The Noblest Frailty Page 5

  He shifted uneasily in the saddle. Sounded devilish dull.… He dismissed the thought hurriedly. The bitter fact was that he was being treated by the Drummonds as though he were a complete stranger! Was it possible that they had received a more flattering offer for Yolande’s hand? Surely not! But he glared angrily at Miss Farthing’s ears and thought that it would serve them right if Yolande rejected him only to choose some rank ineligible—such as that curst circus acrobat this morning! Blasted encroaching mushroom! The way the fellow had looked at her was alone cause enough to have grassed him! For all his mercurial temperament, however, Devenish was a fine sportsman, and it had already come to him that he had been less than fair to Mr. Winters. The fellow had meant no harm with that splendid jump; he had afterwards most certainly saved Yolande’s life and been given precious little credit for it.

  He shrugged his shoulders. The Canadian was far away by this time. The thing now was to get back to Aspenhill as quickly as possible and discover whether his Tyrant had also been aware of Yolande’s proposed jaunt to Scotland. By God, if that wouldn’t be the outside of enough!

  He touched his spurred heels gently to Miss Farthing’s sides, and she sprang eagerly into a gallop that took them rapidly across lush meadow and through shady copse until they reached the last hill beyond which sprawled the Tyndale preserves and the welcome of Aspenhill.

  Chapter III

  COLONEL ALASTAIR TYNDALE looked up in mild surprise when his nephew unceremoniously flung open the study door and strode in. Leaning back in his chair, Tyndale laid down the letter he had been reading and said, “I’m glad you came back, Dev. Your—”

  “I was at Park Parapine,” Devenish interpolated. “Sir, did you know that Yolande is going away?”

  The Colonel pushed back his chair and came to his feet, standing very straight so that although the desk was between them, Devenish had to look up at him. “We can discuss that, together with your—ah—unfortunate manners, later,” he said. “I must tell you that your cousin has arrived.”

  “Oh. Well, can the brat wait awhile, sir? What I would like to know is—”

  “And,” Tyndale continued inexorably, “had you not burst in here at such a rate, you might have noticed that he is sitting behind you.”

  “Eh?” Devenish swung around to meet his small and unwanted cousin. “I say, I apologize if—” The words died abruptly. He gasped, “The devil!”

  The Canadian who sprawled in the chair behind the door may have been unwanted. Small, he was not. Mr. Craig Winters’ long, booted legs were outstretched, his chin propped on the knuckles of one hand, while his amused eyes took in Devenish’s stark horror. He came lazily to his feet and drawled, “The Colonial looby—at your service, cousin…” His bow was deep, flourishing, and decidedly mocking.

  Devenish spun to face his uncle. “Sir! This is a confounded hoax! This beastly fellow ain’t a little boy! Nor is he related to us!”

  The Colonel’s keen blue eyes drifted from tall, derisive Canadian to slender, fuming Englishman. “I see,” he said dryly, “that you two have met.” He moved towards the door. “Come, gentlemen.”

  “Uncle!” flared Devenish, his comely face flushed. “Be damned if I’ll—”

  “Colonel,” drawled Winters, his accent very pronounced, “maybe I’d best get on my—”

  “We will talk,” said Tyndale arctically, “over luncheon.” He opened the door. “You will both be so good as to join me in the breakfast parlour as soon as you’ve put off your riding clothes. Ah—there you are, Truscott. Where have we put Mr. Tyndale?”

  Winters’ heavy brows twitched into a frown. The butler, customarily suave and seldom at a loss, was apparently not at his best today. “Mr.—Mr. Tyndale, sir?” he echoed.

  “My nephew. Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale. Wake up, man!”

  “M–my apologies, sir. Mr. er—Tyndale, is in the blue guest suite.” He turned glazed eyes to Winters and bowed. “May I show you the way, sir?”

  “You may not,” the Colonel intervened. “Devenish, take your cousin to his room, if you please. I want a word with Truscott.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” lied Devenish. Ascending the stairs beside his new kinsman, and bound by the dictates of good manners, he added, “I collect you stand in need of the services of a valet, so—”

  “Oh, no. Thank you for so kind an offer. But I sent my man ahead of me. He’s here now.”

