Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (40 page)

Tyndale's thin cheek flushed. "It was not done with any
thought to claim as reward your every happiness!"

Devenish kept his eyes from Yolande and said lightly, "You
rate the lady high."

"I do indeed. And so do you."

"Dear," Yolande inserted in her most gentle voice, "I think
you are talking too much. We must not allow you to tire yourself so
soon."

The term of endearment caused his hand to tighten on hers.
"No, really, I feel perfectly fit. And have so many questions, but—"

"Aha!" cried the General, marching briskly into the room. "So
our sleeper has come out from hibernation at last! Jove, but it's good
to see you with your eyes open, m'boy!" He shook Tyndale's hand
cautiously. "You did very well oot at your castle, but I surmise
Devenish has told you what happened."

Devenish said, "I've not had time to—"

"Is he awake, then?" Mrs. Drummond bustled in, followed by her
sister-in-law. "Oh, my!" She fumbled for her handkerchief. "What a
blessing that you did not die after all, Tyndale. We all thought you
would, you know. But—"

"But we're powerful glad tae see ye didnae!" said Mrs. Fraser,
adding with an irked glance at Arabella, "Of all the bird-witted things
tae remark!"

"Never mind, dear," purred Mrs. Drummond. "We do not expect
you to be brilliant, after all. Oh!" She blinked rapidly. "Is it not
affecting? See how they gaze into each other's eyes…"

The General, having already noted this blissful gaze, scowled,
"Pairhaps I should warn ye, Tyndale—"

"Not now, Sir Andrew!" Mrs. Fraser inserted with a warning
frown.

Devenish said hurriedly, "The smugglers got clean away, Craig,
but—"

"But we found a damn—a dashed great stockpile o' contraband
hidden in a cellar," the General put in, his eyes sparkling with
excitement at that memory.

"And you should have seen all the newspaper reporters…" said
Mrs. Drummond.

They all began to talk at once, so that poor Tyndale was quite
bewildered and struggled to comprehend Montelongo's kidnapping, the
dramatic arrival of the rescue party, and the fact that not once was
Sanguinet's name mentioned. Watching him narrowly, the Iroquois
abruptly strode forward and pronounced, "You tired. Me show door to
these people."

The General uttered a snort of indignation, and Devenish
laughed, but Yolande was relieved. "Perfectly right," she agreed. "You
must rest, Craig. We will have plenty of time to explain everything."

"Just one more thing, I beg of you," he pleaded, smiling at
her in a way that warmed the hearts of most of those gathered in the
bedchamber. "Monty, how did you escape your two new friends?"

"Little squaw, sir. She peep in through window." Montelongo
forgot his customary pose in the recollection of that moment, and said
with enthusiasm, "It was very brave. She was shaking with fear, but she
managed to find a way into the cottage and used the kitchen knife to
cut me free while those two rogues snored!"

"Goodness me!" gasped Mrs. Drummond, staring at him in
astonishment. "Whenever did you learn to speak English so well?"

The Iroquois folded his arms across his chest and assumed a
characteristic stance. "Monty talk good," he declared woodenly.

"We were searching for the child," said the General, impatient
with this digression, "and came upon the wee lass trying to help your
man, who was in a sorry plight, I do assure you. He could scarce speak
at all, and the child told us there was trouble at Castle Tyndale, so
we turned aboot and galloped hell-for-leather to investigate!"

"And arrived in time to see me murder you," said Devenish.

Yolande flinched a little.

Tyndale gasped, "Good God! They never thought—"

Mrs. Drummond emitted a trill of laughter. "Well, we know
better now. Though one could scarcely blame poor Alain had he indeed
done so dreadful a thing…" And she glanced coyly from the flushed
Yolande to Tyndale's enigmatic face.

"Dinna talk such fustian!" the General barked. "Say rather,
all's well that ends well. Yon smugglers are routed; Tyndale here can
live in his castle in peace and be assured of the good will of his
neighbours. Or most of 'em, at least. And Yolande and Devenish can—"

"Grandpapa!" Yolande interpolated desperately. "This is not
the time or place to speak of these things."

