The Noblest Frailty Read online

  “He brought her that fox kit he found! A pretty gift! Not only did it keep Yolande up all night with its yelping, but it was full of fleas and bit one of the maids when she chanced to step on it while she was making the bed. She fell into strong hysterics and the kit raced out, with the cat in hot pursuit, throwing the entire house into an uproar!” Regarding her amused spouse with indignation, Lady Louisa said, “But you prove my point, Sir Martin. Alain has no more notion of how to treat the girl he loves than a Clydesdale knows how to dance a quadrille! And thus, I think—” She waited out another howl of laughter from her lord, who was fond of Clydesdale horses and could envision the scene she had suggested. “I think,” she resumed severely, while he wiped his eyes, “that we should send Yolande to visit her grandpapa.”

  “What—in Ayrshire?”

  “Since my own papa has gone to Paris, my love, I scarcely think such a journey appropriate.

  “But why journey at all? Oh—do you think the old fellow might banish some of her silly megrims?”

  “I think it is a very true saying that ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ and Mr. Alain Devenish has been taking your daughter entirely too much for granted.”

  “Well, if it’s absence you want, m’dear, she could go to your sister in Town for a month or two. Don’t have to travel all that way up to Scotland.”

  “I think she does have to,” said Lady Louisa thoughtfully. “She must be far away. Where Devenish is not like to follow.”

  Despite his rantings, Sir Martin doted on his pretty daughter, but at this, he said with a slow smile, “I own no property on the moon, my love.”

  * * *

  “To the moon, sir?” Mr. Alain Devenish blinked down into the cold blue eyes of the man who leaned back in the big chair behind the desk, and, running one finger around his elaborately tied neckcloth that suddenly seemed too tight, protested, “No, really, Uncle! I’ve not been gone that long, surely?”

  Colonel Alastair Tyndale rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and regarded his nephew over interlocked hands. Twenty years separated the two men, and few, seeing them together, would imagine them to be related. Devenish was slender and not above average height, with curling blond hair, intensely blue eyes, and features almost too delicately carven for a man. Tyndale was tall and broad with a loose-limbed, athletic body, and a head of thick brown hair beginning to grey at the temples. His nose was strong, his chin a fierce jut, and his mouth a thin, uncompromising line. Only in the eyes was there a similarity, and that very slight and not so much a matter of shape or colouring as of expression. The eyes of both men were seldom without a humorous twinkle, and if in Devenish that twinkle could in a flash become a glare of rage, in his uncle it could as swiftly be replaced by inexorable purpose, a determination approaching ruthlessness.

  “You have been gone,” sighed the Colonel, drawing a rather battered timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat and consulting it, “precisely eight hours and forty-five minutes. You doubtless forgot I had expressly requested that you return to Aspenhill by three o’clock so as to meet Lord Westhaven.”

  As always when his guardian was displeased, Devenish began to experience the unease that had afflicted numerous junior officers quaking before Tyndale during his years in India. Despite the fact that he and his late mother’s younger brother were often at loggerheads, however, Devenish was fond of his uncle and chagrined by the knowledge that he had once again disappointed him. He took a turn about the pleasant, panelled room and stood frowning out across the lawns of this house wherein so much of his young life had been spent. “I was at Park Parapine, sir,” he offered.

  “So I had presumed. It was my understanding that you were to accompany Yolande on an early ride. One can but hope that the length of that—er, ride, indicates a satisfactory resolution of your—ah, problems.”

  “Lord!” muttered Devenish, under his breath. He swung about and returned to toss his slender body into a deep chair beside the desk and divulge that he had not spent the entire day riding. “I chanced to run into Harland,” he said. “I think the old boy’s lonely, now that Lucian is off honeymooning. Nothing would do but that I go over to Hollow Hill with him. He’s leaving for Paris next week.” He shrugged. “I forgot the time. And Westhaven.” Flashing a contrite glance at Tyndale, he added, “Did I cause you to be embarrassed? My apologies, sir, but—I really have no interest in politics, you know.”

