Give All to Love (6 page)

Devenish, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the missive from Lord Jeremy Bolster. Six years ago, he and Jeremy had been members of the small and gallant band that had stood alone between England and the murderous and terrifyingly efficient plotting of Monsieur Claude Sanguinet. They were, besides, friends of long standing, and Devenish had the deepest affection for Bolster. The young peer was a brave man and a loyal friend. He had been a splendid soldier, was a devoted husband and father—and an atrocious penman, even as the footman had impertinently noted. Squinting at the convulsed and misspelled phrases, Devenish groaned and clutched his hair.

“Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?”

The aged man now reeling into the room was Simeon Wolfe, tiny, frail, uncertain as to gait, vision, and hearing, and on the far side of seventy. He should have been retired years since, but had pleaded that he had nowhere to go, no one to go to, and no idea of what to do with himself, was he turned off. Devenish had attempted to point out that he would have an adequate pension, plus a comfortable cottage on the grounds, and could putter about the garden to his heart's content if he so desired. Josie, however, had taken up the cudgels in behalf of a retainer Devenish had scarcely met until he'd removed to Devencourt. The poor old fellow, she'd argued fiercely, had given his whole life to the service of the Devenishes (a questionable statement at best) and so long as she had breath to draw, he would not be cast off like an old shoe. And so Wolfe stayed, and along with the well-intentioned, if back-sliding, housekeeper, he repaid Devenish for his continued employment with a doglike devotion that petrified his much-tried master.

Recognizing the note of pathos in the old man's cracked tones, Devenish lost no time in explaining that he was simply finding it difficult to decipher my lord Bolster's handwriting, and with one fascinated eye on the tilting luncheon tray, requested that it be set on the table before the windows.

With a knowing smile, Wolfe shook his head and set off between a hop and a stagger, the ale that had been poured with a too generous hand splashing liberally onto the floor.

Devenish shuddered and covered his eyes, waiting for the crash.

“Cheer up sir,” piped the old man kindly. “Miss Josie will be home soon. Don't you worry so.”

“I am
not
worrying!” snarled Devenish, standing. And then, seeing the stricken look on the wrinkled old face, said, repentant, “But—er, we all miss her, don't we?”

“That we do, sir,” said Wolfe, tugging ineffectually at the chair. “Our little sunbeam goes away, and this old house is like a tomb.”

A chill touched Devenish. ‘Like a tomb…' “Nonsense,” he said, starting to the relief of his struggling minion. “At all events, she'll be home before you can say—” He stepped in a puddle of ale, covered a good distance in record time, and swore blisteringly.

“No hurry, sir,” said Wolfe with a kindly smile. “Easy does it.”

Devenish gritted his teeth, pulled back the chair, straightened the tilting butler, and remarked that whenever someone had the time, they might be so kind as to send in the fireboy.

Wolfe nodded and lurched off. Holding his breath, Devenish eased himself into the chair.

“Hurt yourself, didn't you, sir?” observed Wolfe from the door. “Shouldn't be capering about at your funny tricks just for my sake. Not so young as you used to be, you know.”

Devenish directed a seething glare at his plate and said nothing. When the door had closed behind his devoted retainer, he allowed his frustration full rein for several scalding seconds and then, shivering, picked up a stale ham sandwich.

The fireboy did not come, but another of Devenish's encumbrances put in an appearance. He was apprised of this new arrival as he again struggled with Jeremy Bolster's bewildering letter. The snuffling slurps could not be mistaken. Flinging around in his chair, he gave an irked shout.

“Damn you, Lady Godiva! Get away!”

The encumbrance raised injured eyes and quivered her ale-wet snout at him.

“You know very well what I said,” he snarled. “Out!”

By way of bribery, Lady Godiva wrinkled her forty pink pounds and her curly tail jerked. She then resumed the business of cleaning up.

“You blasted pig!” quoth Devenish with perfect accuracy. He sprang from the chair, grabbed his thigh, and sat down again with considerably less verve.

Lady Godiva, who was fond of him, trotted over to peer up into his face, then sat down and rested her snout on his knee.

