Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (6 page)

"I do trust she will not," his foil replied, portentously.
"She was quite knocked up, did you not think? She is a brave girl, and
people fancy her stronger than she is, but to go all the way to
Scotland so soon after a dreadful accident would be most unwise, and so
I shall tell her mama. Dear Lady Louisa is not the one, despite
other
counsel, to dismiss as merest frippery the opinions held by family
members." This vengeful theme pleased her, and she rattled on happily
for some moments, slanting such veiled but slanderous barbs at her
absent brother-in-law that she felt triumphant and was much more in
charity with him by the time she had exhausted the topic.

Devenish waited politely, but did not attend her and, as soon
as was decently possible, escaped. He rode home at a less
neck-or-nothing rate of speed than was his usual habit, restraining his
beautiful black mare's occasional spirited attempts to break into a
gallop. His hand on the rein was, in fact, so unwontedly heavy that
twice she rolled an indignant eye at him. Of this, also, he was
unaware. He rode along lost in thought, his expression grave. For Mr.
Alain Devenish was an unhappy man. Mrs. Drummond's volubility had
apprised him of the fact that his chosen bride, aware that she was soon
to depart on a long journey, had not only shown no slightest concern
about being parted from him for a protracted period, but had failed to
notify him of her impending removal. Further, her parents, with whom he
had always stood on the best of terms, appeared to be part of what he
could only judge to be a conspiracy of silence.

Frowning, he recalled his most recent disagreement (it could
scarcely be rated a quarrel) with Yolande. For as long as he could
remember he had taken it for granted— He grunted impatiently; well, not
taken it for granted
, exactly, but certainly
anticipated
that they would wed. The two families were so close; Arthur and John
and little Rosemary were almost like brothers and sister to him. And he
and Yolande had always been such fine friends. She had not, in fact,
begun to grow skittish and flighty and argumentative until first he
started to speak of setting the date for their marriage. She was a
lovely and sought-after debutante, and as such had the usual share of
cow-eyed admirers, but he was willing to swear she cared for none of
them and was merely, womanlike, being just a little, and quite
charmingly, coquettish, before settling down to domesticity. He sighed
wistfully. He had been more shaken than he would have cared to admit
when she had told him with that suddenly troubled look that
he
was not ready to settle down. Such fustian! He was five and twenty,
deeply in love with his lady, and had—as she herself had pointed out—an
estate in Gloucestershire that had been too long neglected. Devencourt.
His lips tightened. The haunted manor. It was ridiculous, but his
childish feeling about the house persisted. His earliest memories were
of a great estate standing deserted and lonely in the vastness of its
own grounds. An estate crying out for its owner, seeking to entrap him
into remaining there until he also became deserted and alone… How
foolish that such juvenile imaginings still caused him to avoid his
heritage. Yet even now, he could not discuss his reaction to
Devencourt; not with anyone. Especially not with Yolande! Still, she
was quite in the wrong of it when she named him a here-and-thereian.
Not so! He'd had his fill of adventuring, with Tristram Leith last
year. He'd been lucky to escape France with his life, and if Claude
Sanguinet had had his way, would not have done so. No, when he was wed
he would be quite content to settle down to a peaceful and respectable
existence divided between town and country, with nothing more exciting
to anticipate than the arrival of two or three little Devenishes.

He shifted uneasily in the saddle. Sounded devilish dull… He
dismissed the thought hurriedly. The bitter fact was that he was being
treated by the Drummonds as though he were a complete stranger! Was it
possible that they had received a more flattering offer for Yolande's
hand? Surely not! But he glared angrily at Miss Farthing's ears and
thought that it would serve them right if Yolande rejected him only to
choose some rank ineligible—such as that curst circus acrobat this
morning! Blasted encroaching mushroom! The way the fellow had looked at
her was alone cause enough to have grassed him! For all his mercurial
temperament, however, Devenish was a fine sportsman, and it had already
come to him that he had been less than fair to Mr. Winters. The fellow
had meant no harm with that splendid jump; he had afterwards most
certainly saved Yolande's life and been given precious little credit
for it.

He shrugged his shoulders. The Canadian was far away by this
time. The thing now was to get back to Aspenhill as quickly as possible
and discover whether his Tyrant had also been aware of Yolande's
proposed jaunt to Scotland. By God, if
that
wouldn't be the outside of enough!

