Feather Castles (11 page)

Her heart slowing to a gallop, she observed, “Sometimes they wag truth.”

“One can but hope not. I thought Caro Lamb was wild, but even she never obtained ‘A Fine Protector'—to my knowledge, at least.”

Rachel stiffened and, not noticing that he had been granted another small recollection, said, “She certainly has many admirers, whatever one may call them.”

“Yes. But I—” He bit the words off and was silent.

“You are not among them? Ah. A moralist.”

“And assuredly the last one to dare throw stones,” he admitted.

Perhaps because Rachel was so stricken, she said coldly, “Why, we all have our standards, do we not? Whatever our own failings.”

The faint colour left his face. He said nothing, but his hand tightened on the arm of his chair.

Rachel saw the movement, and remorse brought sudden tears to sting her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice trembling.

“There is nothing to forgive. You are perfectly right, and I—”

“No! I had no right at all, for— Oh, Tristram, you will discover sooner or later that the name Strand is—is not an honourable one. Indeed, we are shunned throughout England!”

“What?”
He sat straighter, staring at her in horrified disbelief. Her distress was very obvious, and quick to come to her defence he exclaimed, “I cannot credit that any idiot should shun so lovely a lady! You must not tell me more, but I am quite certain you have
never
done anything dishonourable.”

“When Charity was injured,” she said, looking fixedly at the small shoe that peeped from beneath her gown, “my poor Papa tried frantically to find a surgeon who could help her. She was in much pain and, as you can imagine, he could not bear to see her suffer. From—from one cause and another, our fortune had dwindled until we could barely afford to keep up the estates and pay our servants. Papa blamed himself for this, and struggled to raise funds. Unsuccessfully, I'm afraid. In the end, he began to gamble without restraint until—driven to desperation—” Her hands wrung, and she paused.

Tristram leaned forward and his large hand reached out to cover her nervous small one. “Do not,” he admonished gently. “I think I can guess. He outran the constable, eh?”

She was much comforted, but still unable to look at him, said with a wan smile, “No. He cheated at cards.”

Despite himself, he gave a shocked gasp. “My poor girl! So that was why you were distressed when I made that nonsensical remark on the cliffs! But it was none of your doing. Besides, your father must have been driven beyond endurance, poor man.” Dizzied by the misty smile that was now bestowed on him, he asked, “Was this why your brother went out to India? To try and raise funds? He must be a fine fellow.”

“Yes. Justin is very good. But he was never very strong and I worry so. One hears such tales about the fevers and plagues, and the savage things the natives do!”

“No, no,” he smiled, leaning back in his chair once more. “I've no doubt your brother will come home so improved in health you will scarce know him. And a regular nabob who will resolve all your cares with one wave of his hand.”

“His beringed hand,” she corrected, her eyes beginning to regain their sparkle.

“But, of course,” he agreed gravely. “Dozens of rings. And he will ride to your door upon an elephant.”

Rachel clapped her hands with delight at the picture this conjured up. “Dare he have a train of slave girls behind him?”

“Oh, absolutely. If you like, we will mount them upon pachyderms also. In fact, it would create even more of a stir, you know, was he to lead such a cavalcade down St. James's and under the windows of that club to which all you ladies must receive vouchers else be slain socially. White's, isn't it?”

“No,” she exclaimed merrily. “Foolish man! That is Almack's—and I doubt Justin would dare lead his ladies past those hallowed halls!” She stood, and he at once came to his feet. “How kind you are,” she murmured, gazing up into his face gratefully. “Thank you for giving me that delightful little Feather Castle.”

He bowed over her hand and pressed it very briefly to his lips. And longing to tell her how much more he yearned to be able to give her, said nothing.

