Give All to Love (33 page)

“Oh,” said Josie huskily and, not daring to dwell on it, asked, “Mitch, do you know why the Chevalier is here today?”

“No. I've heard only good of him, though. Fine old family. Fought gallantly in the war—against us, regrettably. Got himself stove in at—Salamanca, I believe. St. Clair thinks the world of him. Interesting chap.”

“Colley certainly thought so.”

They both laughed.

“D'you remember,” said Mitchell, “how Colley badgered poor Dev to sit for him, and—” He broke off, his fine eyes widening. “By Jupiter! Perhaps de Galin is come to ask permission to pay his addresses! I noticed how he stared at you the night of the ball. Though, of course,” he added staunchly, “any fellow who did not do so would have to be blind.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin. “Thank you, my lord, but I rather doubt it is a case of
l'amour.
Now, tell me, dear peer, do you go back to Town?”

“Er,” he said vaguely, “I may stop first and— Oh, your pardon, Josie, but I want a word with Cornish. He came into that furnace to help Dev drag me out yesterday. From the bottom of my heart I must thank him!”

He kissed her and went off, and he certainly did thank the footman until that brash individual was red to the ears.

Having safely pocketed a magnificent douceur, Cornish protested, “'Adn't oughter done that, yer baronish. I'll tell yer straight, I went in there 'cause me little rocket got 'isself into a spota trouble.”

“And would have left me to fry, had I not been with him, I suppose,” said Mitchell, indignant.

Cornish pursed up his lips. “Dunno, mate. Lord mate. Mighta. I don't risk me littel silk socks fer many blokes, and that's truth.”

“Why, you damned hedgebird! Give me back my gold!”

Cornish looked at him askance but, reassured by the twinkle in the grey eyes, gave his broad, gappy grin.

Mitchell laughed, his amusement heightened when Cornish's screaming mirth augmented his own. He drew the footman on with him towards the stables.

“I am already deeply indebted to you,” he said, his manner sobering. “But I want more of you.”

Cornish regarded him curiously.

Mitchell went on, “I must warn you, it is something that Mr. Devenish would not at all like…”

*   *   *

“I
wondered
why you insisted we come here!” Rushing into the low-ceilinged private parlour that separated their rooms, Lady Isabella tossed her sables onto the practical leather-cushioned sofa, and advanced upon her indolently sprawled brother, her dark eyes flashing fury.

Fontaine, who had just composed himself for a pleasant nap, opened one eye, but made no attempt to rise from the armchair before the fire. “You know, Bella,” he murmured, “if you keep going into the treetops every time some little circumstance annoys you—”

“Some little circumstance?”
she hissed, halting before him, livid with fury. “You have been skinning cats, Elliot! And—damn you! I'll not have it!”

Sighing, he sat up. “You know it offends me to hear a lady swear.”

“And it offends me that you would try to kill the man I love! Oh, never deny it! I saw one of your sneaking spies downstairs! I might have known you stayed here because—”

“Because it gets the sea breezes, m'dear. Very bracing.”

“Much you care for bracing! You are intent on destruction—not restoration!” She leaned closer. “Had you killed him, Taine, I would—”

“Do nothing.” His voice was soft still, but deadly, the light in the cold blue eyes so menacing that Isabella paled and stood motionless.

Fontaine rose and stretched lazily, then wandered to the window. “You could see the smoke from here, they tell me. I wonder you did not.” He chuckled. “So near. And yet—so far.”

She sat on the arm of the chair he had vacated, looking at him resentfully. “And that is why we stay in this revolting inn, when we might be enjoying the comforts of Oak Manor, where—”

“There are too many eyes, m'dear. Too much interference.”

“It is only sheer luck you are not a murderer today,
dear
brother.”

“Nonsense,” he retorted, perching on the deep window ledge and looking out at the lush sweep of meadow and hill. “I did nothing. Finlayson—”

“Set your miserable blaze, I've no doubt.”

He bowed slightly, mockingly. “You are all intelligence, Bella. And another of my lads encouraged your cavalier to trot back into the blaze. From whence he duly trotted out—alas.”

