Feather Castles (43 page)

When at last the uproar had eased a trifle, Lord Kingston worked his way to his son's side and, gripping his arm as though he still could not believe this was really happening, said huskily, “Jove, Tristram—but I'm glad you are come home!”

*   *   *

“D'ye mean to tell me they wouldn't believe you?” Leith sprang up from his chair to survey his son with outraged indignation. The evenings were commencing to be cool, and at ten o'clock the Hawkhurst's redoubtable butler, Ponsonby, had himself come in to light the fire in this private parlour to which the two men had retired. Watching the red glow illumine his father's irate countenance, Tristram drawled, “It seems my—ah, exploits were known in Whitehall, sir. Sanguinet moved fast.”

“Survived your swimming lesson, did he? Unfortunate. Never have liked the tales I heard, though I'd not dreamed him so sinister a creature as you describe.”

Tristram had offered his sire a considerably edited version of his adventures, and now said carefully, “Sanguinet is powerful, the French are offended, Whitehall is embarrassed, and I am ‘inventing' scurrilous tales only in an attempt to disguise my own shameful conduct.”

“Good God!” gasped Leith. “Such stupidity defies belief! What of this fellow—Diccon? Can he not substantiate your story?”

“He might, could I find him.” Tristram stretched his long legs and shrugged. “He has vanished.”

“But his superiors know of his warnings, damn 'em! By thunder, I've a mind to go and seek out Wellington! He'd listen, I can tell you! Do they mean to do nothing, then?”

“I don't know, sir. I was told to consider myself fortunate I was not placed under arrest.” He gave a wry grin. “I've resigned my commission. By request—” He paused at Leith's howl of rage, then added, “I only wore this regalia today because I thought you would expect it.”

“Hell and damnation!” Leith exclaimed, driving a fist into his palm. “What typical military lunacy! Those fools at Whitehall should be put away!”

Tristram sank lower in his chair and, with elbows on the arms, leaned his chin on clasped hands and watched his father pace furiously up and down before the hearth, arms waving, and a blistering denunciation of the authorities pouring from his lips. When some of that fury began to ease, Tristram said quietly, “To give 'em their due, sir, I had no proof. The coach was sent off,
sans
coachman, to draw Sanguinet's bullies after it. And our arrival at the inn was a rather desperate business. What with poor Devenish looking near death, and my own head ringing like a church bell, I did not think to keep one of the screens with us. Tell you the truth, I'd not thought I would need proof.”

“No more should you have! Damned if ever I heard of such a set of rum touches! I'll go down to Sussex. Young Devenish ain't too reliable from what I've heard. Downright rackety, in fact, but he might be on some use; or his guardian. Know Tyndale—good man!” He thought for a moment, then exploded, “And why in the deuce would you be accused of stealing such Haymarket-ware as the Strand woman? It's regrettable she ain't of good repute so she could have testified for—” He broke off, staring in surprise as his sleepy son sat up and interpolated a frigid, “Your pardon, sir, but Miss Strand is the loveliest, most kind and good lady it has ever been my pleasure to know!”

“Oh—er, quite.” Dismayed, Leith eyed his son uneasily. “My apologies. I forgot she nursed you when you was hurt. Still, you must face facts, my boy. Might have been wiser, y'know, had you left her there. Sanguinet couldn't—”

“I'd not leave a salamander in the hands of that vicious swine! Much less a lady I love and honour!”

Leith gasped. There was a moment of tense silence. Then, “I trust,” said his lordship softly, “that you were not so ill-advised as to utter such a remark at the Horse Guards?”

“I think you will allow, sir, that I am not of violent temperament. However, I will suffer
no
man to speak ill of the lady.”

“Good God!” Leith sprang up. “In whose teeth did you throw it? The War Minister's? Tristram, if you must have your bits o'muslin, for heaven's sake—”

Tristram had come to his feet also and, fronting his father squarely, now interposed, “Miss Rachel Strand is not a ‘bit of muslin,' sir. She is in fact, the lady I wish above all things to make my wife.”