  Devenish raised one bored eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  Had he put a quizzing glass to his eye and leisurely surveyed his cousin through it, he could scarcely have more clearly implied his scepticism.

  That mischievous twinkle again lit the Canadian’s eyes. “We Colonials do have some of the social graces.” He glanced up. “Everything in now, Monty?”

  Devenish lifted his scornful gaze to discover the doubtful merits of this “social grace.” Scorn was routed. It was, in fact, all he could do to restrain his jaw from dropping to half-mast. The man who stood on the landing, with one hand lightly resting on the banister, was tall and with a suggestion about him of the panther. His long hair was blue-black, tied in at the nape of his neck, and very straight. The skin that stretched over lean cheeks had a coppery glow, and his eyes were unfathomable pools of jet. He wore a tunic and trousers of soft leather that were as if moulded to his lithe form, and on his feet were intricately beaded moccasins. He met his employer’s laughing gaze, and his features softened imperceptibly. Not into a smile, exactly, but a semblance of one that was a brief flash of gleaming white against his dark face. “Everything in,” he confirmed in a deep rumble of a voice. “You come.”

  Lips quirking, Tyndale threw a quick glance at his paralyzed relation and went on up the stairs.

  For almost a minute, Devenish did not move. A distant shout of laughter roused him from his trance. He tottered to the landing. “Now—by Jove!” he breathed, his eyes stunned. “Now—by Jove!”

  * * *

  An hour later, Colonel Tyndale blew a cloud of smoke into the air and, with an appreciative eye, regarded the cheroot he held. “A very good brand, Craig,” he acknowledged. “From your native land?”

  “No, sir. They’re—er, from Spain, actually. Glad they please you.”

  Devenish coughed rather pointedly and waved smoke from his vicinity.

  “Alain don’t smoke,” advised Tyndale. “It’s a filthy habit, I will admit.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Winters agreed affably. “Good you don’t allow it, sir. Perhaps, when he’s older…”

  Bristling, Devenish grated, “What the deuce d’you mean by that? I’m as old as are you, you blasted circus clown! And furthermore—”

  Tyndale lifted a restraining hand. “Peace, gentlemen. Peace! I have heard you both out and, unless one of you is bending the truth a trifle, it must be apparent that Craig acted unwisely, but did his best to atone, and that you, Alain, behaved with your usual calm, good judgment and comforted Yolande.”

  “Oh, very well,” Devenish muttered, reddening. “I’ll own I may perhaps have neglected to properly thank you, Winters, for acting as fast as you did to rescue my lady, but—”

  “Your—ah, lady…?” breathed Winters. “You and Miss Drummond are promised, then?”

  “From the cradle.” Eyes narrowed and deadly, Devenish went on, “Furthermore, I warn you, here and now, that—”

  “I feel sure,” put in Alastair Tyndale, “I need not remind you, Dev, that your cousin is—my guest.”

  His fists clenching, Devenish choked back his angry words and sat seething for a moment. “If Mr. Winters is indeed our kinsman, sir,” he exploded, “why don’t he use his rightful name?”

  “My apologies, Craig,” said Tyndale regretfully. “I’d not intended to be so blunt, but since the question has been raised…”

  His head very erect, Winters answered, “I understood it was one of my grandfather’s stipulations, sir. That if he paid my father’s way to Canada, the family name would not be used.”

  Devenish
uttered a barely audible snort. Winters turned suddenly glinting eyes to stare at him unblinkingly.

  The Colonel, frowning at the upcurling smoke from his cheroot, pointed out, “That stipulation did not apply to you. The—the indiscretions of your sire are not part of your inheritance. I believe it would be appropriate for you to use your correct name.”

  Without removing his gaze from Devenish’s bland hauteur, Winters said gently, “Your pardon, Uncle. But I have no wish to change.”

  “My regrets, nephew. But it is my wish that you do so,” said the Colonel, just as gently.

  Here, Winters shifted his attention to the older man, a troubled uncertainty in his eyes. “I have no intent to distress you, sir. Were I to change my name, it would be to take your own, I assume.”

