The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  Mr. James Garvey did not obey this behest, but instead strolled 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 we sacrificed as a red herring. Besides, if they found something they’d likely think we were gun runners, is all.”

  “No! Damn you! I tell you, Leith would know! Harry Redmond would be quick to suspect. And through either of those thorns in my flesh, the Horse Guards would know! Our friend Devenish is the catalyst. He must be silenced. See to it!”

  The glare in those strange eyes had flared, and Garvey quailed inwardly. He loathed Alain Devenish and would have been delighted to see him die as slowly and painfully as possible, provided that someone else was responsible. Not that he shrank from murder, but he had plans of his own to bring to fruition, and any public scandal would ruin these. He dare not mention this, however, and avoided Sanguinet’s keen scrutiny, muttering, “Nothing would please me more. But I doubt it is necessary, and the least fuss would be our best protection, no?”

  Sanguinet continued to regard him for a long moment. Then he settled back in his chair, the flame faded from his eyes, and in a faintly contemptuous tone he enquired, “Why is it not necessary, mon ami?”

  “Devenish is mad for Yolande Drummond. I have learned she’s chosen Tyndale and that Devenish is a broken man. If Tyndale dies, all his energies will go to winning back his light o’ love. If the Colonial lives, I fancy he will slink back to England like a whipped cur, with his tail ’twixt his legs. Either way, he will present no further threat to us.”

  Sanguinet uttered a soft laugh. “You are a philosopher, James. This comes from your own vast experience with affaires de cœur, eh?” The sly gleam in his eyes brought a deeper flush to Garvey’s countenance, and Sanguinet laughed again. “Perhaps you are right. We will see. Devenish must be watched closely, and destroyed does he make one false move! I have been twice thwarted and now must find another distribution point. Annoying. And it will delay me. I had thought to strike this year. Now—it must be next. Who ever would have dreamed the Canadian would survive Waterloo, much less come to claim our castle! Fate can be so wayward!” he sighed. “I doubt we will ever again find an end for Devenish that would have been so well accepted as our lovely ploy in Castle Tyndale. And how well it would have served us.… Such a great pity.…”

  For a while there was silence, each man busied with his own thoughts.

  Sanguinet glanced up at length. “It could have been worse. And—what is it you English say? Better luck the next time? Let us drink to that, my dear James.”

  They did.

  * * *

  The following Saturday afternoon was sultry, with clouds piling up over the sea and a warm fitful breeze occasionally stirring the banner atop Steep Drummond. The great house was quiet: Mrs. Drummond was laid down upon her bed, softly snoring, with Socrates at her feet, loudly snoring; Mrs. Fraser had gone into the village to supervise the flower arrangements for tomorrow’s church service; and in the kitchen, Montelongo was comparing bread recipes with the General’s chef. In a certain small study, three people were involved in an intense discussion, the outcome of which would most logically spell defeat and despair for two, and a hollow victory for t
he third. And because of that same discussion, Alain Devenish was as far away as possible, riding through the hills with a very small person at his side.

  These two also had plans to discuss, and Devenish, having just been dealt what he was later to describe “a leveller,” turned in the saddle to demand, “What the deuce d’you mean—‘thank you, no’? Lord, child, do you not know the future you would have as the General’s ward? The old gentleman has taken a great liking to you. He’s vastly well breeched and can offer you the best in life. You’ll have a splendid education, and when the time comes, be presented, I shouldn’t wonder! You’ll have a Season in London, and—and everything any chit could wish for! And you say—‘thank you, no’? You’re wits to let is what it is!”

  She peered at him anxiously. “You bean’t angry with Josie?”

  “No, but—” He straightened and muttered, “I should have more sense. You are too young to understand what’s best, so—dash it all—I must make your decisions.”

  Staring straight ahead between her mount’s ears, Josie rode on. She was not a sullen child, but Devenish had come to know that mulish set to her small mouth and, covertly watching her, he waited in amused anticipation for the next move.

  “I don’t know why he wants me,” she said, judicially. “I bean’t pretty, Mr. Dev. I don’t think I ever will be. Not a Beauty, anyway.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But there are more important things.”

