Give All to Love (15 page)

“And found the Regent and all his ministers prostrate!” gasped Josie. “Oh, dear me! I should not laugh, but—how wicked a thing is rumour, to take something, and—”

“Then—there
was
something?” asked Mrs. Biss shrewdly. “But—if it is truth, how can Mr. Devenish allow Guy Sanguinet to visit you? And how is it that Monsieur Sanguinet is not in the Tower—or long dead? Oh dear, I do not understand at all. And—he does seem such a nice gentleman.”

Josie dabbed her handkerchief at her eyes and said, “I cannot tell you all that really happened, Faith.” Her expression was very serious all at once. “And I must have your word of honour that you will not repeat any of our conversation to a soul.”

Awed, Mrs. Bliss gave her word. “Were you involved in it, then? You must have been only a child! Are you sworn to secrecy?”

“Not really. Nor was I involved. But over the years I have often crept downstairs to listen to the gentlemen chatting in the evenings, long after they fancied me asleep. And gradually, I was able to piece it all together. Most of what you have heard is untrue. There was”—she dimpled irrepressibly—“no veal and mushroom pie. Neither the Regent nor any of his cabinet was poisoned.”

Her smooth forehead puckering, Faith muttered, “Then—the rumours lie?”

Josie shook her head. “Not entirely. It was a terrible plot, engineered by Claude to break the financial structure of the nation and to murder the Regent. That it did not succeed is due only to the Nine, for no one would believe them and they were forced to fight Claude and his followers alone, until each one of them was hurt or made ill. At the finish only a handful were able to go on, and they struggled so gallantly that they were able to prevent tragedy. Even so, had it not been for Guy's help, the end may have been very different. He is one of the bravest gentlemen I ever met, and took his wound most valiantly, in saving Tristram Leith's life.”

Gripping her hands tightly, the widow said, “Then—Monsieur Guy Sanguinet was not, in any way, involved in his brother's schemes?”

“No,” replied Josie simply. “Guy is one of the Nine, do you see?”

Chapter 7

The grey morning had become a greyer afternoon, the leaden skies donating a steady drizzle to the sodden West of England, and a chill wind sending red and brown leaves scattering like flocks of tiny sparrows.

James Neblett drew the scarf tighter around his throat and pulled up the collar of his frieze riding coat. Noting the gesture, Devenish, seldom affected by cold weather, said, “Sorry to drag you all this way on such a day, James, but I couldn't get away sooner.”

The steward nodded his head. “Your hands is full, sir. And now, with Squire and all—cripes! I'd not be in your shoes, I'm thinking. I'd not reckoned you'd be able to get out today at all.”

“Well, the ladies are off to shop for their ball finery, and Monsieur Sanguinet”— Devenish paused, frowning,—“went into Sussex for a day or so.”

“How long do you reckon Squire will stay at Devencourt, sir?”

“Another week, likely. But since Mrs. Bliss brought his man, he has seemed less irritated by us.”

Neblett, who had spent many more years on the estate than had his young employer, grinned, and said with the privilege of the long-time retainer, “Pinching at you, is he? Well, Squire's a hard man, Mr. Devenish. A hard man.”

“But an honest one,” said Devenish good-humouredly. “Even so, as things stand, I rather doubt he'd agree to repairing the road, and with Miss Storm's ball less than three weeks away, something must be done. I cannot have our guests axle-deep in mud and unable to get to the house.”

Neblett ducked as a sudden gust blew icy drops into his face. Devenish pulled his collar higher and, glancing up, gave a startled exclamation. “Jove! Looks as though I'm slow and sorry! Somebody's already mired down!”

An elegant barouche leaned at a precarious angle on the slope of the hill ahead. The vehicle was considerably low on the right side, and the guard and a footman were wandering about, gathering shrubs to stick under the wheel that was deeply mired in a large pothole.

Devenish touched his spurs to Miss Farthing's sides and cantered forward. “Hello there!” He left Neblett talking with the groom and rode up to the window of the coach. “Good day, ma'am,” he began, lifting his hat as the window slid down. “You seem to have come to … grief!”

