Feather Castles (42 page)

“That … is …
not so!
” Very straight, his eyes flashing, Tristram interpolated, “Every word was fact! I give you my word of honour!”

With a snort, the General marched around the desk and thrust his flushed features under Tristram's nose. He was not a tall man, and his grey hair was thinning to reveal a bald head, but his shoulders were broad, his mien fierce, and his rageful disgust genuine, so that he looked very formidable. “Shall you,” he ground out, “shall you also give me your word of honour that you journeyed to Dinan purely to investigate Claude Sanguinet and this ridiculous threat you allegedly uncovered? Will you swear that this was your
only
reason for crossing the Channel—on the yawl of a known free trader?”

“It was one of my reasons, but—”

“Will you
swear
you did not go to Dinan simply because Miss Strand was there?”

Tristram's lips tightened. Sanguinet had moved fast and spread his poison well. He said deliberately, “Diccon feared she was in grave danger, and I went because—”

His whiskers fairly bristling, the General snarled, “You went, Leith, in pursuit of a woman of whom you had become hopelessly enamoured! You went—well aware of the fact that you had no business doing so, and that she was betrothed to another man! With guile and deceit you insinuated yourself into the home of a powerful French diplomat.” He threw up one hand as Tristram attempted to speak, and thundered,
“You will be silent, sir!”
Breathing hard, he paused, his baleful gaze fixed on the white, set face of the young giant who towered over him. Then he went on in a more controlled tone, “Violating every concept of honour and decency, you abandoned your sworn duty, abused Monsieur Sanguinet's gratitude and hospitality, turned his betrothal ball into a madhouse, frightened half the nobility of France into a panicked flight, and—to climax this depraved and despicable conduct, to climax it, I say, you ran off with the woman and tossed her betrothed into a bottomless pool, leaving him there to drown! For shame, sir! For
shame,
I say!”

His fists clenched, a pulse throbbing at his temple, Tristram said in a voice of ice, “Were you a younger man, Smollet, by God! I would call you out for what you have just said. No! You've had your say. Now—the devil with rank and protocol. Be man enough to hear mine!”

Smollet's face purpled. For a moment he chewed at his lip, spluttered and snorted and twitched with rage. But the cold hauteur of this young Colonel had its way, and he stood glowering as Tristram went on, “I did
not
abandon my sworn duty, for the simple reason that when I recovered after the battle, I had no knowledge of which side I had fought on. My mother, as you may know, was half-French. I speak that language as well as my own. For reasons I will not enter into, I believed myself to
be
French.”

The dark eyes struck the General like twin rapiers. Smollet stared, grunted, and said with considerably less heat, “If that is so, I apologize. But it does not excuse the rest.”

“You think I invented it—purely to camouflage my passionate lust for Miss Strand. Is that it?”

“It is! And—by thunder, what fine conduct for a British officer!” He stamped back to his chair and lowered himself into it.

Watching him, longing to shake some sense into his stubborn head, Tristram said, “I presume you are aware, sir, that Devenish was badly wounded in our escape? Does that tell you nothing?”

“It tells me,” barked the General, “that Sanguinet's men are damned poor marksmen! Had you perpetrated such an outrage at
my
home, Leith, I would expect my servants to have shot to kill, and
you
would have been the ones dumped into that pool!”

“Sanguinet's intentions, exactly, General!” His chin high, Tristram asked proudly, “Am I under arrest, sir?”

“If I had my way, you would be! And that young rogue Devenish, with you! However—” Smollet drummed his fingers angrily on the desk. “Sanguinet—poor devil, has requested the matter be kept as quiet as possible, and since you had the sense not to use your name, few knew your identity. Because of those facts, coupled with my respect for your father, and your own hitherto faultless reputation—I will accept your resignation, Colonel Leith!”

Chapter 18

The afternoon was warm, the sun shining benignly upon the pleasure gardens at Dominer, and adding warmth to a charming picture. Today, Mr. and Mrs. Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst held a garden party in honour of the christening of their infant son, and from miles around, the
ton
had come to celebrate the occasion. The famous fountains sent up their lacy sprays; the flower beds were a blaze of carefully nurtured blooms; a gentle breeze fluttered silks and muslins, tossed feathers and the fringes of parasols, and offered gallants the opportunity to drape dainty shawls about the daintier shoulders of their ladies.

