Give All to Love (25 page)

Wolfe gasped, “Oh, my! And we've a house full of guests!”

“Lord!” exclaimed Devenish, appalled. “Have we served any of this stuff today?”

The butler peered at labels. “I—I don't think we have, sir, though it's difficult to say. I fancy this is all from the first order, because when the second lot arrived, we just piled it in front. Those miserable lackeys crept to the back so they wouldn't be seen.”

Devenish muttered, “They may have saved us a real nightmare! Let's check the newer batch.”

Wolfe led them to the second consignment and Devenish sampled a few random bottles, none of which showed any sign of spoilage. He then put Cornish in charge of personally sniffing each bottle as it was opened. “Your nostrils are going to be considerably overworked by Sunday, poor fellow,” he said with a grin. “But no sampling, understand! We cannot have you out of commission until the last guest has left us!”

Cornish was not in the least dismayed, and said he'd be glad to be of service to Sir Guv. Devenish promised to repay him. And went upstairs again, brows knit, plagued by a deepening premonition that his troubles had only begun, and trying to recall if he'd ever heard of champagne having “gone off.”

Chapter 11

At seven o'clock there was to be a light buffet supper, and by five most of the ladies were either changing their clothes or resting. Josie was able to slip away and change into the new pink velvet gown she had intended to wear on Christmas Eve. It was a charming style, the rich material falling in graceful folds over her many petticoats, the décolleté neckline not so plunging as to offend her guardian, who could become very prim over such matters where she was concerned, and the soft pink colour enhancing her faultless skin and complemented nicely by the pretty braid she had found in the Burlington Arcade, and that edged the deep flounce at the hem.

She was just applying a light dusting of powder to her straight nose, when a scratch at the door announced a lackey delivering a box tied with pink ribbon. Inside was a dainty corsage of small dark pink roses, charmingly arranged, and the holder set inside a bracelet of gold filigree sprinkled with pearls. The note was from Guy, and written in French: To the pure child who has too quickly grown into the beautiful young lady. Josie was still exclaiming over the gift, when another arrived, this being an exquisite fan of hand-painted silk with ivory sticks delicately carven, and a card reading: To our favourite debutante with love and admiration. This signed Tristram, Mitch, and an undecipherable jumble that was Jeremy Bolster's erratic hand. Her heart full, Josie laid the fan beside the corsage, and waited hopefully as Fletcher pinned a pink velvet flower among her curls. Another knock at the door. This gift was a flat box wrapped in silver paper, secured with a silver ribbon. The message on the card was brief and gave little indication of the hours Devenish had spent worrying at it. God bless you, Milady Elf. Dev. The box contained a single rope of perfectly matched pearls, their lustre rivalling the happy tears that shone in Josie's eyes as Fletcher fastened them about her throat. Jumping up, Josie ran to the standing mirror and gazed at a vision: The lady she had dreamed of becoming when she'd been a terrified, half-starved little girl, unloved, and without hope.

Two more boxes were delivered just before she went downstairs. Both were corsages, one—of blue cornflowers and white daisies—was from John Drummond; the second was of tiny pinks and lily-of-the-valley and containing the calling card of Lord Fontaine.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Josie. “I fear I must disappoint poor John, but really I cannot wear the blue with this gown.”

“And if you was to choose between Lord Fontaine and Monsieur Guy, it'd be no race,” grunted Fletcher, who did not admire his lordship.

Josie smiled and selected Guy's flowers.

Fletcher carefully affixed the corsage, watched her radiant charge trip lightly along the hall, and closed the door. Returning to the dressing table, she took up the pinks Fontaine had sent. “Now—I wonder how you knew,” she murmured, touching one bloom thoughtfully. “I fancy you don't leave much to chance, me noble lord…”

Josie, meanwhile, had come to the head of the staircase. Several gentlemen were waiting in the Great Hall, and she ran her eyes over them fondly. Guy was sitting on a bench against the wall, Lyon beside him, surprisingly elegant in his evening dress. Leith, Harry Redmond, and Jeremy Bolster had acceded to her request and wore their full dress regimentals. They presented an impressive sight; Leith, straight and splendidly built, his dark head towering over the others; Bolster, rather astonishingly poised and his yellow hair very neat for once; Sir Harry, slim, dark, and dashing, the epitome of Wellington's dauntless Captains, one hand lightly resting on Bolster's sturdy shoulder as he laughed at some remark Leith had made.

