The Devil and Drusilla

by Paula Marshall

  She walked slowly to her room. Her inward distress was such that she felt unequal to meeting and talking to any other of Tresham Hall’s guests. But she had not gone further than the first landing on the great stairway when she met Sir Toby Claridge walking along it, his manner as carefree as though nothing in the whole wide world could trouble him.

  He must have seen her distress for he stopped, his simple face worried, and said, ‘What is it, Dru? Are you ill?’

  For the moment she was almost unable to speak, and then words gushed from her lips in a torrent, for she must know, she must, and surely he would give her a plain answer. ‘No, I’m not ill, but tell me, Toby, is it really true that you lost everything at play last night to Lord Devenish?’

  He gave a short, nervous laugh. ‘Oh, is that the tale that’s going round, Dru? No wonder you’ve a Friday face. Of course, it’s not true. It is true that when the others left us alone I was in a bad way, but Devenish agreed to go on playing and after a short time I had recouped most of my losses, and so we called it a night—or rather day—for the sun was already up.’

  It was the tale which he and Devenish had agreed on to explain away why he was not, after all, ruined.

  Relief swept over Drusilla coupled with a feeling of bewilderment that Devenish had not explained this to her. But, of course, he would not justify himself to anyone. It was not his way.

  More, he had been right to say that if she loved him she would trust him unreservedly. Joy ran through her—a joy which Toby saw and recognised for what it was.

  ‘It’s him you care for,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s Devenish, isn’t it? I’ve never had a hope of winning you, had I? Oh, Dru, are you being wise? He’s a ruthless devil, I know, but—’ and something suddenly struck him ‘—you’re a strong woman, aren’t you? The way that you coped and arranged things after Jeremy’s death should have told me. Most women would have had hysterics and needed rescuing themselves, but not you. All the same, don’t let him hurt you.’

  ‘Oh, Toby,’ Drusilla said, sad in her turn. ‘I like you as a friend—and you’re right, he’s ruthless—but perhaps that’s what I admire about him.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the brow. ‘I shan’t say anything more, Dru. I’ve lost the right to do other than wish you happy.’

  Tonight, he promised himself as he walked slowly down stairs, the day having lost its savour for him, I shall get drunk—and then I’ll think about tomorrow.

  The gossip about the result of the previous night’s gaming was not confined to the great and mighty. The servants’ hall was enjoying it, too. Leander Harrington’s valet, Ashton, twitted Toby’s valet, Grayson, on his losses.

  ‘Not so bad as at first thought, though,’ retorted Grayson. ‘After the night was supposed to be over, they played again and my master recouped most of his losses, isn’t that so, Erridge?’

  Erridge was Devenish’s man, a silent creature, given mostly to nodding his head and looking wise. ‘So it seems,’ he said at last, grudgingly.

  ‘Well, either he did or he didn’t,’ retorted Ashton.

  ‘There was something odd about it, though,’ said Grayson slowly. ‘When I helped him into his night rail Sir T allowed as how Devenish was a tricky swine who never gave you something for nothing. When I asked him how so, he swore at me and said, “Never mind.”’

  ‘That’s true enough, he is a tricky swine,’ nodded Erridge. ‘He did a deal with that young fellow Allinson who lost everything to him just afore we left London. He let him off his losses after he promised to stop gambling.’

  ‘Wonder if he did a similar deal with Sir T?’ pondered Grayson.

  Ashton said, ‘For sure, your master’s an odd creature, Erridge. Winning—and then throwing his gains away.’

  He thought that this might be a useful titbit to pass on to his own master when he dressed him for dinner. He knew that Leander Harrington considered all gossip as grist to his mill—it helped him to control people, he had once said. Always tell me anything you think I ought to know—I shan’t reproach you if it’s useless.

  He had obviously heard something useful this time. Mr Harrington regarded his handsome reflection in the mirror. ‘Say that again, Ashton,’ he instructed.

  Ashton duly obliged him.

  Mr Harrington thought a moment before summing up, ‘So Erridge said that it was a habit of his master’s to let his victims off if they obliged him in some way?’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ said Ashton scrupulously. ‘In young Allinson’s case it was simply a promise to stop gambling—which you might say obliged Allinson, not Lord Devenish.’

