Diana stared at him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

He resembled nothing so much as the statue of Apollo that Jeremy’s father had brought from Greece. His hair, cut short in the latest fashion, was golden and slightly curling. His eyes were as blue as the sunlit sea and his mouth was long and shapely. He gave off an aura of cold strength and assured masculinity, which was reflected in a voice so hard and measured that it shocked Drusilla into silence.

Giles struggled upright and said indignantly, “Who the devil are you, anyway?”

The stranger laughed and rose. “You might say the devil himself if you wished. But I would prefer you to call me Devenish.”

The Devil and Drusilla

Harlequin® Historical

PAULA MARSHALL

Married with three children, Paula Marshall has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a Polytechnic. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach and has appeared on British television in University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.

The Devil and Drusilla
PAULA MARSHALL

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Available from Harlequin®Historical and PAULA MARSHALL

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

‘It’s true what they say about you, you have no heart at all, Devenish. None. They rightly nickname you devilish. You fleeced that poor boy at Watier’s last night as cold-bloodedly as though you were shearing a sheep!’

The subject of this tirade, Henry Devenish, Fourth Earl of Devenish and Innescourt, raised his fine black brows and said in a voice indicating total indifference, ‘The boy of whom you speak is twenty-two years old. He was gambling with money which he does not possess and he needed to learn a quick lesson before he became a gambling wastrel for life.’

‘But did you need to ruin him? I had thought better of you, Devenish.’

‘Oh, never do that, George. Most unwise. You should know by now that I have no better self.’

George Hampden, who sometimes (wrongly) thought that he was Devenish’s only friend in the world, gazed at his distant cousin hoping to see some softening in his coldly handsome face. He found none. Devenish might have the golden good looks of an archangel in a Renaissance painting, but they were those of an avenging one, all mercy lacking.

‘So you intend to call in his IOUs. Including the last one when he bet the family home—and lost.’

‘He took that risk, not I.’ Devenish’s tone was almost indifferent.

‘And if you can ruin someone so easily, do you expect me still to remain your friend?’

‘I never expect anything of anyone, least of all one of my relatives. And the choice is, of course, yours, not mine.’

How to move him? George said impulsively, ‘I don’t believe that even you will do such a thing. You don’t need the lad’s money, he’s not your enemy—’

‘And it’s not your business what I do with my winnings—or how I gained them. Forgive me if I decline to pursue this matter further. I am due at the Lords this afternoon: they are debating this matter of the Midlands frame-breakers and I mean to put my oar in.’

George sank into the nearest chair. They were in the library at Innescourt House, off Piccadilly. It was a noble room, lined not only with books, but also with beautifully framed naval maps. An earlier Devenish had been a sailor before he had inherited the title.

His great-grandson was standing before a massive oak desk on which lay the pile of IOUs which young Jack Allinson had scrawled the night before.

‘I shall never understand you, Devenish, never. How you can be so heartless to that poor lad and in the next breath dash off to the Lords to speak on behalf of a pack of murdering Luddites is beyond me.’

‘Then don’t try, dear fellow. Much better not. You’ll only give yourself the megrims. Come to the Lords with me, instead, and enjoy the cut and thrust of debate.’

‘Sorry, Devenish, I’ve had my fill of cut and thrust with you today. I’ll see you at the Leominsters this evening, I suppose. They say that the Banbury beauty will be there. The on dit is that she’s about to accept young Orville. Everyone thought that you were ready to make her a Countess yourself.’

Devenish laughed. He picked up the pile of IOUs and riffled carelessly through them before he spoke.

‘Never believe on dits about me, George, they are invariably wrong. Besides, I could never marry a woman who has no conversation, and the Beauty is singularly lacking in that. Unfortunately in my experience the beauties have no conversation, and the conversationalists have no beauty, so I suppose that I am doomed to bachelorhood.’

‘My experience, too,’ returned George gloomily. ‘Look, Devenish,’ he added as he turned to leave, ‘you will think of what I said about young Allinson, won’t you? It cannot profit you to ruin him: your reputation is bad enough already without his committing suicide. He was threatening to shoot himself after you had left this morning.’

‘Oh, as to that,’ riposted Devenish, raising one quizzical eyebrow, ‘it is also my experience that those who talk loudly and dramatically in public of such an extreme measure rarely put it into practice. No, he’ll go and get drunk first and when his head’s cleared he’ll visit me to beg for mercy.’

‘Which you will grant him?’ said George eagerly.

‘Who knows? It depends on whether my chef is on form at dinner that day. I really do have more to do than think about young Allinson, you know. My speech, for instance. Do be off with you, George. Go and visit the Turkish baths or lose a few hundred yourself somewhere.’

‘Oh, I never gamble.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s a weakness of yours not to have any weaknesses!’

George’s shout of ‘Devenish, you’re impossible,’ floated through the double doors as he left.

Devenish raised his eyebrows again and laughed. However much he grumbled, George would be back again to reproach and chivvy him. He threw the IOUs on to his desk, and debated whether to send for his secretary, Thorpe.

At least he wouldn’t have the impudence to complain about his non-existent moral sense as George always did. He noted idly that Thorpe had been in earlier and had left a small pile of correspondence on his desk for him to deal with.

Devenish picked up the first letter. It was from his agent, Robert Stammers, who ran Tresham Hall, on the edge of Tresham Magna village in Surrey, and the estate around it. He had never been back there since he had succeeded to the title ten years earlier when he had just turned twenty-three. He had preferred to go instead on a belated Grand Tour of Europe, even though Great Britain was in the middle of the war against Napoleon.

Robert had accompanied him as his secretary, and twice a year he visited Innescourt House as a favoured guest, somewhat to George Hampden’s bemusement.

That the Grand Tour had turned into something more exciting and important was known to few—and certainly not to George. Even after that, when he had returned to England Devenish had never revisited Tresham Hall: it held too many memories which he had no wish to awaken.

And now Robert was urging him to go there. ‘Your presence is needed at Tresham, m’lord,’ he had written, ‘and for more reasons than I care to commit to paper.’

Now that was a remarkable statement from an underling, was it not? Calculated to rouse a man’s curiosity—which was doubtless why Robert had so worded it! If anyone else had written him such a letter Devenish would have dismissed it, but he had appointed Robert to be his agent because he had the best of reasons to trust him.

Devenish sighed. He sighed because Robert was one of the few people in the world who had a right to make a claim on him, so he must agree to what Robert wished. He did not call Thorpe in to dictate the letter to him but began to write it himself.

‘Damn you, Rob,’ he began without preamble. ‘You, of all people, must understand how little I wish to return to Tresham and therefore I have to agree to what you ask, if only because, knowing you, I must believe that you have good reasons for making such a request of me—’

He got no further. There was the sound of voices in the corridor outside, the door was flung open, and Tresidder, his butler, entered, but not in his usual decorous fashion. He was being pushed in backwards by, of all people, young Allinson. He was not only shouting in Tresidder’s face but was also threatening him with a pistol.

‘M’lord,’ gasped Tresidder, made voluble by fright, ‘I dare not stop him. He insisted on seeing you, even when I told him that you had given orders not to be disturbed, and then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me with it if I did not do as he wished.’

‘Quite right,’ raved Allinson, releasing him. ‘And now I am here, you may go.’ He waved his pistol at Devenish who had risen, had walked round his desk and was advancing on him.

‘Tell him to leave us, damn you, Devenish. My quarrel is with you, not with him. And if you come a step further I’ll shoot you.’

Devenish retreated and leaned back against the desk, his arms folded, the picture of undisturbed indolence.

‘Yes, do leave us, Tresidder,’ he drawled. ‘I am sure that you have no wish to take part in this unseemly farce which Allinson thinks is a tragedy! Really, you young fool, you should be writing this fustian for Drury Lane, not trying to live it!’

‘Damn you, Devenish,’ shrieked Allinson, waving the pistol dangerously about. ‘First you ruin me, and then you mock me. I came here to make you give me back my IOUs, but I’ve a mind to kill you out of hand if you don’t mend your manners to me! You’ve ruined me, so I’ve nothing to lose.’

If he had thought to frighten the man before him by threatening his life, he was much mistaken. However dangerous the situation in which he found himself, Devenish was determined not to allow the young fool to intimidate him.

‘Oh, I might take you seriously, Allinson, if you were prepared to admit that you ruined yourself. Do stop waving that firearm about. Did no one ever teach you that it’s bad form to point a loaded pistol at people? I suppose it is loaded—or did you forget before you embarked on these histrionics?’

Devenish’s insults set Allinson choking with rage. He recovered himself with difficulty and ground out, ‘Of course it’s loaded—something you’d do well to remember. So, do as I ask, hand over my IOUs and I’ll not shoot you, although it’s all you deserve—’

‘Oh, very well. Anything to oblige a man who’s threatening my life. I’ve no desire to bleed to death on my best Persian carpet. It came from Constantinople, you know. It’s supposed to be nearly five hundred years old. My heir—God knows who he might be, I’ve never taken the trouble to find out—wouldn’t like it to be ruined,’ Devenish remarked chattily, making no move to do as he was bid. ‘It’s one of the house’s greatest treasures, you know.’

His frivolity nearly had Allinson gibbering. ‘Stow that nonsense at once, and give me my IOUs. I mean it.’

Still waving his pistol about, he advanced on his enemy until they were almost face to face.

Devenish said with a weary smile, which merely served to enrage Allinson the more, ‘Bound and determined to swing for me, are you?’

To which Allinson made no answer: only bared his teeth at him, and waved the pistol about threateningly.

‘Oh, very well,’ Devenish drawled, ‘I see that I shall have to oblige you. Needs must—if only to save the carpet.’

He slowly turned toward his desk as if to pick up the IOUs lying there. And then, like lightning—or a snake striking—he swung round with the heavy glass paperweight he had snatched up in his hand, and struck Allinson full in the face with it before his tormentor could grasp what he was doing.

Startled, and letting out a shriek of pain as he threw his arms up in an instinctive gesture to ward off what had already hit him, young Allinson’s finger tightened on the trigger so that he fired his pistol into the air.

The ball made a neat hole in the face of a bad portrait of the Third Earl which had been hung considerately high.

Between fright and pain Allinson dropped the pistol before falling to his knees, and protecting his damaged face by clasping his hands over it; blood was running from his nose.

Devenish picked up the pistol and laid it carefully on his desk before pulling him roughly to his feet.

‘You incompetent young fool,’ he said, still chatty. ‘You are as inconsiderate as I might have expected. I don’t object to you ruining a damned bad painting, but I don’t want your blood all over the carpet. Here.’

He handed the moaning boy a spotless handkerchief, just as the library door burst open and a posse of footmen entered led by his chief groom, Jowett.

‘A bit slow, lads, weren’t you?’ was his only remark. ‘I might have been cat’s meat by now.’

Jowett, who knew his master, grinned, and said, ‘But you ain’t, m’lord, are you, so all’s well. That ass, Tresidder, beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, was so frightened out of his wits it took some time for him to tell us what was to-do. I see you’ve got things well in hand, as per usual. Send for the Runners to deal with him, shall I?’

