Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (20 page)

Her own rare temper flaring, Yolande exclaimed, "I think you
must forget that Craig Tyndale is my cousin, ma'am, else you would not
designate one of our family a presumptuous upstart! Nor can I suppose
Mr. Garvey to be in the slightest interested in such matters."

Mr. Garvey's well-shaped brows lifted in faint amusement. Mrs.
Drummond, however, stared at her niece in astonishment, clapped a
handkerchief to her eyes, and dissolved into tears.

Aghast, Yolande strove to mend matters; a long struggle that
ended, of course, with her agreeing that they should detour to see the
famous boys' school.

Mr. Hakewill's architectural designs had yielded impressive
results, and Mrs. Drummond and Mr. Garvey were vociferous in their
admiration of the new buildings. Yolande wandered about reacting
politely to their remarks. Inwardly, however, she was as disinterested
as she was disturbed. To have lost her temper with an older lady was
very bad. And even worse, she had done so in front of a comparative
stranger! She
never
lost her temper. Well, almost
never. She would not have done it, of course, save for the fact that
she was so worried about her two suitors. Guilt struck again and her
cheeks flamed. Craig was not her suitor! "And neither is he a
presumptuous upstart!" she thought with a flare of irritation. He might
be a Colonial, and perhaps he had a shocking blot on his name, and a
sad want of fortune, but… She sighed, seeing again the concern in his
grey eyes as he had bent over her while she lay on the rug after the
accident; feeling again the firm clasp of his hands as he made her lie
down when she had striven to rise. Such strong hands and yet, so gentle…

"Wake up, dearest!"

Yolande started. Her aunt and Mr. Garvey were watching her
smilingly. Good gracious! She had drifted off again, like some silly
thimblewit! Whatever was wrong with her intellect?

"I declare," said Mrs. Drummond, "one would fancy you fairly
enamoured of that door, for you have looked at it this age, and with
such
tenderness!"

Mr. Garvey chuckled. "I think your niece's thoughts were not
with the door, dear lady."

"Clever rascal," trilled Mrs. Drummond, giving him a playful
tap with her fan. "And you are perfectly right, of course. My dear
niece is enchanted! 'Absence, that common cure of love' did not
prevail. Alas. Yet—oh, to be young—and in love… !"

Yolande could have sunk. She was rescued when Mr. Garvey
proceeded to recount an amusing episode of his schooldays, but walking
along, her emotions were chaotic. Had she really been gazing tenderly
at a door? If so, she had no least recollection of what it had looked
like. "Oh, to be young and in love…" What stuff, when she had only been
thinking of… Craig. An even sharper pang of guilt made her squirm.
Despite her procrastinations she knew very well that she would
eventually marry dear Dev, just as he knew it. To allow her thoughts to
wander to another gentleman in so foolish a way was wickedly disloyal.

Raising her eyes she found that Mr. Garvey was watching her
with faint curiosity. He must think her a thorough widgeon! She forced
a smile, but her cheeks were so hot she knew they must be scarlet.

Far into the morning, Devenish and Tyndale were still
chortling over the rout of the Nimmses. The day lived up to its early
promise and by mid-afternoon the sun was so hot that the small
pilgrimage began to slow. The men took turns carrying Josie until she
complained that she was quite able to walk and didn't want to be
"babied."

"Why not?" laughed Devenish, setting her down and inwardly
relieved to do so. "You
are
a baby"—he ruffled
her tangled hair—"and must be coddled."

She scowled at him ferociously. "I is not! You think I'll be a
great nuisance, but I knows how to take care of myself and I don't need
carrying! You just see if I don't walk so good as what you and Mr.
Craig does!"

She ran out ahead, defiance in every line of her. "Revolting
grammar!" called Devenish, teasingly.

"What the deuce are you going to do with her?" asked Craig.

"Lord knows. Gad! I keep thinking of how old Nimms shot out of
that shed! It was worth the loss of our funds, damme if it wasn't!"

"Yes." Craig grinned. "The family honour is restored."

Devenish sobered. "In part, at least," he said pointedly.

Reddening, Craig was silent, but after a while he chuckled.
"How in the world you were able to control that bear is quite beyond
me!"

"Nothing to it. I've got the Rat Paws, you see."

"The—
what
?"

"Josie says it means I've a way with animals. I do, as a
matter of fact, and it stood us in good stead today, I'll allow. I
wonder if poor old Schultz ever got his bear back? His legs were going
a mile a minute the last time we saw him."

