Feather Castles (41 page)

“Quite bad. He's pluck to the backbone, but luckily fainted before the worst of it. Rachel nursed him devotedly, with the result they now quarrel like brother and sister.”

Strand grinned. “She didn't say that. She mentioned that he was shy.”

“True. But one cannot for long remain shy with the lady who applies hot fomentations to one's thigh—or holds the bowl when the motion of the seas is ah—unpropitious.”

“Oh, gad! A poor sailor, is he? Likely that was worse than all the rest.”

“So he told us,” Tristram agreed with a twinkle. “I regret to report that he behaved on that occasion with a total lack of valour, and even went so far as to say he wished the bolt had found his heart rather than his leg!”

They both laughed, and Tristram asked quietly, “Are you putting me off because I subjected your sisters to the rigours of a smuggler's ketch on the way home?”

“No, sir.” For an instant, Strand was thrown off his stride, and a faint flush appeared beneath his tan. Recovering, he said, “Though, I'll own I cannot quite understand how you were—er—acquainted with smugglers. That is to say, I do not mean to appear censorious, but…”

“I was more than acquainted with them. Devenish and I worked our way to Dinard aboard the yawl of a friendly free trader. We had no choice, actually. Pockets to let, for both of us. And so, you see, on the return journey we were treated as,” he smiled, “brethren.”

Strand sighed and shook his head regretfully. “I collect there is a great deal yet to be told, and I should dearly love to hear it, but I know you are anxious to get to Whitehall.”

“I am. I should have ridden there at once, but I first had to get Devenish safely bestowed, and then return the girls to you.”

“For which I am ever in your debt.” Transfixed by an unblinking gaze, and realizing this man would not be put off, Strand added a reluctant, “As to your request—my regrets, Leith. But I cannot give my consent.”

Tristram's heart sank. “I suppose I expected that. I'll warn you that I am become heartily bored by the Strand pride. I am deep in love with Rachel. I've every reason to believe she feels the same. I mean to wed her—with or without your approval.”

“I doubt that, sir.” A wry smile curved Strand's mouth. “No—do not eat me! But I cannot feature a man such as yourself essaying a dash to the Border whilst I lie here knocked out of time. More importantly—I know my sister. She will never wed you.” His eyes became bleak suddenly. “Not now.”

For a long moment, Tristram said nothing. Then he stood and, walking over to the window, observed, “I realize you know nothing of me, Strand, but—”

“Not
know
of you? Everyone knows of you! Tristram Leith—heir to a barony and a fortune; Leith, who acquitted himself so well on the Peninsula he was made one of Wellington's matchless aides-de-camp! Leith—admired by London's gentlemen and the
beau idéal
of her ladies!” Strand gave a cynical snort. “Much do I know of you, Colonel!”

Genuinely taken aback, Tristram turned to face him. “I thank you for the compliments, but—someone's been hoaxing you. I never heard such farradiddles!”

“Stuff! It's purest truth, whether or not you acknowledge it. I chance to be well acquainted with Jeremy Bolster and Timothy Van Lindsay—I heard them sing your praises long before I knew you were—er—involved with my sister.”

“Yes, and a greater pair of booberkins you'd not wish to meet!” His face hot, Leith demanded, “Now listen to me, Strand—if it is this business with Sanguinet that disturbs you—why, people forget. In time—”

“They'll not forget the Strands. My father's reputation alone was sufficient to bring us to ruin. And as to his debts—”

“They can be paid. My father will—”

“The devil he will!” Strand sat up straight, eyes blazing, and two spots of colour lighting his hollow cheeks. “Why in the deuce d'you think I spent these past three years in India? I'll have you know, sir, I'm not an utter failure! Our debts will be paid in full! And if you think that will turn the trick, you're a maggot-wit!”

“My apologies if I offended.” Tristram strode back to the chaise, his eyes holding a flare that would have warned his subalterns. “I wish to God I could stay and talk some sense into your addled brain. But I must get to the Horse Guards, and then to my father. When those matters are attended to, I'll come back, Strand! I mean to have Rachel for my wife and I don't intend to let the Strand pride stop me!” He thrust out a hand and, it being duly taken, said sternly, “Good day, sir. And I am glad to have met you!”

