Devenish, who had disposed himself with careless grace upon an arm of the sofa, uttered a muffled exclamation and shot to his feet. “Garvey? By God! Why the deuce is that loose fish hanging about you?”
Mrs. Drummond uttered a shriek and clapped protecting hands over her ears. Yolande frowned upon her suitor. Intrigued, Tyndale waited.
With no more than a rageful look at Mrs. Drummond, Devenish started for the door.
“Wait!” Yolande ran to stand before him. “Whatever is wrong? Mr. Garvey is the best of good ton!”
“Much you know about it! Stand aside, miss!”
“No! Are you run quite mad, Dev? Mr. Garvey is a close friend of the Prince, and—”
“Which of itself should tell you something! Move, I say!”
“I shall not move!” She leaned back against the door, barring her seething suitor’s way, her eyes flashing with rare anger. “Devenish, I warn you! Do you embarrass me with your unsufferable jealousy, do you insult a gentleman who has been all that is helpful and conciliating—”
“I’ll conciliate the b—” Devenish gritted his teeth as Mrs. Drummond again squealed.
Yolande threw a frantic glance at Tyndale. “Cousin Craig! He is insupportable! You must see that!”
“I do, indeed, ma’am,” he drawled with his slow smile.
“Oh, do you? Damn you!” snarled Devenish.
A moan arose from Mrs. Drummond.
“Then—stop him!” Yolande implored.
Craig said gently, “Your wish is my command. At any other time. But now, I think it would be best that you should stand aside, Cousin Yolande.”
“So much for your promises and declarations!” Her temper thoroughly aroused, Yolande did not pause to reflect that the only promises and declarations that had passed between them had been silent ones, conveyed by the eyes.
Devenish fired up at once. “So you’ve made promises and declarations, have you? You’ll answer to me for that treachery, bumpkin! Yolande—blast it all! Move aside!”
“Profanity will not move me!” she declared, assuming an Early Christian Martyr pose that must have made the great Sarah Siddons envious.
“In that case,” he said, grimly determined, “I’ll go out the window.”
He strode across the room. Knowing him to be quite capable of doing just that, Yolande uttered a shriek and ran after him. He eluded her by means of a lithe spring over the sofa, drawing a faint yelp from Mrs. Drummond, and was to the door and in the hall in a flash.
Callously ignoring her aunt, who was flapping a handkerchief feebly at her face, Yolande ran wildly after Devenish. “Do not! Alain! If you do, I never will speak to you again!”
“Silly chit!” Devenish shouted, racing down the stairs.
Distraught, Yolande turned and pounced upon Craig. “Stop him! Oh, you must stop him! This is utterly disgraceful! I shall be humiliated beyond bearing. Can you not see that he is crazed with jealousy? And—poor Mr. Garvey has done nothing! Nothing!”
“From what I have heard, cousin, Mr. Garvey has traits you could not be expected to—”
“Why do you not help me?” She tugged at him distractedly. “Do something!”
He took up her hand and kissed it gently. “Do not worry so. I very much doubt it will come to a duel.”
Sudden tears blinded Yolande. Frightened by the unfamiliar emotions stirring in her heart, she took refuge in anger. “A duel! Oh, you are just as bad as Devenish! I think you both utter—utter boors! I had sooner be escorted by—by warthogs! And so you may tell Dev!”
The corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “I suppose,” he sighed, “it’s no great distance from a clod to a warthog. Very well—I will go and try to keep Devenish from throttling your beau ideal.”
“Oh! He is not! How dare you!”
Craig looked at her affronted beauty with a rueful smile, bowed, and left.
Mrs. Drummond who had viewed the exchange with interest, soothed, “Never fear, my love. Dear Mr. Garvey will be quite capable of defending himself against those two uncouth creatures.”
Yolande choked out, “Oh—Aunt!” and burst into tears.
Chapter VI
“ONE THING,” said Devenish savagely, sauntering back across the cobbled stableyard, “according to the ostler, the silly court card will be back before evening, and you may depend on it I shall soon nip in the bud any plans he may have to escort Yolande in to dinner.”
Tyndale glanced curiously at his cousin’s set scowl. “Is he?”