  ‘I wonder what Sir Toby promised him,’ mused his master. ‘Try to find out, if you would, Ashton. You’ll not lose by it.’

  After he had sent his valet away with a guinea in his hand, Leander Harrington sat down and thought for a moment of what he had just learned. Sir Toby, he knew, was a weak fool. He was also a friend of Drusilla Faulkner’s, who seemed to be Devenish’s latest female conquest. That being so, it was odd that Devenish should fix on Sir Toby to ruin. And having ruined him, odder still that he should give him a chance to recoup.

  Could it be that he had not, but had simply returned Claridge’s IOUs in exchange for something else? And if so, what could it be? It might be wise to lean on Claridge and try to find out the real truth behind this strange story.

  Unease rode on his shoulders. He knew that he was playing a dangerous game of a different kind where failure might mean more than the simple loss of money. His life—and the lives of those he controlled—could be at risk.

  Another thought struck him. What was the true reason why Devenish—who, gossip said, had always vowed never to set foot in Tresham Hall again—had returned to it this summer? Was it simply boredom, curiosity, or something more which had brought him back? A wise man always considered every option put before him—particularly where survival itself could be concerned.

  He would not question Claridge here, at Tresham Hall, for the man was so light in the attic that he might immediately run to Devenish babbling about Harrington’s curiosity over what had passed after the pair of them had been left alone once the night’s play was supposedly over. No, he would wait until the house party had dispersed—and then find an opportunity to make Claridge drunk enough to loosen his tongue.

  He would also warn the other conspirators to be careful what they said in front of Devenish. It was immaterial whether the man knew, or suspected, anything—caution could never be misplaced. If his early morning deal with Claridge was an innocent one having nothing to do with the secret activities at Marsham Abbey, a misplaced word might still serve to give them all away—with disastrous results.

  Drusilla was thus not the only person for whom the end of the meeting at Tresham Hall to which she had so looked forward could not come soon enough. She needed time to think, away from Devenish and the fascination which he had for her.

  They met little after that, and he made no attempt to single her out, and she reciprocated by avoiding him whenever she could whilst trying not to look overly cool towards him.

  I am growing as devious as he is, she thought mournfully as she was driven home to Lyford House. He had come to see her off, had bowed to her before handing her into her carriage, and had said under his breath, ‘Soon, soon, I hope that we may be less circumspect. Until then, adieu. My heart travels with you.’

  Full of a strange apprehension for which she could find no reason, Drusilla had bowed back and murmured so that none might hear her, ‘Your wishes accord with mine, m’lord. I long for that day to come.’

  ‘Hal,’ he had murmured back, straightening up. ‘Hal, remember. For you, m’lord and Devenish do not exist.’

  She had not looked back. Giles, who was handed in after her, asked curiously, ‘What did he say to you, Dru? Has he ever explained about that damn’d odd business over Sir Toby? First it was said that Devenish had ruined him, and then the on dit was that he had not—that it was all a m
isunderstanding.’

  ‘It’s none of our business what he does,’ she told him quietly. ‘I would rather that you did not speak of it further. We ought to ignore gossip, not perpetually chew it over. M’lord treated you very kindly while you were at Tresham, and that should be enough.’

  ‘So he did,’ remarked Giles, brightening. ‘I had a really jolly time once the first rumours over Sir Toby proved false. Devenish let me ride that dear little mare of his. He told his head groom to lend it to our stables since she was just the thing for me to ride. Neither too lively, nor too sluggish, he said. He doesn’t make a great tohu bohu either way over my game leg, you know. I like that.’

  It was another mark of Devenish’s kindness, Drusilla knew, and it comforted her. He was a man of such contrarieties that it was difficult to judge him easily.

  Which was exactly what Toby Claridge was thinking of his late host as he drove home. Shortly before he had left Tresham Hall Leander Harrington had come up to him.

  ‘We have enjoyed ourselves so much here,’ he had said, ‘that I should not like to wait until the next full moon to carry on the festivities. I have asked a few friends round to Marsham for an evening’s drinking tonight. If I have a criticism to make of our host at Tresham, it is that he does not take his drinking seriously.’