"Aye, the lass is right. Tyndale, we'll leave ye tae your
slumbers. Come everyone. Oot! Oot! Devenish, ye're welcome tae stay
here wi' us for as long as suits, but I fancy ye'll be wishful tae
escort your lady back tae London Toon, eh?"

Devenish smiled rather bleakly; Yolande blushed and looked
distressed, and Tyndale lay in helpless silence, watching them all
leave. Having ushered everyone from the room, the General turned back
at the last minute. He said nothing, but the warning contained in his
grim stare was very obvious. Alain Devenish might be so unselfish as to
step aside, but the barriers between Tyndale and his love were as
insurmountable as ever.

Outside, the westerning sun laid soft shadows upon the scythed
lawns. The air was warm and the summer house loomed cool, quiet, and
inviting. Approaching that charming structure, Mrs. MacFarlane glanced
around. There was no sign of anyone. She went timidly up the steps,
remembering the last time she had been in this little house, and how
kind Miss Drummond had been to her Maisie. "Puir wee lassie," she
thought, "she'll nae have the man o' her heart, I doot." But she had
tried. It had taken days and days to gather sufficient courage to go up
to the great house as she'd done today. She
had
tried! She directed a small, silent prayer at the cloudless heavens,
apologizing for her inability to have completed her task. Leaving the
summer house she began to walk across the lawns. The smell of the
freshly cut grass wafted about her. The golden afternoon was like a
benediction. It could only be viewed as an omen; she had been spared.
With a small sigh of relief, she hurried back to her cottage.

At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, off the northwest coast of
Scotland, lie the islands called the Hebrides, and among them, remote
and often uncharted, one small cluster is known as the Darrochs. The
first three, bleak, inhospitable, and uninhabited, form a rough circle
about the fourth. This, the largest, enjoys a milder climate than its
fellows, being protected to an extent by a high range of hills on the
eastern side, which cut off the freezing winds. Despite this redeeming
feature, it falls far short of being a beauty spot, and no one was more
surprised than the impoverished owner when, in 1812, all four islands
were purchased by a Greek company, the president of which allegedly
intended to make the big island—Tordarroch—his home.

For a while, all was as before; the gulls continued to shout
and circle undisturbed among the rocks and along the shore; the
breakers pounded an incessant assault upon the impregnable cliffs to
the east, north, and south, and on its high hill, the ancient structure
called Tor Keep squatted mouldering under the chill skies, as it had
done for centuries.

Early in 1813, however, a ship put in and anchored in the
western cove of Tordarroch; many men landed, and much cargo was
unloaded. When the ship sailed away, most of the men remained. A week
later, another ship put in; and the next day was followed by yet
another. Suddenly, Tordarroch became a beehive of activity: the
debris-strewn beach was cleared; the little bay was deepened and new
docks were constructed; several buildings appeared; Tor Keep swarmed
with workmen; new roads were built, and the face of the island changed
in other ways as tall shrubs and trees that were able to withstand the
harsh climate replaced the rough broom and bracken and stunted pines.
The trees grew rapidly. Within two years they had formed a screen that
completed the work of the eastern hills in shielding Tordarroch from
any chance sailing vessel with a prying spyglass. The workmen completed
their tasks, but did not depart. Instead, they moved onto first one,
then another of the three outer islands, and started to labour all over
again.

It was to Tordarroch, however, that most shipping travelled,
and it was to the much improved harbour that a fishing boat sailed one
afternoon in early summer of 1816, and despatched a dinghy to the dock.
A gentleman disembarked from the dinghy, entered a dog cart, was duly
conveyed into the courtyard of Tor Keep, and thence to a magnificent
chamber, part-library, part-study, where the powdered lackey bowed low
and requested that Monsieur Garvey should be "
a l'aise, s'il
vous plait
."

Mr. James Garvey did not obey this behest, but instead
scrolled about, gazing in awe from the massive hearth whereon a great
fire licked up the chimney, to richly panelled walls, to elaborate
plastered ceilings. Thick carpets deadened his footsteps,
objets
d'art
delighted his eyes, the warm air was faintly scented,
and he'd have been not in the least surprised had a trio of minstrels
put in an appearance and serenaded him. When the door opened, however,
it disclosed a comparatively plebeian figure clad without ostentation
in a maroon jacket of peerless cut, pearl-grey unmentionables, and an
off-white waistcoat embellished with embroidered maroon clocks.

