The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  Thus it was that a moment or two later, Tyndale blinked into a pair of disembodied blue eyes that gradually became part of features that were almost too beautiful for a man, but set into an expression of grim ferocity. “Jove,” he breathed, with an unsteady grin. Then, in sharp anxiety, “Is Lazzy…?”

  “Scraped one knee. No, lie down, you gudgeon! It’s nothing serious.”

  “Poor old fellow.”

  “Yes,” grunted Devenish, furious with himself. “I should have thought of that.” His cousin slanted an amused glance at him, and he flushed and reached down. “Here.”

  Tyndale disdained the proffered aid, and sat up.

  “Why the deuce,” exploded Devenish, “did you not slow down? You surely must realize you ain’t familiar with the lay of the land?”

  “I also realize that because I am a stranger does not make you responsible for me,” Craig answered calmly, his eyes fixed on his grey.

  “Don’t be so damned patronizing!”

  Tyndale said nothing, but the cool stare shifted to Devenish, whose flush deepened. “Blast you!” he fumed. “I suppose I should have warned you. I knew you could not hope to negotiate such a jump.” His angry gaze fell away. “It was—it was poor sportsmanship. I apologize.”

  It had obviously been a painful admission, thought Tyndale. But it had been made. “Thank you,” he said gravely. “But I do not very often take a toss.”

  At once those fierce eyes lifted to glare at him. “It is very well to brag, cousin. But had you broken your neck, only think of my position. There’d be the devil to pay and no pitch hot, for everyone would say I had done it deliberately because I dislike you.”

  Tyndale smiled faintly. “I’d not have cared overmuch for such a development, I admit.” He reached up.

  Devenish stared.

  Tyndale’s eyes glinted. He said without expression, “Give me a hand, will you?”

  Relieved, Devenish obliged, and Tyndale moved rather erratically to his grey. The big horse nuzzled him affectionately, and, watching as he bent to inspect the damaged knee, Devenish asked curiously, “What is it that you call him?”

  “Lazzy. Short for Lazarus because he—after a fashion—rose from the dead.” He felt the hock carefully, hove a sigh of relief, straightened, and reeled unsteadily.

  “How?” persisted Devenish.

  “Eh? Oh, there was a sort of a battle. At the edge of a rapids. Between Monty and me.”

  Awed, Devenish asked, “You mean, he was after your scalp? That sort of battle?”

  Tyndale’s mouth twitched. “That sort.”

  Waiting in vain, Devenish burst out. “Well? Go on, blast it!”

  “Monty’s mare had just foaled. We caromed into her and scared her so that she plunged about and the foal went over the edge and into the river. Monty and I were a bit—er, done up. So it took both of us to haul him out. When we managed it, Monty insisted the foal was mine and there was another—ah, discussion. We wound up having to doctor one another because the foal began trying to die. Between one thing and another … well, we’ve been together ever since. All three of us.”

  There was more to it, Devenish suspected. The Iroquois had exuded pride, yet he served Tyndale and was very obviously devoted to him. “Is that where you got that beast of a scar?” he asked. “I wonder you’re still breathing.”

  Tyndale stiffened and his hand flew to his throat. His neckcloth had been removed and his shirt unbuttoned. Buttoning it, he evaded, “It has been said that I’m devilish hard to snuff. Speaking of which—I will concede you the race.”

  Devenish gave a gasp. “The devil! Did you think I was really trying?”

  “To win?”

  “To snuff you.”

  “Were you?”

  “I should, by God! If only for that bacon-brained remark!” He stamped to the black, swung into the saddle, and demanded furiously, “Do you seriously think I would deliberately endanger another man’s life over a stupid race?”

  Interested, Tyndale inquired, “Why would you deliberately endanger another man’s life?”

  “Dash it all!” snarled Devenish, setting his mare to capering. “I did not deliberately— That is, I had thought it would— I— Oh, hell and the devil confound you!” And he cantered away until he was out of sight.