“Drunken … sot,” Devenish said unevenly, pulling one of her ears.

Not one to take offence, she snorted.

“Not as young as I used to be, indeed! One might think I was ninety-three, rather than thirty-three!”

Lady Godiva wriggled in her most beguiling fashion. Absently, he gave her a piece of the musty ham sandwich, then exclaimed, “Egad, ma'am, my apologies! It might be a friend.”

The pig was apparently cannibalistic and waited hopefully for the next offering.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” said Devenish, having fortified himself with some of the warm ale. “Never adopt a chit. However appealing. Before you can turn around, they grow up and make you feel a dashed Methuselah!”

Edging closer, Lady Godiva voiced a coy grunt.

“Had you been what you should have been,” he advised, “I'd have a dog keeping me company in my senile solitude. Since you had the poor taste to be born a pig, you'll get no more of my lunch, miss! Off with you!”

He finished his unappetizing repast, decided that Bolster's letter must wait until Josie returned to decipher it for him, and ordered up his rambunctious stallion, Santana.

Chapter 3

Devenish's first encounter with the late and unlamented Sanguinet had been in the ruthless Frenchman's magnificent chateau in Dinan. It had been what Devenish described in later years as “a jolly good adventure,” but for a time the outcome had been in doubt, and when he escaped he had taken with him a crossbow bolt that had transfixed his right thigh. The bolt was cast of steel and so cunningly contrived that his friends had been obliged to remove it with the aid of a hacksaw. A healthy young man, he had recovered rapidly, but he was left with a permanent limp and occasional bouts of discomfort that he shrugged off as being “a trifle annoying.” The fact that he limped galled him far more than even his closest friends guessed, but on horseback he was in his element. He had always been a splendid rider, and if anything, his skill had improved with the years. The rougher the going, the more he enjoyed it, and so long as he was not in the saddle for a protracted period, he suffered no ill effects.

Santana was a big black stallion with a Roman nose, a deep barrel, straight powerful legs, and an uncertain temperament that bedevilled the grooms. With Devenish, he was docility itself, but woe betide any stranger who attempted to ride him.

On this sunny afternoon, the air carried a chill warning of approaching winter. The clouds were shredding across the pale skies, and the tops of the trees were tossing to a strong wind.

Devenish gave Santana his head, and the big black thundered northwestward across the meadows, skirting the Home Wood, moving with his powerful, ground-covering stride that faltered not in the slightest when they came into the steeper slopes of the Cotswolds. Devenish slowed the horse, and Santana, rebelling, fought for his head again, but was subdued by the firm hand and voice that were unlike the hand and voice of any other man who had ever ridden—or had attempted to ride—him. This was the one human who must never be disobeyed or displeased. And so they came to the top of the steep rise in more sedate style. Devenish drew his mount to a halt and gazed out across the wide panorama while Santana snorted and pawed at the earth and rolled his fierce eyes, just to let the master know he had not yet begun to run.

It was very clear this afternoon. Off to the left the River Severn made its way southwest toward the Bristol Channel. Far off, Devenish could see the dark mass of the Forest of Dean. Eastward, roll upon roll, rose the green might of the Cotswolds. He was at the edge of his preserves now, and he turned Santana about, looking back to where, far below, Devencourt nestled in its valley. Even from this distance the beauty of the Elizabethan mansion was marked, and he leaned forward, one hand on the pommel, surveying his birthright.

Devencourt was built in the shape of a squared U. The central block and oldest part of the structure rose to three storeys, with half-timbered walls and latticed windows, all of which leaned a little, since the old building had settled during the long march of the years and was now markedly out of plumb. Both two-storey wings had been added at a later date, but faithfully adhered to the earlier architectural style. A great house it was, shielded by massive old oaks, set amid emerald lawns, its size and majesty softened by the graceful gardens that surrounded it. A sight to bring joy to the heart of any owner, one might suppose. Yet Devenish's eyes were bleak, his handsome features brooding. As a little boy, Devencourt had seemed to him a monstrous, living thing, reaching out to hug him to itself and keep him captive and alone amidst the tragic memories of bygone years. Even today, he feared it, dogged by a shadow of some inescapable evil.