Strand watched that erect figure march to the door and, with a rueful smile in his eyes called, “Leith—you cannot know how I wish I could give you my blessing.”

Tristram turned, flashed a grim stare at him, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

*   *   *

Rachel sat in a shady corner of the rose arbour, trying to concentrate on the weeds that invaded the once pristine beds, and the amount of work that must be done to restore the estate. Her fingers were nervously braiding the fringe that edged the pink sash of her sprigged muslin gown, and her thoughts strayed constantly to Tristram. He would seek her out at any moment, she knew. She also knew he had spoken with Justin, and what her brother would have said, wherefore her palms were wet, and her heartbeat wildly irregular. Whatever happened, she told herself sternly, she must be firm. She must not weaken, no matter if—

“Good morning, my dear.”

The deep voice was quiet, but Rachel's heart bade fair to jump through her ribs and, despite her preparations for this moment, her breath was snatched away. She stood, her knees trembling as she faced him.

“I did not hear you come,” she said tritely, fighting to control her nerves and to crush the familiar ache of longing that scourged her whenever she saw him.

Tristram pushed his broad shoulders away from the tree he leaned against and moved towards her. “I was watching you,” he admitted, adding with a rather crooked smile, “I am forbidden to pay my addresses, you know.”

She looked at him levelly, drinking in every beloved feature, and hearing as from a great distance her own voice say, “I know.”

“What utter, rubbishing nonsense it is!” he exploded, anger and frustration uniting to unleash his rare temper. “You love me. I love you. And because of a pride that is foolish beyond permission—”

“Do you refer to the Strand pride, Tristram?” she intervened calmly. “Or to that of your own family?”

“My family would not shun us! My father is kind and understanding, and—”

“And would welcome Rachel Strand as the future Lady Leith? Forgive me if I doubt that.”

He all but sprang to seize her by the shoulders and sweep her to him. “Much I care what you doubt!” he rasped, frowning down at her. “Or what my father thinks—or what the whole world thinks! Rachel—in the name of God! Don't allow this worship of pride and position to come between us. Do you think I could ever be happy again without you at my side? Do you think I give a button for the
ton
and their stupid unwritten laws?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, my very dear—do
you
think I could bear to see you hurt those you love, and who love you? And it
would
hurt them. And humiliate them. Tristram, I have been bred up to the same Code as you. Do you think I do not know what it would do to you to marry to disoblige your family? Do you think I do not know what you owe to your name—to all the Leiths who have gone before you?”

“The devil with them!” he said desperately and, shaking her a little, ground out, “
You
are all I want. You are all I need. After all we have endured together, would you condemn us both to a life of misery—for something as pointless as Pride?”

She blinked, and if her lips trembled a little and her voice was shaken, she still said resolutely, “You seek to condemn me to a worse fate, Tristram. You speak now in anger and—and fear. Oh, yes—I know you love me. But you are too fine a man to love selfishly. Sooner or later, you would repent your father's shame and disappointment. Sooner or later, you would begin to yearn for the world you grew up in—the social order you love. And—and if I had to watch you grieve, or turn from me—begin to … hate me…”

“
Hate
you?” he cried, his face twisting with emotion. “My God, girl! I worship you! Rachel! Do
not
do this!”

Her heart wrung by the pain in his eyes, her tears overflowed. She made no attempt to wipe them away, but gasped threadily, “I cannot—fight you very well when—I long with all my heart to … to accept your offer. But—I beg of you, as a gentleman, do not cause me to—to despise myself! My brother forbade you to speak. You should—”

“Be damned to your brother! I told him I meant to have you for my wife, and—” He checked. Rachel was wincing, cringing away from his iron hands, and the sight shocked him back to sanity. He gave a muffled groan, released her, and swung away, to stand with head down and shoulders hunched, while passion died and the cold implacability of Reason and Responsibility marched hand in hand to defeat him.

Watching him, still shaken by his ferocity, Rachel's hand went out to him in a yearning gesture, but was withdrawn.

After a moment, he said, very low, “Forgive me, I beg you. That was disgraceful. I—I must be more tired than I knew.”

“Of course,” she gulped, dashing tears away. “I quite understand. We all have been through a great deal.”