Her hands gripped passionately at the back of the chair. “Knowing his death would break my heart! My God! Much love you have for me!”

He shrugged and inspected a fingernail. “He—annoyed me.”

“And because a man—
annoys
you, you have him murdered?”

“Upon occasion.” Without raising his head, he glanced at her slyly. “I have suspected for some time that he has the unmitigated gall to judge me! I had hoped to cause him—shall we say, embarrassment?—in a pair of neat little schemes at the ball. The damnable clod would seem to bear a charmed life, for neither materialized. But … you know how that old saying goes, third time lucky … or something of the sort.”

Isabella caught her breath. Magnificent in her rage, she leaned forward, her eyes blazing, her voice as low as his had been. “What is in us that makes us so intense in our loves and hates, I do not know. But my blood carries the same thirst for vengeance as does yours, Taine, and I tell you now, as God be my judge, if you hurt him again—”

“Oh, please! Do not bring your God into our quarrel! It will avail you nothing. And besides, I must reluctantly confess I was unwise. I should have denied myself such jolly but impractical ventures. I lost my temper, merely. And so—I have decided, lovely one, to help you.”

Watching him uneasily, she asked, “How?”

“Trust me. I deplore your taste, but—you have my word on it. Before the week is out, you will be betrothed to your crippled cavalier.”

Chapter 16

Devenish frowned a little, the apprehension that had seized him when first he took up the Chevalier's calling card returning full measure. “As much as I know of my ward…” he repeated slowly. “Hum. Well, to start with, sir, I have long suspected she is French born.”

The Chevalier's brilliant eyes widened.
“Pourquoi?”

“Because—when I found her—”

“And when precisely
was
that,
Monsieur, s'il vous plaît?
”

“In May, 1816.” Devenish's thoughts turned back, his eyes becoming remote. “I'd been robbed and left afoot in the country, late at night and miles from anywhere. I met this poor little waif. I thought she was a boy at first.”

“How old was she then?”

“Who knows? I thought perhaps seven, no older than nine.”

“Not if my hopes, they are justified. But—pardon—from where had this waif come? There was no home? Parents?”

“She had nothing, God bless her!” Devenish's jaw hardened. “She'd been beaten and starved and worked half to death for all her young life by a set of the most rascally gypsies you ever saw. The damned rogues were getting ready to sell her to a Flash House! You wouldn't know what that is, but—”

De Galin swore and said in a near snarl, “Of a certainty I know it! So you rescued this waif,
n'est-ce pas?
But what have cause you to suppose she is French?”

“She spoke a few words of your language next day. Properly conflummerated me, I can tell you! Here the little sparrow could scarce speak decent English and out she pops with
“Très bien, Monsieur,”
with an accent as perfect as—as your own.”

De Galin gave a slow smile. “You recall the exact words,
mon ami?
After these many years?”

A little red in the face, Devenish said that it had been such a shock, he was not likely to forget. “Even,” he added defiantly, “after a century!”

“
Je comprends.
And—this waif, what could she tell you? Did she remember anything? Anything of the smallest?”

“Very little, I'm afraid. A beautiful lady who once sang to her; a few words of French—then. She's very proficient now, as I fancy you've discovered. And the fact that she was stolen as a small child.”

The Chevalier gripped his hands, obviously in a state of strongly repressed excitement. “And—was she called Josie Storm when you found her?”

“No, no. We arrived at that between the pair of us. Her abductors had nicknamed her Tabby, because she scratched them when they—abused her. I couldn't stand that, of course.”

“
Mais non!
But—why,
Monsieur,
is it that you choose
these
names?”

“Well, I had, I thought, seen her safely home that night, and I went on alone. As it turned out, she'd gulled me and she followed and crept into a barn where I was sleeping. There was a tearing great storm when I discovered her, so we chose that for her surname.”

“Ah—and, the other?”

“Josie? Not my choice. She said she seemed to remember it; and wanted me to—” He paused as the handsome face was lit by a beaming smile.

