Feather Castles (19 page)

“Do not just stand there—
talking!
” adjured Devenish breathlessly. “Give him one … in the breadbasket!”

With a glance at the bruised countenance of his erstwhile companion, Tristram admitted, “Regrettably, I am, sir.”

“Ar! Knows what ye do mean, sir,” agreed the farmer, leering at Devenish's frustrated indignation. “'E be a curst know-it-all from Lunon, as doan't know nothing! I be of a mind to toss 'un in the duckpond.”

“I quite understand,” Tristram sympathized. “But—to give the devil his due, it's not all his fault. You see—” he thought rapidly, “it was the vow that started all the trouble.”

Intrigued, the crowd pressed in closer.

*   *   *

“Vow, indeed!” snorted Devenish, wrenching his arm free of Tristram's supporting hold and at once tottering erratically. His attempt to fix his companion with a searing glare was equally ineffectual, since his eyes were by now so swollen that he could scarcely see the lane they followed. “If ever I heard such a bag of moonshine! I'll have you know, sir, that it was never necessary for my Guardian to place me under a vow of truth. I am not—nor ever have been given to falsehoods!”

“No, but they were made curious,” Tristram pointed out. “And thus their tempers cooled a trifle until they were able to be amused by my fabrications.”

It
had
been funny. Devenish himself had become engrossed in Tristram's whimsical recounting of the “horrors” that had befallen him as a result of the oath he'd taken to tell only the truth for thirty days. By the time the fallacious tale was told, the crowd had been hilarious. “Oh, they were amused all right,” he grumbled. “And little wonder, for you made me seem a veritable gudgeon.”

“Perhaps, but we are away and with no bones broken.”

“I'd no wish to be ‘away'! Nor to have to listen to your jawing instead of enjoying a jolly good scrap!”

“Poor odds,” Tristram pointed out dryly. “Fifty to one.”

“What matter?” But uncomfortably aware that he was behaving like a fool, Devenish flushed, and grated, “And
now
what are you smirking at? Blast you!”

“I'm over here, Dev,” said Tristram, patiently turning Devenish from the signpost he addressed.

“Oh. Oh—well then, confound you, be somewhere else! I've no least wish to continue in your company!”

“Then, if you will sit down there,” Tristram indicated a nearby stile, “I'll try to discover your road. Are you for Town? Or—?”

“That—nor I—is, er—
are
—no concern of yours,” Devenish responded grandly, contriving to keep his dignity in spite of the grammatical quagmire.

He did a little better at locating the stile and perched upon it with what was, he hoped, easy grace.

Tristram watched him for a minute, then started off. He probably shouldn't leave the proud young fool; he was nine-tenths blind. Lord knows what pickle he would get into!

He had gone a very short distance when a barely audible shout sent him running back. On the far side of the lane from the stile, Devenish was sprawled in the ditch. Tristram hauled him up, exclaiming, “Blast it all! How can I leave you? You're blind as a bat!”

Devenish sat on the edge of the ditch, head down, remarkable for his silence. Then— “Tris,” he mumbled with unwonted humility, “you were right—about the way I spoke of—Miss Strand. Damned ungentlemanly. And—I had no thought to hit you so curst hard. Can you forgive me?”

“Cawker!” Tristram took the outstretched hand and wrung it gladly. And as they started along the lane, side by side, asked, “Have you any lettuce?”

“Spent my last sixpence on a glorious luncheon, old boy. What about your purse?”

“Leased to moths, I fear. I was less sensible, but just as profligate as you. We'll have to see if we can work for the price of some steak for your eyes. It'll be dark soon. Can you walk a little faster, d'you think?”

Devenish assured him he could run a race and, hobbling along, his body one large ache, said, “Tris, it ain't none of my bread and butter, and you certainly don't have to tell me. But—are you, ah—acquainted with Rachel Strand?”

A grimness came into Tristram's dark eyes. “I once was,” he said. “Or—so I thought.” He sighed. “You've a right to know. I first met her…”

*   *   *

The main ballroom of Mrs. Maribel MacNaughton's great house on John Street was becoming rather oppressively warm, and the floor so crowded that to essay the waltz entailed little more than to stand and move one's feet up and down. It was with regret, nonetheless, that Lord Leith removed his arm from about the waist of his fair partner and hostess and led her from the floor.