  “Tyndale. Of course. What had you supposed?”

  Winters shrugged. “I wasn’t just sure. You Englishmen seem to change your names at the drop of a hat.” He glanced at Devenish. “So long as it’s Tyndale, I’ll settle for that.”

  “Will you, by God!” raged Devenish. “And I suppose had it been my name, that wouldn’t have been good enough for your backwoods clodhop—”

  “That will do!” The Colonel’s voice cut like a sabre through the tirade. “I suggest you apologize, sir!”

  Devenish’s blazing eyes fell. He was behaving badly, his awareness of which fact did little to mitigate his loathing of his tall cousin. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Quite right.” And forcing his eyes upwards, met an unexpected glare in the grey gaze across the table. “Apologize, Win—Tyndale.”

  The glare faded into a grin. The Canadian drawled, “Thank you.”

  “Still, it might be better,” said the Colonel, “did you find someone else to accompany you, Craig. I wish I might go, but I am—er, detained here by—by a matter that I cannot postpone just now.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir. I’ve done a little pathfinding through the mountains of Upper Canada. It should be simple enough for me to find my way round this little island.”

  From the corner of his eye Colonel Tyndale saw Devenish’s lips parting, and said a fast, “It might be less simple than you think. The British countryside has a way of confusing people.” He turned to Devenish. “Your cousin means to have a look at his property, Alain.”

  With sublime indifference, Devenish said, “Property? Some distance from here?” And he thought, “I hope it’s in Siberia!”

  The Colonel put out his cheroot and murmured, “I took you there once, when you were a little shaver—perhaps you recall…?”

  A sudden sense of déjà vu seized Devenish. He frowned. “I do seem to remember something. A gloomy old place, no? I think I loathed it.”

  Winters had been admiring an unusual scarabæus ring the Colonel wore, and so it was that he noticed the strong hand tighten convulsively about the stem of the wineglass. Curious, he glanced at his uncle and would have sworn he saw sweat beading the man’s upper lip before the Colonel turned away.

  Devenish had also seen. He leaned to slip a hand onto the older man’s arm and asked with a swift anxiety that betrayed his affection, “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Perfectly, thank you.” Nonetheless, Tyndale’s hand trembled slightly as he took a last sip of his port. “Shall we adjourn to the terrace? Or have you something planned, Alain?”

  The Tyrant was looking fairly pulled. With a twinge of guilt, Devenish wondered if his own hasty temper was the cause. He managed somehow to smile at the usurper. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping Winters would let me have a look at his horse.”

  “Yes, by gad!” exclaimed the Colonel, brightening. “And that reminds me, Craig. From all I hear, you must be a superb horseman. How ever did you manage to change mounts at full gallop? I’d give something to have seen it!”

  Winters coloured. “I was practically raised on a horse, sir.”

  “Your papa taught you to ride? He was a grand sportsman, God rest him!”

  Something at the back of the grey eyes became blank. “No, sir. Matter of fact, an Iroquois Indian taught me.”

  “I say!” exclaimed Devenish, immediately intrigued. “How dashed splendid! You said the horse was Spanish-bred. Imported, I gather. Did you bring him over with you?”

  Winters’ gaze shifted to his plate. “Er—yes,” he said.

  * * *

  “Come in, Mama,” called Yolande, looking up from the pile of notes and invitations spread out on her quilt. “I am wide awake, and would have got up hours since, save that I decided to indulge myself.”

  “Very rightly, my love,” nodded her ladyship, closing the door and crossing the sunny bedchamber. She kissed her daughter, scanned her face with the knowing eyes of motherhood, and perched on the side of the bed. “I am so glad the sun came out for you. We have had such a wretched spring. Now tell me, should we call in the doctor? Be honest.”

  “Oh, absolutely not, I thank you. I feel perfectly well.”

  “Wonderful. And how grateful we must be to Mr. Winters. It was very naughty of him to jump the hedge, of course. But I could not help but dwell on the accident last night. You know how things always seem so dreadful during the hours of darkness! And I thought how much worse it might have been. Only think, it might have been Herbert Glick, for example. Not that I wish to imply a criticism of poor Glick,” she added with a guilty dimple. “But—oh, dearest, can you not picture him galloping to your rescue as did Mr. Winters?”