“Taking her in to dinner? Doubtless he thinks so. It is perfectly obvious that he has made a strong bid to engage her affections, which only proves what a ramshackle cawker he is! Only a few weeks back he was in a passion because Justin Strand is to wed Lisette Van Lindsay.”
“And this Garvey admired the lady?”
“Fairly slathering for her.”
“Hmmm. He would appear to make a fast recover. However, you misunderstood my initial question. What I meant was, is this Garvey a silly court card? Yolande seems to rate him high.”
“He’s a damned slippery customer is what he is! Trust a woman to see no further than a handsome face!”
Tyndale shot him an amused glance.
Devenish growled, “Do not dare say it!” and stamped in through the door a boy ran to swing open.
Chuckling, Tyndale tossed the boy a coin and followed his cousin into the cool and fragrant hall. Devenish sniffed. “Ale. By gad, but it tempts me and I’ve no wish to go upstairs, at all events.”
Tyndale accompanied him into the dim old tap and they occupied settles on either side of an oak table that was dark with years. Tyndale called an order for a jug of ale. Turning back, he was met by a cold stare and lifted one eyebrow enquiringly. “Are you still raging about my alleged promises and declarations?”
“I shall take your word as a gentleman that you did no more than offer any service you might to my lady. Nonetheless, I wonder that you do not gallop above stairs and charm her with the news I could not find Garvey.”
Tyndale smiled thoughtfully. “She was not encouraging.”
“So I should hope!”
“She said, in fact, that she would sooner be escorted by—warthogs!”
“Did she now. Er—plural…?”
“Decidedly plural.”
Awed, Devenish murmured, “By … Jove!” Then broke into a shout of laughter. “What a termagant she can be! But it only adds spice to her charm, bless her! I shall have to spruce up a bit for dinner and try to mend my fences, if— Oh, my God!” He directed a dismayed gaze at Tyndale. “This morning we sent Monty on to Northampton with the chaise and all our luggage! Damn! I shall have to send a groom after him!”
A message having been despatched to the stables, the two men settled down to enjoy their ale. Sighing his appreciation, Tyndale set down the tankard and asked, “How is our friend Garvey, a … er, slippery customer?”
“Why, he’s supposed to be such a bosom bow of Prinny’s, ain’t he? Oh, Lord! I keep forgetting you don’t know anyone! Well, he is. But—” Devenish glanced around the empty tap.
Tyndale said an amused, “State secrets, cousin?”
Devenish met his eyes gravely. “After a fashion. I mean to tell you some of it, because there’s just the barest chance Garvey may have seen me and made himself least in sight. If that is so, I’d not put it past him to—” He frowned. “Never mind. But one of us must be here to keep an eye on Yolande.”
This was a side of his cousin he’d not seen before. Intrigued, Tyndale leaned forward. “Has he ‘done a deed whereat valour will weep’?”
“So you did go to school! I am all admiration.”
“And I am all ears.”
“You had better be part discretion. I’ll have your word you won’t repeat any of this, Tyndale.”
“You have it.” There could be no doubt but that Devenish was deadly serious. Impressed by this calm stranger, Tyndale begged, “Please go on. He’s more than silly, I take it.”
“I judge him by the company he keeps. You will remember our earlier discussion regarding Tristram Leith? As I told you, Tris is a grand fellow. He was at Waterloo and rather badly mauled. An English lady named Rachel Strand found and tended him, and he fell head over ears into love with her. Unfortunately, it turned out she was already promised. To a Frenchman. A quiet little fellow named Claude Sanguinet, richer than Golden Ball, up to his eyebrows in international intrigues, and as safe to annoy as any Bengal tiger.”
Tyndale’s brows went up. “And—Leith annoyed him?”
“Considerably. Tristram was shattered, you see, when he fancied Miss Strand lost to him.” His gaze becoming reminiscent, Devenish went on, “At about that same time, my governor and I having had—er, a slight misunderstanding, I was drifting about Sussex. Tristram came back to England, and we met and joined forces. I won’t go into the details—suffice it to say that Tris discovered his lady’s betrothed, this Sanguinet fellow, was up to some very dirty work indeed. A scheme that threatened the safety, perhaps the very life, of our Fair Florizel.”