Mrs. MacNaughton was a pretty woman with naturally curling brown hair and regular features. Her brown eyes were rather hard, but she was blessed with a petite figure that, being curved in all the proper places, won her almost as many admirers as did the fact that she had inherited a sizable fortune. She had a host of friends and was seen everywhere, since she was considered, by the gentlemen at least, a charming addition to any party. Only one thing did the widow lack, in her own eyes, and that was a title. Unaware that Leith knew of, and was amused by, her ambition, she was reasonably certain that she was in a fair way to achieving it and, smiling up at the lord whose lady she meant to become, asked, “How do you like my summer ball, sir?”

Leith's eyes had alighted on a certain gentleman who had been very much in his thoughts these past few days, and it was with a fatal vagueness that he murmured, “Delightful, dear lady.”

“Thank you. How good it was of my dear brother to play host,” she acknowledged. “It is most difficult to be a widow, you know.”

If his plan worked, thought Leith, he'd divert Foster's attentions from little Sarah without finding it necessary to downright run him off. No wish to offend Foster. Good fellow. And was he extremely subtle about it all, Sally would be quite— The widow, he apprehended, was eyeing him reproachfully. Unwilling to admit he'd not heard all of her remark, and eager to make amends, he said, “Why, then, we must put a stop to such difficulties, Maribel.”

He was mildly surprised to see her pretty mouth fall open slightly. Whatever the difficulty she had spoken of, she must know he'd be only too pleased to assist. “Silly puss,” he said in an undertone. “Did you suppose I would say aught else?”

“Wh-Why, I—I knew you were fond of me,” she stammered, scarcely able to credit his so easy capture.

“Of course I am. Extreme fond. Now—never look so astonished, dear lady. I daresay you know what has been in my mind of late, eh? I must have a few words with Foster, but I shall seek you out later. Between us, we'll contrive satisfactorily, I've no doubt.”

Had she entertained any doubts, these ambiguous words dispelled them, and a small gasp of triumph escaped her.

Sublimely unaware of the hopes he'd raised, Leith lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it with a flair, and sealed his doom. “I've had to play a waiting game, don't you see?” he confided.

“Poor Leith. Did you feel that was so necessary?”

“Why, I did not wish to make a move until I was sure my little girl's affections were fully engaged.”

Fluttering her ivory fan, and with her eyes shyly downcast, she breathed, “They are, Leith.”

“Yes. I realize that now.” His gaze straying to his daughter, who sat talking with her cousin, he sighed, “And so I must proceed at once—or fail us both.”

“Oh, Leith! How masterful you are.”

“No, am I?” Slightly taken aback, but not displeased, he said, “Well—perhaps. Even so, wedding bells must wait, under the circumstances. Are you of the same mind?”

Because of poor Tristram, she thought, with a sigh for the younger Leith. “Of course.” She tapped him playfully with her fan. “Such an iron control. And yet—so devious. Truly, I'd no idea what was in your mind.”

Grinning, he said softly, “Let's hope the gabble mongers don't!”

*   *   *

“The thing is, Freddy,” said Leith. “She's not just out of the schoolroom, and—devilish pretty.” He drove an elbow into the younger man's ribs and chuckled, “Eh?”

Sir Frederick Foster raised his glass to a singularly keen grey eye and surveyed the delightful person of Miss Brenda Smythe-Carrington. Clad in a gown of white crepe, with an overskirt of pale pink net that became her dark prettiness admirably, she stood beside her grandfather, waiting with no sign of impatience for him to conclude his conversation with the Countess of Mayne-Waring. Miss Smythe-Carrington wore her glossy hair in the very latest short style; her skin was extraordinarily pale, thus accenting her big brown eyes and long lashes, and her figure certainly was faultless. Still, thought Foster sceptically, she was at least twenty, if not thirty, years younger than Leith. He slid an oblique glance at his friend. There was a considerable age difference between the two men also, Foster being three and thirty, but during his father's lifetime, Leith had been a frequent and most welcome visitor at their large house on Grosvenor Street, and being an excellent shot, had never missed a season at the hunting lodge in Yorkshire. Foster had been on the town for better than ten years, and although unutterably bored by it all, was nobody's fool. If Leith, after all these years as a happy bachelor, had decided to become riveted, it was for one reason only—to get himself another heir. Well, he was a fine figure of a man, and even so much younger a lady might find his interest most flattering. Some high-pitched giggles drew Foster's eye to Herbert Glick, posturing with his usual set of featherheads. How furious dear Herbert would be if Leith remarried. Gratified by that awareness, he said with a faint smile, “You are right, by Jove! Never had noticed what a beauty the girl's become. Deirdre Breckenridge had best look to her laurels, or Miss Smythe-Carrington will outshine her!”

“Why don't you ask her for the next quadrille?” Leith prompted.

Foster turned to him, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise.