In the midst of this riot of colour, oblivious of the happy hubbub or the lilting strains created by the wandering musicians, one gentleman stood alone, staring rather blindly upon a dark red rose. Tristram, thought Lord Leith wearily, had ever loved red roses. Dear Tristram. His heart twisting, he knew the time had come: that he must face the truth—his son was dead, and not even a sight of the grave had been granted him. He must go into mourning, but before he did so, an offer must be made, a marriage arranged as quickly as was possible, for life had become a stale and empty thing, and he dared not risk a year's wait. The only question remaining was—which one? Which one…?

“Brenda Smythe-Carrington?” In another part of the gardens, Sarah Leith, wearing a dark grey gown that brought her many sympathetic glances, said an astonished, “And—my
papa?
Oh, but—dear ma'am, are you sure? He has not spoken to me of it!”

“Nor is he likely to do so,” said Lady Anne Hersh, her sharp features arranged into a tight smile. “The gal's not much older than you—eh, Sarah? Your father is after another heir, as all London knows. I'll own I was considerably surprised Carrington countenances it, but then—Leith's a well enough looking man, and plump in the pockets, besides.”

Ignoring this vulgarity, Sarah murmured a perplexed, “I cannot credit it! Papa will not admit— That is to say, we all still believe my dear brother to be alive—somewhere.” And contradicting this hopeful claim, “Surely, did Papa mean to remarry, he would wait until we are out of mourning.”

*   *   *

“Leith ain't about to go into blacks until he's safely leg-shackled,” decreed the Earl of Mayne-Waring, knowledgeably. “And I have it on excellent authority he's already offered for Maribel MacNaughton. Proposed to her at her Ball in July, but said he could not announce the betrothal until poor Tristram—” He shrugged. “You understand, Suffield?”

Sir Aubrey Suffield put up his glass and turned to survey Lord Leith's distant figure curiously. He was not a highly perceptive young man, his taste running to horses rather than
affaires de coeur,
but he observed judicially, “Something havey-cavey, Palmer. Ain't the thing, y'know.”

“No, I don't know,” the Earl demurred, puffing out his cheeks. “She ain't of the first stare, I grant you. But she's pretty enough, and pretty well accepted. And her husband had the good taste to turn up his toes and leave her very flush, so I hear.”

“Yes. Quite. But—
I
heard it would be…”

*   *   *

“Harriet
Chandler?
” The Dowager Duchess of Banbury gave a trill of amusement and rapped Sir Horace Drake on the chest with her painted ivory fan. She was a large lady, and the fan was applied with vigour, wherefore Sir Horace eyed her without enthusiasm as she asserted, “Never! Why would you even suspect such a nonsensical thing?”

“Because,” said Sir Horace, gently massaging his abused chest, “Harriet happens to be my wife's godchild, and she came rushing to the house
aux anges
at ten o'clock last Friday morning, to—”

“
Ten o'clock?
Lud! I might have expected such conduct, though. Her Mama was a feather-wit as well.”

“To tell us,” Sir Horace went on, rather irritably, “that Leith had all but proposed to her during the Hilby boat party on Thursday afternoon.”

The Duchess frowned. She was found of Leith, and although she was forced to admit that Harriet Chandler was a diamond of the first water, she also considered her to be selfish, and of limited mental power. Harriet was not, however, so lost to propriety as to regale her godmama with farradiddles of this sort. And, the Duchess recalled gloomily, she was a bosom bow of that odious Drusilla Mayne-Waring. Drusilla was just the type to inveigle her cronies into Leith's fortune! Small wonder Harriet had been
aux anges!
“‘All but'?” she probed. “What may that mean?”

“Lord, I don't know. She said he kept asking her what she thought about a man offering for a much younger lady. It was very obvious he was referring to Harriet, and she assured him she could only think any woman would be delighted to receive such an offer—did he mean who she thought he meant.”

“And what did the poor fool say to that witch's brew?”

Sir Horace scowled. “You've a sharp tongue, ma'am! I don't scruple to say it!”

“And a nimble brain, besides, Drake. Now—what did Leith say?”