‘By no means. A mad doctor to treat him might be more useful. On the other hand, I think you can safely leave this matter to me to clear up. Let me think. Hmm, ah, yes, Mr Allinson discharged his pistol whilst inviting me to admire it. Why call the Runners in for that? Crime, not incompetence, is their game, eh, Allinson?’

‘If you say so, m’lord,’ came in a muffled wail through Devenish’s ruined handkerchief.

‘Oh, I do say so, and more beside when my belated saviours depart. You may go, Jowett. Oh, and take the pistol you will find on my desk with you. I don’t think that Mr Allinson will be needing it again. It’s quite safe. It’s not loaded now.’

‘I know, m’lord.’ Jowett was cheerful. ‘I heard the shot just before we came in. Knowing you, I couldn’t believe that aught was amiss.’

‘Your faith in me is touching—and one day may be unjustified—but not today. Silly boys are fair game for a man of sense.’

Allinson raised his head. His nose had stopped bleeding. He said mournfully, ‘I suppose that you are right to mock me.’

‘No suppose at all. Had you succeeded in killing me, you would have met a nasty end on Tyburn Tree. Had you made me give you back your IOUs, you would have ended up a pariah, gambling debts being debts of honour. Think yourself lucky that all you have to show for your folly is a bloody nose.

‘And do stand up straight instead of cringing like a gaby. I’ve a mind to lecture you, and I want your full attention.’

‘You have it, m’lord. I must have run mad to do what I did. But to lose everything—you understand—’

‘Indeed, not. I am quite unable to understand that I should ever gamble away money which I didn’t possess and a house which I did. As for compounding my folly by threatening to commit murder! No, no, I don’t understand—and nor should you.’

Allinson hung his head. Whether coming to his senses had brought him repentance was hard to tell. He muttered, ‘And after all, I am still ruined. I cannot expect you to show me any mercy now that I have threatened your life.’

Devenish sat down and motioned to Allinson to remain standing. ‘Before you came in enacting a Cheltenham tragedy, or rather, melodrama, one of my more sentimental relatives was begging me to spare you. I was inclined to disoblige him, but on second thoughts it might disoblige him more if I did as he wished. He will not then be able to contrast my vindictive bloody-mindedness with his forgiving virtue!

‘What I am prepared to do is to continue to hold your IOUs—’

Allinson gave a stifled moan. ‘I might have known,’ he muttered.

‘You know nothing for you have not allowed me to finish. You would do well to curb your reckless impetuosity before you become gallows’ meat. Hear me. What I am prepared to do is not to call them in so long as you refrain from gambling in future. Should you begin again I shall not hesitate to ruin you.’

This time Allinson groaned. ‘The sword of Damocles,’ he said at last. He was referring to the old legend in which a sword was held over Damocles’ head, poised to fall, put there by the tyrant he had flattered in order to show him the limitations of life and power.

‘Exactly. I’m charmed to discover that you learned something at Oxford—was it?’

‘You know it was. You seem to know everything.’

‘Enough.’ Devenish rose. ‘Do we have a bargain?’

‘You know we have. You leave me no choice—’

‘No indeed, again. Of course you have a choice—although I take your comment to mean a grudging acceptance of my generous offer.’

‘Generous offer,’ wailed Allinson. ‘You mock me again. I am your prisoner.’

Devenish pounced on Allinson once more. He grabbed hold of him, gripping him by his over-elaborate cravat.

‘Listen to me, you ungrateful young fool. You have, through my leniency, escaped the gallows because otherwise that is where your stupid escapade would have taken you. I offer you freedom and a chance to reform your dissolute life—and you jib at doing so.

‘Answer me! Yes or no, unequivocally?’

‘Yes—if you will stop strangling me,’ Allinson croaked.

‘Unequivocally, I said. Yes, or no?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘And remember what awaits you should you backslide.’

‘I’ll not do that.’ Inspiration struck Allinson. ‘I’ll…I’ll buy a commission, turn soldier—that should keep me out of trouble.’

Devenish gave a short laugh and released him. ‘God help the British Army, then! Now, go. I have letters to write and a speech to rehearse. Oh, and by the way, give Tresidder a guinea from your pocket to make up for the fright which you gave him.’

‘I haven’t got a guinea. My pockets are to let.’

‘Then give him the pin from your cravat instead—and be gone.’

The relieved boy scuttled out of the room, pulling the pin from his cravat as he left. Devenish said aloud to the damaged portrait of his grandfather, ‘God forgive me—although you wouldn’t have done—for letting him off. I must be growing soft these days.’

And then he sat down to finish his letter.

He was late arriving at Lady Leominster’s that night. He had written to Robert, naming a date for his arrival at Tresham—‘and God help you if you have sent for me for nothing,’ he had ended.

His speech in the Lords, asking for clemency and help for the starving Midlands framework knitters, who had recently rioted at Loughborough in Leicestershire, had created a great deal of excitement, if nothing else.

‘What interest do you belong to?’ one excited peer had shouted at him. ‘You’re Whig one week, and Tory the next.’

‘None,’ Devenish had shot back. ‘I’m my own man and you’d better not forget it.’

‘A loose cannon, careering round the deck then,’ his neighbour, Lord Granville, had said languidly to him. ‘Hit, miss and to the devil when anyone gets in your way.’

His reward for this shrewd comment was a crack of laughter from Devenish. ‘By God, Granville,’ he had offered, ‘you’d be Prime Minister if you could make a speech half as incisive as your private judgements.’

‘Not a remark anyone would make about you,’ returned Granville, his perfect politeness of delivery robbing his words of their sting. ‘You have no private judgements. Everything you say is for public consumption. So far as that goes, you’re the most honest man in the two Houses.’

Remembering this interchange, Devenish smiled when he saw Granville and his wife across the Leominsters’ ballroom, talking to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth. Some devil in him, which desired confrontation today, had him walking over to them.

Sidmouth’s response to him was all that he had expected. ‘Ah, here comes the noble advocate for the murdering Luddites I’m busy trying to control! What got into you, Devenish, to have you defending them?’

Devenish had a sudden vision of a mean street in a Northern town where a half-starved boy and his penniless and widowed mother had eked out a poor living.

He repressed it and said, ‘I don’t condone their violence, you know, but I do understand what causes it. Some relief, surely, could be given to those who wish to work, but who are unable to do so.’

‘Not Jacobin tendencies then, eh, Devenish? No feeling for revolution?’ Sidmouth said this quietly. He was a mild man. ‘No, don’t answer me, I know that on the whole you are more like friend Granville here and favour moderate and gradual change.’

He paused, ‘Perhaps Lord and Lady Granville, you will forgive us both. Devenish is well met. I have need of a private and quiet word with him. You will both excuse us, I trust.’

The Granvilles assured him that they would. Sidmouth led Devenish into an ante-room and shut its double doors behind them. Without preamble he said, ‘Do you intend to visit Tresham in the near future?’

Devenish said, ‘I have thought of doing so, yes. It’s years since I was there. My agent reproaches me every month for my absence, so I have arranged to go as soon as the House rises.’

‘Yes, you take your duties seriously. As I take mine. I ask you because something odd has been happening there recently. The Lord Lieutenant of Surrey has brought to my notice that over the last few years two men, one a person of quality, have disappeared. The gentleman was later found murdered. Several women of the lower orders have also disappeared—one as recently as a month ago. No reason has been found for their disappearance, and apart from that of the gentleman, not one of their bodies has been recovered. He would like an enquiry made.

‘Now, I have the hands of myself—and the few men I have at my disposal—overfull with this business of controlling radical revolution, to say nothing of Luddite discontent. I was speaking to an old friend of mine—Wellington, to be exact—and he told me that he has reason to believe that you are a sound man in a crisis involving danger. That being so I would ask you—discreetly, mind—to investigate this sorry business and report back to me should you find anything of moment.’

Devenish’s first thought was of Robert’s mysterious letter. He said nothing, however, other than, ‘I think that the Duke overestimates my abilities, but I will do as you ask. As a stranger to the district it will not seem odd if I ask questions about it. I take it that that is all the information you have. Has no other landowner raised the matter?’

‘Yes, Leander Harrington, the eccentric fellow who lives at Marsham Abbey, alerted the Lord Lieutenant about the second man who disappeared. It was his valet, and although he had no reason to believe that foul play was involved, he had given no warning of his imminent departure. On the other hand his clothes and possessions had gone, which seemed to indicate that he had left of his own free will.’

‘As a matter of interest, have you any information about the murdered gentleman?’

‘Yes, indeed. He was Jeremy Faulkner of Lyford, a young man of substance. He was found dead in a wood some miles from his home. His body had been brutally savaged by an animal, it was thought, although whether before or after death was not known. His widow, Mrs Drusilla Faulkner, the late Godfrey Stone of Stone Court’s daughter, had reported him missing at the beginning of the previous week.’

‘And Lyford House is less than a mile from my seat at Tresham. I see why you thought of me.’

‘Coupled with what Wellington hinted, yes.’

Well, at least it would help to pass the time at Tresham—and perhaps serve to subdue his unwanted memories.

‘I can’t promise success,’ Devenish said slowly, ‘but I’ll do my best.’

‘Excellent, I shall be able to reassure the Lord Lieutenant that I am taking him seriously—although I shall not tell him who my emissary is. The fewer people who know, the better. This business might be more dangerous than it appears.’

Sidmouth paused. ‘You’re a good fellow,’ he added warmly. ‘I felt sure that you would oblige me.’

‘Despite my reputation for never obliging anyone.’ Devenish began to laugh. ‘At least it will enliven a few dull weeks.’

Later he was to look back on that last remark and at the light-hearted fool who had made it, but at the time he walked back to the ballroom to congratulate Lord Orville on having won his beauty.

Chapter Two

‘Isn’t it time, Drusilla, my love, that you left off wearing your widow’s weeds? Jeremy has been gone for over two years now, and I don’t believe that he would approve of your hiding yourself away from the world, either.’

Miss Cordelia Faulkner looked anxiously at her nephew’s widow. She did not wish to distress her, but she thought that the time had come for something to be said.

‘Dear aunt,’ said Drusilla, looking up from her canvaswork, ‘I am scarcely wearing widow’s weeds. I have always chosen to dress modestly, and to live in like fashion, and I have certainly not hidden myself away from the world. I live a busy life locally, and only this week I have arranged with the parson of Tresham Magna that his annual fête to raise money for the poor children of the parish will be held in our gardens.’

‘I expressed myself badly. I should have said the polite world. You ought to marry again, my love, not spend your life pining for my poor, dead nephew, and where better would you find a husband than in London?’

How to answer that? Drusilla looked away and caught a glimpse of herself in the long Venetian glass which hung on the other side of the room.

She saw a composed young woman in her very early twenties, dressed in a high-waisted gown of pale mauve, the colour allowed to a widow during her second year of mourning—a year which was now over. Her glossy curls were dressed on top of her head, one ringlet falling round a swan-like neck. Her eyes were the soft grey of clear water and her complexion was creamy, with only the faintest blush of pink.

