The Noblest Frailty Read online

  The grin that curved his mouth widened. “You’ve rumbled me,” he chuckled.

  “I—am not sure,” she said hesitantly. “Are you—American, perhaps?”

  “No, ma’am. I come from Upper Canada. Just landed at Dover yesterday. I haven’t been astride a horse for—er, several months, so started off bright and early this morning.”

  “Oh! What a coincidence! I should like to sit up now, if you please, for I am not hurt and not at all dizzy. Thank you.” Yolande freed her hand from his strong clasp and turned slightly, straightening her gown. “I am expecting a cousin to arrive from your country. Were there any little boys sailing with you, sir?”

  “If there were, ma’am, I was not so fortunate as to have met any.” He added a rueful, “I chance to be one of those unfortunates who cannot tolerate water travel. I trust that will not give you a disgust of me.”

  “If it did,” she said with a flash of dimples, “I should not know with whom I am disgusted.”

  “Oh, egad! What a simpleton I am! Please know that Craig Winters is humbly and most apologetically at your service, Miss—er…?” His gaze slanted to her left hand and was thwarted by the mitten she wore.

  Yolande smiled. “It is Miss—Drummond. Yolande Drummond. My father is Sir Martin Drummond of Park Parapine. And I can sympathize with you about ocean travel, Mr. Winters, for I’ve another cousin who becomes violently ill if only crossing our little English Channel, though to look at him you would fancy him quite above such miseries.”

  How straightforward she was, he thought. No missish airs and feigned shyness because she was alone with a stranger. And had the good Lord ever created a more exquisite little creature? “I suspect,” he ventured, “that you have a great many cousins and brothers, and such.”

  The deep eyes were steady and held an expression that made her feel unaccustomedly flustered, but she managed a teasing, “Why, yes. Everybody does, you know.”

  His smile held a trace of wistfulness. She asked curiously, “Have not you, sir?”

  “To say truth, ma’am, I—”

  A rapid drumming of hooves along the lane ceased abruptly, and Alain Devenish burst through a break in the hedgerow and ran towards them. “Yolande!” he cried, his face pale and strained. “Good God! You are hurt!”

  “She is unharmed, sir,” said Winters, standing with the fluid ease of the athlete. “I must—”

  “Who the devil asked you?” gritted Devenish, glaring briefly at him and dropping to one knee beside Yolande. “My dearest girl! Are you all right? Mrs. Drummond said you were as good as killed. I have been fairly beside myself!”

  “Oh, heavens!” Guilt-ridden, Yolande gasped, “I had quite forgot the poor soul, and the last I saw of her, she was flying through the air into some lupins.”

  Immediately diverted, Devenish grinned. “No, was she? I’ll wager she was complaining all the way! Never fret, love, she’s bruised and shaken, but no bones broken.” He turned a suspicious stare upon Winters. “By Jove! Could I but lay my hands on the looby who jumped his horse over that hedgegrow…”

  “I should explain,” began Yolande.

  “That looby is right here,” Winters drawled.

  “What?” Leaping up, his hot temper flaring, Devenish raged, “You damnable hedgebird!” He at once regretted his choice of words, especially when he saw the responsive twinkle that came into the other man’s eyes. “You’ll answer to me for this atrocity!” he said, one hand lifting purposefully.

  “No!” Yolande scrambled up and gripped his upraised wrist. “Alain, if you will but—”

  “I’ll slaughter any swine who endangers your sweet life!” he snarled.

  Winters sobered. He glanced from Yolande’s pale, anxious face to this astonishingly handsome young firebrand, and the hopes that had bloomed so suddenly, faded. “I quite understand your concern, sir,” he said earnestly. “I can only beg you will accept my—”

  “Well, do not, because I won’t, damn your eyes! What the devil d’you mean by jumping your stupid hack onto a lady’s carriage? Are you—”

  “If you think—” Winters began, with the trace of a frown.

  “He saved my life!” intervened Yolande, tugging at Devenish’s arm. “He was superb! If—”

  “If he hadn’t pranced over the hedge, there wouldn’t have been no cause to save your life! It’s good that he did so, of course, but that don’t excuse it! Fella must be disguised!” He glanced down at Yolande and appended a contrite, “Poor girl, you look worn to a shade.”