“He said he was quite sure she knew who he meant, and that did the lady in question respond as Harriet promised, his dearest hopes would be fulfilled!”

“Then he is mad!” the Duchess exclaimed, convinced at last. “Stark, raving mad! I tell you, Drake, it must be the shock of his son's death! Oh, never look at me so fustily, man! What I say is not slander, but purest truth. It had
best
be!” She glanced around, then leaned closer and, seizing her legal advisor by one elegantly turned lapel, hissed, “I know, for absolute fact, he has offered for…”

*   *   *

“Me!” Mrs. Dora Graham was seated upon the balustrade that edged the terrace, a rose bedecked parasol fluttering above her auburn locks, and clashing hideously with her purple gown. She put up one hand to hold back her flyaway hair and, moving closer to her good friend the Countess of Carden, whispered, “Leith has told me I have his heart, Lucinda. Is it not foolish, at our age? But—he is so very dear, you know. And—and I…” She blushed becomingly.

“Have loved him for years,” Lucinda nodded, rather grimly.

“Yes. But we cannot be wed for a time. Not until Tristram, bless his dear soul, has either been found, or—or buried.”

Lucinda had heard several of the rumours that had swept the
ton
of late. She pursed her lips, the frown in her eyes deepening, but being truly fond of Dora, nodded and said merely, “Very proper. And you will have my felicitations, dearest, for he's a fine figure of a man. A most excellent leg.”

The romantic Dora sighed dreamily, and quoted, “‘See what grace was seated on this brow.'”

More practically minded, Lucinda thought, “Hawkhurst will blow his head off!” And glancing up, saw the object of her ominous thoughts approaching. “Good afternoon, Hawk,” she said with the familiarity of old friends. “What a lovely party you have given us.”

His grey eyes alight, Hawkhurst took her outstretched hand, thanked her rather hurriedly, and asked, “Have you seen Leith? I've the most splendid news!”

*   *   *

My lord Leith accompanied his host into the quiet house, striving to appear cheerful. In the wide circle of the Great Hall, Euphemia waited, her eyelashes suspiciously wet, and her hands gripping nervously.

“There is someone come to see you, Leith,” said Hawkhurst gently, exchanging a meaningful glance with his wife. “He is waiting in the drawing room.”

Lord Leith paled. Mia had been weeping; and the “someone” in the drawing room was military, for he'd seen a cockaded hat on the teakwood chest by the front doors. He knew suddenly. Word had come—at last!

Watching that set face anxiously, Euphemia turned worriedly to her husband. No less concerned, Hawkhurst put a hand on Leith's arm. “Sir—perhaps I should tell you that—”

“No.” Leith clasped his hand briefly, then drew back his shoulders. “I would sooner hear it—alone, if you please.” He walked briskly to the drawing room, paused for one brief second, then opened the doors and went inside, his head well up.

A tall young man stood before the fireplace, staring down broodingly at the fine screen in the hearth. And seeing that tumbled dark hair, the blue of the Staff Officer's uniform, the erect, athletic figure, Leith's heart all but stopped.

Tristram glanced up. The sight of the scarred countenance was too much for Leith. He staggered, and Tristram sprang to support him. A muffled sob broke from the older man. Holding him tightly, Tristram was caught in a crushing hug, and his own eyes grew dim. Neither man said a word through that strong, emotional embrace. Then, scanning Tristram at arm's length, heedless of the tears that streaked his own face, Leith said chokingly, “You … curst young scamp! Where the …
devil
have you been all this time? And—and what d'you mean by allowing those damned Frogs to rearrange your face?”

“My apologies, sir.” Touching his offending cheek, Tristram blinked and admitted, “Must have been a dreadful shock for you. I wonder you acknowledge me.”

“So do I,” beamed Leith.

They were both still slightly overcome, wherefore they broke into laughter and were again embracing when the doors burst open and a joyfully sobbing Sarah flew to her brother to be seized, swept off her feet, hugged, kissed, and hugged again.

The word had spread, and perhaps because the war had been so long and the casualties so appalling, perhaps because the young Colonel was so well liked, there was no containing the crowd. They poured into the house and flooded the drawing room. Tristram's hand was shaken until it ached, his shoulder pounded, his cheek kissed by every lady who even remotely knew him, and many who knew him not at all.