He set his jaw, impatient with such gloomy forebodings. He'd been happy here, hadn't he? He'd had seven years of busy, full days. Seven years of laughter and contentment. The laughter of a little girl, whose endless inventiveness had been a never-failing source of wonder and delight. It was Josie who had kept at him until the new flower beds were installed. It was at her urging that he had thrown the old place open for Public Days each August, and it was because of her cheerful spreading of the word that many people had essayed the long and potholed road that wound through the hills to serve both his property and that of Sir William Little. Next, she had badgered him into taking her to Town to choose new furnishings for the main block, which had been largely neglected and unused for the past century or so. He smiled faintly as he recalled the friends she had beguiled into visiting them as she grew older. His complaints that his house fairly shook to schoolgirl squeals and chatter had been cheerfully ignored, and in some mysterious fashion he had become a part of their games. Charades and spillikins and Fish; picnics, boat parties, musicales … and as the merry years slipped away, charity bazaars and fetes, fund-raising activities at the church, visitations of the sick, inspections of his tenants and their properties, judging at horse shows and fairs. Activities he would never have chosen to embrace, but into which he had been swept by the enthusiasm and manoeuvrings of his vivacious little ward.

From the beginning, it had been so. Looking back over the years, he could see as if it were yesterday, their initial journey down from Scotland. A journey he had embarked upon with dark despair, for he had left behind his love, the lady to whom he had been betrothed most of his life, until she saw his Canadian cousin. All the way to London, Josie had chattered—a bright spirit beside him, combatting gloom and heartbreak. For her sake, he had been obliged to appear cheerful. And, how she had pestered him, the wretched brat. The questions! The interest! The delight over the many aspects of the great city that, having seen all his days, he had seen not at all. Despite his feeble protests, he had been inveigled into taking her to all the major sights, and had discovered that his old City was greater than he'd dreamed. He smiled, remembering how his feet had ached, and
he
had merely walked! Josie had danced and bounced and hopped through St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. Even the mighty Tower of London had not subdued her, and several Beefeaters had been willing captives to her enthusiasm. Their visit to the Exeter Exchange had been ghastly. She had raged because she felt the wild beasts were too closely confined. Agreeing, he had tackled one of the guides and become involved in a hideous controversy that had ended with their polite ejection from the premises. And how they had laughed together. Down through the years, her laughter rang, replacing sorrow with amusement, and amusement with delight, and delight with—

‘You're not so young as you used to be…' He scowled. He was only three and thirty, but three and thirty was too old for—some things. And he was a damaged three and thirty.

He reined Santana around and headed northwards. There was no cause to rush home. Perhaps he'd ride up to Gloucester and overnight with Guy Sanguinet. He could send word back from Stroud. Santana started down the steep slope. Devenish leaned back in the saddle. The big black slipped and slithered. Devenish swayed easily and patted the smooth flank. Coming to more level ground, he lifted the reins and, with a snort of triumph, Santana gathered his mighty muscles and all but flew.

The landscape became a green blur. The air beat at Devenish's face, snatching his breath away. He gave a cry of exultation and bent lower, and horse and rider thundered past an isolated cottage, shot down a winding lane, across open turf, and around the base of a steep rise and came nose to nose with an oncoming rider.

Santana emitted an equine scream and shied violently. Only Devenish's superb horsemanship kept him in the saddle. The other rider fought desperately to keep from being thrown, and ended with a wild leap to the ground.

“Blasted dimwit!” roared Devenish, with some difficulty since Santana was spinning like a top.

“You damned stupid cawker!” howled the other man. “If ever I saw such idiotic, reckless—” He checked, then said with a groan, “Lord! I might have known!”

“Lyon!” Grinning broadly, Devenish dismounted and ran to seize the younger man by both arms and beam into his dark face. “By all that's holy! Be dashed if I wasn't riding over to see you and Guy!”

“Riding!” Grinning just as broadly, Lyon Cahill said with justifiable indignation, “Man, you do not ride—you fly! Lucky for me I'm still alive to tell of it!”