  ‘Doesn’t take it at all, seriously or otherwise,’ grinned Toby. ‘Damn’d abstemious, ain’t he?’

  He didn’t particularly relish spending an evening drinking with Harrington in view of what he had told Devenish about the Black Mass, but as he had never refused such an invitation before, it might look odd if he did so now.

  ‘Do nothing out of the ordinary,’ Devenish had warned him. ‘Continue to live as you have always done. That way you avoid the kind of suspicion which suddenly changing your habits might provoke.’

  ‘You will make up the party?’ Harrington pressed him.

  ‘Oh, certainly. Never miss an opportunity to join a few friends over a glass of something.’

  ‘Excellent. You won’t regret coming. I like to share the glories of my cellar with my friends. Unlike Devenish. His grandfather must be turning over in his grave to see it so neglected.’

  ‘So long as he don’t come out of it,’ laughed Toby, relieved. Harrington didn’t appear to suspect anything, and a happy evening’s drinking might dispel some of the qualms he felt over ratting on the Brotherhood as Harrington always called it.

  Harrington watched Toby’s carriage leave, a grim smile on his face. Claridge might not be so cheerful in a few hours’ time if his suspicions proved to be well founded. If he had betrayed them his punishment might take some time in coming, for it would not do to have another mysterious death to explain away—particularly since Claridge had been a great friend of Jeremy Faulkner’s…

  His main problem would be what to do with Devenish if his suspicions over the real reason for his presence at Tresham proved to be true.

  ‘Well, I suppose it was worth all the hard work,’ remarked Rob Stammers to Devenish when the last guest had gone and the servants were setting the Hall to rights again.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ said Devenish. He was feeling weary unto death. Tomorrow he would ride to London with as little pomp and circumstance as possible, ask Sidmouth’s advice, and then try to act upon it. He had no idea of what the Home Secretary might say—other than that he would wish an open scandal to be avoided. That he had been chosen to perform this mission at all was proof of that.

  ‘What are you up to, Hal?’ Rob asked, his tone conversational.

  ‘Up to? I don’t follow.’

  ‘No? You have that face again. The one I haven’t seen since the days when we worked behind the French lines in Spain and Portugal.’

  Devenish sighed. ‘Am I so transparent, then?’

  ‘Only to me, I suspect. I have seen it before, others haven’t.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Rob. For your own sake.’

  This was not strictly true. He had to consider that Rob might be one of the Brotherhood—and therefore ready to betray him. He thought not, but it was a risk he dare not take—unlike the one with Claridge.

  ‘For my sake? You weren’t so tender of my skin in the Peninsula.’

  ‘Ah, but what I am “up to” now—mind, I admit nothing—is more dangerous than when we were working behind the lines in order to spy out the enemy’s ground for Wellington. Then we were little more than careless boys; now we are grown men with responsibilities for others, so you must forgive me if I don’t confide in you.’

  Without meaning to Devenish knew that he sounded abrupt and forbidding: exactly like the grandfather whom he had hated.

  Rob’s face fell a little. ‘You rarely pull the Earl on me, Hal. If you are about to do so permanently, then release me. I want my memories of you to be kind ones.’

  ‘Oh, Goddamn,’ said Devenish who rarely blasphemed. ‘Believe me, I would tell you if I could. What I am “up to” will, I hope, soon be safely over—and then you will be one of the few with whom I may safely share what I have been “up to”. Don’t let us risk our friendship because I have taken what is virtually an oath of secrecy over this matter.’

  Rob began to argue with him, but Devenish silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Leave it, Rob. I have enough to worry about without having to take account of your hurt feelings. Forgive me—and let me go—and don’t talk about wanting your release. You are not my prisoner—you may leave at any time if that is what you wish.’

  He did not wait for an answer but strode off down the corridor, leaving Rob to ask himself whether, in some fashion not understandable, what troubled Hal had to do with Drusilla Faulkner, Toby Claridge and Leander Harrington.

  For the life of him he could not imagine what strange connection could exist between the three of them which would cause Hal to act so uncharacteristically towards the one friend whom he had cherished since his boyhood had ended.