Jeremy had always called her lips kissable—and he had often kissed them during the two years of her marriage. No, that was not correct, Drusilla reminded herself sadly, for eighteen months only. He had barely touched them, or her, during their last six months together.

It was the memory of those last sad months which helped to keep her in thrall to him. What had gone wrong with their marriage that he had absented himself from her not only bodily, but mentally? What had changed him from a carefree laughing boy to a brooding man? Was it something which she had unwittingly said or done?

Drusilla returned to the present with a start. Miss Faulkner was staring at her. She put her work down. ‘I’m sorry, aunt, I was wool-gathering. But you already know that the polite world does not interest me, and I have no intention of marrying again.’

‘So you say now,’ remarked Miss Faulkner shrewdly. ‘Later, you will surely change your mind.’

She sat down opposite Drusilla and said, her voice a trifle sad, ‘I cannot recommend the single state, my dear. When I was young and foolish I turned down a man of solid worth because he was not romantic enough for me—my head was stuffed with cobwebs.

‘By the time I realised that I was neither pretty enough—nor rich enough—to catch the handsome young fellow I thought I loved, and would have settled for solid worth, he had found another bride. And I, I never found anyone else who wished to make me his wife, and I led a lonely life until Jeremy kindly asked me to be your attendant when you married him. Do not reserve my sad state for yourself. You are younger, prettier and richer than I ever was. Find a good man and marry him.’

Picking up her canvaswork again, Drusilla told Jeremy’s aunt what she had never thought to tell anyone. ‘This time I would wish to marry for love. Oh, don’t mistake me, my parents arranged our marriage and I was happy with Jeremy.’

Until the last six months, said her treacherous memory.

Repressing it, she continued, ‘I’m not hoping for a grand passion, just a homely love. The kind of love my parents shared. What Jeremy and I had was friendship. I may be foolish, and I may have to settle for less again, but not yet, please.’

‘Very well, my dear, so long as you don’t wait too long—or settle for a fortune hunter.’

‘Oh, I shall ask for your advice if one arrives. Would you forgive me if I settled for one who was young, handsome—and kind?’

Miss Faulkner smiled. ‘Ah, you mean like Miss Rebecca Rowallan’s Will Shafto, I suppose. There are not many of those on offer, I fear.’

Further conversation was stopped by an agitated rapping on the door, and the entry of Vobster, Drusilla’s chief groom.

‘Yes, what is it, Vobster?’

‘It’s Master Giles, ma’am. He’s trying to persuade me and Green to allow him to ride Brandy instead of Dapple. I fear that, unless you have a word with him, he won’t take no for an answer.’

Drusilla rose, shocked, her face paling. Behind her Miss Faulkner was making distressed noises. Giles was Drusilla’s eighteen-year-old brother, who had a badly crippled leg as the result of a strange childhood illness which had kept him bedridden for months.

Dapple was a mild and well-behaved nag whom the doctor had reluctantly given him permission to ride, but Brandy was quite a different matter. He was the most high-spirited horse in the Faulkners’ small stable.

‘I’ll come at once,’ she said quickly. ‘We can’t have him trying to ride Brandy.’

‘And so I said, but he wouldn’t be told.’

‘Well, he’ll listen to me, I hope. I don’t wish to ban him from riding at all, for I believe that it keeps him well and happy, but we can’t have him risking his neck on fliers like Brandy.’

She arrived in the stable yard to find that Giles had finally persuaded Green to allow him to mount Brandy, by promising that he would not ride him, but would allow Green to hold him steady in the stable yard.

‘I should so like to sit on a real horse for once,’ he had said pathetically, ‘instead of that rocking chair which is all Dru will allow me.’

‘And rightly so, Master Giles, for you have not the strength to control Brandy. It was all Mr Jeremy could do to hold him.’

Giles knew that Drusilla did not wish to sell Brandy, although she could not ride him, because it would mean that her happiest memories of her husband would have disappeared with him.

He looked proudly down at his sister. ‘See how well I sit on him, Dru,’ he said. ‘Pray allow me to ride him—if only for a few yards.’

Drusilla looked sadly at Giles. On horseback he appeared to be a handsome and well-built boy for his withered leg was hidden by his breeches and his spotless boots. She also saw a masculine version of her own face. Parson Williams had nicknamed them Sebastian and Viola, the beautiful brother and sister in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, who were so alike that in boy’s clothes they could be mistaken for one another.

‘You know very well that you cannot do that. It is against the rules which the doctor insisted on for your own safety.’

‘Oh, pooh to him! My arms are strong enough for me to control any horse. I refuse to be namby-pambied any more. At least allow Vobster and Green to walk me on him for a short distance. You may watch me and see how well I do.’

He looked down at her, his face on fire. Drusilla knew how much he resented not being like other boys, particularly since it was plain that if his leg had been normal he would have had the physique of an athlete.

‘Very well,’ she said, relenting, ‘but you must promise to be good.’

His smile was dazzling. ‘Oh, I am always good, Dru! You know that.’

‘No such thing,’ she told him ruefully, but gave Green and Vobster permission to lead him and Brandy out of the yard and on to the track which led out of Lyford House to join a byway which led to Tresham Magna. Vobster was shaking his head a little because she had, as usual, given way to headstrong Master Giles and nothing good would come of that.

He was right. For the first hundred yards Giles behaved himself, trotting along equably, with Brandy showing his annoyance at being curbed by tossing his head and snorting. One of the stable lads, Jackson, mounted on Drusilla’s own horse Hereward, accompanied them. Drusilla herself, despite wearing only light kid sandals, brought up the rear.

The path was firm and dry and the July sun shone down on them. From a distance they would have made a suitably charming scene for the late animal painter, George Stubbs, to celebrate.

And then, as Drusilla afterwards mourned to Miss Faulkner, Giles had to spoil it. Without giving any warning of what he was about to do, he put spurs to Brandy who, nothing loath, reared his haughty head, and set off as though he were about to charge into battle or win the Derby.

Green let go of his leading rein immediately. Vobster, more determined, hung on a little by one hand before prudence had him follow suit, lest he be injured. Jackson, urged on by the horrified Drusilla, tore after Giles in hot pursuit, for it was plain that the delighted Brandy, given his head, was going to be too much for his rider to control.

As though to demonstrate that he was in charge, Brandy immediately left the path, and charged across country towards Tresham Hall until he came to a tall hedge which he promptly jumped. Jackson followed suit, whilst Drusilla, Green and Vobster panted along behind them, delayed by having to push their way through a gap in the hedge.

Once through they saw that Hereward had unshipped his rider, but that Brandy had not, although Giles was slipping sideways in the saddle. Only his courage and his abnormally strong arms were preventing him from following Jackson’s example as Brandy made for the next hedge.

But not for long. A final lurch to the right by wilful Brandy had him out of the saddle, too. Unencumbered by Giles’s weight, Brandy tore madly on towards another horseman who had jumped the hedge from the other side and who only avoided being struck by the oncoming Brandy by swerving sharply.

He then had to swerve sharply again to prevent himself from trampling on the prostrate Giles—which manoeuvre almost had his own horse unshipping him! The happy Brandy, meanwhile, was bolting into the far distance.

Drusilla opened her eyes, which she had closed after Giles’s fall and Brandy’s near accident, to see that the new horseman had stopped, flung his reins to a drop-jawed Vobster, who had outpaced herself and Green, and was running towards Giles who was trying to sit up.

‘No, don’t,’ said the stranger sharply, falling on to his knees beside the dazed boy and beginning to feel his arms and legs to check whether any bones were broken.

He had just discovered Giles’s withered leg when Drusilla arrived—Green had gone to try to catch Hereward so that he might pursue Brandy, whilst Jackson was limping homewards.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ gasped Drusilla who had not run so far or so fast since she had been a hoydenish young girl.

The stranger looked up at her. ‘Apparently not—and no thanks to the fools who let him ride a half-broken horse. You were lucky that he didn’t kill himself.’

Drusilla could not help herself. She stared at him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He resembled nothing so much as the statue of Apollo which Jeremy’s father had brought from Greece. His hair, cut short in the latest fashion, was golden, and slightly curling. His eyes were as blue as the sunlit sea and his mouth was long and shapely: but for all his classic beauty there was nothing feminine about him.

On the contrary, he gave off an aura of cold strength and assured masculinity which was reflected in a voice so hard and measured that it shocked Drusilla into silence.

Not so Giles. He struggled upright and said indignantly, ‘You go too fast, sir. And you’re not to talk to my sister like that. My accident wasn’t her fault, it was mine. I was stupidly disobedient and paid the price for it—and who the devil are you, anyway?’

The stranger laughed and rose. ‘You might say the devil himself if you wished. But I would prefer you to call me Devenish. I apologise to your sister—and in the name of all that is holy, who are you, anyway?’

Brother and sister both stared at him. Giles croaked, ‘Forgive me, m’lord, I had no notion that you were staying at Tresham, or I should not have been so short. I am Giles Stone, and this is my sister Drusilla Faulkner, the widow of the late owner of Lyford House.’

‘Are you, indeed! If you were my young brother and responsible for riding a horse you couldn’t control then I would think up a suitable punishment for you. I trust your sister will do the same.’

‘But you ain’t,’ retorted Giles, struggling to his feet, to be helped by Devenish when he saw the lad’s determination. ‘And it’s up to her to decide on my punishment, not you. Ain’t it, Dru?’

‘Ah, a youth of spirit,’ drawled Devenish. ‘How came you by that leg, anyway? Were you born with it?’

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 must have been staring mannerlessly at him, for he was smiling quizzically at her over the rim of his teacup.

Drusilla realised with a start that he had just replied to her question—and she had not heard him!

What was worse, he knew that she had not. She flushed.

He saw the flush and said gently, ‘I collect that you did not quite grasp what I said. My intentions—like my recent answer—are vague. They depend on whether country living bores me—I have experienced so little of it, you understand, that I have no means of knowing whether it will please me or not. I am an urban creature, the town has always been my home, and I have yet to discover the delights of rural living so far as its scenery and its social life are concerned.’

He was talking to put her at ease again, something which surprised the cynical creature Devenish knew himself to be. She was a most unremarkable young woman, so why was he troubling himself with her? Normally he would have carelessly offered her a put down to punish her for her inattention—instead, of all things, he was trying to be kind by restoring her amour-propre!

To reward him for his consideration Drusilla offered eagerly, ‘If you wish to see the countryside at its best, there are some picturesque views from the hills near Tresham Hall. And Miss Faulkner and I can offer you a splendid social occasion on Saturday.

‘We are opening the grounds of Lyford House so that the incumbent of Tresham Magna church, Mr Williams, can organise his annual fête to raise money for the poor children of the parish. Your presence would add lustre to the occasion.’

Devenish rose and bowed. ‘How could I refuse such a charming offer! Of course, I will attend. And you will, I am sure, inform Mr Williams that I shall be pleased to forward him a large donation. His cause is a worthy one.’

He was ironically sure that all his London associates—he told himself that he had no friends—would have been astonished to learn of his generosity since he usually mocked those who salved their consciences by giving large sums to charity. What they could not know was that she had named the one cause to which he always secretly gave: the relief of poor children.

