Give All to Love (27 page)

Devenish caught his breath with a faint hiss. “You'll explain that, damn you!”

The Viscount struggled with his own soaring temper. That this man, who had no title at all, should presume to criticize him had galled him for some time, and it was with an effort that he said easily, “Why now, what should I mean? Certainly, I intended no offence. What's a little dalliance, so long as it's—er, all in the family?”

White to the lips, Devenish all but sprang at him. “Do not judge others by yourself, you dirty-mouthed lecher! I have never laid a hand on my ward!”

His wrath escalating, Fontaine snapped, “You're very free with your accusations! From what I hear, you're the one should be more careful where you and Miss Storm conduct your—
réservé
flirtations.” He clicked his tongue mockingly. “A
veneer
of propriety at the least, my dear fellow.”

Quivering with fury, Devenish rasped, “You … lie!”

Fontaine tensed. It was the ultimate insult and he said with a small titter, “No really, my dear fellow. I did not see it, of course, but I am told it was quite amusing to watch you crawling around on the terrace after dark, with your hand up your ward's dainty skirts. If that—”

Devenish wasted no more time on words.

*   *   *

Tristram Leith marched swiftly across the Great Hall, his dark brows drawn into a frown. Dev's rickety old butler had assured him the master had come into the east wing, but— “Oh, there you are,” he said, relieved. “You should— Good God! Whom have you murdered?”

His face pale and twitching, Devenish managed a tight smile. “Be a good old lad and find Isabella Scott-Matthias for me, will you?”

“Why?”

“Her brother—er, wants her. In the gold ante room.”

Unconsciously, Devenish was gripping his hand. Moving very fast, Leith grabbed his wrist and removed the left hand from the bloodied knuckles it covered. He said with an exhalation of breath, “Fontaine?”

Devenish nodded.

“You triple-damned clod. Have you no social graces? One don't strike a guest! A fine way to cap Josie's ball!”

“I know it. But—blast it all—had it been you, I fancy you'd have broke his greasy neck!”

Leith's narrowed eyes scanned the flushed features. The provocation must have been considerable, for Dev was well bred and a good deal less hot at hand these past few years. He sighed. “I'll second you, of course. When do you meet?”

“We—er, did not discuss it.”

“Asleep, is he?” Leith's grim mouth twitched. “By Gad, but he's not the only one. That's why I came seeking you. Don't ask me how, but your musicians must have dipped into your wine cellar. They're considerably
hors de combat,
my deprived host!”

“Oh, my God!
All
of 'em?”

“'Fraid so. I suppose we could have party games the rest of the night.”

Devenish groaned. “Where are they?”

“At the
lieu du crime.
”

Devenish started away, then checked. “Tris—about Fontaine.”

“I'll be your aide-de-camp, old boy.”

Devenish smiled his thanks and hurried off, wrapping a handkerchief around his broken knuckles. As he turned into the hall leading to the lower stairs, a lackey sprinted from the west wing. Apprehensive, Devenish slowed.

The lackey panted. “Trouble, sir! Come quickly!”

“What a novelty,” muttered Devenish, and followed.

*   *   *

Josie noted when she returned to the ballroom that the musicians had left the dais and that those guests who had not already gone in to supper were milling about, renewing acquaintance-ships or conversing amiably. The room was comfortably warm, not unbearably hot, as was often the case at such gatherings, and despite the temporary lull, everyone seemed happy and well pleased. Moving among these friends, chatting with this one, being teased by the other, grateful for the variously fond, admiring, or complimentary remarks that came her way, she looked ever for a certain curly head and did not find it. Lady Louisa Drummond, with a rather searching glance, told her that she was quite devastatingly pretty tonight.

“Thank you, dear Aunt,” said Josie, taking her hand. “And you need not look so worried.” She lowered her voice. “John did offer, and I was able to refuse without making him too dreadfully unhappy, I believe.”

“Oh, my dear child! You know that it is not— I mean, we do not— That is … well, Dev said he had warned John off.”

“I believe he did, but—”

She was interrupted by a sudden disturbance at the rear of the large room. Her heart sank as she recognized a stentorian voice, and she excused herself and hurried towards it.

