This matter-of-fact question, when most people they knew tip-toed apologetically round Giles’s disability, pleased both brother and sister.
Drusilla suddenly found her voice. So this was Henry, Earl Devenish, nicknamed ‘the Devil’. She could not allow the knowledge of his reputation to silence her. She answered him before Giles could.
‘A childhood illness, m’lord. He contracted a long and lingering fever, which had him bedridden and his leg withering. But that was the least of it, most of the children around here who were so afflicted at the time lost more than that. They lost their lives.’
‘Well, at least he kept his—and his impudence, too. Are you fit enough to walk to my horse, Master Giles, or would you prefer me to carry you? I can convey you to your home if your sister will lead the way.’
‘Oh, Green will do that when he returns,’ said Drusilla hastily. ‘No need to put yourself out.’
‘Oh, I never do that,’ riposted Devenish. ‘Very unwise. People would always be expecting it of me—most inconvenient. I needed amusement and entertainment this afternoon and you are providing it. I had not thought the countryside so full of incident.’
And that was that. There could be no gainsaying him. He helped Giles to hobble towards his horse, and with Vobster’s assistance they hoisted him on to it, and set off for Lyford House.
Well, he had wanted entertainment and now he had it! What was better still, he could not have hoped for an easier entry to the late Jeremy Faulkner’s home, together with an introduction to his widow. He had not known of the lively young cub’s existence and could not be sure whether the lad’s presence would make his task easier or harder.
As for Mrs Drusilla, she was a pretty young thing with, if he was not mistaken, a graceful figure beneath her Quakeress’s gown. Was she still in mourning for the late Jeremy? Its colour would suggest so. After two long years? Did one then infer an undying love?
Probably, on the evidence of their encounter so far, the lad had all the spirit in the family—and all the character, too. Yes, undying love it must be, of the sentimental sort, ignoring all the flaws which the late Jeremy must have undoubtedly possessed.
Devenish’s cynical musing was taking place whilst he talked nothings to the unworldly Miss Cordelia Faulkner. His hostess had insisted on seeing her brother to his room and sending for the doctor before she returned to take tea with them.
Drinking tea at an unfashionable hour held no attraction for him—he detested tea at any hour. Coffee was Devenish’s drink, but he was prepared to sacrifice himself for once.
‘Do you intend to stay long in this part of the world, m’lord?’ Miss Faulkner was asking him.
‘Oh, that depends,’ he answered, ‘on whether I find anything on which to fix an interest—or to entertain me. Now this afternoon I was provided with a great deal. To be nearly run down by a riderless horse, to avoid by inches trampling a lively youth to death, followed by meeting a charming widow—now that is a series of situations for a novel, do admit. Particularly since myself, horse, youth, and lady, are still alive and well.’
Miss Faulkner beamed at him. He was not in the least like his reputation. Such easy charm! Such grace! It was fortunate that mind-reading was not her game, for what Devenish was saying and what he was thinking bore no relationship to one another.
‘I believe that your adventures this afternoon resembled those in the novels of Miss Jane Austen rather than the Gothic delights of Mrs Radcliffe. No murders, no haunted abbeys, mysterious monks or dangerous crypts,’ she announced gaily.
Devenish forbore to point out to her that the former owner of Lyford House itself had been involved in one mysterious death. Tact must be used here, particularly since Mrs Faulkner, followed by the tea board, was now with them again.
He rose and bowed. Drusilla noted distractedly that his clothing was as perfect as his face and body. She had always assumed that a man nicknamed ‘the Devil’ must be dark and dour and dressed to match.
Nothing of the sort. The only thing about him which lived up to his name was his conversation, if the manner in which he had spoken to Giles was typical of it.
‘I trust that Master Giles is beginning to recover from his accident,’ he offered her.
‘Master Giles,’ returned Drusilla cheerfully, ‘is behaving as he always does—as though he hasn’t a care in the world. I am beginning to ask myself what would distress him.’
Devenish’s smile was almost a grin. ‘Better that way, surely, than a lad who always makes the worst of things.’
‘Oh, indeed. He was distressed, I must admit, by my husband’s death—but then he and Jeremy always dealt famously together. Not many men would have cheerfully given their wife’s crippled young brother a home—and made a friend of him.’
‘I had not,’ Devenish lied smoothly, ‘been informed of your husband’s death. I regret that I was never kept up to the mark with local news. As you know, this is my first visit to Tresham in ten years. I trust that it was not a lingering illness.’
He saw her face change and added hastily, ‘Pray ignore my question if it distresses you.’
‘Not at all. It is two years since my poor Jeremy was found dead at some distance from his home. As to how and why he came to his end I suppose I shall never now know. You may imagine that at the time I was greatly distressed, but I have come to terms with it, if slowly.’
‘A mystery, then.’
‘Oh, indeed. The Lord Lieutenant came to see me, to assure me that everything in his power would be done to find the wretch—or wretches—who killed him. Alas, he wrote to me recently telling me that he regretted his failure to track them down.’
Drusilla was calm. Until very recently she would have found difficulty in speaking of Jeremy’s dreadful end. She noted that Devenish’s response to her was as coldly practical as his question about Giles’s damaged leg had been.
‘I commiserate with you, madam. You must miss him greatly.’
‘Yes, we were childhood friends, and our life was happy, but pining for him will not bring him back.’ The gaze she gave him was a frank one—which, like his, did not match her thoughts. She could never forget that last six months, never.
Devenish nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, you are right there. Common-sense is always better than sentimentality. In the end, one has to come to terms with the discomforts of living.’
Drusilla nodded in her turn, and conversation died for a moment while Miss Faulkner, who had taken charge of the tea board, offered everyone more tea and muffins.
‘Do you intend to settle in Surrey?’ Drusilla asked him when tea had been poured and muffins refused, more to turn discussion away from Jeremy’s death, she told herself, than to discover m’lord’s intentions. In thinking this she lied to herself a little. Lord Devenish intrigued her. He was so unlike Jeremy, or, indeed, most of the men she knew.
It was not only his looks which fascinated her, but his barbed remarks, so carelessly tossed at his hearers. Even so, little about him appeared to justify his fearsome reputation.
She