Unaware of this, Drusilla murmured her thanks. He bowed again, saying ‘Forgive me, ladies, if I leave you now. My agent will be in a rare taking if I do not return home soon. I told him that I would be gone for a short time—and now I have spent the whole afternoon away.

‘He will be sending out search parties to find me for he is convinced that, though I may survive in dangerous London town, I shall be quite lost in the innocent countryside!’

The smile which he gave them at the end quite overset the pair of them. It transformed his face, turning it from a cold and stony beauty, like that of a statue, into something attractively human.

Seeing it, Drusilla experienced a totally new sensation. Her whole body thrilled so strongly that she became completely aware of every part of it. For the second time that afternoon she scarcely knew where she was.

Miss Faulkner’s heart missed a beat. What a delightful man! She knew of his nickname and his reputation, but her immediate response was, Oh, what a Banbury tale! Such a charmer as he is could not possibly be the man of whom I have heard.

And so she told Drusilla when he had left them. ‘You do know, my dear, that his nickname is Devilish, and that he is sometimes called Satan. He is supposed to be as hard as nails, and to have the tongue of a viper. As usual, I have to believe that, yet again, rumour lies.’

‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ remarked Drusilla as coolly as she could in an effort to reprove herself for her strong reaction to him.

She paused a moment before resuming. ‘We know little of Lord Devenish other than that he is a charming and considerate person to entertain to tea and muffins. We can scarcely judge of him correctly on such a slight acquaintance.’

‘Oh, you are always so commonsensical, my love. For once allow your feelings rather than your reason to command you.’

Drusilla could not retort that to give way to her feelings might be most unwise where Lord Devenish was concerned—it would be too dangerous—so she wisely said nothing.

‘Forgive me, Rob, if I dashed away as soon as I arrived, but driving in a closed carriage, even for a short distance, always gives me the megrims. I needed to be out—and I was happy to be so. Particularly since I happened across a most charming local family, all bread-and-butter innocence—Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and her young brother, Giles. It was the lad’s misfortune to fall from his horse. Assisting them made me late for my meeting with you’

‘Now, you are not to sneer at them, Hal. They are all that you criticise them for being, and to know them would do your black heart good!’

‘If my black heart were susceptible to tea, muffins and a spinster lady, as well as the brother and sister, then you might be right,’ drawled Devenish, pulling a chair round and sitting astride its seat. ‘Now, pray inform me what has been all a-bubble here that you send for me so peremptorily.’

He made nothing of being called Hal. It had been his childhood name and the only person in the world allowed to use it was square, solid and dependable Robert Stammers who was examining him so quizzically.

‘Before I begin to do so I would wish you to allow one of your labourers, Caleb Hooby, to speak to you on a matter related to the misgivings which had me ordering you to do your duty here at last.’

‘Reproaches, reproaches, Rob, they are all I ever hear from you, but, yes, send him in. I suppose that he has a story to tell?’

‘That he has, and I would prefer him to tell it to you.’

‘Very well, and I had best sit behind your desk, looking as solemn as befits the Lord of All visiting the peasantry both high and low.’

Caleb Hooby proved to be a middle-aged man, decently dressed and nervously turning an old-fashioned brown wide-brimmed hat in his hands.

‘Most kind of you to allow me to speak to you, m’lord, most kind.’

Devenish waved his hand. ‘No matter, pray begin.’

‘It’s this, m’lord. See, I have a daughter Kate, a pretty child, but naughty, just turned sixteen. A sennight since she disappeared late one afternoon. She told her mam that she was off to walk with a neighbour’s girl, Ruth Baker, and would not be long. Not long, she said, m’lord, not long, but she never came back, and Ruth said as how she never met our Kate, nor had arranged to meet her.

‘Not hide nor hair of her has ever been seen since. I feared that she had run away. She had been a wild thing this last few months, and would not be checked. I thrashed her the day before for not helping her mam with the little ‘uns as she should, and mayhap that caused her to leave us. Her mam found that her few bits of clothes had gone, too. One of the labourers on Master Harrington’s estate said that he had seen a lass like her waiting at the crossroads where the London coach picks up passengers.

‘And then, this morning, her mam found her little box of treasures still in the cupboard in the room she shares with the little ‘uns. And when she opened it, it was full of her little bits and pieces, as well as the few pence she saved to buy trinkets for herself and the little ‘uns when the pedlar came round. But what worried us was, why did she leave the money behind if she were going to London? And where got she this, m’lord, as I shall now show you.’

Silent before the man’s anguish, Devenish watched him fumble in his breeches pocket, before he added, ‘And why should she leave such a valuable thing—and her savings—behind if she was off to London to make her fortune? For that was a jest of hers in happier days.’

So saying, he drew from his pocket something that shone and glittered in the bright afternoon sun, which filled the room, and laid it on the desk before Devenish.

Devenish picked it up. It was a necklace of thin fine gold, with a small pendant diamond in a delicately beautiful setting. He examined it carefully and handed it to Robert, who gave a low whistle, and said, ‘Is this as valuable as I think it is?’

Devenish did not answer him, but said in a voice quite unlike his usual mocking one, ‘Tell me the truth, Hooby. Have you ever seen this before?’

‘Nay, m’lord. Never. What should a poor fellow like me have to do with such trinkets?’

‘And you never saw your daughter wearing it?’

‘Neither I nor my missis, m’lord. Who would give her such a thing? She was walking out with Geoffrey Larkin until a month or two ago, but she quarrelled with him. She said as how he was a rough fellow, and not for her.’

‘And she had not walked out with anyone since?’

Hooby nodded agreement.

Without warning his face crumpled and tears stood in his eyes. ‘What has she been adoin’ of, m’lord? For Lily, her next sister, allows as how she has been leaving her bed at night and coming home she knows not when, bein’ asleep herself. And now I learn this very day that more’n one maid round here has left her home and not been seen again. I am afeared for her, m’lord, and ask your help.’

‘Which I shall give you, so far as it in me lies. You will leave the necklace with me, for it might help us to discover who gave it to your daughter and why.’

‘Oh, m’lord, I fear I know why she was given it: as payment—which makes me fear the more for her.’

‘Yes. I understand. But until we know more, we can neither fear the worst nor hope for the best. I have only been at Tresham for a few hours, but I shall make it my business to get to the bottom of this. Go home, comfort your wife and pray for good news.’

Robert saw him out and turned to Devenish, who was propping his chin with his hands and staring into space.

‘That did you credit, Hal,’ he said abruptly. ‘Why cannot you always speak so?’

‘What?’ he exclaimed, staring at Robert as though he were returning from a long way away. ‘Oh, you mean how I spoke to Hooby. Few people in this world deserve any compassion, Rob. When they do, I offer it to them. For the rest—’ and he shrugged.

Robert was gloomy. ‘So, your verdict is the same as mine. Some harm has come to her, I fear.’

‘As does poor Hooby. And do you think this business of a disappearing wench is linked with that of the others—or with anything else? I have already learned that Jeremy Faulkner met a strange death.’

He thought it wiser not to admit—even to Robert—his knowledge of the other deaths and his conversation with Lord Sidmouth.

‘As well as several servant girls, two men have disappeared over the last few years—one of them Jeremy Faulkner and the other Harrington’s valet. Complete mystery surrounds the whole business. The numbers are slowly rising and no one seems to be able to discover the reason, and that is why I became uneasy, Hal, and sent for you.’

‘And is Kate Hooby the first of my people to disappear?’

‘As it chances, yes.’

Devenish rose and paced restlessly round the room. ‘If we were living in a Gothic novel written by Mrs Radcliffe or Monk Lewis, we might suspect that a mysterious animal stalks the woods between Tresham and Marsham Abbey seeking and finding prey. But since this is southern England and the only mysterious animal around here is that huge mongrel which you still favour, then we must dismiss that supposition.’

He came to a stop by a map table on which lay a gazetteer of the district.

‘Allow me to refresh my memory of my estates and those which march with them before I speak with you further. I fear that poor Hooby depends on a broken reed if he thinks that I may be able to help him. No matter. On Saturday, Rob, we shall both attend the fête given by Mrs Drusilla Faulkner in the grounds of Lyford House in order to empty our pockets—and keep our ears open.’

He gave a short scornful laugh and said, ‘But I am not hopeful, Rob, not hopeful at all, despite my brave words to that poor fellow.’

Chapter Three

‘How good of you, my dear Mrs Faulkner, to allow your beautiful grounds to be invaded by so many. Even for such a good cause as the poor children of the parish it is most magnanimous of you.’

Mr Williams, the incumbent at Tresham Magna, a portly middle-aged man, beamed kindly at Drusilla and wished that he were twenty years younger and unmarried that he might offer for such a treasure.

He turned to Devenish who had just strolled over to them, Robert walking at his rear, and said, ‘I do not know, m’lord, whether you have had the honour to be presented to our hostess yet, but if not—’

Devenish cut him short. ‘Oh, but we have met already, quite informally, so it is, unfortunately, too late for all the usual niceties, as I am sure Mrs Faulkner will agree.’

Drusilla had already been busily admiring m’lord’s splendour. Beside him everyone looked provincial, or as though they were striving to appear as fine as he did—but had failed. Only Robert in his sensible countryman’s clothing had not sought to compete with his friend and master.

Devenish was turned out so as to emphasise that even an event as small as this was worthy of his full attention. His bottle-green coat, his cream-coloured breeches, his perfect boots, his splendid cravat—a waterfall, no less—and his carefully dressed hair, gave him the air of just having sat either for a portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, or for a fashion plate designed to sell a Bond Street tailor’s wares.

Now she smiled at him and the parson, saying in her quiet, pleasant voice, ‘Since we have met, m’lord, allow me to present to you one of our guests—that is, if you have not already met him informally. I mean Mr Leander Harrington.’

She gestured at that gentleman who had just walked up to them.

‘No, indeed,’ said Devenish languidly, ‘I have not yet had the honour.’

‘No introductions needed,’ interjected Mr Harrington before Drusilla could speak. ‘I do not subscribe to the pantomimes of an outworn society, you understand, Devenish. And since we each know to whom we are speaking, that is enough. We are men together, no more and no less.’

‘Well, we are certainly not women,’ drawled Devenish, ‘so I must agree with you in that, if nothing else. On the other hand, if Mrs Faulkner had not mentioned your name beforehand I would have been reduced to asking my good friend Stammers here who the devil you were!’

Several of the bystanders, previous victims of Mr Harrington’s Radical views, sniggered behind their hands at this put down.

Nothing ever put Leander Harrington down, though. He smiled. ‘Remiss of me, I suppose, not to mention that I am Harrington of Marsham Abbey—for what such titles are worth. I am but a citizen of the great world, and proud to take that name after Earl Stanhope’s great example.’

‘Ah,’ said Devenish, and to Drusilla’s fascination, his drawl was longer than ever, ‘you are, I see, of the Jacobinical persuasion—as Citizen Stanhope was. Pray inform me, sir—as Stanhope, despite his desire to be at one with all men, threw away his title, but retained his estates and his wealth—I suppose that you have followed his example there as well and retained yours?’