“The Regent?” Tyndale whistled softly. “The plot thickens. Did Miss Strand know of all this?”
“Not a glimmer. And when Leith realized what she was getting mixed up in, he went to her home to warn her. Unfortunately, Miss Strand had already gone to Brittany for her betrothal ball.”
“I doubt that would stop him,” muttered Tyndale. “He followed, eh?”
“We both did. I—” Devenish checked and, scanning his cousin’s faintly amused expression with a suspicious frown, demanded, “See here—do you know Leith?”
Tyndale blinked at him. “How the devil could a simple Colonial be acquainted with Colonel the Honourable Tristram Leith?”
“I suppose not, but— Hey! I didn’t say he was a Colonel! Nor an Honourable, neither!”
“Did you not? Gracious me. Told you I’ve heard about him. He’s quite famous, after all. Do go on, Sir Coz.”
Devenish regarded him dubiously. There had been some talk, of course, despite the Horse Guards’ struggles to keep everything quiet, and there was no knowing how many people Tyndale may have met before he’d come to Aspenhill.
The picture of interested innocence, Tyndale prompted, “You were saying that Leith followed his lady to Brittany, and that you accompanied him.”
“Yes.” Devenish nodded, still frowning. “And never in all my days have I seen a chateau so beautiful as Sanguinet’s, nor one filled with a more unsavoury lot of guests. We had walked into a veritable hornets’ nest of intrigue, and had our hands full getting the girl and her sister out of it, I can tell you!”
“But you did get them out? How? Come on, coz! You’re leaving out all the meat of the tale.”
“It is too long a story for me to relate now. The point is…” Devenish paused, all this chatter having increased his thirst. He attended to the matter, set down his tankard and resumed. “The point is, my clod, that in amongst that nasty little clutch of ruthless, scheming connivers was our own James Garvey, Esquire. The Regent’s bosom bow.”
“Now was he, by God!” breathed Tyndale. “And what did you and Leith do about that nasty little gathering?”
His eyes dancing, Devenish said with choirboy meekness, “Do about it? Why, we enjoyed a dish of Bohea with Sanguinet, pointed our toes in a stylish quadrille, and toddled back home with the ladies.”
“Damn you, cousin! I want the truth of it.”
“So do a lot of others.” Devenish grinned but shook his head and said firmly, “No, really, Tyndale, I’ve told you the only part that need concern you, and enough that you should understand why I take a very dim view of our dandified Buck.”
“I can, indeed. But—no! For Lord’s sake, you cannot leave me in this puzzle! Did you not warn the Horse Guards, the Foreign Office?”
Devenish stared at the tankard he turned slowly on the table, and said dryly, “We did. Wherefore Leith is no longer a Colonel.” He looked up and met his cousin’s incredulous stare. “True. He was—er, it was politely suggested that he resign his commission.”
“The devil!”
“Precisely. Our Monsieur Claude Sanguinet is a very powerful gentleman!” He glanced around again and, although there was no other within earshot, murmured, “And you will not forget you gave me your word?”
“Of course not. But we must keep Garvey away from Yolande.”
“I mean to. But, just in case—” Devenish broke off as a groom came in, peered through the dim room, then wandered over to their table.
“Beg pardin, sirs,” he said, touching his cap respectfully. “Be ye the gents as was wishful to look at Sir Aubrey Suffield’s team, s’arternoon?”
“Wrong gents,” replied Tyndale with his pleasant smile.
His blue eyes alight with excitement, Devenish asked, “Suffield, did you say? Sir Aubrey is never selling those bays of his? To whom?”
The groom shrugged. “I dunno, sir. He said the gents would be waiting in the tap. I thought as it was you. I’d best see if I can find my proper party.” He begged their pardon again, and departed.
Afire with eagerness, Devenish jumped up. “What a bit of luck!”
Standing also, Tyndale asked, “You know this Suffield?”
“Everyone does. Except you, of course. He’s a regular Top Sawyer! A member of the Four Horse Club. Drives to an inch. No man living is a keener judge of horseflesh. I’ll wager it’s Lucian St. Clair who’s after those bays! I just may steal a march on him!”
Starting into the hall, they encountered Mrs. Drummond, a leashed Socrates panting along beside her.