“
Voilà!
It is as I have think, then!” The dark eyes were suddenly full of tears, and de Galin bowed his head, muttering brokenly,
“Merci beaucoup! Merci beaucoup, mon Dieu!”
He groped for a handkerchief, and blew his nose, saying unevenly, “A thousand apologies! You—you will think me the silly emotional Frenchman.”

“No such thing,” said Devenish very gently. “To find your child after all these years, must be—”

“No, no,
Monsieur!
Would that it were so, but—she is not mine.”

Devenish crossed to refill their glasses, taking his time so that the Chevalier might have time to compose himself before he returned.

“You are most kind,” said de Galin gratefully. “And now, if you permit, I will tell you my short tale. You must know that I have a twin brother who was”—he shrugged sadly—“everything I am not.”

Devenish stared at him, wondering if the brother had been a human being.

Interpreting that look correctly, the Frenchman smiled. “
Monsieur,
you are what the ladies would call a very handsome gentleman. Ah—you scowl. Why? Is it that your looks they have not been the boon?”

“A damned curse, more like. You also, eh?”

“
Oui.
Tragically so. We both, my brother and I, fall in love with the same lady. The most beautiful, sweetly natured, angelic of creatures. But, despite the fact that my features they have happen to come together so as to be pleasing to the gentle sex, Michelle, she love my Charles. I tell you before,
Monsieur,
that he have everything I have not. This it is very truth. Charles, he have charm, wit, and an intelligence that is near genius. All my life, he have make me feel—inadequate. Only in looks, over which I have no control, and for which I may take no credits, do I excel. Pah! What folly!”

Intrigued, Devenish asked, “And your brother's wife was, er, attracted to you after all?”

“No. She love Charles. Only he had—before they married, you comprehend—a mistress. And the mistress she was very jealous, so she begin to tease Charles that Michelle she spend a great deal of the time with me. And this is true, but only because Charles, he is a diplomatist and many times away from home, and I am bored also, and they have by this time the sweet babe of whom I am most fond. Charles, he love us both, Michelle and me, and he grieve that this lie it might be truth. Even my Charles have the faults, and his fault is that he begins to suspect. He has seen many ladies become—silly because of my—my appearance, and he start to think Michelle also may— Well, the end of it is that we are in England for a month, and Charles he come one day when we do not expect him home. Michelle and the babe and I are in the garden—my niece had then four of the years—and it is—ah! the word, it eludes …
d'une chaleur étouffante…
?”

Devenish frowned, then supplied, “Sultry.”

“
Oui—merci.
Sool-tree. Michelle, she say she is so very warm, and I take my handkerchief and dry her little face and say I will fetch some lemonade. I go to the house and there is Charles. Watching. And enraged. He accuse. I defend. We quarrel very fiercely, so that Michelle she hear and come running. And we all three begin to quarrel even more. Perhaps—ah,
mon Dieu
—perhaps because it is hot and everyone sticky and cross. And then, when we stop to recollect ourselves, Michelle scream, ‘My baby!' and she rush outside.” He shook his head, anguished by the memory. “The babe, she is gone.”

“Oh, Lord! How perfectly rotten for you. And you never saw her again?”

“Never again,
Monsieur.
Michelle, she blame herself. Charles, he blame himself. Me, I blame myself,
naturellement.
Charles spend the next five years searching from one end of England to the other. In 1813, he hear of a soldier who have steal a child and sell her to gypsies. A British soldier who is serving with his regiment in Spain. Charles go at once to Madrid to try and trace this man, but—” He paused, a stark desolation coming into his face. “He is caught by guerrillas who hate the French, and he is—robbed and … and murdered.”

“Oh—Lord! And the lady?”

“I was so blessed as to make her my wife a year later,
Monsieur.
” The Chevalier smiled sadly. “It was a brief happiness. Two years only we have together. She become ill with a fever then. The rheumatic fever it is called here. For some months afterwards she is the invalid, and then … I am alone again.”

“My poor fellow! I am so sorry. But now, you think my ward is…”