  “It would be enlightening to learn,” the Colonel sighed, straightening a paper on his desk, “what does interest you. Besides Yolande Drummond.”

  Devenish flushed, his lips tightening with resentment, but he said nothing.

  “From your demeanour,” Tyndale went on, “I have to infer that my cousin’s child has once again refused to set a date for your wedding.”

  The tone had not been unkind, but Devenish squirmed. “She says,” he imparted indignantly, “that I am a here-and-there-ian.”

  The shadow of a smile crept into the Colonel’s blue eyes. “She is not without justification, would you say?”

  “What, because I found University a dead bore? Because I did not—er, take to the military, or—”

  “You were sent down,” Tyndale intervened, his voice suddenly holding a touch of steel, “because you played a childish prank upon the Proctor. You were obliged to leave the army because of just such another prank. Had you failed in your studies, having tried your best; had you been asked to resign your commission because of some blockheaded military injustice, I could better have understood matters. You are five and twenty, Alain. In two months it will be time for my guardianship to end, and for you to take over the reins at Devencourt. It is past time you had moved back there. Oh, I know why you have not done so—my estates chance to march with those of the Drummonds. But your lands stand in need of an owner—a resident owner.”

  “There is no cause for me to remain here now,” Devenish grunted.

  A frown twitched at Tyndale’s brows. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Never say Yolande has cried off?”

  “Lord, no! Never that, sir! But she has made it clear I must change my ways before—” Devenish broke off. “Oh, blast! I shouldn’t have said there was no cause for me to stay. What a clunch I am!” He leaned forward in his chair and, with the smile that had ensnared many a hopeful lady, said earnestly, “You know I am more than grateful, sir. You know I’ve no wish to leave you!”

  Tyndale’s grim features were lit by an answering warmth. “Thank you, Alain. And you know I’ve no wish to scold you. God knows, your conduct last summer in the Sanguinet affair made me very proud. Incidentally, have you heard from Leith? Is there any further word on the Frenchman?”

  “I am in touch with Tristram, of course, sir. He feels that Sanguinet remains a menace to England. Somewhere—God knows where—he’s up to his tricks. And—when we least expect it…” He scowled. “His scheme to kidnap the Regent was damnably clever, but if he strikes again, Tristram thinks it will be with men. An all-out thrust for power.” His blue eyes ablaze, he drove one fist into his palm. “Now, there’s something I would be interested in, by Jove! I hope to God I’m about when the Frenchman does play his cards!”

  “I cannot think he will do anything so unwise. He would have to be a complete lunatic to persist with plans about which he must know the authorities have been warned.”

  “He is a lunatic! I believe he has some miserable scheme to take over where Bonaparte left off. He knows our warnings were laughed at. He knows Tristram was as good as cashiered and that both he and his bride are in deep disgrace. Oh, Sanguinet will not give up, I do assure you, sir. He will merely contrive again.”

  “If he contrives, lad, it may be to your doom. He is a vindictive man. Have a care.”

  Devenish’s blithe response that he was sure Monsieur Claude Sanguinet had more weighty matters on his mind than personal vengeance incurred Tyndale’s displeasure. The Colonel embarked upon a lengthy discourse regarding the menace of the ambitious and wealthy Fren
chman. At the close, Devenish said meekly that he would write out his will and carry a pistol the next time he left the estate.

  Tyndale stared with suspicion at his nephew’s angelic innocence and grunted, “Very good. Meantime, I’ve a task for you. A pleasant one, I hope.”

  “A task? For the military, sir?”

  “Nothing so impressive.” Tyndale stood and marched around the desk to perch against the edge. Reaching back, he took up a rumpled paper and glanced at the closely written lines that filled the page. “Westhaven brought me this letter. It appears to have had a rough journey, arriving at length in his hands and he was kind enough to deliver it whilst he was here. It concerns your Canadian cousin.”

  Devenish glanced at the tattered letter curiously. “I was not aware I had a Canadian cousin.”

  “No? Yet you will, I feel sure, recall that I had a brother, Jonas.”

  “Oh, the firebrand who had to leave the country! Because of a duel of some sort, was it not?”

