Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (7 page)

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 deja 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 scarabaeus 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 old
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?"

"Yes. Positive. Do you know his family, perhaps?"

"No. At least— It just seemed rather odd that he should be
staying with Alain and the Colonel, and I wondered— But that is
foolishness, of course."

"At Aspenhill?" Yolande exclaimed, not having heard the
exchange with Peattie. "Why, how very strange. I had fancied he and
Alain took one another in the strongest aversion."

The trouble returned to Lady Louisa's eyes, full measure. "Oh,
dear," she muttered. "How very difficult that will be for poor
Alastair!"

There was, among the saloons at Park Parapine, one rather
smaller than the rest, and decorated throughout in shades of gold and
cream. Cream brocade covered the dainty chairs and the Louis XIV sofa;
cream velvet draperies were tied back by ropes of braided gold silk;
and the fine Aubusson carpets were of cream, gold, and brown. It was to
this saloon that Yolande repaired shortly after half-past two o'clock,
by some happy circumstance clad in a robe of palest gold linen, opening
below the high waist to reveal a paler gold silk slip. Her glowing
curls were piled high on her head, the fine tendrils that curled down
beside her ears emphasizing the faultless delicacy of her skin. For
jewellery she wore the topaz necklace and matching topaz ring presented
to her by Alastair Tyndale on the occasion of her twenty-first
birthday, and a zephyr shawl of white with gold threads was draped
across her elbows.

A very old embroidery frame stood in a well-lighted spot
between two windows, a straight-backed chair before it. Yolande made
her way to open the sewing box beside the chair, and spread several
strands of embroidery floss across the inner tray, ready for use. She
then seated herself (making sure that her draperies were gracefully
disposed), and took up the needle that had been neatly tucked into the
stretched linen.

It was here that her visitor found her, when a superior being
in powder and satin ushered him to the saloon shortly after three
o'clock. Pausing on the threshold, Mr. Winters gazed at the lady
bending so gracefully over her needlework, and knew that never had he
seen a more beautiful sight.

Yolande glanced up in pretty surprise and saw him standing
tall and straight in the doorway, his head slightly to one side,
watching her with an expression that took her breath away. She forgot
affectation and came to greet him, holding out one hand in welcome.
Winters strode to take it. For a moment, tongue-tied, he simply held
her hand, looking down into her eyes with that faint, tender smile
still lingering in his own. Then, he bowed and kissed her fingers
lightly. "It was most kind in you to receive me, ma'am," he said in his
quiet, lazy drawl. "You cannot know how relieved I am to see you so
well recovered. I was fairly terrified when you were driven away
yesterday, looking so very shaken. Can you ever forgive me for having
brought it all about?"

Yolande was finding it difficult to regain her breath, and she
made a business of taking up the fan that hung from her wrist. "Far
from chiding you, sir," she said, opening the fan and studying the
hand-painted parchment as though she'd not seen it a hundred times
before, "I must crave your pardon for failing to properly thank you.
Had you not galloped after me so gallantly, I am quite sure I should
have perished."

Shattered, he bowed his head. "And I the cause of such a
tragedy! My God! It would have been past bearing!"

"And did not happen, so never blame yourself. The flowers are
lovely. Thank you so much." She glanced to the door, wondering what
Mama could be thinking, to allow her to be alone with this young man.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Winters," she invited, indicating one of the gold
chairs. "I understand you make a stay with Colonel Tyndale. We are
related, you know."

He waited until she had seated herself on the sofa, then
occupied the designated chair. "Yes. And we also are related, Miss
Drummond."

With a surprised arch of the brows, she asked, "You and I, Mr.
Winters?"

"Apparently, ma'am. You see, for—er, various reasons, I did
not use my full name when first we met. Winters was my mother's name. I
am Craig Winters Tyndale."

The fan shut with a snap. "
You
… ?" she
gasped. "But— but—" Mirth overcame her, and she relapsed into a flood
of laughter. Daintily wiping away tears, she apologized. "Oh, whatever
must you think of me! How dreadfully rag-mannered! I do beg pardon,
Mr.—er, Tyndale."

"Please do not," he said, delighted at having caused her to be
amused. "Indeed, I could not be more pleased than to discover I have
such enchanting relatives."

She had decided he was shy and bashful, but at this was
startled into looking straight into his eyes, which she had guarded
against doing. Her gaze was locked with his, and once more that
heart-stopping breathlessness dizzied her.

Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale said nothing. There was not the need.

At the same moment, Lady Louisa sat beside her husband in the
book room, as stunned as was her daughter, though for a very different
reason. "It is as I feared, then!" Agitated, she placed one hand on Sir
Martin's wrist, as though for support.

He took up that small hand and, finding the fingers cold as
ice, squeezed them reassuringly, then returned his attention to
Alastair Tyndale, who stood before the fireplace, staring down at the
large brass Chinese dragon which occupied the hearth when the fire was
not lit. "Alastair," he said, and paused to clear his throat.
"Alastair, does Devenish know? Have you never so much as given him a
hint?"

Tyndale passed a weary hand across his eyes. "Never."

The Drummonds exchanged worried glances. Lady Louisa said,
"But, you do
mean
to tell him? Surely, now.
Especially
now
!"

He said wryly, "It is for that very reason, Louisa, that I
dare
not tell him now! He believes I am upset solely because of the news of
my brother's death. I've no need to remind you of how kind-hearted the
dear fellow is. He was all eagerness to help, and more than willing to
deliver a letter to my solicitor in Tunbridge Wells. He even invited
Craig to accompany him. Not very heartily, but he
did
invite him. I succeeded in convincing him that Craig and I had much
family business to discuss. Had he suspected we meant to come here…" He
shook his head bodingly.