“Yes.” He faced her again, struggling for a smile. “I must get to the Horse Guards, then see my family. But—” He bit his lip. “I may come again?” He waited through seconds that seemed an eternity. She looked so grieved, so troubled, but to his unspeakable relief, at last, she nodded.

“After you see your father and your family, if you still feel that what you propose would not hurt them—or me—then, you may come, Tristram.”

*   *   *

“Against my better judgment,” said General Smollet, glaring from under beetling grey brows at the young officer standing so tall and straight before his desk, “against my every instinct, I have heard you out.” He leaned forward, brawny hands clasped before him on the desk, and hard grey eyes glinting his disgust. “And I tell you, sir, that—
never
in my entire life, have I heard so reprehensible a pack of nonsense!”

From the instant he had set foot in this venerable old building, Tristram had known he was in trouble. From the sidelong glances of the sergeants, to the amused stares of the officers, had come the message that not only was his survival common knowledge, but that he was not going to be welcomed with open arms. Outright disbelief he had not expected, however, and tensing said curtly, “Sir, with all due respect, everything I have told you is truth. You certainly know I was downed at Waterloo, and—”

“And that having chosen to disappear for six weeks, you finally popped up in France, professing not to know your identity? No, sir! We did not know that! But we know it now. And I confess myself astounded, Colonel.
Astounded!
That you should have the barefaced gall to stand there and mouth me your—your farradiddles!”

Angered, Tristram declared dangerously, “I also am astounded, General. I bring you word of an attempt on the life of the Regent, and—”

Smollet sprang to his feet. “You bring me fustian, sir! A damnable, slanderous, mingle-mangle, with not a vestige of proof!”

“You ask me for
proof?
” His chin jutting, Tristram grated, “May I remind the General that I hold the rank of Colonel? That I was on the Duke's staff? Further, that I was not alone in this? Mr. Devenish, Miss Strand and her sister, the groom, and your own man, Diccon, can vouch for what I have said.”

“How unfortunate!” snapped the General. Not removing his fixed glare from Tristram, he held up one hand and began to count off on his fingers. “Mr. Alain Devenish—a young rapscallion who left an uneviable reputation at Eton, was sent down from University, and damn near cashiered from the military!” He gave a snort of disgust. “A fine witness for the defence! Of Miss Rachel Strand and her sister, being a gentleman I shall say nothing. Your groom, Raoul, is known to us—by many names—and has led a colourful life ranging from ivory turner to smuggler! And as for this Diccon whom you rashly categorize as ‘my man'—let me assure you that he is nothing of the sort! For years I've warned my colleagues that he is short of a sheet, and since he has now completely disappeared, one can but hope that some public spirited citizen has had him clapped up!”

Seething, Tristram stifled an impassioned rebuttal and said deliberately, “Sir, I came here as swiftly as was possible under the circumstances. I expected to be received as an officer, and—”

“And a
gentleman,
sir?” Resting both hands on the desk, Smollet leaned forward and all but spat out, “Is
that
what you were about at the Chateau Sanguinet? Behaving like an officer and a
gentleman?
Damme, but one would never have guessed it.”

His narrowed eyes a dark glitter in his pale face, and the dead whiteness about his mouth betraying his fury, Tristram said nothing, not trusting himself to speak.

Smollet gave a gesture of impatience. “Perhaps I should have warned you. We have already been visited by Marshal Pierre D'Harnoncourt. He came representing Monsieur Claude Sanguinet, who is presently laid down upon his bed with pneumonia. Pneumonia! He may well die—and God help you if he does!”

“God help the world if he does not!” Tristram grated defiantly.

The General's fist crashed onto the desktop. “Oh, have
done,
man! Do you fancy us all fools? There was no
need
for these hair-raising tales of yours! You have served for many years and built a splendid record. You are from a fine old family. Blast it, I have hunted with your father! And a nice bumble broth you've created for
him!
Had you come here and admitted your folly; had you owned up to your, ah—escapade, you would have been disciplined, merely. But to desert in time of war—as we
were
at the time!—to follow the woman back to France; to create a disgusting scandal, and to have the brass to come here with the Cheltenham tragedy you have fabricated in a shameful effort to—”