  The Colonel’s eyes clouded. He said broodingly, “We are none of us a very stable lot, I fear. But Jonas was rather more than wild. I have not gone into details before, because there seemed little likelihood we would ever see him again. Indeed, we will not, for he is dead, so I learn.”

  “Oh, I am sorry, sir. Were you fond of him?”

  “I was deeply fond of him—as I was fond of your own father. It seems that his wife died a few years back, in childbed perhaps, for he has left a son, and the boy is on his way here to visit the land of his forbears.”

  A revolting suspicion had taken possession of Devenish’s mind. Eyeing his uncle warily, he asked, “A boy, sir? Did he write that letter?”

  “No.” Tyndale replaced the sheet on his desk and explained, “It was written by Jonas’s solicitor begging that we receive the little fellow and do all in our power to assist him. In what way, I could not determine, for the page is very travel-stained and some of the words were obliterated. I expect the poor child will find England strange and terrifying, as would anyone arriving orphaned and friendless in a new land. Therefore, I wish that you will—”

  “Me?” With a sort of leap, Devenish rose. “Good God, sir! I know nought of children. And as for a brat who likely comes complete with leathern fringes and a furred cap…! Uncle Alastair! How can you even think—”

  Tyndale stood up straight and, from his superior height, smiled into his nephew’s aghast eyes. “You underestimate yourself, Alain. If you are capable of having aided Tristram Leith to outwit and outmanœuvre one of the most dangerous madmen of our time, you are certainly capable of handling a backwoods child. Now, I have other matters requiring my attention, and must beg that you excuse me.” He lifted one hand as his nephew attempted a remonstrance, and returning to sit at his desk, said gently, “We will talk at dinner, Alain.”

  Devenish hesitated. The old fellow was devilish grumpy today. Probably the news of his brother’s death had upset him, which was natural enough. What a clod-crusher, not to have thought of it! He murmured, “I am very sorry, sir. About my Uncle Jonas, I mean. I’ll be only too glad to help the boy.”

  Tyndale voiced his thanks, but did not look up from the papers he was scanning. Devenish crept to the door and closed it softly behind him.

  The instant he was alone the Colonel threw down the papers and sank his head into his hands. “Good God!” he whispered. “Perhaps I should tell him the truth now, and be done with it!” For a long while he stared, haggard-eyed, at the quill pen, turning the problem over in his mind. But in the end he decided his initial plan must be followed. “I will wait,” he thought, “until he meets the child. It would be just like the young rascal to become deeply attached to the boy. Then, it will not be so hard to tell him.”

  * * *

  From having known Mr. Alain Devenish since he was in short coats, none of the Drummonds fancied he would fall into a decline by reason of Yolande’s scold. However, since he had announced at the conclusion of that unhappy interview that he meant to go on a walking tour, Yolande was mildly surprised to see him coming cantering up the rear drivepath the following afternoon. She had been gainfully employed for the previous quarter-hour in assisting her Aunt Arabella to unravel a piece of knitting and, glancing up, said a not displeased, “Oh, it’s Devenish.”

  Mrs. Drummond uttered a despairing little wail. “But it cannot be, for you quite distinctly told me he was going away! Alas, so it is! And now he will take you from me so that I shall never finish this jacket for your dear papa! You are so very clever at understanding complex instructions, Yolande. And I—as usual—am such a dunce.”

  A small, bird-like woman, Mrs. Arabella Drummond had been married when scarcely out of the schoolroom to Sir Martin’s elder brother, Paul. She had early wilted before her husband’s forceful personality, deferring to him in all things, and upon his sudden death on the hunting field at the age of two and thirty had fallen into a deep decline from which for a time it had been feared she would never recover. Lady Louisa had insisted on caring for the childless widow, and had nursed her so well that Arabella soon regained her health. The prospect of living alone in the Dower House had appalled her, however, and she had implored Sir Martin to be allowed to stay at Park Parapine, just until she was over the shock of her bereavement. She was not an invigorating companion, and her brother-in-law not only considered her a dead bore but marvelled often through the following years that his wife could endure so lachrymose a personality. His occasional efforts to dislodge her had invariably brought on an attack of the vapours, or palpitations, or a resumption of Mrs. Drummond’s famous “weak spells,” so that still the Dower House remained unoccupied.