They went on, talking more or less companionably, but
progressing ever more slowly, and not noticing when Josie dropped back
to walk with them, and gradually fell behind.

"Jove," sighed Tyndale, drawing a sleeve across his perspiring
brow, "I didn't think it ever got hot in England. Have we far to go,
yet?"

"Eight or nine miles, at least. I only hope Val is not from
home. He's a dashed good fellow, but—his family!" Devenish grimaced.
"His brother's a decent sort, but he has a cousin I'd as soon—"

A shrill scream cut off his words. Whirling, he caught a
glimpse of Josie, her hair clutched in a large, grimy fist. From the
corner of his eye he saw just such another fist clutching a whizzing
branch. He ducked, but the branch caught him across the base of the
neck and for a little while he saw nothing but wheeling lights.

He aroused to a scuffling sound; an irregular thudding, short
heavy breathing, and an occasional gasped-out curse. A dark shape shot
past. Not quite sure of what was to do, Devenish gathered that he was
missing a jolly good brawl. How it chanced that he was lying down, he
could not remember, but he commenced a dogged struggle to get to his
feet.

A crowd was involved in violent dispute. "Yoicks!" croaked
Devenish, and launched himself into the fray. The crowd thinned, and he
blinked and found that Tyndale was battling two men whose head scarves
and swarthy countenances proclaimed them gypsies. Even as his vision
cleared, a knife was plunged at Tyndale's back. Devenish jumped into
action and sent the weapon spinning off.

Tyndale panted, "Thanks… coz!"

The knife wielder however, was indignant, and Devenish blocked
a hamlike retaliatory fist. "Akim and Benjo, I take it?" he shouted.

"And—Rollo," said Tyndale, jerking his head to the side and a
heavily built man sprawled on the grassy verge.

"You took our—Tabby!" snarled Tyndale's opponent, his dark
face twisted with passion.

"Yus, and we'll 'ave the law on yer!" shouted his comrade,
rushing Devenish, who dodged adroitly.

"Good… idea!" Tyndale feinted, then drove home a shattering
jab that staggered his sinewy adversary. "We might discover from whom
you stole her!"

Patently offended by such tactics, the gypsies abandoned talk
in favour of a concentration upon the business at hand. The recumbent
member of the trio also surged back into the fray. It was a short but
fierce straggle. Tyndale, as Devenish noted with admiration, was a
splendid man with his fives, but he was not at the top of his form and
was tiring visibly. The impromptu bandage had already been dislodged
and the cut over his temple was bleeding so that he was compelled to
wipe hurriedly at his eyes. Devenish grassed his man with a well-aimed
right, but was sent sprawling by the third gypsy, who had timed the
attack nicely. Winded, Devenish cried out as a heavy boot rammed home.
Tyndale saw the kick that had savaged him and with a shout of rage
leapt astride his cousin. He would have little chance alone, Devenish
thought dazedly, and if they were bested, these ruffians would take the
child. He fought to rise. She must not end her days in a Flash House,
poor mite! She
must
not! He got to his knees, but
was unable to stand, so threw himself at the legs of the tall Rollo,
and clung doggedly. It was all the chance Tyndale needed. With one
blindingly fast uppercut he sent Akim to join Benjo, turned in time to
see Devenish crumple again and, seething, drove a fist into Rollo's
midsection, then finished him with a powerful chopping blow to the back
of the neck.

Hobbling to his cousin, he wheezed, "You… all right… ?"

"Quite," gasped Devenish, clutching his leg. "Good scrap…
what?"

A small, weeping shape hurtled at them. Frantic hands reached
out to stroke back Devenish's tumbled hair. "I thinked ye was… cross
with me!" gulped the child. "And then Benjo got me and—and I thinked I
was going to be… sold to the Flash House, surely! Oh, Mr. Dev! You
won't never let 'em take me? Don't let 'em! Promise Josie you won't!"

He sat up and pulled her into a hug. "Silly elf," he said
gruffly. Her arms flew around his neck and, sobbing, she pressed tight
against him. Over her shoulder, he said, "I rather fancy you saved me
from getting my ribs… stove in, cousin."

"And you—diverted the knife that would have split… my
wishbone."

It was said so reluctantly that Devenish flared, "I collect
you would prefer I had not?"