Sir William Little boomed, “You will do as you're told, my girl! And at once!”

Faith Bliss said, low and angry, “I am of legal age, William!”

Trembling, Josie felt a hand on her elbow. Devenish, his eyes fixed on the far scene, was beside her.

“Stay here,” he said firmly, and made his way through the curious crowd as Sir William bellowed that he fancied he was still the head of his house.

Breaking through, Devenish saw that his neighbour, wearing evening clothes under a caped coat, had entered by the simple expedient of walking in through the terrace doors. Mrs. Bliss, very pale, stood facing her incensed brother, and Guy, a little flushed and his eyes bright, was close beside her.

“… quite aware that people are staring,” roared Sir William. “Likely they feel just as I do!”

“What a fellow you are, Little,” drawled Devenish, “to cause a scene at my ward's ball. If you have something to discuss with your sister, allow me to show you to a room where you may be private.”

“Aye, you'd like that I do not doubt,” snarled the Squire, turning on him. “A fine thing that you've encouraged this damned traitor to lure m'sister away against my wishes, and—”

“Pardon,
Monsieur,
” Guy's voice cut icily through that accusation. “You have neither the right to name me traitor, nor to remark that Mrs. Bliss I have lured. Neither of these things I have done!”

His face dark with passion, Sir William boomed. “I make my apologies to you, Miss Storm. As for you, Devenish, by God, but you number some dirty dishes amongst your friends, sir!”

A ripple of excitement was followed by an expectant hush. All interest in the dance had faded, but an odd shift was taking place among the guests. Jeremy Bolster and Harry Redmond, conspicuous in their military scarlet, quietly ranged themselves near Guy and Faith. As if taking up the gauntlet, Lord Ridgley, the Earl of Harland, Lord Westhaven, Sir Ivor St. Alaban, and Lord Owsley drifted closer to Little. From the corner of his eye, Devenish saw Justin Strand and Mitchell Redmond striving to come through the throng. He thought, ‘All we need is a pitched battle at my little one's party!' And he said with spurious calm, “What you think of my friends can scarcely be of interest to the rest of us, sir, and—”

“By Jove, but it can!” cried someone in the crowd. “We want no treacherous assassins numbered among our acquaintances!”

“We have no proof Guy Sanguinet has done anything treacherous,” cried the Duke of Vaille, his clear voice cutting through a rising growl of endorsement.

“All England knows him for a rogue and a villain,” argued Little. “All England knows he and his damnable brother nigh succeeded in murdering the King when he was Regent! And nothing done about it!”

“No time like the present!”

“Throw the dirty swine out!”

The Nine were all about Guy now. Mrs. Bliss, eluding her brother's outstretched hand, stepped closer to the slight figure of the Frenchman. The hostile crowd surged closer, ladies retreating hurriedly, as the room became Bedlam, everyone seeming to shout at once.

Stepping between Guy and Little, Devenish threw caution aside. “If anyone's to be thrown out, Little—”

“I'd damned well like to see you try it, sir,” raged the Squire, lifting the heavy horsewhip he carried.

Camille Damon, who had struggled vainly to make himself heard above the uproar, fought his way to the musicians' dais, and a stirring and familiar melody rang out, a melody so unexpected that the din ceased as if by magic, every head turning in astonishment to the pianoforte Damon played with thunderous pomp.

Her fear turning to bewilderment, Josie thought, ‘“God Save the King”…?' Turning, she saw Camille standing as he played, and jerking his dark head in desperate warning in the general direction of the hall.

And then, those closest to the doors were moving back respectfully. Astounded, Josie saw gentlemen bowing low; ladies sinking into curtsies the depth of which could mean only one thing.

As in a dream, she heard Devenish gasp, “Good … God…!”

Chapter 13

King George IV now filled the open doorway, on the arm of the gentleman-in-waiting at his side. Devenish, who had not seen the King in some time, was as aghast as he was astonished. He'd heard that George had become enormously fat, but the man he remembered seemed to have doubled in bulk. Recovering his wits, he hurried to bow low before the monarch.

The King extended one chubby hand. “Devenish, m'dear chap,” he said breathlessly, as Devenish bowed over that hand. “You'll think us a pretty lot to invade your party.”

