it there.

“Fight! You addlewitted hedgebird! You—you manmilliner!” Devenish roared, arms flailing madly. “Damn you—fight!”

“If I did, I'd likely kill you.”

“Indeed?” Devenish's struggles ceased. He drew himself up and, as Tristram lowered his restraining hand, requested regally, “Name your seconds!”

“How in the deuce can I name seconds when I don't know with whom I am acquainted?”

The lofty hauteur was at once submerged in rage. “Then—devil take you, we'll fight without seconds. Here and now!” He flung back his hand, but Tristram caught and held his wrist. “I'll not fight a green boy,” he said. His own rare fury had waned, and recalling what Rachel had said of her family's disgrace, he watched Devenish thoughtfully through a torrent of outrage during which he was advised that it was too much, quite the outside of enough, and, “I'll have your blood for it! Damme if I don't! You damn near throttled me, blast you! And for no reason! You asked a question. I did my best to give you a civil answer and—”

“And is it your practice to speak ill of a lady of Quality?”

The perfect features flushed scarlet. The blue eyes slid away. “It is not. Nor did I. The Strand girl is not—”

“Have a care!”

Devenish stared at him. Was that the way of it, then? But it was no excuse, regardless! “You have questioned my honour, sir,” he said grandly. “You
must
answer to me!”

Those fateful words could not have been spoken with more disdain by a Prince of the blood. Devenish was more than a little superb in his youthful pride and courage. But his old beaver hat was stained and battered, his face bruised and not too clean, and the shoulder of his coat was torn. A twinkle crept into Tristram's dark eyes, and he asked in a gentler tone, “How do you know I am a gentleman? Perhaps I'm not worthy of your steel.”

Devenish saw the twinkle and interpreted it as mockery. Seething, he wheeled, suddenly swung around, and backhanded Tristram hard across the mouth.

Tristram gasped and staggered slightly. The boy was stronger than he'd thought! Devenish's flush had faded. He looked grim and white, and very determined. The cold feel of blood on his chin, Tristram bowed and started off.

With a howl of frustration, Devenish sprang after him. “Stop!” he demanded, trotting anxiously along beside his adversary. “Have you
no
sense of proper conduct? Stop! I am five and twenty—
not
a green boy! Dammit man, I doubt you're above four or five years my senior—eh?
Will
you stop! I've struck you in the face—drawn your cork too, begad! You
cannot
simply walk away from that!”

Tristram could, and did. Baffled, Devenish halted, watching him, then ran in furious pursuit. Sighing, Tristram turned. Devenish raced at him, fists clenched. At the last instant, Tristram stepped lightly to the side. Unable to stop his furious charge, Devenish shot into the deep ditch beside the hedge.

Tristram surveyed him gravely as he sprawled, winded, amid the brambles. “Good day to you, sir,” he said, and went his way, faint, breathless curses following him.

*   *   *

What was the name of the village, or even the country through which he now wandered, Tristram had no idea. He knew that several days had passed since he'd parted from Devenish, and he had a vague knowledge that they had been riotous in the extreme. He remembered several inns and himself shouting for “Ale all round!” Some kind soul had guided his wavering feet to a room where he had been allowed to sleep. The next night, he had shared accommodations with a gentle-eyed carthorse. He had talked at length with that patient animal, explaining that it could not be truth. Rachel Strand was a pure and virtuous lady. She
could
not be—she
was
not—the mistress of such as Claude Sanguinet. No! Never! The carthorse had flicked an ear, his gaze plainly pitying. And Tristram had remembered many little incidents to erode his trust. Her obvious familiarity with the yacht, the vicious remarks of those two women in the library—aimed at Rachel, he now knew. By her very evasion, she had admitted she did not love her affianced. But, “I shall marry him,” she'd said. “I shall marry him.” She adored Charity, and it was very possible that she was wedding Sanguinet to provide for her sister. But she had known a father's love; she had a brother—she certainly must be aware of Claude's foul reputation. No lady could sell herself to such a man—whatever her reason. Nor was it necessary. There were other, far more palatable alternatives. Rachel was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. She could have her pick from among the Cits and Nabobs, that was beyond doubting. Much they would care for her father's disgrace! And better a decent merchant, than a “nobleman” of Claude's stamp! Because of his own clouded memory, it did not occur to him that a sheltered girl would have no way of meeting such men, nor that advances from a stranger would have frightened her. He decided wretchedly that, knowing what Claude was, she had cared not. Loving another man, she had clung to her Croesus. “I shall wed him…” No matter how vile, how depraved! “He has been so good…” He has been so generous, she meant! Sodden days and nights had followed. Bereft of hope, he had now lost the one thing that had sustained him. The pure angel he had worshipped did not exist. He had given his heart to a jade no better than a harlot, and less honest! A woman who had sold herself to a man scorned by her own kind despite his riches—a renowned rake and libertine. Heartsick and tormented he had journeyed alone, yet not alone, for he walked ever with despair.