  ‘Damn you, Grandfather,’ muttered Devenish aloud as he strode up the stairs, ‘you made me over in your image and I shall always hate you for that.’

  He paused outside his room. ‘On the other hand, you saved me from being like my father—for which I suppose, you ought to have my gratitude. So where does that leave me? An unlikely mixture of the two of you, I suppose!’

  ‘I thought that this was goin’ to be a drinking party, Harrington,’ said Toby Claridge, looking round Marsham Abbey’s small and comfortable drawing room which opened off the cavernous Great Hall with its Minstrels’ Gallery, flambeaux holders and pointed Gothic windows, and finding it empty of guests other than himself.

  ‘So it was,’ smiled his host, motioning him to a chair before which stood a long low table covered in bottles and glasses, ‘but my other guests seem to have mistaken the date. I can only assume that they thought that I was inviting them to come tomorrow and not today.’

  Toby not being, as he frequently admitted to himself, great in the thinking line, did not question this somewhat dubious explanation.

  ‘Want me to leave and come back tomorrow?’ he asked a trifle mournfully.

  ‘By no means. We can entertain one another by splitting a few bottles between us. The less of them, the more for us.’ He handed Toby a glass of port. ‘Drink up, Claridge.’

  Toby duly obliged. He thought what a jolly good fellow Harrington was as they laughed and talked together—and drank heavily while doing so. Or at least Toby did. He was too busy enjoying himself to notice that Mr Harrington was actually drinking very little.

  ‘And, of course, you’ll be at the Brotherhood’s next meeting.’

  ‘Of course,’ muttered Toby over the top of his glass. He was not drunk enough to be incapable, but was well on the way. Mr Harrington decided to hurl a few darts at him before he fell under the table.

  ‘Not going to let Devenish persuade you otherwise, eh?’

  ‘He said not—I was to go on as I always did,’ proclaimed Toby wisely, congratulating himself on remembering so well what Deveni
sh had told him. What he had forgotten in his drunken condition was that this advice was meant to be as secret as their previous conversation.

  ‘Did he, indeed? Now why should he say that?’

  Toby nodded importantly before answering. ‘Oh, yes. I wasn’t to tell anyone that I had informed him about the Brotherhood. It was to be a secret, he said…’

  His voice trailed away, agonised, as he grasped that in his drunken state he must have given himself and Devenish away—and to the very man to whom he had sworn to Devenish he would say nothing!

  ‘A secret.’ Leander Harrington smiled. ‘What secret was this, Claridge? Surely you can tell an old friend.’

  ‘Nothing,’ mumbled Toby. Far gone as he was he understood, if only dimly, that he had allowed himself to be cozened into betrayal. ‘Can’t say. Mustn’t say.’ He put a finger by his nose and tried to smile as though what he was babbling was of no importance.

  Mr Harrington leaned forward and seized him by his cravat, thrusting his face into Toby’s as he did so.

  ‘Oh, no, Claridge. You’ve said both too much—and not enough. Tell me what the secret was which you shared with Devenish—or I’ll do for you as Faulkner was done for. You understand me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ gasped Toby, now so frightened that he was almost sober again. ‘I promised that I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You promised that you wouldn’t!’ exclaimed Mr Harrington derisively. ‘Have you forgotten the oath you swore to your great master, the one-time archangel, Apollyon? That surely takes precedence over a mere promise to a fellow mortal.’

  ‘No,’ gabbled Toby. ‘It was made to you, not to the Devil.’

  ‘Yes, but in my capacity as Apollyon’s emissary on earth.’ Mr Harrington used his not inconsiderable strength to bring his victim to his knees. ‘Answer me, I command you.’

  Choking and gasping, cursing his unwariness and his folly, Toby mumbled, ‘He blackmailed me, I swear it. He said he’d cancel my IOUs if I told him all about the Brotherhood.’

  ‘At last!’ Mr Harrington released Toby who fell back into his chair, rubbing his damaged throat. ‘You unmitigated ass, Claridge! Do you realise that you may have doomed us all to the hangman’s rope since I take it that you told him about Faulkner and the girls.’