“We are very much honoured, sir. That you would come all this way—I am overwhelmed!”

“Pish! We do not forget those who serve us as nobly as have you. Ah, there is Redmond! Come here, Mitchell! You wicked rascal, I never dreamed when you saved my life you'd become such a thorn in my flesh.” He ignored the little buzz of excited comment, and went on, “How is that fine head of yours? We heard it lately attracted a rather dense admirer.”

The royal retinue tittered at this witticism. Mitchell, who had hastened to make his bow, thanked His Majesty for his concern and assured him he was fully recovered.

George patted him on the shoulder and waddled on, remarking to a friend, “Jolly fine fellow that, Knighton. Saved my life back in 'seventeen, did you know?” He nodded absently. “Brother's a good boy, too. Served under me in Spain.”

Those near enough to overhear this entirely fallacious comment exchanged uneasy glances, but if the King's mind was wandering, it soon recovered itself, and he made his way through the throng, pausing now and then to chat briefly with some distinguished guest or lovely lady. Despite his bulk and the fact that he was obviously tired, he was graciousness itself and, watching him, Josie was reminded of the most recent disagreement between Dev, who had always defended “Prinny,” and Mitchell, who found him exasperating. “His faults are legion, I'll own it,” Devenish had said. “But he has many good points, which have been deliberately ignored by that flock of vicious satirists who so delight in defaming him.” Lucinda, Countess of Carden, knew the King well, and had once told Josie, “He is like a small boy who is often very silly, but he can be kind and generous and, when he is in a good mood is the best of hosts and great fun to be with. He yearns to be loved by his subjects but, alas, usually sets about it in quite the wrong way.” George was not loved, and he knew it. It seemed to Josie that there was a suggestion of wistfulness in those flabby, sweat-beaded features and, although there was much about him that she deplored, she could only feel sorry for the lonely man before whom the crowd parted and dipped like meadow grasses swaying in the wind.

Devenish led the way to a sturdy sofa and prayed it might accommodate the royal bulk. With an audible groan of relief, King George lowered himself to the cushions. The sofa groaned also, but held firm. Praying again, Devenish expressed the insincere hope that Devencourt was to be honoured by His Majesty choosing to overnight here.

George beamed. “Dashed good of you m'dear fellow. We stay at Berkeley, but took the waters at Cheltenham. Heard of the ball for your young lady, and could not resist stopping to renew old acquaintance.”

Devenish, his smile fixed, his eyes glassy, wondered how they were possibly to find space for the King and his retinue, which appeared to number at least thirty ladies and gentlemen, to say nothing of carriages, horses, grooms, and servants.

Peering about, the King asked, “Which is your gel?”

Bolster took Josie's hand and led her to Devenish. She was more than a little frightened, but Devenish smiled at her, gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze, and ushered her to the royal presence. “Your Majesty, may I present Miss Josephine Storm?”

She sank into a deep curtsy.

“Stand up, you pretty creature,” said the King, managing to lean sufficiently far as to chuck her under the chin. The protuberant eyes surveyed her fresh young face and generous little figure. “Ah, but you've grown into a comely lass,” he said, winking at her. “Were I but a few years younger now…”

Well aware that he preferred the company of more mature ladies, Josie responded audaciously, “Or I a year or two older, sir.”

“A year or two, is it?” A delighted grin overspread George's face. “You saucy puss! Did you hear that, Francis? A year or two, she says!” He went into a guffaw that set every layer of him jiggling, and brought cautious laughter rippling from his entourage and the crowd. “You must come and see Windsor, you little rascal. Bring her down, Devenish. You'll not recognize the old place. We've not finished, of course, for it was gone to rack and ruin, but we have brought much of it up to style and filled it with treasures.” His lower lip sagged into a pout. “They're saying we've been extravagant, you know. They always do. Perhaps we have, but—by God, when we're gone, England will have something nice to remember us by.” He sighed dismally.

Josie said, “We have some quite fine tapestries, Your Majesty.”

He brightened. “Where, my pretty? Ah—I see. We shall have a closer look, but they appear splendid. Where'd you find them, Devenish? We'd likely have outbid you, had we known.”