  Craig chuckled. “Lord, what a fire eater!” He found his neckcloth and replaced it, then mounted and bent forward to stroke the grey’s neck. “I hope we can find our way home, friend, else—” He broke off as rapid hoofbeats announced his cousin’s return. Hair windblown, cheeks flushed, and eyes shooting sparks of wrath, Devenish came up at the gallop and, as if there had been no pause, gritted, “Furthermore, since I did not win, or if I had it would have been by cheating—”

  “Cheating, coz?” Tyndale demurred mildly. “I would not say you cheated—exactly.”

  Devenish fixed him with a baleful eye. “We will call it a tie. Satisfactory?”

  “Oh, perfectly.”

  They started off, side by side, Devenish stiff, Tyndale relaxed. After a few moments, Tyndale enquired, “What do you do, cousin?”

  “Do? What the deuce do you mean ‘do?’ A gentleman don’t do anything.”

  “My apologies. Not being a gentleman, I didn’t understand.”

  “Oh, Lord,” groaned Devenish. “Now what fustian are you about? Of course you’re a gentleman. You’re a Tyndale, ain’t you?”

  “I’ll admit that. But—I do not think I’ll be a gentleman. Thanks just the same.”

  “Don’t think you’ll…!” gasped Devenish. “You are short of a sheet! Damme if you ain’t!”

  “Why? Because I don’t choose to be a gentleman?” Tyndale laughed. “Gad, Dev, I couldn’t abide it! The life of a do-nothing would drive me straight into the boughs! I’d a sight liefer be a coal-heaver!”

  “Yes, and probably should be! And do not call me Dev! Only my friends call me that!” He thought, “Cousin’s almost more than I can bear!” and added irritably, “Besides, I had not meant nothing exactly.”

  “Oh, I should have guessed. You’ve likely just come down from University, correct, er, Mr. Devenish?”

  Turning in the saddle the better to direct a hard stare at that bland smile, Devenish refuted, “Incorrect. I was sent down.”

  “Wrong again, alas. Perhaps I had better have addressed you as Lieutenant Devenish?”

  Gritting his teeth, Devenish imparted, “I was obliged to sell out of the military. Damn near cashiered. Does that satisfy you?”

  “By all means. If it satisfied you, I’ve no quarrel with it.”

  “Satisfies me? Why, you Colonial clod-crusher! Is there no end to your impudence?”

  Tyndale threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. “My apologies, Sir Cousin.”

  “Do you know…” Devenish pulled his mount to a halt, and glowered at his tormenter. “I have been wondering of whom you put me in mind, and now I know. It is Leith, by God.

  Briefly, Tyndale looked startled. Then he muttered, “Leith. Oh, yes. Colonel Tristram Leith. A proper dirty dish, eh?”

  The amusement that had begun to creep into Devenish’s eyes, vanished. He sat straighter. “Your pardon?”

  “I said I had heard of Leith. What you people over here would call a wrong ’un, no?”

  Devenish swung one leg across the saddle and slid to the ground. There was no trace of temperament about him now, but an icy coldness that, had he known his kinsman better, would have warned Tyndale. “Will you favour me by dismounting for a moment,” he invited with a smile.

  Tyndale obliged.

  Eyes of blue ice fixed themselves upon his face. Stripping off his gloves, Devenish murmured, “You are likely at least a stone heavier than I, Tyndale. On the other hand, you just suffered a bad fall. That should, I think, even the odds.” He flung his gloves into his cousin’s startled countenance. “Put up your fists, you damned scaly gabble-monger!”

  “Hey! Wait! I only—”

  Devenish jum
ped forward and with surprising power landed an open-handed blow to the jaw. Dancing back again, he shouted, “Fight, curse you!”

  Sighing, Tyndale took off his own gloves, tossed them aside, and crouched.

  The battle was short-lived, but interesting. Never had two men fought in more diverse styles. His eyes ablaze with excitement, Devenish feinted, shifted, leapt in to unleash a lightning fist, and danced out of reach again. Tyndale, shoulders hunched, eyes watchful, moved very little, as unflustered by his cousin’s antics as Devenish was elated. And somehow, as fast as Devenish undeniably was, as lethal the blows that he aimed, at the end of five minutes, there was not a mark on either man, but while Tyndale was as calm and easily breathing as at the start, Devenish was slowing noticeably, his face paler, his movements less springy, some of his enthusiasm replaced by grimness. “Fight, you churlish clod!” he raged. “Do not just stand there like a lump! Fight!”