"No, but…" Tyndale hesitated, frowning.

Devenish burst into a breathless laugh. "A trifle awkward, eh?"

"A trifle."

"No matter. We're even, at all events." Devenish put the
clinging child from him. "Come, Miss Storm." He gave her hair a slight
tug. "There's work to be done. I think our friends yonder would be the
better without their boots. Can you pull 'em off?"

She dashed her tears away with the heel of one grubby hand,
smiled tremulously, and flew to do his bidding. Tyndale helped him to
his feet and, as soon as the boots were removed from the unlovely trio,
the two men and the child set forth once more, each carrying a pair of
the purloined articles.

For a space they were silent, all three, Tyndale seeming to
ache from head to toe, and Devenish's limp becoming ever more
pronounced until Tyndale halted and said, "Friend Rollo dealt you a
leveller, did he not?"

Snatching back the hand that was unobtrusively gripping his
right thigh, Devenish said brightly, "Pooh! Fustian! I shall do nicely."

"He was limping 'fore Rollo kicked him," Josie put in
anxiously. "Don't he allus?"

"No, child. Dev, let me have a look."

"Certainly not!" Devenish threw up a restraining hand as
Tyndale stepped closer. "I am a most private type and will suffer no
one to inspect my—er—limbs."

Tyndale glanced at Josie.

"I seen legs before," she revealed scornfully. "And once I see
Akim's—"

"Never mind!" said Devenish, retreating. "No, really, cousin,
what do you take me for? Some kind of Spartan slowtop? If there was
anything could be done, I'd have yelled for help long since."

"And old injury?" asked Tyndale.

"Yes. Rollo's boot chanced to find it, is all."

"The war? Oh, no—you said you did not get to the Peninsula."

'True. This was another kind of battle. I suppose it was one
of the details you complained I left out, when I told you how Tristram
Leith and I got the girls away from the chateau in Dinan."

They started to walk on again, and Tyndale asked curiously,
"What kind of 'detail'? A pistol ball?"

"Crossbow bolt." Tyndale's jaw dropped, and Devenish said
wryly, "Our Frenchman has a taste for medieval weapons."

"Does he, by thunder! Then we had best—"

Her small face sharp with fear, Josie warned shrilly, "Some
'un be coming!"

Devenish pulled her behind him and both men turned to face the
cart that came rattling up.

Clinging to Devenish's jacket, Josie gave a sudden glad cry.
'Tinker Sam! Oh, Tinker Sam!" She ran to greet the newcomer. "It be
me
!
Tabby!"

The cart halted. A round-faced, round-eyed, friendly-looking
little man exclaimed, 'Tabby? Why—so it do be! And two gents what look,
as they say, very much the worse fer wear. There's a tale here, I do
expect. And one thing as I loves is a tale. So—come aboard, gents and
missy. Where be ye bound fer?"

"Hallelujah!" breathed Devenish.

"And amen," agreed Tyndale.

More practically, Josie said. "Tewkesbury. In exchange for
three pair of smelly boots!"

With an eye to his own affairs, Mr. Garvey so charmed Arabella
Drummond that for the next two days she was induced to rise very much
earlier than was her usual custom, with the result that they reached
Leeds in good time. Mr. Garvey directed the coachman to a fine posting
house just south of the city and procured excellent accommodations.
Having ordered up and enjoyed a superb dinner with his two weary
charges, he then accompanied Yolande while she took Socrates for a
brief outing in the gardens. He returned her safely to her bedchamber,
and took himself off to his own room.

Opening the door, he froze. A lamp burned beside the curtained
window, and the wing chair was occupied. The gentleman seated there had
a fine head of neatly curled dark hair untouched by grey; his build was
slight, his age indeterminate, and his elegance considerable. He raised
a pair of warm brown eyes from the pages of the periodical he was idly
scanning, and revealed features that were good, if not remarkable. "Do
pray come in, my dear James," he murmured in French. "One never knows
who might pass by."

Garvey hurriedly swung the door shut, advanced into the room
to toss hat and gloves on the bed, and demanded, "Are you mad? If we
were seen together!
Up here
!"

The Frenchman shrugged. "Yet you were on your way to see me—is
it not so?"

Garvey's cloak followed hat and gloves, and he drew a chair
closer to his unexpected visitor. "Yes. But I was incredibly fortunate
in chancing upon an excellent means of explaining my journey, Claude,
and—"