As Josie watched, Devenish and John Drummond came from the east hall to join them. Her eyes held on the slighter figure, his carriage erect despite the limp—and thank goodness he had forgotten that silly cane tonight! The lamplight gleamed on his fair hair, the black long-tailed coat was as though moulded to his shoulders, the white brocade waistcoat impeccable, the black stockinet pantaloons, now accepted for evening wear, subtly emphasizing his well-shaped legs. As though he sensed her presence, he glanced up at her. His handsome features registered a stunned expression that made her heart turn over. She saw his lips form her name. The other men turned to look up. For a moment she basked in their admiration, then sped down the stairs, quite forgetting all Fletcher's stern instructions to move with leisurely grace.

*   *   *

The buffet supper was as excellent as it was elegant. Small tables had been set up in the morning room, two ante rooms and the music room in the east wing; a trio wandered about playing light and pleasant airs to charm the diners, and there could be little doubt but that they were charmed. By half past eight, more guests were driving up along the access road that was fortunately flooded with moonlight, and also lit by the torches held by grooms and farmhands who were stationed all along to the main road.

An hour later the ballroom was crowded, most of those expected had arrived, and Devenish and Josie were able to leave their positions inside the front doors and join their guests. Devenish had claimed only one of her dances, and when the music rang out in the lilting refrain of a country dance, he led her onto the floor. The dancers whirled and paced; the ladies' ringlets shone, their great skirts swung wide with a flutter of petticoats and lace; the gentlemen, manoeuvring with grace and sureness through the complicated measures, were variously jolly, grave, or flirtatious; and very elegant. Watching his ward's radiant little face, Devenish knew it had all been worthwhile. When the dance brought them together and he was able to hold her gloved hand, he murmured, “Happy, my Elf?” and her glowing smile was all the answer he needed.

At the edges of the floor, the more mature guests gossiped happily, a few hopeful young ladies flirted with the unattached males, and in one corner the Duke of Vaille murmured, “I fancy Geoff Harland won't come now, Camille.”

His son nodded. “Just as well, perhaps, sir.”

The dance had barely ended, however, before Devenish was summoned with the word that more carriages were coming up the drive. He could not locate Josie, and made his way alone to the wide-open front doors.

Geoffrey, Earl of Harland, accompanied by another gentleman, and preceded by Lord and Lady Westhaven, came gratefully into the warm hall.

“How very good of you to venture all this way after dark,” said Devenish, bowing over Lady Westhaven's plump fingers and shaking hands with his lordship.

“We would not miss your ward's come-out for the world,” declared the pleasant woman, and turned to smile at Josie who came hurrying along the hall to greet them.

Harland, his aristocratic features always putting Devenish in mind of his son, Lucian St. Clair, apologized for his late arrival. “To say truth,” he admitted, “I've a friend newly come from Paris—I knew you'd not object did I bring him along.” He put a hand on the arm of the scholarly-looking grey-haired but oddly youthful gentleman at his side. “May I present the Chevalier Émile de Galin—Mr. Alain Devenish.”

“Couldn't be more pleased than to have you here, sir,” said Devenish, taking the Frenchman's rather frail hand. And he thought, ‘What a marvelous face—like the brass of a sainted martyr.'

Josie came eagerly to greet Harland and be presented to the newcomer. The Earl had no sooner introduced his friend, however, than Devenish, who had been watching the Frenchman uneasily, sprang forward. White as death, the Chevalier sank limply into his arms. With a cry of shock, the Earl assisted Devenish to lower his friend to the floor. The two lackeys at the doors came running, and Josie sent one racing for brandy, and the other in search of Dr. Cahill.

“How beautiful he is,” she said, watching Devenish feel for the heartbeat. “Poor soul! He is not dead, surely?”

“No, praise God! My lord, is the Chevalier subject to fainting fits?”

Harland was aghast that his uninvited friend should be so stricken, and replied that he had never known the Chevalier to collapse. “He fought at Salamanca, was beside the Marshal when Marmont was hit, and was himself levelled a few seconds later. I think he has never quite regained his health, but he's truly a splendid chap.”