  Both ladies succumbed to the deliciousness of the picture thus conjured up, and laughed merrily.

  Yolande gurgled, “I cannot imagine him jumping the hedge in the first place, Mama. And had he done so, he would most certainly have parted company with his horse and landed beneath the hooves of our team!” She took up an invitation and said, “A masquerade at Greenwings—oh, what a pity I must refuse. Has—anyone called? I cannot guess how I came to sleep the day away.”

  “Oh, can you not? I can! You were thoroughly shaken, poor lamb! Yes, Devenish stayed a little while after you was gone up to bed. He was beside himself, naturally.” She sighed. “Your papa was so vexed, for Aunt let fall a remark about your stay in Scotland.”

  “Oh, dear! How unfortunate! Whatever did Dev have to say?”

  “He tried to worm the whole out of Papa, as you might expect, so soon as they were alone. Papa says he tried very hard to turn his train of thought, and for a time believed he had succeeded, but Alain harked back to the subject, and your father was obliged to be quite devious.”

  “Bother! Now he will come and take me to task for not having told him! He must have been very angry, for already he considered me his personal property.”

  “He did seem angry, I grant you. But I thought his rage was directed at Mr. Winters. Your aunt, I fear, has taken that young man in strong aversion. Do tell me, love—what was he like? Handsome?”

  Yolande thought for a moment. “No. Not handsome, though any man would seem plain if compared to Dev. He is certainly not unpleasant to look at, and has the nicest grey eyes. His build is sturdier than Alain’s and I would suppose him to be a fine sportsman, for he moves with much grace. But I had the impression he is a little pulled. There was a—a sort of tiredness about his eyes that made me wonder if—” She looked up and found her mama watching her with brows slightly elevated, and felt her cheeks become hot. “Good gracious, Mama! What are you thinking? I have but seen the man once!”

  Lady Louisa smiled and remarked that she wished she had seen Mr. Winters once—if only to thank him.

  “I wish someone had,” said Yolande regretfully, “for I am very sure I failed to do so. I have a vague recollection, in fact, of ignoring him completely and driving away without so much as a glance in his direction.”

  “Perfectly understandable. Has the young man any sensibilities at all, he will have found nothing to marvel at—save that you were able to speak at such a time, when most girls would have swooned away!”

  The door opened. Peattie, Yolande’s abigail, waddled her stout way
across the room and deposited a charming bouquet of spring flowers on her mistress’s lap. “From a Mr. Winters, Miss Yolande,” she announced, broad features wreathed in a grin.

  “How—er, pretty!” stammered Yolande, her heart giving a quite unfamiliar leap.

  “The gentleman must still be in the vicinity,” murmured Lady Louisa, watching her daughter’s pink countenance with a touch of unease.

  “The flowers was sent over from a flower shop in Bexhill,” Peattie volunteered and, crossing to her ladyship, murmured, “The boy who brought ’em said they was ordered by a gentleman what’s staying at Aspenhill, milady.”

  Lady Louisa’s unease increased. “Did he now? Thank you, Peattie. Miss Yolande will ring when she needs you.”

  “Mama?” said Yolande, as the maid closed the door. “Are you provoked because Mr. Winters sent the flowers?”

  Her mother started, looked at her rather blankly for a moment, then smiled. “Of course not, you silly goose. What does he have to say?”

  “That he means to call this afternoon in order to apologize to Papa for the accident. And that if his unforgivable recklessness has not given me a distaste for him, he will beg to see me for a moment or two.” She gave a mischievous giggle. “Prettily said, eh, Mama?”

  “And very pretty flowers.” My lady touched the waxy petals of a tulip. “Shall you receive him, Yolande?”

  “No. For you object, I see. Oh, never speak me a farradiddle, dearest. Something troubles you, I know, for you seldom frown.”

  “Was I doing so?” My lady put up one white hand to wipe away the frown. “What a shrewd little puss! However, I do not object. It is only … Yolande, you are quite sure his name is Winters?”