“Alain! Dearest boy, you have rid to my rescue! I might have known!” A lady appeared at the window, a lady whose ermine-trimmed hood framed a face of dark, exotic beauty. Her ringlets were glossy and almost black, her slumbrous heavy-lidded eyes of a dusky brown, yet her complexion fair and at the moment daintily flushed. Full red lips curved to a tender smile, and one white hand stretched out to him.

Bowing over it automatically, Devenish stammered, “Isabella! How—ah, delightful.” And he thought, ‘Oh, my God!'

Fate had an even less welcome shock in store for him. From the deeper shadows, another occupant of the carriage leaned forward. Lord Elliot Fontaine drawled, “Devenish! Hail fellow … and all that sort of drivel. We come to see the fallen Caesar. Understand our cousin is recuperating at your place.”

The perfunctory smile Devenish had dragged up for Lady Isabella now vanished, leaving his blue eyes as chill as the wind that buffeted the group. “I had quite forgot you are distantly related to Sir William,” he said coolly. “I am happy to tell you that he goes along very well, but you will wish to see for yourself. Neblett—a couple of branches from the fallen elm down by the stream will serve better than those shrubs, I fancy.”

Watching him ride off with his steward in search of the branches, Isabella Scott-Matthias leaned back against the pink cushions, smiling.

“Lord help the poor fella,” murmured her brother, hurriedly closing the window. “I know that Giaconda grin.”

“Wretch!” She clasped his hand as he sat down again. “Lord, but he's in my blood! The very sight of him sets my heart beating like a kettle drum!”

“A call to arms—as it were,” he sneered. “I vow the fellow must consign his looks to perdition, the way you women swoon at his feet.”

“It is more than looks,” she argued dreamily. “He is fearless and kind, and gentle. And yet there is a flame in him, and he—”

“Goes with a most unattractive limp!”

“Which does but make him the more intriguing. And see how he sits his horse—he rides like a centaur.”

His lordship yawned. “Desist, desist! Such drooling adulation bores me.”

She turned to look at him squarely. “I want him, Taine.”

“It seems doubtful that your desire is returned. No, seriously, Bella—would you not become soon bored watching him hobble about? Gad—'twould revolt me!”

Her eyes sparked with anger. “Any affliction revolts you! Devenish was wounded by a crossbow bolt, I heard. If that can be called an affliction, it is a noble one.” She leaned to grip his arm and shake it. “Taine—I
want
him!
Only
him! Help me.”

He turned his head, to watch her from under his drooping eyelids. “Or is it that you want him
only
because he don't adore you like the rest of London and Paris? How typically contrary you women are. Even so, I'd help if I could, m'dear. Perhaps,” he amended, with a slow and not quite pleasant smile, “I should say—I
will
if I
can.
One must try to be positive. However, I fancy it a forlorn hope. For some inexplicable reason, your beau ideal does not seem to—er, admire me.”

“Then
make
him like you! For my sake!”

Fontaine had a suspicion of the reason behind Devenish's obvious dislike, and doubted the emotion could be reversed. He had interests of his own at Devencourt, however, and thus said musingly, “How odd, that we should both be drawn to the same household. Very well, Bella. I shall try.”

With a squeak of gratitude she swooped to kiss him. He chuckled, for in his way he was fond of his beautiful sister. “For a—consideration,” he amended. She drew back, eyeing him guardedly. “If I succeed,” he went on, his light eyes glinting at her, “you must repay in kind, my love.”

Isabella's lovely mouth tightened. “The Storm chit?”

He nodded. “She intrigues me. She is so fresh and—unspoiled. Now never frown, Bellissima—it makes you look hard.” He laughed as her eyes narrowed. “Now you look positively fiendish! Come now—you desire Devenish, I desire the chit. Fair exchange.”

“Devenish has looks, charm, poise, a fine old name, a beautiful estate, and a fortune. What has his waif? No background, no fortune, and certainly she is not beautiful. I'd not even call her pretty.”

“We differ. She has an inner light. A warmth and interest in others glows from her like a beacon. In her way, she is as sought-after as her … guardian.”

She scanned him suspiciously. “Why do you say it like that?”

“If you did but use those glorious eyes of yours, m'dear, you would see that do I take Mistress Storm away, I do you a large favour.”