“Well, gentlemen,” she sniffed. “And did you find poor Mr. Garvey? Does the poor soul lie out under the sun somewhere, with a broken head?”
“Good God!” muttered Devenish, sotto voce.
“He was gone out, ma’am,” imparted Tyndale, accompanying the lady to the stairs.
“One can but hope that by the time he returns, you both will have thought better of your violent inclinations. Come, Socrates! Mama’s little boy can manage these stairs, surely? Up we go!”
“Mama’s little boy” struggled up the first step, planted his front paws on the second, and waited. Grinning broadly, Devenish leaned against the wall.
Ever courteous, Tyndale asked if he might be of some service.
Mrs. Drummond eyed him without appreciable gratitude. “Well,” she said grudgingly, “perhaps you may, at that. The poor darling ate rather too much nuncheon, I fear, and he is a trifle feeble these days.”
Mindful of his earlier encounters with “darling,” Tyndale asked uneasily, “Should you wish me to carry him, ma’am?”
“No. He does not like to be taken up. He is too proud, aren’t you, my love? He only needs a helping hand, poor fellow. If you would be so kind as to just give his little rumpty a lift up each step, he can be spared embarrassment, and I expect we shall go on nicely.”
This declaration brought tears of appreciation to Devenish’s eyes. Enjoying himself hugely, he waited. Socrates, still maintaining his stance, turned his head and watched Tyndale’s cautious approach, a glint in his beady eyes.
Tyndale liked dogs, but this particular animal he would sooner have shown his boot than a “helping hand.” Nonetheless, Mrs. Drummond was Yolande’s aunt.… He bent, therefore, and with one eye on the dog’s still sharp set of fangs, supplied the required boost. The stairs were long and winding, and Socrates’ progress was not rapid. Several interested onlookers gathered, sniggering. Under other circumstances, Devenish would have howled his mirth, but as it was, he clapped a hand over his mouth and succeeded for the most part in stifling his hilarity. Tyndale sensed that his subjugation was being observed by appreciative eyes. He darted a mortified glance downward. As a result, his boost was too precipitate.
“Oh!” wailed Mrs. Drummond. “You made him hurt his dear little nose.”
Socrates was less vocal. His head darted around and he gave the hand that helped him a good nip.
“Did he nip you a little?” asked Mrs. Drummond. “Oh, see that—it is scarcely bleeding at all. If you will just twist your handkerchief around it, I will bathe it for you. Come along, little rascal! Much you care for all the bother your poor mama is put to!”
Ten minutes later, his injury having been bathed, sprinkled with basilicum powder and not very neatly bandaged, Tyndale strode along the hall, lips tight and eyes glittering with mortification. He could only pray that he might not encounter any of those people who had witnessed that ridiculous scene upon the stairs. The very thought made him grind his teeth, and to add to his chagrin, despite having made a complete cake of himself, he had not been rewarded by even a glimpse of the delectable Yolande. Mrs. Drummond had said accusingly that her niece was laid down upon her bed, resting, and much upset by the actions of her cousins. And, glorying in her grievance, she had expounded at great length on the peculiar manners and morals of today’s young people, so that by the time her ministrations were completed he had been both irritated and eager to make his escape. He gripped his right wrist; his hand felt bruised to the bone and smarted like the deuce. That blasted little cur had caught him fairly. And it served him right. It was pointless to yearn for a last sight of Yolande. She was hopelessly beyond his reach; the sooner he accepted that fact, the less miserable he could be. He sighed and ran lightly downstairs.
The stableyard was deserted at this drowsy hour of the afternoon, and he crossed it briskly. In certain quarters he was accounted quite a judge of horseflesh, and he was every bit as eager as his cousin to see Suffield’s famous team. He slowed his steps as he entered the coach house, narrowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Someone called, “Over here, sir!” and he started towards a stall where he could discern a gentleman engaged in inspecting the teeth of a horse. Too tall for Devenish, he thought.
A soft footfall behind him brought with it the sense of danger, sudden and strong, and he reacted with an instinctive swing around. He was too late. He did not feel the blow that struck him down; rather, it seemed that the gloom was rent by a searing explosion. He had a brief, confused thought that one of poor Whynyates’ rockets had found him.…
The Noblest Frailty Page 11