Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (21 page)

Monsieur Claude Sanguinet smiled. His soft voice and gentle
manner were at odds with the fact that he was held by many
knowledgeable men to be one of the most dangerous plotters in Europe.
Garvey, knowing him very well indeed, knew that smile also and quavered
into silence.

"Ah," said the Frenchman, laying the periodical aside. "But I
think it must be that you are unaware of something,
mon ami
.
Namely, that your—er, 'excellent means' chances to be betrothed to an
old and so dear friend of ours, one Monsieur Alain Devenish."

"No, but I
am
aware," Garvey asserted
eagerly. "And you must be very pleased, Claude. I have disposed of him!"

Sanguinet rested his elbow on the chair arm, and his chin upon
the fingers of one slender white hand. He murmured, "Then I am of a
surety indebted to you, my dear James. Dare I ask how
this—necessity—has been accomplished?"

Garvey glanced to the closed door and lowered his voice. "That
rogue of a tiger of mine hired some ruffians to abduct him, carry him
away, and put a period to him." He grinned triumphantly. "You can count
yourself avenged for—" In the nick of time he stopped himself from
saying "for Devenish having kicked you last year!" Monsieur Sanguinet
did not care to be reminded of embarrassments. Therefore, he finished,
"for his interference."

"But, how charming. And what a great pity it is that your, ah,
hirelings bungled the job, my dear."

Garvey's jaw dropped. "But they did not! They could not have!
Devenish would have been hot after us if—"

"They appear to have decided," purred Sanguinet, "that the
penalty for murdering two aristocrats was too great. At all events, I
have it on the most reliable authority that our intrepid friend and his
cousin are on their way north at this very moment. I fancy they mean to
stay at Longhills, near Malvern. I discover that Devenish has a friend
whose country seat is located there."

Dismayed, Garvey muttered, "Longhills? Oh, Montclair's place.
I am acquainted with his cousin, Junius Trent."

One of Sanguinet's brows arched. "Is important, this?" He
shrugged smiling sweetly.

Garvey reddened and retreated into bluster. "Now, damn those
bucolic clods! They took my gold and left the business undone! By
thunder, but—"

Sanguinet waved his hand in a gracefully arresting gesture.
"But, as is usual, I must do the thing myself."

Staring at him, Garvey went to the round table before the
window, and unstoppered a decanter. "You… ?" he echoed, disbelievingly.
"You, personally, will—"

"You are ridiculous, James, do you know? Ah, thank you. I
wondered if ever I was to be offered refreshment. As you should
surmise, I shall be the—how you say?—master-mind. My hands I do not
foul. Dear Monsieur Devenish has dwelt on borrowed time these many
months. It was not my intention to attend to him as yet. However, once
again he is drawn into my orbit, and this time with
très
convenient the cousin. Do you know aught, my dear James, of Devenish's
Canadian cousin?"

Sipping his wine, Garvey proceeded to occupy the other chair
and replied, "Only that he comes at a curst inopportune time! They mean
to go to
Castle Tyndale
, Claude. Did you know
that
?"

"But of course. I know everything." Sanguinet chuckled
suddenly. "And do you know, James, our fine Colonial's arrival may be
most fortuitous. Almost one might say Fate plays into our hands. With a
little manipulation, perhaps, a
soupçon
, merely,
our task yet may be very tidily accomplished, and all explained away
for us." He raised his glass. "How sadly puzzled you look, James. Trust
me. I really think that this time I have our Devenish in a quite
delightful trap. Let us drink to its closing with finality. For do you
know, if this foolish Englishman should elude me once more, I believe I
might be… most vexed."

His manner was as languid, his smile as gentle, as ever, but
the glow in the brown eyes contained a red shade that sent a chill down
Garvey's spine. He lifted his own glass and said hurriedly, "To our
dear friend."

Sanguinet nodded. "And his cousin, James. We must not forget
the so charming Colonial cousin!"