Great men, like Devenish, could say what they pleased, Drusilla knew. What she also knew was that she had long considered Leander Harrington to be a fraud, and it was a pleasure to hear him called one so gravely and apparently politely.

Leander, though, was never bested in an argument. He ignored protocol and all the uses of polite society to clap Devenish on the back. ‘Why, Devenish, until the great day comes when we are all equal in every way in the eyes of the law as well as God, I must sacrifice myself and husband what my ancestors have left me so that it may, at the last, be put into the pool for the common good.

‘I bid you do the same, brother Devenish—and cleanse your soul.’

Behind Devenish, Robert made a choking noise. Those before him waited to see what riposte m’lord might make to that. His smile was enigmatic. ‘Since I possess no soul to cleanse, that might be difficult, but I accept your suggestion in the spirit in which it was offered.’

Drusilla heard Miss Faulkner gasp behind her. She found that she had the most overwhelming desire to laugh, but dare not, for the bewildered parson was staring, mumchance, at the patron who had given him his living.

‘You cannot mean that, m’lord,’ he managed at last.

‘At your pleasure, sir, and at both our leisures we must discuss my soul later,’ said Devenish. ‘Here and now is not the time. Mrs Faulkner, I would ask you to be my guide on this fine afternoon.’ He bowed to Leander Harrington and said indifferently, ‘Your servant, sir, and you will excuse us. Later you might care to visit the Hall and we can have a discussion on whatever subject you please.’

‘Oh, very fine,’ said Drusilla softly to Devenish. He had taken her arm and was walking her away. ‘I compliment you, m’lord. Not many men could be as exquisitely rude and as exquisitely polite in two succeeding sentences as you have just been.’

Devenish looked down at her. Demure-looking she might be, but there was much more to her than that. He half thought that she was playing his own game with him by making cutting remarks in a pleasant but indifferent voice.

He briefly considered echoing her comment by saying, Not many women have made half so observant a remark to me, and in such a manner that I am not sure that you actually meant to compliment me.

Instead he merely offered, ‘I trust that your brother has recovered from his fall.’

Drusilla looked up at him. For a moment she had wondered whether he would answer her in his most two-edged fashion. Since he had not, she was as coolly pleasant as he.

‘Oh, very much so. I am fearful of what he might next wish to get up to—and what it might involve me in.’

‘He is present this afternoon, then?’

‘Oh, yes. I had thought that he might have tried to find you before now. He wishes to thank you for coming to his aid so promptly.’

‘But I did very little for him.’

‘Only because there was little to do. The thought was there, m’lord.’

Yes, there was more to her than he might have guessed.

Devenish looked around him at the house standing before them: a handsome, classically styled building in warm stone, a gentleman’s residence, not too large and not too small. Over the front door was a stone shield with a falcon trailing its jesses on it: the Faulkners’, or the Falconers’, punning coat of arms. At the back of the house were three lawns, all at different levels on a slope running down to a wide stream.

Tents and tables had been erected on them. On the top lawn a target had been set up and a group of gaily dressed women were engaged in an archery competition. Their male escorts were standing about, keeping score, and urging them on before they took part themselves later.

‘I must not monopolise you,’ he said, abruptly for him, for his speech was usually measured. ‘You have your duty to do to others.’

‘Oh, m’lord,’ Drusilla spoke softly, but firmly. ‘My biggest duty is to see that you are introduced to most of your neighbours—if you will so allow.’

Oh, yes, he would allow. In the normal course of events he would not have permitted himself to be bored by making the acquaintance of a pack of nobodies, but he had given Sidmouth his word that he would try to discover what was going awry around his home, and he would do his best to be successful. Mrs Faulkner was going to save him the trouble of spending several weeks discovering who was who around Tresham Magna and Minor.

Noblesse oblige then—and perhaps it would do him good not to be selfish for once, and stifle his sharp tongue! As if to aid him in this decision Giles Faulkner hobbled up to him, full of a goodwill which it would be wrong to mock.

‘Dru said that you might honour us with your presence, m’lord, and so you have. Now I may thank you properly for your consideration when I played the fool and received my proper payment by falling off my horse.’

He caught Devenish’s sardonic eye and added ruefully, ‘Oh, I see what you are about to say! That I didn’t receive my proper payment for it because I didn’t break my neck!’

‘Well anticipated,’ offered Devenish, ‘except that I was only thinking it—not about to utter such a home truth aloud.’

This honesty pleased Giles immensely. He smiled and began to pull at Drusilla’s sleeve.

‘I say, Dru,’ he exclaimed, ‘you aren’t going to tire my saviour out by dragging him round to introduce him to all the old bores of the district, are you? Much better if you went in for the archery competition, sir—if you can shoot, that is.’

‘Giles, Giles,’ reproved Drusilla, ‘you mustn’t run on so! Whatever will m’lord make of your manners? And do address him by his proper title. He will think you ignorant of the world’s usages.’ Giles thought this pomposity unworthy of his sister and was about to say so. Devenish forestalled him.

‘Sir will do, my dear Mrs Faulkner. I am m’lorded quite enough as it is. I would be even happier if you were to address me as Devenish. You are my nearest neighbour, after all.’

He had no idea what made him come out with this unheard-of piece of condescension, but was left with no time to theorise as to the origin of it. Drusilla was surprised by it, but had little time to ponder on it because they were rapidly being approached by all those who wished to meet the great man who had avoided meeting them for ten long years.

Devenish knew Parson Williams because he had interviewed him in London when he had granted him his living, but he had never met Williams’s junior fellow at Tresham Minor, George Lawson, having allowed Rob Stammers to make the appointment in his absence.

Lawson was the first to reach Drusilla and he made a low bow to his patron, murmuring, ‘Too great an honour, m’lord, too great,’ when Devenish, remembering his resolution to be pleasant to everyone, said he would be happy to entertain him to dinner in the near future.

He was a handsome young fellow in his mid-twenties, short rather than tall, dark in colouring, with an easy insinuating manner which Devenish instantly, and instinctively, disliked. He disliked most of all the expression on the fellow’s face when he spoke to Drusilla, and the way in which he fawned on her, holding her hand a little too long after she had offered it to him.

He thought the dislike didn’t show, but Drusilla registered it immediately. To her surprise, and much to her shock, she found that she was beginning to read Devenish’s mind.

She smiled a little to herself, when, in swift succession, Devenish made further invitations to dinner to John Squires of Burnside, Peter Clifton of Clifton Manor, and a series of minor gentlemen. When Leander Harrington returned to ask m’lord to dine at the Abbey in the near future, he invited him as well.

‘And you, too, Mrs Faulkner,’ he added, ‘and Master Giles. He is quite old enough at eighteen to join us and it is time he made his entry into the polite world.’

It was a pity, Drusilla thought, that she had always held Mr Harrington in dislike, for he was one of the few men who behaved to Giles as though he were a normally healthy person. For some reason which she could not explain, however, he made her flesh creep.

She would have been astonished to learn that Devenish was—to his surprise—registering her concealed dislike of the man. He thought that it showed her acumen as well as her good taste.

He had not expected to discover anything about the missing men and women on an occasion such as this. He moved about the grounds of Lyford House, being bowed to and responding with his most pleasant smile, his cutting tongue for once not in evidence. He was thinking, not for the first time, of the vast difference in life between the few fortunate men and women who surrounded him, and the vast mass of people at the bottom of the social heap.

Men—and women like the missing girls.

Here food was piled up in plenty on beautifully set tables. Elegantly dressed men and women talked and laughed in the orange light of the late afternoon’s sun.

For the unlucky in their wretched homes a meagre ration was laid out on rough boards in conditions so vile that the workers on his estate would not have housed pigs in them. Their clothes were ragged, and the men and women who wore them were stunted and twisted.

Devenish shivered. He thought of Rob Stammers’s surprise when he had ordered that the cottages on his estate should be rebuilt and the men’s wages increased so that they might live above the near-starvation level which was common in the English countryside.

It was when he was in this dark mood which sometimes visited him at inconvenient times that John Squires approached him and asked diffidently, ‘If I could have a serious word with you for a moment, m’lord, I should be most grateful.’

‘As many serious words as you like,’ he responded. ‘But what troubles you, that you wish to be serious on a fête day?’

Squires coloured. He was a heavyset fellow in early middle age, ruddy of face, a country gentleman who was also a working farmer.

‘It’s this business of the missing wenches, m’lord, but if you prefer not to talk about it here, we could perhaps speak later—’

‘No, speak to me now. I have had one conversation about a missing wench since I arrived in the district, and another will not bore me.’

‘Very well, m’lord,’ and he launched into a lengthy story of the miller’s daughter in Burnside village who had disappeared six months ago.

‘A good girl, her father said, until a few weeks before her disappearance, when she became cheeky and restless, and not hide nor hair of her seen since. Just walked out one evening—and never came home.’

His words echoed those of Hooby. Devenish decided to test him.

‘And why should you—or I—trouble ourselves about missing girls?’

Squires stared at him as though he were an insect, lord though he might be.

‘They are God’s creatures, m’lord, and I have learned this afternoon that others are missing. It troubles me, particularly since one of them, Kate Hooby, was the miller’s daughter’s best friend.’

‘Strange, very strange,’ Devenish remarked, as though he were hearing that there was more than one lost girl for the first time. ‘I share your worries about this. They cannot all have decided to run away to London to make their fortune on the streets.’

John Squires decided that he might have been mistaken in his first judgement of m’lord. ‘Then you will cause an enquiry to be made, m’lord.’

‘Indeed, I shall ask Mr Stammers to make a point of it.’

‘My thanks then. The miller is a good man, and what troubles him must trouble me.’

Devenish watched him walk away, and decided that since the matter had been raised now by two others he might safely speak of it without any suspicions being aroused as to why he was doing so. He looked around for Drusilla and found her immediately. Despite the fact that she was carrying a fat baby boy, he decided to make a beginning.

‘You are encumbered,’ he drawled. ‘Pray sit down, the child is too heavy for you, and sitting will be easier than walking.’

He waved her to one of the stone benches which stood about the lawns, and saw her settled before he sat down beside her.

‘You know,’ Drusilla observed quietly, watching him as she spoke, ‘you are quite the last person, m’lord, whom I would have thought would wish to sit next to a woman holding a baby boy dribbling because he is teething. It only goes to show how mistaken one can be and should teach us all not to jump to over-hasty conclusions!’

‘If you did not look as demure as a Quaker saint, I would think that you were bamming me, Mrs Faulkner.’

‘Oh, dear, no, m’lord, just wondering what you have to say to me that is so urgent that you cannot wait until I shed my burden. And, by the by, do the Quakers have saints? I rather thought that they didn’t.’

Robert, watching them from a little distance while he talked to Miss Faulkner, was surprised to hear Devenish’s shout of laughter and wondered what Mrs Faulkner could have said to cause him to behave so informally.