"Claude!" Mr. Garvey smiled, advancing to take the hand that
was languidly extended. "What miracles you have wrought here! I might
have known! In five years or less you will boast another such showplace
as your chateau in Dinan."

"I never boast," Monsieur Sanguinet murmured in French. "And
you are inaccurate. The gardens of Dinan required the better part of my
father's lifetime to bring to perfection. In five years I will have no
need of this place. Besides which, my so dear James…" He wandered to
seat himself in a fine Chippendale chair beside the glowing hearth.
"Flattery does not prevail with me. You waste your efforts."

He interlaced the fingers of his hands and looked up benignly.
To any casual observer he would appear as mild as any rural clergyman.
But deep in his light brown eyes burned an echo of the fire's glow that
was yet not of the fire.

Garvey's nerves tightened. "You are displeased." He shrugged,
turning away and taking up a position against the edge of a superb
walnut desk. "I did my best. The crates you wanted removed were gone
long before your men bungled matters with Devenish."

"How clever of you to remind me that they were 'my men.' "
Sanguinet demurred with a silken smile. "They really are not, you know.
They are my brawn, rather. And it is because I know their brains are
small and ineffectual that I required Shotten to take his orders
from—you."

Garvey folded his arms and said sulkily, "It should have gone
off perfectly. We had the portrait ready and used it to good effect, I
assure you. Shotten said Devenish turned fairly green when first he saw
it, and the pivoting panel in the wall worked perfectly. His cousin all
but laughed when he was told of the matter. Devenish said no more, but
Shotten reported his nerves were ready to snap, and the dislike between
the cousins deepening hourly."

"So that you were sure our plans would come to full fruition,
and they would kill one another."

Garvey grinned. "How choice that would have been!"

"Poetic justice," said Sanguinet broodingly. "My dear brother
Parnell died for this cause. By rights—I should be in deep mourning at
this very moment…" He stared into the fire and was silent.

From all that Garvey had heard, Parnell Sanguinet had died
while attempting a brutal murder that had little to do with Claude's
ambitious plans. If Claude was capable of affection, thought Garvey,
that affection had been given to his brother Parnell—as depraved a
sadist as ever lived. Yet even his sudden death had neither swerved
Claude from his self-appointed task nor caused him to go into blacks.
"He is without mercy," thought Garvey. "Without warmth, or kindness, or
feelings!" but when the sombre gaze turned to him, he said
apologetically, "It was very close, you know. They were so often at
each other's throats the world would have believed Tyndale took
vengeance. A lovely plan…" He sighed. "Who could guess that lunatic
would do so crazy a thing as to toss himself at the wrong end of a
musket?"

"I could," purred Sanguinet. "And you should. He is of a type,
Garvey. The British public schools mould the type and inculcate into it
a worship of valour and chivalry, and a fear of one thing—fear itself."
He waved a finger at his companion, and went on, "Your own Wellington
knew it. He said, 'The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields
of Eton.' Honour, my James. Integrity. Sportsmanship. Had your country
one single brain in its collective head it would take that remark and
spread those values through
all
its young men.
Expensive? Pah! How expensive is a war? I tell you this—you call it
lunacy—but could I inspire my men with such lunacy, I should rule the
world!" Garvey stared at him, his incredulity so obvious that Sanguinet
was irked, and remarked in his gentle fashion, "I cannot think, my
dear, how
you
came to avoid such—ah,
contamination…"

Garvey flushed and in an effort to turn aside the attack,
said, "You will likely rule the world soon or late, at all events."

"Not, James, if one of these—
only one
!—is
discovered in the store room at Castle Tyndale." He held up a round
lead ball of about three-quarters of an inch diameter. "Tristram Leith,
or Redmond, or my very dear friend General Smollet— any of them would
only have to see such as this, and know Shotten was there, and—they
would know
everything
, James!" He leaned forward,
half whispering, "They would
know
!"

Garvey said irritably, "Nothing was left, I tell you! Only the
brandy was sacrificed as a red herring. Besides, if they found
something they'd likely think we were gun runners, is all."