Chapter 5

Lord Kingston Leith's new satin brocade waistcoat brought an appreciative gleam to the eye of his sister's butler who admitted him to the Berkeley Square residence. Left alone in the ornate drawing room, his lordship wandered across to the gilded harpsichord and touched a key, his grey eyes becoming wistful. Tristram had loved to hear little Sally play the instrument. And in the good old days, when Tris and Galen Hilby and Timothy Van Lindsay had come down for the Long Vacation, what jolly parties and musicales there had been. Especially when Carlotta Bryce had been able to come, with her sister Dora. A sharp tongue had Carlotta, but she played the harp magnificently. And, Dora—he smiled nostalgically. Dora had been plump then, true, but always a delight. A most pleasing little lady, Dora Graham. And how long since he'd so much as thought of her …

“Kingston!” The low, tragic cry brought him swinging around to meet his sister, the Countess of Mayne-Waring, who bore down upon him like a galleon in a stiff breeze, her train shushing along the floor behind her. “So you are come home,” she said, giving him her hands. “And without our dear one, alas, as I knew you must.”

“I was not successful this time, I'll own.” He bestowed a brotherly buss on the cheek she raised. “But that has little to say to the matter. I've left a fine team of men searching for the boy. Been home these three days. Came here at once, but you was in the country. Starchy on a repairing lease?”

Lady Drusilla fought back her irritation at this irreverent remark. “I felt the need of a change of scene,” she advised dolefully. “Oh, my poor bereaved soul! How well you … bear…” She faltered into silence, having become aware of his attire, and as stunned by it as he had been startled by the unrelieved gloom of her blacks. “What—
ever
—?” she uttered feebly. “You are not in mourning, King?”

Her reverting to that childish nickname spoke volumes for her state of mind, for she was very conscious of the dignity she owed her station in life, and only in moments of great stress was her majestic demeanour overborne.

Leith pulled up a chair for her, and drawing another close, sat down, confirming, “Of course I ain't. The boy's missing, is all. Why should I put on my blacks for that? Or—do you mourn someone else? Good God! Old Starchy has not—”

“Had Mayne-Waring breathed his last, Kingston,” she said quellingly, “you, as my only surviving brother, would have been notified at once. As well you know.”

Leith grinned mischievously. Despite her grand manner, Lady Drusilla was fond of him, and her vexation mellowed into anxiety. Kingston had always been a bit rackety, as the saying went. Perhaps the loss of his beloved son had overset his already tottering intellect. She raised a dainty handkerchief to dab the tears from her eyes. They were genuine tears, for Tristram Leith had been an object of no little pride with her. She had, in fact, selected several well-born—and eager—ladies as possible mates for her dashing nephew. And now … She sniffed damply.

Her brother edged farther back on his chair. “Dru, if you've taken one of your confounded head colds, I'll be off.”

She foiled this plan by giving vent to a sob. “How,” she quavered, “can you be so heartless? Your only son!”

“Who will be home before the snow flies, I'll lay you odds—er, well what I mean is— Now, dash it all, you're weeping, Dru! I wish you will not!”

“I will try … to oblige you, dear brother. But—but I did love him, you know.”

For an instant Lord Leith's air of cheerful aplomb slipped. He sprang up and took a turn about the room, keeping his face averted. When he resumed his chair, however, he seemed as hopeful as ever and said bracingly, “Do not use the past tense, Dru. My agents have already found a clue that Tristram survived the battle.”

She gave a gasp and leaned forward, hands clasped to her heart. “Tell me!”

“Well, that's what I come for! One of my fellows located a labourer who'd become suspiciously plump in the pockets after Waterloo. My man took him to a tavern and loosened his tongue to the point he spoke of an incident he'd seen following the battle. Something about two ladies about to be victimized, and a tall, well-built soldier who helped them.” He frowned and said in a subdued tone, “The soldier was young and very dark, and an excellent shot, though he was badly wounded about the head. From what St. Clair told young Buchanan, it—it might have been—”

“Oh! What utter fustian!” exploded his sister. She plied her handkerchief again, while Leith watched her glumly. “There must have been hundreds of big dark men with head injuries!” she sniffed, when her sobs eased. “And—as if
ladies
would have ventured near that—that ghastly field! From what we've been told, 'twas a—a veritable slaughterhouse. I vow, I've seldom been more vexed with you, King, to raise my hopes to no purpose. Did I not know you are devoted to the boy, I'd swear this is all a ruse—so that you may continue to pursue every pretty woman your lustful eyes discover!”