  “And shall be conveyed home at once,” Winters declared, his own gaze lingering on Yolande.

  Devenish noted that appreciative look. “Miss Drummond,” he gritted, pacing a step closer to the much taller and more sturdily built Winters, “will assuredly be conveyed to her home. By me. And you, sir, will convey yourself off! And be damned glad I’ve the lady to care for, else I would undertake to beat some sense into your feeble brain!”

  Winters’ mouth tightened. “You would do well to temper your language before a lady, sir.”

  Devenish spluttered and his fist clenched.

  Quickly turning her back on Winters, Yolande placed one small hand on her volatile cousin’s arm. “Please do take me home, Alain, for I feel quite poorly.”

  His rage was forgotten at once. “Of course—what a gudgeon I am! Lean on me, m’dear. Or perhaps I should carry you? Very well—this way, then…”

  He guided her tenderly to the break in the hedge.

  Winters watched them go, then stooped, gathered up the rug, and followed.

  In the lane, Devenish assisted Yolande into the landaulette. Silently, Winters offered the rug. Devenish snatched it fiercely, then turned back to his charge. He tucked the rug carefully about her. Suddenly very weary, Yolande settled back, content to be fussed over. “Rest and be comfortable, my sweet life,” he murmured. “I shall have you safe home in jig time.” He hastened to tie his horse on behind the carriage, passing Winters, who had located his tall grey and stood watching. “Should I ever come up with you again, sir,” said Devenish in a low, grim voice, “I will call you to book for this day’s work.”

  Winters swung into the saddle and returned no answer. This mercurial young man was obviously deeply attached to the lady. Still, she had said she was a miss. Nor had she indicated a betrothal. He had learnt her name; it should be a simple matter to discover her direction. But not today.

  Devenish had mounted to the driver’s seat of the landaulette, moving in rather a slow fashion for such a slim and dynamic gentleman. He stopped only to assure himself that his charge was comfortably disposed, then took up the reins and, without another glance at Winters, urged the weary team onward.

  For a moment the Canadian sat looking thoughtfully after them. Then he leaned to stroke the neck of his horse and said fondly, “You old fool, you can still outrun anything on four legs.” The grey turned to peer back at him, seemingly just as fondly. “Come on.” Winters grinned. “Up and at ’em! We still might find the silly place.”

  He glanced up at the sun, squinting a little to that brightness, then turned the grey through the break in the hedge and across the field to the west.

  * * *

  For the third time since Yolande had been tenderly ushered to her bed, Mrs. Drummond had recourse to her vinaigrette. “No matter how he rode to her rescue,” she gasped out faintly, “that dreadful foreigner might as easily have brought about the deaths of us all! Indeed, I wonder I yet live, for I vow I must be black and blue from head to toe!”

  Devenish, seated in a chair in the bright saloon, eyed the reclining victim uneasily. Sir Martin, less impressed, said tartly, “Then you should be laid down upon your bed, ma’am. I’m sure I do not know why you must persist in lying here on a sofa, when you could be resting comfortably, above stairs!”

  Mrs. Drummond rested a look of long-suffering martyrdom upon her unfeeling brother-in-law. “I refused,” she sighed nobly, “to add to my dear Louisa’s burdens. As thoug
h she had not enough to bear with little Rosemary deep in the throes of a putrid throat—which could very easily turn into rheumatic fever, you know—and now—”

  “Nonsense!” snapped Sir Martin, rising. “The child is perfectly healthy and there ain’t no cause for all your doom and gloom, Arabella! I’ll thank you not to alarm her ladyship with such megrims!”

  Struggling to hide a grin, Devenish stood also. Mrs. Drummond was not at all amused. She said an aggrieved, “As you say, dear sir. But even so, Louisa will scarce be able to accompany Yolande on her journey. If the poor child is able to undertake such a long—”

  All but snarling his irritation, Sir Martin interrupted, “Your pardon, ma’am. You are clearly in sorry case, and since you refuse to go upstairs where you belong, we will leave you in peace. Come, Devenish.”

  He strode out before the resentful lady could utter another word, and stamped along the hall to the book room, muttering fierce animadversions upon distempered freaks and blasted idiotic martyrs. The last thing either he or his spouse had wished was that Devenish learn that Yolande was removing to Scotland for the summer. The boy would most certainly have pricked up his ears at the blathering Arabella’s indiscreet remarks, so now he must be warned off. An unpleasant task!