He touched his spurred heels gently to Miss Farthing's sides,
and she sprang eagerly into a gallop that took them rapidly across lush
meadow and through shady copse until they reached the last hill beyond
which sprawled the Tyndale preserves and the welcome of Aspenhill.

Colonel Alastair Tyndale looked up in mild surprise when his
nephew unceremoniously flung open the study door and strode in. Leaning
back in his chair, Tyndale laid down the letter he had been reading and
said, "I'm glad you came back, Dev. Your—"

"I was at Park Parapine," Devenish interpolated. "Sir, did you
know that Yolande is going away?"

The Colonel pushed back his chair and came to his feet,
standing very straight so that although the desk was between them,
Devenish had to look up at him. "We can discuss that, together with
your—ah—unfortunate manners, later," he said. "I must tell you that
your cousin has arrived."

"Oh. Well, can the brat wait awhile, sir? What I would like to
know is—"

"And," Tyndale continued inexorably, "had you not burst in
here at such a rate, you might have noticed that he is sitting behind
you."

"Eh?" Devenish swung around to meet his small and unwanted
cousin. "I say, I apologize if—" The words died abruptly. He gasped,
"The devil!"

The Canadian who sprawled in the chair behind the door may
have been unwanted. Small, he was not. Mr. Craig Winters' long, booted
legs were outstretched, his chin propped on the knuckles of one hand,
while his amused eyes took in Devenish's stark horror. He came lazily
to his feet and drawled, "The Colonial looby—at your service, cousin…"
His bow was deep, flourishing, and decidedly mocking.

Devenish spun to face his uncle. "Sir! This is a confounded
hoax! This beastly fellow ain't a little boy! Nor is he related to us!"

The Colonel's keen blue eyes drifted from tall, derisive
Canadian to slender, fuming Englishman. "I see," he said dryly, "that
you two have met." He moved towards the door. "Come, gentlemen."

"Uncle!" flared Devenish, his comely face flushed. "Be damned
if I'll—"

"Colonel," drawled Winters, his accent very pronounced, "maybe
I'd best get on my—"

"We will talk," said Tyndale arctically, "over luncheon." He
opened the door. "You will both be so good as to join me in the
breakfast parlour as soon as you've put off your riding clothes.
Ah—there you are, Truscott. Where have we put Mr. Tyndale?"

Winters' heavy brows twitched into a frown. The butler,
customarily suave and seldom at a loss, was apparently not at his best
today. "Mr.—Mr. Tyndale, sir?" he echoed.

"My nephew. Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale. Wake up, man!"

"M—my apologies, sir. Mr. er—Tyndale, is in the blue guest
suite." He turned glazed eyes to Winters and bowed. "May I show you the
way, sir?"

"You may not," the Colonel intervened. "Devenish, take your
cousin to his room, if you please. I want a word with Truscott."

"With pleasure, sir," lied Devenish. Ascending the stairs
beside his new kinsman, and bound by the dictates of good manners, he
added, "I collect you stand in need of the services of a valet, so—"

"Oh, no. Thank you for so kind an offer. But I sent my man
ahead of me. He's here now."

Devenish raised one bored eyebrow. "Indeed?"

Had he put a quizzing glass to his eye and leisurely surveyed
his cousin through it, he could scarcely have more clearly implied his
scepticism.

That mischievous twinkle again lit the Canadian's eyes. "We
Colonials do have
some
of the social graces." He
glanced up. "Everything in now, Monty?"

Devenish lifted his scornful gaze to discover the doubtful
merits of this "social grace." Scorn was routed. It was, in fact, all
he could do to restrain his jaw from dropping to half-mast. The man who
stood on the landing, with one hand lightly resting on the banister,
was tall and with a suggestion about him of the panther. His long hair
was blue-black, tied in at the nape of his neck, and very straight. The
skin that stretched over lean cheeks had a coppery glow, and his eyes
were unfathomable pools of jet. He wore a tunic and trousers of soft
leather that were as if moulded to his lithe form, and on his feet were
intricately beaded moccasins. He met his employer's laughing gaze, and
his features softened imperceptibly. Not into a smile, exactly, but a
semblance of one that was a brief flash of gleaming white against his
dark face. "Everything in," he confirmed in a deep rumble of a voice.
"You come."