Longhills was a beautiful estate, the great Tudor house being
situated on a rolling knoll that commanded a fine view of its extensive
park, meadows, woods, and rich pastureland dotted with fat brown cows
and threaded by the gentle curve and gleam of the river. The travellers
received a hearty welcome from the Honourable Valentine Montclair, a
slight dark young man to whom Tyndale warmed at once. That his cousin's
old school friend was a man of great wealth and social position was
obvious, but there was no trace of height in his manner, which was
quiet and so unassuming as to be almost humble. However surprised
Montclair may have been to have three tattered and
disreputable-appearing visitors thrust upon him, he evinced no sign of
anything but delight. A considerably less delighted butler was
commanded to provide suitable changes of clothing for the new guests, a
frigid-mannered housekeeper was required to prepare suitable
apartments, and the great house became a bustling beehive of activity
as water was heated, linens allocated, and the cook apprised of the
need to adjust his dinner plans. Upon learning that his guests had been
obliged to abandon their horses in St. Albans, Montclair sent two
grooms riding southward with instructions to reclaim the animals and
take them to Castle Tyndale by easy stages.

Upstairs, a kindly abigail took charge of Josie. The child was
bathed, her hair brushed until it shone, and an old flannel nightdress
was hurriedly cut down to more or less fit her. When he himself had
bathed, shaved, and donned the clothes Montclair had somehow conjured
up, Devenish went in search of Josie and was slightly nonplussed to
discover that her bedchamber was quite small and cheerless. She,
however, considered the accommodations little short of palatial, and
confided to Devenish that she'd not have dreamed she ever would occupy
so lovely a bedchamber. She sighed ecstatically, "Never in all me kip!"

Devenish bade her good-night and returned to the quarters he
shared with Tyndale. He found his cousin brushing his hair before the
standing mirror, clad in rich, if ill-fitting garments, and looking
much more civilized than when he had left him. Watching the Canadian
thoughtfully, Devenish perched on the arm of a chair and wondered why
the housekeeper had found it necessary that they share this bedchamber
and the small adjoining parlour. Certainly, the rooms were luxurious,
but it did seem odd that in so enormous a house they might not have
been assigned individual apartments.

As if reading his thoughts, Tyndale said with his slow smile,
"Have you the impression that Montclair is not the master of this
house? I think I'd not trade places with him for all his wealth!"

"Nor I, poor devil! His aunt and that old curmudgeon of a
husband of hers rule Val with a rod of iron. And if you think our
arrangement miserly, coz, you should see what Josie has been offered."

"Well, it's a sight better than any of us had last night. What
d'you mean to do with her, by the bye?"

"God knows. I fancy Yolande will have some solution. Or Lady
Louisa."

At this point, the door opened and Montclair enquired if they
were comfortably bestowed. Coming into the room, he was very obviously
taken aback to discover they shared it, but not wishing to cause a
commotion, Devenish lied that they had requested the arrangement
because his cousin walked in his sleep. Tyndale concealed his
indignation admirably. Montclair's dark eyes glinted with anger, but he
kept himself in hand. His aunt, Lady Marcia Trent, had returned from
visiting in the village, and would join them for dinner. "She is," he
said, "eager to meet you, Tyndale. It seems she is acquainted with poor
Lady De Lancey, who has often spoken of you."

"Oh," said Tyndale, slanting an oblique glance at his cousin.

"De Lancey?" Devenish repeated. "Wasn't he that American
fellow who was Wellington's Quartermaster General at Waterloo?"

Montclair nodded. "Splendid chap. He was killed, you know, and
only been married—what was it, Tyndale? A few days?"

"A little over two weeks when he died, I think. A terrible
tragedy." It was a tragedy that had touched him closely, so that
Tyndale forgot himself and said broodingly, "Poor Magdalene… but he
died in her arms—she has that, at least." He sighed, sat down, and
began to wrestle with his boots.

Staring at him in stark astonishment, Devenish exploded, "The
devil! How do
you
know?"

"Er… well," said Tyndale awkwardly. "It, er—"

"Of course he knows," Montclair interposed in no little
bewilderment. "Who should know better? He was
there
,
you gudgeon! Damn near stuck his spoon in the wall as a result, and
only—"

"
There
… ?" breathed Devenish. "Tyndale
was—at
Waterloo
?'

Montclair stared from one to the other. "Well, of course! He
used the name Winters then, but he was a major with the—"

"A…
Major
… ?" Soaring rage banished
Devenish's stunned expression. "Why, you dirty… lying… bastard!" With a
howl, he leapt for his cousin. Tyndale's chair went over and they were
down a flurry of arms and legs, while Montclair gave a whoop and sprang
clear.