‘If they didn’t, they ought to have,’ Devenish finally riposted. ‘I never thought that I should have to come into the wilds of the country in order to find a woman who would give me a taste of my own verbal medicine.

‘Let me confess that I do have an ulterior motive in sitting by you. John Squires has just been telling me the surprising story that several of the local wenches have disappeared mysteriously. Have you mislaid any? Or is the Faulkner estate so considerately managed that no one from it has absconded to London to make their fortune?’

‘Now, m’lord,’ responded Drusilla seriously, wiping the little boy’s dribbling mouth with her lace-edged linen handkerchief, ‘this is not a matter for levity. The parents of the girls are most distressed, and no, none of my people has disappeared.’

‘I stand corrected, or rather, I sit so. I see by your reply that I must take this matter seriously. Does that child have an endless supply of water in his mouth? Both you and he will be wet through if he continues to dribble at this rate.’

As though he knew that Devenish was referring to him, the little boy leaned forward, put out a wet and sticky hand, and ran it down the lapel of his beautiful coat before either he or Drusilla could stop him.

‘Oh, dear!’ Drusilla pulled him back with one hand and put the other over her mouth. ‘I should never have consented to sit by you whilst I held Jackie. He is quite the liveliest child in the Milners’ family, and I have been looking after him to give his poor mama a little rest.’

And then, without having meant to, quite the contrary, she began to laugh as Devenish fished out his beautiful handkerchief and started to repair the damage, his face an impassive mask—although his mouth twitched a little.

‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but, oh, dear—your face.’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said Devenish agreeably. ‘But then, as you have just rightly pointed out, I am responsible for my ruined coat by having first waylaid you and then allowed you both to sit by me. You do realise that he’s about to be sick all down you at any moment?’

‘No!’ Drusilla leapt to her feet and, quite instinctively, thrust Jackie at Devenish so that she might begin to mop herself.

Devenish didn’t need to mop himself because, having caught Jackie, he dextrously up-ended him and held him at arm’s length so that he christened the grass instead of his already ruined jacket.

‘Goodness me!’ Drusilla exclaimed, scrubbing herself. ‘I might have guessed that your invention would be as sharp as your tongue.’

The fascinated spectators to this unusual scene included a startled Robert and Miss Faulkner who stood aghast, her mouth open in shock, as that aloof Lord of Creation, Henry Alexander Devenish, Fourth Earl of Devenish and Innescourt, turned the squalling Jackie right side up and began to wipe him clean with his handkerchief.

Jackie, who had started to cry when subjected to this briskly sensible treatment, ceased his roaring immediately when Devenish told him sharply, ‘Now, my man, stop that at once, or I shall be very cross.’

Drusilla said faintly, ‘How in the world did you manage that? No one has ever been able to quieten him before once he has begun to cry. You really ought to offer yourself to the Milners to replace the nursemaid they have just lost. She was fit for Bedlam, she said, if she did not resign on the instant.’

Devenish, who had pulled his gold watch from his pocket with his right hand whilst he held Jackie in the crook of his left arm, and was circling it above his absorbed face, said abstractedly, ‘I had a baby brother once.’

The Milners, who had just been informed of the brouhaha which their infant had caused, arrived on the scene to find their usually rampant offspring blowing bubbles of delight at Devenish as he tried to grasp the swinging watch.

‘Oh, m’lord,’ gasped Mrs. Milner. ‘Oh, your beautiful coat, you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t—’

‘Not at all,’ remarked Devenish coolly. ‘Since I have been informed that this is the first time today that he has behaved himself, I think that I really should, don’t you? For all our sakes.’

And since the Lord of All, as Drusilla privately called him, made such a statement, no one present dared to contradict him.

For some reason poor Miss Faulkner was the most disturbed by Devenish’s behaviour. Later, her niece could only think that she had the absurd notion that it brought dishonour on the Faulkner name that he had arrived at such an unlikely pass.

She said sharply to Drusilla, ‘My dear, I told you no good would come of your assisting the Milners’ monstrous child. Look at you both! Your dress is ruined, and as for Lord Devenish’s coat—’

‘Very helpful of you,’ remarked Devenish smoothly, ‘to be so wise both before and after the event. You are quite right. Both Mrs Faulkner and I will be happy to be relieved of continuing to look after the incubus, and I’m sure that you will be delighted to care for him instead, seeing that his poor mama is already in the boughs over him—or so I am informed,’ and he thrust Jackie into the astounded Miss Faulkner’s arms.

‘You may borrow my watch if he starts to cry again,’ he offered helpfully. ‘It seems to do the trick.’

‘Oh, Devenish, you really are the outside of enough,’ gasped Drusilla through laughing sobs. ‘Give him to me, Cordelia, he cannot ruin my dress any further and I’ll return him to his mama when she feels able to look after him.’

Mrs Milner had, indeed, sunk on to the stone bench where Drusilla and Devenish had been sitting, and was moaning gently while being comforted by her husband.

‘She is increasing, you know,’ Drusilla informed Devenish severely, in as low a voice as she could manage, ‘and she needs a rest from him every now and then.’

‘Really,’ returned Devenish, quite unruffled by the commotion which he had created. ‘I should have thought everyone needs a rest from him all the time. Pity we don’t sacrifice to Moloch any more.’

‘Devenish!’ Drusilla and Robert exclaimed reproachfully together, whilst Cordelia Faulkner asked faintly, ‘Why Moloch?’

And then, ‘Oh, the God to whom they sacrificed children. Oh, Lord Devenish, you surely cannot mean that.’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Drusilla and Robert together, and ‘Yes, I do,’ drawled Devenish, but he winked at Drusilla to show her that he was not serious.

She responded by kissing Jackie to show that she loved him if no one else did, and shaking her head at Devenish to reprove him for being flighty.

Giles, a fascinated spectator of the antics of his elders, said, ‘I think babies are disgusting. If they ain’t dribbling from one end, they’re hard at it from the other. Can’t think why anyone wants them.’

‘Well, someone wanted you,’ drawled Devenish. ‘A bit of a mistake, d’you think?’

Drusilla said, ‘I think it’s time everyone behaved themselves. You know, Devenish, you’re a really bad influence on us all. I quite agree with what you said earlier, you have no soul.’

But she was laughing when she said it. Giles looked after her as she removed Jackie from Devenish’s corrupting presence by handing him to his now recovered mama and escorting them into the house where they might be private, and Drusilla might change her dress.

He said confidentially to Devenish and Robert—Miss Faulkner was panting in Drusilla’s ear—‘You know, sir, I don’t think you’re a bad influence on us at all. Why, since poor Jeremy died I haven’t heard Dru laugh like that once!’

It was Robert who laughed at this artless remark and not Devenish, who said, as grave as any judge, ‘Might you not consider that to make your sister laugh like that confirmed my bad influence on her rather than refuted it?’

‘Not at all, sir.’ Giles’s response was as serious sounding as Devenish’s. ‘Why, when Jeremy was alive, she used to laugh all the time.’

He paused, a puzzled look crossing his open, handsome face. ‘Except,’ he said slowly, ‘during the last few months before Jeremy was killed. She grew uncommon moody, as I recall. Jeremy told me that it was because she was unhappy at not providing him with an heir—although judging by the way that most babies behave, I can’t understand why that should make her sad.’

‘You will,’ said Devenish, filing away Giles’s strange piece of information in his retentive memory, ‘until then, I shouldn’t worry. You’ll want your own heir one day.’

‘I shall?’ This seemed such an unlikely remark that Giles decided to ignore it. After all, Devenish didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to provide an heir for himself, but he wisely decided not to say so.

Instead, he invited him to take part in the archery competition—’all the gentleman are expected to do so, and the prize is a silver medal which Dru will present at the end of the day.’

‘I shall be delighted,’ Devenish told him, which had Robert saying to him in the carriage on the way home, ‘You were in an uncommon good mood today, Hal. I would have thought that it might be the kind of bread-and-butter occasion which would have brought out the acid in your speech.

‘And, forgive me for asking, what was that about your having a baby brother? I always supposed you to be an only child. At least, your grandfather always spoke as though you were.’

‘So he did, Rob, but then, seeing that he was invariably wrong in all his judgements, it’s not surprising that he was wrong in that, too.’

He made no attempt to speak further on the matter, leaving Robert to expand instead on the charms of Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and the surprising fact that it had been Devenish to whom she had presented the silver medal for winning the archery competition.

‘Another thing I didn’t know about you—that you were a fine shot with a bow, except—’ and he looked sideways at Devenish ‘—that you seem to excel at everything you do, however unlikely.’

‘Don’t flatter me, Rob, it doesn’t become you,’ Devenish returned shortly. ‘Any success I may have is only because I choose never to do anything at which I don’t excel.’

He seemed to be in an odder mood than usual so Robert remained silent for the rest of the short drive back to Tresham Hall. Something, he was sure, had occurred, or been said, that had set Devenish thinking, and thinking hard.

His face had taken on an expression which he had not seen since the days of their adventures on the Continent, and it was one which had only appeared in times of trial and danger.

Which was passing strange, because what times of trial and danger could there possibly be in sleepy Surrey?

Chapter Four

The day’s events had so excited Drusilla that she found it difficult to sleep that night—especially since the night was warm, even for summer.

For some reason she could not get out of her head the sight and sound of m’lord Devenish. One moment she was remembering his mocking voice, and the next she had a vivid picture of him holding little Jackie in the crook of his arm, displaying a strange tenderness of which she had not thought him capable.

Worse, he stirred her senses after a fashion which no one had ever done before—not even Jeremy. She was reluctantly beginning to understand that what she had felt for Jeremy was nearer to friendship than to passionate love.

And why was she thinking of Lord Devenish and passionate love in the same sentence? Could she passionately love such an apparently cold-blooded man? Especially since it was not his beautiful face which attracted her, but his beautiful voice saying shocking, unexpected things.

The kind of things which quiet, respectable Mrs Drusilla Faulkner had often thought but had never dared to say!

This insight into her deepest mind set her wriggling in the bed, her cheeks hot and her body strangely alive. She decided against calling for her personal maid, Mary, who had slept in a room near to hers ever since Jeremy’s sudden death. Mary deserved her night’s rest—and of what use could she really be? There was a pitcher of water and a glass by her bed, and she could surely pour a drink for herself without disturbing another’s sleep.

A sound outside around eleven of the clock—a bird or a wild animal calling, perhaps—had her sitting up and deciding to open one of the windows to let in a little air.

Without using her tinder box to light a candle since it was the night of the full moon, she rose and threw back the curtains and opened the window just as the noise came again. It was neither a bird nor a wild animal, but stifled human voices, one of them laughing, the other murmuring ‘Hush’.

Drusilla looked down. She saw, briefly in the moonlight, a man and a woman, fully dressed and holding hands, running across the back lawn, down the steps from it, and into the avenue below. She was unable to see their faces or identify them in any way.

Silence followed, broken only once by the cry of an owl. The man and the woman did not reappear. Who could they be? Servants, perhaps, but doing what—and going where? And who else would be in the grounds of Lyford House in the middle of the night. She would speak to Mrs Rollins, the housekeeper, in the morning.