Lips quirking, Tyndale threw a quick glance at his paralyzed
relation and went on up the stairs.

For almost a minute, Devenish did not move. A distant shout of
laughter roused him from his trance. He tottered to the landing.
"Now—by Jove!" he breathed, his eyes stunned. "Now—by Jove!"

An hour later, Colonel Tyndale blew a cloud of smoke into the
air and, with an appreciative eye, regarded the cheroot he held. "A
very good brand, Craig," he acknowledged. "From your native land?"

"No, sir. They're—er, from Spain, actually. Glad they please
you."

Devenish coughed rather pointedly and waved smoke from his
vicinity.

"Alain don't smoke," advised Tyndale. "It's a filthy habit, I
will admit."

"Oh, absolutely," Winters agreed affably. "Good you don't
allow it, sir. Perhaps, when he's older…"

Bristling, Devenish grated, "What the deuce d'you mean by
that? I'm as old as are you, you blasted circus clown! And furthermore—"

Tyndale lifted a restraining hand. "Peace, gentlemen. Peace! I
have heard you both out and, unless one of you is bending the truth a
trifle, it must be apparent that Craig acted unwisely, but did his best
to atone, and that you, Alain, behaved with your usual calm, good
judgment and comforted Yolande."

"Oh, very well," Devenish muttered, reddening. "I'll own I may
perhaps have neglected to properly thank you, Winters, for acting as
fast as you did to rescue my lady, but—"

"Your—ah, lady… ?" breathed Winters. "You and Miss Drummond
are promised, then?"

"From the cradle." Eyes narrowed and deadly, Devenish went on,
"Furthermore, I warn you, here and now, that—"

"I feel sure," put in Alastair Tyndale, "I need not remind
you, Dev, that your cousin is—my guest."

His fists clenching, Devenish choked back his angry words and
sat seething for a moment. "If Mr. Winters is indeed our kinsman, sir,"
he exploded, "why don't he use his rightful name?"

"My apologies, Craig," said Tyndale regretfully. "I'd not
intended to be so blunt, but since the question has been raised…"

His head very erect, Winters answered, "I understood it was
one of my grandfather's stipulations, sir. That if he paid my father's
way to Canada, the family name would not be used."

Devenish uttered a barely audible snort. Winters turned
suddenly glinting eyes to stare at him unblinkingly.

The Colonel, frowning at the upcurling smoke from his cheroot,
pointed out, "That stipulation did not apply to you. The— the
indiscretions of your sire are not part of your inheritance. I believe
it would be appropriate for you to use your correct name."

Without removing his gaze from Devenish's bland hauteur,
Winters said gently, "Your pardon, Uncle. But I have no wish to change."

"My regrets, nephew. But it is
my
wish
that you do so," said the Colonel, just as gently.

Here, Winters shifted his attention to the older man, a
troubled uncertainty in his eyes. "I have no intent to distress you,
sir. Were I to change my name, it would be to take your own, I assume."

'Tyndale. Of course. What had you supposed?"

Winters shrugged. "I wasn't just sure. You Englishmen seem to
change your names at the drop of a hat." He glanced at Devenish. "So
long as it's Tyndale, I'll settle for that."

"Will you, by God!" raged Devenish. "And I suppose had it been
my
name, that wouldn't have been good enough for
your backwoods clodhop—"

'That will do!" The Colonel's voice cut like a sabre through
the tirade. "I suggest you apologize, sir!"

Devenish's blazing eyes fell. He was behaving badly, his
awareness of which fact did little to mitigate his loathing of his tall
cousin. "Yes," he mumbled. "Quite right." And forcing his eyes upwards,
met an unexpected glare in the grey gaze across the table. "Apologize,
Win—Tyndale."

The glare faded into a grin. The Canadian drawled, "Thank you."

"Still, it might be better," said the Colonel, "did you find
someone else to accompany you, Craig. I wish I might go, but I am—er,
detained here by—by a matter that I cannot postpone just now."

"Think nothing of it, sir. I've done a little pathfinding
through the mountains of Upper Canada. It should be simple enough for
me to find my way round this little island."