The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  Tyndale glanced at Josie.

  “I seen legs before,” she revealed scornfully. “And once I see Akim’s—”

  “Never mind!” said Devenish, retreating. “No, really, cousin, what do you take me for? Some kind of Spartan slowtop? If there was anything could be done, I’d have yelled for help long since.”

  “An old injury?” asked Tyndale.

  “Yes. Rollo’s boot chanced to find it, is all.”

  “The war? Oh, no—you said you did not get to the Peninsula.”

  “True. This was another kind of battle. I suppose it was one of the details you complained I left out, when I told you how Tristram Leith and I got the girls away from the chateau in Dinan.”

  They started to walk on again, and Tyndale asked curiously, “What kind of ‘detail’? A pistol ball?”

  “Crossbow bolt.” Tyndale’s jaw dropped, and Devenish said wryly, “Our Frenchman has a taste for medieval weapons.”

  “Does he, by thunder! Then we had best—”

  Her small face sharp with fear, Josie warned shrilly, “Some ’un be coming!”

  Devenish pulled her behind him and both men turned to face the cart that came rattling up.

  Clinging to Devenish’s jacket, Josie gave a sudden glad cry. “Tinker Sam! Oh, Tinker Sam!” She ran to greet the newcomer. “It be me! Tabby!”

  The cart halted. A round-faced, round-eyed, friendly-looking little man exclaimed, “Tabby? Why—so it do be! And two gents what look, as they say, very much the worse fer wear. There’s a tale here, I do expect. And one thing as I loves is a tale. So—come aboard, gents and missy. Where be ye bound fer?”

  “Hallelujah!” breathed Devenish.

  “And amen,” agreed Tyndale.

  More practically, Josie said, “Tewkesbury. In exchange for three pair of smelly boots!”

  * * *

  With an eye to his own affairs, Mr. Garvey so charmed Arabella Drummond that for the next two days she was induced to rise very much earlier than was her usual custom, with the result that they reached Leeds in good time. Mr. Garvey directed the coachman to a fine posting house just south of the city and procured excellent accommodations. Having ordered up and enjoyed a superb dinner with his two weary charges, he then accompanied Yolande while she took Socrates for a brief outing in the gardens. He returned her safely to her bedchamber, and took himself off to his own room.

  Opening the door, he froze. A lamp burned beside the curtained window, and the wing chair was occupied. The gentleman seated there had a fine head of neatly curled dark hair untouched by grey; his build was slight, his age indeterminate, and his elegance considerable. He raised a pair of warm brown eyes from the pages of the periodical he was idly scanning, and revealed features that were good, if not remarkable. “Do pray come in, my dear James,” he murmured in French. “One never knows who might pass by.”

  Garvey hurriedly swung the door shut, advanced into the room to toss hat and gloves on the bed, and demanded, “Are you mad? If we were seen together! Up here!”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “Yet you were on your way to see me—is it not so?”

  Garvey’s cloak followed hat and gloves, and he drew a chair closer to his unexpected visitor. “Yes. But I was incredibly fortunate in chancing upon an excellent means of explaining my journey, Claude, and—”

  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, dear my 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 in 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 th
ey 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.

  On this grey spring morning, smoke curled from several chimneys, one of which led from the morning room where the fire blazed merrily. Standing before the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, General Sir Andrew Drummond’s craggy face did not, however, look in the least merry. As was the way of his house, he was a tall man, and his well-built frame was as lean and erect as ever, although the thick, once-red hair was now iron-grey. He had the Drummond chin, which had lost not one whit of its belligerence and was, at the moment, decidedly aggressive. “Yon wee hoond,” he proclaimed, “has seen fit tae sink his fangs intae ma mon, and nip twa o’ the hoosemaids! I’ve held ma peace the noo, Arrrabella, but enough ’s as guid as a feast! ’Tis a chancy business tae lure a decent chef up here, for-bye. I’ll nae hae him run off by any scrrruffy mongrel! Do I make m’sel’ clearrr, ma’am?”

  The question was debatable. Blinking at him, his daughter-in-law asked uncertainly, “Yolande, what did your grandfather say?”

  Exasperated, the General’s fierce green eyes rolled at the ceiling, his moustache bristled, and he uttered a sound midway between snort and groan—a sort of “och-unnh!”—while reflecting that from among all the women in the world, his eldest boy had seen fit to choose this silly widgeon!