  Her aunt having been a fixture in the house for as long as she could remember, Yolande could not imagine Park Parapine without her and, although quite often she contemplated deliciously fiendish acts of retribution upon her vexing relative, she was nonetheless fond of her and said, with her kind smile, “You most certainly are not a dunce! You knit very evenly, dear, and if you will just be sure you do not turn to the wrong page of your instruction papers, all will be well.”

  Mrs. Drummond was little encouraged by these remarks. She hove a deep sigh and allowed the garment she held to fall into her lap, folding her hands upon it and saying mournfully, “I try so hard. And this time I really did think I might succeed. I own I fancied it odd to have that strange bump suddenly appearing in the middle of the back of your papa’s jacket, but then I thought it was to allow for the width of the shoulders.”

  “No, dear,” said Yolande, noting how cautiously Devenish swung from the saddle and thinking that his leg must trouble him, still. “It was for the heel of a sock.”

  Mrs. Drummond moaned. “You will be thinking I should have known,” she sighed, becoming even more dejected. “But how could I, when I never have attempted a jacket before? You will recall the bedsocks I made for your mama last Christmas? Those were nice, were they not?”

  Yolande had a clear picture of her father wiping tears of mirth from his eyes in Mama’s parlour, when first Lady Louisa had tried on her new bedsocks. “They’re big enough … for two men— and a boy!” he had choked. Struggling to preserve her countenance, Yolande assured her aunt that the bedsocks had been charming, and finished, “Pray excuse me, ma’am. I must go and welcome Dev.”

  She made her escape and found Devenish in the garden, holding a basket that her mother was filling with early flowers. Lady Louisa, wearing a becoming broad-brimmed straw bonnet, was saying, “… even just a few blooms will so brighten a room, especially if one is not feeling quite the thing. Oh, hello, my love! Here is Devenish come to visit you, and I have been telling him about little Rosemary.”

  Yolande smiled upon her suitor and gave him her hand. “Good afternoon, Dev. Is Rosemary still poorly, Mama? I had thought she just ate too many cheese tarts yesterday.”

  “I wish you may be right.” Lady Louisa placed a daisy in the basket. “But Nurse says she is feverish. I do hope she is not sic
kening for one of those endless childhood ailments.” And with a worried smile, a nod to Devenish, and a caution that her daughter stay out of the sun, she took the basket and made her graceful way into the house.

  Yolande turned to Devenish and succeeded in releasing the hand he had firmly retained during her mother’s remarks. “Really, Dev!” she scolded primly.

  He grinned at her. “Still in a pucker, are you?”

  “Me! You were the one went riding off yesterday like a thundercloud!”

  A spark came into his eyes, but he had determined not to quarrel with her and, with an extravagant gesture, invited, “Madam—will you perambulate with me?”

  She slipped her hand in his arm and they began to walk amongst the flower beds together. She knew that he watched her, but managed to appear unconscious of that fact, pausing to admire various blooms as they strolled along. “Only look at the poppies,” she said. “Miller has such a sure touch and always knows just what will thrive in just which spot. Are they not a picture?”

  His immediate, “Not so pretty a picture as you,” shocked her. She must, she realized, have really alarmed him yesterday. The awareness that he was trying very hard to please, in some perverse way dismayed her, and she whirled away from him so that they were standing back to back. “Since you admire me so,” she teased, “tell me, sir, what am I wearing?”

  “Why—a dress of course, sweet henwit.”

  “Describe it.”

  Devenish groaned. “Oh, gad! It is—er, blue, I think. Yes. Blue!”

  “And has it a ruffle? Are the sleeves long, or short?”

  “Thunder and— What the deuce has that to say to the purpose?”

  “You don’t know!”

  He gritted his teeth. “‘Course I do. Blast it! There is—ah, no ruffle. And the sleeves are those fat little things you women wear.”

  “You mean puff, I presume, Mr. Devenish?”