  She stifled the hurt and said stoutly, “Yes. And I don’t give a button for being one. Nor would you, if you stopped to think of it.”

  “Me?” he exclaimed, startled. “But I’ve no wish to be a Beauty, elf!”

  She giggled. “Me, I mean, silly! I might not grow up to be pretty like—” She checked, seeing a muscle ripple in his jaw, and went on quickly, “I mean, I c’n do things, Mr. Dev. And in a year or a bit, I’ll be all growed and you can—”

  “Jo … sie…!” he uttered trenchantly.

  “You can turn off your housekeeper,” she went on, twinkling at him. “’Cause I’ll be able to keep house for you and sew on your buttons and cook, and—”

  “And scrub the floors and wash the windows and do the laundry, I suppose? Devil take it! Can I not make you understand that the General offers you the life of a Lady of Quality? I remember you once said that you wanted to be just like—like Miss Yolande. This is your chance.”

  She said rather wistfully, “If I was like her, would you like me then?”

  Devenish’s heart twisted. If she were like Yolande … Poor little plain, ignorant, lowly born child, how could she ever begin to be like the exquisite lady he had lost…? But the poignant note to her voice had not escaped him, and therefore he shifted in the saddle and, drawing his mount to a halt, appraised her critically. It was not an unpleasant face. It simply had no one feature that was noteworthy. The eyes were bright and alert but neither large nor of exceptional hue; the dark curls showed a regrettable tendency to frizz, the chin was too pointed, and the nose, although straight, lacked distinction. And yet, despite the many hardships she had endured in her short life, her mouth seemed always to tremble on the brink of a smile, and whenever he spoke, her eyes would fly to him with a look of eager expectancy. He thought, “She is like a cheerful little bird, waiting confidently for the crumbs of happiness she knows will come,” and realized he had become fond of her.

  He said with a smile, “I like you just as you are, but I’ve nothing to offer you, little one. You cannot live in a house with two bachelors, it wouldn’t be right.”

  “But—but couldn’t you ward me, like the General was going to?” she asked desperately. “I want to stay with you, Mr. Dev.”

  “You think you do now, but the time will come when you’ll thank me for making you stay here. I’ve scarce a feather to fly with, but General Drummond’s an extreme wealthy gentleman.”

  “I don’t give a button!” she declared fiercely. “’Sides, you’re getting older all the time. I heered you tell the Major that you’ll come into your ’heritance soon. So then we could go to your other house to live, and I wouldn’t have to live with two bach’lors.”

  “No. With one. Infinitely worse!”

  “No, oh no!” She reached out, tears glistening on her lashes. “If you don’t take Josie, who will take care of you? You don’t like that other house of yours. You’ll go there and be lonely and sad inside, ’cause of—her.”

  Astounded, Devenish gasped, “How do you know I don’t like Devencourt?”

  She dashed tears away with an impatient hand. “’Cause I know your looks,” she said, sniffing. “And you get such a funny one when you talk about it.”

  He was silent. It was true, he still had the same feeling of being trapped whenever he thought of living in the old place. When he had planned to take Yolande there as his bride it had been so different; the house had been often in his thoughts, then, and he’d known a sense of contentment, envisioning their life together, and the improvements they would make. With Yolande at his side, he could have been perfectly happy. Now … “I will not be going to Devencourt,” he said slowly. “I shall stay with my Uncle Alastair, until—” Cold drops struck his face. “Heigh-ho! Rain again! Come along, Milady Elf! I’ll race you back to the house!”

  * * *

  “Sir,” Tyndale said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair, I will most gladly lay my financial expectations before you. I think you will find them not contemptible.”

  General Drummond was miserable, but this remark diverted him. “You’ve the castle, I’ll admit, and some very fine land about it. But I had supposed that to be the sum of your fortune.”

  “I doubt you were the only one to do so,” Tyndale said, adding with a wry smile, “It does not seem to have occurred to anyone that my mother may have been an heiress.”

  The General blinked. “It didnae occur tae me! Is that the case? Have ye a respectable competence, perhaps?”