  “Blast the woman!” he growled, ushering his prospective son-in-law into the room and slamming the door behind him. “Why my lady wife tolerates her I shall never—” He caught himself up, took a deep breath, and, hopeful of turning Devenish’s attention, occupied a wing chair and indicated another. “Sit down, my boy, and tell me more of this Winters fellow. From what Yolande says, he must be a jolly fine horseman. That was no mean jump, and how he managed to transfer from his own mount to a bolting team is more than I have been able to come at. Did you see it?”

  Devenish himself was too keen a sportsman to find anything unusual in Sir Martin’s apparent admiration for the man who had jeopardized his daughter’s life. “I did not, but I saw his horse, sir, and a more unlovely brute I’ve seldom beheld. You’d doubt he had the ability to set one hoof before the next.”

  “Is that so? Bit of a dark horse, what?”

  “Like his owner! They were undoubtedly seeking the nearest circus so as to exhibit their tricks!”

  “Oho!” Sir Martin’s eyes widened. “From Yolande’s manner I had thought him a gentleman.”

  Devenish shrugged. “A Colonial.”

  “Really? We don’t see many of them hereabouts. I heard the Beau had one on his staff. Fine chap. De-something. Got himself killed, poor fellow. DeWitt—was it?”

  “Oh, you mean DeLancey, sir. Yes, he was American—killed at Waterloo. This chap is Canadian. An insolent devil.”

  Sir Martin decided he had done the trick and that it was safe to now call the discussion to a halt. He said, “Well, I am sure you put him in his place, eh?” Standing, he put out his hand. “You’ll forgive me, Dev, but I’d best get upstairs and see how Yolande goes on.”

  Devenish stood reluctantly, and the two men shook hands. “Of course. But—”

  “My regards to Alastair,” Sir Martin said hurriedly. “You must come and take your mutton with us. Er, in a week or so, when we’ve quieted down a trifle.”

  “Thank you, sir. Is Yolande going away?”

  The bedevilled father ground his teeth, but answered brightly, “Not today, at all events.” He swung the door open. “As to the future, who can tell? These ladies of ours change their minds every time the wind blows from a different quarter. I remember once…”

  His memories lasted until the safety of the main staircase was reached, at which point he clapped his balked companion on the shoulder, said heartily that there was no call to show him out since he’d run tame at Park Parapine since he was breeched, and made his escape up the stairs.

  Devenish watched that retreat broodingly. “Humbugged, by God!” he breathed. Every law of proper behaviour dictated that he politely accept his dismissal. He had spent most of his life, however, breaking laws of proper behaviour. He therefore set his classic jaw, turned on his heel, and marched back to the saloon. There, he tapped gently on the door, waited through a sudden scurry of movement inside, and turned the handle.

  A little flushed, Mrs. Drummond lay as before, save that the quilt which had been laid over her was considerably rumpled, and on the air hung the distinct aroma of peaches. Devenish darted an amused glance to the teakwood credenza. A jade bowl held some grapes from the succession houses, but there was no sign of a peach. He thought, “Aunty nipped over there and found something to sustain her, the crafty rascal!” But he said, with appropriate if insincere gravity, “I came to see how you go along, ma’am. You suffered a very nasty fall.”

  Just as insincerely, Mrs. Drummond murmured, “Dear Devenish. How very kind. I expect I shall—come through … somehow.…”

  It was a superb performance, he thought, and said wickedly, “Gad, ma’am! You are become so pale. May I bring you a morsel of food? A glass of wine, perhaps? A little sustenance might—”

  “No, no!” She shuddered, wrapping the peach pit in her handkerchief under the shield of the quilt. “The merest thought of food nauseates me! But you have a kind heart. Pray sit down. Not everyone does, you know.”

  He hesitated. “If you prefer that I stand…”

  “No,” she giggled coyly. “I meant—not everyone has a kind heart.”