Once more the room became deathly still, only the crackles of the flames resounding through that silence. Unmoving, the two men faced one another, and then, seeing the shock and consternation in the eyes of this man he had so short a time ago been tearfully embracing, Tristram drew a hand across his brow and apologized, “I'm sorry, sir. I had not meant to break it to you in just that way, or at this time. You have had enough to bear, and—”

“It will …
not … do,
Tristram!” Leith's measured words were very quiet, yet cut through his son's utterance like a knife. “If you have given her your heart, she must be a fine lady, indeed, for I know you could not love her else. But—you have an obligation to your house. Marriage with one of—” He saw the flash in the dark eyes, and amended, “Marriage of a Leith to a Strand? No! Never!”

*   *   *

It was Euphemia Hawkhurst's custom to preside over the coffee-pot at the breakfast table. This October morning was no exception, and having poured her husband a second cup, she sat stirring it absently and, under his amused eye, added sugar, which he detested, and went on stirring. Hawkhurst smiled, and returned to his preoccupation with the newspaper.

“Something,” murmured Euphemia, “has to be done.”

He knew the tone, the motivation, and the possible and ghastly imbroglio that might well result. Shrinking a little in his chair, he muttered, “Oh, my God!”

“You should have seen him,” advised Euphemia.

Hawkhurst sighed and, laying aside
The Gazette,
said brightly, “My apologies, sweetheart. Would you have wished I come with you to town?”

“At the start of the Season? No!”

Being that most fortunate of men, a husband who was quite sure the wife he idolized adored him, this bald statement merely brought about the lift of one mobile brow.

“Oh, I
well
know how you delight in shopping expeditions!” Euphemia teased. “But Stephanie and I had a lovely time, and when she went back to Buchanan Court, Leith took me up to Cloudhills to see Tristram.”

“I see.” He asked whimsically, “Regretting your choice, love?”

She laughed. “Idiotic man! But I have always loved him, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Chin in hand, he watched her. “You mean to do it again! You will restructure his life, and he shall become one of ‘Mia's Mandates'—along with half the Top Ten Thousand!”

Her eyes had become nostalgic and, as though she'd not heard, she asked, “Do you recall, my dear, two years ago, when you were trying valiantly to drive me away, however shamefully I threw myself at you?”

He sobered. “And wanting you with every breath? Yes. I'm not like to forget that miserable period of my existence!”

“In that case,” she nodded gravely, “you know how Tristram feels.”

Hawkhurst frowned and began to toy with a knife.

“He looks perfectly dreadful,” Euphemia went on, a note of urgency in her musical voice. “He is so thin and quiet, and didn't once tease me the entire time I was there. Oh, he pretends to be happy, of course, and insists he is doing splendidly and very busy with his estates, but Chesley is terribly worried about him. He says Tristram refuses almost all invitations and seldom goes to Town. He sits alone at night for hours—reading, but when Chesley looks at the book after Tris retires, he finds it open to the same page as it was the previous day.”

It sounded quite unlike the good-natured, gregarious young man he knew so well. Concerned, Hawkhurst looked up at his wife from under his brows and said slowly, “If he weds her, he will be quite ruined, Mia.”

“Now—wherever have I heard that before?”

“Yes, love. But happily I was exonerated—
before
we were married.”

“And there are those who still doubt your innocence, Garret.”

The formal use of his name spoke volumes, and relinquishing the knife, he clasped his hands on the table and faced her levelly. “Madam Wife—how many people's lives have you rearranged? A score? A hundred?” Her brow wrinkled deliciously and, resisting the impulse to go and kiss her, he said, “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder what might have happened had you not—er—”

“Interfered? Why, they would probably have found each other anyway. But after oh, so much more grief and anxiety! I cannot bear to see my friends suffer. And most people are so hopeless when it comes to arranging their own affairs. Take Leith, for instance—Kingston, I mean. He has managed to embroil himself in the most shocking scandal imaginable, but has not the remotest idea of how he did it, and is half out of his wits between worrying about Tristram and—” She paused, a far-away expression coming into her eyes.

“Eu—phemia…!” said her lord and master, sternly.

She looked up at him, the dimple he could never resist peeping beside her mouth. “What a feather-wit I am,” she admitted. “Do you know, Gary, I believe I shall be able to bring us all off very creditably, after all.”