“Let me know what you think of her,” Leith nodded hopefully.

“Oh. I see. Well, I can tell you now that she's a fine-looking girl.”

“Looks ain't everything, y'know. She has a good head on her shoulders. Not a bluestocking, I don't mean—Lord no! But she can conduct a conversation. Not all pish and posh like most of these young women. She has—presence, do not you think?”

Stifling a smile, Foster said, “I think, my friend, that I shall ask her for the next quadrille.”

Leith watched, elated, as Foster sauntered over to General Smythe-Carrington and his granddaughter. He'd done it! Brenda really was a pretty chit. Once Foster danced with her, he'd be fairly smitten.

Sets were beginning to form for a quadrille, and Foster had evidently been successful, for he was leading The Smythe-Carrington onto the floor.

It was not easy to converse through the movements of the dance, but when they came together, Foster found that Leith had spoken truthfully; the girl was a pleasant conversationalist. When the dance was almost over, he again had her ear for a moment, and imparted, “You've an admirer—or I should say—
another
admirer, ma'am.”

She glanced up at him with an arch smile. “Do not leave me in suspense, I beg you.”

He murmured, “Kingston Leith.”

“Leith!” Her smile fled. As they were swept apart, she shot a look to where her “admirer” stood. He was watching her, and positively beaming. Leith! He was handsome, certainly, but old enough to be her father. Still, he was very rich, so they said. And Grandpapa would not leave her a large portion. Besides, it would be nice to be the wife of a baron. “Lady Kingston Leith.” It had a ring. He was very much the gentleman, and she had heard that Cloudhills was delightful. Thus, when Foster led her from the floor, she said shyly, “Oh, sir, are you perfectly sure of what you—implied? I am just a silly girl, with little experience of the world. Lord Leith is so dashing—so sophisticated. Are you—
sure
he admires me?”

Vastly diverted, Foster said firmly, “
Very
sure!”

Chapter 9

The afternoon was warm and having a sultry quality that, together with the clouds beginning to appear west of Dinan, warned of the likelihood of a storm. Serenely oblivious to the vagaries of weather, the Chateau Sanguinet glittered like a proud white jewel atop its hill, the splashing of the fountains in the forecourt the only sounds to disturb the quiet. Several gardeners were busied with the flower beds at the foot of the marble steps, but none of monseigneur's guests were about, save where on the level area below the front of the great house a dainty pink bonnet occasionally came into view between the high hedges of the maze.

Charity Strand twisted in her chair to direct a concerned glance at the pensive face framed by that same bonnet. “Are you not tired of pushing me about, dearest?” she asked. “It is very warm in here.”

“It is, rather. Is it too much for you? If I have correctly followed Claude's directions, we are almost to the centre and there is a clear space where, hopefully, we will be able to feel the breeze.”

“Optimist!” laughed Charity. “The air barely stirs. Ah! You were right! Here is your clear space. How remarkably broad it is; and only look, dear, there are benches so you may rest. How prettily they are fashioned.”

Rachel halted the invalid chair beside one of the gracefully carven wooden seats which she then occupied gratefully. Had she thought it would be so warm in the maze she'd not have brought Charity this way. At luncheon, it had seemed an ideal retreat, for even was Madame Fleur ambient, she'd be unlikely to find them here. Claude's aunt had proven to be a lady of decidedly sedentary habits. Her initial effusive display of affection for her “pretty little English niece-to-be” had soon given way to complaints over Rachel's practice of riding each morning and going for a long walk in the afternoons. “Such energy,” moaned Madame, “fairly exhausts one!” Her eagerness to please her nephew was, however, compelling. She had interpreted Claude's remark that he wished his fiancée to be properly chaperoned to mean that the girl must not for an instant be left alone. She hovered about Rachel like a reluctant mother hen, and however well meaning, her companionship had proven a decided trial. The worthy Fleur was remarkable for neither wit nor intelligence, and since she did not care for music or the arts, read only the fashion journals and letters from her numerous offspring, and found politics dull, her conversation was as inane as it was unending. A greater annoyance was the presence at the chateau of Claude's cousin, Monsieur Antoine Benét. This slim and dandified young man was also a remarkably fine artist. He was plunged into raptures over Rachel's beauty and when first they were introduced, clung to her hand, his eyes limpid with delight, while waxing so poetical that she was furiously embarrassed. His interest, it developed, was partly professional, since he had been commissioned by Claude to paint a portrait of the bride-to-be. Unfortunately, his admiration deepened with the passage of time, and in a very few days he declared himself Rachel's first
cicisbeo
and became such a pest she took to avoiding him wherever possible.