  He smiled and seated himself, prepared to guide the conversation to the questions he burned to utter. He was doomed. On the brink of extinction though she might be, Mrs. Drummond expounded at length on the evils attendant upon allowing foreigners to cavort unchecked through Britain; the terrible ills that had befallen several ladies of her acquaintance following accidents far less severe than the nightmare she had just experienced, and her belief that “this Winters man” was in reality an escaped lunatic. “No one in possession of his faculties,” she stated unequivocally, “would have attempted such a jump, let alone failed to consider that a vehicle might be travelling along the lane, and although I grant you it is not as well travelled as it was in my dear husband’s day, for then there was a far jollier life here— Oh, but you should have seen the balls and the boat parties and garden fêtes! I well remember those grand times!” She chose not to remember that her “dear husband” was known to have all but bankrupted the estates, so that his brother had been obliged to wage a desperate struggle to restore Park Parapine to solvency. She became so busied with her reminiscences, however, that she forgot the initial trend of her remarks and eventually paused in a little confusion.

  It was the opportunity for which Devenish had been waiting with concealed but fuming impatience. “It must have been grand indeed, ma’am,” he inserted swiftly. “And as for the fiasco today, I am more than thankful for your concern. But surely, Yolande will not attempt a journey—under the circumstances?”

  “I do trust she will not,” his foil replied, portentously. “She was quite knocked up, did you not think? She is a brave girl, and people fancy her stronger than she is, but to go all the way to Scotland so soon after a dreadful accident would be most unwise, and so I shall tell her mama. Dear Lady Louisa is not the one, despite other counsel, to dismiss as merest frippery the opinions held by family members.” This vengeful theme pleased her, and she rattled on happily for some moments, slanting such veiled but slanderous barbs at her absent brother-in-law that she felt triumphant and was much more in charity with him by the time she had exhausted the topic.

  Devenish waited politely, but did not attend her and, as soon as was decently possible, escaped. He rode home at a less neck-or-nothing rate of speed than was his usual habit, restraining his beautiful black mare’s occasional spirited attempts to break into a gallop. His hand on the rein was, in fact, so unwontedly heavy that twice she rolled an indignant eye at him. Of this, also, he was unaware. He rode along lost in thought, his expression grave. For Mr. Alain Devenish was an unhappy man. Mrs. Drummond’s volubility had apprised him of the fact that his ch
osen bride, aware that she was soon to depart on a long journey, had not only shown no slightest concern about being parted from him for a protracted period, but had failed to notify him of her impending removal. Further, her parents, with whom he had always stood on the best of terms, appeared to be part of what he could only judge to be a conspiracy of silence.

  Frowning, he recalled his most recent disagreement (it could scarcely be rated a quarrel) with Yolande. For as long as he could remember he had taken it for granted—He grunted impatiently; well, not taken it for granted, exactly, but certainly anticipated that they would wed. The two families were so close; Arthur and John and little Rosemary were almost like brothers and sister to him. And he and Yolande had always been such fine friends. She had not, in fact, begun to grow skittish and flighty and argumentative until first he started to speak of setting the date for their marriage. She was a lovely and sought-after debutante, and as such had the usual share of cow-eyed admirers, but he was willing to swear she cared for none of them and was merely, womanlike, being just a little, and quite charmingly, coquettish, before settling down to domesticity. He sighed wistfully. He had been more shaken than he would have cared to admit when she had told him with that suddenly troubled look that he was not ready to settle down. Such fustian! He was five and twenty, deeply in love with his lady, and had—as she herself had pointed out—an estate in Gloucestershire that had been too long neglected. Devencourt. His lips tightened. The haunted manor. It was ridiculous, but his childish feeling about the house persisted. His earliest memories were of a great estate standing deserted and lonely in the vastness of its own grounds. An estate crying out for its owner, seeking to entrap him into remaining there until he also became deserted and alone.… How foolish that such juvenile imaginings still caused him to avoid his heritage. Yet even now, he could not discuss his reaction to Devencourt; not with anyone. Especially not with Yolande! Still, she was quite in the wrong of it when she named him a here-and-thereian. Not so! He’d had his fill of adventuring, with Tristram Leith last year. He’d been lucky to escape France with his life, and if Claude Sanguinet had had his way, would not have done so. No, when he was wed he would be quite content to settle down to a peaceful and respectable existence divided between town and country, with nothing more exciting to anticipate than the arrival of two or three little Devenishes.