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 warsreallyat 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 brotherwould 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 thetime? 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 saidyes and noto 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, andhermother 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 aboutmyfather, 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 wasyour fatherwho did the wrong thing. It was on him. It wasallon him. It is the epitome of unfairness that many people would choose the comfortable lie over the uncomfortable truth and, in this case, would brandyouas the archvillain instead of him. We live in a topsy-turvy world. But wearetalking 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.
They had talked a bit more about the past six years, though. About the way much had stayed the same in the neighborhood, though everything had been somehow different.
“For one thing, you and Ben were gone,” Idris said. “And Nick too, of course, but that was expected and planned for, so was not in itself what upset the order of things. A bit like us all going off to school years ago and then to Oxford. This was different. All the usual big events at Ravenswood stopped, though the countess did continue entertaining on a smaller scale. The earl continued as before. He was as jovial as ever. No one turned on him or dropped his acquaintance. But...”
“But?” Devlin said.
“But there was a bit of a hollowness to it,” Idris said. “Just because everyoneknewwhile they looked at him and listened to him, I suppose. Or could no longer pretend that they did not know.”
“He continued to spend the spring months in London?” Devlin asked unwillingly.
“Your mother went with him,” Idris said.
That was something new. Devlin wondered why she had gone. Should she not have wanted more than ever to live apart from him? Had she gone just to keep a proprietary eye on him?
“I am sorry, Dev,” Idris had said then. “It does not feel quite right telling you things like this about your own people. Even though we are friends.”
“Are we?” Devlin asked. “Despite my long silence?”
“You never did write to tell me we were no longer friends,” Idris told him. “Perhaps I am just slow about taking a hint. Did you know Gwyneth is here? She is writing letters in the parlor.”
No. Devlin had not known that. He had assumed she was at the church with her father and Aled Morgan, listening to the choirpractice. Stephanie had walked there for it, having declined Devlin’s offer to take her.