Hawkhurst sank his head into his hands and groaned. Then, he went and kissed the dimple.

*   *   *

Alain Devenish limped along the garden path towards the drive where Raoul, now happily wed to his Agatha, walked the horses. Pausing for a moment, Devenish glanced back. Strand Hall was not near as shabby now as Tristram had described, the exterior sparkling with fresh paint, the flower beds spaded, the lawns weeded. Even on this blustery October afternoon, it presented a charming picture. Strand had done very well in so short a time. A good fellow was Justin Strand, thought Devenish. They had met today for the first time, but had struck up what he sensed would be a lasting friendship. Strand was deuced proud and unbending, though. Almost as proud as Rachel. Must run in the family. He continued on his way, heartily wishing that he cared not, and glumly aware he cared very much; that Rachel was like the sister he'd never had, and Tristram— He sighed heavily. Poor old Tris.

So lost in thought was he that he failed to notice the luxurious carriage standing on the drivepath behind his curricle, or the tall lady descending from it, and he was startled when a musical voice called, “Your pardon, sir. But—are you by any chance Mr. Justin Strand?”

“No, ma'am.” He snatched off his hat and bowed. “My name is Devenish. Strand's out riding with his sister.”

“Oh, dear.” The lady made no attempt to restrain her hood, as the wind whipped it from glowing, coppery curls. “Then Miss Rachel Strand is from home?”

“No, no. It's Charity's gone riding, you see. Rachel is in the potting shed.” He thought, “Gad, but she's a handsome female!” and said gallantly, “There's no one else about at the moment, I'm afraid; butler's taken the housekeeper to look at some new furnishings Strand has his eye on, and lord knows where the rest are.” He grinned winningly, “But I'll be most pleased to conduct you.”

*   *   *

In the potting shed, Rachel stood holding a bulb in one hand and a trowel in the other, staring blindly at her faithful spaniel who sniffed hopefully at a small hole in the wainscoting. The uniform greyness of life had been brightened by Devenish's visit, that exuberant young man banishing such things as sorrow and loneliness, if only for a little while. He was, he'd informed her, happily reconciled with his guardian, and his much admired cousin Yolande appeared to be encouraging his courtship. The picture he had painted of Tristram, however, had been disturbing. She had imagined her beloved happily reestablished in his military career. The intelligence that he had sold out and dwelt alone at Cloudhills, wrung her heart. Her own suffering had been intense and was unalleviated by the passing of time, but womanlike she had supposed that a man so popular and admired would soon be enmeshed in the toils of some lovely and eligible young lady. To learn that his devotion was instead as deep and steadfast as her own, brought joyous tears to her eyes; but to envision her love grieving and alone was anguish. Had she dealt him so cruel a wound that—

Slippers broke into a wild farrago of barking that caused Rachel to jump almost out of her skin. Both bulb and trowel tumbled and, spinning around, she saw a tall, attractive young woman coming briskly toward her despite the dog's frenzy.

“Slippers!” Rachel ordered breathlessly. “That's enough now!”

Already bored with barking, Slippers desisted and ambled to greet the newcomer.

“Hello, Slippers.” The visitor stooped to stroke the dog, even as Rachel reached out to snatch the trowel from her path. They bumped heads and straightened, both laughing. Rachel saw clear blue eyes set in a vivid face framed by windblown curls of light, reddish gold. “Oh, I do hope you are one of my brother's friends,” she said impulsively, putting out her hand. “We've not met, have we? I am—”

“I know. You are Rachel Strand. How do you do? My name is Euphemia Hawkhurst. I believe your brother would know me as Euphemia Buchanan, for we met before I married; but I could not claim him for a friend.”

“Could you not? Well,
he
does so, I do assure you, and often sings your praises. I'm afraid he is from home, but—”

“Yes,” interrupted Euphemia, for the second time. “Mr. Devenish told me. But I did not come to see Justin, my dear. You see,” she searched the beautiful face intently, gratified by the dark smudges below the blue eyes, and the smile that could not quite conceal the sorrow that lurked there. “I have a very dear friend,” she went on, “named—Tristram.”