He was coming into this nameless village—a quaint old place, dozing in mellow dignity under a warm afternoon sun. And it was borne in upon him that he was, against all the laws of broken hearts and shattered hopes, hungry. He took out his purse and was not surprised to find that it contained a piece of string and a button. Perhaps he could work for his dinner. Armed with this sterling ambition, he walked on, becoming aware as he went that there was a great deal of excitement nearby, for he could hear angry voices upraised above a murmur indicative of a crowd.

Intrigued, he quickened his stride until he reached the village green and, by means of soft words and the smile that won others to instant and willing cooperation, discovered the cause of the uproar. He shook his head and sighed. He might have known.

A boy held a showy chestnut horse in front of the livery stable, and watched with interest the furious argument being waged between a husky farmer and Mr. Alain Devenish. On either side of the farmer stood younger and, if anything, brawnier versions of himself, while close by, watching with obvious irritation, was a soberly clad gentleman of middle years, spare frame, and sour expression.

The farmer's knotted fist was flourished under Devenish's haughtily elevated nostrils. “We doan't want no puffed-up town boy the likes o' you, a'coming in among us wi' your fancy ways and nasty accersations!” he bellowed.

Devenish countered coolly, “No more do I propose to stand idly by and allow a slippery customer like yourself to dupe a poor old duffer, who—”

“Slippery customer?”
roared the farmer, giving Devenish a shove that was at once, and with gusto, returned.

“Poor … old … duffer?”
squawked the soberly dressed gentleman in nasal and outraged repugnance. “By Jupiter, you young mushroom! How dare you!”

“Mushroom?”
echoed Devenish, in turn revolted. “Why, you ungrateful shagbag! Here I've delivered you from purchasing a ten-year-old—”

“Five-year-old!” snarled the farmer.

“—ten-year-old hack that's all show and no go! And instead of offering a touch of gratitude, you— Be damned if I don't pull your nose for you!”

“Be damned if you do!” cried the gentleman, bristling.

“Ye dang rude little shrimp of a dandy!” offered the farmer.

It was the last straw. Devenish sprang at the farmer, who stood head and shoulders taller and was some four stone heavier than himself.

Tristram groaned and put a hand over his eyes.

The farmer uttered a howl and mopped at a suddenly crimson nose. As one man, his two large offspring took up the cudgels. Dancing about, shouting epithets, fists flying, eyes alight, Devenish was here, there, and everywhere, in the process of which, he chanced to alight upon the neatly shod foot of the well-dressed gentleman. Another yowl rent the air. The gentleman entered the lists, came flailing. Devenish, beset on every side, fought gamely.

“Pluck to the backbone,” muttered Tristram. “Blast the little bantam!” He stepped forward to grip first the collar of one large shirt, and then another. To the accompaniment of gleeful shouts from the crowd, he brought the bullet heads of the farmer's boys together. Hard. Stepping over them, he addressed himself to their sire.

“Sir,” said he, politely, “if you would be so kind—let him get up now.”

“Oh, yus I won't!” responded the farmer, continuing his pursuit of banging Devenish's curly head upon the cobblestones.

Tristram sighed. A few seconds later, while the farmer slid down the livery wall, wondering what he was doing there, Tristram turned to the well-dressed gentleman who was gainfully employed in prodding Devenish with his cane each time that young man strove to rise. “I feel sure
you
will listen to reason, sir,” said Tristram softly, his tone implying that only the two of them were capable of dealing with the situation.

The gentleman's gaze travelled from the dusty boots to the tousled dark locks of this new arrival. “A large young man,” thought he, perceptively. His attention next turned to the flounderings of the farmer's sons, and to their father, who was making quite a show of dusting himself off while awaiting the renewed mobility of his hefty offspring. “Are you, ah—acquainted with this rabble-rousing young troublemaker?” the gentleman enquired, waving his cane toward Devenish.