This strange disturbance, added to her mind’s refusal to let go of her memories of Lord Devenish, made sleep impossible for some time, but she heard nothing more.

A long time later she fell asleep for a few short hours before morning arrived all too soon. She ordered breakfast to be brought to her room and drank chocolate and ate buttered rolls in blessed silence.

Why did she think blessed silence? Because her mind was still in turmoil after yesterday’s strange events. Cordelia Faulkner begged to be admitted, but Drusilla fobbed her off with a fib, saying that she had a megrim and would go to church only for the evening service.

One person whom she did admit was Mrs Rollins, the housekeeper. She was a tall, austere woman in early middle age, the terror of the under-servants. The Mrs was an honourary title for she had never married.

She had terrified Drusilla in the early days of her marriage, until she discovered that Mrs Rollins possessed a sense of loyalty to the Faulkners which was almost fanatical. That loyalty was now transferred to her.

Drusilla began without preamble, speaking of what she had seen the night before and asking if it were possible that she had witnessed a pair of servants who had left the house after nightfall without anyone’s knowledge or permission.

Mrs Rollins heard her out before saying, ‘It is quite impossible, ma’am, for any of the servants to leave the house at any time, particularly at night, without the knowledge of Britton or Letty Humphreys.’

Britton was the under-butler, a young man who had a room off the menservants’ dormitory in the attic, which was locked by him at ten o’clock at night. The same arrangement held good for the maids who were similarly supervised by Letty, the chief parlour-maid, a stern elderly woman.

The senior servants had rooms of their own, but they were all of mature years and Drusilla was sure that the pair she had seen were young.

‘Someone from one of the villages, ma’am,’ Mrs Rollins suggested. ‘Larking about the grounds at night.’

‘But we are such a long way from either Tresham Magna or Tresham Minor,’ Drusilla said, frowning. ‘And why should they come here? It might be more sensible of them to lark in the grounds of Tresham Hall.’

‘Harder to break into them,’ suggested Mrs Rollins practically.

Drusilla had to let that be the last word, but for some reason the little incident had disturbed her—and why it should was mysterious. She told herself not to be troubled by such mental cobwebs, brought on, no doubt, by a poor night’s sleep. She went downstairs where she found an anxious Miss Faulkner about to set off for morning service at Tresham Magna, Lyford Village possessing no church of its own.

‘You look pale, my dear,’ she told Drusilla agitatedly, ‘It must be all the excitement yesterday. Lord Devenish may be a great man, but he is scarcely a restful person.’

Drusilla thought that Lord Devenish’s sharp tongue must be catching for she found herself saying, ‘One imagines that great men are rarely restful, Cordelia, but in any case I find his manner refreshing. We practise a deal of hypocrisy, you know.’

Consequently she said nothing of what she had seen the night before to Miss Faulkner for she did not wish to disturb her further.

She might have saved herself the trouble; when Miss Faulkner arrived back in the middle of the morning instead of at the end, her face was pale and she was trembling violently.

‘Whatever can be the matter?’ exclaimed Drusilla. ‘What brings you back so early?’ She poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her companion, ‘Here, drink this, it may help you to compose yourself.’

‘Nothing can do that,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘nothing,’ shivering as she drank the wine down in one unladylike gulp. ‘I shudder to tell you, but I must. Of all dreadful things when Mr Williams arrived at the church this morning he found—oh, I cannot tell you, it is too dreadful.’

‘My dear,’ said Drusilla gently, ‘I fear that you must.’

‘Yes, I must, mustn’t I? Oh, my love, of all things he found a dead sheep on the altar and the bishop must reconsecrate the church—Lord Devenish had been sent for, and I regret what I said of him earlier this morning. He was so kind. We are to use the chapel at Tresham Hall, he says, to save us having to go all the way to the church at Tresham Minor. So very gracious of him!’

Drusilla sat down, plainly shocked. ‘Who could have done anything half so dreadful—and why?’

‘No one knows. It seems that Farmer Ramsey had an argument with Parson Williams over the tithes—which he lost. But one cannot imagine such a jovial fellow as he is doing such a thing in revenge.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Drusilla faintly, thinking of the jolly red-faced man who had often given her sweet milk to drink, fresh from the cow, when she had been a little girl.

And so she told Devenish when he visited them that afternoon to reinforce his invitation to use his chapel.

‘I thought that I ought to come to inform you that we shall make every effort to identify and punish the miscreants,’ he told them.

Giles said eagerly, ‘Vobster, our head groom, believes that it may have been Luddite sympathizers at work. Even down here, he says, there are those who talk and plan sedition.’

Devenish had surprised himself—and Rob Stammers—by finding that he needed to reassure the two ladies and young Giles that the authorities were not taking this matter lightly. He had ridden over to Lyford House as soon as he decently could, to be received with tea and muffins.

He said soberly, ‘Oh, everyone has a different explanation, from Farmer Ramsey’s annoyance over his tithes to a prank by unnamed villagers.’

‘And which do you favour, sir?’ asked Giles who had, much to Devenish’s secret amusement, adopted him as a kind of honourary uncle of whom advice might be asked.

‘I?’ said Devenish coolly, accepting a cup of tea from Miss Faulkner, ‘Why, I favour none of them until some kind of evidence emerges which might support any of the explanations offered. So far all we have is hot air and supposition.’

He looked across at Drusilla who was staring thoughtfully into space, ‘You seem a little engrossed, Mrs Faulkner. Forgive me for questioning you, but is that because you have something of matter to import relating to what we are discussing?’

He was reading her mind again. Drusilla lifted her head and gave him a splendid view of a pair of candid grey eyes.

‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘that what I am about to say may be of the order of hot air and supposition. On any other day I might have dismissed what I saw late last night as mere innocent playfulness, but after this morning’s events—who can tell?’

Devenish leaned forward. ‘You intrigue me, madam. What exactly did you see last night?’

Without embroidery, Drusilla told him, as soberly as she could, of the two strangers in Lyford’s grounds on the previous evening. She added, equally soberly, ‘When I questioned her this morning, my housekeeper was firmly of the opinion that I had not seen two of my servants who had broken the staff rules by leaving their beds after lights out.’

Miss Faulkner exclaimed faintly, ‘Oh, I wonder that you could have slept after that. I am sure that I couldn’t have done.’

‘Ah, but Mrs Faulkner is made of sterner stuff, are you not, Mrs Faulkner?’

Was there the usual faint tinge of mockery in his comment? Drusilla did not know. Perhaps not, because after he had leisurely demolished a muffin and the clock had ticked on in the silent room, Devenish said, ‘Would I be considered to be grossly intrusive if I asked to be allowed to visit your room so that you might show me exactly what you saw—and where?’

‘Or what I thought I saw,’ said Drusilla challengingly. ‘For I believe that you may be of the opinion that I might be indulging in hot air and supposition.’

‘Oh, you don’t think that, surely, sir?’ exclaimed Giles. ‘Why, Dru is the most sensible women I know—indeed, I would dare swear she is the only sensible woman I know.’

Devenish’s beautiful mouth twitched. Miss Faulkner said aggrievedly, ‘You want manners, Master Giles, and, as I have often said, if you are not to go to university, then a strict tutor ought to be employed to teach you the discipline you would otherwise have learned there.’

‘You interest me, Miss Faulkner,’ remarked Devenish. ‘I would be happy to learn to which university you refer. None of those with which I am acquainted had much to do with teaching their undergraduates any form of discipline—quite the contrary.’

Giles threw him a grateful glance. Miss Faulkner, who was not sure whether she had been complimented or insulted, gave a hesitant, worried smile. Seeing her discomfort, Drusilla surveyed Devenish with a measuring, judgmental eye, and said coolly, ‘Well, one thing is plain, m’lord, after that remark Giles would do well not to come to you to learn good manners—or perhaps Earls are exempt from them.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘I am sure that Lord Devenish did not mean anything wrong by what he said.’

‘Oh, I am sure that he did,’ retorted Drusilla. ‘Did you not, m’lord?’

Her own daring in thus reproaching him for mocking poor Cordelia struck Drusilla when it was far too late to retract anything which she had said. She waited for the cutting riposte which was sure to follow.

It didn’t. Instead Devenish rose from his chair, walked over to where she sat and lifted her hand to kiss it.

‘You are right to rebuke me,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘I have grown too accustomed to using my tongue to cut down those around me and who often feel unable to reply because of their lower rank. I must cease the habit.’

He turned to the astonished Miss Faulkner who stared at him, her mouth agape. ‘Pray forgive me,’ he asked, bowing to her, ‘for I spoke ungallantly to you—and not for the first time. I promise not to do it again.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all, m’lord.’

‘Ah, but it was. It was most wrong of me. And now, ladies, you will lead me to the room from which Mrs Faulkner saw—what she saw.’

The smile he gave then was his dazzling one. Drusilla, who was already overset because of the sensation which his kissing her hand had created, found that she was quivering with excitement. She told herself that this was partly relief because he had not taken offence at her rebuke, but she knew that she was lying.

Well behaved or ill behaved, he was having the most profound effect on her. Worse, however much she told herself to ignore it, she was unable to do so. All the way up to her room she lectured herself—in vain.

She watched him look around it. It was a lady’s bedroom in splendid order and furnished in the most perfect taste. Devenish walked to the window, bidding her to stand beside him—Miss Faulkner was acting as their chaperon and hovered nervously behind them as Drusilla told her tale.

‘And after they had crossed the lawn they went that way,’ she ended, pointing to the steps down which the man and the woman had disappeared.

‘Which leads towards—where? Remind me, we have turned so many times since I entered Lyford that I have lost my bearings.’

‘Well, nowhere, really. I suppose that the nearest habitation in that direction is Marsham Abbey, Mr Harrington’s place. There is a footpath across the fields which leads to it—but it is rarely used these days. It also runs in the opposite direction, but since Swain’s Hall was pulled down it goes nowhere, because the path to the highway beyond it has disappeared through lack of use.’

‘I see.’ After that Devenish fell silent. Drusilla had been right when she had said that what she had seen had been unremarkable, and would have been unremarked—save to her housekeeper—had it not been for the sheep on the altar.

‘Does Harrington graze sheep on the Abbey’s fields?’

‘Oh, yes. But others around here graze them on their fields, including Farmer Ramsey—and you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he echoed, and laughed. ‘You are a shrewd lady, Mrs Drusilla.’ He lowered his voice a little and asked, ‘Did your husband find you so? And did your husband mind your sharp tongue?’

‘Oh, I rarely had occasion to use it on him, m’lord.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, so you reserve it for my deficiencies. I suppose that I do deserve it more. He was young, was he not?’

‘Not quite twenty-five when he died.’

Devenish was grateful that the opportunity had been given him to ask these questions without seeming over-curious.

‘And you had not long been married, I collect. I suppose, then, that you and he were rarely apart, so that his disappearance must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘Oh, yes, but not so great a shock as his untimely and dreadful end.’

‘And while he was alive, neither you nor he ever saw strangers in your grounds?’

‘No,’ Drusilla answered a little sharply, for she was not sure where this questioning was going—nor why Devenish was engaging in it.

