Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(67)

“Your competitors at the eisteddfods—is that the plural?” he asked.

“Eisteffodau,” she said.

“Your competitors must resent you,” he said. “They have no chance against you.”

From almost any other man this statement would have made her suspect over-extravagant flattery. Not, somehow, from Devlin.

“I do not always win,” she told him.

Idris pushed the door open again at that moment. “Our coachman has just come walking back from the village,” he said. “There is some problem with one of the wheels on the carriage and Oscar Holland is mending it. Dad and Aled will wait for it, but Dad is afraid Mam might be embarrassed if she is stranded at Lady Hardington’s long after all the other ladies in the lace group have left. I am going to drop the coachman back off in Boscombe and then go fetch Mam home. I daresay Lady Hardington will insist that I stop for tea before we come, though. You will be all right on your own, Gwyn?”

Now, this was strange. Why not ask her to go with him? Or Devlin? Why not send a groom to the village with the coachman and then on to bring their mother home? And why had he abandoned Devlin here fifteen minutes or so ago, when he was Idris’s invited guest?

“Perfectly,” she said.

“I shall do myself the honor of remaining here with Gwyneth until you return,” Devlin said.

“It might be a while,” Idris warned him.

“I have a while to spare,” Devlin said.

Gwyneth remained mute. If she needed a chaperon in her own home to protect her from strangers and fierce-looking men, why would the Earl of Stratton be a good choice?

“Right, then. I’ll dash off,” Idris said, and did just that.

Leaving silence behind him.



* * *



—

Idris Rhys, Devlin decided, was that most ridiculous and despicable of male types, a man in love who thinks that every other man ought to be in love too. And conspires to make it happen. It was downright embarrassing, and that was an understatement.

They had talked, the two of them. More than Devlin had talked with anyone for longer than six years, in fact, including Ben. They had talked about Idris himself and his Eluned and his plans to renovate the large cottage close to the main house of Cartref, built a century or so ago as a dower house but used as a storehouse in Sir Ifor’s time. After his marriage Idris would move his bride there and raise their family while he continued to manage his father’s farm. It was what he loved doing, while Sir Ifor, though he was very attached to the land too, was more interested in bringing music to the church and community.

They had talked about the wars. Idris had wondered if war could sometimes be like an earthquake, with less powerful but still dangerous quakes following it just when one thought it was all over.

“Are the wars really at an end, Dev?” he had asked. “With Bonaparte still alive?”

“God, I hope so,” Devlin had said.

“Even though you would not be involved in them any longer?” Idris had asked.

“My brother would be involved.” Devlin had been surprised by the powerful surge of protective emotion he felt.

They had even talked about what happened six years ago, and Devlin had asked the inevitable question.

“Did I do the wrong thing, Idris?”

Idris had thought about it, heaved a great sigh, and gone to the sideboard to replenish their glasses. “Yes and no, though who am I to say, really?” he had said as he resumed his seat. “Yes, because what you did caused a great deal of trouble and suffering, Dev—for the innocent as well as the guilty. And for the truly innocent that was a great pity. I am thinking in particular of Stephanie and Owen. And Philippa too. She was . . . what? Fourteen, fifteen at the time? And she witnessed it all. All three of them might have been protected from the worst of the consequences if you had acted with a bit more tact. Not to mention Gwyn.”

“And no, because . . . ?” Devlin had asked. His friend had said yes and no to his question.

“Sometimes people need to suffer,” Idris had said. “They ought to be shaken from their complacency and out from under the house of cards they have erected over their heads with their endless lies, both those they tell and those they do not confront. They need to be shaken out of the comfort of their illusions. I did not know the truth, Dev, but an amazing number of people did. Your mother, for example, and her mother and father, and her brother. No one would say anything, though. No one would risk the trouble they might cause. A man must be allowed his little foibles. And why stir up trouble when life is so very pleasant as it is and everyone is so contented and the offender himself is an amiable fellow who arouses smiles and laughter and goodwill wherever he goes? I tell you, though, Dev, if I made that discovery about my father, I would ram his teeth down his throat even if the whole county was present to witness it.”

They had sat in silence for a while.

“Dev,” Idris had said then. “It was your father who did the wrong thing. It was on him. It was all on him. It is the epitome of unfairness that many people would choose the comfortable lie over the uncomfortable truth and, in this case, would brand you as the archvillain instead of him. We live in a topsy-turvy world. But we are talking about your father. Do you feel very wretched about him?”

“I do not feel anything. I do not think about him at all. Ever,” Devlin said, and Idris, after staring at him for a few moments, left it at that.