  “No, sir. I rather think I’d have to name it a—a considerable fortune.”

  Yolande gave a gasp and stared at her love in astonishment.

  Tyndale turned to take up the slender hand resting on the arm of her chair. “I’d not intended to deceive you, my dearest girl. You did not seem to care, one way or the other. And I thought my chances to be nil, so said nothing.”

  “And did not press your suit, because you are so honourable a gentleman,” she murmured.

  He was silent, mesmerized by the look of adoration in her beautiful eyes, and they gazed at one another through a breathless moment.

  The General gave an irritated snort. “Oh, do stop your fondling! How can I discuss business matters with you looking at each other like a couple of moonlings? This is a perfect example of why the ladies are usually excluded frae such conferences.” He cast a darkling glance at his granddaughter’s radiance. “As they should hae been this time, too!”

  “Yes, and I know just what would have happened had I not insisted upon coming,” she asserted with rare defiance. “You would have convinced Craig of his unworthiness—”

  “I need no convincing of that,” murmured Tyndale, pressing the hand he still held.

  “—for my sake,” Yolande went on, a dimple appearing briefly beside her pretty mouth. “And he would have agreed that it would be inhuman to tear me from family, friends, and country—”

  “Very true. But I’ve no intention of so doing,” he interjected, again.

  “Also for my sake,” she continued resolutely. “And the upshot of it all would have been that—for my sake—he would have walked out of my life. Only, for my sake, I cannot let that happen.”

  “I apprehend,” the old gentleman said gravely, “that the Major is a splendid young fellow. I’ve had word from a friend at Whitehall concerning his military record, and I’d be a clod not to be impressed. Now, it would seem he is eminently qualified from a more practical aspect to seek your hand. Besides which—” a faint smile warmed his troubled eyes—“any fool can see you care for each
other.”

  Yolande’s fingers gripped very tightly about Craig’s lean hand. Two young hearts thundered as they waited tensely for the decision.

  “Accidents do happen,” said the General with slow deliberation. “I had one myself was almost fatal. I was just a lad, and shot an arrow into a rustling bush. Nigh killed my favourite cousin.… Never have been able to touch a bow and arrow since. But—had I the slightest proof that Stuart Devenish died as the result of such an accident, however foolish, I’d withdraw my objections in a trice, and do all I might to convince my son and his lady to accept you, Tyndale. But … dammitall! I’ll be honest, even though my words will be unwelcome to you both. It is my belief that Jonas, with his wild temper and intolerance, did just as he stood accused of doing. That he deliberately pushed his unwanted brother-in-law to his death. And to have my beloved granddaughter sneered at and derided because she had wed the son of a murderer…! No! Tyndale, I’ve no wish to distress you. But—that is what I cannot countenance. I wish—I really wish that I could offer you hope, but…” One powerful hand was raised in a helpless gesture, then fell back onto the mahogany desk again.

  Tyndale’s head had lowered. It was no more than he had expected. And one could not blame the old fellow: He was doing his utmost to protect his beloved granddaughter. Lord knows, the decision was one he himself would likely have made, under the circumstances. But … how could he bear to part with her, knowing that she loved him, and loving her so much that life had taken on so new and glorious a glow of happiness?

  “No!” cried Yolande, jumping up. “This is so wrong! Grandpapa, you must see that Craig has done nothing! Oh, do not, I beg of you—do not drive me to run away with him!”

  Craig, who had stood also, said gently, “That you will never do, my beautiful lady. I’ll wed you with honour, or not at all.”

  General Drummond grunted his approval of these sentiments. Yolande, however, watched Craig with frantic eyes, and said a shaken, “Not even if you know I will never marry anyone else?”

  He took her hand and kissed it and, holding it in both of his, said softly. “I came to Ayrshire with two aims in view. One was to find my inheritance. The other was to clear my father’s name. I’ve found my inheritance, but I’ve scarcely begun an enquiry into what really happened out at the castle four and twenty years since. Have faith in me, dear heart. I’ll prove it was an accident—I know it!”