But something, somehow, in the quizzical look which he then gave her jogged her memory.

‘Except…’ she began slowly, and then stopped. ‘No, it could not be related to this.’

‘Except,’ Devenish mused, his bright blue eyes hard on her. ‘I do dislike excepts—when they lead nowhere, I mean. They intrigue me, and for the rest of the day I am more bad-tempered as well as being ruder than ever, I fear. Pray finish and do not condemn me to that—you would not like it, and consequently I should feel the edge of your tongue!’

‘Very well. He said one day, about nine months before he was found dead, that he was surprised that the path to the Abbey was being so heavily used, and that it must be at night, since he had never seen anyone on it during the day time.

‘He told me that he would investigate the matter as it seemed rather odd. But nothing further came of it other than that he had spoken to Mr Harrington of it and he had assured him that he must be mistaken. Two of his gardeners used it. And that was that. The path had become worn, he said, and it did not need heavy use to cut it up.’

‘Your husband never spoke of it again?’

‘No, never. I am sure that it was simply one of Jeremy’s whim whams—he was given to them. His father was the same, wasn’t he, Cordelia?’

‘Oh, yes. He had the oddest fancies which disappeared as soon as made, you know. Why, I remember old Mr Faulkner swearing that there were strange goings-on in the countryside around Lyford, but since his mind became very feeble before he died, no one thought anything of what he said.’

Another dead end. He could scarcely believe that the whim whams of the Faulkner men had any connection with dead servant girls and a sheep on an altar.

Except—and it was a good except, he thought wryly—that Jeremy Faulkner had died a strange and unexpected death. Like the sheep.

He dared pursue the matter no further even although it enabled him to stand next to Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and admire her pure and perfect profile. He dared swear that—like old Mr Faulkner—he was running mad to be so occupied by the charms of a country widow. Rob would be sure to twit him when he returned home.

All the way back to Tresham Hall what disturbed him the most was that it was not only her looks and figure which charmed him, but her ready, rebuking tongue. Who would have thought that such a gentle-seeming creature would be so morally fearless?

Rob met him in the stable-yard—and began to tease him immediately—and to warn him off.

‘So, how was the pretty widow, Hal? Not so overset as that companion of hers, I dare swear.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘And did you find her in looks?’

‘Why this inquisition, Rob? What point are you trying to make.’

‘A serious one, and I advise you to take what I am about to say equally seriously. This is a good woman whom you are beginning to pursue, not one of the barques of frailty who haunt London, and may be regarded as rightful prey. It would be wrong of you to treat her as a pretty toy to exploit in order to reduce the boredom of country living. You must not trifle with her affections. To do so would be most unworthy of you.’

‘How many moral guardians must a man acquire in one short afternoon before he is allowed to make his own judgements?’ Devenish murmured enigmatically. ‘The world and his wife are determined to have me turn parson, I see. Yes, I found Mrs Faulkner in looks, but it is not her looks which intrigue me. I leave you to discover what does—you might as well have something concrete to worry about rather than simply engaging in pious whim whams about my behaviour.

‘And speaking of whim whams, tell me this. You have lived here these past ten years. Have you observed any whim whams in the behaviour of the Faulkner father and son?’

‘Of the father, yes. He was light in the attic towards the end of his life. Of the son, no. He seemed a down-to-earth fellow to me, quite unlike his father.’

‘And tell me another thing before we adjourn. Were there any persons recorded as missing during the lifetime of old Mr Faulkner—or is that simply a phenomenon of the past few years?’

If Rob thought that Hal was engaging in whim whams himself he did not say so. He had too much respect for his employer’s intellect.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And strange goings-on in the countryside, you have heard nothing of that?’

Rob shook his head. ‘Not until the servant girls began to disappear, and the two men of whom we spoke. Why?’

‘Nothing. Like my moral sense, my curiosity is light-minded and frivolous—as you well know. Only people are telling me different stories about the same thing.’

He did not elaborate, but left Rob looking after him, wondering what Devenish was up to now. Rob sometimes thought that perhaps Devilish was not a bad nickname for his friend, even though he knew that it was undeserved.

What was puzzling Devenish was why Drusilla and Cordelia Faulkner—who both struck him as possessing souls of simple truth—should believe that Jeremy Faulkner engaged in whim whams like his father’s, whilst Rob, that man of sense, did not. There must be a sensible answer to that, and one which he would endeavour to discover.

The advantage being that whilst he did so he could further his acquaintance with Jeremy’s widow.

Chapter Five

‘How very kind of Mr Harrington to invite me to accompany you on this visit to Marsham Abbey. The more particularly since this is the first time that he has ever asked anyone for more than a meagre supper. A whole week! It will be quite a holiday for us both.’

Miss Faulkner looked slyly across at Drusilla, and added, apparently absent-mindedly, ‘I wonder if Lord Devenish will be one of the party.’

‘Most unlikely if he weren’t.’ Drusilla was brisk. ‘What’s more, Mr Harrington has also asked Giles. Giles is over the moon for he thinks that this proves that he is no longer regarded as a child.’

‘Oh, but will you agree to allow him to accompany us? He is given to saying the most remarkable things, you know.’

‘Well, since Lord Devenish and Mr Harrington share the same failing, he will be in good company—and, being one of several, is less likely to be remarked upon himself.’

‘Oh, my dear, you must surely agree that it is one thing for a great personage such as Lord Devenish to speak his mind, and quite another for young Giles. He wants discretion.’

‘No, I don’t agree, Cordelia. Lord Devenish should be more discreet and so should Giles. As for Mr Harrington, like Giles, he does not know the meaning of the word, but Lord Devenish most plainly does—which makes his conduct the worst of the three.’

‘I thought that you liked him,’ Miss Faulkner murmured plaintively.

‘I do, but that does not mean that I am blind to his faults.’

It had become plain to Drusilla over the last week during which they had met Lord Devenish twice more that Miss Faulkner had no more sense than to begin matchmaking.

Her reasoning was as simple as she was and she was engaged in it whilst speaking to her late nephew’s wife.

Drusilla ought to marry again. Lord Devenish needed a wife and an heir—what better than that they should marry? Their lands marched together; they were both young and handsome, which boded well for the future Viscount Innescourt when he arrived. In her daydreams Miss Faulkner was ensconced at Tresham Hall, the baby Viscount lay in his cradle and Drusilla and Devenish hovered over it, adoring him. Miss Faulkner herself was hovering somewhere in the middle distance.

She came to with a start. Drusilla was speaking. ‘I need a new gown. Mary Swain must be sent for and shown the latest pattern books from London. I have some pretty pale green satin which would look well with the Faulkner pearls.’

‘Mary Swain,’ exclaimed Miss Faulkner aghast. ‘Oh, no, you must go further afield and find someone who will make you as comme il faut as the London beauties who surround m’lord when he is in town.’

‘Cordelia, I have not the slightest intention of competing with the London beauties. I am but a simple country girl and so m’lord must take me or leave me—if he thinks of me at all, which I beg leave to doubt.’

Saying which, Drusilla was aware that she was being deceitful. She might be but a simple country girl but she knew quite well that there was something particular in m’lord’s manner when he spoke to her which told her a different tale.

He was, in fact, thinking of her that very afternoon. Leander Harrington had ridden over to present him with his invitation in person.

‘If you accept it, Devenish, I intend to use this occasion to honour your arrival in Surrey and introduce you to as many notables as possible. Your late grandfather passed the majority of his life here and we should be charmed if you would do the same.’

‘Would you, indeed?’ replied Devenish drily. ‘I’m not yet sure that I would be charmed to spend mine likewise. But I will accept your invitation in the same spirit in which it is offered.’

‘And Mr Stammers? You will allow him to accept an invitation, too?’

‘Oh, that is a matter for Mr Stammers to decide, not for me. May I say that I’m a little surprised that your Republican beliefs would allow you to approach me first.’

‘But, then, Devenish, I was not yet aware that your attitude towards those who serve you was so very different from that of the late Earl. Every man in his place, knowing his place, was his motto.’

Oh, yes, that sounded like his late grandfather. Devenish smiled his most subtle smile.

‘A useful motto for those whose place is secure, you will allow.’

‘Oh, indeed, but in the new age of reason which will shortly dawn, all men will be judged by what they are and not by the bedroom they were born in.’

Devenish’s smile grew more subtle still. ‘That age not having arrived yet, sir, we must continue to endure our present fortunate condition. And that being so, I shall enjoy your hospitality at Marsham Abbey, as will I expect, my good friend Rob Stammers. Until then, I bid you adieu.’

It was Leander Harrington’s congé and he knew it. He gave his sweet smile and left. One of the delights of the new age of reason, he thought, would be a guillotine set up in Trafalgar Square where the liberated masses would cheer as each aristocratic head rolled in the dust—most particularly when m’lord Devenish’s landed there.

Nothing of this showed, however, when Devenish arrived at Marsham Abbey in the middle of a fine early August afternoon. Both men smiled at one another as though they had been bosom companions since boyhood. There was already a goodly sprinkling of guests on the lawn before the Abbey, that noble relic of the days of Catholic glory.

A long-gone Harrington had built his house using the Abbey’s north wall as his southern one, and retaining, Rob had told Devenish, the staircase down to the huge crypt. Over the centuries Marsham’s abbots had been laid to rest there, and there was still a chapel at one end of it, with a ruined altar.

This afternoon, though, no one was eager to visit dim underground rooms, least of all Devenish, who wished to mix with his neighbours as much, and as soon, as possible. His host led him on to the lawns where trestle tables had been erected and set out with food and drink and where burly footmen stood around ready to help those too helpless to help themselves.

Many of those already present were known to him and greeted him with the deference suitable to the honour of a peer. Devenish was just growing weary of being bowed and scraped to when he saw Drusilla Faulkner standing alone before a bed of roses, a glass of lemonade in her hand.

She looked divinely cool in white muslin and a wide-brimmed straw hat worn in such a fashion that it did not hide her charming face. The old trot, as Devenish unkindly thought of Miss Faulkner, was for once not with her.

With a muttered ‘Excuse me,’ he rescued himself from a tedious discussion about the respective excellencies of different breeds of sheep and walked over to her, picking up a glass of lemonade for himself on the way.

‘Alone for once,’ he offered, ‘no Gorgon of a duenna dancing attendance on you, no high-spirited younger brother ready to insist on your full attention. I am in luck.’

Surprised, for she had not seen him coming, Drusilla still had the presence of mind to riposte, ‘Now, is not that exactly what I should expect of you? That you would always wish the undivided attention of those whom you are with!’

‘Is not that what we all wish?’ he parried.

‘Oh, indeed. But few of us are lucky enough to get it.’

‘And you least of all,’ he told her. ‘For whenever we have previously met you have been surrounded by demanding others. Not so, now. And, if I see them coming, I shall whip you away down the nearest alley, claiming that I wish to admire the scenery with you, when all I wish to admire is you.’

This was plain speaking with a vengeance which surprised even the man who was uttering it. He had not intended to be so plain, so soon, but the sight of her had wrenched it from him.

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