"Miserable
cheat
!" Devenish snarled,
locking his hands about Tyndale's throat. "So it wasn't
your
war
, eh?"

"Dev! Now, Dev!" Tyndale laughed, tearing at Devenish's
wrists. "I never said—"

"No, damn you! But you gave me to—ow!—to understand that—"

"Well—let be! You were so blasted ready to—to believe me a
worthless clod, that—"

"Good gracious!" A clear feminine voice cut through the
uproar. Sitting astride Tyndale, Devenish jerked his head around, then
scrambled to his feet, running a hasty hand through his dishevelled
locks.

Lady Marcia Trent stood on the threshold, a tall young
exquisite holding the door for her. Tall herself, and angularly
elegant, my lady's face had a pinched look, the thin nostrils and
tight, small mouth not softened by icy blue eyes, prominent cheekbones,
and a pointed chin. Montclair presented his friends with a marked lack
of apology for their antics. Nonetheless, as they went down to dine,
Lady Trent was soon chattering happily with Tyndale. Her son, Junius,
was not so amiable, his sardonic stare repeatedly wandering from one to
the other of their unexpected guests while he made few attempts to
contribute to the conversation. This was not a cause for dismay,
however, since it developed that his mother's notion of "a pleasant
cose with the gallant Major" consisted of her complete domination of
the conversation, her piercing voice overriding the efforts of any so
bold as to attempt a side topic, and only her son daring to interrupt
her occasionally.

These tactics neither disturbed nor bored Tyndale. He was very
tired and quite content to let the odious woman prose on while he
murmured appropriate responses and allowed his own thoughts to wander.
Inevitably, they wandered in one direction. He had hitherto known
little of affairs of the heart and, although he longed for a loving
wife and children, he had begun to fear that either his nature was
cold, or his standards too high, for never had he met the lady who
could awaken in him any more than a sense of liking or admiration.
Until a certain morning in a lane in Sussex. Until he'd seen Miss
Yolande Drummond… Yolande, beautiful, sweet and proud, and dainty and
brave, and desirable. His sleeping heart was awake and with a
vengeance, but what a bitter twist of Fate that of all the girls he had
ever met, he must fall desperately in love with a lady who was
hopelessly beyond his reach. Not only was she promised, but she was to
wed a man who had just this afternoon turned aside the knife that might
have killed him! A man who had every right to despise him, and who
would likely have been considered justified to have looked the other
way rather than saving his life. Not that it made much difference, for
no gentleman could pursue a lady already promised. Besides, even had
she been free as air, his chances would doubtless have been nil. That
lovely and desirable girl would certainly not be permitted to marry a
man whose name was so horribly besmirched.

He must, he thought drearily, put her out of his mind.
Difficult, if he stayed at Castle Tyndale, for Devenish had said that
Steep Drummond was only ten miles distant. To run the risk that
occasionally in the empty years to come he would see her—as Mrs. Alain
Devenish—was too daunting a prospect to contemplate. No, it would not
do. He must strive to clear his father's name, and then either go back
to Canada or settle somewhere at a safe distance from his adored but
forbidden lady.

He was very quiet for the balance of the evening, and despite
his weariness, slept fitfully.

They left Longhills early the following morning, Devenish and
Josie occupying the chaise Montclair had insisted they borrow, and
Tyndale riding a magnificent blood mare. Their host accompanied them to
the northernmost border of his far-flung preserves, then watched rather
wistfully as they left him, Devenish turning back to wave and promise
the chaise and horses would be well cared for and promptly returned.

Montclair called, "Keep them, old fellow, until my grooms come
with your own horses. They can bring back my cattle then."

"Right you are!" Devenish lifted the reins. "Off we go, Josie
Storm," he said joyously. "Egad, but I can scarce wait to see Yolande!"

The chaise picked up speed.

Tyndale gazed after it for a moment, then followed.

Steep Drummond was constructed of red sandstone and, perched
on the top of its hill, turned a defiant eye to the rest of the world
as though it were a fortress, maintaining stern guard over its domain.
It was a large house, uncompromisingly square, and with gardens so neat
and trees so uniformly spaced they gave the appearance of being
prepared at all times for a tour of inspection.