  Tyndale smiled, but did not reply. And it was borne in on Devenish that when the bigger man did move, it was with amazing efficiency, his tall figure swaying easily and never more than was necessary to elude the blows flying at him. Tiring, Devenish’s fists lowered, his shoulders slumped. He was breathing distressfully and, watching him, Tyndale dropped his guard a little. In that instant, Devenish sprang. His right rammed home to the jaw. Tyndale staggered and, hurt at last, retaliated immediately and instinctively.…

  Flat on his back, Devenish smiled up at blurred skies. “Beautiful…” he sighed.

  Standing over him, Tyndale asked, “Are you much damaged, Sir Cousin?”

  “I beg leave … to tell you that … I shall lie here until my head rejoins … the rest of me and … be damned t’you.”

  Tyndale grinned and sat down also, feeling his jaw experimentally.

  “Let us have no more of your … Canterbury tales,” Devenish exhorted. “I know blasted well I scarce laid a fist on you.”

  “One. Whereby I seem to have several loose teeth.”

  “No, truly?” Devenish rolled onto his side and, supporting his cheek on one hand, said gleefully, “Egad, but I did mark you a little, at that! Coz—where in the name of all that’s wonderful did you learn that left jab?”

  “Oh, I sort of—er, developed it. With help. Here and—and there.” Tyndale saw Devenish’s mouth opening for an indignant retort and added a hasty, “Though why you attacked me so viciously is more than I can comprehend.”

  Reminded, Devenish sat up, clutched his head, and uttered a trifle thickly, “I do not suffer my friends to … to be slandered, in my hearing.”

  “Leith? But, from what I have heard, he’s not worthy of—”

  “Tristram Leith,” Devenish stated deliberately, “happens to be one of my closest friends. And whatever you may have heard, quite apart from being as far removed from a rogue as it is possible for a man to be, he is a valiant and honourable gentleman. I owe him my life.”

  Tyndale stared at him. “Then surely it ain’t proper that you should so dislike the fellow.”

  “Dislike Leith? Are you mad? I do not dislike him!”

  “But—you distinctly said that I reminded you of him.”

  Frowning into the innocent grey eyes, Devenish declared, “Even Leith has a few mannerisms that are irksome.”

  “And those you detect in me, eh, sir? Heigh-ho. Life is a sorry thing!” He drew out his handkerchief and handed it over. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

  Devenish accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. Tyndale helped him to his feet.

  Setting one foot into the stirrup, Devenish muttered, “Coal-heaver, indeed!”

  Tyndale laughed.

  As the horses passed through the gate at the eastern end of the meadow, and entered the lane, a pink nose and then the rest of a large hare emerged with caution from beneath the hedgerow. For a moment it paused there, very stiff and still, nostrils twitching and ears erect, staring after the departing humans. The sound of Tyndale’s laugh had not fallen unpleasantly on its ears, and, reassured, the wild creature proceeded busily about his tasks.

  * * *

  Colonel Alastair Tyndale stood before the hearth of the book room, one booted foot on the gleaming brass fender, and brooding gaze on the flames. He had heard his nephews ride in some half-hour previously and, by means of a casual remark dropped to his omniscient butler, had culled the information that there looked to have been “some sort of dispute.” His gaze lifted to the two neatly folded sheets of parchment that lay on the mantelpiece. When those letters were read, the very obvious and mutual dislike between the young men might well harden into all-out hatred, even before he—

  The door swung open and Devenish entered, saying in his pleasant voice, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Following, Craig offered the hope that they had not kept the Colonel waiting.

  Alastair regarded them gravely. They had changed for luncheon and each in his own way was impressive. Craig wore a jacket of maroon that hugged his broad shoulders admirably, and if his neckcloth was less than expertly tied, his pantaloons displayed excellent legs, and his lack of jewellery did not earn him any censure in his uncle’s eyes. Devenish, his curls carelessly tumbled, wore a navy blue coat of superfine, his neckcloth was a work of art, and although he lacked his cousin’s powerful figure, his physique was in perfect proportion to his size.