Josie, who had knelt and was chafing the Chevalier's limp hand, gave a sigh of relief as the long lashes fluttered and a pair of bewildered dark eyes blinked up at her. She said in French, “Do not be alarmed, dear sir. We have sent for a doctor.”

Even as she spoke, Lyon sprinted across the Hall. Extremely agitated, the Chevalier protested that he was perfectly well. He must, he stammered in excellent English, merely have become chilled on the drive. Lyon took charge. He brushed aside the Frenchman's quite understandable distress at being the cause of such a scene, and required the lackeys to assist him to the nearest saloon, where he might rest while Lyon examined him. Flushed with mortification, the Chevalier was borne off, Harland walking alongside and attempting to calm him.

“Poor fellow,” said Devenish. “The stuff of which nightmares are made.”

“Yes. But you were so quick, dearest. Did you think him ill?”

“No. But I chanced to notice that he lost all his colour suddenly. Lucky I was able to catch him, he went down so fast.”

“Thank heaven you did. He should stay here tonight, do you not think?”

“I'll have a word with Harland. Did you ever see such a magnificent— By Jove—more hardy travellers!”

They took up their positions as the doors were thrown open for the newcomers. Josie was astonished to see a lady alight from the carriage with no gentleman following. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “It's Faith!”

“Did Guy know she meant to come?”

“I'm sure he did not, but— Faith! How lovely that you can come to us!”

A charming sight in a dark blue taffeta gown, Mrs. Bliss proclaimed with a mischievous smile that she did not share her brother's prejudices. Devenish laughed, said that it was their good fortune, and excused himself, limping off to the east wing to check on the condition of the unfortunate Chevalier.

Walking arm in arm with Faith, Josie asked, “Does Sir William know you have come?”

“No. And straitly forbade me to do so. Such nonsense! I'm well past coming of age, as I told him. Still”—she smiled rather ruefully—“I was not sorry when some cronies came calling and he went off to Gloucester with them.”

“I believe Dev would call that getting over heavy ground as lightly as possible.”

A waltz was in progress in the ballroom. Tristram Leith, whirling his lovely wife about the floor, grinned at Mrs. Bliss and jerked his dark head toward the terrace. John Drummond came up, eagerly claiming what was left of the dance he'd signed for. Josie hesitated, but Faith excused herself and made her way to the rear of the crowded floor, so she allowed Drummond his waltz. He danced quite well. ‘Better than Dev,' she thought, but lacking the skill of Leith, who was the best dancer among her friends. In a few minutes, Leith brought his Rachel alongside. “Who else arrived?” he called easily.

“Harland and the Westhavens,” she replied. She thought he looked disturbed, but then he had whirled away again, and Drummond was remarking admiringly upon what a fine fellow he was, and how very well he waltzed.

“Oh, yes. Leith is splendid. And he would naturally be a good dancer, having been on Wellington's staff.”

“And at Waterloo. How I envy him!”

“Envy him! My heavens! From what I have read, I'd think it to have been a nightmare! All those lives sacrificed. Forty thousand men—forty thousand grieving families; wives and children left destitute and starving! Ghastly!”

He said quietly, “Very true. But sometimes a man has no choice but to fight tyranny, ma'am.”

Looking up at his clean-cut pleasant face, she thought that he was just the type to go off willingly to fight for his country and his ideals. And just the type never to come home. She felt a pang, for she was very fond of him, and she smiled at him with such warmth that his hopes soared.

At that same moment Devenish was leaving the quiet saloon in the east wing. “Cahill is young, I know,” he said, closing the door. “But he's a good man for all that, sir. If he says your friend is recovered, I'm sure he is right.”

“Damned fortunate he was here. I'm sorrier than I can say that this has spoiled your ward's come-out party,” said the Earl, repentant.

“No such thing, my lord! Josie's not the type to be flung into despair over such a circumstance. Did Cahill say what brought on your friend's attack?”

“He agreed with de Galin, that it was likely fatigue, but he told me in an aside that he suspected some kind of agitation of the nerves. Perhaps something he saw that brought an unhappy memory of the war.”