“Lustful eyes!” echoed her brother, considerably affronted. “Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! Here am I, doing my level best to sacrifice myself on the altar of—of our lineage, and look at you! Full of distempered starts and as Friday-faced as you can stare! And furthermore—”

Bristling, she interposed, “Is it to ‘sacrifice' yourself that you've been providing grist for the mill of every gabble monger in town? I could scarce credit my ears this morning when I was told by two visitors that you was trying to fix your interest with the Chandler woman! An antidote if ever I encountered one!”

A twinkle lit his lordship's grey eyes. He took out his snuff box, tapped it gently, and remarked, “Thought Harriet Chandler was a crony of yours? She's a diamond of the first water—for looks, at least.”

“She's well enough,” allowed the Countess, grudgingly. “If one can endure to listen to her tell of it. I vow her ravings of how many gentlemen are at her feet, and how many compliments come here way, and how original and beyond compare are the gowns her woman creates, are not to be borne!”

Leith took a pinch of snuff, inhaled, flicked the few spilled grains from his sleeve, and muttered, “At least she can say
something.
The Apperton girl can do nothing but giggle and simper! And as for Aurelia Pritchard— Glorious, but—” He cast his eyes to the ceiling, despairingly.

“I am glad to hear you admit your follies in those directions, at least,” the Countess acknowledged. “A man of your years! Diversion is well enough, but—”

“Diversion? Good God! Did I seek diversion, ma'am, I've a lovely little dasher would take the shine out of—”

“Kingston!”

“—Would take the shine out of The Chandler, The Apperton,
and
Miss Pritchard!” he finished stubbornly. “Trouble is, I cannot wed the lass. No background, more's the pity.”

His sister's jaw dropped. A faint squawk escaped her, and she groped feebly for the damp piece of cambric and lace that had slipped from her palsied hand.

Restoring it to her, Leith paced up and down and elaborated, “D'ye think I enjoy these callow debutantes? 'Tis one thing to squire 'em about; to watch their pretty faces and flirt with 'em, and have 'em flirt with you; and go home to a comfortable chair and a good book, or a sensible talk with friends, or even with old Ches. But—
marriage?
Gad! To be shackled to a child with nothing in her head but hair! Had I ever thought of wedlock—which I cannot recall having done since my sweet Jenevra died—but,
had
I done so, I'd have chosen someone closer to my own generation. Oh, you may stare, Dru, but what have these chits to say to me? Can they reminisce of Pitt and his fire and brimstone? Do they recall Charles James Fox—the old rascal? Did they ever see Garrick, or the elegance of powdered heads and the hoop skirts you ladies was used to wear so prettily? They are dull, Drusilla. Vapid, and sweet and gentle and foolish and—
dull!
”

“Lud!” gasped his sister, flapping her handkerchief at her astounded face. “I vow I'm all about in my head. Or you are! If you do not care for these girls, then why on earth chase after them?”

“Because, Dru—though it's all gammon, you know—if Tristram has indeed, fallen…” He sprang up from the chair he'd only just sunk into, and exploded, “I'll not have Herbert Glick at Cloudhills!”

For a space his sister merely blinked at him. Gradually, however, comprehension dawned, and with horror apparent in her plump features, she said, “My heavens! You are perfectly right, of course! I—Oh, dear! I should never have told Maribel MacNaughton you were short of a sheet.”

His lordship stiffened. The fair Maribel was high on his “list,” and the young widow's eyes had ofttimes held a gleam he'd fancied was encouragement. “If that ain't a dashed fine set-out!” quoth he, indignantly. “It's
me
that is short of a sheet—but it's
you
allows my only daughter to caper about all over London with Freddy Foster! A fine rake to be trying to fix his interest with the child!”

“Indeed?” she exclaimed, in the tone that struck terror into the hearts of her maids. “I wish I'd a shilling for the times you have told me what a grand fellow he is!”

“Well, so he is. Splendid sportsman, true and loyal friend, up to every rig and row in town. And a rake, ma'am. Young fellow with looks like his—bound to be a rake.”

Lady Drusilla's eyes saddened. “Tristram was—is—the handsomest boy I know … save for Camille Damon who hasn't been seen for years. And Tristram was—er, is—not a rake.”