  Despite the fact that the morning had darkened, no candles were as yet lit in the room, but as the two men moved rather hesitantly towards him, Colonel Tyndale noted the darkening bruise along Craig’s jaw, and Alain’s puffy and split lip, and his own jaw hardened. He made no comment, however, waving to the sideboard, and suggesting they help themselves from the tray of decanters which the butler had left. “Before we go in to luncheon,” he added when they all were seated around the fire, “there is something I must say to you.” In silence, he handed a letter to each man.

  Glancing at the superscription, Devenish muttered, “Yolande! What the deuce? Good God! Sir, it’s not little Rosemary?”

  The Colonel shook his head. “I doubt it. But read it—then we will talk.”

  To a point, the letters were similar, Yolande informing her cousins that she had departed for Scotland and would spend the summer at her grandfather’s home in Ayrshire. The closing paragraphs, however, were quite different.

  Craig’s letter ended:

  I am most pleased that I was given the opportunity to meet you, and I take this opportunity to once again express my thanks for your gallant efforts in my behalf. You will, I am assured, have returned to Canada by the time I come back to Sussex. I wish you Godspeed in your long journey.

  Although we have been acquainted for so short a time, I think you may be interested to know that I expect to be married this year, and thus, by the time we meet again shall probably no longer sign myself,

  Yr. affectionate cousin,

  Yolande Drummond

  Devenish, meanwhile, read:

  Papa has only now told me the true facts concerning your father’s tragic death. I was never more shocked. As you know, I have always deplored violence, and I send you my sincerest sympathies, dear Dev. I can only beg you to allow the past to remain so.

  On a happier note, I mean to discuss our formal betrothal with my grandfather and, in the event that nothing untoward occurs by the time I return to Sussex, and if it is still your wish, I think we should at that time fix upon a date for the wedding. Until then, I remain,

  Yr. affectionate cousin,

  Yolande

  His lady’s willingness to pick a date for their wedding had the effect of lifting a great weight from Devenish’s spirits. It was silly, of course, but lately he had been haunted by the fear that although she was undeniably fond of him, she meant to cry off. That terrifying spectre could now be banished forever, thank the Lord! He thought absently that he must buy a ring for the sweet chit; and that it would never do for her to jaunter about the countryside without his escort. The reference to his father’s death shadowed his joy, however.
He had always understood that Stuart Devenish had died as the result of a fall, and that the shock had caused his wife to miscarry and soon follow both her husband and stillborn child to the grave. A most frightful tragedy for two young lives to have been so suddenly ended, and a third never quite begun. But why Yolande should have been upset by it at this late date was as inexplicable as her remark anent allowing “the past to remain so.”

  Baffled, he glanced up, and was further disconcerted to find both his cousin and his uncle watching him.

  Craig, his own hopes shattered, asked quietly, “Have I to offer you my congratulations, coz?”

  “No law says you must, but I’ll accept ’em, with thanks. Sir”—he turned blithely to the Colonel—“since Craig has proven to be out of leading strings and does not stand in need of my aid, with your permission I shall go and instruct my man to pack a valise.”

  “But you have not my permission.”

  Devenish had already started to the door and he swung around saying a surprised, “What? But, sir, you surely understand that I must go and—”

  “And pester your betrothed? I see no reason for it.”

  The tone was unwontedly harsh. Taken aback, Devenish said, “Pester her? Why—no, I hope I will not—”

  “I am informed on the best authority that Yolande is escorted by three outriders, is followed by her maid and personal groom, and accompanied by Mrs. Arabella.”

  “Oh, no! That prosing antidote? And if Aunty took her revolting animal along, poor Yolande will be driven to distraction. I must—”

  “Learn to refrain from speaking disparagingly of a lady?” snapped his uncle.

  Again shocked by that unfamiliarly cold voice, Devenish flushed scarlet. “I did not mean— That is, I intended no— Oh, gad, sir! You know very well that the woman is insupportable.”

  “To the contrary. I know that whatever her small failings, she is devoted to her niece. Now, have you by any chance forgot there was more to Yolande’s letter than the matter of your betrothal?”

  Stunned, Devenish returned to his chair. “No, sir. My apologies.”