“Nonsense! He is fond of her as a parent is of a child. Nothing more. And besides, do you mean to serve her as you did the Morrissey girl—”

Fontaine's long fingers darted to close around her wrist. “You will oblige me,” he said, his voice very soft but ineffably threatening, “by not again mentioning that matter.”

“Taine! You're hurting me! Oh, all right, all right! But—you know what I mean. Devenish would kill you if—”

“Extremely doubtful, m'dear.” He settled back in his corner again, watching his sister massage her wrist. “Besides—how do you know I don't mean to make it legal this time?”

Isabella laughed scornfully. “
You
—and a
foundling?
Never!”

“You know me too well, alas. Ah, here comes your Adonis, and I fancy we must venture into the cold. Have we an understanding, Bella? Quickly now.”

“Only if you promise not to do anything horrid.”

“Whatever I do,” he said, speaking with low urgency as the horsemen cantered up, dragging clumps of branches, “will not harm your plans. I promise.”

Still, she hesitated, biting her lip and eyeing him with apprehension.

“I'd not say much for your chances without my—assistance,” he warned.

She tossed her lovely head. “Very well. If you help me, I'll help you.”

The Viscount blew her a kiss.

When placed beneath the trapped wheel, the branches achieved the desired result and the barouche was soon freed and rolling across the meadows towards Devencourt. Having waved the coach on, Devenish rode behind it. Neblett, after one look at his employer's expression, maintained a discreet silence, and as soon as they rattled into the stableyard, slipped unobtrusively away.

Devenish dismounted and walked to the carriage. The footman had already opened the door and let down the steps. Devenish handed Isabella out. Her hood was up against the drizzling rain, but a few drops sparkled on her smooth cheeks when she lifted her face to bestow a dazzling smile on him. Climbing out nimbly, the Viscount threw a swift glance around at well-kept stables and coachhouse and the great loom of the old house. “What a fine place,” he said admiringly. “And I can see you keep it in the prime of condition, old fellow.”

Devenish smiled, but a thoughtful look came into his eyes as he ushered his guests to the side door.

When they reached the Great Hall, Cornish hurried towards them.

“Allow me, ma'am,” said Devenish, assisting Isabella with her cloak.

“Now, this is charming,” said Fontaine, turning to Devenish with a warm smile. “Jove, but I was half froze. Lucky for us you came along, Dev.”

Only close friends addressed Devenish by the abbreviation of his name, and his back stiffened. An almost imperceptible reaction, but Cornish had seen it. Devenish handed him my lady's cloak, and the footman winked outrageously and dug an elbow in his ribs, jerking his head approvingly at the beauty.

Fontaine, chancing to intercept this little byplay, lifted his quizzing glass and, astounded, surveyed the footman through it.

“I'll take yer coat, mate,” said Cornish, fastening a firm hand on the back of the Viscount's collar.

For once in his life, Fontaine was so stunned as to be speechless as his coat was wrenched from his back and borne off by a man he was later to describe as an aspiring fishmonger.

Greatly amused, Devenish observed his guests.

Lady Isabella whispered a barely audible, “Heavens..!”

Simeon Wolfe was crossing the Great Hall at a teetering trot, peering at the visitors with an anxious smile.

Fascinated, the Viscount once more had recourse to his quizzing glass.

His eyes alight, Devenish said, “Oh, there you are, Wolfe. Lady Scott-Matthias and Lord Fontaine are concerned for the welfare of their cousin. How does Sir William go on?”

“Wheee—heee,” wheezed the butler, staggering to a halt.

Devenish said innocently, “Is that so? And is Mrs. Grenfell with him?”

“Doooh … think … sooo, sir,” panted Wolfe.

“Good God!” said Fontaine under his breath.

“I fancy you will like to freshen up,” said Devenish. “Wolfe, show our guests to suitable rooms, if you please, and have refreshments sent to the drawing room.”

Wolfe bowed. In the nick of time, Devenish grabbed him and straightened him up. Fontaine exchanged an incredulous glance with his sister. Wolfe beckoned a footman and gave him some breathless instructions, and the awed visitors were conducted up the stairs.

Devenish took himself to his own bedchamber and indulged in a hearty laugh.

*   *   *

“How delightful to be able to have this
tête-à-tête
with you,” trilled Lady Isabella, snuggling closer to Devenish on the drawing room sofa.